Final Arrangements

by Rich Curtin

  32

  RIVERA HEADED FOR Roy Bartlett’s house with a search warrant in hand and Dave Tibbetts as his backup. They found Bartlett in the lapidary shop polishing a chunk of rock that was red and tan with purple lines running through it. Bartlett noticed them coming through the door and shut off his machine.

  “Come in, gentlemen. Have a look at this magnificent septarian sample.”

  Rivera handed him the search warrant. “We have a warrant to search your premises.”

  Bartlett looked shocked. “What the hell for?”

  “Anything related to the deaths of Iggy Webb or Frank Upton.”

  Bartlett placed the rock on the machine. “I don’t understand. Are you saying I had something to do with their deaths?”

  “We’re not saying that or anything else. We just need to take a look around.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re making a foolish mistake. I was at home playing poker the night Frank was killed and I had no reason to harm Iggy. He was a friend of mine. But go ahead and look around. I’ll wait out in the yard.” He went outside and sat down on a lawn chair shaded by a cottonwood tree, looking confused and irritated. “Please try not to make a mess of everything.”

  Rivera was surprised at Bartlett’s reaction. He reacted the way an innocent man would—surprised, shocked, and acceding. But Bartlett was smart. Rivera knew he was matching wits with a clever man.

  Rivera and Tibbetts carefully examined the lapidary shop, Bartlett’s pickup truck, and his house for the next four hours. After the search was completed and nothing incriminating was found, Rivera stood in Bartlett’s living room shaking his head. He inhaled a deep breath and let it out. Wrong again. He was frustrated and covered with sweat from rummaging through Bartlett’s belongings.

  When the deputies stepped out of the house, Bartlett was still in the lawn chair. He appeared to have fallen asleep. Not something a guilty man would have done, Rivera thought to himself. But he knew Bartlett was capable of deception.

  “We’re finished now, Mr. Bartlett,” said Rivera.

  Bartlett awoke with a start. “That’s it then?”

  Rivera nodded. He was disappointed. Maybe the sheriff had been right. Maybe Bartlett had disposed of the gun after killing Webb. Or maybe Rivera’s theory about Bartlett was all wrong.

  Bartlett stood up. “Can I get back to work now?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you mind telling me why you thought I had something to do with killing Iggy or Frank?”

  “I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with a civilian.” The truth was that Rivera was embarrassed and didn’t want to talk about it. He just wanted to get out of there.

  “Did you ever figure out that problem I gave you? The one with the three red hats?”

  “Yeah. Good puzzle. The son who figured it out assumed he was wearing a black hat. If he could prove that assumption wrong, then he had to be wearing a red hat. Let’s call him Son A. If Son A is wearing a black hat, then Son B would see a red hat and a black hat. Son B would know he wasn’t wearing a black hat, because if he was, Son C would see two black hats and know his hat had to be red. But Son C wasn’t able to reach that conclusion. So Son B would know he was wearing a red hat. But Son B didn’t stand up and announce he was wearing a red hat. Therefore Son A’s assumption that he was wearing a black hat had to be wrong. He knew with certainty his hat was red.” As Rivera was reciting the solution to the puzzle, his gaze fell upon the shovels, picks, and sledgehammers leaning against the outside wall of the lapidary shop. The blade of one of the shovels had fresh dirt on it. The others were as he had remembered them—covered with caked-on dry dirt. He scanned the yard and noticed some fresh dirt exposed under the giant geode halves resting on the ground.

  “Very good,” said Bartlett. Most people can’t ...”

  “Just a minute,” said Rivera. He walked to the geodes and waved Tibbetts over. “Give me a hand, Dave. Let’s see what’s buried under these things.”

  Together, they lifted the geode halves and moved them a few feet away. Rivera used one of the dry shovels to dig into the fresh dirt. The dirt was loose and easily removed. Rivera reached down, pulled out a plastic bag containing a handgun, and held it up for Bartlett to see.

  “This look familiar?”

  Bartlett looked shocked. “I have no idea how that got there.”

