Stone Cold Blooded (A Rock Shop Mystery)

by Catherine Dilts

  “Hi, Mom.” Her daughter Sarah sounded on the verge of tears. “Russ and I just got home from the clinic.”

  “Are you okay?” Morgan’s mom senses went on high alert.

  “Oh, everything is just peachy.” Sarah’s words quavered. “The baby and I are both in fantastic shape. The only problem is, Dr. Gunther says the baby won’t arrive for at least another week.”

  Morgan attempted to reassure her daughter, but she had dim memories of how dreadful the last weeks of pregnancy could be. She let her daughter complain about the unfairness of it all.

  “You might as well postpone your trip,” Sarah said. “There’s no reason for you to fly here this weekend.”

  “There’s a very important reason for me to come,” Morgan said. “To visit you.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Sarah blew her nose. “But if you come now, you might not get to see the baby. I’ll understand if you reschedule.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” Morgan had purchased a bargain ticket, but the airline would charge a fortune for schedule changes. “If the baby doesn’t arrive while I’m there, that will be my excuse to come back right away. I’m not comfortable with the idea of being a long distance grandma. I’ll drive the donkey cart to Sioux Falls if that’s what it takes.”

  Sarah laughed. “I wouldn’t want to put Adelaide and Houdini through that. I’m sure Russ and I will be making trips to Golden Springs as soon as we’re able.”

  Morgan liked the sound of that. She drove the rest of the way to Kurt’s townhome, where the campaign walk was to begin. Anna had already herded three volunteers to one side of the street, while two more walked house to house on the other.

  Kurt had changed from a campaign T-shirt and jeans into his 1940’s era garb. The vintage gray suit and narrow tie had to be hot. The fedora that was the symbol of his campaign rested on his short brown hair.

  The rest of the volunteers headed into the hilly neighborhoods surrounding downtown Golden Springs. Many homes already had campaign signs on their property, displaying their choice of candidates for the non-paying City Council position.

  Erwin Sylvester, one of Kurt’s opponents had done a brief stint in the Army, and since then had bounced from one dubious business enterprise to the next. Some might see his spotty history as failure to succeed, but he pushed the narrative of having a rich and varied background in the military and business worlds. His slogan was “Preserving Historic Golden Springs.”

  Supporters of Piers Townsend, owner of the Faerie Tales Metaphysical Bookstore, displayed campaign signs with glitter-dusted rainbow-colored fairies. Despite the image that might convey, Piers was a garden-variety womanizer. His campaign slogan was “Vision for a Better World.” Morgan wondered whether the man was running for City Council or some New Age variety of religious office.

  Even if she hadn’t been dating Kurt Willard, Morgan was certain she would have supported his campaign. Kurt’s role as small town newspaperman gave him a unique insight into the behind-the-scenes workings of Golden Springs. Plainly put, he was nosy, and he knew where all the bodies were buried.

  Knocking on doors was a nerve-wracking undertaking. The occasional fluttering curtain suggested that either a cat or a person anxious to avoid politicians peeked out. Others opened the door, then seemed disappointed to see Kurt and Morgan with a fistful of campaign fliers instead of an oversized winning sweepstakes check. The adversarial people were angry their dinner was interrupted, or they already supported one of Kurt’s two opponents. An encouraging few claimed to be supporters already, and welcomed the offer of a yard sign.

  The signs consisted of a metal frame pushed into the grass or dirt, over which was slipped a Vote for Willard – Common Sense Solutions plastic sleeve. The frames were the most expensive part of the sign. The inexpensive sleeves advertising a candidate or a cause could be run off for pennies.

  As they turned the corner to a new block, Morgan suspected the entire street was a lost cause.

  “Should we even bother?” she asked.

  Every yard sported “A Vote for Sylvester is a Vote to Preserve Historic Golden Springs” signs. Stylized white-capped mountains formed the background, over which the slogan was printed in bold red. Blue and red aspen leaves formed the border.

  “Hey, I know some of these yards displayed my signs last week,” Kurt said.

