Hold On (Margret Malone Book 1)

by Nancy Cupp

  He heard footsteps behind him, and stiffly turned to see Curt Coleson stepping down behind him. “Curt, can you sit and talk a while?” Curt sat next to him. His eyes were dull and lifeless, his shoulders slumped. “My friend, you look terrible. Please take care of yourself,” said Sam, with his hand on Curt’s shoulder. “My brothers also mourn the loss of our friend. We’d be honored to have join us in the sweat lodge. It’ll help to clear your heart and mind.”

  Curt looked at Sam with an expressionless face, and nodded.

  “It will be tomorrow. You’ll be my guest, in my home,—come with me now if you like. It’s not good to be alone when your heart is so heavy,” encouraged Sam.

  Joseph drove up in Sam’s old blue truck. Sam got up and held out his hand to Curt.

  The drive back into the park was familiar, but refreshing. Joseph brought Sam up-to-date on the latest goings on at home. Curt began to relax, and found himself enjoying the conversation.

  As the three men rode up the long twisting road to Lake Tenaya, the round grey domes of the high country greeted them. The amazing power of Yosemite’s back country began to heal a broken man.

  Curt slept well that night, after a good hot meal. Even though he said little, the comfort of having people around him helped to lift his spirits. He was up with the sunrise, and joined the other men, as they prepared the sweat lodge. They didn’t eat breakfast and remained fasting the entire day.

  By ten o’clock everything was ready. Fires were burning to heat up large stones that were carried into the lodge in a leather sling. Water was poured over the hot stones to create steam. Stripped to the waist, the men ducked into the round lodge and sat down.

  The interior was dark and smoky. It smelled of earth, wood, burning sweet grass, and men. The men that didn’t enter the lodge attended fires, and heated new stones to be rotated in. A gentle, rhythmic chanting of words Curt didn’t understand was kept up outside. Inside, no one spoke for more than three hours, each lost deep in his own thoughts.

  As he sat sweating in the dark, Curt’s mind was swirling with thoughts of Patty. He thought about walks they took together in the park among trees and waterfalls. He remembered her laugh, and beautiful face. His heart ached, as he thought about their arguments. The conversations replayed in his mind as his body sweltered in the lodge.

  When the memories began to clear from his head, he was able to cry. Sobs ran through him, and tears flowed unchecked down his face. The men surrounding him sat quietly and didn’t interfere with his process.

  Finally, when Curt was still and peaceful, Sam began to speak. “My friend, you are at a crossroad in your life. You can choose to go in any direction. Think carefully, and then go forward the way your heart tells you.”

  One by one, the men left the lodge, stripped naked, and plunged into the icy water of Lake Tenaya. Curt was the last to leave. He felt, for the first time since he and Patty broke up, a clear mind and a way forward in his life.

  The next morning they had a good breakfast, and Curt was able to enjoy the conversation. After the meal, he was ready to go home. He thanked Sam and Julia for letting him be their guest. Before getting into the truck with Joseph, Curt shook Sam’s hand. He said, “Thank you. I can see a plan for my life, something to hold on to. I’ll be in touch.”

  39

  The Trap

  Deputy Smith was at the Mariposa County Sheriff’s office. He sat at his desk in his creased uniform, writing reports concerning the murder of Patty Waters. With the help of Captain Sheffield they’d been able to arrest both Lance Larson and Paul Wilson. They also recovered stolen museum pieces and tied the cases together.

  Greg was pleased they were able to break these cases. He felt confident that with Captain Sheffield’s recommendation he’d get the promotion he’d been vying for. But Greg felt uncomfortable. He chaffed in his uniform and had trouble maintaining his formal attitude. His mind wandered when he tried to concentrate.

  Ancient pottery pieces, arrow heads, and stone tools were recovered from the cave where he and Joseph discovered them hidden, but Greg felt there was unfinished business. He thought about his visit with Sam Parks shortly after Lance and Paul were arrested.

