Final Arrangements

by Rich Curtin

  The rockhound club Shirley mentioned would be a good place to start, but Rivera was unfamiliar with it. He’d never read about it anywhere or heard it discussed. He remembered that Chris Carey, a retired newspaper journalist and good friend, had written a freelance article some years ago on the geology of the canyon country around Moab. The lengthy piece went into detail about the sedimentary layers that had formed the Colorado Plateau, the laccolithic intrusions that had penetrated them and formed mountains, the erosion that had taken place, and the rivers and streams that had drained the area and created the canyons. Rivera remembered that Carey had done a lot of research in preparing to write the article. Perhaps he knew something about the rockhound club.

  6

  RIVERA LEFT HIS OFFICE and headed toward his vehicle, feeling the same trepidation he felt at the beginning of every case—a vague fear of failure. The feeling was irrational, of course, and he knew that. It was driven by a strong desire not to disappoint those who were depending on him. There was also an element of pride involved. He’d faced many challenges in his career as an investigator and had never yet failed to solve one of his cases. It was a record he never mentioned to anyone, but one he wanted to keep intact.

  It was late in the afternoon, and he hoped he wouldn’t catch Carey in the middle of dinner. The sunset stopped him in his tracks. He stood there, staring up at the sky. Sunsets in the high desert country were a sight Rivera loved, and this evening’s was no exception. The western sky had become a dazzling palette of pink, orange, and gold as the sun descended behind the Moab Rim. Shadows produced by the jagged undulations in the rim rock radiated out from a center point causing the sky to resemble a colorful Japanese fan. Rivera liked to think that high desert sunsets were a daily treat which cost the beholder nothing.

  Main Street was crowded with traffic as Rivera drove toward Carey’s house. Young people in their Jeeps and pickups were returning from their backcountry adventures. Some vehicles carried dripping kayaks on their rooftops, and others hauled dusty mountain bikes on bike racks. Soon, the intrepid adventurers would be heading for the local restaurants and watering holes where they would recount and relive their exploits. Rivera hoped they all made it back safely.

  He pulled to a stop in front of Carey’s house and hopped out of his vehicle. The temperature was dropping as cooler air descended from the mountains. It had already fallen ten or fifteen degrees since the daytime high of seventy-eight. Carey’s house looked like it had been freshly painted, and the front lawn had recently been mowed. The mature desert willow tree growing in the front yard had been trimmed and the walkway was lined with tulips and daffodils. Rivera remembered a time when the house had fallen into disrepair and the yard was overgrown with weeds. That was a couple of years ago, just after Carey’s wife Rita had passed away.

  Rivera knocked on the front door. The door swung open and a big smile erupted on Carey’s face.

  “Hey Manny, come in, come in.” Carey gave him a hug.

  “Hi, Chris. Got a few minutes to talk?”

  “For you? Always.” Carey patted Rivera on the back as he entered the house. “I’ve been working on a story about the role Basque sheepherders played in the development of the Four Corners area.”

  “Sounds interesting. Where will it be published?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll shop it around when it’s finished. I hope you’re here because you need my help on one of your cases.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do need some help.”

  “Great! Let’s go into the den.”

  Carey looked younger to Rivera than the last time he had seen him. Although his white hair was almost completely gone and his tan face was sagging and wrinkled, he seemed be filled with a renewed vitality and enthusiasm. And he had lost a lot of weight around his middle. Years ago, his career as a newspaper journalist had ended due to cutbacks in the industry. Competition from cable news and the internet had caused revenues to falter, and personnel layoffs became commonplace. Carey, though held in high esteem as an investigative journalist, had been a victim of those cutbacks. Now, he was reduced to writing freelance articles on the history, geology, and politics of the Four Corners area and peddling them to magazines. He’d told Rivera there wasn’t much money in it, but it allowed him to continue making use of his journalism skills. After Carey’s wife had died, Rivera watched him go downhill fast. Between losing both her and his career, he had little to look forward to. Because of Carey’s connections and his knowledge of Utah and its history, Rivera had often recruited him to help on one of his investigations. The old journalist loved getting involved in a challenging murder case. Then, a couple of years ago, Rivera had managed to link Millie Ives, the sheriff’s dispatcher who was a widow, and Carey together. They’d hit it off and that seemed to help reverse the plunge in Carey’s spirits.