  Morgan stepped onto a lawn and pressed her hands on either side of the sign. It felt puffy as a down comforter.

  “Look.” She grasped the top of the plastic sleeve with her fingertips and tugged up a few inches, revealing the bottom of another sign. The Vote for Sylvester sleeve covered a Vote for Willard sign. “They didn’t even bother to remove yours.”

  “This is Mike and Hannah’s house,” Kurt said. “They told me they supported my candidacy.”

  The Cohens owned the shop that printed Morgan’s angel donkey T-shirts. She was also under the impression that they supported Kurt in the contentious small town election, but maybe they were just keeping their customers happy. Any which way the wind blows didn’t seem the Cohens’ style, but you never knew.

  Kurt stormed up the front steps and banged a fist on the door. It jerked opened.

  “Hey, I can hear you.” A frown creased Mike Cohen’s youthful features. Those Morgan could see above an elongated goatee of wiry black whiskers. “Oh, it’s you, Kurt. What’s up?”

  Kurt, his cheeks flushed a brighter red than usual, pointed at the yard sign. Mike’s mouth hung open for a moment, then snapped shut. He walked across his lawn to the sign.

  “I did not authorize this.”

  Hannah stuck her head out the door. “Mike, what’s going on?”

  He pointed to the yard sign.

  “Hey, what happened to Kurt’s sign?” Hannah clutched a damp dishtowel with both hands. A colorful headscarf covered wavy brown hair hanging to the middle of her back.

  “Then you don’t need this.” Morgan tugged the A Vote for Sylvester sleeve off and crumpled it into a ball, revealing Kurt’s sign.

  “Talk about dirty politics.” Mike looked up and down the block. Small lawns and rock gardens sloped from cottages to the cobblestone street. “I know there are more of your supporters on the block. I’ve talked to my neighbors.”

  “This just happened,” Hannah said. “The signs looked fine when we got home.”

  “I’m going to check every sign on this street,” Kurt said.

  “No, let me,” Mike said. “You’re too steamed up.”

  Between his 1940’s era suit, the July heat, and his anger, perspiration bloomed on Kurt’s forehead.

  “I appreciate your support.” Kurt shook hands with Mike, and nodded to Hannah.

  “I’m glad to lend a hand,” Mike said. “If Erwin’s playing dirty in the campaign, imagine what he’ll do if he gets on City Council.”

  Morgan followed Kurt to the next block.

  “Hey, slow down,” she said. “I signed up for a door-to-door walk, not a run.”

  Kurt stopped. “I’m sorry. I’m mad.”

  “You should be, but don’t take it out on your supporters. Or your girlfriend.”

  That made Kurt smile for a moment, but the sight of another Vote for Sylvester sign brought the frown back.

  “If this just happened, Erwin and his supporters might be nearby. Let’s get my car.”

  “Why?” Morgan asked, although she suspected she knew the answer.

  “If I can catch them in the act of violating campaign law, I doubt Chief Sharp would throw Erwin in jail, but it might be worth a fine. It would definitely bring him bad publicity.”

  “And if it’s an overenthusiastic staffer? Think about the people supporting your campaign. You’d want them reprimanded, but—”

  “Speak of the devil.” Kurt’s voice was low. Almost a growl.

  Erwin Sylvester strutted around the co
rner, his jowly face jiggling with laughter. A mesh baseball cap with his campaign logo covered a circlet of wispy red hair, curling with sweat.

  “We really put one over on—”

  He skidded to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk, his arms spread out as though to fend off an impending storm.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Kurt and Erwin faced off like two tomcats. Morgan expected to hear hissing and yowling any minute. Erwin’s campaign volunteers, two senior citizens and a young man in his twenties, grouped protectively behind their candidate. They appeared as threatening as Morgan must have, the older couple’s knobby knees exposed by shorts, and all wearing campaign T-shirts.

  Erwin raised his hands palms up and shrugged. “All’s fair in love and war.”

  “Francis Edward Smedley,” Kurt said. “But go ahead and steal the quote, just like you stole my campaign yard signs.”

