Stone Cold Case (A Rock Shop Mystery)

by Catherine Dilts

  “Gee, thanks. I feel so much better.”

  Morgan and Bernie wandered through the maze of booths, doing more talking than looking.

  “I’m glad you showed up,” Bernie said. “I get a little break. I feel like I’m on all the time when Stacie is around.”

  “Relax. She seems like a typical kid.” Morgan shoved a hand in her pocket and felt the baggie of ammolite chips. “Bernie, yesterday when I wrecked my car, do you remember any of the people who came to watch?”

  “Half of Golden Springs, it seemed like.”

  “Did anyone go near my car?”

  “Oh, that’s a tough one. Let’s see.” Bernie scrunched up her face and tapped a finger against her cheek. “Chief Sharp and Deputy Parker, of course. Me. Kurt. Um, the couple from the T-shirt shop.”

  “Mike and Hannah?”

  “Yeah. Deputy Parker did run off a few looky-loos, but I don’t think I can tell you specifically who. You said near, right?”

  “Close enough to reach my bag.”

  Bernie’s mouth dropped open. “Someone robbed you while you were going through that trauma?”

  “They only took a bag of mineral samples. No money. Not that I carry much cash. Did you notice whether anything fell out of my bag? Maybe onto the seat or the floor?”

  “I wasn’t paying much attention to the car or the crowd. Just you. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” Morgan said. “You don’t know how much better I felt knowing you were there.” Morgan moved out of the way of a woman in a pioneer style dress who seemed anxious to reach a booth with bolts of calico fabric and old-fashioned sewing notions. “This crowd certainly seems to be spending money.”

  “It looks like some of the same stuff you carry in your shop,” Bernie said.

  “Cindy has been trying to talk me into having a table at gem and mineral shows,” Morgan said. “I can see now that’s a good idea.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Iverson.”

  Morgan looked around. Professor Tony Esteban sat behind a table along a wall. A banner hanging across the front read “University of Colorado at Granite Junction Geology Club.”

  “We seem to be running in the same circles,” Dr. Esteban said.

  “I guess the world of geology is a small one,” Morgan said.

  “Even though it is the entire planet.” Bernie laughed.

  Morgan introduced Bernie to the professor. He wore prospecting clothes of a canvas vest with a half-dozen pockets over a flannel shirt. His black hair was neatly combed.

  “Are you recruiting students for the university?” Bernie asked.

  “That is a side benefit,” Professor Esteban said. “I am really here because I enjoy showing off the geology department’s collection.”

  There were some impressive fossils on display in clear plastic cases. Del seemed to think it would be a bad idea to show Professor Esteban the ammolite, but Morgan wanted an answer.

  “Is there a way to tell where a particular gemstone comes from? I know diamonds are strictly documented for their provenance.”

  “You mean blood diamonds.” Bernie shuddered. “How could you think your jewelry was beautiful if it came from someone else’s suffering?”

  “That is true for some valuable minerals, too,” Professor Esteban said. “American legislation is catching on globally to regulate the sources of minerals used in cell phones, like tantalum and tungsten. They call them conflict minerals.”

  “Excuse me,” Bernie said. “This is very interesting, but Rolf is waving for me.”

  Morgan waited until Bernie was out of hearing. Not that she didn’t trust her friend, but knowing about the ammolite only seemed to cause people trouble.

  “I’m more interested in a type of gem,” Morgan said. “I’m pretty sure this came from America. Or maybe Canada.”

  From the encouraging look on his face, it almost seemed Professor Esteban knew what she was going to ask. Morgan dug in her khakis pocket. She opened the plastic bag and emptied the chips onto a pad on top of the table. Professor Esteban pulled out a magnifying glass. At the meeting Wednesday night, he said he’d heard rumors about local ammolite. There was no shock on his face as he studied the chips.

  “This is the real thing.” Professor Esteban looked up at Morgan. “I am reasonably certain it came from jewelry settings. There are dabs of adhesive on the back. The sign of an amateur jeweler who does not know how to set stones properly. The two questions I cannot answer are why someone would destroy valuable ammolite jewelry, or where the ammolite originated.”

