Stone Cold Case

by Catherine Dilts

  “New steps first,” Barton said. “Then we can haul Del’s collection out safely.”

  “Collection?” Morgan asked.

  “You probably didn’t notice the other night in all the excitement,” Del said. “Come on in.”

  He clambered inside the trailer without placing his feet on the rotten steps, then held out a hand to Morgan, helping her through the door. She remembered the living room, with its low ceiling and ratty sofa. The place had a few touches of femininity, leftover from the deceased Mrs. Addison. Doilies on the furniture, knickknacks that included cherubic children in Germanic lederhosen and dirndls, a hand-crocheted afghan thrown over the back of an aspen-wood rocking chair, and framed family photos.

  “The thief didn’t touch your collection.” Barton flipped on a light, illuminating a china cabinet. “Probably didn’t know what you have here.”

  A china cabinet full of rocks, Morgan thought.

  She had learned enough about geology and gemstones to recognize the excellent specimens of crystals, including one with three perfect crystals in black, white, and blue rising from the same base. It reminded her of the amazing crystal on the Denver gem show postcard, and had to be worth as much.

  “You could sell that one and buy you a new trailer.” Barton squinted into the cabinet.

  “Not a bad idea,” Morgan muttered.

  “That cabinet contains my retirement fund,” Del said. “I can’t touch it except in an emergency.”

  Morgan glanced around at the interior of the trailer, and wondered what constituted an emergency in Del’s book. Another thought intruded. The trailer’s exterior might be a wreck, but inside it was neat and tidy. It would do just fine for summer quarters. Barton bent over to peer up inside the cabinet.

  “I think that leak is about to break through.”

  Above the particleboard cabinet, Morgan saw a dark stain on the ceiling.

  “Dripping water will reduce the cabinet to wood pulp in no time,” Morgan said.

  “Maybe I should move it out of here until I get the roof redone.”

  “The roof?” Barton asked. “Del, I really think you should consider whether your place is salvageable.” Barton glanced at Morgan and shrugged. “I told him he could move in with me. At least until he decides what to do.”

  “I don’t know,” Morgan said. “Maybe the trailer is worth fixing up. For now, he could move the valuable items into the shop.”

  “I’m standing right here.” Del placed his fists on his narrow hips and frowned. “Somebody could ask me what I want to do.”

  “Okay,” Barton said. “What do you want to do?”

  Del flapped his arms. “I want my house back. This is where me and the missus spent some very fine years together. A little patching up, and I’ll move back in.”

  This wasn’t about fixing up a place. Not if Del had the means to replace the trailer. He stomped down the hallway to the bedroom. Morgan heard drawers slamming.

  She spoke in a low voice to Barton. “I’m getting out of the line of fire. I’ll walk back to the shop.”

  Morgan was juggling customer questions, ringing up sales, and wishing Del would give up on the trailer and come to work, when the phone rang.

  “Rock of Ages,” Morgan said. “How may I help you?”

  “This is Vernon.” He took a couple breaths. “Sorry. I’ve been running. Chasing after a couple guys. Might have been the ones that cut the lock off my gate. I tried to get the registration numbers on their ATVs, but they were too fast for me. They must have been up to no good, or they wouldn’t have run off.”

  “Were they rustling cattle?”

  “No, they were digging. Prospecting on private property. I’m reporting this to Chief Sharp, but I wanted to warn you. If they were digging on my place, they might hit yours next.”

  “With Houdini chasing after intruders? I don’t think a person would take the risk.”

  “That might be true if he was home,” Vernon said, “but your donkey’s over here.”

  “Again?”

  “You know, I could swear he was heading for the digging site.”

  “I’ll send Del over to get him.”

  With two donkeys who were escape artists, the Rock of Ages gates were checked and double-checked constantly. Morgan chided herself for not looking into replacing latches with something more ingenious than a determined donkey. She called Barton’s cell phone and told him about the intruders. He sounded as disgusted as Vernon.

  “People think they’re just having fun digging for buried treasure,” Barton said, “but they’re stealing just the same as some guy hotwiring a car or robbing a bank.”