  A second plastic bag was partially exposed in the hole. Rivera pulled it up and opened it. It contained a copy of Frank Upton’s revised will.

  “Roy Bartlett, you’re under arrest for the murder of Iggy Webb and conspiracy to murder Frank Upton,” said Rivera.

  Bartlett stared at the freshly dug hole and said nothing. Up until that moment, he had looked like an innocent man wrongly accused. He was intelligent and a good actor. Rivera recalled the young lady playing the accordion in the center of town. She was a good actor too. Things were not always what they seemed to be.

  Rivera cuffed Bartlett, read him his rights, and took him into custody.

  33

  THE BALLISTICS TESTING of Roy Bartlett’s handgun was expedited. The fingerprints on it belonged to Bartlett and the bullet which had killed Iggy Webb was a match for the gun. A check of Bartlett’s bank account revealed a withdrawal of $5,000 in cash just prior to the shooting of Frank Upton.

  Rivera sat in his office typing his report into his computer. As he worked, he couldn’t help wondering why a man like Bartlett had gotten himself mixed up in all this in the first place. What was his motive? He had a good life and seemed to enjoy spending time as a rockhound. He had no previous arrest record and had been a good citizen. He was generous with his time and helped new rockhounds learn about rocks and the machinery to process them. Why did he throw all that away?

  Rivera finalized his report and printed out copies for Dave Tibbetts and the sheriff’s secretary. Then he strolled back to the jail cell area. Bartlett was sitting in the corner of his cell and appeared to be in deep thought.

  “Got a minute to talk?” asked Rivera.

  “My lawyer told me not to talk to anyone.”

  “Right. I understand that. I just can’t figure out why you would throw away a good life for some money. I had the impression you had everything you wanted—your rockhounding, your rockhound buddies, the lapidary shop, and the club. What possessed you to risk all that?”

  “As I said, my lawyer...” Bartlett couldn’t finish the sentence. He began quivering and tears ran down his cheeks. He murmured something in his beard.

  “What’s that?” asked Rivera.

  “Oh God, it just occurred to me there’s no lapidary shop where I’m going.” He waved Rivera away.

  Rivera left the jail cell area shaking his head. Why did Bartlett do such a foolish thing? But he already knew the answer. Bartlett wasn’t motivated by greed. He was driven by hubris. He was in search of an intellectual high. He thought he was smarter than everyone else. He devised what he thought was a clever plan and proceeded with it just to see if he could get away with it. He never dreamed he’d get caught. To him it was just another puzzle.

  Rivera stopped off in Tibbetts’s office. Tibbetts was sitting at his desk reading Rivera’s report. Rivera sat down and shook his head.

  “What’s up, Manny?”

  “I just don’t get it.”

  “You don’t get what?”

  “As long as I’m in this business, I’ll never understand the criminal mindset. You have one life to live on earth. One shot at enjoying it. Why throw it away?”

  “You talking about Roy Bartlett?”

  Rivera stood up. “I’m talking about Bartlett, Webb, Upton, and Atkinson—the whole bunch of them.

  “Yeah. I know what you mean. But look at the bright side.”

  “What bright side?”

  Tibbetts grinned. “Without people like that, you wouldn’t have a job.”

  Rivera forced a smile and headed back to his office. Tibb
etts’s comment was funny, but Rivera didn’t feel like laughing. Maybe he’d be able to laugh about it in a few weeks.

  Later in the afternoon, Rivera heard a knock on the open door of his office. A pretty woman wearing a pink dress was standing there. She had blue eyes, short blonde hair, and a trim figure. She was carrying a Gucci handbag and had an inquisitive look on her face.

  “Excuse me. Are you Deputy Sheriff Manny Rivera?”

  Rivera stood up. “Yes, Ma’am, I am.” She looked vaguely familiar.

  “My name is Dorothy Sanders. Dorothy Ellison Sanders. I understand you wanted to see me.”

  Rivera recognized the name. She was the cheerleader in Frank Upton’s photographs. “Oh yes, Ms. Sanders. Please come in and have a seat.”