  He told Sam that he wanted to learn how the natural features of the land affected life in the old times. Sam and Julia Parks spent hours talking with Greg about stories that were often told in their community.

  ☙

  “Sam, do you know anything about the cave where we recovered the artifacts?”

  “There is a story about a cave nearby, I’m not sure it was the same cave,” said Sam.

  “Can you tell me the story?”

  “It is said, the cave was where part of our Nation hid when the Mariposa Battalion came to move them off the land. While Chief Tenaya was busy keeping the tribe peaceful during the move, a remnant of our people hid in a cave.”

  “Did the Chief know about the ones that hid?”

  “He was a wise man. He made sure enough people went with the Calvary so they would not suspect, and go looking for the missing ones. The Chief sacrificed his freedom so some could remain.”

  “Do we know about the ones that hid? Were they successful in rebuilding a life here?”

  “The Calvary eventually spotted some of them when they were out hunting. They evaded being captured for many years. One day an officer followed a young woman, who was gathering berries, back to the cave.”

  “Was that the end of the tribe in the park?”

  “She allowed the officer to follow her into the cave, and then she slipped out another way. He alerted his unit, thinking he had her trapped, then went in to get her. Then there was a great earthquake, and part of the cave came tumbling down, crushing him.”

  “So did the others escape, or were they killed too?”

  “We will never know. I like to believe they escaped. The calvary thought they were killed along with the officer.”

  “That’s a wonderful story, It deserves to be remembered, and re-told,” said Greg. “I wondered about the cave we were in, how the stalactite was broken. It could have been an earthquake.”

  ☙

  Greg was yanked out of his thoughts when Deputy Saunders dropped a report on his desk. “Somebody called in this report,” she said, “I guess you’re the one closest to it.”

  “Thank you,” said Greg picking up the report. He took a deep breath and began to read with little interest. Scanning over details, he slowed and reread from the top when his eye caught the information about artifacts.

  A computer search on the reported license plate number gave Greg the car’s owner. It was registered to Fred Beloit of Oakdale, California. He wondered where he’d heard the name before, so he checked to see if a connection to some other case existed. Mr. Beloit had been arrested for vagrancy twice, but had no other offense. Greg yawned—a dead-end case.

  He went back to his reports, but the name Fred Beloit popped back into his mind. I wish I could place him, he thought. He finished up what he was working on, then left his desk for lunch.

  Greg sat outside under a tall Sequoia. The tree was a baby, considering the enormous size and height they could reach. This particular tree, planted and carefully maintained with hopes it would survive, was outside their normal growing range. Some of the giant trees lived to be thousands of years old.

  Greg was missing the high cliffs, waterfalls, and fragrant pines of Yosemite Valley. His mind wandered over the events that took place there. He smiled when he thought about Margret’s wide-eyed retelling of the cave she’d dropped into. He wondered what kind of posts she had on her Facebook page about it.

  Facebook! That’s where I saw that name before, he thought. Fred Beloit was one of Paul Wilson’s friends on Facebook. He was the guy that was selling stuff. Greg finished his lunch and brushed off his rumpled uniform.

  With a few keystrokes, Greg pulled up Fred Beloit’s Facebook page. He put in a friend request, and in a few hours he’d been accepted. He sent a message saying
he was a collector, and asked what Fred had for sale.

  I need to take this slow, he thought. I don’t want to scare this guy off. I need him to suggest meeting me to look at what he has. Greg’s persistence paid off within a few weeks. Fred started to trust Greg and said he’d be in Merced in two days. Greg didn’t answer right away. He decided to call Captain Sheffield for advice.

  “Hello Greg,” said Captain Sheffield, when he answered his phone. “How’s that promotion going? I put in a good word for you.”

  “I haven’t heard anything yet Captain—George. But thank you,” said Greg. “I just wanted to run some information by you and get your advice on how to proceed.”

  Greg told George about Fred Beloit, and the report called in by a truck driver. He told him how Beloit and Paul Wilson were connected.

