“Can’t help you. We don’t hunt down runaways.”
“She’s not looking for her kid,” Bernie said. “We’re looking for a guy.”
“Do you know someone with a tattoo of a gargoyle on his forearm?” Morgan asked. “He has dreadlocks. I need to talk to him.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
The spectral young man returned to the park benches under the bare tree branches. He spoke to the others. One by one, two by two, they drifted away from the bench and out of the park.
“They’re leaving,” Bernie said. “I’ll bet your burglar was with them.”
“Should we call the police?” Morgan asked.
“No. If he was here, he’s gone now.” Bernie sighed. “And he knows we’re looking for him. We might as well go home.”
As they left the park, Morgan felt defeated.
“Every time I think I’m getting close to finding answers,” Morgan said, “I find more questions instead.”
They walked the rest of the way to the parking lot in silence. When they were inside the SUV, with the doors locked, Bernie turned to Morgan.
“The kids in the park,” she said, “they’re not the typical troubled teens, you know. They think they have nothing to lose. Until we know who broke in and why, I’d feel better if you moved in with me and Mr. Whiskers.”
“Thanks for the offer,” Morgan said. “Del is already staying in the guest room for just that reason.”
“Good.”
Bernie started the SUV and headed away from downtown.
“We can skip O’Reily’s tomorrow if you want to,” Bernie said.
“I can’t let a little thing like murder stop me from having a pint with my friends.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Morgan was relieved that Del didn’t wait up for her. His steady snoring was muffled by the closed guest-room door. She had dreaded the questions she was sure he would ask about her evening out. By morning, she had invented a story that was mostly not a lie. If a half-truth would save the old cowboy some anxiety, Morgan was willing to fudge the facts.
Business was slow Tuesday. Del went to his trailer to watch TV. Morgan worked on the books. As she entered data, questions kept coming to mind about motivation.
Everyone believed that Piers was buying up local businesses. He was accused of manipulating City Council to pass zoning ordinances to facilitate his plan. Were the complaints a case of sour grapes, because Piers had the drive to achieve his goals and the resultant success? Or was there an actual conspiracy and corruption, possibly resulting in murder? Morgan only knew the story circulating through the gossip grapevine. She needed to get to the source.
When Cindy arrived, Morgan grabbed her coat and gloves.
“I’m going to town,” Morgan said. “Do you need me to pick up anything for you?”
“No, thanks.” Cindy grabbed a catalog and hiked herself onto the stool behind the cash register.
“You’ve got my cell number,” Morgan said.
“Sure, cowgirl, assuming the phone works.”
The offices of the Golden Springs Gazetteer were as quirky as Morgan had expected. Old typesetting trays hung from the walls. Yellowed front pages framed in rustic styles announced major historical events.
Anna sat at the receptionist’s desk, her fingers dancing rapidly across the keyboard of her computer. Her sophisticated look, complete with power suit, seemed more at home in a Fortune 500 company than a small-town newspaper.
“Hi, Anna. Is Kurt around?”
“He’s in his office.” She pointed the way. “I’ll let him know you’re coming.”
The top half of the Dutch door to Kurt’s office was open. Kurt sat at an impressive oak desk scarred with use. His brown leather trench coat and fedora hung on a wooden coat rack. The sleeves of his white cotton shirt were rolled up to his elbows. An antique typewriter occupied his attention.
Morgan knocked on the doorframe. “Hello.”
Kurt set down a screwdriver and stood. “Welcome. Come on in.” He opened the bottom half of the door. “Make yourself at home.”
Seeing him in his natural environment made the 1940s reporter persona seem not quite so ridiculous.
“We’re putting together our annual business directory. It’s distributed free to local hotels and—”
“I’m not here to discuss advertising.” Morgan perched on a leather upholstered chair. “I need to know who gave you the information in your special edition.”
Kurt leaned back in his chair, the old leather creaking.
“I can’t reveal a confidential source.”
