by Rich Curtin
“And jasper absorbs negative vibes and reduces stress,” continued Pearson. “Turquoise brings good luck, and obsidian helps get rid of emotional negativity. Tiger’s eye helps rid the mind of anxiety and boosts motivation. I used to be uptight a lot of the time, so I started carrying a small jasper cabochon in my pocket. Now that old anxiety is pretty much gone.”
Rivera wondered if the marijuana had something to do with that.
“I don’t understand how it works,” said Pearson, “but the point is it works. There’s a high demand for these types of crystals.”
Rivera drove to City Market thinking about the curing power of crystals. He smiled. Maybe there was a type of crystal that would help him shed a few pounds.
He located Stagger Lee in the stockroom area in the rear of the store. Lee looked to be in his early fifties. He had dark hair with traces of gray, a goatee, and a wiry build. He was opening a cardboard box full of iceberg lettuce heads.
Rivera introduced himself. “Got a few minutes to answer some questions?”
“Sure. You don’t mind if I keep working while we talk, do you?”
“Not at all. I’m investigating the death of Iggy Webb and I’m trying to learn all I can about him. I understand you knew him.”
Lee kept at his chores and spoke without looking up. “I knew Iggy as a rockhound. That’s about all. We made a few rockhounding trips together and sometimes saw each other in the club’s lapidary shop. Roy Bartlett could probably tell you a lot more about him than I can. Roy was Iggy’s mentor.”
Rivera probed Lee with the same questions he’d asked Bartlett and Pearson but was unable to learn anything new.
“How was Webb getting along financially?”
Lee scratched his head. “I’m not sure. He told me once that he was selling more rocks than he used to. He said it was because more and more people were visiting Moab lately. He had a monopoly—no one else was selling rocks on the street. He also said he was thinking about starting a mail order business in rocks. I think he must have been doing pretty well, though. He told me a few days before he died that he was thinking about buying a new motorhome. Those things are pretty expensive. I had no idea his business was anywhere near that profitable.” Lee thought for a long moment. “Up until his death, Iggy was very fortunate in a way.”
“Fortunate how?”
“I mean he was a lucky man. He was able to spend as much time as he wanted rockhounding. As much as I’d like to, I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
He laughed. “My wife would divorce me if I spent any more time on rockhounding than I do now. Rockhounding is addictive. It puts a lot of pressure on a marriage. Roy’s wife left him fifteen years ago because of it. She felt neglected. And she was, I guess. Pete’s been divorced for about ten years—I think for the same reason. So I’ve got to limit the time I spend in the backcountry or the lapidary shop—I don’t want to lose my wife. But Iggy was lucky. He could hound twenty-four seven.”
“Was he associating with anyone you would consider a bad character?”
Lee looked up, shrugged. “Not really. He asked me once where he could get some good marijuana locally.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I gave him the name of a local source, but I told him he could just as easily drive to Colorado where weed’s legal. It’s only an hour away.”
“Care to share the name of the dealer with me?” Rivera guessed Pete Pearson might be his source. And Pearson probably got it from one of his bandmates.
Lee laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m not a snitch.”
Rivera smiled. He didn’t really care who used marijuana. In his mind, it was just a plant that people have been smoking for centuries. Besides being a source of relaxation, it also had medicinal properties. His grandmother used to grow it in her backyard. She would mix the bud extract with olive oil and rub the salve on his grandfather’s arthritic knees to reduce the pain. To Rivera, marijuana was less of a problem than alcohol. Those who sold drugs were a different matter, though. They preyed on the young and dealt in dangerous, even lethal drugs. He would chase them down and arrest them in a heartbeat.
Rivera thanked Lee and left. He was getting valuable information from Webb’s rockhounding friends about his character and his interests, but nothing that suggested he was involved in illegal or shady activities. And none of them seemed to be aware of the money Webb had recently gotten his hands on. Maybe Alice Russell, president of the rockhound club, could tell him something he didn’t already know.
He jumped into his pickup and headed for her home in Castle Valley.