  “You’ve done your homework on this one Greg. Nice work—have you thought about becoming an investigator? I could use you on my team.”

  “Thanks George. Actually I’ve thought about leaving my post here, but I think I want to work for the park service.”

  “The park service,—Yosemite got to you huh? It’ll be a drop in pay, but I can understand why you’d want to.”

  “How do you think we should handle Fred Beloit? His arrest would support our case against Wilson.”

  The men discussed options. They came up with a plan to expose Beloit, and lead to the recovery of stolen property. Greg set up a meeting with Fred. He had to do a lot of research and study in a short time, so he could be convincing as a connoisseur of antiquities and art. He wanted to get into a bidding war with Dr. Crandal, hoping Fred’s greed would expose Dr. Crandal as well.

  Via his Facebook page, Fred had let slip that he had an original Thomas Moran drawing for sale. Greg showed his interest, and inquired about other paintings by artists who’s work he knew had been stolen from the museum. He said he would buy the drawing if Fred could get him a small painting by Moran as well. He said the size of the work was important so it would fit his wall space.

  Greg’s knowledge of the stolen art work was his edge. He knew there wasn’t a Moran painting missing, but there was a stolen William Keith that was close to the size specified. The chances that Dr. Crandal had the painting, and could be baited into selling it were slim. Deputy Smith hoped flashing lots of money would make things work.

  With excitement, Greg called Captain Sheffield to update him on the project. “Good morning, George, the bait worked.”

  “Crandal wants to sell?”

  “Fred confirmed ‘Dr. C’ has the Keith painting. He said If I have enough cash, ‘Dr. C’ would be willing to show me his collection. For a fee, Fred is willing to set-up the appointment.”

  “That’s great news, I’ll work on getting some cash to flash around. When does he want to do the showing?”

  “That’s the bad news—he wants to do it tomorrow. Can we get set up by then?”

  “Oh. It’ll be tough to get the cash that quick. I’ll have to pull rank to get enough men to cover you,—but it can be done.”

  “I’ll stall as long as I can.”

  ☙

  Greg parked his rented Mercedes in the clinic’s parking lot. Fred drove up in his green jalopy, eager to collect his fee. He sold the Moran drawing to Greg, for more money than the deputy made in a year, while they waited for ‘Dr. C’ to meet them.

  When the doctor arrived, Fred made introductions. He was back in his car, driving out of the parking lot, before the doctor and Greg finished shaking hands. He didn’t get very far out of town when he was stopped for the hanging bumper on his car. Then he was arrested for possession and selling stolen art.

  The new friends talked a few minutes about their art collections. Then Greg followed the doctor’s Jaguar to a gated mansion on a hillside over-looking the town.

  “This is a wonderful view of the mountains, Doctor.”

  “Please call me Ted. I love mountains, that’s why I’m so attracted to these early paintings. Come inside, you’ll see how I’ve brought the outside in.”

  Greg followed Ted into his magnificent home. In the foyer, high ceilings with walls of glass gave the sensation of standing on a mountain ledge. As they walked further inside, lighted alcoves built into the walls displayed unique pottery, and stone implements.

  Trying not to appear awestruck, Greg said, “These are interesting, are they from this area?”

  “Of course,” said Dr. Crandal. “I try to keep my collection local. Do you collect antiquities too?”

  “No, I haven’t dabbled in that yet. My interest is more toward framed art.”

  “You’ll love my gallery then,” said the doctor. “Would you like a drink before we look?”

  “Scotch, please,” said Greg. “Do you have a special branch of medicine, Ted?”

  “I specialize in sports-medicine. A lot of fitness fanatics and climbers live around here. It seems to come with the mountains. Body-builders need a place to play when they’re not in the gym I guess.”

  Greg laughed, “I tried that in college, but I could never bulk-up enough.”

  “I could help with that. Most of my clients need a boost.”

  “Steroids?”

