Stone Cold Dead

by Catherine Dilts

  “How ironic you’d choose that phrase.” Beatrice shrugged out of her winter coat and laid it across the back of the aspen bench. She took her time getting settled.

  Morgan stepped around the display case and sat next to Beatrice.

  “What do you mean?” Morgan asked.

  “The girl you found on the trail?” Beatrice said. “Dawn Smith? The results of the autopsy won’t be released until the toxicology results are in, but I learned the probable cause of death.”

  “And that is?” Del asked. “Or are you gonna keep us in suspense?”

  Beatrice folded her hands in her lap. She looked prim and proper enough to be sitting in a church pew.

  “Ligature strangulation.”

  The words rolled off her tongue with practiced ease. Beatrice might as well have said “angel food cake.”

  “I understand strangulation,” Cindy said, “but what’s ligature?”

  “A rope,” Beatrice said. “A necktie. Anything used to strangle a person. In this case, it was thin and strong.”

  Morgan’s hand involuntarily went to her own throat.

  “Like baling wire?” Cindy asked.

  “They don’t have the murder weapon,” Beatrice said, “but yes, something along those lines.”

  “Murder,” Morgan repeated.

  “Cause of death is not being released to the family,” Beatrice said, “so I trust you’ll all keep this information under your hats, so to speak.”

  “Why won’t they tell the family?” Morgan asked.

  “The police don’t want the killer to know they’ve discovered it was murder,” Beatrice said.

  “How do you know all this?” Morgan asked. “And don’t tell me word gets around.”

  “My nephew works in the Metro Crime Lab,” Beatrice said.

  “Golden Springs has a crime lab?” Morgan asked. “I thought we barely had a police department.”

  “No, no,” Beatrice said. “Everything is sent to Granite Junction. It’s a county and city lab. We have to pool our resources.”

  “So she didn’t die from falling off the cliff,” Del said.

  “The killer might have wanted it to look that way,” Beatrice said, “but the victim was dead before she was thrown off the cliff.”

  “Was she,” Cindy started, “you know . . .” She paused. “Raped?”

  “No,” Beatrice said. “My nephew said there was no evidence of sexual assault.”

  “Do you know if she was dead when I first saw her?” Morgan asked.

  Beatrice pressed her fingers to her mouth and furrowed her brow. She lowered her hand. “I didn’t think to ask specifically, but as I recall, they estimated her time of death right around the time you made your nine-one-one call.”

  “Could she have been alive when I found her?” Morgan asked.

  Del placed a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “From everything you said, there were no signs of life. Quit beating yourself up, and accept that you couldn’t save the girl.”

  Morgan desperately wanted to believe him.

  “The murderer most likely threw her off the cliff in an attempt to cover up the crime. If the girl was under the influence of drugs, it might be reasonable to believe she fell off the cliff or committed suicide. Except that the coroner knows otherwise.” Beatrice stood and collected her coat. “I’m late for my ladies’ prayer group.”

  Morgan helped Beatrice into her coat.

  “With all the loose ends and unknowns,” Beatrice said, “at least one mystery has been cleared up.”

  “What’s that?” Cindy asked.

  “Pastor Filbury didn’t kill Dawn Smith,” Beatrice said. “He was at a conference in Denver all that day. He couldn’t have driven from Denver to Golden Springs to commit murder, then drive back. There are hundreds of witnesses who can testify that he was at the conference the entire time.”

  “That’s a mixed blessing,” Del said.

  “How can you say that?” Cindy asked.

  “If Pastor Filbury is off the suspect list,” Del said, “that means the murderer is still running around somewhere.”

  “The more important question,” Beatrice said, touching Morgan’s arm lightly, “is whether the killer saw you.”

  “Saw me?”

  “Think about it, dear. If someone strangled the girl on the trail, and then heard you coming, he or she knows you saw the victim before she was thrown off the cliff.”

  “Everyone in Golden Springs knows I saw the girl,” Morgan said. “Kurt Willard wrote about it in his newspaper.”