“What if your source tried to kill me?”
“The man on the bridge?”
“So you’ve heard what happened?”
“I would have attempted an interview,” Kurt said, “but you seem to have an aversion to the press.”
“Maybe if I thought you were more interested in digging up the truth than in selling advertising, I might have more reason to talk to you.”
“I’m sensing some hostility.”
“Someone might be trying to kill me, Kurt.”
She told him about the assault, not caring whether he printed the details in his newspaper. When she described the man, with his goatee and gargoyle tattoo, Kurt frowned, tapping his pencil against his notepad.
“Is he your source?” Morgan asked. “You know the guy, don’t you?”
Kurt met her eyes. “I spoke to my source on the phone. I don’t know what he looks like.”
Morgan slumped back in her seat.
“You could have told me that,” she said.
“You didn’t ask.”
Kurt picked up the screwdriver and fiddled with the side of the clunky black typewriter. Morgan was convinced he knew more, but it was obvious the topic was closed. For now.
“To change subjects,” Morgan said, “do you keep copies of the City Council meeting minutes?”
“Yes, and my own notes. But the official minutes are filed at City Hall.”
“I went there first,” Morgan said. “I don’t have a specific date in mind, and the clerk wasn’t going to let me browse. I just want to familiarize myself with the issues.”
Kurt looked up and smiled. “Let me guess. You want to learn about the rezoning initiative.”
“Of course I’m interested in the rezoning,” Morgan said. “It would negatively affect the rock shop.”
“I don’t see it that way at all.” Kurt picked up an oilcan and applied drops of oil in strategic spots. “If anything, rezoning the hill would increase the value of your property.”
“But making the area solely residential would put us out of business,” Morgan said. “What use would an increase in the value of the land be if we couldn’t make a living with it?”
“If you sold it—”
“That’s the point,” Morgan said. “Maybe I don’t want to sell. What if you were in my position, and someone was trying to force you out of your newspaper business?”
“No one’s forcing you to do anything.” Kurt set down the oilcan and wiped his hands on a cloth. “Are they?”
“I’ve heard that Piers Townsend has bought up half of Main Street.”
Kurt frowned. “I suppose he has the right.”
“That’s what I thought, too, until I realized he’s after the rock shop.”
“There are several businessmen interested in rezoning your property. But people in Golden Springs constantly seek rezoning, from residential to business and back again, to suit their interests of the moment. City Council is notoriously slow to make changes, unless the interested party can prove a need benefiting the community.”
“Suppose someone had friends on City Council,” Morgan said. “They might be swayed to vote to benefit him.”
“Now wait a minute! One industrious businessman does not equal a conspiracy.”
“I heard that Pastor Filbury led the opposition to Piers’s plan,” Morgan said. “Then he gets discredited by a gir
l who ends up dead. Am I the only one who sees a connection?”
Kurt picked up the screwdriver. He rolled the handle between his hands. “You’ve given me speculation and gossip, not facts.”
“If you’re not interested, can you help me get started on my own investigation?” Morgan asked.
“You’re welcome to read anything that’s public record.”
“Can I make copies of the Council minutes?”
“Don’t bother with that,” Kurt said. “Save a tree or two. I can burn copies on a thumb drive.”
“A what?”
“Thumb drive.” Kurt unplugged a small metal rectangle from a port on his computer.
“Oh, a memory stick. I don’t have one on me.”
“I’ll lend you one.” Kurt rummaged around in a desk drawer. “Anna spends a lot of time converting paper files to electronic. Otherwise we’d be buried in paper.” Kurt plugged the memory stick into a port. “Where did she put that folder?” He rolled his mouse across a pad decorated with letters in a variety of type fonts. “Here it is. City Council minutes. How many years back do you want to go?”
After an afternoon perusing dry Council minutes, Morgan was ready to have fun. Del double-checked the fanny pack to make sure she was prepared for any emergency.
“You need an upgrade before going to O’Reily’s,” he said.
