Stone Cold Case (A Rock Shop Mystery)

by Catherine Dilts

  “Seriously?” Bernie pursed her lips like she tasted something sour. “Gayle’s just a kid. What a perv.”

  “A kid who looks like Carlee Kruger. The salesclerk said Chase’s lady friends use the back way in. Come on.”

  Morgan tried not to skulk like a B-movie spy as she led Bernie past the gallery, down the sidewalk on Main Street, and into an alley paved with bricks. Other than the overflowing trashcans and flattened cardboard boxes sticking out of a Dumpster, it was charming. Morgan scanned the back of the gallery.

  “Maybe we should call the police.”

  “I don’t know, Bernie. Gayle went voluntarily. Unless we know for certain she’s in trouble—”

  The back door of the gallery banged open. Bernie grabbed Morgan’s arm and pulled her behind the Dumpster. Lynn hurried to a dented little car covered with flower stickers. Mia jumped into a sports car. The tires squealed as she tore out of the narrow alley. Lynn followed at a much slower pace.

  “Gayle wasn’t with either one,” Bernie whispered. “If she was inside the gallery, one of them would have noticed.”

  “There was enough time between Gayle going through the fence, and them leaving, that Gayle could have gotten inside without being seen. Especially if Chase snuck her upstairs.”

  They waited a minute, then Morgan tiptoed toward the scarred wooden door. Mia had been in a hurry, but she was not so rushed that she forgot to pull the door shut. Morgan tugged on the curved metal handle. Then Bernie tried.

  “Hopeless. Now what?”

  Morgan looked up at the three-story brick building. She knew how she would feel if it was her teenage daughter inside. She would have driven a tank through the front door, if need be, to rescue Sarah from the clutches of a devious older man.

  “All that space can’t be filled with paintings and art supplies,” Bernie said. “I wonder if anyone lives up there.”

  A third-floor curtain fluttered.

  “Was that Gayle?” Morgan asked.

  “I couldn’t see anyone. Maybe a cat peeked out the window.”

  Or Gayle had attempted to escape.

  “Keep an eye out.” Morgan ran her fingers around the cracked and peeling wooden frame of a ground-floor window. The panes, painted dark brown, were loose. Any old caulking had crumbled away long ago. Morgan pressed her palm to the glass and applied pressure.

  “What are you doing?” Bernie whispered.

  “Trying to find a way in.”

  Morgan pushed on a different pane. The glass cracked.

  “Oops.”

  “If you’re concerned enough about Gayle to risk a breaking and entering charge, wouldn’t it be better to call Chief Sharp?”

  “He might not get here in time.”

  “In time for what?” Bernie seemed to consider the options, and grimaced. “Euw. We’d better hurry.”

  “Is the coast clear?”

  “I don’t see anyone,” Bernie said.

  Morgan stooped to pick up a brick, then pulled her arm back. Bernie stopped her.

  “Too noisy.” Bernie tore the flap off one of the cardboard boxes protruding from the Dumpster. “Wrap this around your hand. It’ll muffle the sound, and keep you from getting cut.”

  Morgan pressed her protected fist through the cracked glass pane. The brittle glass splintered into shards. She dropped the cardboard and groped inside for a latch, hoping there wasn’t someone on the other side ready to grab her arm.

  “Great,” Morgan said. “It won’t budge. I think it’s painted over.”

  “Let me try.”

  Morgan stood guard while Bernie reached through the empty pane, contorting herself to reach the latch. Wood cracked loud enough to wake the dead, or at least draw the neighbors across the alley to their windows. Bernie pulled her hand out, holding a latch sealed shut with brown paint.

  “I guess I don’t know my own strength.” She dropped the latch. “Must be from kneading all that bread dough.”

  Morgan pushed up on the window. Bernie joined her.

  “It’s no use. The thing is painted shut.”

  “Just,” Bernie said, “a little.” She closed her eyes and pushed. “More.”

  The wooden window frame shrieked as it rose. Morgan dragged a trash can under the window and climbed on top. The aluminum lid dented with her weight. Bernie offered a steadying hand. Morgan brushed broken glass out of the way and clambered through. The room was dim, lit only by the fading sunlight coming through the broken window.

