Stone Cold Case (A Rock Shop Mystery)

by Catherine Dilts

  Kurt put a pen in his shirt pocket and placed a fedora on his head. He looked like he had stepped out of the newsroom in a black and white 1940s’-era movie.

  “Tinsley was never a suspect. Sorry. I’ve got to go.”

  Kurt tipped his hat and rushed from the office. After Kurt left, Morgan focused on Anna.

  “Are you a Golden Springs native?” she asked.

  Anna looked up from her computer screen. “My parents moved here when I was a child. I’m nearly a native.”

  “Do you remember Jade Tinsley?”

  “I was forty when Carlee Kruger disappeared.”

  Morgan must have made a face as she attempted the math, because Anna saved her the trouble.

  “I’m fifty-six, Morgan.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize. I mean, I thought you were closer to my age.”

  “I will take that as a compliment,” Anna said. “Obviously, I am not interested in dating Mr. Willard, nor is he interested in me.”

  Morgan wanted to protest that she hadn’t been prying for information of that sort when clearly she had been, but she already felt silly enough. She felt her face go hot with a flush of embarrassment.

  “Now that we understand each other,” Anna said, “let’s get back to the cold case. I did not know Carlee and Jade personally, although as small as Golden Springs is, I naturally heard the gossip. Jade was inconsolable when Carlee disappeared. He left for several years, then came back and opened a gallery off Main Street.”

  “I’ve walked by it,” Morgan said. “I haven’t been inside.”

  “In my opinion, he’s wasting his talent hawking derivative commercial art to tourists and the unsophisticated.” Anna shrugged. “But who knows? Maybe that’s all he can do.”

  Despite Kurt’s suggestion that she’d make a great investigator, Morgan resisted the temptation to go straight to Jade’s gallery. Instead, she dropped by Bibi’s Bakery to grab soup to go.

  “Oh, good!” Bernie said when she saw Morgan. “I’m glad you stopped in. Business is slow. I can take a quick lunch break.”

  Bernie had apparently recovered from the shock of Rolf’s revelation. She seemed her usual cheerful self again, her pink chef’s hat balanced at a jaunty angle on her neat brown hair. She disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a tray. Steam rose from two bowls of minestrone soup, and a mini loaf of wheat bread.

  Bernie cut the mini loaf into slices and spread butter on a piece. “Any developments in your case?”

  “It’s not my case. If anything, it’s Kurt’s case.”

  “And you just happen to be helping?” Bernie studied her soup. “A lot?”

  “Oh, all right. The gossip will get around soon enough. I went to dinner at his place Friday night to discuss the cold case.”

  Bernie’s green eyes sparkled with mischief. “I knew it was true. Although I don’t know what’s more intriguing. Your involvement in the Carlee Kruger case, or your involvement with Kurt Willard.”

  “All over town already, huh?” Morgan shook her head. “I hope we don’t disappoint people. One dinner does not exactly make for a scandalous romance.”

  “That depends on what happened at dinner. Or after.” Bernie wiggled her eyebrows.

  “Nothing,” Morgan said. “Not even a goodnight kiss. But I have more interesting things to talk about than my nonexistent love life.”

  Morgan told Bernie about the church committee’s attempt to deliver home-cooked meals to a grieving Gerda.

  “Seriously?” Bernie asked. “She really did smash the casserole dish.”

  “You heard that through the grapevine, too?” The speed at which gossip travelled through the small mountain town amazed Morgan.

  “I actually heard that one straight from Beatrice when she was in to buy bread.”

  “It was frightening,” Morgan said. “We all put a lot of love into those meals. To see her throw the dish on the ground was like seeing her visibly rejecting our outreach to her.”

  “Do you think she started drinking again?”

  “Teruko and Beatrice were on the front line of that battle. Teruko would never speak ill of a person, but Beatrice agreed that she didn’t smell any liquor on Gerda. She was just upset.”

  “Angry sounds more like it.”

  “Gerda’s coming around. In her own way.” Morgan told Bernie about the trip to the dugout.

