Today, Veronica told me who murdered Max Johnson.
17
Hope read the entry twice before she continued. She was a bit surprised. If Max already knew who killed him, why did he stay around?
Veronica said it was a man, and he was from the area, not a vagabond, like some people think. She said he killed Mr. Johnson out of spite or hate. And he had wanted to kill Mr. Johnson for a long time. When I asked Veronica for a name, she just smiled. She was not prepared to divulge that, which meant she was probably making up the whole thing. Veronica likes to tell stories. Then, she said something curious. She said the man had not acted alone. He had had a woman with him. It was the woman who stole the Southern Cross of Honor. I suppose if they find the cross, they’ll find the killer. I don’t really think Veronica knows what she’s talking about.
Hope read the passage again, wondering if Veronica had indeed known the name of the killer or had she been telling a tale. According to the journal, Veronica made up stories all the time. And without providing a name, the story was just so much speculation.
Hope couldn’t act on speculation, but she could quiz Max about the Southern Cross of Honor. Since he had never mentioned it before, she supposed it wasn’t really important. Or, perhaps, the information had been news to him also.
“Max,” Hope said.
It took several seconds before Max appeared.
“Mrs. Herring, how may I help you?”
Hope held up the journal. “I found the entry.”
He smiled.
“What is the Southern Cross of Honor?”
“Ah, yes. Well, as you may have guessed, my family fought in the Civil War. The Southern Cross of Honor was established by the Congress of the Confederate states and meant to honor those who fought in the war. My grandfather was awarded a medal, which he passed down to his son, and thus, to me. I didn’t display the medal, as, in those days, we were trying to forget the war. I don’t think it was worth much, but it did hold sentimental value. I really had no idea it had been stolen until I read the journal. All these years, I assumed it was something that was simply lost. Those things happen.”
“Would it be worth something now?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do you think the killer or killers could have stolen it?”
“Since I never saw the medal after my death, I would say the story is plausible. But I’m not sure it’s true.”
“So, if we can trace the medal, we might find the killer?”
“It could happen that way, although, while the one I possessed was awarded during the war, many more were awarded later.”
“Really?”
“After a while, people wanted to do something to honor the men who fought so bravely. They handed out medals posthumously.”
Hope thought a moment. “That’s a good thing.”
“It is?”
“Yes, because it lowers the number of medals. If they’re dated, then finding the right one would be easier.”
“I really don’t know.”
“Well, it’s a clue, Max. It’s something to search for, and if we can establish it was stolen from you, well, that’s a good start.”
“I will take your word for that. Can I help with anything else?”
“No, thanks. That’s all I was wondering about.”
Then I wish you a good night, Mrs. Herring.”
“Good night, Max.”
Hope considered the medal as she readied for bed. It was the kind of search Cori would be good at. As soon as she returned from Hawaii, Hope would ask her daughter to look into it. Could she find a 175-year-old medal? Possibly.
Before Hope fell asleep, the thought came to her that solving Max’s murder was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, Max would be free to move on. On the other hand, Max would be free to move on.
While she hadn’t known him all that long, she had come to enjoy their chats, and she especially appreciated his vigilance. Yes, he had missed the murder of Clive Thomas, but that was forgivable, as it occurred on the porch, not inside the house. Max was the watchdog Hope needed, without the fuss of a watchdog. She would certainly miss him. She didn’t want him to go. Hope considered telling Cori not to push too hard when researching the medal, but that would be wrong. She owed it to Max to find out the truth.
It was the middle of the night, when Hope heard her name spoken.
“Mrs. Herring.”
She opened her eyes to find Max standing by the side of the bed.
“Don’t tell me it’s another murder,” Hope said swinging her feet to the floor.
“No, the man trying to break in through your back door is very much alive.”
With her heart racing, Hope grabbed her phone. “Is he inside yet?”
“No, but he will be soon.”
“Is there a way you can stop him once he’s in the house?”
“I will think of something.”
“Good, because I’m going to lock my bedroom door and wait for the police.”
“A wise decision.”
The 911 dispatcher was alert and well-trained. Hope stayed on the line as the police were dispatched. Within ten minutes, someone knocked on her bedroom door.
“Who is it?” Hope asked.
“The police,” was the answer. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Detective Robinson is on the way.”
The intruder was on his way to the police station by the time Hope met Detective Robinson in the kitchen. Her back door had been jimmied, but it wasn’t destroyed. They sat at the table, and Hope couldn’t stop her hands from shaking.
“We found him on the floor,” Detective Robinson said. “He was a bit woozy, so we can’t question him until morning. He’s on his way to the hospital, as we speak. When they release him, we’ll file charges.”
“Did you recognize him? Is he a known burglar?”
“He’s known, but he’s hardly a burglar. Well, I don’t believe he’s a burglar. Tell me, why would Patton Boney break into your house?”
“Patton Boney?” Hope sat straight, shocked to hear who had been found in her house. “The attorney?”
“One and the same. Have any idea why he broke in?”
“None,” Hope said. “He’s not my attorney, although he offered to defend me if I am charged for the murder of Clive Thomas.”
“Then, the answer will have to wait until morning.”
“Mind if I join you for the questioning?” Hope asked.
“Yes, you can since he broke into your house,” he said. “But you can only observe.”
“Call me?”
He stood and yawned. “I will, but it won’t be early. I hate being called out in the middle of the night. If it weren’t your house, and if it weren’t Patton, I would have stayed in bed.”
“Thank you for coming,” Hope told him.
Hope propped a chair against the back door before she went back to bed. Then, she made a mental note to add a chain and a deadbolt to the door. Nothing would keep out a determined criminal, but those things would slow him down.
“Max,” she said before she turned off the kitchen light.
“Mrs. Herring.” Max stood by the back door.