Murder One

by Allen Kent

  “Okay. Short answer with a little more explanation. We can quickly assay the gold to determine karat. That would eliminate some fakes quickly since we know the karat of authentic 1861-D gold coins. A very skilled forger could duplicate the gold content, but these coins were minted using an old obverse die of the 1860-D gold dollar. I see from your examination that you know there were flaws in that die. It is very difficult for even a master forger to exactly duplicate those flaws. Am I being brief enough?”

  “You say ‘very difficult.’ But not impossible?”

  “Not impossible. But the third test moves us into that territory.” He craned his neck upward to peer at Joseph, thinking she might need more explanation than I did. “The D on an 1861-D is for a branch mint established in Dahlonega, Georgia. In the 1860s, there was gold being mined in the south, mainly in Georgia, Virginia, and the Carolinas. It was too risky to move that gold to Philadelphia where the main mint was, so the government set up branch mints, this one in Georgia.” With Joseph appropriately schooled, Pogue shifted his attention back to the coin. “Gold mined in different locations has different trace elements present in the samples, even when highly refined. We know from spectroscopic analysis done on several coins we are certain were from the 1861 Dahlonega minting that the gold came from mines in Georgia and South Carolina. There hasn’t been mining in those states since World War II. So it would be virtually impossible for a forger to get gold with the right trace elements. Our coins have tested perfectly.”

  “That testing doesn’t damage the coins?” Joseph asked, picking up the case and turning it carefully against the overhead light.

  “It’s a laser test that’s microscopic to the point any change in weight wouldn’t be measurable with our most sophisticated instruments. I can assure you, this is a genuine ’61-D.”

  His explanation was just the opening I needed for the question we had come to ask. “Can you tell me how you managed to get ahold of these coins? Five authentic dollars in as many years?”

  Mr. Pogue turned his head sideways to keep from having to try to straighten. He winked at me slyly. “My son has a source through our shop in the US that I’m not at liberty to divulge.”

  “Shop in the US?”

  “Yes. Not too far from you. Springdale, Arkansas.”

  Mention of Springdale hit me in the solar plexus like a sucker punch, something I should have seen coming, but was too caught up in the touristy ambiance of Old Town Mazatlán to anticipate.

  “Springdale as in Northwest Arkansas?”

  “Yes. That’s where our home store is.”

  A glance at Joseph showed that she was right with me and just as embarrassed at having missed the connection.

  “So, these have come from your home store in Springdale. Why not market them there?”

  Another wink through a thick lens. “Let me just say that there are some significant advantages to doing some of our business out-of-country. And in my declining years, I find the climate here much kinder to my allergies and rheumatism. You couldn’t drag me back up there with a team of horses.” He lifted the plastic case from the table. “Have you seen what you need to see? Our auction will be live on November 30. I certainly hope you will decide to join us.”

  I nodded and pushed back from the table. Miguel glanced over just long enough to be certain I wasn’t reaching for a piece. Joseph stood with me and extended a hand to the jeweler.

  “I’m certainly satisfied,” she said. “Colby? Have you been able to ask what you wanted?” There was an intimacy in the way she said “Colby” that I heard as more than just show.

  “I’m good, Mara,” I said, hoping she heard the same. “And we definitely plan to be part of the auction. You have my email information. Do you happen to have a card for your Springdale shop? It’s close enough that we might want to stop in and see what you have there.”

  The old man’s grin broadened. “Our source is very tightly guarded. But you are certainly welcome to go by.” He spoke in Spanish to Miguel who pulled open a desk drawer, pulled out a card, and leaned far enough in my direction to hand it to me. I nodded without a gracias and slipped it into my shirt pocket. I shook Pogue’s hand and we left him to place his treasure back in the safe, under the less-than-watchful eye of his cartel security man.

  We walked to the main plaza and detoured through the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception. It’s twin spires and the triple lancet arches of its pale mustard façade struck me as doing exactly what its architect had intended: drew every eye heavenward. They pointed into a sky that on this particular morning was whisked by horsetail clouds into a gauzy azure.

