Del was already sipping his coffee by the time Morgan entered the shop.
“I saw this deal on a kitchen remodeling show.” He showed Morgan a rough sketch of a wagon wheel with hooks attached. “They used a copper hoop, but we have lots of wagon wheels. Instead of pots and pans, we’d hang up stuff we want customers to notice.”
“Great idea,” Morgan said.
“I’m going to work on the sign,” Del said. “We’d better get it put up before Gerda changes her mind, or Piers figures out some way to throw a monkey wrench into things. Then I’ll work on this.”
“I’ll be in the office.” Morgan sighed. “Entering data on a spreadsheet.”
It was close to noon when Del stuck his head in the office.
“I got the sign and the donkey cart painted,” he said. “First coat, anyway. Now I need a hand with this wagon-wheel idea.”
“Gladly.” Morgan stretched her arms and shoulders as she followed Del into the shop.
“I think it would work here.” Del pointed to a space at the intersection of two aisles.
Morgan helped Del lift the wagon wheel to the top of the ladder. He climbed onto the rungs and fastened baling wire to the spokes, pulling the wheel nearly flush to the low ceiling.
The cowbell clanged as the front door of the shop opened.
“Anybody home?” a male voice called.
“We’re back here,” Morgan yelled.
Kurt Willard, in his 1940s reporter costume, came around the end of the aisle. Morgan clenched her hands into tight fists, fighting the inclination to give him a piece of her mind, or maybe a pop in the nose.
“Nice touch.” Kurt shoved his hands in the pockets of his trench coat and looked up. “Very western.”
“We’re trying to broaden our customer base from serious rock hounds to tourists,” Del said.
“Come by the newspaper office when it’s convenient,” Kurt said with a smile. “I can offer you a special winter price for advertising. I also publish a directory to local businesses, with maps and coupons.”
“I’m not interested in discussing business with you,” Morgan said.
She snatched a ball of twine and a knife from a table.
“I need some more wire from the barn.” Del climbed off the ladder. “Will you be okay for a few minutes?”
“I can handle things,” Morgan told him, gripping the knife in her fist.
“No doubt about that,” Del mumbled.
Kurt watched the old cowboy exit the shop, then turned his attention back to Morgan.
“I wear many hats at the Gazetteer. I didn’t come today to discuss business. I’m here in my capacity as a reporter.”
Morgan suspected she knew what was coming next. She decided to head Kurt off at the pass. “You already seem to have a source. One who apparently provides more information than I can. I read your special edition.”
Morgan reeled out a length of twine and cut it with the knife. She reached into the cardboard box full of old coffee pots and tied twine to the handle of one.
“When I asked you before about the body on the trail,” Kurt said, his pencil poised above a spiral-bound notepad, “you implied that you might have imagined it.”
“Search and rescue couldn’t find the body, so I had to assume it might have been a figment of my imagination.”
“And then the body was discovered in a different location.”
“That’s a matter of record.” Morgan reached for another coffee pot, this one marred with a rusted bullet hole.
“Part of that record is that the pastor of a church that you attend was accused by that same young woman of inappropriate actions.” Kurt tipped his fedora back with the end of his pencil. “She was going to press charges against him, but coincidentally she was murdered before she got the chance. There are no secrets in Golden Springs. Why not take this opportunity to clear the air about your involvement in this incident?”
Morgan slammed the coffee pot down on the wooden display table. “Did your source make up that lie, too?”
“Lie?”
“Pastor Filbury was at a conference in Denver the day Dawn Smith died,” Morgan said. “There are hundreds of witnesses.”
Kurt scribbled furiously on his notepad as he spoke. “Nothing in my special edition said your beloved pastor was guilty. A man doesn’t have to pull the trigger himself to commit murder.”
“She wasn’t shot—” Morgan stopped abruptly. Kurt had managed to wring a tidbit of information out of her.
“I have a source who says the cause of death was ligature strangulation,” Kurt said. “Is that what you saw?”
