With my back against the tree, I glanced over at the bear scat, which almost looked, and smelled, like a fresh new deposit because of the rain and lingering moisture in the air. Then I noticed something protruding from the dung pile. After I completed my business, which didn't amount to much, I walked toward the scat to get a closer look.
When I recognized the object I was flabbergasted. I'd have peed my pants had I not just emptied my bladder. Protruding from the top of the pile of bear dung was the gold bracelet Bea had been wearing the first time I met her. The very piece of jewelry we'd just been discussing before Rick arrived less than an hour earlier. Leaving the bracelet undisturbed, I yanked up my breeches and sprinted back to get the men.
Scrutinizing the scene, Rick and Rip were unsure how to proceed. Rip feared if he placed a call to the police department or county sheriff, he'd once again be told to go to the campground's clubhouse and play bingo with some other old fogeys. So he recommended that Rick call and notify the lead detective of our findings.
Rick appeared hesitant to call the authorities. "I guess this is proof she was at least partially eaten by a bear. Huh?"
"I guess," Rip replied mechanically, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.
"Her bracelet must have passed through the bear's digestive system, and been deposited in that scat," Rick continued. "This makes me even more convinced it was an accidental bear attack, not the work of a killer."
"Not necessarily, Rick," Rip said, suddenly realizing what Rick was assuming. "Whether she'd initially been killed by a bear or a human, if a scavenging bear gnawed on her body, the bracelet would have ultimately ended up in the same place."
"Oh, yeah. I guess you're right." Rick seemed disappointed by Rip's reasoning.
The thing I couldn't understand was that I was 99.9 percent sure the bracelet had not been there the previous day. Granted, my vision wasn't flawless. But I couldn't have missed the bracelet from no more than ten feet away. I'd stared at the pile of bear poop the entire time I was relieving myself as if afraid it'd come to life and attack me. Not to mention, the clouds hadn't set in until earlier that morning. The sun was bright yesterday and would have been glinting off the gold, as well as the solitaire diamond between the smaller emeralds. The diamond that represented Bea's April birthstone was large and clear, a real sparkler.
The diamond! Where is the diamond? I wondered. The emeralds were intact, I noted, but the diamond was gone. Could the diamond have been dislodged from its setting during the initial attack, or inside the bear's colon where it might have ended up in a different pile of scat? It didn't seem likely to me.
I pointed out the missing gem to the men. The way the bracelet was stuck in the scat, it was difficult to tell the impressive diamond that had originally been mounted between the two smaller gems was no longer there. I'd been so amazed by its size and clarity that I remembered the solitaire vividly.
Rip looked at the bracelet closer without touching it. "It looks to me as if the diamond was pried out of its setting with a pocket knife or some other small tool. My guess is, if Bea was killed by a human, that person is in possession of the diamond. The way you described it, Rapella, it's a valuable gem. For that matter, it's not beyond the realm of possibility that the diamond's value was what had prompted someone to kill Bea. There's a good chance, if my theory is correct, it's already been hocked. When the detectives arrive, we'll bring it to their attention. They can check with all the nearby pawn shops. If they find the diamond, the individual who brought it in was most likely captured on the store's security video. An employee at the shop might have even known or recognized the person. At the very least, a diamond of that magnitude would be remarkable enough in a small town like Buffalo that whichever pawn shop clerk made the deal on it should be able to describe the customer hocking it to a sketch artist."
Rick studied Rip's face for a few seconds. "So you think she was actually murdered?"
"Well, I certainly think it's possible, buddy. Do you know anyone who despised her enough to actually murder her, or needed money badly enough to kill her for the diamond?"
"I know a number of people who didn't care for her, including me, Rip. But any of them hating her enough to take her life? I don't think so. As far as someone needing money badly enough to kill her, I'm not quite as certain." After he finished speaking, Rick became quiet and pensive. He appeared to be musing over the fact that even the seasoned lawman was not convinced his former sister-in-law's death was due to an animal encounter gone bad. Really, really bad. Either that, or the ranger was deliberating about whether or not to tell us about someone he knew who might be desperate enough for money to kill for it. I decided not to press him on the matter. Not yet, anyway.
