Stone Cold Case (A Rock Shop Mystery)

by Catherine Dilts

  “We were walking back to my house to get the car so we could go pick up Camille from the hospital when the mountain man burst out of the alley. He grabbed Gayle’s arms. I was afraid he was going to kidnap her, so I pulled out my pepper spray, but the wind was blowing the wrong direction, so I didn’t spray him.”

  Beatrice paused to breathe.

  “What happened?” Morgan asked.

  “Farley is quite the little hero. He pushed the mountain man away from Gayle. I started to pepper spray him then, but he repeated something over and over. We tried, but none of us could understand him.”

  “Did the police catch him?”

  “Several people heard Gayle screaming and Farley shouting. I dare say my voice carried some distance. They all gave chase, but he just evaporated, like a spirit.”

  Coming from no-nonsense Beatrice, that was quite an admission.

  With the mountain man being so elusive, the solution to the cold case seemed to hinge on the ammolite and the elephant-head flowers.

  “Del, I’d like to go back to the dugout.”

  “Barton and I’ve been over that area a few times. Didn’t see anything.”

  “I want to look again.” She repeated a condensed version of Beatrice’s story about Gayle being grabbed on the street by the mountain man. “Someone tried to shoot Rolf, and Chief Sharp confirmed both my and Gerda’s brakes were deliberately tampered with to make them fail. Sitting back to see what’s going to happen next isn’t working.”

  Del checked his handgun and grabbed his shotgun. When they reached the trailhead parking lot, he tried to hand the shotgun to Morgan.

  “I can’t carry a gun,” Morgan said.

  “This is national forest. It’s legal to open carry, and I insist on having backup. There could be more people out there than just the mountain man. Like illegal prospectors.”

  Morgan pulled on a heavy daypack. Del helped her sling the shotgun across her chest. The trail to the dugout was much more well-defined than Del liked seeing.

  “Been some traffic.” He pulled his pistol out of his shoulder holster and held it in his hand. “Keep your eyes open.”

  A sign was posted near the dugout, warning that mining was not permitted in the area, and trespassers would be violating federal law. That had not stopped people from digging numerous test holes.

  “See that?” Del asked, pointed to a place where dirt had recently been turned. “And that? People are digging down a few feet to see what they can find. If they don’t hit anything interesting, they move on.”

  “And leave the ground disturbed,” Morgan said. “Nice.”

  “So now that we’re out here, what exactly do you intend to do?”

  “Professor Esteban thinks the ammolite came from a piece of jewelry,” Morgan said. “The police could have missed something.”

  An Abert’s squirrel chattered at them as they pawed through the stone ring full of elephant-head flowers, where Gerda had first found ammolite chips. They crawled on hands and knees in front of the dugout. All they found were more chips of the opalescent gem. Morgan stood and pushed away branches covering the dugout entrance. She pulled aside the strips of tattered blue tarp and peered through the doorway.

  “Maybe it’s inside, where Carlee was.”

  “You know there’s most likely a hundred spiders in there. Not to mention snakes.”

  “Thanks, Del.” Morgan pulled a knit wool hat over her hair and stuffed the long curls inside. The bandage on her left hand was already filthy. She pulled a flashlight out of her daypack and flicked it on. “Will you pull me out if I get stuck in a giant spider’s web?”

  “I’ll think hard about it.”

  Morgan stepped into the doorway. The ceiling was so low, she had to stoop over. Her flashlight didn’t help much. The sun was behind the mountain, but the sky was bright. The flashlight only seemed to intensify the shadows. There were spider webs in the corners where the police and forensics investigators hadn’t disturbed them. Suspended in midair from one ancient web was the skeleton of a small bird. Carlee’s resting place was all but obliterated, the pallet of blankets on which she had rested gone.

  “I could be wrong, Del.”

  “How’s that?”

  “If there was any jewelry here, the coroner probably took it with the bedding.”

  “Then we can go?”

  “Hang on. Let me look around a little more.”

