Paige MacKenzie Mysteries Box Set

by Deborah Garner

  “Actually, those are sapphires, too. Not all sapphires are blue. It depends on their mineral concentration. You get chromium in there, you get red crystals.”

  “And the blue?” Paige pulled a notepad and pen from her purse. She clicked the pen several times before starting to jot down notes.

  “Iron and titanium,” Clive said. “It’s not quite that simple, but that's the short version.”

  Paige wandered toward the work area. Raised strips of wood formed a short barrier around a large worktable. Piles of gravel sat in haphazard clusters.

  “Are all Montana sapphires Yogos?” Paige set her notepad on the table and leaned over it, continuing to write.

  “Nope,” Clive answered. “Yogo Gulch isn't the only sapphire deposit in the state. They come from the Rock Creek, Missouri River and Dry Cottonwood Creek mines, too. But Yogos are unique. Tiffany & Co. called them ‘sapphires of unusual quality.’ A mountain man named Jake Hoover sent them a box of pebbles in 1894.”

  Paige stopped her note taking at the sound of the name. She still hadn't heard back from her Jake. Maybe she could reach him that evening unless he called her first. She refocused her attention and resumed writing.

  “Imagine,” Clive continued, “back then all anyone cared about was finding gold. Most miners just tossed the blue pebbles aside. They'd get stuck in the sluice boxes, and prospectors considered them a nuisance. That Hoover fellow was a smart one. Tiffany & Co. sent him a check for $3,750. Quite a bit of money in those days.”

  “Nothing to sneeze at today, either.” Paige ran a few expenses through her mind that a few thousand dollars could cover.

  “They'd bring a lot more now,” Clive said. “Yogos fetch a good price. They're strong, and their color is natural. They don't need heat-treatment like other sapphires do. And they don’t have the inclusions that stones from other areas have.”

  “Inclusions?” Paige questioned.

  “Flaws. Feathers, pinpoints, carbons, other kinds. Inclusions can affect the transmission of light. Or they can weaken the stone itself, if they’re near the surface. They're very common and not a problem if small. But the fact that they're rare in Yogos adds to the value of these particular gems.”

  Clive stepped around the worktable and spread out one of the piles of pebbles. The sweep of his arm had a dramatic flair to it, and Paige knew it was an attempt to entice her into a hunt for sapphires.

  “Not today, Clive,” Paige said. Disappointment spread across his face. “Maybe before I leave Timberton.”

  “There's a pretty gem waiting in here for you, I just know it.” Even Clive had to smile at his obvious sales pitch. He gathered the pebbles back into a pile again and walked Paige to the door. She thanked him for the brief lesson and headed back to the hotel.

  A breeze had kicked up while Paige was inside the gallery, and a small funnel of dust blew up in her face as she crossed the road. She stepped back inside the boardwalk and took shelter against the wall of the candy store, pulling out her cell phone again to check for messages. Still no return call from Jake. She was disappointed and even more dismayed to admit it to herself. Where was the independent city girl?

  Paige fumbled around in her purse, running her fingers through the loose change that always seemed to accumulate at the bottom. Pulling out a handful of quarters, she dropped six into a sidewalk vending machine, caught a diet soda as it rolled into the lower tray. She sat down on a nearby bench.

  Dealing with relationships had never been her strength. She was stubborn and work driven, always had been. While college friends had been out dating and partying, she'd put her energy into developing a career path. Their lifestyles had seemed frivolous to her, a waste of time. Her choice had seemed to work for Paige. She'd gone on to grad school and right into a journalism internship. Admittedly, she'd been wistful at some of their bridal showers and weddings, but not when the first divorce or two came around.

  Paige leaned back against the bench and lifted the soda to her mouth, feeling the sizzle of carbonation as it made its way down her throat. She lowered the bottle and glanced up as a metal, rackety noise attracted her attention. A silver glint of sunlight bounced off a wobbling hubcap whisked along by the wind.