  “I’m in a storage room.” Morgan spoke softly, not knowing whether people might be near. “Or maybe a work room.”

  “I’ll never make it through the window,” Bernie said. “I’ll keep watch out here. I’m calling Rolf.”

  Morgan put her phone on vibrate and dropped it in her pocket. She inched her way through the room. This was not where Jade painted, but where frames were built and shipping crates assembled. The workshop smelled more of sawdust than oil paints and turpentine.

  Light etched the outline of a door. She worked her way past stacks of lumber and a workbench with a vise, saws, and hammers, groping for the door. She turned the knob slowly and opened the door a crack.

  The door opened into a narrow hallway. At the end was a steep staircase. To the right were two doors. One bore the single word “office,” painted in neat block letters. Next to it was a colorfully painted door with “restroom” in lacey script. To the left was the curtain to the gallery, and a doorway that most likely led to the back door. Morgan tiptoed to the curtain and peeked out. The gallery was quiet, but she heard muffled voices coming from the office. Then shouting.

  “—take care of it.”

  “And this is what happens.” Harlan Cooper’s voiced boomed off the brick walls. “You didn’t take care of anything, as usual. And it’s up to me to clean up your mess.”

  “I can take care of my own business.”

  “The only business you have is because of me.”

  Their voices lowered, and the next exchange was too muffled for Morgan to hear. She slipped into the restroom. Two stalls crowded the tiny room. There was barely enough room to stand at the sink. Faded fabric in a pine tree print formed a curtain around the sink. The soap and paper towel dispensers had seen a lot of use. The odor of bleach and the musty smell of mold filled the room. Morgan closed the restroom door. As her eyes adjusted to the cave-like darkness, Morgan could see light from the hallway seeping in around the door. She pressed her ear to the wall shared with the office.

  “That family should have been run out of town years ago. And instead of letting security eject her from the premises—my home, need I remind you—you have a little chat with her in my den. The press conference was nearly ruined.”

  “I’d say that was your doing,” Jade said. “You shot a homeless man!”

  “I’m a hero,” Harlan said, “saving a girl from a madman. I helped your campaign. But it’s no good if you blow it by dragging all of your skeletons out of the closet.”

  “I didn’t want to run for City Council in the first place. If Mia finds out—”

  “She’s known from the start.”

  There was a pause. Morgan tried to be silent, but her breath came in ragged gasps.

  “How could she?” Jade asked. “I didn’t know until Wednesday.”

  “Camille went to her high-school chum first,” Harlan said. “Mia’s always been a good friend to those in need. Especially when they can help her own cause. Mia had the good sense to bring the girl to me. I gave the distraught young mother-to-be more than enough money to have an abortion. Instead she kept the brat and used the money for a bus ticket out of town.”

  “Wait. You and Mia both knew I had a daughter?” Jade choked on a sob. “Why didn’t you tell me? Everything would have been different.”

  “Right. You’d have been saddled with a bastard child. You’d never have become an artist, with your own gallery. You’d have been waiting tables or selling used cars, living from hand to mouth.”

>   “I’d have had a daughter.”

  There was a long pause.

  “That’s cruel, Jade. You know Mia can’t have children.”

  “That’s what she told you and Marlene, to keep you off her back about producing grandchildren for you. I guess that’s the one thing daddy’s little girl wouldn’t do for you. The one and only thing.”

  The door to the office banged open. Morgan tried to imagine an excuse for why she was in the gallery restroom after hours, but she heard another door slam shut. Had both men left? Or just one? If so, which? Morgan was not certain who she would rather face in this situation. Cooper seemed ruthless enough to kill to protect his political ambitions. But if Carlee found out Jade had an affair with Camille, resulting in her sister’s pregnancy, they might have had a fight passionate enough to end in murder.

  Morgan tapped out a cell phone message. Her spelling and grammar suffered as her hands shook.

