Final Arrangements

by Rich Curtin

  It was a magical evening. The party had lasted five hours with people coming and going all night long. Everyone wanted to meet Gloria. Rivera was proud to introduce her to each of his friends and family members, but he was especially proud to present her to his grandfather. He was the sage in Rivera’s life—the person Rivera went to when he was confronted with difficult problems in his personal life or his work. In Rivera’s first murder case as a rookie deputy, he’d found himself caught on the horns of an ethical dilemma. Rivera had explained the problem to his grandfather in detail. His grandfather’s response was simple and wise. Justice is more important than the letter of the law, he’d counseled, and that had been Rivera’s guiding philosophy ever since. Rivera’s grandfather had given Gloria a big hug and kissed her on the cheek. Welcome to our family, he’d said.

  The hiss of an eighteen wheeler’s air brakes out on Main Street interrupted his reverie and brought his thoughts back to the present. He wondered if Gloria might agree to live in Moab. Where they would live was a decision they hadn’t yet made—they’d barely discussed it. He hoped they would settle in Moab, but Gloria’s parents were getting on in years, and Gloria liked to visit them a couple of times each week to make sure they were okay and not in need of anything. From her hometown of Abiquiu, Espanola was only a twenty-five-minute drive. From Moab, it would take six hours.

  Betty returned to Rivera’s table with his usual breakfast —two eggs over easy, sausage patties, hash browns, and two slices of buttered wheat toast. She refilled his coffee.

  “Enjoy your breakfast, Stud Muffin.”

  As Rivera ate, he began thinking about rocks and the rockhounds who collected them. It was a world he knew so little about. How much was a geode worth? Did rockhounds ever find precious metals? Did they search through the tailings of abandoned gold mines? Were the rocks just pretty things to look at, or did they have some real monetary value? Did Iggy Webb’s murder have anything to do with rockhounding? Rivera needed to learn more about the whole business.

  8

  AS RIVERA DROVE south out of town heading for the Old Spanish Trail Arena, the sun was peeking over the mountains and the air was warming up. The sky was dark blue except for a couple of white contrails left by high-altitude jet aircraft. It looked like it was going to be another beautiful day in Moab.

  Four miles south of town, he turned left into a dusty parking lot and parked his vehicle at the end of a long row of pickup trucks. The O.S.T. Arena was part of a complex of county facilities that encompassed not only the arena itself, but also two baseball fields, two soccer fields, animal pens, and a pavilion that was converted into an ice-skating rink for the winter months. Inside the arena, events held throughout the year included the annual rodeo, motocross races for kids, dog agility competitions, barrel racing, and vendor shows. The arena building was constructed of concrete blocks and a domed metal roof in colors matching the hues of the surrounding red rock cliffs. He’d rarely had occasion to come here—the last time was three years ago during the annual rodeo.

  He entered the building and descended the steps leading to the dirt floor of the arena. The floor had been compacted into a hard surface, and dozens of long tables were arranged in rows from one end of the arena to the other. The overhead lights were dim, and the air was redolent of horses and dust.

  About thirty people were working there, preparing for the rock and mineral show. Some were moving wooden crates filled with rocks, others were setting up individual displays, and a few were arranging rock specimens on the tables. The dirt floor seemed to muffle sound, so it was quiet inside the building.

  He strolled along a row of tables and stopped at one displaying an array of split geodes. The crystalline structures imbedded within the hollow rock shells ranged in color from clear to dark purple with every shade in between. A tall, bespectacled young man with a friendly face and straight brown hair hanging halfway down his back was standing behind the table watching him. He wore a yellow T-shirt inscribed with the words Rock On.

  “Hi, Deputy. You’re welcome to look, but the show doesn’t open until Friday.” he said.

  “Oh, right,” said Rivera. “I’m here to talk to someone. Those are some beautiful geodes you’ve got there. Where did you find them?”