He pushed his handgun across the kitchen table toward Morgan. She pulled her hands away to avoid touching the weapon.
“I can’t take your gun,” she said. “You might need it here.”
“You’re the one going walking in the dark,” Del said. “In the city.”
Morgan was glad she hadn’t told Del the truth about her excursion with Bernie to downtown Granite Junction the previous night. He might have insisted they drive an armored car.
“The burglar broke into the shop,” Morgan said. “Nothing has happened in Granite Junction.”
Del tugged at his mustache. “Well, okay. You’ve got the pepper spray?”
“Got it.”
Morgan was spared further fuss when Bernie pulled up.
Lucy and her family beat them back to the pub again. Morgan and Bernie worked their way through the crowd to Lucy’s group. Chuck, Vonne, and another couple sat on benches at the long wooden table.
Before Morgan and Bernie could get seated, Lucy handed fliers to both of them.
“Oh, no,” Bernie said. “I’m not racing again until I stop hurting from Saturday.”
“No running,” Lucy said. “No walking either. I need volunteers to run aid stations for the Hopping Bunny Snowshoe race.”
“What exactly does that involve?” Bernie asked.
“Exactly freezing your buns off,” Chuck said.
“It’s hard enough getting volunteers for events without you making cracks.” Vonne slapped him lightly on the arm. “You just hand out water to people as they run by,” she told Bernie.
“Like Gerda did at the Run for Amanda?” Bernie asked. “It was cold Saturday.”
“You dress for the weather,” Lucy said. “It’s a fundraiser, like the Run for Amanda. Proceeds go to Pine County Search and Rescue. And Morgan, since you know CPR, you’d be a great help.”
Morgan had not been able to use CPR the one time she’d been in a situation requiring it.
“And we don’t have to walk?” Bernie asked.
“Bernie,” Chuck said, “don’t you see what’s happening? You’re getting volunteered.”
“That’s the way it is with Lucy,” Paul said. “You get sucked into her vortex. I ought to know. I’m the assistant volunteer coordinator. How’d that happen, you might ask?”
“You men stop it,” Vonne said.
“You volunteered,” Lucy said to Paul. “Don’t lie. You wanted the shirt.”
Paul shrugged. “It’s a pretty nice shirt.”
Bernie’s green eyes sparkled. “We get a shirt?”
“A special volunteer shirt,” Paul said, “with long sleeves.”
“Sign me up!” Bernie bounced up and down on the bench. “I love my Run for Amanda shirt. Morgan, you’ll go, won’t you?”
“Can’t you just buy a shirt?” Morgan asked.
“You have to earn it,” Paul said.
“I’ve always seen people wearing race shirts,” Bernie said. “It seemed like they were part of a special cool club. I’ve never been athletic. I didn’t think I’d ever have a race shirt of my own.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet,” Vonne said, dabbing at her eyes with a paper napkin.
Clothes did make a person part of a club. Morgan thought about the kids in the park. They wore the same dark clothing, tattoos, and piercings. Morgan imagined that badge of belonging had a lot of appeal to teenagers.
“So are you in, Morgan?” Lucy asked.
“That’s a week and a half away. I don’t know if I’ll still be here.”
Morgan looked around the table, at the expectant expressions on her new friends’ faces.
“Okay. I’m in.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The next morning, Del accepted the car keys from Morgan. His mustache drooped.
“I’ll get that old truck fixed soon,” he said. “Or replace it. I can’t keep borrowing your car.”
“We have to look out for each other,” Morgan said. “You’d do the same for me, I’m sure.”
She lifted the lid of the slow cooker on the kitchen counter and stirred the chili.
“It’s a wasted trip,” Del said. “That’s what makes me mad. Doc Drewmoore says I need tests with a specialist in Granite Junction.”
“What does he think’s wrong with you?” Morgan asked.
