Final Arrangements

by Rich Curtin

  “Got it.”

  “So the king blindfolds them, puts a red hat on each, removes the two black hats from the room, and then removes the blindfolds. The three sons look at each other. After about ten minutes, one of them stands up and announces that he’s wearing a red hat. He explains the logic he used to arrive at his conclusion and the king rejoices. He’s found a successor. What was the explanation the son used?”

  Rivera pondered the problem for half a minute and laughed. “My first inclination is that a red hat on each son is the only way to make the contest fair—it gives each son the same problem.”

  “Well, that’s a solution based on fairness, not logic. The explanation has to be based on pure logic.”

  “I guess I’ll have to get back to you on that. I need to give it some thought.”

  Bartlett grinned. “I’ll await your answer.”

  “What’s your background?”

  “I’m a retired schoolteacher. I have a bachelor’s degree in math.”

  Rivera grinned. “That explains your interest in puzzles.” He extracted his pen and notepad from his shirt pocket. “Back to business. What can you tell me about Iggy Webb?”

  Bartlett chugged down the water. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat back. “Iggy was an unusual character. He latched onto me at our annual rock show six years ago. I had a table set up there displaying some of my best rocks and fossils. He came by and asked me about one specimen, then the next, then the next, and so on until he had asked me about every single one of them. He seemed excited and intensely interested. He wanted to know where I’d found them and how much each was worth. Then he said he wanted to learn how to become a rockhound like me. I told him about the club and the lapidary shop.” Bartlett laughed. “After that, I couldn’t get rid of him. He followed me around like a puppy. He was always asking questions and trying to learn as much as he could. He was a nice fellow and after a few weeks of him showing up here nearly every day, I kinda got attached to him.” Bartlett poured himself another cup of water and gestured toward Rivera with the pitcher.

  “No, thanks,” said Rivera.

  Bartlett finished off the second cupful. “I took him with me on a few rockhounding trips to teach him how to recognize which rocks were promising and which weren’t. Pete and Stagger often came along. That’s Pete Pearson and Stagger Lee. They’re both long time members of the club, and the three of us have been rockhounding since we were kids. Anyway, Iggy learned the ropes pretty well. He found some agate out in the San Rafael Swell, some rather good topaz at Topaz Mountain, and some nice geodes up at Dugway. After that he was hooked like the rest of us.” He gestured toward the machines. “I taught him how to clean, cut, and polish rocks, and he caught on fast. Soon after, he began selling his specimens at a few roadside locations in and around town and was making enough money to support himself.”

  “Any reason for someone to kill him?”

  He shook his head. “That’s the part that makes no sense. If a robber was looking for cash, he picked the wrong target. Iggy didn’t have much money and his personal belongings weren’t worth much. On any given day, he probably had no more money than what was in his pockets.”

  It was clear Webb hadn’t told Bartlett about his windfall of cash. Rivera decided not to mention the crumpled note he’d found in the wastebasket or the $4,200 cash he’d found in the freezer. That was information he didn’t want public—better to keep the killer in the dark about all that. “His place was searched after he was murdered. Any idea what the killer might have been looking for?”

  “I can’t imagine. I doubt it had anything to do with rockhounding. Maybe it’s got something to do with his previous life.”

  “Did he ever tell you anything about his previous life? Where he was from? What he did and so forth?”

  “He intimated to me one time that he’d done a lot of things he wasn’t proud of. He told me he had a police record from somewhere back east. He said he came to Moab to get his life in order. You know, to become a good citizen and live within the bounds of the law. I think rockhounding turned his life around.”

  “Did he elaborate on the details of his police record?”

  Bartlett thought for a long moment. “No, but I had the impression he’d done some pretty bad stuff.”

  “Was that common knowledge?”

  “I don’t think so. At least, I’ve never heard anyone else mention it.”

  “Did you mention it to anyone?”

  “No. He asked me to keep it confidential, and I did. A guy deserves a second chance at a decent life.”

  “What about the rocks? Do any of them have significant value?”

  “A real good specimen might bring several hundred dollars after it’s cleaned, cut, and polished. Most of them are only worth twenty or thirty bucks. Some will bring thousands, but Iggy never found any in that class. At least, as far as I know.”

  “Were you always with him when he went rockhounding?”

  “No. Most of the time he went out alone.”

  “Do rockhounds ever find precious metals or gems? You know, things that have significant value like gold or silver or diamonds?”

  Bartlett smiled at the question. “Rarely, I’d say. I’ve never found any, and I’ve been rockhounding for almost fifty years. Most of us are in search of beauty, not money.”

  “Have you been in Shirley Miller’s garage and seen Iggy’s inventory of rocks stored there?”

  He nodded. “Sure, several times.”

  “See anything unusual?”

  “Nah. Same stuff we all have.”

  “Did Iggy have any enemies you’re aware of?”

  “No. Everyone liked Iggy. He was an active member of the club and would always be available to help anyone who needed help. He was a nice guy. Polite and kind of quiet. Eager to learn. He lived a simple life and really bonded with the canyon country.”