  Morgan pushed the toe of her hiking boot into the dirt floor. It was hard packed and unyielding. She scanned the walls of the dugout. The front and the sides were rough-hewn log cabin. Dried mud and gravel filled the gaps between the logs. Different shades of gray indicated that some of the filler might be original, but the rest looked newer. Someone, presumably the mountain man, was maintaining the dugout.

  The back wall was dug into the side of the hill. The original occupant had built a fire ring on the floor of the dugout, vented to the outside through a hole in the roof. In recent decades, someone had placed a legless barbecue grill under an old stovepipe that had rusted through in places. The grill was so packed with pine needles, dried grasses, and leaves, that it was nearly unrecognizable as human-made. The shelter had never been intended to be permanent, but had held up remarkably well for a hundred years or more. Morgan picked up a stick and walked close to the walls, brushing away spider webs and shining the flashlight into crevices.

  “Finding anything?” Del asked.

  “No,” Morgan said.

  Del crouched down and shuffled through the door. He grasped his own flashlight, which had a much stronger light. He scanned the walls, too, but turned up nothing.

  “I’m afraid this was a wasted trip,” Morgan said.

  “You had to satisfy your curiosity,” Del said. “We’d better head back before it gets too dark to hike that trail safely.”

  Morgan exited, then turned to watch. Del took small steps, keeping his head bowed.

  “Ahhh!” Del waved his hands around his head. “Spider!” He hopped back a step. Morgan heard the crack of skull meeting log. “Ow.” A shower of dirt came down on his shoulders. “Well, that’s just great.”

  “What is it, Del?”

  “I stepped on that rusty old grill. Put my foot right through a packrat nest. I hope I don’t get the hanta virus or the bubonic plague.”

  “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Nothing damaged but my pride.”

  He hobbled toward the doorway, shaking his foot. Morgan looked around him into the darkening gloom of the sod house.

  “Don’t rodents collect things in their nests?”

  “I didn’t see anything but dried grass and droppings.” Del shuddered and brushed his hands down his sleeves. “I would really prefer not to go in there again.”

  The entire trip was a bust, and now Del’s head was busted, too. Morgan shone her flashlight inside, hoping to glimpse something shiny.

  “Just one last look,” she said.

  The flashlight was more effective in the deepening gloom. Del had overturned the packrat’s nest, scattering nesting material across the dugout floor. Morgan kicked at a clump of leaves, and a millipede ran out.

  “Euw.”

  “I tried to warn you,” Del said.

  “I don’t think a rat’s lived in here for a while.”

  “Too accessible for snakes and foxes, I’d think,” Del said.

  Morgan spread the litter around with her boot. There were a few metal objects. Beer bottle caps, a dime, and bits of blackened foil from some ancient campfire meal. Her light reflected off an iridescent bit of shell.

  “Del, I think I found it.”

  He grudgingly reentered the dugout, aiming his intense light at the toe of Morgan’s boot.

  “Well, looky here.” Del picked up a fistful of debris and backed out of the dugout.

  Morgan joined him, aiming her light at the palm of his gloved hand. Shells the size and shape of garden snails reflected the flashlight in opalescent colors.

>   “It’s raw ammolite,” she said. “Professor Esteban and Barton were both wrong. They said the ammolite was from jewelry.”

  “Maybe the stuff you and Gerda found had been cut.” Del held a shell between his thumb and forefinger. “If this ammolite is local, man, oh man.”

  Tuesday Morgan was on her own. Barton picked up Del at first light to search for the source of the ammolite again, this time armed with gadgets from Barton’s company. Morgan packed them lunch, knowing Del would forget to eat, and Barton might, too, in his excitement to make an historic find.

  Business was light but steady. Hardcore tourists had not yet flocked to Golden Springs, so many of the customers were rock hounds, Sasquatch enthusiasts, and some homeschool kids looking for fossils for a diorama.

  Three calls broke up the day. Morgan’s insurance company assured her that her policy covered Piers’s damaged fence and the rental car. After the deductible, her car repairs would be covered, too. Morgan doubted the car was worth it, but she wasn’t in the position to shop for a new vehicle.

