Final Arrangements

by Rich Curtin

  “Eh, yes, that is correct.”

  “I found a copy of his will that was dated about eight years ago. Did Upton ever update that old will?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did. I’d just come back from Montana. I was attending an attorney’s conference on public land law.” Douglas’s face lit up with a smile and he began gesturing with his hands. “It was fantastic. I stayed at a fancy lodge and made a lot of great connections. I even met an assistant deputy undersecretary from the Interior Department. And the meals were to die for. Yeah, then right after that trip, Frank came in here and made a change to his will. That was just a few days before he died. I’ll be contacting the bank’s trust department later today to initiate the probate process.”

  “May I see the revised will?”

  “Sure. No problem. By the way, you know Adam Dunne with the Bureau of Land Management, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d like to talk with him and see if there are any opportunities for legal work at the BLM. Any way you could help me get a meeting set up?”

  “If you want to meet with Adam, just call him at the BLM office. I’m sure he’ll talk with you.”

  “I just thought it would go better if you kind of introduced us. You know, sort of greased the skids.”

  Rivera was running out of patience. He stood up. “Mr. Douglas, the will revision.”

  “Oh, right, right.” He pressed a button on his intercom and instructed his secretary to bring him the Upton file. She appeared a few seconds later and placed a manila file folder on the desk.

  Douglas opened it, studied the contents for a long moment, and handed the folder to Rivera.

  Rivera sat down and read the revised will. The only change he could see was the addition of Roy Bartlett to the will. Upton had bequeathed $50,000 to Bartlett upon Upton’s death. Rivera was startled to see Bartlett’s name in the will. He compared the old and revised wills, line by line. There were no other changes. After Bartlett received his share, Dorothy Ellison was to receive the balance of the estate with the Moab Home for Needy Children next in line in the event she predeceased Upton.

  Rivera considered the implications. Did this mean Bartlett was the shooter? Not so fast, Rivera reminded himself. Take it one step at a time. First of all, he wondered why he hadn’t seen a copy of the new will in Upton’s file cabinet.

  “Did you give Upton a copy of the new will?”

  “Of course. Signed, witnessed, and notarized. By the way, who is this Dorothy Ellison he left most of his estate to?”

  “Someone he dated in high school.”

  “Do you know how I can get in touch with her?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve got someone working on the problem. If we find her, I’ll let her know you need to speak with her.”

  “Thanks, Manny. I appreciate that.”

  Rivera left the attorney’s office, deciding to return to Upton’s house and search more carefully. If Upton had received a copy of the will, where was it? Had Rivera overlooked the revised version? If not, then Upton might have given it to Roy Bartlett as proof that the will had been modified. That would make sense. Bartlett would have wanted to ascertain that he was named in Upton’s will for the agreed upon fee before he carried out his end of the bargain.

  Rivera shook his head. That couldn’t be right. Roy Bartlett didn’t seem the type who would kill another human being. He was a rockhound through and through and was spending his life doing what he loved. There had to be a lot more to this than Rivera could see now.

  29

  RIVERA CALLED CHRIS CAREY on his cell phone and was transferred to his voice mail. He left a message informing Carey that since Dorothy Ellison was named in Frank Upton’s will, Ralph Douglas, who was Upton’s attorney, wanted to speak with her.

  Before leaving town and heading back into the mountains, Rivera stopped at City Market and spent several minutes looking at items in the toy section, trying to decide which to buy. He finally decided on a small John Deere tractor and a yellow dump truck of matching size. Both toys were made of die-cast metal and had articulating parts so a young boy could use the front end loader on the tractor to fill the bed of the truck with dirt, drive the truck off, and then dump out the contents.

