Cold Case Colorado

by Cassie Miles

  The aroma of deep-fried dough, onions and peppers wafted from the open kitchen door. Ty asked, “Anything to report from last night?”

  “It was quiet, except for you and Vanessa banging around in the upstairs sewing room. Did you find any, um, new evidence?”

  Ignoring the innuendo, Ty answered, “I think so.”

  He hoped Agent Morris would think the same way. The CBI was unlikely to abandon the more direct investigation into Bethany’s murder, but Ty was certain the cold case had relevance. He rose from the table. “I’ll be back. Enjoy your breakfast.”

  He crossed the Grand Hall and went toward the conference room where the CBI had their headquarters. When he peeked inside, he saw cop clutter scattered across the tabletops—files, photos and documents. Whiteboards had been set up and scribbled on. Photos of witnesses, suspects and dinner guests were posted on a corkboard. He didn’t like seeing Vanessa’s picture among the others.

  At the end of one table, Agent Morris stared at a computer screen. His heavy shoulders slouched as though his spine had folded like an accordion. The gray at his temples seemed to have spread, and he was wearing a pair of wire-frame glasses. Ty suspected that the investigation wasn’t sailing smoothly ahead but reminded himself not to gloat.

  He took a seat beside the CBI agent and said, “I see you found the coffee.”

  “A damn fine cup of joe.”

  “I recommend the breakfast.”

  Morris leaned back in his chair, took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead. “You came here because you want to hear what we’ve picked up in the way of evidence. Right?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ty had thought Morris was more dedicated to furthering his career than to solving the murder, but he was wrong. “As long as I’m here at the crack of dawn, I also want to compliment you for getting a head start on the day.”

  “Here’s the headline,” Morris said. “Bethany was having an affair. We’ve contacted friends in LA who confirm that she was messing around. They also told us that her husband has a honey on the side. No names or descriptions, but Bethany’s guy is wealthy.”

  “Do any of the witnesses or suspects stand out?”

  “I’m leaning toward Kirov and Gable.”

  “Did you learn anything more from the background checks?” Ty asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Blood spatter analysis?” At the very least, Ty hoped to learn something from the experienced forensic team.

  Morris balanced his glasses on the tip of his nose, tapped a few keys on his laptop and brought up a sketch of the floorplan for the murder scene that included major pieces of furniture. “You can see from the spatter that Bethany was initially hit near the bathroom using the decorative urn with the heavy marble base. Clearly, a weapon of opportunity. The killer was likely right-handed. Could have been a man or a woman. In reconstructing the crime, we believe Bethany and the murderer argued, the killer grabbed the vase and swung.”

  “Bethany wasn’t initially unconscious,” Ty said.

  “She attempted to crawl away, dragging herself toward the bed. The second blow finished her off.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “We won’t have the full autopsy for a few days. The body is being transferred to the forensic pathology lab we use in Denver. The hospital in Aspen issued a preliminary death certificate and ran a tox screen to catch any toxins that might disappear in the blood.”

  “Drugs?”

  “No drugs. No poisons.”

  Ty eased into his next topic. “Did your forensic people find evidence in Aunt Dorothy’s sewing room?”

  “No prints. No fibers. It was impeccably clean.” He took off his glasses and studied Ty. “I heard that you and Vanessa made your own visit to the sewing room.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Simon himself. He was having trouble sleeping, especially since he couldn’t stay in his own bed. He wandered through the Castle and saw you and Vanessa tiptoeing up the staircase.”

  “I thought there might be something in that room to jog Vanessa’s memory about her aunt’s death.”

  “And?” Morris arched his eyebrows. “Was there?”

  “We uncovered information that negates the cause of death as suicide.”

  Morris sat up straight in his chair and scowled. “It was twelve years ago. Does it really matter if it was an accident or suicide?”

  “I believe it does,” Ty said. He ran through the sequence of events, showing how Dorothy had gone from accident victim to missing person to the bloody remains of a suicide.