  “Mostly around Dugway. I live in Salt Lake City, so I do most of my rockhounding over there. I can give you a good price on these if you come back when the show opens.”

  Rivera pointed to a geode specimen in the center of the table. It was the largest one on display—about eighteen inches across. The color was a rich shade of violet. “How much for that one?”

  “Fourteen hundred.”

  Rivera nodded. “What about the smaller ones?” He pointed to one that was three inches across.

  “You can have that one for twenty-five bucks, but the big one is the one you want. It’s a genuine collector’s item.”

  “Did you find all these yourself?”

  “Sure did. My younger brother and I go into the backcountry on most weekends looking for them.”

  “They’re beautiful. How did you get into the business?”

  “Well, it’s not really a business for me—it’s more like a hobby. I’ve been a hiker all my life and I’ve always had an interest in geology, so I was naturally attracted to all the different types of rock specimens. If I had to make a living just rockhounding though, I’m not sure I’d survive. I’m a programmer in my day job.”

  “What about the rest of the people in here? Do any of them make a living from rockhounding?”

  “Well, I don’t know many of them, but I’d guess most are either retired with a pension or have regular jobs.”

  “Ever hear of a rockhound by the name of Iggy Webb?”

  He shook his head. “No. Never have.”

  “Okay, thanks for the information.”

  Rivera moved on to the next table. There was no one in attendance, but the display had been set up. Four wooden boxes containing different types of rocks sat on the table. A hand printed sign taped to each box identified the type of mineral it contained. In the first one was a collection of bright green rocks with bands of dark blue running through them. The sign read Azurite and Malachite. In the next box were tan and yellow clusters of crystalline geometric shapes bonded together into chunks. The sign said Pyrite. The third box contained rocks of ordinary shape but with vivid colors running through them—reds, yellows, purples, and tans. Jasper, the sign said. In the last box were chunks of petrified wood. Rivera picked one up. It was much heavier than it looked, and the coloring was rich shades of brown, red, yellow, and purple. It had the general appearance of a section of a small tree—the bark and wood patterns were clear—but the piece was hard stone. He wondered about the geologic process that created such a beauty.

  He moved to the next table and saw another colorful array of rock specimens. A chunk of rock about the size of a softball was identified as crazy lace agate. It looked like random patterns of red, orange, light gray, and yellow all stirred together. A rock called yellow cat agate was bright reddish orange with gray streaks running through it. A large crystalline piece of topaz was a smoky amber color. Rivera was amazed at the variety of shapes and colors.

  A short, older man with wire-rimmed glasses strolled over to where Rivera was standing.

  “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” He spoke with a slight German accent.

  “They sure are,” said Rivera. “I had no idea there were so many different types of rocks.”

  The man smiled. “What you see is but a tiny fraction of what exists on earth. There are over three thousand known varieties of rocks and minerals, and new ones are discovered every year. Rockhounding has become very popular in recent years, so we’re hoping for a big crowd at the show this weekend.”

  “Are you one of the organizers?”

  “No. I’m just an exhibitor. My sons are setting up my table now. I sell jewelry I make myself—necklaces, earrings, and bracelets. The rocks you see at this sho
w, when processed properly, make fine pieces of jewelry.”

  “Are you a local?”

  “I live in Bluff.”

  “Ever run into a rockhound by the name of Iggy Webb?”

  “No. I can’t say that I have. Sorry.”

  Rivera glanced around the arena. There were still dozens of display tables he hadn’t yet visited. He had never before seen such an array of colorful rocks in one place. His job often took him into the backcountry, and he’d collected a few pretty specimens. But his were raw, uncut, unpolished rocks. He’d just liked the way they looked, so he picked them up and took them home. Some were on a shelf in his house, and a few were on display in his office next to framed photographs of Gloria, his parents, and his grandparents. But his rocks were nothing like the ones set out on these tables. His were interesting—these were unforgettable.