11
THE SCENIC DRIVE upriver to Castle Valley was one of Rivera’s favorites. The river and the road were walled in by looming red rock cliffs on both sides. The green foliage along the riverbanks provided a striking contrast to the red rock. The river was running high due to snowmelt in the Rocky Mountains, and young people in multicolored kayaks were running the rapids.
As he drove, Rivera considered what he had learned so far about Iggy Webb’s acquaintances. He seemed to have a small circle of friends—his landlady Shirley Miller and his three rockhound buddies. The rockhounds seemed like normal citizens who were intensely interested in their hobby. None of them seemed particularly well off except that Pete Pearson had recently bought a brand-new Ram pickup. It was a beauty, and Rivera wasn’t sure he could afford one on his meager deputy sheriff’s salary.
Eighteen miles upriver, Rivera turned right at an opening in the cliffs. The road rose upward and wound through a field of red rock formations, then descended into the picturesque community of Castle Valley, a settlement consisting of several dozen homes on large acreage tracts. On his left were towering buttes and pinnacles with names like Castle Rock, Priest and Nuns, and the Rectory. On his right was Porcupine Rim, a long expanse of red rock cliffs that loomed over the valley on its southwestern margin. Farther up the valley was Dr. Pudge Devlin’s vineyard and winery, the source of his locally famous Porcupine Rim Merlot. Beyond that was a tall, conically shaped rock called Round Mountain, though to Rivera it seemed barely more than a hill against the backdrop of the majestic LaSal Mountains rising behind it.
Rivera parked in front of Alice Russell’s house. A pair of ravens in the front yard stared at him for a long moment, then flapped their shiny black wings and slowly rose into the sky. The house was a modest, white clapboard structure with a cactus garden in front and two pickup trucks in the driveway. Hummingbird feeders hung from the eaves of the house, and there was a concrete birdbath in the yard. It was a perfect location for a home—there were world-class views in every direction.
As he started up the walkway, the front door opened, and a woman stepped outside. She was fortyish, blonde, and slender. In one hand was a cigarette, in the other a thick briefcase. She wore a purposeful, determined expression.
Rivera waved. “Alice Russell?”
She twitched, as if startled. “Yes. Can I help you?”
He introduced himself and skipped the preliminaries as she seemed to be in a hurry. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Iggy Webb.”
She set down the briefcase and looked at her watch. “Okay, but could we make it quick? I’m due at the arena in thirty minutes and I don’t want to be late.” She took a hard drag on her cigarette.
“I’m investigating Webb’s murder and trying to learn all I can about him. How well did you know him?”
She blew out a cloud of smoke. “Oh dear, that’s all been so upsetting. I’ve only been president of the Southeast Utah Rockhound Club for six months, and this is the first rock and mineral show I’ve been in charge of. I’m trying to make it the best ever.” She grimaced. “I’ve been so stressed out, with everything that’s been going on. The setup is running late, some of the volunteers didn’t show up, and now this killing. To tell you the truth, I’m sorry I agreed to become president of the club. I should have listened to my husband.”
Rivera tried
to get her back on track. “Were you close to Iggy?”
She took another drag. Her hands were shaking. “I barely knew him. I met him a couple of times at the lapidary shop. I honestly can’t tell you much about him. He seemed like a nice fellow.”
Rivera wondered why she was so upset if she’d hardly known Webb. “I don’t mean to pry, but you seem very shaken, yet you say you hardly knew him.”
“It’s a combination of things. Being in charge of the rock and mineral show is stressful enough, but it comes at a time when two of my members have been murdered.”
“Two of your members?”
“Yes. First Frank Upton and last night Iggy Webb. It’s just very hard to cope with.”
Rivera recognized Upton’s name. He was the one murdered while Rivera was on leave in New Mexico. “Frank Upton was also a member of the club?”
“Yes, Frank had been a member for many years. He was kind of a loner, so he rarely came to our meetings. Occasionally he worked in the lapidary shop. He was standoffish, to say the least, but he was a very knowledgeable and competent rockhound.”