  “I didn’t steal anything.” Erwin’s fleshy red nose lit up like Rudolf’s. Morgan guessed the man enjoyed a drink now and then. Mostly now. “You’d better watch your mouth, Willard. I could sue you for slander.”

  “And I could have you charged with campaign sign tampering.”

  Erwin waved his hands in mock horror. “Wooo! I’d be terrified, if I were guilty. Face it, Willard. You’re just upset that you’re losing. The polls have me in the lead.”

  “What polls?” Morgan asked. “Surely no one’s bothering to take polls for a small town City Council election.”

  One of Erwin’s elderly minions stepped forward. “The Granite Junction Times is conducting polls of every election in the county. Some of us take local government seriously.”

  “Take it seriously,” Morgan asked, “or make a joke out of it?”

  Kurt shook his head. “This is no joke. This is the same cheating and lying we can expect if Erwin gets elected to City Council.”

  “An accusation like that coming from a man who runs a newspaper that makes yellow journalism look white as snow.” Erwin snorted, then spoke in the scolding tone a parent might use on a misbehaving child. “Really, Mr. Willard.”

  Morgan grabbed Kurt’s arm. “Don’t dignify him with a response. Let’s go.”

  “Yeah, you two out of towners should go,” the young man said, “and leave Golden Springs to the locals.”

  “Being born here doesn’t qualify you as a candidate.” Kurt took a step closer to Erwin, his hands balled into fists. “Knowing the issues, and acting in the best interests of the community are what matter.”

  “Mr. Sylvester seeks to preserve historic Golden Springs,” the elderly woman said. “That’s in the best interests of our community.”

  Erwin raised his fists in a cartoonish imitation of a boxer. His already florid complexion flushed an unhealthy shade of red. “My family has been here for three generations. We homesteaded in Golden Springs before the town existed. I know the people. I know the issues.”

  “You know what will line your own pocket,” Kurt said.

  “Hey, guys,” Morgan said. “Can’t you save this for the debate?”

  “Are you calling Erwin a liar?” one of his minions asked.

  “If the shoe fits,” Kurt said. “The Homestead Park? The Sylvester family didn’t donate that property to the city. Erwin finagled the sale of farmed-out property and a broken down house far beyond its value, historical or otherwise.” Kurt focused on Erwin. “Yet your campaign spins a much different narrative, that you gave the ancestral home to the city. How much did you make off that sacrifice?”

  “We see how much value you place on history.” Erwin did not answer the question as he pointed a finger at Kurt. “You’re encouraging the desecration of a potential bird sanctuary. What’s in it for you, Willard? Have you been bought off? Just another Californicator trying to despoil our fair town!”

  Morgan reached for Kurt’s arm, but he shook her off and advanced on Erwin. None of Erwin’s supporters tried to stop him as he threw a wild punch in Kurt’s general direction. His fist glanced off the shoulder of Kurt’s vintage suit coat. Kurt grabbed Erwin’s arm. Erwin struggled to free himself, swinging his other fist at Kurt. When Kurt ducked, his fedora toppled off his head and onto the grass. Morgan snatched it up before it could be trampled.

  Neither man had experience as a street fighter, that much was obvious. Morgan noticed people stepping out onto porches and into front yards to watch. The two men stumbled off the sidewalk, nearly falling as they scuffled down the curb and into the street.

  “Hit him, Erwin!” The elderly man shook his gnarled arthritic fists, as though eager to join the fight. “Let him have it!”

  Flashing red and blue lights announced the arrival of Chief Sharp. He pulled his SUV to the curb. The chief stepped out, his cowboy boots hitting the cobblestones. The Chief of Police badge pinned to his leather vest glinted in the early evening sun, and his cream-colored cowboy hat shaded a scowling face.

  “Back off, boys,” Sharp said. “I got a dozen calls reporting a public disturbance.”

  Both sides of the disagreement took a step away from each other.

  “Just having a little political discussion.” Erwin wiped his forearm across his sweaty face.