  He thought about the thousands of ordinary-looking rocks he’d seen and passed while hiking. Some of them must have been specimens worthy of collecting—plain on the outside but with glittering colors on the inside. It had never occurred to him to take them home and split them open to see what treasures of color awaited inside. Now he found himself eager to learn all he could about rockhounding and put that knowledge into practice the next time he was exploring the backcountry.

  Across the arena, he spotted an older man talking and gesturing, apparently giving instructions to two young women. He looked like he might be in charge. Rivera had seen him around town before but had never met him. He was an older man wearing a cowboy hat, jeans, a long-sleeve western shirt, and cowboy boots. His belly hung over a large, bronze belt buckle and he had a round, happy-looking face. After the women left to attend to their chores, Rivera introduced himself and learned the man’s name was Edgar Ebersole.

  “I’m looking for Alice Russell, president of the Southeast Utah Rockhound Club. Is she here today?”

  “She left about thirty minutes ago. She lives in Castle Valley.” Ebersole explained how to find her place.

  Rivera jotted the information into his notepad. “This is the first time I’ve been to one of these rock shows. I’m amazed at what’s on display here. Seeing all this makes me want to start rockhounding.”

  “Well, you’d be most welcome to join our club. We have monthly meetings with lectures and demonstrations and we’re always looking for new members. There are lots of people in the club willing to help aspiring rockhounds.”

  “Sounds like a good idea. I may just do that.”

  “You should come back here when we’re all set up. It’s quite a show. The rocks look even better when the overhead lights are on full brightness.”

  “I’ll try to stop by. Today I’m trying to find three rockhounds, but all I have are their first names. Maybe you could help me.”

  “Sure. I know most everyone in the club.”

  Rivera paged through his notepad and found the names. “Their names are Roy, Pete, and ...”

  Ebersole laughed. “And Stagger, I’ll bet.”

  Rivera looked up. “That’s right. Stagger.”

  “Those three guys are always hanging around together. They’re good friends and really talented rockhounds—some of the best in the club. Their names are Roy Bartlett, Pete Pearson, and Stagger Lee.” Ebersole grinned and looked at Rivera as if waiting for a reaction.

  Rivera frowned as he jotted the names into his notepad. “Is Stagger his real name?”

  “His real name is Bryson, but he prefers Stagger. He told me once that he chose Stagger as a nickname when he was a young kid. He thought it was cooler and edgier than Bryson. The name stuck.”

  “What makes Stagger cool and edgy?”

  “You know, like the character in the song.

  Rivera was puzzled. “What song?”

  “Stagger Lee. You remember Stagger Lee, don’t you?” Ebersole grinned and his face lit up. He started singing and bobbing his head to the beat. “Stagger Lee shot Billy, oh, he shot that poor boy so bad, ‘till the bullet came through Billy and it broke the bartender’s glass.” Ebersole stopped and looked at Rivera as if searching for some sign of recognition.

  Rivera turned his hands palms-up and shrugged.

  “Oh, hell, I guess you’re too young to remember. It’s a popular song from the fifties by Lloyd Price. At least it was popular back then. It’s from back when they were still making good music.”

  Rivera smiled. “That was way before my time—I wasn’t born until nineteen eighty-one. Do you know where I can find these guys?”

  “Roy was here about an hour ago. He said he was going to the lapidary shop to cut and polish some agate. You know where the shop is?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “It’s in a tin building behind Roy’s house. It’s full of lapidary machinery. Everyone in the club goes there to process their rocks. It’s sort of our clubhouse. And Roy is like the dean of rockhounds in Moab.” He gave Rivera the address.

  “Okay, thanks. What about the other two?”

  “Stagger’s at work today. He works at City Market. And Pete’s probably at home. He lives in the red brick house across the street from Roy.”

  “One other question. Did you know Iggy Webb?”

