Secret Passages

  Secret

  Passages

  a novel

  R. D. Hathaway

  RD Hathaway Books

  Secret Passages is a book of fiction. All names, characters, places, and situations presented are fictional and arise from the author’s imagination. Any similarities with actual people, places, or events are purely coincidental.

  Secret Passages, Copyright © 2020, Edward D. Opstein

  ISBN: 978-0-578-68002-6

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-578-69223-4

  All Rights Reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission, except for brief quotation of less than one hundred (100) words for reviews and articles.

  https://rdHathaway.com

  Twitter: @HathawayRd

  Facebook: @RD Hathaway

  Cover and interior design: Asya Blue

  Cast of Major Characters

  Present Day:

  Rennie Haran: Reporter for the Des Moines Record newspaper in Des Moines, Iowa

  Bud: Rennie’s Editor

  Angie McGrady: Chief Librarian and Archivist for Simpson College in Indianola, Iowa

  Ms. Knoche: Administrator of records at Simpson College

  Charles Sfumato: Wealthy collector of ancient artifacts, primarily Christian documents; lives in California

  Seth Galila: Affluent solicitor in London, England who is devoted to protecting conservative perspectives of Christian history and doctrine

  Professor Matthew MacDonald: Archeologist specializing in the Near East retired from teaching and ad hoc staff at the British Museum

  Mary MacDonald: Estranged sister of Professor MacDonald

  1920’s:

  Professor Matthias Justus: On sabbatical from Simpson College at the British Museum

  Kenneth Warrington: Supervisor of Professor Justus at the British Museum and the receipt and inventory of new artifacts received at the museum

  Bishop Worthy: Noted cleric and facilitator for influential persons who support the British Museum

  Priscilla Shefford: Young administrative services assistant working for Kenneth Warrington and assigned to assist Professor Justus

  Lady Jane Sotterfeld-Gris: Wealthy benefactor to the British Museum and sponsor supporting sabbatical of Professor Justus

  Reggie MacDonald: Local thug and water-front conman

  PART ONE

  Des Moines, Iowa

  The Present

  I / 1

  “What the world needs is a hard slap in the face. What do you think, Balderdash?”

  A large grey cat leaped from the arms of Rennie Haran onto the floor. Its long fur dusted the dark wood as the cat scampered down the stairway.

  The hard heels of Rennie’s boots banged down the oak steps of an old house until she stopped on a landing and stretched, producing a wide-mouthed yawn. She glanced outside to see the morning weather. Another yawn was captured in her hand.

  “Uh!” she grunted, shaking her head. “Where’s the coffee? Balderdash! Did you make coffee?” She grinned.

  Her hand flowed through her long, dark brown hair to lift it from under the strap of her courier bag. Two steps above the last step, she paused and checked her white satin shirt for dribbles of toothpaste. She shrugged, then she saw Balderdash rubbing back and forth against the corner of the last step.

  “Hey buddy, good morning. Sorry I’ve been such a bitch. Do cats have bad days?”

  She lifted him up in her arms and walked to the couch in the living room, letting him jump to the cushion and then to the floor. Dropping her bag on the couch, she stabbed her hand in it when a cell phone demanded attention.

  “Okay, okay! I’m here! Hold on!”

  Searching through the bag, she dumped the contents on the couch and grabbed the phone.

  “Rennie Haran. Yeah, right. I don’t know. I’m leaving for the office now. I’ll call her when I get there. Thanks.”

  She studied the phone and pressed the icon for text messages. Squinting as she read, her mouth and face twisted. She peered over the edge of the phone at a bookcase where there were family photos, stacked books, and a wrapped package. One photo shows a woman in her 50’s wearing a swimming suit and with a gold medal hanging from a ribbon around her neck. Next to that is one of a man the same age speaking at a lectern on which appears the seal of a university.

  She dropped the phone on the bag and saw Balderdash on the sill of a window, studying something in the distance and flicking his tail.

  “Hey, if you’re not busy today, call my mom and catch up. Also, read dad’s new book when you get a chance. You’ve probably wondered what ideas were shared by Buddha and Jesus.”

  The cat twitched its tail but didn’t look back.

  The phone chanted the arrival of another text message. Her nostrils flared as she checked it. She turned to Balderdash.

  “Oh, and call scum-bag, and tell him I KNOW he messed up, like all over town! Tell him I’m busy for the next hundred years.”

  Rennie stuffed the dumped goods from the cushion into the bag, flung the strap over her shoulder, and stuck the phone in her pants pocket. She grabbed her purse from the table and pulled the strap over her other shoulder. The heels of her boots hammered again on the old hardwood flooring as she walked to where Balderdash was viewing the world. She bent down and stoked his fur. His head tilted up as he pretended to meow.

  “Hey buddy, you see squirrels out there? Stick with me. We only need each other. Okay? No more people. Just you and me.”

  Her lips smacked a kiss in his direction as she stood and stormed out the door.