  Beatrice patted Morgan’s arm with her mitten-covered hand. “I’ll make certain my ladies’ group prays for you every day until the killer is found.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Morgan invited Del to have a cup of homemade soup with her after they closed up the shop for the night. She told herself it wasn’t because Beatrice’s news had spooked her.

  “I don’t bother to cook much for myself,” Del said. “Not from scratch. My soup’s all from a can.”

  “I still tend to cook too much,” Morgan said. “When Dave went to college, I had to cut back on portions, then Sarah moved out, and I had to reduce again. Then I lost Sam.”

  “I had to learn how to cook. My wife fixed all the meals, except for grilling. That was my territory. When she passed, it was kind of late in the game to get beyond the basics. I remember your daughter made brownies every summer she was here. That little gal could cook!”

  “By the way, Del, I haven’t mentioned to the kids about finding Dawn’s body.”

  Del shook his head. “It’s gonna hit the news. Especially now that the police say it was a murder.”

  “I hardly think the Argus Leader will run a story about a murder in Colorado. And I don’t want the kids to worry.”

  “They’ll worry a lot more if they hear from a stranger that their momma is tangled up in a homicide.”

  Morgan’s cell phone buzzed.

  “It’s Bernie,” she told Del. “Are you here?” she said into the phone. “Okay, I’ll be right out.” Morgan grabbed her coat and the olive-green camouflage fanny pack. “I’ve got to go.”

  “I’d be happy to stick around until you get back,” Del said. “If it would make you feel safer.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Morgan said. “I’m getting used to the raccoons.”

  “You got the pepper spray?” Del asked.

  Morgan unzipped the pack and pulled out the small device. “The pepper spray I don’t know how to aim in the right direction? Check.”

  “Flashlight?”

  “Check.”

  Del started to say something else, but Morgan interrupted him.

  “I have enough gear to survive a week in the woods. I’ll be fine for a walk through the city.”

  When Morgan climbed into the SUV, Bernie lifted one of her feet.

  “New socks,” she said. “New shoes.”

  “I’ve got mine on, too,” Morgan said. “I can’t believe how much I paid just for the socks.”

  “If I get so much as one blister, I’m going to demand a refund.”

  Morgan enjoyed the easy chatter all the way to O’Reily’s. She liked having a friend who knew her as an individual and not as half of a couple or one component of a family unit.

  Lucy spotted them when they arrived at the pub and checked their names off the running club’s roster.

  “Two races down,” Bernie said. “Eight to go.”

  “See?” Lucy said. “You’re getting there. I told you it would be fun.” Lucy kept up the conversation while she signed in people. “Name?” She traced her finger down the list and checked a box next to the person’s name on the roster. “We had a great response to the Run for Amanda five K,” Lucy said to Morgan and Bernie. “Over a hundred people have registered already. Thanks for helping on such short notice.”

  A throng of runners crowded closer. “Name?” Lucy asked.

  “We’d better get out of the way,” Bernie said.

 
Lucy waved. “See you later.”

  Morgan and Bernie squeezed through the crowd in front of O’Reily’s, finding a space to stand farther down the sidewalk.

  “This sure got popular,” Bernie said.

  “What’s not to like about beer and running?” Morgan said.

  “Well, what’s not to like about beer, anyway,” Bernie said. “Hey, look, it’s Barton.”

  The shaggy-bearded runner jogged up the sidewalk. Morgan steeled herself.

  “Hi, Barton,” Bernie called.

  He stopped abruptly. “Good evening, Bernie.” Barton glanced at Morgan, but didn’t greet her. “If you’ll excuse me, Bernie.” He pushed his way through the crowd at the entrance of O’Reily’s.

  “What brought that on?” Bernie asked. “Barton’s usually such a nice guy, but he totally snubbed you.”

  “I might have sort of accused him of murder,” Morgan whispered.

  “This ought to be good.”

  “I’ll tell you about it when there’s less of a crowd,” Morgan said.

  The run started. Runners rushed down the sidewalk. Morgan and Bernie settled into a brisk walk. When the crowd thinned, Bernie returned to the painful topic.