  “I was just getting ready to pour myself some scotch. You want one?”

  “I could sure use one.”

  Rivera sat down in a brown leather chair and glanced around the room. Things hadn’t changed much since his last visit—the dark paneled walls, the shelves overflowing with books and memorabilia from a career in journalism, a desk cluttered with piles of magazines and newspapers, and a large globe in the corner of the room. On a small table was an ancient, black Underwood typewriter Carey had used as a cub reporter. The clunky, antique tool of the trade had large round keys with white letters. Rivera knew it was Carey’s pride and joy.

  Carey must have noticed Rivera looking at it. “I used that old typewriter for a lot of years. About wore it out.”

  “Then came word processors. Did you have trouble adapting to the new technology?”

  “Oh, not really, but I miss the old days—you know, a gray-haired editor barking out assignments, reporters talking on the phone in loud voices, typewriters clacking away, telephones ringing, people shouting across the newsroom, everyone working to meet the deadline, the smell of newsprint and ink. Man, I loved all that. And I miss it a lot. Did I ever tell you there was a time early in my life when I wanted to own a newspaper?

  Rivera smiled. “No, you didn’t.”

  “Just a small newspaper in a small town. I wanted to be editor and publisher and have the best investigative reporters in the business on my staff.” He laughed. “I pictured myself becoming famous for breaking stories about corruption and malfeasance in government. But it never worked out. Life got in the way—marriage, kids, a mortgage, so forth. I suppose lots of newspaper journalists have had that same dream early in their careers.”

  Carey set out a couple of crystal glasses and poured an inch of Highland Park single malt scotch into each. He handed one to Rivera. “It’s been a while since we sat here and chatted. Everything going okay?”

  “Yeah, everything’s fine. Did you hear about the shooting we had?”

  “I heard about that Frank Upton fellow who was murdered. I didn’t know him personally, but I did know Arthur Atkinson.” Carey shook his head. “I never would have guessed Atkinson was a killer. I met him a few times at some social functions and fundraisers around town. Boy, could he bend your ear. He loved talking about real estate, the growth of Moab, and his upcoming projects. He was always passing out business cards—whether you wanted one or not. I think I’ve got three or four of them. He seemed like an intense guy, very competitive, and always in a hurry. I never figured him for a killer. But that was a week ago. Old news. Was there another one?”

  Rivera took a sip of scotch and nodded. “Yeah. It happened last night. Did you know a guy named Iggy Webb?”

  Carey thought for a long moment. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “He lived in a motorhome parked at Shirley Miller’s place on Shumway Lane. He’d been living there for about six years.”

  Carey shrugged. “I’ve never heard of either one of them.”

  “He was a rockhound. He made his living collecting interesting rocks in the backcountry and selling them to tourists. You may have seen him and his m
aroon motorhome near the Colorado River bridge. He would set up a table in the parking area there and sell his wares.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know the guy you mean. I saw him there several times.”

  “Well, someone killed him last night. A single shot to the chest. He’s a bit of an enigma, so I need to learn more about him. I’ll tell you this confidentially—he has a long rap sheet from his days in Baltimore. He did some prison time for assault with a deadly weapon and dealing in drugs. Apparently, he came to Moab six years ago to turn his life around. And he was doing fine—enjoying life and getting by financially—until someone killed him. Maybe his past caught up with him, I don’t know. Anyway, he was friends with three other rockhounds, but all I have are their first names. Didn’t you mention rockhounding in that piece you wrote on the geology of the Moab area?”

  Carey smiled. “You have a good memory. I’d almost forgotten I wrote that article. What do you need to know about rockhounding?”

  “There’s some kind of a group in Moab that rockhounds belong to. A club of some sort.”