  Joseph remained thoughtfully silent until we exited the church. When she finally spoke, it was about food. “There’s a lunch spot across the street that’s supposed to be fun. Let’s find a quiet table.”

  “How do you know all this? You hardly said anything to the pneumonia driver.”

  She held up her phone. “Found it this morning before we left the hotel.” She led through one of the plaza gates and dodged cars and an unyielding bus across a crowded street that separated the shop from the cathedral. “Their webpage says they have great tres leche cake. I thought you’d approve.”

  The eatery filled a quarter of the next block but screamed calories. Through a wall-sized window, racks of cakes, cookies, and cream-plumped eclairs beckoned to passers-by with seductive success. What looked like a caricature of a surfer with a huge red-lipped smile, cake hat, and plate of cupcakes in one hand rode the waves beside a sign over the entrance that read “Panama Restaurant y Pasteleria.”

  “I like it already,” I yelled, vaulting out of the way of a battered, Toyota pickup and onto the sidewalk. “Do they serve anything healthy?”

  “It’s a regular restaurant,” she called back, pushing through the glass doors.

  Finding a quiet table was not in the cards. Our best chance at privacy came from the general din of the place: animated chatter all around with no one paying any attention to conversation at other tables. A plump hostess in a tight black pantsuit seated us, replaced immediately by a young woman dressed like a waitress from a 1950’s diner: short black dress and white apron.

  “If you’re looking for something healthy,” Joseph said, studying the menu, “they have some great fish dishes. And as you saw coming in this morning, this is a fishing port.”

  I waved at the menu. “You choose for both of us.” She ordered two Pacificos and something called Filete de Pescado San Miguel. I chuckled. “Is this to honor some saint or our friendly cartel guard this morning?”

  She gave me a noncommittal shrug. “We’ll see how it tastes.”

  As the waitress moved on to the next table for an order, Joseph leaned back against the dun padding of the booth seat. “An 1820 escudo for your thoughts,” she said with a thin smile.

  “From what I remember from the shop window, that’s pretty pricey thinking.”

  She cocked her head to one side and waited.

  “Well,” I offered, “I’d say we just picked up at least two more suspects. Springdale is about an hour’s drive from Nettie’s place. No farther than Springfield. I have to confess that I was letting the state line limit my thinking about where she might go to sell her coins. But I’ll bet you ten 1820 escudos that the 1861s sold down here came from her stash.”

  “I’d say at least three new suspects,” Joseph suggested. “Maybe all complicit.”

  “You’re including our man Miguel?”

  She nodded. “Let’s suppose the Pogues learned that Nettie was losing her place through eminent domain and would be moving. They wouldn’t know where, and couldn’t be sure she would continue doing business with them. They might have decided to try to find her supply before she could take it somewhere else.”

  “I’d had the same thought.”

  “And our coin merchant here obviously has some connection, however slight it might be, with the Mexican mob. And employs one of their strongmen.”

  I
nodded. “But I doubt old Rufus Pogue did the job. Could Miguel have made it into the state without being stopped by ICE?”

  “We know hundreds are crossing undetected. It’s the ones who really want to make an appeal for legal asylum who make sure they get caught. I don’t think Miguel would have any trouble getting across and up into the state.”

  The waitress brought our beers. “We need to see if we can have our unidentified prints from the trailer run through Mexican police files then. See if we get a match on our man Miguel.”

  “I’ll call as soon as we get back to the hotel,” Joseph agreed.

  I gave her an amused smile. “I think I’d better call. You’re just taking a few days off, remember? We don’t want the Patrol calling a report from Officer Joseph about Mexican prints back to Crayton.”

  “I can see why people have trouble getting away with affairs,” she said, her own smile tight-jawed. “Okay. You call in the request. What do you want to do about Springdale?”

  “I’m flying into Northwest Arkansas from Dallas. I’ll just be a couple of miles from Springdale.”