  “Houdini is on Vernon and Sherry’s place again. I’m swamped with customers. Can you ask Del to round up the donkey?”

  “I’ll go with him,” Barton said.

  A steady stream of rock hounds and tourists out to enjoy the spring day found their way to the Rock of Ages. The ringing cash register drowned out worries about claim jumpers and cold cases. Close to closing, Bernie called.

  “Do you have plans tonight?” Bernie’s words sounded like they were spoken through clenched teeth.

  “No,” Morgan said, “but I thought you were going out with Rolf.”

  “Meet me at the Hot Tomato at six thirty.”

  “Is there something you want to talk about?”

  “Just be there.”

  As Morgan hung up the phone, she decided to check the phase of the moon. Everyone was acting crazy today. Thankfully, Del did agree to let Barton haul a load of his possessions to his place for safekeeping, while he decided what to do about the trailer. Del’s most valuable mineral and crystal samples went into locked display cases in the Rock of Ages.

  Morgan closed shop for the day and was heading through the door to the living quarters when the phone rang. She almost let it go to voice mail, but decided to pick it up.

  “Hello, Rock of Ages, how may I help you?”

  The line was silent for a moment, then Gerda’s gruff voice came through the receiver.

  “You found my daughter.”

  She already knew that, Morgan thought, so it must not be a question. “Yes. I did.”

  “You know the place.”

  Gerda’s voice was strained, but her words were not slurred. She sounded sober.

  “I know where it is,” Morgan said. “Yes.”

  “I need to see where you found her. Will you take me?”

  In a day that just got stranger by the minute, Morgan made plans to pick up Gerda after church the next day and take her to the dugout. Then she called Kurt. Morgan wasn’t sure whether she wanted Gerda to chaperone her walk through the mountains with Kurt, or vice versa, but either way, three were company while two felt dangerous.

  Morgan looked forward to dinner. Bernie had been too busy lately to spend time with her. She anticipated a relaxing evening of girl-time, until she entered the Hot Tomato. Bernie typically dressed in clothes to flatter her plus-size figure, and wore just enough makeup to enhance her naturally pretty face. Tonight she wore baggy sweats. Her eyes were puffy and red, and her shoulder length brown hair hung in limp disarray. Morgan slid onto a chair across from her friend.

  “Bernie, what’s wrong?”

  The baker pressed a paper napkin to her eyes. “It’s Rolf. He lied to me.”

  Morgan’s blood pressure spiked. Bernie had confided that she thought Rolf might be The One, and he’d already reduced her to tears.

  “What happened?”

  “He has a daughter.” She sniffed. “He’s been married.”

  The waitress drifted by, no doubt attempting to be discreet and attentive at the same time. Morgan nodded to her, and she hurried to their table. When Bernie’s lips quivered and her eyes filled with tears, Morgan ordered for her. Comfort food. Macaroni and cheese gourmet style, and a side salad. That sounded good, so Morgan ordered the same. The brief respite over and the waitress gone, she turned her full attention to a fragile Bernie.

&n
bsp; “What did Rolf lie about? Is he married now?”

  Bernie gave a vigorous shake of her head. “No. It’s worse. He has a daughter.”

  “You mentioned that. So he was married, but he’s not married now. And he has a daughter. By the failed marriage?”

  Bernie nodded. The waitress brought a pot of hot water and a basket of tea bags to the table. Morgan started a cup brewing for her friend. Bernie definitely needed calming chamomile.

  “We’ve been dating for three months,” Bernie said. “And he just now remembers to mention, oh, by the way, Bernie, I have a thirteen-year-old daughter?”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed Rolf was old enough to have a child that age.”

  “High-school romance.” Bernie squeezed a lemon wedge into her tea and added a dollop of honey from a clear plastic bear. “They had to get married. They were too young to understand what they were getting into. Things fell apart almost immediately, according to Rolf.” Bernie sounded like she had her doubts.

  Morgan was burning to ask whether Rolf attended the same high school as Carlee, but now was not the time.

  “They divorced?” Morgan asked instead.