  “Right. It’s called the Southeast Utah Rockhound Club.”

  “I need to get in touch with them. Do you know who’s in charge?”

  “As I recall, it’s a pretty active club. I believe they have a website.” He turned to his computer and tapped in a few keystrokes. “Yeah, here it is. The president is a lady by the name of Alice Russell. They’ve got her email address listed here.” He jotted it down on a pad, tore off the page, and handed it to Rivera.

  “By the way, it says on their website that the club is having its annual Rock, Gem, and Mineral Show starting on Friday. It’s at the Old Spanish Trail Arena. I’ll bet a bunch of them will be there for the next few days setting it up. Maybe you can catch Alice there.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I’ve been to their show a few times. It’s amazing what they have on display. Rocks and minerals of unimaginable coloring and beauty. I think you would enjoy seeing it.”

  “I’ll drop by the arena in the morning and take a look.” Rivera finished his drink and stood up. “Thanks for the help, Chris.”

  “Are you leaving already? You just got here.”

  “I’m tired, Chris. I got in from New Mexico late yesterday and had a full day today.”

  “Is that all you need?” Carey sounded disappointed.

  “For now, yeah, but I’m just getting started on the case.”

  “If I can help you with anything else, let me know. You know how much I enjoy getting involved in your investigations.”

  “Thanks, Chris. I appreciate the help.”

  “One last thing.” Carey’s expression turned serious. “Before you go, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you.” He hesitated as if searching for the right words. “I want to thank you for sending Millie my way. She told me it was you who suggested she look in on me after Rita passed away. I was really down in the dumps back then, but Millie helped me get back on my feet. We really hit it off. I feel like a new person.”

  “I’m glad. You two make a fine couple.”

  7

  RIVERA EDGED HIS vehicle into the last parking space in front of the Rim Rock Diner, hoping his radio and cell phone would remain silent for the next half hour so he could enjoy a leisurely breakfast in peace. Millie Ives was one of his most favorite people, but right now, her dispatcher’s voice was the last thing he wanted to hear.

  He walked through the crisp morning air to the front door, pulled it open, and stepped into the warmth. The smell of bacon and pancakes cooking on the grill made him salivate, as it did each morning. The diner was filled with the sounds of locals in spirited conversation, the loud banter between the cook and waitresses, and the clinking of utensils against plates. A few of the old timers he saw there each morning smiled and waved at him. Rivera had always noticed a look of contentment on the faces of the locals, regardless of their station in life. They seemed to exist outside the realm of the competitive, dog-eat-dog world of greed and competition. It was as though the beauty and serenity of the high desert was giving them everything they needed to enjoy life.

  Rivera loved coming to the Rim Rock Diner. It was an old-fashioned restaurant with a long counter and swivel stools for customers to sit on. Around the periphery of the diner were booths with Formica-topped tables and padded, maroon vinyl seats. The same cooks and waitresses had been working there for years. They were fast and efficient without creating the impression they were in a hurry. The walls were filled with framed black and white photographs of Moab as it looked in the 1950s during the uranium mining boom. There were pictures of Main Street sparsely populated with the automobiles of the day, the old uranium mill by the river, the courthouse, the park, and the Fourth of July parade with bands, horseback riders on paint ponies, pretty girls with batons, and antique cars. The Rim Rock was his home away from home. He headed for his regular booth in the corner by the front window.

  As soon as he sat down, Betty, who had been serving him breakfast since he first moved to Moab, was at his side with a carafe of coffee and a mug. She placed the mug on the table and filled it. She was in her early fifties, married and divorced at least four times, and her bleached-blonde hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head. As usual, her white uniform was a couple of sizes too small and the top three buttons of her blouse were open, exposing a generous cleavage.

  “Hi, handsome,” she said in a sultry voice.

  “Good morning, Betty. How are you today?” He took a sip of coffee.

  “Fine, now that you’re here. I spotted you in the parking lot yesterday morning and then you disappeared. You got my hopes up and then you dashed them.”