  Morgan remembered Kurt’s observation of boot prints when they took Gerda to the dugout. He had placed his foot next to one and taken a photograph. She guessed it would match the soles of the boots the professor was wearing.

  “I think you know the answer to one question,” Morgan said. “You went to the dugout to look. Kurt Willard saw your boot prints.”

  Dr. Esteban smiled and leaned back in his folding chair. “When I cleaned out my van after the geology class hike that ended so disastrously, I noticed ammolite on the floor beneath your seat. I assumed you did not know what you had stepped in. I did go to the dugout to have a look-see. I found a few chips myself.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me about it?” Morgan asked. “Or tell the Coopers? Chase asked you point blank about ammolite.”

  “With a find this dramatic, it is best that the fewer people who know, the better. Especially the Coopers.”

  “We’re a little late for damage control,” Morgan said. “Word has leaked out to half of Golden Springs already.”

  “These broken chips are not worth much.” He lifted the pad and tapped it to slide the chips back into the baggie. “What is valuable is knowing the source of the ammolite. It is possible it came from Canada.” He held the bag out to Morgan. “But if it was mined locally, well, that would be very exciting.”

  “Is there any way you can find out?” she asked. “Barton knows a lot about gemstones, and he thinks it might have come from a Canadian mine, too. He looked around, like you did, but he didn’t find the source near the dugout, either.”

  “Unfortunately, this is not the same situation as diamonds, which are tracked and marked to ensure their provenance.” Professor Esteban thought for a moment. “The only way this mystery may be solved is if someone files a claim and starts bringing the gems into the market.”

  “If the source is on land that can be mined,” Morgan said. “Even if Barton had found an ammolite mine, he said the dugout where I found this is closed to claims.”

  “This sample appears to be from a piece of poorly made jewelry.” Professor Esteban shrugged. “I will certainly be watching for ammolite, but I am not hopeful.”

  The ammolite might not be the key to a treasure chest, but it was a clue to Carlee’s death. A clue that too many people knew about.

  Bernie headed back from a hallway. An overprotective Rolf had asked her to accompany his daughter to the restroom, she told Morgan. When Stacie joined Farley at a gold panning demonstration, Morgan and Bernie made the rounds of the show again. Morgan was about to suggest they had done all there was to do when Bernie grabbed her arm and pointed.

  “That woman who just came in the door,” Bernie whispered. “She was there yesterday at the scene of your wreck. One of the looky-loos.”

  Lorina Dimple’s pinkish-orange hair looked shellacked into place, her makeup did a thorough job of dragging a few years off her face, and her tight jeans and low-cut western blouse showed off a figure that didn’t look natural on a woman her age.

  “She’s the same woman we saw downtown Tuesday night,” Bernie said. “The one you were spying on. Deputy Parker had to tell her to move away from your wrecked car twice.”

  “Interesting. She’s president of the Pine County mineral club. If anyone at the scene of my accident would steal a mineral sample, it would be her. I need to talk to her.”

  “The guys are headed our way. They must have run out of manly things to see. I’ll keep them bus
y.”

  “I’ll only be a minute.”

  Morgan tried to catch Lorina alone. The skinny old cowgirl greeted nearly every vendor and shook more hands than a politician, making her way slowly to a small folding table tucked in a far corner of the community center. Morgan hadn’t noticed the Pine County Gemstone Society and Prospecting Club had a presence at the show. She followed Lorina across the crowded community center and watched as she relieved an annoyed volunteer.

  “You said you’d be here an hour ago.” The short, brown-haired man sitting behind the folding table had been at the meeting Wednesday night. “Other people have lives, too, you know.”

  “I’m sorry, Larry.” Her tone was anything but apologetic. “One of my horses got out. I had a heck of a time catching her.”

  Larry gathered a small cooler, a canvas shopping bag, and several plastic bags. He huffed past Lorina. Morgan gave her a moment to settle her tooled leather purse under the table.

  “Hi, Lorina.”

  She looked up from straightening out the poorly photocopied club brochures. Lorina snapped her fingers.

