“Craig's father was also friends with Boswell?”
“The three of them hunted together on Reuben’s acreage. He has twice as much property as anyone else. Most of it was bordered by national forest, and he rotated the grazing for his cattle.”
“So they were friends. Reuben Holt and Otis Boswell.”
She shrugged. “Once a year they hunted. That’s about it. Reuben and Camilla moved to Jefferson City a few months ago. Reuben’s running for the state senate.”
“Craig is living in the middle of the Mark Twain National Forest by himself?” Murph asked. “A young man like him?”
“Craig’s an outdoorsman and he owns a marina near Eagle Rock. That’s only a few miles away. He meets plenty of people in summer.”
Murph acknowledged her words with a nod. “You know him pretty well?”
“Sure. He was good friends with both my brothers. It seemed as if he was always here.”
“How well did he know your grandfather?”
“Very. Good neighbors. Why the questions, Murph? What are you thinking?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I wonder if the Holts might know something we don’t.”
“About Otis?”
Murph closed the album. “I understand that you don’t believe that man would salt the mine, but since neither your grandfather nor Noah Erwin did, doesn’t it stand to reason that their only other partner must have, despite what appears to be considerable money in his coffers?”
Sable squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t stop thinking about the note in her pocket. Besides the fact that she still could not believe what her grandfather had written, something about it disturbed her. Something was wrong. Someone might jump to the conclusion that he’d confessed to a crime and then committed suicide by car. She knew better.
“Sable?”
She looked up at Paul Murphy, whose rich bass voice held more than a little curiosity. “I’ll ask Craig if he remembers anything specific about Otis.”
He nodded. “But I don't think we need to tell anyone about all this yet. Not tonight, anyway.”
“I’ll let that be your call. I’m too tired to think straight.” And too distracted.
“Sorry, I don’t want to worry you. I opened the chest in my search for blankets and found this photo album.” He held it up, then placed it onto the bed.
The pleasantly aromatic scent of cedar invaded the room as Murph helped Sable pull out two stacks of quilts and blankets.
Sable closed the chest and slid her fingers along the polished top. “Grandpa made this chest for me years ago. I wanted him to make it out of cedar and he wanted to work with oak. We argued about it for three days until he gave in. After all, as I put it, if it was a gift for me I should have my choice.”
“So you inherited your strong will from your grandfather.”
She cast him a sideways glance. “I was spoiled and selfish. He was the one giving me the gift.” She inhaled the fragrance of the chest once again, aware of Murph’s silent attention. “You still suspect Boswell,” she said.
“How can I not?”
“Why would he be mixed up in something like this? Why risk so much?”
“Do you actually know his financial situation? A lot of people pretend to be wealthy when they’re drowning in debt.”
“You know people like that?”
“A few. Besides, you have to know Boswell is not your friend.”
“No he’s not, but that’s because he suspects Grandpa—and me, I suppose—of fraud.”
“Or he’s just accusing you of it. He deigned to make a visit to the clinic while you were on leave for Josiah’s funeral. He questioned the staff.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know what he asked the others but he asked me if I’d seen you carrying any papers home with you after hours.”
She frowned at Murph, though she was not surprised. “That’s all? Papers from the clinic? That doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the Seitz mine.” Though now that she thought about it, considering Boswell’s recent behavior toward her—
“Are you kidding?” Murph exclaimed. “It has everything to do with it if he knew about the papers Josiah sent you.”
“They only arrived yesterday. Why would he be asking about them before that?” She slid her hand into the front pocket of her slacks and touched the corner of the note. “We’re missing a lot of information. I don’t know where to find it if there even is any.” What if those weren’t copies Noah had, but the originals?
Murph pivoted and stepped to the window, his shoulders tensing.
“Hello? What’s up?” she asked.
He cleared his throat, took a slow deep breath, and released it. “We know your grandfather certainly couldn’t have murdered Noah.”
“That’s right.”
“So this whole thing goes back to motive for both fraud and two counts of murder. I mean to find out who’s at the center of this.” His shoulders remained tense, straight, his hands squeezed into fists. “When I do…” He shook his head, seemed to recover from his unaccustomed emotional reaction, and took a deep breath.
She shivered as images from the past week accosted her. It felt as if half the world had gone crazy. Even Murph was reacting to it. She wanted to show him the note. She would. At the moment, though, the sting of it was too fresh.
His attention focused on the watch Sable wore on the chain around her neck. “Beautiful craftsmanship. Your grandfather loved you very much.”
“He was the main man in my life after my father died.”
“And he never mentioned anything to you about his concerns in Freemont?”
“Nothing. I don’t think he had any concerns until recently.” And now she was regretting that he never confided that sort of thing to her. “He was one of those tough guys who don't like the women and children to worry.” What else were you trying to protect us from, Grandpa?
Murph nodded. “I know the type. It runs in my family too. But that means we have to start from scratch.”
“And we might not have a lot of time.”
“Of course.” He apparently caught some inflection in her voice and he frowned at her.
“I didn't slip down that cliff tonight, I was pushed.”