  “I’m glad she finally agreed to a memorial service.” Bernie glanced at the clock above the bay windows. “I’ve got some dough rising. I’ll have to end my break soon.”

  “I’ve got to enjoy moments like this while I can,” Morgan said. “Once Cindy quits for good, I won’t be able to run errands during the day.”

  “You can use your be-back-in sign.”

  “We have just enough business that I hate to leave the shop unattended,” Morgan said. “If David spends the summer here, I won’t need to hire a replacement. Not yet.”

  “When the time comes to hire someone,” Bernie said, “I can give you my insider tips on who would make a good sales clerk. Speaking of tips, I need some advice of the maternal variety. I’d appreciate anything you can tell me about teenagers. After dinner with you, I decided to face my fears. I spent Sunday with Rolf and his daughter.”

  “How did it go?”

  “I was a quivering mass of shredded nerves by the end of the day.”

  “She can’t be that bad. Did you try to find out what she likes?”

  “All I learned is what she doesn’t like, which was pretty much any subject I brought up. She hates me.” Bernie’s face crumpled into a pained expression. “What should I do?”

  “You can’t fool teenagers,” Morgan said. “Don’t try to be her mother, and don’t try to be her friend.”

  “Where does that leave me?”

  “Just be you.” Morgan admitted to herself that her words sounded not the least bit helpful.

  Bernie gathered the dishes and set them on the tray.

  “How did you know Sam was Mr. Right?”

  Morgan reached into her memories. It seemed so long ago, almost as though those times belonged to a different person.

  “I can’t explain it. I just knew.”

  “No doubts?” Bernie asked. “No cold feet?”

  Morgan shook her head. “I guess you could say it was love at first sight.”

  Sam was supposed to have been the man she spent the rest of her life with, while Bernie’s romantic fantasies hadn’t imagined a ready-made family.

  “Bernie, however it turns out with Rolf, enjoy the moment.”

  “Seize the day, and all that?”

  “Right. Because you don’t know how many days you’ll have.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  * * *

  When Morgan returned to the rock shop, Del was by himself. He sat in his recliner, thumbing through a Field and Stream magazine. He told Morgan that after Barton dropped him off, Cindy had left. The door connecting the shop to the living quarters stood open so he could hear the cowbell.

  “Hope you don’t mind,” Del said. “Business slacked off.”

  “No problem. I’m sorry I missed Cindy,” Morgan said. “I brought her soup from Bibi’s. There’s plenty here. And cookies, too. Are you hungry?”

  “Is it lunchtime already?” Del asked.

  “Way past.” Morgan retrieved a bowl from the cupboard. “No wonder you’re so skinny, Del. I have to remind you to eat.” She filled a bowl with soup and placed it on the kitchen table with a package of crackers. “Did you find the source of the ammolite?”

  “Funny thing. Barton doesn’t think the ammolite came from that area. He’s already given up on the idea of staking a claim. Too bad. Could have made us rich.”

  “So how did the chips get there?” Morgan asked.

  “I have a theory.” Del moved from the recliner to the table. He slurped down a couple spoonfuls of soup, then wiped his mustache with a paper napkin. “Big Foot might have been collecting bits of gemstone he found some
where else to decorate Carlee’s grave.”

  The cowbell above the shop door clanged, the sound reaching all the way back into the living quarters. Morgan leaned through the doorway to look into the shop. Beatrice stepped through the front door of the shop and stomped mud off her fleece-lined vinyl ankle boots.

  Morgan waved to her. “Come on back.”

  “Hello, Morgan,” Beatrice said, her no-nonsense voice unusually cheery. “Del, how are you?” Not waiting for a reply, she continued. “I have news.”

  “I would expect nothing less,” Del said.

  “I had my nephew Roger and his fiancée over for dinner.”

  “Let me guess,” Del said. “He’s the one who works in the crime lab in Granite Junction?”

  “The same.” Beatrice pulled a chair out from the table, hung her puffy winter coat over the back, and sat. “Oh, I hope I didn’t interrupt your meal.”

  “I’m just having a bowl of soup,” Del said. “You hungry?”