  “I remember.” Lorina resumed organizing the small folding table, avoiding Morgan’s eyes. “New member. Joined a couple nights ago.”

  “Morgan Iverson.”

  Morgan held out her hand. Lorina gave her a brief, limp handshake.

  “I didn’t hear the club had a booth at this show when I was at the meeting,” Morgan said.

  “That knucklehead Myra left it off the minutes. We could have used another couple volunteers. So you got a booth here?”

  “No. I’m still learning the business. I can see it’s a good idea to attend these events. Is the gem society drumming up new members?”

  Lorina picked up a clipboard. “Not hard enough. There’s only a half-dozen names on here, and we’ve had a table up all weekend.”

  Morgan could see lots of opportunity to increase club visibility, but she suspected if she gave her thoughts, she’d be recruited to implement them. She wasn’t ready to volunteer. Not when the club president might be a thief.

  “You remember at the meeting,” Morgan asked, “when Chase Cooper asked Professor Esteban about ammolite?”

  “That was a shocker, huh?” Lorina said.

  “He came around my shop one day asking if we had any.”

  “Ha. I knew it.”

  “We don’t,” Morgan said.

  “That’s what you told him?”

  “Of course. I carry the usual fossil ammonite, but who around here has gem quality ammolite?” Morgan leaned forward, resting her hands on the table. She decided to go for a bluff. “I know you got into my bag yesterday.”

  Lorina reared back, pressing a hand to her mostly exposed chest. “I did no such thing.”

  “Someone saw you. Give me back what you took.”

  The cowgirl thought about it for a long minute.

  “You don’t even know what you have.” Lorina tried to stare Morgan down, then shook her head. “You’re as stubborn as that brother of yours.” She hefted her heavy tooled leather purse onto the table, extracted the baggie of ammolite chips, and tossed them at Morgan.

  “You stole from me while I was dealing with the aftermath of a car wreck.”

  “I had to know.”

  “Know what?”

  “What you know.”

  “I don’t know anything.” Morgan shook the baggie. “If you know something about this ammolite, you’d better talk to Chief Sharp.”

  Lorina’s mascara coated eyes opened wide. “I gave it back.” She jabbed a manicured fingernail at the baggie. “What more do you want, missy?”

  Morgan leaned close enough to whisper. “I found this with Carlee Kruger’s remains.”

  “Lord have mercy.” Wheels seemed to be turning inside Lorina’s pinkish-orange head. Everyone in town had heard about Carlee, but maybe word about the ammolite being found with her hadn’t. “Her remains. I figured the girl ran away to Hollywood and became a movie star. Or married some rich man. She was pretty enough.”

  “All her dreams ended sixteen years ago,” Morgan said. “And it might have had something to do with ammolite. So I’ll ask the same question Chase did. Is there any around this area?”

  “If there was,” Lorina said, “I would have found it.”

  “You’ve been prospecting for ammolite?”

  “It was a wild goose chase,” Lorina said. “Nothing came of it but blistered hands and broken hearts. Still, it would be something if someone found ammolite. You done any digging on your land?”

  “No.”

  “I could take a look around—”

  “No,” Morgan said. “I can’t trust you after you stole from me. At the scene of an accident. Yeesh.”

  “I hope you understand.” Lorina’s cheeks flushed red under her makeup. “Whatever you know, do not tell the Coopers. Those folks’ll steal everything you have, up to and including your very soul. If you stake a claim, they’ll find a way to take it from you by means legal or otherwise.”

  “Then why were you sweet-talking Harlan Cooper outside Ruby’s Two Step?”

  Lorina scowled at Morgan, deep lines creasing in a weathered face that had once been beautiful. “Have you been following me around?”

  Morgan didn’t answer.

  “Harlan thinks I know where the ammolite is. Somebody knew, once upon a time, but it ain’t me. I don’t need to get mixed up in any Cooper family monkeyshines again.” Lorina looked over Morgan’s shoulder. “Heads up. Here comes that newspaperman. You don’t want this blabbed all over the front page of the Gazetteer.”

  “He’s with me,” Morgan said.

  “Holy crap.”