  The second call came from Kruger’s Auto Repair. Gerda’s senior mechanic, Tom, could patch together the old Buick. Since the insurance would cover it, she gave Tom the go-ahead.

  Toward the end of the business day, Kurt called.

  “Jade Tinsley is announcing his candidacy for City Council early Wednesday evening,” Kurt said. “His in-laws, the Coopers, are hosting the fete. It should be the social event of the year, by Golden Springs standards.”

  “A press conference? That seems a bit much for a City Council campaign.”

  “Small town politics are deadly serious. As a member of the press, I’m invited. I wondered if you’d like to go as my date.”

  Morgan considered the investigative possibilities. She would be inside Jade’s world, or at least a part of his world. Maybe she would learn whether the Coopers were trying to get the inside track on rezoning national forest land for a commercial ammolite mine. She might even run across a clue to Carlee’s death.

  “Absolutely.”

  “No overt investigating,” Kurt said. “I don’t want to be banned from future events because I bring a date in a Sherlock Holmes trench coat and deer-hunter’s hat.”

  “I promise to dress appropriately.”

  But Morgan had no idea what that was, in Golden Springs. She could ask Bernie tonight.

  As they signed in for the O’Reily’s 5K that evening, Bernie squealed.

  “This is our tenth time!”

  They had missed a couple of runs since joining in January, due to bad weather.

  “You’ll get your shirts tonight.” Lucy held one up. A bear dressed like a leprechaun was in the act of stealing a beer from a picnic basket. “We’re having a special ceremony, since so many people hit their tenth run tonight.”

  That evening, Bernie and Morgan jogged farther than they ever had, making it halfway around the three-mile course.

  “Just think,” Bernie said. “When we first signed up for O’Reily’s Runners, you weren’t even sure you’d be here long enough to earn your shirt.”

  “A lot has changed. You hadn’t met Rolf yet.”

  “Which reminds me, if you don’t mind, he’s finally going to come with us next week.”

  “His shoulder must be healing.”

  “He’s feeling much better. How is your hand?”

  “Good as new.” Morgan flexed her left hand, the gauze bandage several layers thinner. “Don’t feel you and Rolf have to walk with me.”

  “It’s our tradition.” Bernie was silent while they walked past the bridge. Then she spoke, hesitantly. “You could invite Kurt.”

  “I don’t know, Bernie. I’m not sure my heart is keeping up with the gossip.”

  “Be careful. Kurt is smitten. I think his heart is all in.”

  “I’ve just accepted the idea that Sam is really gone. That it’s okay to live my life without him. I’m scared to jump right into a relationship.”

  “Me, too,” Bernie said. “I’m terrified of being a stepmom. Stacie hates me. I don’t know if I can cope with that the rest of my life.”

  “You didn’t catch it, did you?” Morgan asked.

  “What?”

  “Stacie’s chink-in-the-armor moment when we had dinner at your bakery.”

  Bernie shook her head. “I obviously missed something. What do you mean?”

  “When Farley told Stacie her mom, meaning you, was a great cook.”

  “And Stacie snapped at him.”

  “And then Stacie said . . .” Morgan paused, waiting.

  “Okay, I must have stopped listening after her ‘she’s not my mom’ crack.”

  “Stacie said, ‘but she is a great cook.’ ”

  Bernie walked in silence for half a block. The Granite Junction park was in full bloom. Beds of red tulips and yellow daffodils provided splashes of color against a lush green lawn.

  “I’m underwhelmed,” Bernie said.

  “You shouldn’t be. That was huge, for Stacie to admit you were not only good, but great at something.”

  “I suppose so.” Bernie didn’t sound convinced. “How is your cold case going?”

  Morgan didn’t correct Bernie this time. She did have a lot to fill Bernie in on, from Del’s find of the raw ammolite, to the confirmation of tampered brakes, to Jade’s planned announcement of his candidacy for City Council.

  “Kurt invited me to go with him to the press conference.”

  “You’re going, right?”