  Rivera remembered how life was when he was a young boy. His parents didn’t have much money to buy toys for their five children, so he and his two brothers and their friends learned to innovate. They would make roads in the pebbles of their driveway and push plastic racecars along the roads, making engine sounds with their mouths, racing around the curves, passing each other, and entertaining themselves for hours. They would create entire worlds from nothing but rocks, pieces of scrap wood, oatmeal boxes, and string. Rivera knew well how fertile a boy’s imagination could be. He grinned as he paid for the toys, thinking how much Billy would enjoy playing with them. The boy would be able to create an entire construction project with these two beauties. Christmas would be coming in May. Rivera felt the first hint of what it was like to be a father.

  As he gained altitude on the mountain roads, his thoughts turned to Gloria and the family they hoped to have some day. A boy and a girl. Maybe more than one of each. He would enjoy raising them, teaching them about life as his parents and grandparents had taught him and, of course, buying them toys and watching them play.

  He arrived at Upton’s house and parked in front. Seeing Billy sitting in his yard brought a smile to his face. He grabbed the paper bag containing the toys and walked across the road.

  Billy looked up at him. “I didn’t get nothin’.”

  Rivera sat down next to the boy. “It’s not Christmas,” he said.

  “But I saw Santa. He didn’t come to my house.” The boy’s lower lip was quivering.

  “Where did you see him?” It was now dawning on Rivera that maybe Billy had actually seen someone who reminded him of Santa. Maybe it wasn’t his imagination.

  “Across the street. He was in the yard talking to Mr. Upton.”

  “Could you hear what they were saying?’

  He shook his head. “They were looking at some papers.”

  The will, thought Rivera. “Did Mr. Upton give the papers to Santa?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “Was Santa wearing red?”

  The boy paused in thought, then shook his head.

  “Did Santa arrive in a vehicle?”

  “No. He was just there.”

  “Where did he come from?”

  Billy shrugged again. “I didn’t get nothin’.”

  Rivera opened the bag and handed the toys to Billy. “These are for you.”

  The boy’s face lit up. He placed the toys in the dirt and lay down next to them. Rivera showed him how to raise, lower, and tilt the front end loader and how to dump the contents of the truck. Billy caught on fast and was soon manipulating the vehicles in his imaginary construction world with his cheek pressed against the ground and his mouth making engine noises. Rivera grinned and stood up. He noticed Annette Benson in the house watching them through the window. She was smiling and mouthing the words thank you.

  Rivera returned to Upton’s yard. Someone who reminded Billy of Santa had met with Upton a few days before his death. Roy Bartlett had a full beard and a full head of curly hair. His hair was more gray than white, but Billy might not have made that distinction. Unlikely as it seemed, it appeared more and more like Bartlett might be the shooter. Upton had changed his will, leaving fifty thousand dollars to Bartlett. Then someone resembling Bartlett visited Upton and left with a copy of the will, thereby ensuring it had been revised. There were a lot of assumptions baked into this scenario, but to Rivera it seemed entirely plausible. However, he knew better than to rush headlong into a theory. The plain fact was it could have been anyone. Beards weren’t unusual in the canyon country—Moab was full of men with facial hair. And, of course, the hair and beard might have been artificial. If someone was being paid to commit murder, he would do everything possible to disguise his id
entity.

  It was also possible that Upton, knowing he was dying, wanted to leave $50,000 to Bartlett to upgrade the equipment in the lapidary shop in appreciation of the time he’d spent there—a kind of rockhound legacy. Right now, Rivera needed facts more than theories.

  He considered the question of how “Santa” had arrived at the Upton residence. In order to conceal his identity, he would certainly not have driven his vehicle to Upton’s house and risked someone remembering the make and model. So how did he transport himself there? He came twice—once to pick up a copy of the revised will, and a second time to kill Upton. On the first occasion, Billy hadn’t remembered seeing a vehicle, just two men talking. On the second occasion—the night Annette Benson heard the shots and looked out her window—she hadn’t seen or heard a vehicle.

  Rivera had an idea. He opened his pickup and pulled a bundle of maps from the door pocket. He extracted the LaSal Mountains map, spread it across the fender of his vehicle, and studied it. About a half mile from the road leading to Upton’s house was an old, abandoned logging road that led toward Mount Waas. It would have been a simple matter for the shooter to park his vehicle on that road and walk unseen through the dense forest to Upton’s place.