  She slid gracefully into one of Rivera’s visitor’s chairs and smoothed her dress over her knees.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Why yes, that would be nice. Black, please.”

  Rivera left and returned with two mugs of coffee. He handed her one and sat down. He took a sip, studying her over the rim of his mug. She was still quite attractive and, judging by her manner, appearance, and jewelry, she had done well for herself in life.

  “A man named Chris Carey contacted me and told me about Frank Upton’s death. He said you wanted to talk with me. I hadn’t heard Frank’s name since high school. Of course, I was sorry to hear of his passing. I just met with his attorney, a Mr. Ralph Douglas, who informed me I was the primary heir to Frank’s estate. Needless to say, I was quite surprised by all this”

  Rivera had a million questions he wanted to ask her. “Did Mr. Douglas talk to you about Frank’s death? I mean, how he died?”

  “Yes. He told me he was murdered by a fellow named Iggy Webb.”

  “Is that all he said?”

  “Yes. He didn’t elaborate. He got right into the details of the will.”

  Rivera told her the whole story, detailing Frank Upton’s plot to frame Arthur Atkinson for murder. She sat there in rapt attention, her eyes opened wide with amazement. When he finished, she shook her head with an expression of disbelief.

  “Well, I just find all that so hard to believe. It makes no sense to me.”

  “Didn’t you date both Upton and Atkinson in high school?”

  “Well, yes. I dated Frank for a while in my junior year and then I started going with Arthur in my senior year.”

  “Did you know they were fighting over you?”

  “Yes, I remember hearing about some of that back then. But we were just kids in high school. To be honest, I didn’t care that much for either one of them.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No. Frank was interesting but unattractive to say the least, and Arthur was handsome and popular, but I found him to be a pompous, arrogant boor.” She laughed. “But I was young and I liked the attention. Besides, it would have looked odd for the lead cheerleader in high school not to have a boyfriend.”

  Rivera couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Frank believed that Arthur broke up with you. At least, that’s what he wrote in the letter he left.”

  “Oh, heavens no. Right before graduation, I broke it off with Arthur. It was time for me to move on and start my life.”

  “So Frank had it all wrong,” said Rivera, almost to himself. “Why did you leave Moab?”

  “I’d always wanted to live in Boulder, Colorado. It’s such a beautiful place. I met Dennis there, fell in love, and got married. We have three children and one grandchild. He’s a successful investment banker and we’ve had a good life. I hardly gave a thought to those two boys after I left Moab.”

  “Frank Upton had pictures of you in his house. He must have still had feelings for you.”

  “Oh, dear. So that’s why he named me in his will.”

  “Yes, he left you money and a house in the mountains.”

  “The lawyer told me about that. Dennis and I have been very fortunate—we’re well off, so I’ve decided to waive my inheritance so the Moab Home for Needy Children will benefit from it. They were so good to me when I was growing up. I’ve been a financial supporter of the home ever since Dennis and I got married. I visited there this morning. It brought back so many memories.”

  She looked at her watch and stood up. “I’ve got to run. Thank you for the coffee, Deputy Rivera.” She extracted a card from her handbag and placed it on Rivera’s desk. “Here’s my card if you have any further questions.” She shook Rivera’s hand and left.

  Rivera sat there, dumbfounded. Not only had Upton and Atkinson wasted their lives over a high school cheerleader, it turned out she’d had no real interest in either one of them. If it weren’t so sad, it would be laughable.

  Thirty minutes later, Rivera had another visitor. It was Arthur Atkinson. He strode into the office, bypassed the formalities, and spoke in a loud voice.

  “I understand I have you to thank for getting me out of jail.”

  Rivera studied him. For a man in his early fifties and despite the wrinkles, Atkinson was still a handsome fellow. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and trim. His wavy hair was blond, and his sideburns had a touch of gray, though Rivera could tell his hair color had some help from a bottle.

  Rivera gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Atkinson.”