  “When Stacie was just a baby. Rolf claims he wanted to make it work, but don’t men always say it wasn’t their fault when a marriage fails?”

  “Not necessarily,” Morgan said. “When do we get to the part about Rolf lying to you?”

  “That’s it. He didn’t tell me he’d been married. He didn’t tell me he has a kid who’s practically grown. How does a person forget to mention something that huge?”

  “Did he ever imply he had never been married?”

  “I know what you’re getting at, Morgan, but it was the sin of omission. Not bringing it up was like lying. Wasn’t it?”

  Morgan saw the waitress approaching. She held her hand up slightly to signal Bernie to hit pause on her rant. With the salads and mac and cheese placed before them, and assurances that they had everything they needed, the waitress left them.

  “I’m scared, Morgan.” Bernie speared a pasta shell with her fork. “He wants me to meet her. This weekend.”

  “You were supposed to meet her tonight, weren’t you?” When Bernie didn’t answer, Morgan added, “You chickened out.”

  Bernie set her fork down. “What if she hates me? What if she likes me, and Rolf and I don’t work out, and she gets her heart broken? I’m not ready to be a mother. Not this way. I imagined it all different.”

  “It’s always different from the fantasy,” Morgan said. “Believe me.”

  “I’m thinking of calling the whole thing off.”

  “This weekend? Or forever?”

  Bernie’s lip trembled again. “It’s not supposed to be this hard.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “Love.” The word was a whisper.

  Morgan ate a few bites, giving the conversation space to settle. Bernie seemed to breathe a little easier as she sipped the calming tea.

  “Okay,” Morgan said. “Here are your options, as I see them. You can let your fear of failure destroy what you told me might be your last chance to find love. Of course, I don’t think it’s your last chance, because you’re younger than me by over a decade, so if you’re ready to throw in the towel on romance, that pretty well means I’ll be spending the rest of my life alone.”

  Bernie’s mouth quirked up at the corners in a weak grin.

  “Or you can take a chance that this will work out, understanding that stepparenting can be a tough job, but also realizing that Rolf’s daughter is thirteen, so it’s unlikely that you’ll be blamed if she turns into a train wreck.”

  Bernie almost giggled. “I get your point.” She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I need to calm down and give this a chance. It’s scary, you know?”

  Morgan thought of her own recent fumbling attempts at romance.

  “I know.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  * * *

  Sunday a pastor from the regional pool gave an especially bland sermon. Maybe that was what drove Morgan’s brother, Kendall, to Central America. His faith was deep and passionate, a ship with wind-whipped sails riding the rolling swells of a stormy sea, while the Golden Springs Community Church preferred sailing paper boats on a duck pond.

  As the service concluded and people moved into the social area, Beatrice, Teruko, and Anna hurried to the kitchen. Morgan rinsed coffee cups and loaded the dishwasher. She considered telling the ladies about her planned excursion with Gerda, but however well-intentioned, Gerda’s pain might become grist for the gossip mill once again. And if Morgan mentioned Kurt Willard, she would never hear the end of it.

  Morgan picked up Kurt first. He had exchanged his 1940s’ reporter costume for standard Colorado hiking gear of khaki slacks with plenty of pockets, boots with waffled soles, and a fleece-lined windbreaker. With his apple-red cheeks and the breeze rumpling his short brown hair, he almost looked like a rugged outdoorsman. Or maybe an over-the-hill boy scout.

  “Gerda wasn’t happy when I told her you were coming,” Morgan said, “but I explained about the mountain man, and that we needed a bodyguard.”

  “I’ll be as unobtrusive as I can,” Kurt said. “I even left my notepad and pencil at home.”

  Gerda requested that Morgan pick her up at the auto repair shop, which made Morgan more curious about her mysterious house behind the gate. As Morgan pulled up in front of Kruger’s Auto Repair, Gerda emerged from one of the bays. She was dressed for a hike in stretch jeans and hiking boots, her short white hair covered with a floppy hat.

  “So,” Gerda said, looking at Kurt, “you did come.”

  “I’m just here to help,” Kurt said. “I’m not here in my capacity as editor of the Gazetteer.”