* * *
A fresh pulse of adrenaline snapped through Murph like a bullwhip. He was going to have to get a grip on his reactions or poor Sable would think he was deranged. “Pushed. What? Who—”
“I don’t know. I’ve tried to convince myself I imagined it but what if—”
“Are you sure?” He’d known ever since arriving in Fremont weeks ago that something dark was happening, though telling Sable the whole story would have to happen at a later date. She didn’t need to be further stressed.
He and Sable had wondered aloud if they’d been followed from Freemont, but despite all, he’d quietly berated himself for being paranoid. And now this. How much worse could it get?
“Pretty sure it was intentional," she said.
“I wish you’d told me sooner.”
“In front of the guests? I haven’t had a chance—”
“They aren’t guests,” Murph said. “We don’t really know who they are.” Right now he wanted to find out fast.
“I’m still hoping it was somehow a mistake, but that’s a fool’s hope. There’s a dangerous person here and that means the others could also be in danger.”
“You think this person would be after anyone but you?”
“Maybe you.”
“We can’t panic the whole house on a suspicion.”
“Hello! Knock, knock.” Audrey's brisk voice rang out from the open doorway of the bedroom.
Murph looked around in alarm and heard Sable’s quick intake of breath.
“Audrey,” Sable said. “You startled me.”
“Looks that way.” Audrey entered the room. “Sorry honey, but we need these quickly. Everyone is still chilled.” She reached for some of the blankets and carried them out,
her footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Sable picked up more quilts and handed them to Murph.
“Would you carry these downstairs? I’m going to check the safe in the attic.”
“Alone?”
“I’ll be okay as long as the others are downstairs.”
“People are wandering all over the house. We can’t keep track of them.”
“Do what you can. I’ll be down in a moment.”
Murph did as he was told. But he didn’t like it.
Chapter 8
Murph stood in the middle of the room with a pile of blankets under his arm, watching Perry the chubby man, and Jerri the “substitute” bus driver, circulate among the others with mugs of steaming coffee and cocoa. They had obviously found the kitchen and supplies.
It was several moments before Sable appeared at the top of the stairs and he could breathe again. He caught her glance and raised a brow in a silent inquiry. She gave a reassuring nod as she came down the steps. The safe was apparently intact in the attic.
“Special brew for our hostess.” Perry’s pink cheeks stretched with a grin as he handed Sable a mug of hot chocolate. “You probably saved our lives and nearly lost yours, so you get the last cinnamon stick.”
Audrey pulled a quilt from Murph’s arms. “No need for you to take care of the rest of us, sir. We all might as well make ourselves useful.” She shot an impatient look at Simmons, who was sprawled across the heavy sofa, brooding at the fire.
Murph ambled across the room, studying first young Bryce, with his lanky thin arms and legs, then Simmons, with his biceps bulging from beneath an old shirt. He turned again to Sable, who peered at the others through the steam rising from her mug. Her expression reflected his own uneasiness.
“Do you have a farm, Sable?” Bryce gestured toward a picture on the wall of a black Angus bull posed with two young guys, apparently Sable’s brothers.
“Not anymore. My grandfather sold all the farm animals.”
“All but the dog,” Craig said. “I’ve been taking care of him.”
“Where is he now?” Sable asked.
“Downstairs in the basement.” Sable’s neighbor glanced outside where the dawn sun hid behind thick clouds. He then sat on the hearth between a stack of logs and someone’s drying jacket. “Sable's got an honest to goodness cave here with ghosts.”
Murph couldn’t remember ever being as young and exuberant as Craig.
“Ghosts.” Bryce rolled his eyes.
“Ask Sable,” Craig said. “Her family lived with it.”
Bryce looked at Sable, his brown eyes skeptical but also looking a little hopeful.
She took another sip of her chocolate and sat down beside Craig on the hearth, moving the jacket out of the way. Murph noticed that Craig practically leaned into her.
“He’s talking about a story that accompanied the cave when my grandfather moved to this place,” she told Bryce. “Two men from New York bought the property in the early forties with the intention of mining it for zinc and lead. Unfortunately for them, the man who’d sold it to them had convinced them it had rich deposits of ore.”
“They bought it without checking it out?” Bryce asked. “No,” Sable said, “they checked it and found galena and sphalerite, the ores for lead and zinc, but later they discovered they'd been tricked. Someone had planted the ores in the cave. That’s what they call ‘salting a mine.’”
“How’d they do that?” Bryce asked.
Sable hesitated, closed her eyes for a very brief moment as an expression of darkness crossed her face. “They probably used a shotgun to shoot it into the walls to make it look like it was embedded.”
“That’s crazy!” Bryce said. “What about ricochet? Couldn’t it have killed somebody?”
Sable shrugged. “Some people are willing to risk everything to satisfy their greed.” She paused and blinked as if realizing she’d revealed her bitterness to strangers.
“But the men explored further.” Craig picked up the story, frowning at Sable as if this truly was a house party and he felt she was not entertaining the guests properly. “Word spread that they’d discovered silver.”