  Cooper knew jade is gayle father

  Morgan suspected her text didn’t make any sense, but Bernie responded quickly.

  saw jade leaveruok

  That meant Harlan was still in the office.

  hiding in bathroom Cooper is in building seen g?

  no and no news – must be upstairs still

  Morgan heard banging around in the office, drawers opening and closing. Finally, she heard the office door creak open, and footsteps in the hallway. They headed toward the restroom. Morgan only had seconds to consider hiding under the sink, with its protective curtain, but there was not enough room. Hiding in a stall seemed the best option, but if she latched the door, that would tip off Harlan that someone was inside. She pulled one stall door open wide, then dashed inside the other. She tugged the door closed but didn’t latch it, then climbed on top of the toilet seat.

  The light flicked on. The brightness after near total dark startled Morgan, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Under the stall divider, she could see Harlan’s alligator boots as he paused in front of the mirror. Then he turned to the open stall door. She heard splashing, then flushing, then the door banged open. He didn’t wash his hands.

  Morgan waited for the sound of the back door. Instead, she heard stairs squeaking. Great. If Chase had Gayle upstairs, how was Morgan going to reach her without alerting Harlan? Maybe it was time to call the police. Morgan had her doubts, though. She had assumed she saw Gayle’s blond hair in the window. It just as easily could have been Jade’s. Surely, if Jade had seen his daughter with Chase, he would have intervened. She might be on entirely the wrong track.

  She clambered off her perch, her legs stiff. She went to the door, pressed her ear to it, trying not to think of all the unwashed hands that had touched it. She pulled her jacket sleeve over her hand to turn the knob. Harlan was still climbing stairs, going up all three stories.

  Morgan slipped outside, flinching as the door creaked. Surely he would break up Chase and Gayle, if they were upstairs, and if he caught them doing something other than glasswork. He would not want his son involved with the Kruger family, an underage girl who could ruin the family’s political aspirations. Especially a girl who was his son-in-law’s illegitimate daughter. Chase was Gayle’s uncle. Not blood related, but still, ick. Morgan shuddered at the thought that she might be too late to rescue Gayle.

  The creaking stopped. Morgan crept up the first flight of narrow, steep steps. She paused on the second floor, listening. The stairs opened into a windowless room with old furniture, a mini fridge and a microwave. She tiptoed toward the light coming in from the front-facing windows.

  Three canvases sat on easels. Paint palettes and brushes cluttered small tables. Jade seemed to have a factory-style production line going. The room smelled strongly of turpentine or some other paint thinner. She only saw one glass jar with brushes soaking, but the fumes were enough to make her dizzy. She struggled to suppress a cough.

  Morgan stepped through the other door. The room was furnished with a twin bed covered with a faded comforter, a clothes rack, and a table with a lamp. Maybe Jade hid in the second floor apartment when he needed to escape his troubled life.

  Or maybe this was where Chase brought the lady friends that Lynn had mentioned. If so, where was Gayle?

  There was one more floor. Unfortunately, Harlan was up there.

  Doubts paralyzed Morgan. Bernie was watching the back of the building. Could she have missed Chase and Gayle leaving? No way. But maybe they had exited through the gallery, while Morgan and Bernie were breaking in to the back of the building. Now the entire escapade seemed ridiculous.

  Morgan listened for footsteps above her, but heard nothing. She stepped to the staircase. Looked up into the darkness. Dark. Why would Harlan Cooper be in a dark room? Was there another bed on the third floor? Maybe he had a spat with Marlene, and he was in the doghouse. Morgan checked her cell phone. No text messages.

  Morgan stepped back into the second floor bedroom and tapped out a message to Bernie.

  See anyone leave

  no all quiet

  Something scraped across the floor above Morgan, making a noise like a chair being dragged across the wood floor. She hovered at the bottom of the stairs. Morgan had nearly convinced herself to leave, when she heard the sounds of a struggle. Then a girl’s cry.

  Harlan Cooper was the perv.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  * * *

  Morgan punched 9-1-1 on her phone with shaking fingers. When the dispatcher answered, Morgan whispered, “Jade’s Aspen Gold Art Gallery,” then reached inside her bag for the pepper spray. Holding it in front of her at arm’s length, she climbed the stairs, not caring how much noise she made. She pushed open the door at the top of the steps. Noxious fumes washed over her, stinging her eyes and filling her lungs.