“I told you, I didn’t witness anything,” Morgan said.
“Are you sure you have no statement for the press?” Kurt tapped his pencil on his notepad, waiting. “When I examine the timeline of events, it’s clear to me that your path may have crossed that of the killer’s.”
Beatrice had warned her that if the killer suspected she had witnessed the murder, Morgan would be in danger. Kurt had already plastered the front page of the Golden Springs Gazetteer with a story that implied she had seen the whole thing.
“Kurt, I told you, I did not witness a murder.”
It was the one thing Morgan said that he didn’t record on his notepad.
“The Golden Springs Community Church is a tight-knit group. Maybe you can’t share information because you saw something that would implicate a fellow church member.”
Morgan set the knife in the cardboard box. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Is that the best you can come up with? That the church cobbled together some conspiracy to cover up for Pastor Filbury?”
Morgan turned away from Kurt, her heart pounding as she recalled Herb’s face, contorted with rage, and the fistfight in the church hall. There might be people willing to kill in defense of their pastor.
“I’ve said all I’m going to say, Kurt. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
Kurt frowned, frustration obvious in his expression. He jammed his fedora onto his head and stomped out the door. Morgan watched him through the front window as he climbed into his antique car and tore out of the Rock of Ages parking lot.
Del walked in, shaking his head. “Willard was in a hurry. What did you do to him this time?”
“He wanted to know more than I would tell him.”
“I suppose that could be enough to upset a newspaperman,” Del said. “Can you hold the ladder while I climb up?”
Morgan grasped the rails of the ladder.
“For all I know,” she said, “Kurt Willard could be the murderer. He certainly wanted to know whether I witnessed the murder. What if his interest wasn’t merely as a reporter? One more name for a growing list.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
As soon as the Granite Junction Police Department’s spokesperson announced that Dawn had been murdered, the rock shop phone started ringing. Reporters seeking the dirt on the Dawn Smith and Pastor Filbury scandal were as persistent as velociraptors on a stegosaurus carcass.
Morgan unplugged the office phone and shut the door, where it was easier to ignore the constant ringing of the phone by the cash register. When she found a property tax assessment in the piles of papers scattered around the office, she spent the morning estimating how much profit would be required to pay the tax bill, breaking it down by week.
“If we could just sell the triceratops horn, all our problems would be solved.” She sighed. “Or at least a portion of them.”
She left the office and leaned against the display case, studying the horn.
Del walked in the front door. “I thought I’d drop by and see how things are going. The phone still ringing off the hook?”
“I quit answering it, and the calls slowed down. But we can’t run a business without a phone.”
“It doesn’t work half the time.” Del lifted the receiver and held it to his ear. “Yup. We’ve got a connection.”
“I should get the Internet hooked up,” Morgan said.
“And start an eBay auction for that.”
She pointed at the case.
“Everybody’s going Internet these days,” Del said. “I suppose it’s just a matter of time for the Rock of Ages to be computerized.”
“A website wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
Morgan pulled out the “idea” notepad and added “website” to the growing list.
Their connection to the outside world didn’t last long. Later in the day, the landline was full of static, and Morgan’s cell phone didn’t have signal.
“It’s spitting snow,” Del said. “The phone usually doesn’t work during a snowstorm.”
“I need to call the people from church who volunteered for the Run for Amanda five K,” Morgan said. “I’m going to Bernie’s to use her phone.”
When Morgan arrived at the bakery, Bernie ushered her upstairs to her living room.
“There’s more privacy here,” Bernie said. “Mr. Whiskers can keep you company. Let me know when you’re finished, and we can have a bowl of soup together.”
Morgan read her scripted message to several answering machines.
“Hello, this is Morgan Iverson from Golden Springs Community Church calling to remind you about the Run for Amanda five K this Saturday. The church team will meet at the corner of Oak and Fourth Street. If you’ve already registered, I’ll have your bib number. Call Beatrice at five-five-five-one-zero-seven-nine if you have any questions. Remember to dress warm!”