“Silver!” Bryce exclaimed.
“Craig,” Sable warned. “Don't lead him on like that. It was nothing more than a rumor.”
Craig winked at her. “You tell the story your way, I’ll tell it mine.” He turned back to Bryce. “Somebody offered the partners an outrageous amount of money for the cave.”
“Every tale about this cave is different,” Sable said. “Both partners disappeared. Barry County had a flood about that time and the community was preoccupied with the rising rivers. Nobody searched for the owners during the flood.”
While Sable told the story, Murph surreptitiously studied the others. Craig sat watching Sable with the attention of a love-struck schoolboy—or maybe that was Murph’s imagination. Or maybe…no. He was not sizing Craig up as possible competition. That was absurd.
He glanced at Sable. Yes, absolutely absurd.
“Neighbors began to worry when they failed to show up in town, failed to contact their friends, missed appointments,” Sable continued. “They even wrote to New York and they received no reply.”
Murph looked at Simmons, who hadn’t moved from his position on the far end of the sofa. He did seem to be listening to the story while trying not to appear interested. Audrey wandered around the room looking at family pictures, studying figurines. Perry Chadwick had returned to the kitchen, possibly to rustle up some food, maybe to make more cocoa.
“The land passed down the family line,” Sable continued, “and then a nephew of those two men sold it to my grandfather.”
“Legend has it,” Craig said with a spooky stage whisper, “that the ghosts of the two men guard the treasure.” He wiggled his eyebrows.
“What legend?” Sable razzed him. “There’s no legend.”
Craig chuckled. “What about the door opening and closing on its own?”
Sable shot him a grimace. “My grandfather figured out that “ghost activity.” The barometer rises and falls in a cave the way it does outside, creating a draft. That caused the door to open and close all by itself.”
Bryce’s shoulders slumped. “That's all there is to it?”
“Sorry to be such a disappointment to you,” Sable said dryly. “Nothing’s ever haunted us here.”
“Can I explore the cave?” Bryce asked.
“If we're stuck here long enough,” she said.
“All right!”
“And if you want to study a map first,” Craig said, “there’s one up on the wall in the attic. Josiah did all the research and drew it up himself. It’s pretty close to scale.”
Murph saw Sable wince, but she didn’t protest Craig’s inappropriate invitation for everyone to check out the attic.
Jerri strolled into the room, her thick arms crossed over her chest and her red hair spiked as if she’d been combing it with her fingers. “I reported in. Thanks for the use of your radio, Sable. We’ve got to stay put for the time being. This storm took everyone by surprise.”
Perry came in yawning and stretching. “It’s been quite a night. I think I'll prepare for bed if nobody minds.” The others agreed and Sable assigned rooms, giving the other downstairs bedroom to Bryce. The rest were upstairs.
“If it’s okay with you, Sable,” Perry said, “I’ll use the cot in the sewing room upstairs. I’ve been told I snore like a semi. It’s the weight, you know.”
Murph agreed to share a room with Simmons, though he longed for a room of his own. He hated the thought of sleeping with the pistol gouging his ribs. To his dismay, he learned from Sable that the room had only bunk beds. His six-foot-one-inch frame would not fit easily into a bunk.
As everyone retired and Murph stepped into the room he was assigned, a duffle bag sailed past his left elbow and landed on the lower bunk.
“First dibs,” Simmons called behind him. He flopped onto the mattress, shoes and al
l. “I hate heights. Mind turning off the light?”
* * *
The sound of footsteps and muffled voices upstairs diminished as Sable searched through her grandfather’s desk in an alcove beside the kitchen. No files stood out to her, no folders held answers to her mysteries.
She finally gave up, settled in front of the fireplace, and allowed herself the luxury of distant memories.
In her mind’s eye she sat flanked by her brothers and stared into the flames while Grandpa perched on the stone hearth across from them, his blue eyes sparkling as he wove an exciting spur-of-the-moment tale.
The stories he told the three of them were always fiction. At least the ones he called stories were, but when Sable was alone with him they shared dreams. Grandpa’s dream had always been to send his grandchildren to college.
He’d paid to see those dreams come true. Only later did Sable discover that the tuition money had come as a loan from his business partner, Otis Boswell.
She sighed. That man again.
She pulled out the letter she had stuffed into her pocket along with the confession note. Setting the note aside, she scanned the first two pages of the letter Grandpa had written to Mom, dated December 20.
The last page caught her attention. “I have a surprise for you and the kids,” it read. Grandpa always had a surprise of some kind. “Not sure about it yet but I know it's there. Don't want to ruin it.” The remainder of the letter, written in his usual flamboyant style, said nothing more about it.
What could he have been talking about? Maybe the Seitz mine? He’d been so sure they would sell it and be out of debt for good. But that was no secret.
A quiet movement startled her and she turned to find Murph standing halfway down the stairs. His auburn hair had dried and he wore jeans that were too tight for him. An old faded blue turtleneck of Peter’s peeped out from beneath a baggy ragged denim hunting shirt of Grandpa’s.
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