  Des Moines, IA

  Offices of the Des Moines Record

  I / 2

  The noise in the newsroom of the Des Moines Record was a subtle but continuous, tiny clacking of keyboard strokes in the buzz of a dozen conversations. Rennie hesitated next to her cubicle and looked at the scattered newspapers and messages on her desk. Welcome to Monday, she thought,

  Dropping her purse on the mess, she slumped into her chair and growled. A moment later, her cell phone danced a loud tune, kicking her into action to dig it out of a pocket.

  “Rennie Haran, Des Moines Record … Oh, hi Mrs. Schmidt. Yes, I’ll be there a little early to review the beauty pageant schedule. I’m sure the whole county is excited to see who wins … Okay! Bye!”

  A young woman with curly, blonde hair walked by Rennie’s cubicle as she laid the phone down. She looked back, “So, Rennie, what’s the big news coming out of the county fair? I hear you’re on it.”

  “Susan, if I have to cover one more stupid, local event, the big news will be I’ve murdered someone.”

  The woman chuckled and continued down the aisle as Rennie pretended to shoot her phone with an outstretched finger.

  Leafing through the messages, she stopped and stared at one scrawled note.

  “I’ve got an investigation for you. See me. Bud.”

  Rennie jumped up and called out, “Susan, where’s Bud?”

  Susan pointed across the newsroom at Bud Shuster’s office and disappeared into another cubicle as Rennie spun around and hurried toward the office of the News Editor. She cruised through the noise of ringing phones and the rustle of newspaper pages. Leaning to one side as she walked, she tried to see into the glass partition that forms one wall of Bud’s office.

  “Rennie. I’ll be right there,” he yelled from a cubicle behind her.

  Jerking around, she responded, “Jeeze, Bud. Okay.”

  “Wh
at’d I do? Wake you up?”

  He laughed as he sauntered into his office. Rennie followed, arms crossed, and eyes wide open, quickly sitting in the guest chair in front of his desk. She didn’t notice the worn vinyl covering on the seat.

  He looked through a few phone messages, then dropped into his chair.

  “What’s up?”

  “What’s up? You left a note for me about some investigation. What is it?”

  He ran his fingers through thin grey hair and leaned forward, looking at his desk and drawing in a deep breath.

  “I had dinner this weekend with some people, and I met a fellow who does fundraising for Simpson College. He told me about some rich guy he knows on the West Coast who’s into ancient relics. The guy on the coast told him of a Simpson professor who went to London to work at the British Museum on a project involving ancient stuff from Egypt. I guess he came home in a box. No one knows how or why he died.”

  “Now we’re talking. And, you want me on it? What do we know?”

  “Not much. They say his wife died in childbirth with their first kid, so he needed a break and got a sabbatical to the museum. Let’s see. His name is Matthias Justus. Boy, he didn’t get much justice.”

  “So, is there a police report or any leads?

  “Huh? Rennie, this was like 90 years ago. It was in the ‘20’s. There’s nothing. Go out to Simpson and see what they might have.”

  “You’re kidding me, right? This guy died 90 years ago. For my first real investigation I get a hundred-year-old murder? Bud, give me something fresh. I don’t believe this.”

  She jumped off her chair and paced the room.

  “Okay, so now I have to give up the big county fair beauty pageant story to learn what happened to professor dead guy 90 years ago.”

  She stopped and glared at Bud. “You must hate me.”

  “Rennie, damn it. You’re always complaining about not having something to dig into. You want to find the truth in everything. Well, here you go. Find the truth in this.”

  “Fine, okay. I’ll take the big case. But you owe me. I get the next lead, and it will involve current dirt, not ancient.”

  “If it means you won’t be in my office, that’s great. If you want to find something, find a way to be nice to someone now and then. We’d all appreciate that.”

  “Yeah, like relationships make people happy.”

  Bud glanced at a framed picture of his wife on the credenza.

  “Bud, I’m sorry. How are the grandkids doing?”

  “Great, great. I get to go see them soon. I wish Grace could’ve been around. I always thought I’d be the first to go. I’m older, out of shape. She wanted me to retire.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What are you doing here? I gave you a dream assignment. Get going.”

  “Okay. If I do this, then I get something with more meat and contemporary. Right?”

  Bud grunted, “Maybe, if you don’t give me so much trouble.”

  A smile forced its way through Rennie’s lips. “I’ll take ‘maybe’ for ‘yes.’ So, what’s this professor’s name? What all do you know? Any family in the area?”

  “Mathew, no Matthias, I think. It was Matthias Justus, spelled J-u-s-t-u-s. The school can tell you. They say he was involved in the King Tut discovery or something like that. That’s all I got. The guy from Simpson said it might make an interesting story. He said Mr. West Coast has friends everywhere, and in high places. We need to help people like that.”

  “What? Bud, don’t we serve enough people in high places? I’m doing this to please some money man on the West Coast? We’re sitting a mile away from the State Capitol, and you know what crazy stuff goes on down there; closed door meetings deciding public policy, laying off social services people while giving special tax deals to hog lot owners to build more waste ponds to screw the environment. Let’s risk upsetting a few people and hold their feet to the fire.”

  “Rennie, I’m glad you’re frustrated. It takes people like you to keep us honest. I used to be like that. Just do me a favor and look into this, okay? Then we can all move on.”