  Rivera folded up the map and stuck it in his back pocket. He grabbed his compass, cell phone, and GPS receiver, and proceeded into the forest. Before he’d progressed two hundred feet, he came upon a boot print left in the soft dirt next to a tiny stream. The print was a size nine or ten and was made by a left-footed boot with a waffle design on the sole and heel. It was headed in the direction of Upton’s house. It appeared that three pebbles had wedge themselves between the ridges of the waffle design. The print was recent, as the edges of the indentations were barely weathered. Rivera took a half dozen photographs from different angles, recorded the GPS coordinates, then continued hiking toward the old logging road.

  He checked his compass as he advanced, following the path of least resistance through the woods, and ducking when necessary under low hanging tree branches. He searched as he walked, his eyes scanning the floor of the forest, looking for additional footprints. He found a second boot print just like the first one about halfway to the logging road. It was not as sharp, as the soil was firmer here. He took several photographs and then continued until he reached the road. He searched a hundred yards up and down the old road for tire prints but found none. There was still enough compressed gravel on the roadway to prevent tread indentations.

  Rivera hiked back to his vehicle and began the long drive out of the mountains and back to Moab. Bartlett had been wearing the same work boots both times Rivera had seen him, so the deputy was eager to check Bartlett’s boots to see if they had the same waffle pattern he had photographed. That way, he could either rule Bartlett in as a suspect or rule him out. One step at a time, Rivera reminded himself.

  His cell phone buzzed. The caller was Chris Carey.

  “Manny, am I calling at a bad time?”

  “Not at all, Chris. I’m just leaving the LaSals and heading back to town. What’s up?”

  “I found Dorothy Ellison. Her married name is Sanders and she lives in Boulder, Colorado.”

  “Good job, Chris. How did you find her?”

  “Actually, it was easy. I tracked her down through the Moab Home for Needy Children. I spoke with Mrs. Densford who runs the place. She said the information in their files was strictly confidential, but she owed me a favor. I helped her track down a runaway from the home about three years ago. Anyway, it turns out Dorothy is one of their biggest donors.”

  “Did you get in touch with her?”

  “Yeah, I called her at her home. I told her Upton had passed away and named her in his will. I didn’t want to go into all the gory details. I’ll leave that to you.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She was surprised. She said she hadn’t talked with Frank since high school.”

  “What’s her phone number? I’ll give her a call.”

  “No need to call her, Manny. She’s on her way to Moab. I told her you wanted to meet with her, and so did Upton’s attorney. She said she’d drive over here today, so she’s probably on the road right now. She’ll be in Moab tomorrow and plans to stop by your office.”

  “Great. I’ll call Upton’s attorney and let him know she’s coming. Thanks very much, Chris.”

  Rivera clicked off and dialed the attorney’s number. He was relieved when no one answered the phone. He left a message about Dorothy’s visit on the answering machine.

  Rivera continued winding his way out of the mountains, feeling like he was finally making some progress. He lowered the window and breathed in the pine-scented air. The sky was clear, and the trees produced dappled shadows on the road. Red, yellow, and purple wildflowers were in bloom everywhere. The pussy willow trees were showing off with lavender blossoms and the prickly pear cactus was blooming with large yellow flowers.

  He smiled as he reflected on his friend Chris Carey. The ace investigative journalist had found Dorothy when the FBI couldn’t.

  30

  RIVERA PARKED IN FRONT of Roy Bartlett’s house and walked up the driveway to the lapidary shop. Next to the shovels, picks, and wheelbarrows leaning against the outside wall were a couple of new additions. A giant geode had been cut in half and the two sections were lying on the ground face up. The exposed interiors were imbedded with dark purple crystals. Rivera judged that the whole geode must have weighed over a hundred pounds. A rare prize, no doubt. He stared at the specimen for a long moment, amazed at its dazzling brilliance in the afternoon sun. Then he stuck his head through the door and peered around the shop. Everything was as he remembered it, except the whining of the machines was absent. Bartlett was sitting in a chair intently reading a chess magazine. He was wearing the same work boots Rivera had seen on his earlier visits. Rivera tapped on the door jamb and entered.