  Across the street, an elderly man rested on a park bench. Paige mistook him at first for a statue, the type often found in tourist locations. An old miner perhaps, appropriate for Timberton visitors. When he unfolded his arms, he knocked down that theory. He was definitely alive. Quiet, but alive. Paige estimated his age to be at least eighty.

  “Don't mind our local homeless guy.” Betty's voice startled Paige so much that she almost dropped the soda. She turned to find the hotelkeeper about to step into the candy store.

  “Gotta have caramels,” Betty said, as simply as one might allude to taking daily vitamins. She disappeared inside, reappearing a few minutes later with a small bag. She mumbled a few words, undoubtedly testing out the product.

  “He's been coming here for years, spring and summer. Stays in a shelter up in Utica during winter months, I think,” Betty said with a slight smack. “Never says a word. Just sits in the same spot, changes positions now and then. Pokes that stick around in the dirt, sometimes picks up pebbles and puts them in his pockets.”

  Betty folded down the top edge of the bag and pushed the remaining caramels into her coat pocket. “Clive Barnes followed him one night after he closed up shop. Found him down by the Timberton Trestle. People have tried talking to him about getting a place to live, but they get no response. He doesn’t bother anyone, so we just let him be.”

  “Does anyone know his name?”

  “Nope, we just call him Hollister.” Betty succumbed to temptation and pulled another caramel from her pocket, crinkling the edge of the bag in the process. “He wears a shirt that says Hollister on it, so we went with that. At least the last few months. Used to be Calvin.”

  Paige smiled. Hollister, a popular clothing line. Of course. And Calvin Klein before that, which sounded oddly out of place in a western town.

  “There’s a thrift shop here in Timberton, I bet,” Paige said.

  Betty beamed. “Yes, there is. A mighty fine one, too, Second Hand Sadie's. I found the prettiest purple sweater there last year, fluffy and soft, with little pearl buttons. I try to check in there every couple weeks. Tourists drop things off to lighten their suitcases on the way home. Make room for souvenirs. Why do you ask?”

  “Just a wild guess,” Paige said, smiling. She took another sip of soda and politely declined a caramel.

  “You’ve got some characters in this town.”

  Betty chortled. “Oh, my, yes we do. We certainly do. Take Sadie, for example. She’s a tiny little thing, barely 100 pounds. Pale skin, soft, gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses - reminds me of a baby bird. But you don’t dare try to argue with her. If she says a hat costs $3, you’d better not offer $2.99. I heard she chased Ernie out of the thrift store with a broom a few weeks ago just because he asked for 50 cents off an old wooden barrel. And if she forgets your name – which happens all the time, by the way – you just go with whatever she calls you that day. I was Gertie last Monday and might be Hannah next Thursday.”

  “Who’s Ernie?”

  “Oh, he’s the night bartender at Pop’s Parlor, right there.” Betty nodded her head toward the saloon’s entrance. “Nice guy, but he’s about three times Sadie’s size. Used to play football up in Missoula. It must’ve been quite a sight watching that tiny woman chase him. Wish I could’ve seen it with my own two eyes, but I heard about it the last time I had my hair done at the Curl ‘N Cue.”

  “Did you say Curly Q?” Paige asked.

  “No, I sure didn’t,” Betty said. “Our little beauty shop is called the Curl ‘N Cue because it’s backed up onto Pop’s Parlor. You can get yourself a nice perm and then walk right on through to the billiards room behind the bar.”

  Betty laughed and shook her head. “Yep, we’ve sure got our share of characters here in Timberton. An
d that’s a good thing, I reckon. Keeps life interesting.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Paige stood up and moved away from the writing desk in her room. She was having a terrible time organizing her notes from her interview with Clive. Her cell phone remained silent, and her voicemail was empty. After a frustrated hour, she gave up trying to write, picked up the keys to her rented Hyundai and left the hotel.

  Without a set destination, Paige chose one of the dusty, semi-paved roads that headed away from Timberton. She'd left Bozeman with a full tank of gas and had at least half a tank left. She could afford a bit of random driving.