Her next call reached an angry woman who declared she was no longer a member of the church. She went on a tirade about the embarrassment of being associated with a group that tolerated a pastor who would molest children. Morgan ended the conversation by explaining that there were no refunds for the charity event.
“You don’t have to walk with the church group,” Morgan said. “You can go by yourself—”
Click.
“She hung up on me!” Morgan told Mr. Whiskers.
He looked up from his comfortable perch on a soft wool afghan and yawned.
“Are you bored?” Morgan asked. “I’m almost done.”
She finished her calls, reaching two more people who told her they were leaving the church. Morgan gathered her sign-up sheets and clipboard, and went downstairs to the bakery. Bernie delivered a tray of food to a table, then ducked into the kitchen. She returned with two steaming bowls on a tray.
“I saved some vegetable beef soup. My customers were raving about it.”
Morgan followed Bernie to a window table.
“Thanks for letting me use your phone,” Morgan said. “I called around, and I might be able to have more reliable phone service, and the Internet, hooked up at the shop. Whether I stay or leave, the shop needs a phone.”
“I’d rather hear that you’re planning to stay permanently.”
Morgan shook her head. “I don’t know yet. Kendall left too big a mess for me to straighten out in two weeks. Or maybe ever.”
The rock shop was quiet, as usual. Morgan had time to slip through the door dividing the shop from the living area and start a load of laundry. Blue jeans hadn’t been the mainstay of her wardrobe in Sioux Falls. If she didn’t do laundry, Morgan would have to resort to office attire soon.
She emptied the pockets of her jeans onto the kitchen table. From the rear pocket of one pair, Morgan extracted the folded orange flier Sparrow had given her.
“Interfaith Potluck: the temples of Thailand. Wednesday, 6:00 p.m., town hall public meeting room.”
Morgan knew Kendall’s crowd, most of whom attended the Golden Springs Community Church. Maybe it was time to meet members of the community with a different worldview. She didn’t need her mind opened, as Sparrow had suggested. But meeting more citizens would increase the likelihood she would run into whoever was capable of ligature strangulation.
City Hall was a traditional structure modeled after the state capitol building, but on a modest scale. Unlike the Denver capitol’s dome of gold, Golden Springs’s dome was covered with wood shingles.
The public meeting room shared the lower level of the two-story building with city offices, and the police department. Crooked rows of metal folding chairs faced a podium flanked by two scarred wooden tables.
Sparrow Plinkton fussed with a laptop computer and projector. She wore hippie attire of a fluorescent tie-dyed T-shirt and a floor-length denim skirt, but her short green hair stood in punk-style spikes.
“I don’t understand,” she whined in her raspy smoker’s voice. “It was working earlier.”
Morgan placed her pan of brownies on the potluck table and stepped around the podium to the projector. “I know a little about hooking up projectors.”
“A little.” A smirk creased Sparrow’s doughy cheeks. “We’d better hope that’s enough.”
Morgan reconnected the cords to the correct ports. “Which file are you trying to view?”
In seconds, she had the Temples of Thailand slideshow projected onto the white movie screen behind the podium.
A man with a stringy brown ponytail nodded at Morgan. “Sparrow, who’s your new friend?”
“This is Morgan,” Sparrow said. “She took over the rock shop. She’s Kendall’s sister, believe it or not.”
The man pressed his palms together and bowed slightly at the waist in a vaguely Eastern gesture. “Elrond, at your service. Welcome to Golden Springs.”
Another character in costume, Morgan thought. Elrond appeared to have borrowed his clothing from the movie set for the Lord of the Rings. Morgan was certain he had borrowed the elvish name, too. She felt overdressed in her black slacks and jacket.
“Nice to meet—” Morgan began, but Sparrow interrupted.
“Morgan’s not staying.”