Knowing it'd take a while for the investigators to arrive on the scene, we decided to go remove the memory card from the game camera, upload any images it captured on the iPad I'd brought with me, and ensure the camera was ready to operate again. There turned out to be only twelve images on the memory card, and none of them were of any substance.
Afterward, we tromped through the marshy field and waited for the investigators to arrive on the same outcropping where we'd first seen the ranger. It was the most logical place to meet. From there, Rick could lead the officers to the pile of bear scat so they could process the scene.
Rick encouraged us to wait on the other side of the mucky valley so we wouldn't ruin our footwear, but I think we both felt more comfortable in the company of the experienced ranger, even though only one of us would admit it. Rip is what you'd call a man's man. A testosterone-driven man like him doesn't ever own up to fear. Instead they lie through their teeth to preserve their manhood, just as Rip did then.
"I'd like to tag along," Rip said. "I really need the exercise, and you don't get a physique like mine without working at it. On the other hand, I don't feel comfortable leaving Rapella here alone."
I saw through that story like I'd been peering into space through the Hubble telescope. Being responsible for my husband's "man card" being revoked seemed kind of heartless to me, though, so I said, "Actually, I need the exercise, too. I'm getting out of shape by not walking as much as I used to. Let's all go."
After the detectives arrived and were led to the scene, one of them barked out orders to a younger cop. "Get the photos taken, then bag up some bear crap, Bill."
Rip leaned over toward the fellow named Bill, and grinned. "Welcome to the police force, son. You must be the rookie in the group."
"Gee, was it that obvious? I can hardly wait until I have enough seniority to order some new recruit to 'bag up some bear crap'." Everyone laughed except Bill, who donned latex gloves and tried not to gag as he reached deep into the soggy pile to withdraw a healthy sample for the crime lab.
I told nobody about being certain the bracelet wasn't sticking out of the nearly dried up excrement the previous day. For one thing, I was trying to chew on the significance of that matter myself. And for another, it's hard for a woman to retain any dignity whatsoever when she has to announce to a group of men that she's pretty sure the bracelet wasn't present in the bear poop when she took a leak in the same spot the day before.
I did discuss it with Rip in the truck while driving to the ball field. He said he thought we should keep it under our hats for the time being. What he really thought, I'd bet, was, "Rapella's bat-crap crazy! Of course the bracelet was there yesterday. It's her over-active imagination at work again. How in the world could a bracelet end up in bear scat by itself?"
It was that last question I visualized him thinking that bothered me. It couldn't end up there by itself. Someone had to place the bracelet in the scat pile in the interim between our two visits to the site. But why? And, more importantly, who? I knew I wasn't bat-crap crazy, but convincing anyone else of that was not going to be easy.
Chapter 23
We missed the first three innings of Willie's game due to the time it took for the detectives to arrive and process the scene. When we arrived, the Buff
alo boys were behind with one run to Gillette's two. The opposing team outscored them through the next five innings and at the top of the ninth, it was eight to four in favor of Gillette.
The lead-off batter managed to place a base hit over the third baseman's head for a single, and the next batter laid down the perfect bunt to move him to second base and outrun the throw to first. With runners on first and second, the enthusiasm in the bleachers grew intense. The clean-up batter, a solidly-built boy named Chad, struck out on three straight pitches to the dismay of the crowd, and the following batter was hit by a pitch, loading the bases.
Now the Buffalo crowd was buzzing with anticipation. Their cheering turned to silence when Willie's best friend, Anthony, was called out on a pop-up to the pitcher. As one, every fan on both sides held their breaths. Cora was as still as a pillar of salt, more nervous than her son, whose turn it was to bat.
"You can do it, Willie!" Rip hollered. Willie looked over to the three of us and flashed a confident smile.