Rivera was surprised and a little shocked. This new fact changed his whole line of thinking. “Okay, thanks. That’s all I need. I’ll let you get to your meeting now.”
He stuffed his notebook into his shirt pocket and left in a hurry. Two murders in a small town in one week, and both victims were members of the same rockhound club—that seemed like too much of a coincidence. Perhaps there was a connection between the two crimes. He decided he needed to review the case file of the Frank Upton murder. If indeed there was a connection, the details of that case might suggest lines of thought which would help him break the Webb case. But before doing so, he decided he’d better brief the sheriff on his plans. Moab was a small town. Word would soon get out that a review of the closed Upton investigation was taking place, and that would likely stoke the fires of the county councilmen who were claiming she’d made a big mistake in arresting Arthur Atkinson. The hint of a review was bound to cause her significant problems.
As he drove alongside the river back to Moab, he wondered why none of the three rockhounds he’d talked to about Webb had mentioned that Frank Upton had also been a rockhound. The answer came to him quickly—they all assumed he knew. They had no way of knowing he’d been out of town when the Upton business had taken place.
12
RIVERA WALKED DOWN the hallway to Sheriff Anderson’s office, wondering how she would react to the news he was about to deliver. Images of his previous bosses flashed in his mind—he knew how they would react. Leroy Bradshaw, the near-perfect boss who was devoted to the community and taught Rivera most of what he knew about conducting an investigation, was in private practice now as an investigator in Santa Fe. He was ethical, compassionate, and insightful. He would have immediately reached the same conclusion Rivera did and would begin asking relevant questions and suggesting possible scenarios. Then came Denny Campbell, the boss from hell. He and Rivera tried to avoid each other the whole time Rivera worked for him. He was lazy, unethical, and uncaring. He would have blown Rivera off and headed for the golf course. And now, there was Louise Anderson. She was fairly new on the job, and Rivera was just getting to know her. He didn’t know what kind of reaction to expect.
He knocked on the open door of her office. She looked up from the file she was reading and waved him in.
“Where are you on the Webb case, Deputy?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. We know Iggy Webb was a rockhound. He made his living finding rocks in the backcountry, cutting and polishing them to bring out their color, and selling them to tourists.” Rivera sat down in one of the visitor’s chairs in front of the sheriff’s desk. “He belonged to a local club called the Southeast Utah Rockhound Club. Ever heard of it?”
“No. Why is that important?”
“Frank Upton was a member of that same club.”
Anderson’s eyebrows rose a quarter of an inch. Then the blood seemed to drain from her face. “Are you saying there’s some kind of a connection between the two killings?”
“I don’t know. Two men belonging to the same club in the same small town are murdered within a week of each other—that seems like more than a coincidence.”
Anderson sat back in her chair and folded her arms. “Well, it could be just that—a coincidence. Lots of people in Moab collect rocks. Coincidences do happen.” She sounded unconvinced of what she was saying.
“Collecting rocks and rockhounding aren’t the same thing. Rockhounds find the rocks, clean them, cut them, and polish them. It’s much more technical than just picking up pretty rocks in the backcountry and bringing them home.”
“It could still be a coincidence.”
“Sure, but it’s something I need to look into. I just thought you should know before I start reviewing the Upton case.”
“Frank Upton was doing everything in his power to block the permitting of Arthur Atkinson’s new subdivision in Spanish Valley. Atkinson hated Upton’s guts. He’d threatened Upton with a gun more than once. The bullet that killed Upton was fired from Atkinson’s gun. And Atkinson’s prints were on the gun. It’s open and shut, Deputy.”
“Then there shouldn’t be a problem. But I do need to look for a connection. It might help me break the Webb case.”
“In the eyes of many Grand County residents, a review of my investigation will call into question the arrest I made. And I have an election coming up in six months.” She shook her head with a look of disgust. “Two of our county councilmen have been on my case since I arrested Atkinson. They’re good friends with him, and maybe more than just friends.” She was staring past Rivera at the wall behind him, almost talking to herself. “They seem awfully anxious to approve his new subdivision. I wonder what’s really going on there. Maybe I should be investigating them.”