  “Your ‘discussion’ is interrupting some folks’ evening television viewing,” Chief Sharp said. “This is the only time of year people can open their windows at night to let in some fresh air. Imagine having that peace disrupted by your caterwauling. Now do you want to be ticketed? All of you?” Chief Sharp put his hands on his hips as he surveyed the campaign volunteers.

  “We promise to play nice,” Erwin said. “Willard, we’ll head north if you’ll head south.” He moved as though to lead his troop away.

  “Hold on,” Chief Sharp said. “I don’t need my dinner interrupted twice. I suggest everyone go home and let your tempers cool off, before someone gets hurt.”

  * * *

  Morgan was no longer concerned about being seen in public with Kurt Willard by the Golden Springs gossip grapevine. They were definitely an item, and there was no sense trying to pretend they weren’t. Kurt took a window seat at the Hot Tomato restaurant on Main Street, shedding his vintage suit coat and draping it over the back of a wooden chair.

  The evening breeze coming through the open window was pleasant, but their view took in the candidates’ campaign signs sprinkling shop windows. More fuel for Kurt’s fire.

  Morgan lifted her glass and took a sip of merlot. “Success doesn’t come without focusing on your goal, but when it escalates to a fistfight in the street—”

  “I’m tempted to live up to Erwin’s accusation of yellow journalism, and print this story as a Wild West shootout, sans guns. Too bad it wasn’t on Main Street.”

  “Kurt, is the City Council seat worth going to jail?”

  “The decisions made by local government determine the future of Golden Springs.”

  “I agree with that. Piers almost got the rock shop rezoned when I first moved here. We might have been priced out of existence.” Morgan hesitated to bring up the next point, but decided to plunge in. “But isn’t your townhome part of that development trend?”

  “True, but it’s outside the historic downtown area. I’m in favor of responsible development.”

  “The old camping resort isn’t downtown,” Morgan said. “And the birds nesting there aren’t rare or endangered. I wonder why Erwin adopted it as a cause?”

  “Erwin centered his campaign on opposing development.” Kurt frowned. “He’s even playing the unlikely role of environmentalist. I need more information about that property. Something’s backward.”

  “You think there’s more to the story.”

  “I know there is,” Kurt said.

  Their food arrived. As she dug into her Greek salad, and Kurt attacked his club sandwich, Morgan changed the topic. She was tired of talking about nothing else but the campaign
.

  “Are your sons still scheduled to arrive this weekend?”

  Kurt seemed to think for a moment, perhaps cleansing his thoughts of politics.

  “Yes, and they’re flying into DIA Friday. I asked them to schedule their arrival on the same day as your flight out to Sioux Falls.”

  “That saves you a trip to Denver. Are they staying the rest of the summer?”

  “Neither has committed to more than a couple weeks. It’s hard to compete with Hollywood, but I think I can talk Burke into staying longer.”

  Kurt’s blended family was complicated. Photos of the handsome young men were on prominent display in his townhome. He was obviously a proud father. Although Kurt had explained the family relationships once, Morgan wanted clarification before the boys arrived.

  “I know you raised them both, but Burke is your biological son?”

  “Yes, and Jase is my stepson,” Kurt said. “They’re both nineteen. When I met Zulina during an interview for the newspaper, I thought, what could be more convenient? She was an African American divorcee, and I was a recent widower, both of us with three year-old sons. Maybe I was thinking more about the boys than our relationship. Or maybe I was insecure about raising a biracial child by myself. Looking back, I don’t think she fully severed her emotional ties to her ex-husband. I certainly didn’t notice the red flags.” He shook his head as he stared out the restaurant window. “Maybe I was blinded by Zulina’s beauty.”

  This was the first Morgan had heard Kurt refer to his ex-wife as beautiful.

  “Jase’s father has an admirable desire to maintain a strong relationship with his son. Unfortunately, that interfered with my marriage. The man always seemed to be in the picture. Jase, Burke, and Zulina were frequently in actual photos with him, and even on those Hollywood gossip shows on TV. It was unavoidable, I suppose. Burke looks a lot like me, but Jase is the image of his father.”

  Hollywood gossip shows?

  “Who is Jase’s father?” Morgan asked.