Final Arrangements

by Rich Curtin

  “Okay, Dave. Thanks.”

  Rivera returned to his office, wondering how someone could just disappear like that. There had to be a way to chase her down. An idea flashed in his mind—if there was anyone in the world who could find her, Chris Carey could. He picked up the phone and punched in his number.

  “Chris, it’s Manny. I need some more help.”

  “Sure, Manny. What’s up?”

  “I’m trying to track down a lady named Dorothy Ellison. She may have a different name now. Official channels have been unable to locate her. She was raised in the Moab Home for Needy Children and graduated from Grand County High School thirty-five years ago. She had once expressed a desire to live in Colorado. Have you got any ideas on how I might find her?”

  “You’ve got lots of other things to do. Why don’t you let me try to find her for you?”

  That was the answer Rivera was hoping for. “Great, Chris. Thanks for the help.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She was a pretty cheerleader who was in the same high school graduating class as Arthur Atkinson and Frank Upton. She dated Upton until Atkinson stole her away. That seems to have started all the animosity between the two of them. I’d like to talk with her and learn more about the details of their feud. Maybe I’ll learn something useful, maybe not, but it’s worth a shot. I’m pretty short of ideas on both cases right now, so anything would help.”

  “Okay, I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something.”

  Now Rivera sat at his desk, constructing a timeline of events to make sure he had all the facts of the investigation straight in his mind. The exercise was something he did for each one of his cases. He did it because that’s what Sheriff Bradshaw had taught him to do. In many cases, the exercise was helpful in revealing inconsistencies in the facts or suggesting new lines of thought. Sometimes, it revealed questions that should have been asked but weren’t. In this case, it didn’t seem to help at all.

  His cell phone rang.

  “Deputy Rivera speaking.”

  “This is Doctor Gerald Holmes from Grand Junction returning your call.”

  “Oh yes, thank you, Doctor. I’m investigating the murder of a patient of yours. A man named Frank Upton. I saw an invoice from your office in his home and I was wondering if you could tell me something about what you were treating him for.”

  “Oh, my gosh, I hadn’t heard he was murdered. What a terrible shame.” There was a long pause. “But maybe it was a blessing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was treating Frank but I’m afraid there was little I could do for him. His problem was too far advanced.”

  “Were you counseling him for some kind of emotional problem?”

  “Counseling him? No, not at all. I’m an oncologist. I was treating him for cancer.”

  “Cancer? So you’re not a psychiatrist?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Okay. That’s not what I was expecting to hear.” Rivera gathered his thoughts. “What can you tell me about Frank’s condition?”

  “Frank was dying. He had developed stage IV malignant melanoma. It was an aggressive cancer which had spread to his lungs, liver, and pancreas through his lymph node system.”

  “Oh.” Rivera was dumbfounded. Someone had killed Upton when it was totally unnecessary. All they had to do was wait for him to die. “How long did he have to live?”

  “I told him four or five months at the most. Probably less. And that was a little over a month ago. I discussed chemotherapy and radiation options with him. I told him that even with treatment, the chances of a cure were poor, but it might prolong his life. I explained that the cancer was quite advanced.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he didn’t want any treatment. I said I understood and then told him about opioid pills and morphine patches which would help him deal with the pain, but he declined those too. I said the pain could become quite intense and strongly recommended he use the pills or the patches. Still, he declined. I figured he would change his mind after some thought or perhaps after the pain started, but I never heard from him again.”

  Rivera thanked the doctor for the information and hung up. He left the office, climbed into his vehicle, and headed home after a long day. That evening, he couldn’t get Frank Upton off his mind. Why would someone kill him if he was dying? There seemed to be only one answer—the shooter didn’t know he had terminal cancer. Perhaps no one knew but Upton and his oncologist. Upton had lived a tough life. Rivera found himself feeling sorry for the man.

  23

  THE NEXT MORNING, Rivera was sitting in his regular booth at the Rim Rock Diner ordering breakfast. After the usual banter with Betty, she asked him how the Iggy Webb case was coming along. Rivera knew that regulations prohibited discussing cases with civilians, but he’d found over the years it sometimes paid dividends. That was especially true with Betty. Moab was a small town and the rumor mill was high-bandwidth and efficient. Sometimes he was able to learn facts he would otherwise miss if he adhered to the rules. He knew Betty could be trusted. And her expertise in overhearing other people’s conversations and learning who was doing what to whom was unmatched by mere mortals.

  Rivera looked around the diner to ensure no one else was within earshot. He spoke in a low voice. “Just between you and me, I’m not making much progress. The Webb case has led me to take another look at the Frank Upton case since both of the men were members of the same rockhound club. But I haven’t been able to learn much about Upton’s private life. It seems like he had no close friends, so there’s no one I can interview to learn more about him. He’s kind of a mystery.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  Rivera looked up from his meal. “Did you know him?”

  She rolled her eyes. “What would you like to know?”

  “Well, for starters, did he have any close friends?”

  “He had one I know of.”

  Rivera put down his coffee. “Who was that?”