  “I’ll stand. This won’t take long. I appreciate what you did. I’m glad to know someone in this building has some brains.”

  Rivera didn’t like where the conversation was headed. “Mr. Atkinson…”

  “And believe me,” continued Atkinson, “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that boss of yours doesn’t get reelected.” He spoke in a voice that was much louder than necessary, ensuring everyone in the building could hear him. “I don’t care what it takes. I’ll spend whatever is necessary.”

  Rivera said nothing, just stared at the man. Dorothy Ellison Sanders had been right. Atkinson was a pompous, arrogant boor. Rivera took an instant dislike to him.

  “Louise Anderson hasn’t heard the last of this.”

  “She was just doing her job. It wasn’t personal.”

  “Just the same, nobody gets away with…”

  Rivera held up his hand as if to say that’s enough. He spoke in a calm voice. “You know, Mr. Atkinson, that’s exactly the attitude that got all this trouble started in the first place.”

  Atkinson’s eyebrows rose. “What do you mean?” He spoke as if he wasn’t used to the effrontery of being interrupted.

  “I mean this business of holding a grudge and getting even. Your feud with Frank Upton started in high school—two boys competing for the same girl. It went on for thirty-five years, making both of you miserable. I spoke with Dorothy. Turns out she wasn’t really interested in either one of you. The tit-for-tat feud you kept alive all that time was pointless. And look at the misery it led to. Don’t let that happen again just because you were arrested. Frank Upton did a masterful job of framing you. Better to just let it go.”

  The frown on Atkinson’s face faded and was replaced with a brief look of sudden realization. Then the frown returned. “Let it go, huh? Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one sitting in a jail cell. Do you have the slightest understanding of how embarrassing that is? You can tell that woman I’m backing Denny Campbell for sheriff in the next election.” He spun around and left.

  Wrath, Rivera thought to himself.

  A few seconds later, Sheriff Anderson entered Rivera’s office. “I heard all that.” She smiled. “I guess I’m in for a tough reelection campaign.”

  “Looks that way, but you’ll do fine.”

  “Thanks for sticking up for me, Manny.”

  At home that evening, Rivera called Gloria. The time was long overdue for a discussion on the matter of where they would live. He got right to the point. “Gloria, we need to decide where we’re going to live after we’re married so we can start making plans.

  “Oh, Manny, I just assumed we’d be living in your house in Moab. Isn’t that wh
at you want?”

  “What about your parents? Don’t you need to live near them? You know, so you can look in on them a couple of times a week like you do now?”

  She laughed. “I know how much you love that red rock canyon country. I’d never try to pull you away from that. Besides, I’ve learned how much I love it too. I want to live there. Maybe there’s an opening in law enforcement somewhere—perhaps in Moab or one of the national parks.”

  “But your parents…”

  My mother’s younger sister and her husband are planning to move to Española in a couple of months. They just retired. My aunt will be able to look in on them.”

  Rivera felt an enormous sense of relief. The problem he was worrying about had just evaporated into thin air. “What about this house I’m renting? It’s kind of small. Two bedrooms and one bath. Should I start looking for something larger?”

  “Let’s start out in your rent house. Then, after we get settled, maybe we can look together for something larger.”

  “That’s a deal. I do love you so.”

  34

  RIVERA AND CHRIS CAREY sat on the outdoor patio of the Eclectic Cafe eating sandwiches and drinking iced tea. It was a balmy Sunday and the late afternoon sun shone through the ivy-covered arbor, producing dappled shadows on the tables. Rivera was comfortable in his jeans, a light blue flannel shirt, and a tan cap with a black Kokopelli figure embroidered on it. They’d been discussing the case for over an hour with Carey asking insightful questions and Rivera responding with the copious details he knew the old journalist craved.

  Carey took a sip of iced tea and put down his glass. “You know what’s odd about the whole affair? Frank Upton set up Arthur Atkinson to be the fall guy and go to prison, but he got Roy Bartlett instead. And Roy was someone Upton got along with. That should go into the record book of unintended consequences.”