  “Can you think of any motive for killing him?”

  Roy thought for a moment. Shook his head. “No, I really can’t. Unless, like I said, it had something to do with his previous life.”

  “Okay. Thanks for your help.” Rivera stood up and glanced around the shop. He was curious about the machines.

  Bartlett must have sensed his curiosity. “Have you been inside a lapidary shop before?”

  Rivera shook his head. “No. This is a first for me.”

  “Would you like the grand tour?”

  “Thanks. I sure would.”

  Bartlett made an all-encompassing gesture. “These machines are expensive, so most members of the club can’t afford them. They all have their Dremels, of course, but few have machines like these.”

  “Dremels?”

  “It’s a brand name. They’re hand-held rotary tools for drilling, grinding, brushing, and so forth. Rockhounds take them into the field when they’re exploring for rocks. They also take along small hammers and picks to split open interesting-looking specimens.”

  Bartlett took Rivera to each machine and explained its use. There were grinders, acid baths, pressure washers, cutting machines, polishing machines, rotary tumblers, microscopes, and sanders. Bartlett was generous with his time. He showed Rivera before and after samples of what each machine could do to a rock specimen. It was a new world to the deputy.

  “How often do you go rockhounding?”

  “It varies. Right now, I’ve got so much raw material here that I spend all my time processing rocks. I haven’t been out in the backcountry looking for new specimens in over a month.”

  Bartlett guided Rivera to a corner of the room with two unusual-looking machines mounted on a table. “This machine is for making cabochons, and this one makes spheres,” said Bartlett. “With these, you can take some pretty ordinary-looking rocks and turn them into beautiful ornaments.”

  “What’s a cabochon?”

  It’s a gemstone but instead of having facets, it’s smooth all over. You often see them hanging from necklaces or earrings.” He held up a sa
mple cabochon. It was translucent blue, two inches long, and had a teardrop shape.

  “And that came out of a rock?”

  Bartlett laughed. “Yes, it did. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  “It sure is. Are all these machines yours?”

  “I own most of them and a few are on loan from other members. Any member of the club is free to come to the shop and use any machine, but with two caveats. First, I must put them through a training session on the proper operation of the machine, and second, I must be satisfied they understand everything I’ve taught them. These machines are getting pretty old, and I don’t want to see them mistreated by unskilled hands. Some of them will break if operated improperly.”

  Bartlett showed him some rock specimens in various stages of processing and summarized the steps used to bring out their color and beauty. Rivera inspected them and asked questions about each—where it was found, what type of rock it was, how it was cut and polished to best advantage, and what would become of it. Bartlett picked up a sample of galena. On the inside it was a shiny purple color, on the outside a dull light brown that appeared to be an ordinary rock. Next was a septarian nodule. Bartlett explained that it was a sand concretion of a mud ball with crisscrossing cracks which in geologic time had become filled with crystallized yellow calcite. “These look fabulous as spheres when they are polished,” he said. He picked up another specimen he identified as coprolite. It looked like a plain rock on the outside but when cut in half, it exposed a creamy white interior with orange designs running throughout. Bartlett pointed out samples of agate, opal, turquoise, lapis lazuli, and petrified wood. To Rivera’s eye, each piece looked like a work of art. He was excited to have discovered this new world and sensed that he had taken his first few steps in becoming a rockhound.

  10

  RIVERA WAS THINKING about Iggy Webb as he left the lapidary shop and walked across the street toward Pete Pearson’s residence. He could easily understand how Webb had become enamored with rockhounding. With only the meager exposure Rivera had received from Roy Bartlett and the people at the rock show, he was feeling that same pull himself. Discovering the world of rockhounding had been a lucky break for Webb. He’d managed to educate himself and then make a modest living dealing in rocks. His new life was simple but satisfying and interesting. The pressures of his previous life in Baltimore had faded, and he’d found a vocation he loved.

  Then somebody killed him. Had his past caught up with him? Had the bad characters in his old life tracked him down and gotten even for some transgression he’d committed in the criminal world? Or had he gotten into some new kind of trouble in Utah? Rivera couldn’t be sure. At this early stage of his investigation, he had insufficient information to postulate any kind of a sensible theory. He would just have to keep digging and follow the facts wherever they took him. Only one thing seemed certain—the money found in Webb’s freezer had something to do with his death.

  Rivera spotted a man trimming bushes in front of the brick house across the street. Parked in the driveway next to the house was a brand new, tan Dodge Ram 1500 pickup truck, so new that it still had temporary license plates. Rivera introduced himself.

  “I’m Pete Pearson. Nice to meet you.” Pearson looked to be in his mid-fifties. He was tall, lanky, and bald with a pronounced nose and a crooked smile. He was wearing jeans and a yellow, long-sleeved T-shirt with the words Geology Rocks stenciled on the front. A faint scent of marijuana smoke emanated from his clothing.

  Rivera remembered having seen him last year when he’d taken Gloria to Moab’s Backyard Theatre for an evening of music and relaxation. Pearson played the mandolin and sang as part of a talented bluegrass band.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Iggy Webb.”