  “Let us keep it that way,” Gerda said as she climbed in. “This is a private moment. I do not wish to see it splashed across the front page of your little rag.”

  Kurt’s face flushed a deeper red, but he kept his mouth shut.

  Morgan couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound inane, and Gerda didn’t help her out with any small talk. They all knew where they were going, and why. After driving several miles up the highway, Morgan pulled off on a forest service road, then into the Temple Mountain trailhead parking lot. She turned off the engine, and they sat in silence.

  “Let us get this over with then,” Gerda finally said.

  Kurt hopped out to open her door, and offered his hand. Gerda ignored him, hoisting herself onto her feet.

  Morgan took the lead, Gerda followed, and Kurt took up the rear. The mountainside was green and glorious for a few precious weeks before the dry summer would set in. The wind sighed through the trees, a rushing sound as though the earth itself was breathing. Their boots crunched across rock, and padded across pine needles. Gerda paused several times, her breathing labored. They were at high elevation, in oxygen-thin air.

  Morgan feared it would be difficult to find the dugout, but the police chief, deputy, coroner, Pine County Search and Rescue, and Granite Junction law enforcement personnel had stomped a fresh trail through the sparse grass. She followed the deep imprint of boots. Most of the moisture from the recent rain and sleet had already been sucked into the rocky soil.

  Morgan stopped. The creek widened. The water slowed its downhill rush over moss-covered boulders. Sunlight cast a mottled golden pattern through the trees. Yellow crime scene tape flapped from tree trunks, forming a loose fence around the dugout.

  “So they think it was a crime,” Gerda said.

  Morgan was afraid to speak. All she had heard was conjecture.

  “The police still don’t know whether Carlee’s death was a crime, or an accident.” Kurt tugged a strip of yellow tape away from a tree. “Chief Sharp said the scene has been cleared. We can go as close as we want.”

  As Gerda approached the dugout, Morgan felt as though she had accompanied the older woman to a funeral home viewing.

  “Those flowers.” Gerda pointed to
the spikes of elephant heads sprouting in neat mounds, surrounded by polished river rocks. “They were my Carlee’s favorite.”

  Morgan hoped this was the moment when Gerda found healing. Perhaps she would wax sentimental, maybe even shed a few tears, as she recalled poignant memories of her daughter.

  “What the hell are they doing here?” A frown deepened the crease between Gerda’s eyes.

  “They’re wildflowers,” Kurt said.

  “Not here.” Gerda turned and frowned up at Kurt. “They are high-altitude flowers. They do not grow naturally at this elevation. I know. Carlee made a study of them for her high-school biology class.”

  She turned to face the dugout. Morgan glanced at Kurt. He shrugged. Flowers out of place. Del had said the same thing. Elephant-head flowers grew at higher elevation, and he had added that they did not bloom this early. Morgan wondered whether the mountain man had planted them as a memorial. To what? The stranger he found dead in a snowdrift? The girl he murdered?

  Gerda threw her arms in the air and jumped back a step.

  “Ahh!”

  An Abert’s squirrel popped out from behind the flowers, clutching something in its little paws. Morgan fumbled for her camera, but she was too late. The squirrel’s shimmering black fur and tufted ears disappeared up a Ponderosa pine.

  “What did that rodent have?” Gerda knelt in front of the ring of stones and brushed her hands through the elephant-head flowers.

  “Maybe someone dropped a granola bar,” Morgan said. “There’s a wrapper over here.” She picked up the foil wrapper and stuffed it in her jacket pocket.

  Gerda plucked something from the dirt, then stood. “This is not food.”

  She held out the small object pinched between her forefinger and thumb. Sunlight refracted off an oval the size of Morgan’s pinky fingernail. Yellow, green, and orange swirled through the opalescent stone.

  “There is more.” Gerda jerked her head toward the spot.

  Brilliant stones sprinkled the ground near the entrance to the dugout. Morgan crawled on hands and knees beside the older woman until they had each collected a palm full of bright stones. Or maybe it was shell. Morgan wasn’t sure which. They looked like shattered bits of rainbow, each containing different combinations of color.