  “Her name is Darlene. She owns the thrift shop around the corner from the Apache Motel. She’s married but was carrying on with Upton. She should know him better than anyone.”

  “Well, thanks, Betty. That’s very helpful. I’ll pay her a visit.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you, Manny? The Rim Rock Diner is like a black hole for gossip. Sooner or later, any information worth knowing ends up here.” She smiled and pinched his cheek. “Your first step in any investigation should be to consult with Betty. Betty is always here to see to your needs.”

  Rivera grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “By the way, did you hear the news about your old boss?”

  “Which old boss?”

  “Denny Campbell.”

  “What about him?”

  She produced a rueful expression. “I hear a couple of the county councilmen are encouraging him to run for sheriff in the fall.”

  That was the last thing Rivera wanted to hear. He fell silent as he processed the possibility. There was no way in hell he would work for that man again.

  “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” said Betty. “Keep in mind, it’s only a rumor.” She took out her order pad. “You want the usual?”

  “Please.”

  She jotted down the order and left.

  Denny Campbell. The boss from hell. Rivera grimaced at the thought. If the rumor were true, he had a real problem. It was May and the wedding was scheduled for mid-October. The election was in November. If Rivera and Gloria decided to live in Moab after they were married, and then Campbell was elected in November, they would have to pull up stakes right after they settled down. Rivera would have to find work elsewhere—maybe New Mexico, where Rivera had a standing job offer from Gloria’s boss. Now he had another potential problem to worry about. He sat there steaming for a long while, then decided the best thing to do was set the problem aside, discuss it with Gloria later, and continue concentrating on his investigation. Th
ere was little he could do to affect the outcome of the upcoming election.

  While he waited for breakfast, Rivera sipped his coffee and reflected on Betty. Despite her overt, playful flirtations, she had become one of his closest friends in Moab. He’d met her right after he moved here. On his first day as a deputy, he came to the Rim Rock Diner for breakfast because he’d heard the food was good and the prices reasonable. Betty waited on him that day and had been serving him breakfast ever since. Without Betty in the morning, a workday just wouldn’t seem right.

  After breakfast, he drove to the Apache Motel and parked in front of the historic dwelling where John Wayne had stayed while making western movies filmed in the Four Corners area. He walked around the corner to Darlene’s Thrift Store and entered. Tiny bells jingled as the door opened and closed. He glanced around the interior and noted the shop sold used items, mostly clothing and small appliances. The place was empty except for a short, middle-aged lady rearranging items on shelves in the back of the store.

  “Excuse me, are you Darlene?”

  She looked at Rivera and smiled. “Yes, I am. Can I help you?” Her eyes were heavily made up and her shoulder-length hair was bright red, an obvious dye job. She was wearing tight jeans and a flowery blouse, and her long, light-blue fingernails were accented with gold-colored designs.

  “I’m conducting an investigation and I’d like to ask you a few questions about Frank Upton. I understand you were a friend of his.” He pulled his notebook and pen from his shirt pocket.

  The smile on her face faded. “Yes, I knew him. Shame about his death.”

  “What was your relationship with him?”

  What remained of her smile devolved into a look of annoyance. “You know damn well what my relationship with Frank was. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

  “I need to hear it from you.”

  “My husband is an oilfield worker in Saudi Arabia. He’s gone for a year at a time. And when he’s here, we don’t get along so well. So Frank and I were seeing each other for a while. That answer your question?”

  “For a while?”

  “About six months. I broke it off a few weeks ago. Frank was no prize. He was too sullen and only came around when he got lonely. Our relationship didn’t last long. He was only marginally better company than my husband.” She shook her head and produced a disgusted expression. “Men.”

  “Did he tell you about his cancer?”

  “Oh, yeah. The last time I saw him, he told me he was going to die. I asked him what in the world he was talking about. He said his doctor told him he had malignant melanoma, that it was very advanced, that he only had a few months to live, and that it would be very painful. Frank said he planned to commit suicide rather than go through the pain. I tried to talk him out of it, but he said his mind was made up. Then someone goes and shoots him. What irony.”

  “Do you know if he had any relatives?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Any close friends besides you?”

  “No. He did some rockhounding. I heard him mention a rockhound club a couple of times. And by the way, I didn’t think of him as close. He was just another mistake I made. I was lonely and he was nothing more than a diversion.”

  “I understand.”

  “I hope you’ll keep all this confidential.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  Rivera returned to his vehicle and sat there thinking about Upton’s plight. He’d planned to commit suicide but obviously that is not what happened—no one shoots themselves in the back of the head twice. And there was no gun found at the scene. So there was no question that someone else had pulled the trigger.

  Had Upton asked someone to shoot him? That was a distinct possibility. It would certainly be easier than doing it yourself. But who would he ask? A trusted friend, perhaps? Could Atkinson have been the friend recruited to do the deed? That didn’t seem right—the two men hated each other. Possibly it was one of Upton’s acquaintances from the rockhound club. Iggy Webb came to mind as a possibility. Or perhaps Upton’s stated plan to take his own life had been preempted by Atkinson who had a reason to kill him. Rivera had no compelling reason to believe one scenario over another, but Upton telling Darlene he intended to commit suicide was an interesting new fact.