  Joseph shook her head slowly. “Not without me,” she muttered. “I’ll get back to Springfield about 2:00 in the afternoon tomorrow. Give me time to get some clean clothes. I’ll be down by dinnertime. Are you open to another overnight guest?”

  The girl arrived with steaming plates of a white fish with avocado dressing, beans, brown rice, and a small mixed salad. I tried not to sound eager. “Sure. I’d love the company.” I took a bite of the fish and avocado. This dish was definitely named after Saint Miguel.

  23

  Joseph reached the house as I was grilling a side of salmon on a cedar plank, gave three sharp knocks, and again walked in without waiting for an answer. The lemon spices drew her immediately out onto the deck.

  “What if you’d found me in a state of undress?” I asked, keeping my back to her as she stepped through the French doors.

  “That would be a sight worth the drive,” she said lightly. “Anyway, I could smell the salmon when I got out of the car and assumed you might not want to leave it. And I guessed, perhaps a bit rashly, that it was unlikely you barbequed in the nude.”

  I slid a spatula under the plank and moved it to the side of the grill. “Not a safe assumption out here in the woods. But I was expecting company.”

  She hesitated, glancing back into the house. “I’m not going to be getting in the way of anything . . .?”

  “Not unless you keep me from getting plates on the table. And there should still be some of that Pinot in the fridge. You can grab me a Bud Light.”

  She was in jeans and a St. Louis Blues T-shirt and looked every bit as good as she had in the shorts. She tossed a small duffle onto my leather recliner and set about readying the table, hunting for what she needed without asking. In the mystery drawer beneath the stove, she found a sauté pan and quickly discovered the olive oil in the lazy Susan in the corner cupboard. She was cutting vegetables into the oil when I carried the salmon to the table. I looked admiringly into the sizzling mix.

  “I didn’t think I had any peppers and broccoli.”

  “You didn’t. I brought them.”

  “Very thoughtful.”

  “I saw the salmon when I was here before and guessed you might have it tonight.”

  “The skills of a consummate investigator.”

  “And a woman who knows you don’t want to let fish thaw in the fridge for too long.”

  “Good culinary practice has never been a deterrent. It could have been there for another week if I hadn’t had company.”

  “Not if you opened the fridge very often.”

  She had been thinking about Mazatlán and wanted to talk as we ate.

  “That was a nice little trip. The closest thing to a vacation I’ve had in five or six years.”

  Nice is one of those words that can mean a lot of things.

  “We should have spent more time,” I agreed. “I read about some quaint little Mexican villages that aren’t far from there. And there’s a famous old theater near the cathedral that would have made a nice evening out. I could have spent another day just walking around the Old Town.” In my case, I meant nice to mean “a very romantic and intimate time together.”

  “Hmm,” she murmured. “Maybe the case will take us back down there before it’s over, and we won’t feel like we need to get back so quickly.”

  I’d been couth enough to pour my Bud into a glass and was mid-sip, almost choking on the swallow. She laughed as I lowered the glass to the table and pulled a napkin up to stifle the cough.

  “I take it you weren’t expecting that.”

  “Hoping for, but not expecting.”

  She reached over and placed a hand on the one that held the glass, giving it a light squeeze. “I’ve been as interested as you appear to be, Tate. But I had a smart, handsome partner before and let it get personal. It turned out to be a real mess and I swore I’d never let it happen again. I’m trying to be careful.”

  “You know about Adeena. That was no mess, but I didn’t think I’d ever get over the loss. And I’ll admit, Mexico was the first time I wished I’d had more time to spend with a woman.” I released the glass and turned my hand to squeeze hers. “But my guess is that within minutes of the time we left that shop, a call came up here to Springdale. I don’t think Pogue was suspicious of us, but if they were involved in any way in Nettie’s death, the old man would want the home office to know someone had been asking questions about where the coins came from, especially two people from Missouri. I felt like we needed to get home.”