  “It’s a great opportunity to snoop for clues to Carlee’s past, but if Kurt and I show up together, that pretty much seals it as far as us being a couple.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so three months ago,” Bernie said, “but you two are ideal for each other. He’s got the newspaper, and you keep running into bodies. You’ll keep each other occupied solving murders for years to come. Like Nick and Nora.”

  “Oh, great. Their heyday was smack in the middle of Kurt’s favorite decade.”

  “The forties? See, it’s meant to be. Anyway, I think you’re reacting too much to your fear of small-town gossip. Just because you date a guy in Golden Springs doesn’t mean you’re doomed to spend the rest of your life with him. Lighten up, Morgan. Have some fun.”

  “I’ll try. Maybe life has been serious for so long now, I’ve forgotten how to have fun.”

  “You need a plan,” Bernie said. “For when you get inside the Cooper mansion. What are you going to snoop for?”

  “Ammolite, obviously. Elephant-head flowers. I can’t question the guests about Carlee in front of Jade’s in-laws. I’m sure they’d rather forget that chapter of his past.”

  “You never know. Maybe someone will be there who knows something about Jade’s history with Carlee. Like a political rival trying to thwart his run for City Council.”

  “Now to the really important question,” Morgan said. “What do I wear to this shindig?”

  “If you really want to impress people, wear your O’Reily’s Runners T-shirt.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  * * *

  By Wednesday afternoon, Morgan had changed her mind a half dozen times about her outfit, finally settling on a blouse with a subdued floral print, black slacks, and ankle boots with a slight heel. She replaced the gauze wrapped around her hand with a beige bandage. When she attempted styling her curly hair, everything she did seemed to make her look like a flower child from the sixties instead of a serious businesswoman and amateur detective.

  After a short drive across the highway and up a steep road into wooded hills, Kurt pulled his Plymouth onto the Coopers’ curved driveway. A teenager she’d seen around town ran up to them. He wore a valet jacket with his jeans and sneakers. Formal only went so far in Golden Springs. Kurt gave the kid instructions about how to drive his vintage automobile. He bit his lower lip as the car pulled away.

  “Your baby will be okay,” Morgan said.

  “Welcome!”

  Harlan Cooper waved t
hem up wide stone steps and through double doors opening to a spacious foyer. His black slacks, long-sleeved white western-style shirt, and bolo tie made him appear casual, but Morgan could tell by the cut and the fabric that the clothes were expensive. The clasp of the bolo tie was a chunk of turquoise worth more than anything in the Rock of Ages, except for the triceratops horn. The greenish blue stone matched the color of Harlan’s eyes, and was almost as cold. The woman at his side looked a decade younger, and from the resemblance, was most certainly Mia and Chase’s mother.

  “Honey,” Cooper said to his wife, “you know Kurt Willard, editor of the Golden Springs Gazetteer.”

  She murmured something innocuous in a breathy tone and clasped hands briefly with Kurt.

  “And this is . . .” Cooper snapped his fingers and scrunched his craggy face. As though he didn’t remember stalking Morgan’s shop for ammolite three weeks ago, and speaking to her at the prospecting club just days ago.

  “Morgan Iverson,” Kurt said. “Manager of the Rock of Ages rock shop. Morgan, you know Harlan Cooper, I believe?”

  “And this is my blushing bride, Marlene.”

  Morgan held out her unbandaged hand. Marlene gave her a limp handshake. Morgan could almost see the mental calculations going on behind Marlene’s swimming-pool blue eyes, pegging Morgan at the low end of the Golden Springs business spectrum. Unlike Morgan’s department store attire, Marlene wore a silk tunic in an abstract pattern that managed to be both bright and subdued, over sage slacks and heeled sandals that looked too cold for the weather. Her toenails glittered with gold-flake polish.

  “Kurt,” Cooper said, “other members of the press are in the den. Come with me and I’ll introduce you. What am I saying? I’m sure you already know your competition.”

  “Everyone else is gathered in the garden,” Marlene said to Morgan, her words barely louder than a whisper. “Follow me.”