  “And here’s why I can’t believe that’s true. Number one—Dorothy was planning ahead, putting the finishing touches on a gown to wear at the Aspen Ski Ball. Number two—her to-do list was up to date, and she was planning her Christmas presents. Number three—her Walther PPK is still in the safe. If she intended to kill herself with a gunshot to the head, why not take her own pistol?”

  Morris nodded slowly. “You made good points, especially about the gun locked in the safe, and Dorothy’s death probably deserves more investigation, but I still don’t see how it’s related to Bethany’s murder.”

  This was where the tidy house of cards Ty had constructed fell apart. He didn’t know how Dorothy was connected, but he was certain that she was. “I want to keep investigating. It would help if I could have access to some of your people, especially the computer experts, like Liz Hurtado.”

  “As long as you don’t interfere with other evidence, I have no problem with that.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Morris had changed his tune. When they first met, he was all brass and bluster, warning Ty to keep out of his way. After dealing with a full day of frustration, his rhythm had softened to a slower beat.

  “Matter of fact,” Morris said, “you and your deputies don’t need to patrol the Castle tonight. I’m sending half my team back to Denver, and the rest of us—including me—will stay here. Also, I’m giving permission to the house guests to go home. They need to be accessible and stay in state, but they don’t have to be at the Castle.”

  In a way, that was progress, but Ty didn’t like it. He worried about Vanessa. Would she be safe with a less visible police presence?

  * * *

  WHEN VANESSA ROLLED out of bed at ten o’clock, she found a text from Ty on her cell phone. He was doing research on court records and wanted to meet her in the horse barn behind the Castle at three in the afternoon.

  The timing was perfect. She had an interview with Simon and Keith at one. After that, she was free. Going for a horseback ride seemed like a great idea. During the months she’d been living at the Castle, she’d only taken the horses out once a week or less. Yesterday, when she’d been talking about her stellar career in Little Britches, she remembered the physical rush that came when she rode hard and fast. And the subtle joy of sitting astride a horse and pacing through a forest, watching the clouds float across the skies and listening to the whir of the wind through pine boughs.

  She texted back with an all-caps affirmative and a happy face. Too much? But she wanted Ty to know how much she appreciated his help. If it weren’t for him, Agent Morris would have given her a pat on the head and sent her away with none of her questions answered. She dressed appropriately for a ride in jeans and boots, a plaid flannel shirt and a maroon cowgirl hat.

  Much as she hated missing a meal, she skipped breakfast and grabbed a ham-and-cheese sandwich for an early lunch before dashing upstairs to the library. The first item on her “to-do” was to find a copy of her dad’s published book of poetry and short stories. A slender volume, only one hundred and eighty-five pages, the title was Lost and Found by John Joseph Whitman. “Funeral for Fluffball” was the third story, a short piece about a beloved friend—a yellow cat with jade green eyes—who never came when called. His description of the journey he made with Dorothy to find t
he perfect place to set the tombstone was flowery and metaphorical rather than being accurately descriptive. She’d have to be psychic to find Fluffball’s grave.

  At a few minutes after one o’clock, Simon and Keith entered the library and settled into seats near the sofa. She hooked them both up with mics. After yesterday’s emotional session, she was looking forward to a more tangible conversation about how they developed the Simple Simon’s franchise.

  She asked the most obvious question. “How did you select the name Simple Simon’s?”

  “Not my idea,” Simon said firmly.

  “It was marketing,” Keith said. “Simon was already building his rep as a chef, and his signature restaurant was Simplicity. We wanted those associations to make people think that this was fast food with a gourmet touch.”

  “Clever,” she said. “Like saying french fries with cheese are potatoes au gratin. Or hamburger is actually Salisbury steak.”