  “Now what’s this about you accusing Barton of murder?”

  “I was trying to make some connections about Dawn’s death,” Morgan said, “and I guess I jumped to conclusions.”

  They turned off the sidewalk and onto the gravel path through the park.

  “He spends a lot of time in the woods,” Morgan said. “I told you about running into him, literally, on the trail where I found Dawn. So when he came to the shop to sell some antique junk, I asked him where he was on the day Dawn died.”

  “Morgan, you did not!”

  “I hadn’t had much sleep the night before,” Morgan said. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. But still, how can I count him out? He didn’t have a plausible alibi.”

  “She might have died of natural causes, right?” Bernie asked. “Or a drug overdose? They don’t know yet.”

  “Beatrice came by the shop this morning,” Morgan said. “She told us not to talk about it.”

  “‘Us’ who?”

  “Me, Del, and Cindy.”

  “Well, it’s all over town by now, I’m sure.”

  “You’re right,” Morgan said, “but you have to keep this to yourself.”

  “I promise,” Bernie said, “I won’t repeat what you tell me, at least until it comes out in the Golden Springs Gazetteer.”

  Morgan glanced around in the dark. They were in back of the pack again.

  “Beatrice’s nephew works in the crime lab,” Morgan said. “He told her it was murder. Beatrice called it ligature strangulation.”

  “Ew.”

  “Barton had opportunity,” Morgan continued.

  “What about motivation?” Bernie asked. “Pastor Filbury had an obvious motivation and you don’t suspect him.”

  “Pastor Filbury has an alibi, and hundreds of witnesses.” Morgan told Bernie about the pastor’s appearance at the well-attended conference.

  “I’m happy for your pastor,” Bernie said, “but I still don’t think Barton is capable of murder.”

  “He’s a hunter. He kills animals.”

  “Yes,” Bernie said. “Animals. Not people. Lots of folks here hunt. If you’re considering suspects, why isn’t Piers on your list?”

  “Oh, come on,” Morgan said. “I know you don’t like Piers, but he’s a vegetarian.”

  “So was Hitler.”

  The bridge over the creek loomed in the darkness. Through the trees Morgan could see the street light marking their cutoff to head back to O’Reily’s.

  “Did I mention,” Morgan said, “Piers asked me out to dinner?”

  Bernie skidded to an abrupt halt. “You did not just say what I thought I heard you say.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.” Bernie threw her hands in the air. “Because!” She stomped toward the bridge. “Because he could be a killer for all you know.”

  “At this point, anyone in Golden Springs could be a killer. Only Pastor Filbury has been crossed off the list.”

  Bernie stopped, throwing her arm in front of Morgan.

  “Wait,” she whispered.

  The footbridge stood in the shadows to their left, a stand of cottonwood trees across the trail to their right.

  “What?” Morgan whispered.

  “Shh! I heard something.”

  Bushes grew thick on the far bank of the creek. Morgan could hear branches cracking as something large mowed a path up the bank.

  “It’s heading for the bridge,” Bernie said.

  “Should we turn back?” Morgan asked. “Or try to outrun it?”

  A dark form climbed onto the bridge, rising from a crouch to full height. The sound of unsteady steps echoed on the wooden bridge.

  Morgan unzipped her fanny pack, feeling for the flashlight. The creature ambled toward them, canting slightly to the left.

  A drunken bear?

  “Let’s run,” Bernie said, clutching Morgan’s arm.

  “You can’t outrun a bear.”

  Morgan’s fingers closed around the pepper spray. She jerked it out of the pack and held it at arm’s length, ready to fire.

  “Can you ladies spare a—”

  “Stop or I’ll—”

  Bernie screamed. The man yelled and spun around, stumbling and falling to his knees. He scrambled to his feet and lumbered across the bridge.

  Bernie grabbed Morgan’s arm. They clung to each other for a moment, trembling.

  “Well,” Bernie said. “I would say this will make a great story to share at O’Reily’s, but I’m not sure I’m ready to admit to anyone that we nearly assaulted a homeless man.”