  “I met him a few times at the lapidary shop. Very sad what happened to him.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Not much. I didn’t know him very well. He hung around with Roy a lot. He seemed eager to learn all he could about rockhounding, and he couldn’t have had a better teacher than Roy. Iggy was always full of questions. I know he made a living selling rocks.” He shrugged. “That’s pretty much everything I know about him.”

  “Okay, thanks for the help.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Rivera decided to visit Roy Bartlett first, primarily because he was curious about the lapidary shop and was hoping to see firsthand how rocks were processed.

  9

  RIVERA PARKED AT the curb in front of Roy Bartlett’s home, a one-story rock house located a few blocks from the center of town. The house had a metal roof, blue trim, and a small screened-in porch on the side. In the front yard were a couple of desert willows and several Esperanza bushes now budding out with yellow blossoms. A gray, beat-up Silverado pickup was parked in the driveway. Rivera climbed the steps to the front door and rang the doorbell. He waited several seconds but there was no answer. He rang again. Still no response.

  He walked around the side of the house and up the driveway toward a large utility building in the rear. The building was constructed of corrugated metal and had double access doors, one of which was ajar. Next to the building were several wooden crates filled with rocks which Rivera guessed would eventually be cut and polished to look more like the ones he saw at the show. Leaning against the wall of the structure was a collection of rusted shovels, picks, and sledgehammers, all covered with dust and dry, caked-on dirt. Nearby were two old wheelbarrows turned upside down. Rust and dents testified to their utility over a span of many years. A loud, high-pitched whine emanated from within the building.

  Rivera approached the door and peered inside. Rows of small machines, most of which he didn’t recognize, filled the concrete floor space, and banks of overhead lights illuminated the interior. A man was hunched over one of the machines, his eyes trained on the rock specimen he was cutting and his hand resting on the controls. Rivera spoke in a loud voice. “Roy Bartlett?” There was no response. He tried shouting. “Roy Bartlett?”

  The man rose up, shut off the machine, and turned in Rivera’s direction. He pushed his safety goggles to the top of his head, pulled out his earplugs, and smiled. “Howdy. I’m Roy. Can I help you?” He was a big man in his late fifties, large around the middle, with a gray beard and a full head of curly gray hair. There was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead.

  Rivera introduced himself. “I’m investigating the death of Iggy Webb, and I’m told you knew him. I’d like to ask you a few questions about him.”

  “Sure, Deputy. Damn sham
e about Iggy. I liked him.” Bartlett wiped his hands on a rag and pointed to a table and two wooden chairs against the wall. “Let’s go sit down.”

  Scattered on the table were a dozen or more magazines containing crossword puzzles, Soduko puzzles, cryptograms, and chess problems as well as a pitcher of iced water and a package of paper cups. Bartlett grabbed the pitcher and poured himself a cup of water. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks.” Rivera decided to start with some get-acquainted talk. “I take it you enjoy working on puzzles.”

  “Yeah, it’s a good way to pass the time when I’m not playing with rocks. Do you like solving puzzles?”

  Rivera grinned. “That’s kind of what I do for a living.”

  “I’ve got a good one for you, if you’ve got the time.”

  Rivera was curious. He loved challenging puzzles and took pride in his ability to solve them. “Sure, I’ve got time. Go ahead.”

  “Okay. Here it is. There’s this king who has three sons. The king is getting old and he wants to leave his kingdom to the most intelligent son. So he brings the three sons into a room where there are three chairs facing each other and a table in the center. He instructs the sons to sit down. On the table are five hats. Three of the hats are red and two are black. There’s nothing else in the room. He tells them that he’s going to blindfold them, put one hat on each of them, and remove the remaining two hats from the room. Then he will remove all three blindfolds. Of course no son can see the color of the hat on his own head. He can only see the color of the hats on his two brothers. The first one to announce the color of the hat on his own head and explain logically and correctly how he’d arrived at his conclusion would be the next king. Anyone announcing incorrectly the color of his hat or guessing correctly and then not being able to explain how he figured it out, would have to live the rest of his life on a meager pension. Got it so far?”