Willie swung and missed two straight-down-the-pike pitches. He then took three straight balls just outside the strike zone and fended off a third strike with a foul ball into the crowd. Facing a full count, Willie stepped away from the plate. He took a couple of practice swings and waited for his nerves to calm down before facing the Gillette pitcher again.
As if in slow motion, the pitcher wound up for the pitch, released it, and with all the onlookers standing on their feet cheering, Willie swung with all the power he could muster. Making solid contact with the bat, the ball sailed over the center fielder's head, cleared the fence by twenty feet, and rolled out of sight.
With his fist pumping, Willie cleared the bases behind the other three base runners. It was a game-changing grand slam. He'd put his team in contention for the win by tying the score. Gillette had the last at-bat, leaving the Buffalo boys three outs away from extra innings and a good chance of becoming the league champions. "After all," Rip said optimistically, "they'll have momentum on their side going into extra innings."
Unfortunately, the lead-off batter for the Gillette team hit the first pitch for a line drive, clearing the left-field fence by mere inches for a walk-off home run, and leading his team to a nine to eight victory over Buffalo, as well as the conference championship.
Following the game, Willie's face was long and his head hung low. He fought off the urge to cry, not wanting to look like a baby in front of his teammates, two of whom were already sobbing. He blamed himself for hitting into a double play in the third inning. Rip spoke to his great-nephew man to man, reminding him it was just a game and telling him the Buffalo boys should be proud of how well they'd played all season just to earn the right to play in the championship game.
"Your grand slam was the most exciting play in the game. Maybe even in the entire tournament," Rip said. "In my day, it was every boy's dream to step up to the plate in the ninth inning with two out and a full count. And then, under intense pressure, to knock the ball out of the park for a grand slam. With the entire Buffalo crowd on their feet and screaming, you did exactly that, son. No one can ever take that moment, or that feeling of accomplishment, away from you."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. That really was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of moment, wasn't it?" Willie's grin stretched from one ear to the other, his spirits instantly lifted by his uncle's words.
"I seriously doubt it was a once-in-a-lifetime moment for you, son. To be honest, Willie, I believe it was just one of many moments like that in your ball-playing future. Now let's go celebrate that grand slam at the ice cream shop. I want to see if we can all finish a cone before that baseball you pounded comes to a rest just this side of the Montana border. Because it was still picking up steam when it flew over the parking lot, heading north toward downtown at an amazing clip."
Willie laughed, punched my husband in the shoulder. "You're nuts, Uncle Rip!"
* * *
At the ice cream shop, we all chatted while Rip, Cora and I enjoyed our single-dip cones. Willie, a growing boy who, like a hummingbird, could eat twice his weight in food daily and not pack a spare ounce on his slim frame, was snarfing down a triple-decker. He was trying not to miss out on a single drop of it, but it appeared to be a losing effort. The bottom dip was melting faster than he could consume the top two.
Every time Willie accompanied his mother to our place, I tried to empty the entire contents of the fridge into him, hoping to put a little more meat on his bones. That, too, appeared to be a losing effort. When Willie asked if he could order a cheeseburger after he finished his cone, Rip just shrugged. "Go for it, kid! That ball you clobbered has probably just sailed past Sheridan, so we still have lots of time to get out of here before it comes to a stop."
Willie knew his uncle was being facetious, but he welcomed the praise all the same. After Willie polished off his cheeseburger, we lingered at the shop discussing the topic of the bear poachers the forest service was trying to nab. Willie, who was always conjuring up a scheme of some kind, came up with a very intriguing idea. I couldn't wait to call Ranger Rick and summon him back to our trailer. But first we had to stop by the Beaufonts' home to borrow the bear rug that lay in front of the fireplace hearth in Dirk's "man cave" downstairs.
I was excited about putting Willie's suggestion into place. It was at that moment something occurred to me. My great-nephew would make a good detective when he grew up, if his dream to become a renowned classic car restorer or a professional ball player didn't work out.