Del thumped a fist against his chest. “Heart. Blood pressure. Cholesterol. You name it. He wants me to take a bunch of pills, but I feel fine.”
Morgan tasted the chili. She stirred in more chili powder, then placed the lid back on the slow cooker. “You need to follow your doctor’s orders,” she said. “I want to keep you around. You’re my bodyguard.”
“That’s another thing. I don’t want to be gone too long. What if the burglar comes back?” Del unbuckled the shoulder holster under his leather vest. “I’m leaving this with you.”
He pulled the revolver out of its holster and placed it on the kitchen table.
“Del, don’t leave that here.”
“You’ll be defenseless if that burglar comes back.” He pointed at the wood patch on the kitchen door. “He almost got in once. He might make it next time.”
“I haven’t handled a gun in years,” Morgan said. “I probably wouldn’t remember how to shoot.”
“You don’t need to shoot,” Del said. “Just convince the burglar that you will if you need to.”
Morgan picked up the handgun, feeling a little rush of adrenalin at the feel of the textured grip in her hand. It was smaller than she expected, but heavier, too.
“Is it loaded?”
“Do you remember how to check?” Del asked.
“Not really.”
“Here’s how it works.”
Del gave Morgan a quick review of handgun safety. He left before she could change her mind. Morgan placed the gun in the towel drawer near the kitchen sink and went into the shop. Perched on the stool behind the cash register, she thumbed through the western goods catalog.
When she got Internet service, she would place the order online. Morgan circled items with an oversized green highlighter.
Something caught the periphery of Morgan’s vision. Movement outside the shop windows. She looked up. There were no cars in the parking lot. Maybe Del hadn’t latched the gate correctly. It had to be Houdini and Adelaide, running loose.
Sliding off the stool, she moved to the front door and stared through the glass panes. The donkeys trotted along the far side of the pasture fence. They were secure. Moving in a hurry toward the garage, but on the correct side of the fence.
She opened the door and looked around.
“You’re being sill
y,” she told herself.
Morgan headed to the office, determined to do something constructive.
A loud cracking noise stopped her in her tracks. She knew the sound in an instant. Splintering wood.
One part of Morgan’s brain insisted she run out the front door of the shop. The nearest neighbor was a half mile up the road, and there was no guarantee they were home.
Fighting the instinct to put distance between herself and the noise, Morgan ran to the kitchen and yanked open the towel drawer. She grasped the handgun with both hands.
The wood patch dangled from one twisted nail. Morgan watched the hole, expecting a hand to reach through to unlatch the door. She picked up the phone. The line was dead. Had it been cut, or was it the usual unreliable service?
An unholy racket erupted outside the door. The donkeys brayed like they were being skinned alive. A trash can crashed across the paving stones.
Morgan threw open the door, ready to defend Houdini and Adelaide from whatever horror they faced.
A man crouched beside the wall of the house. He raised his hands in front of his face, protecting himself from Houdini’s wrath. Morgan was certain he was the burglar Del had described. Ropes of matted brown hair hung over brown hands. He wasn’t dressed for the weather, his lean frame covered in black jeans and motorcycle boots, and a long-sleeved black turtleneck sweater. Classic cat burglar costume, Morgan thought.
Houdini turned his backside to the burglar and kicked. Adelaide continued braying, either in alarm, or cheering Houdini on. Morgan wasn’t sure which. The donkey’s hooves made contact with the wall, knocking loose a wood shingle. The next kick hit the young man in the side.
“Uff!”
The man fell to his hands and knees. Morgan could see his face now. He was young, his handsome face marred slightly by acne scars. One silver ring decorated his right eyebrow. Brown hoof marks clearly stamped his black sweater. If Houdini repeated his effort, he might kick the burglar in the head.
“Houdini!” Morgan called. “Back off!”
The donkey raised one back leg and threatened, then planted his hoof on the ground with a thump. He snorted.
“Good boy.” Morgan’s hands shook as she aimed the gun at the burglar. “Get up.”
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