  Bud grabbed some papers and turned away.

  Rennie hurried to her cubicle and plucked two new message slips off her chair. Sitting down, she said to her computer screen, “Why do I do this?”

  She found the website for Simpson College and called the main number. Working through an unhelpful phone menu, she finally reached a voice.

  “Admin. This is Craig” a young voice responded.

  “Hi, Craig. My name is Rennie, and I’m looking for some information on a professor who was at Simpson a long time ago. How would I go about that?”

  She gave the young man the information about the professor, her direct line number, and asked how long it might take.

  “Well, I don’t know. I’m here alone right now. It might be in a few minutes or maybe Wednesday, when I come back in.” His voice trailed off.

  Rennie’s face soured and her eyes closed.

  “Is there anyone else who can help? I’m a reporter with the Des Moines Record, and this is important.”

  “Well, ma’am, I’ll see what I can find and call you back in a little bit. What’s your name again? Randy?”

  “It’s Rennie, R-e-n-n-i-e. Please call me as soon as you can. Thanks.”

  Her mind raced as she flicked a piece of lint from the slick fabric of her pants.

  Pulling a spiral bound notebook from her canvas attaché bag, she opened it to a page with a small, yellow notepaper stuck on it. Near the bottom of the page, she wrote the date and made several dashes followed by brief notes of her conversation with Bud.

  The ring of her cell phone startled her.

  “Hello, Rennie Haran.”

  “Hi, this is Craig from Simpson. I looked up what I could on the professor you mentioned. I went all the way back to 1980 and couldn’t find any mention of him in our records.”

  “Thanks, Craig. This professor was with the school much earlier; possibly in the 1920’s.”

  “Oh, we wouldn’t have those records here. You’d have to come in and arrange to have someone go through the old files.”

  She leaned forward as her head fell into her hand. “Okay, and who would have those files.”

  “Oh, I guess Admin.”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  She terminated the call and dropped the phone on her notepad.

  “I’m going to get Bud for this,” she snarled.

  Rennie stabbed her hands into her pants pockets and left the newsroom. Half-way down the hall, she stopped and looked out the office windows at the city. From the fifth floor, the view was good. One could see the mausoleum-looking City Hall and the gold dome of the Capitol in the distance. She studied the other office buildings and wondered about all the decisions being made and the stories developing behind the windows. Watching people in the skywalks, rushing from one building to another, she thought of mice in a laboratory maze.

  A middle-aged man with white hair lying over his ears walked by. “Hey Rennie, you must have a good one going.”

  “Yeah, Carl. A dead guy!” Rennie raised her eyebrows.

  “Way to go,” he called back as he hurried on.

  By noon, she was on track with other stories. Her special report on the City’s condemnation of downtown properties whet her appetite for revealing how big money moves among the privileged, facilitated by the City’s Legal Department. That one had meat, but it had no priority with Bud.

  Dave, a young staff writer, stopped by her cubicle and asked if she had plans for lunch. He enjoyed the moment of opportunity to look at her. Her large eyes, with equally strong and arched eyebrows stood above a straight nose and wide mouth. Her full lips displayed a light red gloss.

  “Thanks, Dave. I’ve got to go check out a story, and it’ll take a while,” she
replied without looking away from her computer screen.

  Rennie looked up. “Not this time. Maybe another day?”

  “Ok, sounds like you’ve got a hot one going,” Dave responded with a nervous smile.

  “Another day. That’s a deal.” Dave pointed his finger at her and winked.

  As he left, she looked back at the screen and whispered, “Out of here.”

  To Indianola, Iowa

  I / 3

  Rennie strolled into the warmth of mid-May. Large, white clouds drifted across a bright blue sky. The smell of an Iowa summer was finally in the air. She hurried to her car. The old, dark blue Volvo stood out among the sleek new cars.

  In minutes, she was on the road to Indianola, Iowa, home of Simpson College, with windows and sunroof open. Rennie’s hair whipped around in the wind. Her head nodded in time to the thumping of a blues tune that filled the car.

  The moment she crossed over Army Post Road at the edge of town, she felt a release of tension and fresh freedom. She realized she had not left the city for too many months. The countryside was so close, just minutes away, but rarely enjoyed.

  Rolling hills, erupting in deep green and gold, flowed around her car as Rennie quietly planned her strategy for access to the records at Simpson. She grinned.

  They don’t know I’m coming.

  As she arrived in Indianola, her eyes flashed across the street scenes, the houses, and the small businesses. She drove past a few blocks of modest, old two-story homes set back a relaxed distance from the sidewalk and from each other. It was nothing grand, but it was comfortable.

  Iowa, modest and never intimate.

  That idea of modesty changed when she arrived at the entrance to the campus. Guarding a walkway was a brick wall interrupted by stone pillars with stair step blocks of contrasting color. A building in the distance was a rich balance of form, with wood and deep red brick rising to a black mansard roof accented by a tower rising high above the roofline.

  Rennie took inventory of her surroundings. She noticed another building that reminded her of an English castle, with massive red brick walls that held enormous windows.