  Rivera decided his next step would be to revisit the lapidary shop and find out what the rockhounds could tell him about Upton. Maybe Upton and Webb had spent time there together processing rocks.

  24

  RIVERA PARKED IN front of Roy Bartlett’s house and walked back to the lapidary shop. Roy and his two buddies, Pete Pearson and Stagger Lee, were hunched over their machines, cleaning, cutting, and polishing rock specimens. Roy Bartlett was the first to spot Rivera. He shut off his machine and pushed his goggles to the top of his head.

  “Howdy, Deputy.”

  The others noticed him now and did likewise.

  “Hi. I’m glad I caught all three of you here.”

  “Got some more questions about Iggy?” asked Pearson.

  “No. This time I’m interested in Frank Upton. I understand he was also a member of the club.”

  “That’s right,” said Pearson.

  “Did he come here often?”

  “I’d say occasionally would be a better word,” said Bartlett. “He was a talented rockhound but didn’t come around nearly as often as the rest of us.”

  “When was the last time you saw him here?”

  “About two months ago. I wondered why he quit coming.”

  “How well did you guys know him?”

  “Frank usually kept to himself,” said Bartlett. I don’t think any of us knew him really well. He sometimes came here to work on his rock specimens, but I noticed over the years that if there were other people in the shop, Frank would usually find a reason to depart. I mean, he wasn’t rude about it; he would just excuse himself and leave. He was a quiet guy and tended to avoid company, but he was one hell of a rockhound. One of the best in the club.” He looked at the other two. “Would you guys agree?”

  Pearson nodded his concurrence. “Of the three of us, Roy knew him best. I’d have to agree with his assessment.”

  “I don’t know,” said Lee “I thought some of his sudden departures from the shop were a bit over the top. More than once when I arrived here, Upton abruptly turned off his machine and left without a word. I kinda felt offended.”

  “My, my,” said Bartlett, smiling. “I didn’t realize our rockhound buddy was so sensitive.”

  Pearson laughed and slapped Lee on the back. “C’mon Stagger, he wasn’t that bad.”

  “Frank Upton was one of those people who flirted with humanity only when it was absolutely necessary,” said Lee.

  “Did any of you guys know him outside of the club?” asked Rivera.

  “Not me,” said Bartlett. I’d see him here and at some of the Utah rock shows. Occasionally I’d run into him in town.”

  Pearson and Lee said pretty much the same thing.

  “Have any of you ever been to his place in the mountains?”

  “I was out there a couple of times,” said Bartlett. “Last time I was there, he was showing me a jar full of precious opals he’d collected in Nevada. I tried to buy some of them from him, but he wouldn’t sell.”

  “When was that?”

  “About five months ago.”

  “You haven’t been back since?”

  “No. No reason to go.”

  Rivera turned to Pearson. “How about you?”

  “Once, about two years ago. He had some maps I wanted to see. They showed the locations of all the abandoned gold mines in Utah and western Colorado. We talked about doing a little nugget hunting, but I never heard back from him again.”

  Rivera jotted that into his notepad and looked at Lee.

  “I’ve never been to his place,” said Lee. “And I’ve never had a desire to go.”

  “Did he have any close friends that you know of?”

  They all tho
ught and shook their heads. “I heard a rumor a while back that he had a girlfriend,” said Lee.

  “Do you know her name?’

  “No. And I doubt it’s true. I can’t imagine what any woman would see in someone like Upton.”

  Lee looked at his watch. “We need to leave for the rock show soon. We’re helping to set it up today, and we don’t want to be late. Our new president, Alice Russell, wants everything done right on time. She’s a stickler about it. Yesterday, I was supposed to deliver some signs to the arena and showed up ten minutes late. She scolded me like an angry squirrel.”

  Bartlett and Pearson laughed and nodded in concurrence.

  “Okay. Anything else you guys can tell me?”

  “Was Frank’s rock collection intact?” asked Bartlett.

  “Yes, as far as I could tell.”

  “His rocks had some value. Either the shooter wasn’t there to rob him, or he didn’t know anything about rocks.”

  “Do you guys know anything about Upton’s early life? He went to high school here in Moab.”

  They all shook their heads.

  “Ever hear of a girl named Dorothy Ellison?”

  More head shaking.

  “One last question. Did Frank Upton and Iggy Webb know each other?”

  “Sure,” said Bartlett. “I’ve seen them in here together on several occasions. I don’t know if they spoke much with each other, though. Frank tended to just work and keep to himself.”

  “Well that’s all for now,” said Rivera. “Thanks.”

  As Rivera started to leave, Lee spoke up. “I’m curious. Word has it that Arthur Atkinson is in jail for killing Frank. Why are you still investigating it?”

  “Just tying up some loose ends,” said Rivera, but he was beginning to wonder the same thing himself.

  25

  RIVERA WAS SITTING at his desk, reading through his notes and trying to organize the few facts he had into a coherent chronology when he heard a soft knock on his door. He looked up and saw Dr. Fromkin meekly peeking around the door jamb. He was holding a manila envelope.