  The midday sun beat down on the car, counteracting the chill of the late fall air. Paige could find nothing on the car radio that was static free or even vaguely interesting, so she opted for silence. She adjusted the visor and opened her window an inch so that the slight breeze would help keep her alert. Comfortable, she eased back against the car's seat and let her mind wander as she drove.

  Timberton was an odd town. Maybe she had expected something different, something more western. Or larger. Whatever she had expected, this wasn't it. It was not at all what she'd consider a typical tourist trap. A few of its buildings dated back to the old days, but with newer structures mixed in. Most had been built to resemble the old buildings, but not in any cohesive overall arrangement. The town was just not as remarkable as she wanted it to be.

  The people of Timberton were another thing altogether. She’d arrived barely twenty-hours ago, and her list of acquaintances read like something from The Twilight Zone. First there was Betty, the carbon copy of Andy Griffith's Aunt Bee, with her caramel-smacking chatter and the spruced up interior – yet fading exterior – of her hotel. Clive Barnes was fresh out of a used car commercial, though clad in miners' garb – a costume for the part. Strange as the other various townsfolk were, from the feisty thrift storeowner to the mute man everyone called Hollister, they were no match in oddity for Mist, who did not fit Timberton at all. The new age flower child, as well as her Moonglow café, added an almost extraterrestrial element to the already bizarre town.

  A metallic clang interrupted Paige's thoughts and shushed the silent sci-fi music accompanying the lineup of Timberton's townsfolk running through her mind. Paige pulled the little car over to the side of the road to inspect it. She could find no damage. All four tires seemed solid; there were no scratches; and no fluids were draining on the ground. But it was a good reminder to take it slow on country roads.

  Paige leaned against the car and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket to find she had no service. She’d have to wait to check voicemail. Surely Jake would have left a message by now. Susan was more likely to shoot back a quick email from work, but Jake wasn't much of an email type. He probably wouldn't even have a cell phone if he didn't feel he needed one for emergencies. He was a loner who spent most of his time at home. The ranch he had purchased the year before in Jackson Hole was more than enough to keep him busy. In buying a property that had been abandoned for decades, he had acquired not only a deed to the land, but also a lengthy list of needed repairs. Winter was coming fast. He'd been trying to do as much as possible before the snowy season arrived.

  That could be any day now, Paige realized as the wind chilled her. She climbed back in the car, pausing before turning on the ignition. Should she continue on or go back to the hotel? It wasn't yet late afternoon, so she’d have plenty of light if she drove farther out of town.

  In her rearview mirror, she saw flashing lights and the dusky paint of a sheriff’s car. “Uh oh. What now?”

  A stocky man stepped out of the official car, placed his hat on his head and came up to knock on her car window. She rolled it down.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “License and registration, Miss.”

  Paige pulled her wallet out of her purse and handed the man her license then searched through the glove box for the registration with no luck.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not sure where the registration is. This is a rental car. Did I do something wrong?”

  “New York City, huh?” The officer exaggerated a fake New York accent. He returned Paige’s license. “No problem, Miss. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t in trouble or lost. We do have tourists who find their way out of town but have trouble finding their way back in. Best you go on back to Timberton if that’s where you were. Sun goes down quickly here so you think you have plenty of light but then – poof! Light’s gone.”

  He was right. The sun did seem to set earlier in Montana than it did in New York. Maybe she had misjudged how much time she had. The scare with the clanking sound against the car, the lack of cell service and the officer’s advice convinced her. She’d give up her explorations and go back to the hotel.

  “Thank you for your concern, Officer…”

  “Sheriff. Sheriff Myers. You be careful, Miss. I don’t want to hear that I have to organize a search party for you.” He touched the brim of his hat and left. Paige turned the car around and headed back to Timberton.

  * * * *

  As Paige stepped into the hotel, the sound of dishes clattering and scent of cookies baking greeted her. Instead of checking in with Betty, she slipped up the stairs and into her room so she could check her cell phone messages in private. Still no word from Jake. She stretched out on the bed and threw an arm across her forehead. She laughed at herself. What a dramatic gesture! Fatigue and jet lag, she rationalized - and, admittedly, disappointment. The anticipation of seeing Jake again had followed her across the country and was woven into her eagerness to pursue a new assignment. Now her enthusiasm was slipping on both fronts. Seeing Jake was beginning to look iffy, and getting a gripping story out of the weird little town wasn't looking much more likely. Were pretty, blue stones without - what were they called - inclusions enough to interest New York readers? Doubtful.