  “There are significant differences in those recipes.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I like the names of the dishes on the Simple Simon’s menu, and I’m sure you do something different in preparation. They taste better.” She’d insulted Keith’s cuisine once before, and he hadn’t reacted well. This time, her praise was lavish. “I don’t know how you make a simple hot dog so delicious.”

  “The secret is in the sauces and the condiments.” Keith flashed his beautiful superwhite smile. “Anything tastes better with gravy or butter or pickled cabbage on the side.”

  Simon warmed to the topic. When these two partners were talking about food and cooking, they were completely compatible, and Vanessa dutifully recorded it all. The Simple Simon’s menu would make a good sidebar for the book, and she wanted to get some of those recipes.

  And then she asked, “How did Dorothy feel about the Simple Simon’s franchise?”

  “She didn’t like the idea,” Simon said.

  “Dorothy considered her husband a culinary genius,” Keith said. “She thought it would cheapen his reputation to make his style of cooking available to the masses. It’s a good thing we didn’t listen to her. Or to any of our wives.”

  “That’s true.” Simon bolted to his feet. He’d been sitting still for a long time and needed to vent. “Gloria the supermodel barely eats at all. And Chloe is a nibbler.”

  “The franchise restaurants have been the big moneymaker, right from the start.”

  Vanessa headed in a different direction. “I thought you were planning to sell? Didn’t Yuri Kirov make an offer?”

  “Not yet,” Keith said.

  “We’re considering options,” Simon added. “Both of us are thinking about retirement, and Kirov has deep pockets. How about that Macy? There’s a woman with a healthy appetite.”

  “Like a water buffalo,” Keith said.

  “My Dorothy was like that. She could eat and eat and never gained a pound.” He paced around the library. His fiery energy was mostly depleted. “I miss her, can’t stop thinking about her. Bethany’s murder keeps reminding me.”

  “The CBI is making progress,” Keith said. “They said it was okay for us to go home. The Ingrams are thrilled to pieces. I think they’ve been missing their game shows on TV. Gloria was almost out of clothes, she’s already left for our Aspen condo.”

  Vanessa caught the hint. She called an end to their session. Her next meeting with Simon wouldn’t be for two days. He had other commitments.

  As soon as they left, she put away her recording equipment and rushed downstairs, out the door and around the Castle toward the one-story horse barn. She was running a little bit late and was glad to see that Ty had already saddled two horses and was waiting for her. Looking like the archetype of a cowboy sheriff, he sat astride a stallion with a glistening ebony coat. For her, he had saddled a chestnut mare with a floppy mane. Her name was Coco.

  Vanessa patted Coco’s neck. “Are you ready for me, girl?”

  “The guy in the barn said she was your favorite.”

  “And he was correct.” She mounted up. “I’m looking forward to a ride, but it seems odd when we’re in the middle of investigating. Why are we doing this?”

  “It doesn’t seem like there’s much else we can do tonight. This afternoon, I tried to dig into court filings and police reports. It was an avalanche of paperwork. Tremont County didn’t start digitizing these records until year before last. The filing area contains over a hundred years of paperwork. We’re going to have to search on a case-by-case basis.”

  “An impossible job.” Though Vanessa was a research junkie who reveled in organizing documents, this job sounded like too much. “That still doesn’t explain why we’re on horseback.”

  “I thought of S&R where I used to work. Much of their information is recorded on maps and GPS. They were happy to help and handed over their file on Aunt Dorothy. Since I have the coordinates, it won’t be hard to follow.”

  “The coordinates to what?” she asked.

  “The approximate route Dorothy took on the day of her last ride. We can track her progress from twelve years ago, see where she dismounted from her horse and where her remains were found.”

  She was impressed with his idea. Following a road into the past might be useful in figuring out what happened. As she flicked her reins and followed him away from the barn, she noticed that he had a rifle tucked into a scabbard on his saddle. The sheriff was prepared for trouble.