  “No, I had lunch already.”

  Morgan grew tired of the chitchat, and interrupted. “What’s your news? Have they learned how Carlee died?”

  “When there’s no tissue to examine,” Beatrice said, “just bone, it’s much more difficult to determine cause of death. Damage to the bones was consistent with decay in a natural setting. Her skull was intact, there were no nicks from a knife or a bullet, and no damage to the neck vertebrae from strangulation. Roger told me the coroner hasn’t absolutely ruled out murder, but unless some other evidence turns up, Carlee’s death may remain a mystery.”

  “That doesn’t give Gerda much chance for closure,” Morgan said. “She wants to know whether Carlee died of natural causes, or if there’s someone out there who got away with murder.”

  “Sad deal.” Del shook his head.

  “I have other news,” Beatrice said. “The selection committee is nearing a decision on our new pastor.”

  “That was fast,” Morgan said.

  “Not considering that all the candidates had delivered at least one sermon during Pastor Filbury’s brief absence earlier this year. The good news is that Pastor Filbury expects to be well enough to speak at Carlee’s memorial service.”

  “Gerda told me Sunday she was ready to have a service,”

  Morgan said. “I kind of doubted she’d go through with it.”

  “When will it be?” Del asked.

  “First we have to contact Gerda’s daughter, Camille,” Beatrice said in her take-charge tone. “They haven’t spoken in years. Teruko is trying to track her down. Once we know the dates she’s available, we’ll reserve the church and get things rolling. Finally, Golden Springs will get to say good-bye to Car-lee Kruger.”

  The phone rang early Tuesday morning. Caller ID showed a South Dakota area code, but it wasn’t David or Sarah’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “People are clamoring for good rentals,” Dot Borgen said. “Give me the word, and I can have your house rented out within a couple weeks. Do you have a fax machine? I need to send you some papers.”

  “No, I don’t.” Morgan’s brain processed Dot’s words. “A renter? Already?”

  “You sound disappointed. That’s what you wanted, right? Lease out the house until you decide whether to move back or sell it?”

  “Yes. I just didn’t think it would be this quick.”

  “The rent will be higher than your mortgage payment. Plus, didn’t you tell me you only have a few more years to pay off the house?”

  “Yes.” Morgan felt a mixture of dread and elation. “I do want to lease it, but the house isn’t ready.”

  “Did you decide whether you want to hire a service to clean the house? They can even put things in storage for you, if you tell them what you want to keep.”

  “That’s the problem.” Morgan pressed her free hand to her forehead. “I don’t know what I want to keep.” Then it hit Morgan that this was the perfect excuse to dash home for a quick visit with her children. “I have to go through it myself.”

  “The sooner the better. The market is in your favor at the moment. So you don’t have a fax? I can email you the papers.”

  “This feels so sudden.” Morgan recited her email address for Dot. “I’d better call David and Sarah and let them know.”

  Her children had grown up in the house. Morgan thought it only fair that she warn them about her plans, but they both seemed remarkably detached when she called. Perhaps the sad memories of their father’s passing overrode any attachment to their childhood home. They both encouraged her to fly to Sioux Falls as soon as she could to clean the house.

  Everything was falling into place. Morgan should have been pleased, but cutting ties to the past seemed too easy. She wondered whether it was better for family ties to snap under the pressure of tragedy, as Gerda’s apparently had, or for them to slowly deteriorate from disuse.

  Morgan threw a load of jeans and sweatshirts into the washing machine. She needed to stock up on more jeans. In Sioux Falls, she had worked at a desk, until the engineering firm downsized. Her job was one of those cut. Managing the Rock of Ages required outdoors attire. One day soon she promised herself a trip to an outfitter’s store.

  Until then, she was stuck doing laundry frequently. She tossed a few pairs of socks on top of the jeans, then opened the plastic tub of laundry detergent. A few lemony-scented grains of detergent dotted the bottom of the tub. Not enough for a load.

  She found Del in the rock shop, ringing up a customer’s purchase of a necklace from Lucy’s display.