  She was glad when a light tap on the door interrupted her pity party.

  “Something for dessert later on,” Betty said. She held a dainty, china plate with several warm chocolate chip cookies on it.

  “Ah, one of my weaknesses,” Paige sighed. She accepted the offering, set the plate on the nightstand and reached for a cookie.

  “Don't go spoiling your appetite,” Betty said. “Mist has whipped something up for dinner. You'll want to head over there around 6 or so.”

  “I thought Moonglow didn't serve dinner,” Paige said. “It sounded like Wild Bill's was the only option. I was just thinking your fresh-baked cookies could get me through the night.”

  “Most nights that's true. But on Tuesdays, when Mr. Hodges is in town, Mist often cooks something up. No sense in passing up a Moonglow meal.”

  So I can be ready for the night, I suppose, Paige thought.

  Before Paige could object, Betty turned and scurried down the hallway.

  Ready for the day, ready for the night. Ready to head back to New York was more like it. She had to pin down an angle on the sapphires and get out of Dodge before she went crazy. She’d give herself two more days. She’d have to hope she could find anything else she needed on Google.

  Paige sighed. As a polite guest, she knew she should go to dinner. As a discouraged reporter, it was the last thing she wanted to do. And she had to wait for an hour. Throwing on sweats, finding a good book in the hotel’s common area and scarfing down cookies were the only things that sounded appealing. Instead, she dragged herself to the shower, letting the steaming water wash away both the Montana dust from the short afternoon road adventure and some of her negative attitude.

  Forty-five minutes later, she felt better. Standing in front of the dresser's oval, antique mirror, she leaned forward and slipped on a pair of gold hoop earrings, brushed on a tiny bit of mascara and blush and raked her fingers through her still-damp hair. Stepping back, she had to admit she felt a surge of energy. She was overdressed for Timberton in slacks and a silky, hunter green turtleneck. But sprucing up had lifted her spirits. It was an old, unoriginal trick, but a hot show
er and spiffy outfit were a better cure for the blues than sweats and cookies. The cookies and sweats could wait.

  The sun had set, and it was almost pitch black when she stepped outside. The earlier chill had grown more severe. She buttoned the front of her jacket and buried her hands deep in the pockets. She wished she’d thought to pack gloves.

  By the time she walked the short distance to Moonglow, Paige was freezing. The small café looked inviting. Candles glowed in the front windows, and others cast faint outlines along the pathway that led to the front door. The heated air began to thaw her as soon as she stepped inside.

  As Paige removed her jacket and hung it on a peg by the door, she heard the soft music of Enya flowing through the dining room. The café’s ambience was nothing like it had been at breakfast when the emphasis had been on energy and movement.

  Tiny votive candles sat in the center of each table in tin holders. Star patterns created ethereal designs on the surrounding wooden surfaces. The tables themselves were different shapes and sizes. Had she noticed that this morning? Hanging at varied heights from the ceiling were paper lanterns, also star shaped. Where had she seen those before? She thought back. Ah, Ocracoke Island, another assignment, another time. What memories Moonglow called up. Strange, chameleon café. It was as if the interior of the restaurant changed according to the time and circumstance, wrapping itself around customers like a blanket.

  Mist led Paige to a table. Paige was dismayed to see that another diner sat there already, hunched down behind an open newspaper. Of course, Mr. Hodges. So much for having a solitary meal and enjoying the magical atmosphere. She'd have to play the polite other guest from the hotel. Her mood plummeted. Not even Enya could help.

  As she followed Mist and said hello, Paige wished she hadn’t been raised to have good manners. Mr. Hodges remained buried behind the paper and didn’t bother to return her greeting. Rude, she thought. If she'd wanted to dine with nothing more than a man's hat and a newspaper, she probably could have found that at Wild Bill's.