  Chapter Twelve

  Riding single file, they followed a narrow trail through the forest and crested a hill behind the Castle where the landscape spread and flattened into open range and a small herd of cattle grazed. A string of barbed wire separated the dull brown grass from the road that hugged the edge of the foothills to the north. The late afternoon sky was wide open and clear, reminding him of the beautiful desolation of Yellowstone where he grew up. Ty had started riding bareback when he was a little kid, and the rhythm of the stallion’s gait felt natural and comfortable.

  They were supposed to be investigating a crime, which was serious business, but his mood felt light and cheerful, almost as though he and Vanessa were going on a first date. She nudged forward and pulled even with him. Her brown mare was smaller than his mount, but Coco was more energetic, much like the woman riding her.

  Ty sat back in his saddle and watched as she bounced along in her snug jeans and boots. A few wisps of her golden hair slipped out from under the brim of her cowgirl hat and furled against her flushed cheeks. Completely at ease, she smiled broadly.

  “Race me,” she said, “to that rock on the south side of the meadow that looks like a big fat Buddha.”

  “You’re on, Little Britches.”

  “Go,” she shouted.

  He deliberately gave her a couple of seconds head start, not wanting to embarrass her with his superior horsemanship. But she didn’t need any favors from him. She leaned forward on Coco and tapped the horse’s flanks with her heels. They melted into one ferocious entity as Coco stretched forward, showing natural talent as a quarter horse.

  Vanessa won by a decent margin and celebrated with a victory whoop and a hug for Coco. With her arms thrust above her head, she used her knees to direct Coco in a circle. The chestnut horse pranced.

  “Damn, that feels great!” she shouted. “Let that be a lesson. Never bet against a Little Britches champion.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Thanks for suggesting a ride. It feels like we’re having too much fun.” She pulled herself together. “Okay, I’m settled down. There’s work to be done, right? Where are we headed?”

  “Farther south to Rattlesnake Ridge.”

  “How do you know Aunt Dorothy came this way? Are you following a map?”

  “I got these directions from word-of-mouth. Before she left the Castle, she told the guy who took care of the horses that she was going to the Ridge. The leader o
f the S&R team confirmed it.”

  A popular destination for horseback riders, Rattlesnake Ridge was a high rocky ledge that was just wide enough for two riders side-by-side. It fronted the edge of a forest and offered a wide panorama.

  “I know the Ridge,” she said. “I like to watch the sunset from there.”

  “In a couple of hours, it’ll be dusk.”

  He intended to be back at the Castle before nightfall. There wasn’t much cover on the open range, and he didn’t want to take a chance on being ambushed. Proceeding at a leisurely pace with only the occasional chirping from birds and critters put him in a contemplative mood. His investigation hadn’t gathered many facts. It might be time to use imagination. “I wonder,” he said, “when Dorothy took this final ride, what was she thinking about?”

  “If she was planning suicide, her surroundings would take on heavy-duty importance. At least, that’s what the poets would have us believe. Dad was always pondering life’s big questions. What happens when you die? Is Heaven real?”

  “You think Dorothy had a deep philosophical nature.”

  Vanessa shrugged. “What can I say? Eccentricity runs in the family.”

  “Why would such a woman kill herself?”

  “I don’t think she did. Sure, she was angry, maybe she was replaying an argument with Simon. Or thinking about how she didn’t like the Simple Simon’s franchise plan.”

  “Was he upset with her?” Ty considered their marital relationship a possible motive for suicide, even though neither of them believed she killed herself. “Were they the sort of couple who bickered?”

  “That’s not how I remember them, but I was only a kid at the time. Simon is a passionate guy who can be as volatile as a volcano, but I don’t think he’s abusive. And Dorothy could hold her own in a fight.” She snapped her fingers. “That reminds me. I found the story Dad wrote about Mr. Fluffball’s funeral. It’s a sweet little allegory.”

  An allegory, huh? Ty felt like he’d gone back in time to English class when he had to struggle his way through symbolism and metaphors. “You’re going to have to explain.”