* * *
Rick found Willie's idea more promising than anything else we could come up with. He told us he'd pick us up in a half-hour, and together we'd ride back to the spot where we'd met up with the detectives earlier in the day. From the vantage point atop the outcropping, we could better put Willie's inspiration into action.
Rick arrived in twenty minutes and we headed toward our desired location. After we stopped and exited the vehicle, Rick and Rip removed the confiscated bear trap from a trailer being towed behind the Jeep. It was coated with dried blood. Rick explained it was from the unidentified snared animal he'd told us about earlier. It had escaped the trap, but not before losing a great deal of blood. Together, the two men lugged the fifty pound trap back to the spot where Rick had discovered and confiscated it earlier that morning. I trailed behind them with Dirk's bear rug, which wasn't all that lightweight either.
It was easy to find the trap's previous location, as the blood was still on the ground. By the amount of blood lost, I couldn't imagine any creature surviving the incident. Certainly nothing small, like a raccoon or marmot, could spill that much blood and live to tell about it–tell other coons or marmots about their near-death experience with the trap, that is.
The rain had stopped a couple of hours before Willie's ball game and the field had been dried out so the championship game could commence. But the valley, already marshy, was difficult to traverse after being saturated with moisture. Rick agreed with Willie that the odds of the poachers trudging through the forest into the even sloppier valley that day were slim. Chances were, they'd opt to wait until the following morning to check the trap, giving the ground a little extra time to dry out. The fact there were no existing footprints in the muck when we arrived seemed to confirm the notion.
As Willie had suggested, we placed the trap in its former location, but didn't arm it so as to be sure no other animal could be injured in its powerful steel jaws. The steel trap was designed to trap a poacher now, rather than a bear. Not literally, of course.
Rick gathered up some brush and piled it next to the trap before placing the rug over it. The brush gave the rug "body" so it looked like a complete bear, not just a pelt. He arranged the pelt to look as if a bear had been immobilized by the trap. Then, when the trapper approached what he thought was a real bear, the camera's sensor would be triggered and snap photos of the guilty party. Or, at least, that was the plan we'd set into motion.
Before we left, I picked up a sycamore leaf that had be
en kept dry by a layer of brush the rangers had moved aside earlier that morning. I folded the leaf and placed it in my back pocket. We lumbered through the sludge to retrieve the critter cam from where we'd set it up earlier, then relocated it to a tree about twenty-five feet from the disarmed trap. Rip camouflaged it with sagebrush before activating it.
Now all we had to do was sit back and wait for our prey to walk into our trap. And, lo and behold, the next morning, as Willie had predicted, they did just that!
Chapter 24
Once again we accompanied Rick out into the forest. It was early afternoon the following day, and we had hopes the poachers had checked their trap, or traps, earlier in the day. I knew I was risking the poacher discovering my camera and removing it, and effectively eliminating any evidence of their wrongdoing that might have been captured in photos. But it had been well hidden from view, and I truly didn't give a hoot if my camera was stolen. I'd have paid five times that much for an incriminating image of the guilty party.
As we followed the path, which by then we knew by heart, I asked Rick what a person had to gain by poaching bears. He explained that it was strictly for monetary gain.
"Seriously?" I asked. "How much dough could someone get from a single bear? Surely the pelt, or even the meat, doesn't bring in enough money to make it worth the effort."
"The poacher, or poachers, probably deal in black market trading of viscera, or internal organs, along with selling the pelt and meat."
"I don't understand, Rick. I can see why the pelt and meat might bring in a little money. But who'd want to buy a bear's kidneys or liver?" I asked. "Can they somehow be utilized in human organ transplants?"
"No. That's not the reason behind the demand. It's not a bear's kidneys or liver the buyers are interested in. They might get a thousand or two off the pelt and meat, but they can earn a greater amount from harvesting their gallbladders. Three or four thousand bucks per gallbladder, in fact. Have you heard about the medicinal benefits derived from rhinoceros horns?"
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