  After the customer exited the shop, Morgan rattled her car key. “I need to run to town. We’re out of laundry soap, and I’m out of clean jeans.”

  Del tugged at his mustache. “Darn. That’s my fault. I thought I told you we were out.”

  Morgan might have been irritated, but at least the old cowboy did his own wash. He added a few more items to her shopping list, and insisted on giving her cash to help out. Morgan typically protested his generosity, but now that she knew about his mineral collection, worth tens of thousands of dollars, she figured he could spare a few bucks for soap and groceries.

  Hill Street was dry as she drove into town. Groceries were a little more expensive in Golden Springs than they would be at a big box store in Granite Junction, but it was worth it to save a trip down Topaz Pass. Morgan loaded her cart with laundry soap, coffee, a roasted chicken, fresh broccoli, and deli potato salad. She would be having dinner at O’Reily’s tonight. She suspected Del didn’t eat unless she left him something. Too many times, that had meant a hastily prepared sandwich. The old cowboy needed more substantial fare if he was going to gain back any of the weight he’d lost.

  The smell of the chicken filled the car and made Morgan’s mouth water. She started to drive back toward Hill Street when a large, colorful sandwich-style sign on Main Street caught her eye. Propped up on a wooden walkway, an arrow directed customers to Jade’s Aspen Gold Art Gallery, tucked away at the end of a half-block pedestrian mall.

  None of her groceries were frozen. A slight delay wouldn’t ruin anything. She parked the old Buick. A gentle bell tinkled when she opened the door, unlike the clanging cowbell at her shop.

  “May I help you?” The salesgirl pushed her magazine aside and climbed off a stool behind the checkout counter. She wore jeans and a tight polo shirt with the store logo embroidered above the left breast pocket. Casual, and yet slick, at the same time.

  “I’m just looking,” Morgan said.

  “I’d be happy to help if you’re looking for something in particular. A birthday gift? Graduation?” As though mentioning gift-giving events would spur Morgan to make a fine art purchase. “We offer lay away and payment plans.”

  “Just looking,” Morgan repeated.

  She wandered to the far side of a display wall. Native American flute music added to the Rocky Mountain atmosphere, clearly an attempt to appeal to tourists. Not a bad idea. Even setting a radio to a country-western station might improve
the rock shop ambiance. She strolled past artwork, half looking, half listening to the music.

  The uniformity of the paintings struck Morgan as dull, considering the prices. She studied the jewelry displayed in a locked glass case. The “authentic Rocky Mountain gemstones” were high quality, and so were the prices. There was no ammolite.

  Tucked in an alcove in the back, neglected by the spot lighting that was pervasive in the rest of the shop, a half dozen unframed canvases hung. They depicted the same mountains, waterfalls, and flowers on display in the rest of the gallery, but with wild colors, and in a style somewhere beyond Impressionist but shy of Abstract.

  Morgan heard voices from behind a thick curtain hanging in the doorway next to the alcove. A woman spoke in anger, but she couldn’t make out the words.

  “I need more time for my art,” a male voice answered. “Being on City Council would mean giving up what little time I do have.”

  “We haven’t sold one of your artsy paintings in over a year,” the female said. “Tourists want something to hang on their wall that reminds them of Colorado. Not those weird orange and purple streams, or blurry deer with green antlers.”

  “If City Council is so important to you, why don’t you run for office?”

  “Everyone loves you.” The woman’s words were tinged with bitterness. “They’d never vote for me.”

  “We’ll just waste time and money on my campaign.” The man had to be Jade Tinsley, the charismatic artist Kurt believed would win the Council election. “There are half a dozen people running for Filbury’s seat.”

  “Yes. And there’s no reason you couldn’t be the one to get it.”

  There was a pause. Morgan considered leaving before the people behind the curtain realized she had been listening in on their domestic dispute. She peeked around the corner toward the front. The salesgirl had her nose stuck in her magazine, oblivious to the backroom drama. The woman behind the curtain spoke again.

  “You can run for City Council or you can help me with the real-estate business.”

  “I’m not a politician or a salesman. I’m an artist. You knew that when you married me.”