  The scene was not what she expected. An industrial painter’s mask concealed Harlan Cooper’s nose and the lower half of his face. Two round filters on either side of his mouth made him look like an alien insect. Cooper struggled to tie a shop rag to Gayle’s face as she kicked, sending one open-backed sparkly sneaker flying. Her arms were tied behind her back.

  “Let her go!” Morgan yelled.

  He did, letting Gayle slump to the gritty wood floor. The teenager huddled in a heap, her orange- and purple-streaked hair fanning across the pink, long-sleeved T-shirt that hung off one shoulder. Morgan took three steps forward, keeping the pepper spray canister aimed at Cooper, her finger on the trigger. Harlan reached behind his back and pulled out a handgun. It didn’t look like Del’s revolver. Cooper’s gun was black and boxy, all hard angles.

  “I win,” he said, his voice muffled by the respirator mask. “I suppose you have a cell phone. Like that’s going to save you. Hand it over.”

  Morgan did. Her skin crawled as his fingers brushed her palm. He glanced at the phone, then mashed his thumb on the screen to end the call. Harlan tossed it on a spindly-legged table.

  “We’ll be long gone before the police get here. Hand me that, too.”

  Morgan gave him the pepper spray. He kicked the door closed, then threw the pepper spray on the table.

  “Snooping and spying.” Harlan’s words were difficult to understand, muffled by the mask. Or maybe the fumes were getting to Morgan. “I’ve heard around town that you’re a real busybody. Guess the rumors are true, for once.”

  “Let Gayle go. She’s just a kid.”

  Gayle looked up from her seat on the floor. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Morgan felt her own eyes tearing up. The small room reeked of paint thinner. The only window was painted shut, like the one in the workshop. It was a wonder the entire building hadn’t ignited.

  “Did you hide from that incompetent clerk when she closed shop for the day?” Harlan asked. “I’ve been wanting to fire that girl for a while now.”

  “There’s no way this will end well for you,” Morgan said. “Half the town is looking for Gayle.”

  “I can imagine a dozen scenarios where I come out on top. The kid is a Kruger, after all
. Everyone in Golden Springs knows they’re just a bunch of misfits, drunks, and whores.”

  Gayle attempted yelling something through her gag, but she choked instead. Morgan started to kneel beside her, but Harlan waved her back with his gun.

  “Your mother could try running away from her past,” he said to Gayle, “but that doesn’t change the facts. You’re just a mistake. But mistakes can be erased.”

  “Harlan, no.”

  Gayle looked from Harlan to Morgan.

  “Oh, didn’t your mommy tell you?” Harlan asked Gayle. “She was part of a sick love triangle with her sister. Jade Tinsley is your father.”

  A growl forced past Gayle’s gag. She struggled to stand.

  “You want this over already?” Harlan aimed the gun at her. “I was hoping to drag things out a little longer.”

  “The chief will match the bullets to the one in the mountain man’s shoulder.” Realization hit Morgan, swimming into her fume-clouded brain. “You’re the ATVer who shot at Rolf. Gerda’s brakes. And mine. You did that. You wanted to kill the mountain man, but you missed. You tried to kill us all.”

  Morgan hoped his incompetence so far boded well for her and Gayle’s survival.

  “You’re right, Morgan, on all counts. Except I wasn’t planning on shooting you, and nobody’s going to find you.”

  Gayle’s phone sang a line of a pop song, and Morgan’s phone buzzed, vibrating across the antique table. Harlan glanced at them, distracted for an instant. The muzzle of his handgun drooped, aiming at the floor. Morgan grabbed a brass floor lamp and swung it at Harlan’s head. The cord ripped from the wall, pulling her off balance. The tattered lampshade grazed Harlan’s face, hitting the respirator. He fell into a metal rack, knocking cans and bottles onto the floor.

  “Gayle! Run!”

  The girl slumped on her side. The room blurred like watercolors running down a rain-soaked painting. Morgan coughed. She needed fresh air, before she passed out. She thrust the lamp at the window. The painted glass cracked, bulging out but not giving way.