  “Especially since you were supposed to be down there alone,” Joseph grinned, giving me another light squeeze and withdrawing her hand. “It wouldn’t have been good if old Mr. Pogue had googled Colby Tate, learned that you are a sheriff, then called your office before we got back, asking about the couple who’d visited his shop in Mazatlán.” After a moment during which both of us were trying to think of somewhere else to take the conversation, she said, “So, why would Nettie go to Springdale?”

  I shrugged. “You’re from Saint Louis. The cities in Illinois are just as close or closer than many in Missouri, but people just think ‘in-state.’ It’s like you’re crossing some magic boundary there when you cross the river to Alton or whatever else is over on the Illinois side. My guess is that Nettie wanted that boundary between her life in the holler and her sales transactions. Keep them in a different world.”

  “It seems to have worked. We didn’t even think of Arkansas.”

  “Shame on us,” I agreed.

  The Cardinals were playing the Cubs in Chicago which gave us a good reason to sit up late, close enough on the sofa to share a bag of microwave popcorn and keep our thoughts on other things. It worked as long as the game was on, but not after we turned in. I tried the tricks that usually lull me off to sleep: creating another imaginary day in Mazatlán, extending it into a shared night at the Don Pelavo, imagining how she would feel if pressed in beside me. It didn’t work. She was too close.

  As I was lifting my head to peer over the pillow to see how many minutes it had been since it last read 12:43, I heard the soft scrape of the door. She slipped beneath the covers and pulled tightly against my back, her breasts warm and firm against a back that must have felt like a kettle drum in full percussion.

  “We’ll probably regret this tomorrow,” she whispered.

  I rolled into her, pulling her hips tightly against mine. “Let’s deal with it then,” I murmured softly into her hair, her lips nibbling at my neck.

  Her laugh was playful. “I see that you’ve been expecting me.”

  “Not expecting. Just hoping,” I rolled a body onto mine that was as firm and supple as I had fantasized. I eased her back across my hips and stopped imagining.

  Springdale, Arkansas stretches along both sides of that piece of I-49 that separates the retirement haven of Bella Vista from the Razorback-crazy university town of Fayetteville. On the
north, it bumps up against the WalMart World of Bentonville, making that corner of the Natural State the fastest growing and most affluent segment of a state that in most people’s minds doesn’t conjure up visions of growth and affluence. Of the towns that fill that stretch of I-49, none has seen more dramatic change and none is more diverse than Springdale. It was the perfect place for a little old lady, looking for anonymity, to find a buyer for gold dollars that bordered on being priceless.

  Like most towns in Middle America, Springdale has seen its retail businesses abandon the old town center for commercial strips along the major highways. The Gold Standard, parent store to Mazatlán Numismatics, had resisted the move and remained entrenched on a quiet corner of old North Main. Around it, a few small retail businesses survived, but much of the street now catered to the service sector: insurance brokers, attorneys, banks, and realtors.

  I had awakened to an otherwise empty bed and emerged into the main living part of the house to an embarrassed and uneasy nod, offered amidst a flurry of breakfast preparation. Joseph continued her nervous scurry while I finished off a plate of bacon and eggs. She finally sat down to a bowl of raisin bran as I left to shower and dress. The drive into Arkansas was equally quiet, what little conversation we had concentrated on what I had tried to block from my mind the night before—what to say to the proprietor of The Gold Standard.

  The young woman who greeted us across an L-shaped, counter looked to be in her early twenties, groomed and made-up in a way that made the most of an otherwise unremarkable face and figure. Her smile added to the appeal, and she hurried toward us as we entered the shop. Her pale face flushed brightly when I asked if she was the store manager.

  “Not yet. That would be my father. Let me get him for you.” She returned to the rear of the shop where a raised platform behind the back arm of the display counter was separated from the rest of the store by a paneled half-wall, accessed by three carpeted steps. She climbed to the platform before speaking quietly to some hidden figure. Good store manners, I thought. No shouting across the shop, even when we were the only patrons.