  Rivera smiled. “Duty called. I had to settle for granola bars.”

  She put her hand on his shoulder and massaged it. “Big strong man like you needs a full breakfast. Betty is here to see to your needs. Betty is always here for you.” She was smiling her toothy smile, chewing her gum slowly, and launching into her daily flirtation routine. Then she stopped.

  “Was that because of the Iggy Webb shooting?”

  “Yeah. Did you know him?”

  “I saw him once. He was in here with Shirley Miller having lunch.”

  “When was that?”

  “A couple of months ago.”

  “How did you know that was Iggy?”

  She looked at Rivera like he was some sort of alien life. “Because she called him Iggy about four times, that’s why.”

  “Where do you know Shirley from?”

  “She’s in our quilting club. She was sitting in this very booth listening to Iggy tell a story about how he got caught collecting rocks from property another rockhound was leasing from the Bureau of Land Management. It was somewhere up near Vernal. A man waving a shotgun ran him off.” She paused. “I wasn’t eavesdropping of course. That would be contrary to the code of ethics we Rim Rock waitresses live by and take pride in. But conversations just float through the air and somehow land in my ears.”

  Rivera laughed. “Anything else you can tell me about Shirley and Iggy?”

  “Oh, they were just friends if that’s what you mean. I don’t think there was anything going on between them. But Shirley was the one who picked up the check. You want the usual?”

  “Please.”

  She scratched the order onto her pad and left.

  Rivera thought about Shirley and Iggy and decided there wasn’t anything more to their relationship than met the eye. Shirley was lonely and Iggy was her friend. Each filled a niche in the other’s reclusive life, and that was all there was to it. Shirley was what she seemed to be, and Rivera had no reason to believe she had anything to do with Webb’s death.

  He took another sip of coffee and stared out the window at the LaSal Mountains in the distance. The air was clear and the sun, which was still below the horizon, backlighted the peaks and outlined them in an orange aura. He’d done some of his best thinking here, drinking coffee and looking at the mountains. He fel
t lucky to be living in Moab. He missed his family and friends in Las Cruces, New Mexico, where he grew up, but he’d bonded so strongly with the canyon country on a high school trip to Arches National Park, that he wasn’t sure he could ever pull himself away.

  He thought about his time in New Mexico with Gloria last week. They’d gone to Española and spent a quiet visit with her parents. Her mother was a seamstress who worked part-time at home and her father was retired from an administrative career at the Rio Arriba County Tax Assessor’s office. Gloria was their only child. They lived in a small house on a dead-end street on the outskirts of town and led a quiet, dignified life. They weren’t in the best of health. Her father had partially lost the use of his left arm due to a mild stroke, and her mother had an arthritic knee that limited her mobility. Much of their time was spent reading or watching television together. They seemed like a happy couple and were elated that Gloria and Manny had found each other. They were openly excited at the prospect of having grandchildren.

  After Española, the couple had visited Rivera’s family in Las Cruces. That visit was anything but quiet. Rivera’s parents had arranged a grand party so all of Manny’s relatives and friends could meet Gloria and help celebrate their son’s engagement. He smiled and sipped on his coffee as he remembered the occasion. The party took place in his parents’ backyard. His two brothers and two sisters were there with their families, and his grandfather and grandmother had come. So had over a hundred friends, aunts, uncles, cousins, and neighbors.

  Most of the ladies wore traditional Mexican long dresses made with red, green, and white material, and many of the men wore guayabera shirts. Tables with an assortment of Mexican foods and desserts had been set up on one side of the yard, and a full bar was set up on the other side. One of Rivera’s cousins served as bartender and most of the guests were drinking tequila and feeling no pain. Festive crepe paper decorations were festooned across the tables and the backyard fence. Christmas lights were strung on wires high in the air across the yard. His parents had hired a mariachi band which played all evening as they circulated around the yard. They sang favorites like Volver Volver, Cascabel, and Y Volvere. When the mariachis played De Colores, everyone danced and sang along. Hearing the happiness in their voices had brought tears to Gloria’s eyes.