Rivera wasn’t sure where she was going with all that. “I’ll try to keep my investigation low profile.”
“This is a small town. It won’t take long for everyone to learn what’s going on.”
“Probably right.”
Anderson sighed. “Well, do what you have to do. You know where to find the case file.”
13
WHEN RIVERA RETURNED to his office, he found Dr. Pudge Devlin slouching in one of his visitor’s chairs with a manila folder in his lap. Resting in the center of Rivera’s desk was a bottle of red wine.
“Hi, Pudge.”
Devlin gestured toward the bottle. “I brought you some wine. I hope you’ll share it with your lady friend.”
“Well, thank you, Pudge. I appreciate that.” Rivera picked up the bottle and read the label. It was a 2016 Porcupine Rim Merlot which he knew was one of Devlin’s finest vintages. He wondered what had moved Devlin to bring it. Gifts of wine from Devlin were usually reserved for special occasions.
“I stopped by to drop off a copy of my autopsy report on the Iggy Webb death.” He placed the folder on Rivera’s desk. “You don’t need to read it. Cause of death was one bullet to the chest.” He placed a clear plastic envelope on the desk. “And here’s the bullet.”
Rivera held the bag up to the light. “Looks like a .38 caliber. I’ll send it to the state crime lab and have them take a look at it.”
“Manny, I’ve got some news. I haven’t made it public yet, so keep it under your Stetson.”
“What’s the news?”
“I’ve decided I’m going to retire as Medical Examiner of Grand County.”
Rivera was surprised and disappointed. He’d been working with Devlin since his first case as a deputy. “Why, Pudge?”
“I just bought another five-acre tract next to the one I own in Castle Valley. I’m going to expand my vineyards. I won’t have much time for dissecting corpses.”
“I’m real sorry to hear that, Pudge. I’ve always enjoyed working with you.”
“Manny, there’s another reason. I find it harder and harder to keep up with today’s technological advances
in pathology. Honestly, I’m not sure anymore that I’m doing the best job that can be done. But don’t worry, I’m always available for you to pick my brain.”
“I’m really gonna miss working with you, Pudge. When are you going to retire?”
“I plan to make the announcement next week, then stay on until they find a replacement.”
“Well, best of luck with the new vineyard.”
“Thanks. I’m looking forward to getting started.” Devlin stood up.
“Before you leave, I’ve got a question for you. Did you perform the autopsy on Frank Upton?”
“Yes, I did. No doubt about the cause of death. Two bullets to the back of the head.”
“What was the caliber of the rounds?”
“Nine-millimeter.”
“A different gun.”
“Right. Why do you ask?”
“I think there’s a chance the two shootings might be connected.”
“Ah. Well, I’ll leave the detective work to you. Right now, I’ve gotta run. I’m late for a wine tasting at my place.”
“Who’s coming to the wine tasting?”
Devlin produced a sheepish look. “Just me.”
Rivera laughed. “Okay, thanks, Pudge.”
After Devlin left, Rivera thought about his old friend. He now understood why Devlin had brought the wine. Today was a special occasion—his retirement from the world of medicine. After all those decades of education, preparation, and practice, it was all coming to an end. It had probably been a tough decision for Devlin to make—the culmination of a career to which he’d devoted his life, and the loss of a large part of his identity. Thankfully, he still had his winemaking to give him purpose. Rivera would miss his talents and good humor, but he knew he would always be welcome to drive out to Castle Valley, drink some fine Merlot with his friend, and talk about whatever was on his mind.
Rivera retrieved the Upton case file and evidence container from the evidence locker and brought them to his office. He refilled his coffee mug and closed the office door to discourage interruptions. As he opened the case file, he thought about the sheriff, wondering if he was about to embark on a journey that would hinder her chances for reelection. He hoped not.