  “Yeah, it pumps them up in a hurry. Fortunately for me, they have to keep coming back, or they lose the edge.”

  “Nice. It must support your collecting habit pretty well too.”

  “It does,—bodybuilding is a different kind of art.”

  “I suppose it is. I guess I’ll stick to investing in the kind you can buy and sell for now.”

  “Let’s go take a look—you’ll love the Keith painting. For the right price, I’d let it go. I don’t like to crowd my paintings too much, but when these became available, I had to have all of them.”

  Dr. Crandal led the way to a cavernous room with a maze of walls that held countless works of art by the old masters. Greg absorbed as much information about each of the paintings as he could, while interjecting comments to make his role as a collector seen credible.

  “Ted, I’m impressed. You have an excellent representation of early National Park work.”

  “Here’s what you came for—the William Keith.”

  Greg studied the painting in silence for a full five minutes, “What will it take for you to part with it?”

  The doctor named a staggering price, Greg knew he’d have to do some quick thinking to make the deal go through. “I don’t have that much cash with me, but I’d love to take this home today. I have the Moran drawing I just bought. Would you consider holding it for a portion of the price until I can come back with the rest?”

  “I don’t usually work that way, but I’ve seen the drawing and I like it. Let’s try to work it out.”

  40

  The Trial

  Dr. Crandal’s lawyer strode into the room and sat opposite him at a long table. He straightened his tie, and opened his brief case before starting to speak. “Ted, I got you the best plea bargain I could. I suggest you take it.”

  Dr. Crandal looked away, his gaze concentrating on the narrow window of the conference room. “I suppose I have to give it all up.”

  “All of the stolen property, yes. The art you purchased from legitimate sources is yours. You’ll be losing your license to practice medicine, unless we can prove all the medications were necessary for your patients.”

  “So you're saying I’d better sell everything so I can pay your fee.”

  “I’m saying you’re in a load of trouble—this is damage control. If you co-operate, and they can make a case against Paul Wilson, you won’t do much time.”

  “Wilson wanted steroids as part-payment for the job. I didn’t prescribe them for him.”

  “He used them to bribe and control Larson.”

  “Not my problem—what his goon did.”

  “It makes you an accessary to murder.”

  ☙

  Springtime brought beautiful weather, fresh leaves and flowers, and endless hearings. Deputy Smith and Captain
Sheffield were required to attend most of them.

  Fred Beloit was happy to name his source, Paul Wilson, in exchange for leniency in his own sentence. He said, “I’m just the middle man. I introduced Paul, and Greg Smith to Dr. Crandal, what they did after that had nothing to do with me. All I got out of it was a small fee.”

  The prosecution asked, “How did Dr. Crandal come to have the William Keith painting?”

  “I sold it to him, how did I know it was stolen? Wilson just asked me to find a buyer for him, and I did.”

  ☙

  Margret was flown in for her testimony. Although they weren’t allowed to discuss the case, Margret was glad to see Deputy Smith and the captain again.

  Margret’s testimony, about the conversation she overheard, helped connect Lance and Paul to the murder. The weapon she discovered was traced to Lance’s military service. He’d shown it to nearly every other member of his troop when he got it.

  Lance was present when Margret was on the witness stand. He glared at her, and although she was careful not to meet his eyes, his stare made her cringe.

  “Ms. Malone, how did you come to be in possession of what we now know to be the murder weapon?”

  Margret’s palms were sweaty as she answered honestly, “I found it in my backpack.”

  “You didn’t put it there? It just—appeared?”

  “Um,—yes,” said Margret, studying the railing in front of her.

  “How could that happen?”

  “I fell—into a cave, and my backpack was left behind. I think Lance put it in there,” said Margret, careful not to look in his direction.

  “Was he the only one who had access to your backpack?”

  Margret hesitated, her mouth went dry, and there was a lump in her throat, “No—Joseph Parks was there too, but…”

  “Thank you. You had the victim’s necklace as well, is that correct?”