“I had to extend my visit,” Morgan said, her voice firm. She did not appreciate other people speaking for her, least of all the antagonistic, green-haired hippie. “My brother and I don’t know yet what we’re going to do with the Rock of Ages.”
Elrond cocked his head to one side. His long, thin ponytail slipped over the shoulder of his brown homespun tunic, reminding Morgan of a rat’s tail.
“May I be so bold as to inquire what your asking price may be, for the shop and the land?”
“Take a number and get in line,” Sparrow said, a hint of a threat in her raspy tone. “Someone else is interested in the place.”
Elrond just nodded, his brow creased with an annoyed look.
Morgan guessed that “someone else” was Piers, and that Sparrow was looking out for his interests, although Piers’s business interests did not seem to need protecting.
Other people arrived with potluck dishes, most dressed in jeans and sweaters. Half the crowd of thirty seemed to be from the liberal arts college in Granite Junction.
When everyone was seated, Elrond stood behind the podium. “Will someone please turn off the lights?”
Morgan glanced behind her as a young man flipped the light switch by the door. Piers slipped in at the last minute, easing onto a chair at the back of the room. He met Morgan’s eyes and smiled briefly.
The audience was attentive during Elrond’s slideshow. Morgan’s head swam with the names of exotic gods and goddesses and their stories. Her mind wandered to the potluck table. She wished she’d eaten a snack before the meeting.
Finally the slideshow ended. The potluck foods were unfamiliar to Morgan, consisting of dark, heavy breads, casseroles of grains and vegetables, and more varieties of tofu than she had imagined possible. There was not a molded gelatin salad or green-bean dish to be found. Her homemade brownies were greeted with either horror or delight by people dedicated to a healthy lifestyle.
“Did you enjoy the slideshow?” Piers asked Morgan.
She noticed he didn’t have a brownie on his plate.
“The photographs were beautiful.” Morgan picked at something green and lumpy with a plastic fork.
Sparrow lumbered up to Piers, grabbing his arm. “We have business to discuss.” She dragged him
to the front corner of the meeting room where Elrond waited beside a young woman with a pinched face.
Morgan mingled, meeting people, struggling to memorize names and faces. It was difficult to learn much about people when conversation stayed on topics like colon-cleansing regimes. She stood at the edge of a group discussing how under-consumption of calories could extend a person’s lifespan.
“The benefits are clear,” a rail-thin woman said.
“Food is one of the last pleasures I have left,” a chubby man in a tweed jacket said. “I’ve given up everything else.”
The group chuckled at his comment. Morgan plunged in.
“You have to have balance,” she said. “Even if you starve yourself to live a few days longer, you could die in an accident. Or be murdered, like that teenage girl.”
“What girl?” the man asked.
“Please don’t tell me,” the thin woman said, holding a manicured hand up and turning slightly away from Morgan. “I don’t want to hear anything negative.”
“It’s been on the news,” Morgan said.
“Yes.” The chubby man snapped his fingers. “I did hear about that. A tragedy. So young. So young.” He shook his head.
“I never watch the news,” the thin woman said. “Stress can weaken your immune system.”
“That’s true,” another woman said. “But wouldn’t half-starving yourself all the time cause stress?”
No one seemed interested in the abbreviated life of an unimportant girl. Morgan tried to turn conversations to the murder, but couldn’t stir up anything more than brief comments about karma, the fleeting nature of life, or the effects of vitamin therapy on mental disorders. While the crowd seemed eager to avoid the topic of murder, Morgan did not detect any reactions that suggested guilt or complicity.
When the first cluster of people gathered their dishes and coats to leave, Morgan was ready to go also. In spite of the uniform condemnation of refined sugars and animal fats, only crumbs remained of Morgan’s brownies. She tapped the heavy stainless-steel pan against the trash can to knock the larger crumbs out, then tucked it under her arm.
Piers stopped her on her way out the door.
Stone Cold Dead Page 15