  Pearson’s smile disappeared. “Yeah, I figured that’s why you were here.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe the news. Who would want to harm Iggy? It just doesn’t make sense.”

  They sat down on the steps leading to the front door.

  Rivera started the conversation on a friendly note. “I saw you one time playing mandolin with a bluegrass band at the Backyard Theatre.”

  Pearson grinned. “Right. We play there once a week. Sometimes we get a gig at Red Cliffs Lodge or at one of the venues in Grand Junction. And we play during the Farmers Market at Swanny City Park.”

  “Are you originally from Moab?”

  “Yes, I am. Born and raised. I spent twenty-five years in the Navy as an electronics technician and after retirement I was ready to come back home. I love it here. I couldn’t find a job in Moab using my electronics background, so I’m getting by on my Navy pension and the little bit of money I make from playing in the band. In a pinch, I wait tables at one of the restaurants around town. I’m sure glad I bought this little house when I did. I couldn’t afford it now.”

  “Yeah. Things have been getting more expensive in Moab the past few years. That’s a nice-looking pickup in the driveway.”

  “I love it. It took a big chunk of my savings to buy it. It was on sale, and I just couldn’t resist.”

  Rivera took out his notepad and pen. “How long had you known Iggy?”

  “Since he came to Moab—I’d guess that was five or six years ago.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  Pearson thought about the question. “I knew him fairly well as a rockhound, but that was about the extent of it. To tell you the truth, I never thought there was much else to know about the guy. He struck me as a one-dimensional character. It seemed like his whole life was about rocks.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “At the lapidary shop. Roy Bartlett brought him in there one day and introduced him to a few of us hounds. He was a nice fellow—somewhat quiet and reserved, but very interested in learning everything he could about what we were doing. We all tried to teach him what we knew. He was a good student. I felt a little sorry for him at first because he was always broke, but he was smart enough to figure out how to make a living from selling rocks. Roy sort of became his mentor and helped him develop his rockhounding chops.”

  “Did he have any enemies?”

  “Not to my knowledge. He was a very likable guy.”

  “I know next to nothing about being a rockhound. Is there anything going on in the world of rockhounding that’s controversial? Something that might cause friction or animosity between people?”

  “Not really. Sometimes a rockhound might wander onto private property to collect rocks. Or wander onto another rockhound’s BLM lease. That kind of stuff causes arguments and warnings and all that, but it doesn’t rise to the level of murder. At least as far as I know.”

  “What if there were valuable gems or minerals involved? Something like diamonds or gold or uranium?”

  Pearson shrugged. “Rockhounds don’t normally run into that kind of stuff. I guess if they did, the stakes might be high enough to provoke murder. But I’ve never heard of anything like that, and I’ve been a rockhound all my life.”

  “Where did Iggy go rockhounding?”

  “All over Utah and the rest of the Four Corners area. He’d usually be gone for a week or two, maybe six times a year. Roy and I sometimes took him on trips with us. Sometimes Stagger Lee would join us if he was able to get off work. A few months ago, we all went to Topaz Mountain and found some pretties up there. Iggy came along and did well for himself.”

  “Did Iggy have a girlfriend?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I never heard him mention one.”

  “Do you know of any friends he had outside the rockhound community?”

  Pearson thought about the question. “Just Shirley, his landlady.”

  “Was he involved in any activities outside of rockhounding?”

  “I never heard him mention anything like that.”

  “What can you tell me about his financial situation?”

  Pearson laughed. “Well, it wasn’t good, that’s for damn sure. Like I said, Iggy was always broke.” />
  Rivera asked a few more questions about Webb but wasn’t getting much more information than he already had. He folded up his notepad, stuffed it into his shirt pocket, and stood up.

  “Roy gave me the grand tour of the lapidary shop. It whetted my appetite for becoming a rockhound. I had no idea about the range of colors and patterns found in ordinary rocks.”

  “It’s not just for their beauty that people collect them. Some rocks and minerals also have metaphysical healing properties.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Crystals have healing power. And different types of crystals help cure different types of ailments.”

  Rivera was interested in learning more. He sat down. “I’ve never heard that before.”

  “Yeah. It’s a known fact. Since ancient times, people have been using crystals as a form of medicine. I think it started with the Buddhists.”

  “How are they used for healing?”

  “You just carry one in your pocket or keep it in your house.”

  “What kind of crystals?”

  “Well, for example, clear quartz is known to increase energy. It also helps with memory and concentration.”

  “Interesting.” Rivera had doubts about the crystal theory, but he also had a healthy respect for traditional remedies used for treating physical and psychological maladies. As a boy growing up, he’d spent a great deal of time with his grandmother whose close friend was a curandera. The healing woman’s curing rituals flew in the face of science-based medicine, but they were often effective. Now as an adult, Rivera believed her treatments had been effective only because the patient had faith in the curandera and her skills. Regardless of the reason, her treatments were effective. He figured the same might be true of crystals. If you believed they work, then that belief alone might produce the desired results.