  Bartlett looked up and smiled. “Howdy, Deputy. Can I help you?”

  Rivera decided to start with some chitchat before he initiated his interrogation. He pointed outside. “That’s an impressive geode. I’ve never seen one that large before. Where did you find it?”

  “Oh, I didn’t find it. I wish I had. I cut that one in half for a friend who lives in Ogden. His saw wasn’t big enough. He found it somewhere in eastern Nevada. It’s a once in a lifetime find. He’ll be by next week to pick up both pieces.”

  “How much is a geode like that worth?”

  “Each half could bring fifteen hundred dollars, I’d say. Maybe more. But I doubt he’ll sell either one. They’ll decorate his home for the rest of his life and be the subject of many conversations with friends. You here on business?”

  “Yeah, just a few questions if you don’t mind.” Rivera pulled out his pen and notepad. “You said you hadn’t been to Frank Upton’s house in about five months. Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes, I am. Absolutely.”

  “Can you account for your time on the night he was killed?”

  Bartlett put down the magazine and stood up. “Hey, wait a minute. Am I a suspect here?”

  “Just routine questions I’d ask of anyone. Ruling people out saves time. It allows me to concentrate on a smaller universe of possible suspects.”

  His face seemed to relax. “Okay, well, let’s see.” He thought for a long moment. “On that night, I was here in my house playing in an all-night poker game with some of my friends.”

  “Their names?”

  Bartlett rattled off four names and Rivera jotted them into his notepad. He recognized the name of Tony Reese, a retired Moab city cop.

  “What time did the game break up?”

  “A little after five in the morning.” Bartlett grinned. “After eight hours of poker, my winnings were thirty-five cents.”

  Rivera recalled that Annette Benson had heard the shots around 2:00 am. If Bartlett’s story checked out, he couldn’t have been the killer.

  “Do you own a gun?”

  “O
f course. Everyone I know owns a gun. I have two rifles and a shotgun.”

  “Any handguns?”

  “I used to have one, but I lost it a couple of years ago. I was hiking south of Mount Peale and it must have fallen out of my pack. When I got home and discovered it was missing, I decided I’d look for it next time I was up that way. But I never went back so it’s still up there somewhere.”

  “Did you report it?”

  “No. What would be the point?”

  “Did you know Frank Upton left you fifty thousand dollars in his will?’

  Bartlett’s eyebrows went up and he had a genuine look of surprise on his face. Either he was a good actor, Rivera figured, or he really was surprised.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. I had no idea. That’s amazing. He told me once that he might leave me some money to upgrade the machinery in the shop, but I figured it was just talk. Frank was too young to be thinking about death.”

  That’s plausible, Rivera thought to himself. “When and where did that conversation take place?”

  “Here in the shop. Two or three months ago.”

  “Mind if I take a look at your boots?”

  “What on earth for?”

  “I want to see the heel and sole patterns.”

  Bartlett looked irritated. “Don’t you need a search warrant for that sort of thing? What if I say no?”

  “Then we can continue this conversation at the sheriff’s office.”

  Bartlett sighed, produced a wry expression, and shook his head. He sat down and held out his legs. Rivera inspected the bottom of the boots and took a couple of photographs, but it was clear that Bartlett’s boots were no match for the prints Rivera had found in the woods behind Upton’s house.

  “Satisfied?” asked Bartlett.

  “Yes, thanks. That’s all for now.”

  “You know, Deputy, I kind of resent all this. It’s kind of denigrating.”

  Rivera smiled and shrugged. “No offense intended. It’s just part of the job.”