  “You can trust Kurt,” Morgan said. “He doesn’t care about rocks or gems. He just wants to know what happened to Carlee.”

  Morgan turned to Kurt. “Is everyone ready to go?”

  “The natives are restless.” He stuck a hand out. “Kurt Willard, editor of the Golden Springs Gazetteer.”

  Lorina reluctantly shook his hand. “I know who you are.”

  “Then you know that Kurt saved Del’s life,” Morgan said.

  Again Lorina’s face flushed. “How is that cantankerous old cowboy?”

  “Fit as a fiddle,” Kurt said.

  “He’s had a little trouble with his heart.” Morgan stared at Lorina, trying to impress upon her the meaning behind her words. “But he has friends looking out for him.”

  “Del’s a good man.” Morgan thought she detected a catch in the tough old cowgirl’s words. “You take good care of him.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  * * *

  Kurt turned his wrist and glanced at his vintage watch. “No wonder I’m hungry. It’s nearly dinnertime. The show will be closing soon.”

  “I had a hotdog,” Rolf said. “I’m ready for some real food.”

  The Prairie Rockhound show might seem set in the 1850s, but the vendors offered strictly modern junk food.

  “I have an idea,” Bernie said. “I blew my budget here.” She glanced around at everyone’s bulging shopping bags. “Darlene called me to let me know business was slow today. We have a lot of soup left from lunch. Let’s have dinner at my bakery.”

  “Let me check with Camille,” Morgan said. “She may want her children back.”

  Beatrice picked up Morgan’s call.

  “It took all afternoon,” Beatrice whispered into the phone, “but they’re finally talking. Can you keep the kids a little longer?”

  Morgan was torn between relief and annoyance, as the presence of Camille’s children kept her time with Kurt from qualifying as an actual date. “Call me when you’re ready for them.”

  The kids had scattered. They found Stacie and Farley panning for gold at a wooden trough.

  “I found a nugget!” Farley said.

  Rolf was attentive as Stacie showed him the traces of black sandy residue in the bottom of her plastic panning plate. Chances were good it was real gold. The panning mater
ial came from the tailings of a working gold mine.

  “Where’s Gayle?” Morgan asked.

  Farley glanced around. “She was here a minute ago.”

  “We told the kids not to leave the building,” Bernie said. “She’s got to be close by.”

  Morgan pulled out her cell phone. “No problem. I have her number.”

  The phone rang several times before going to voice mail. Now it was a problem. Rolf, Stacie, and Bernie headed down one side of the community center, and Morgan, Kurt, and Farley went down the other. Gayle wasn’t in the restroom, the snack bar, or the hallway. Morgan had nearly worked herself into a panic, and was going to dial 9-1-1, when Farley yelled.

  “There she is!”

  All Morgan saw was a waterfall of golden hair, streaked with purple and orange, at a workbench behind a folding table. Chase Cooper hovered over Gayle. He reached for her hair and brushed it back from her face in a gesture far too intimate for a man in his thirties to use with a teenage girl. Gayle probably hadn’t heard her cell phone due to the loud rattling of a rock tumbler in the booth next to them.

  “Hey,” Morgan yelled. “Gayle!” Of course it was just that moment when the rock tumbler stopped, making Morgan’s voice loud and harsh. The girl looked up, startled.

  “I called your cell phone,” Morgan said in a more civil tone.

  Gayle reached for her little purse and checked her phone. “Oh. I didn’t hear it.”

  Chase seemed to catch Morgan’s concern. “I was showing Gayle glass blowing techniques.”

  Gayle lifted the tube clutched in her hands, showing off a misshapen vase.

  “We have to go,” Morgan said.

  “But I’m not finished. Just a few more minutes?”

  “We just need to detach the vase from the blowing tube,” Chase said. “It’ll only take a minute.”

  “I’ll wait,” Morgan said. “Right here.”

  Chase kept his proper distance from Gayle as he finished off the vase, reforming it a bit, Morgan noticed. The operation was scaled down from real glass blowing, using a propane torch instead of a furnace. The glass had pretty pink streaks through it. Chase wrapped it in tissue paper and put it in a box.