  “He should have known better than to approach women in the dark. What did he expect?”

  “A dollar?”

  Morgan was still shaking when they reached the street.

  “Here comes Lucy.” Bernie sounded relieved.

  There was only so much comfort in the company of people. Morgan found herself studying the back of every runner that passed them on the way back to the pub, debating whether they were capable of murder.

  The homeless man looking for a handout might have seemed as frightened of Morgan and Bernie as they had been of him. But suppose he had been after something more than pocket change. And suppose, instead of two grown women, he had run across one lone teenager.

  If Dawn had been killed in a chance encounter with a stranger, the list of potential suspects was endless.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The dawn light softened the barn around the edges, as though time had worn down all the sharp angles. Shades of brown and gray blended with the surrounding earth and bare trees. Morgan crossed the gravel parking lot and entered the barn through the smaller door to the right of the double doors. She paused, letting her eyes adjust to the dark interior.

  Houdini and Adelaide trotted into an open stall from the fenced paddock. Breath puffed from their flared nostrils in clouds of steam. The barn smelled of hay, manure, and livestock, an earthy odor that Morgan found pleasant. She unlatched the door to the tack room, and unhooked the metal band holding the lid on a fifty-gallon drum. She measured out a coffee can of oats.

  Leaning over the low wall of Houdini and Adelaide’s stall, she poured oats into the wooden trough. Adelaide nudged Houdini out of the way and began greedily munching.

  “Sorry, fella.”

  Morgan reached over the wall to scratch Houdini’s ragged mohawk of a mane.

  “How about you eat over here, since your wife won’t share?”

  Morgan retrieved a half can of oats from the tack room, rattled the can to encourage Houdini to move to the next stall, and poured oats into the trough. Kendall and Allie had left strict instructions not to overfeed the donkeys, but Adelaide couldn’t seem to get enough to eat.

  Morgan’s cell phone rang.

  “I guess we get serv
ice today,” she told Houdini. She checked the caller ID, then flipped open the small phone. “Hi, Sarah. How are you feeling?”

  “I tried some ginger tea for my morning sickness, and it seems to be helping. Other than domestic bliss, not much is happening here. What’s the scoop on Golden Springs?”

  “Oh, nothing much. I just fed Houdini and Adelaide.” Morgan latched the tack room door and headed across the pasture to the back of the shop. “I finally heard from Kendall.”

  “Are they in the jungle? What’s it like?”

  “I didn’t get much information. We mostly talked about the shop. Or argued, I should say.”

  “What’s going on?” Sarah asked.

  Morgan opened the back door and walked inside the kitchen.

  “Business is slow,” Morgan said. “If I can’t get customers to drive up the hill, we could lose the shop. It may not be a moneymaker, but the land is worth a lot. I suggested we need to consider selling the place, but Kendall disagreed. Rather strongly.”

  The coffee had finished brewing. She poured herself a mug full, doctoring it with cream and sugar.

  “I agree with Uncle Kendall,” Sarah said. “I want to bring my children to Colorado someday, just like you and Dad did. Don’t rush into a decision, Mom. The baby’s not due for months.”

  “If I can get Internet service, staying longer might not be too bad.”

  “I’ll send your laptop, and we can email.”

  Then Morgan remembered Del’s warning. The local media was already having a field day with the potential church scandal. Now that murder was involved, Golden Springs might hit the national news.

  “Sarah, I don’t want to upset you, but I need to tell you something else.” Morgan related a condensed version of the story about finding Dawn Smith, leaving out as much emotion and detail as she could.

  “I don’t know if you remember Beatrice,” Morgan said.

  “I was a teenager the last time I spent summer vacation in Golden Springs,” Sarah said. “I knew who the hub of the gossip wheel was.”

  “Beatrice has a nephew who works in the Granite Junction crime lab. He told Beatrice the girl was murdered.”

  “One more reason for you to stay,” Sarah said. “You’re mixed up in this. Leaving town might make you look suspicious.”