“Morgan, this is Trisha, my wedding seamstress.” To Trisha she said, “Morgan is my roommate.”
“Temporarily,” Morgan said. “And today a potential solution arrived.”
“The cabin?” Bernie asked through a veil of cream-colored lace.
“Yes,” Morgan said. “But until I get water and electricity hooked up, it will be primitive.”
“You can’t do that,” Bernie said. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as it takes.”
“Hopefully that will be before your wedding.”
Bernie and Rolf had set a date in late December.
“Okay Miss Bernie,” Trisha said, her words flavored with a Southern drawl. “I think we’re starting to narrow down the choices.”
An animated discussion ensued. Bernie had envisioned Christmas colors and Victorian styles. Green, red, gold and cream came in a surprising variety of shades.
Morgan stepped into the apartment’s small kitchen. If her opinion was needed, Bernie knew where to find her. The kitchen in the downstairs bakery had all the industrial-sized appliances and elbow room the apartment kitchen lacked. And food too, apparently. Morgan had been hoping that Bernie would have leftovers from the bakery. The stove was cold and the refrigerator nearly empty.
Time to contribute, Morgan thought. Fish in the freezer, potatoes in the pantry, and broccoli in the fridge. The kitchen heated quickly. In the Colorado mountains, air conditioning was only useful a few weeks out of the year. Most summer evenings, just opening a window was enough to dissipate the heat.
Morgan peeked into the living room. Trisha circled Bernie, pulling straight pins from between her lips as she pleated a muslin skirt around Bernie’s waist.
“I’m going to fix dinner,” Morgan said. “Trisha, will you join us?”
“Nnnn.”
“She said no,” Bernie told Morgan. “We’ll be done here in a minute.” She focused her attention on Trisha again. “This is just a rough draft, right? Because I’m planning to lose weight before my wedding.”
The minute stretched long enough for Morgan to complete meal preparation and clean up the pots and pans. It was nearly eight before Trisha packed up.
“You shouldn’t have waited for me,” Bernie said when she finally entered the kitchen. “I can’t eat. I’m so excited about the wedding, my stomach is full of butterflies.”
“Sit down with me, then,” Morgan said. “You look exhausted.”
Bernie ignored Morgan and paced around the small kitchen.
“I bought an expensive bridesmaid dress I only wore once. I don’t want to inflict that on my friends —” Bernie stopped mid-sentence and grabbed the back of a kitchen chair. “Whoa.”
Her eyes seemed to lose focus, and the color drained from her plump cheeks.
Morgan jumped up. “Are you okay?”
“I just felt a little light-headed.”
Morgan pulled a chair out and guided Bernie to sit.
“Here. Drink this.”
She handed Bernie a glass of water, which the younger woman drained in gulps.
“I must be dehydrated,” Bernie said. “I feel better already.”
“It’s hot in here,” Morgan said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have turned on the stove.”
If Bernie had forgotten to drink, she had probably forgotten to eat, too.
“Did you have lunch?” Morgan asked.
“I nibbled something while I was working.”
“Really?” Morgan asked.
Bernie shrugged. “Okay, so I skipped lunch. I’m trying to drop a few pounds before December.”
“You look great,” Morgan said, and she meant it. Bernie had joined a running club with Morgan in January. Both women had lost weight, but more importantly, had firmed up the extra pounds they still carried.
“My wedding photos will last the rest of my life,” Bernie said. “I want to look as good as I possibly can.”
“You won’t make it to your wedding unless you eat something between now and then.”
Morgan prepared a plate for Bernie. The woman eyed it like the food like it was hemlock.
“My cooking’s not that bad,” Morgan said.
Bernie winced. “I didn’t mean anything was wrong. I just can’t eat the potatoes, and they look really good.”
Morgan pulled the plate back. “If it helps, I’ll take the potatoes off. But eat the rest.”
Bernie picked at the fish and broccoli while she talked about wedding plans. She and Rolf were taking marriage counseling with their parish priest. Even Stacie, Rolf’s young teen daughter, had to attend some of the sessions, which Morgan thought was a good idea. Morgan’s children were adults, yet she was nervous about telling them she was seeing a man. Dealing with teenage Stacie had to be delicate business.
Morgan’s cell phone chimed. Caller ID showed Kurt’s number.
“It’s Kurt,” Morgan told Bernie. “I’ll be right back.”
She stepped into the living room. Fabric swatches, dress pattern books, and sewing odds and ends cluttered the sofa, her temporary bed. Mr. Whiskers, Bernie’s enormous gray cat, had seated himself on top of the velvet samples. She hoped Kurt didn’t extend his offer to use his guest room again. She might accept.
“I called the shop earlier,” Kurt said, “but Kendall said you were busy with a customer.”
And didn’t give me Kurt’s message, Morgan thought. Typical.
“I finally had a moment with Chief Sharp,” Kurt said, “with no federal or state people breathing down his neck. How well did you know Eustace Day?”
“Not at all,” Morgan said. “In the six months I’ve lived in Golden Springs, our paths have never crossed.”
“That’s not surprising,” Kurt said. “According to Sharp, Day had a reputation as a recluse and a bit of a crank.”
“That’s what Del and Lorina implied.”
“I’d trust the Chief more than two of the riper fruits on the gossip grapevine, but they’re right this time. Off the record, he believes Mr. Day either accidentally or perhaps on purpose got tangled in his own homemade booby-trap.”
“Setting off the explosions?” Morgan replayed the incident in her mind. “We heard more than just explosions. There was gunfire. And shouting.”
“Right,” Kurt said. “I reminded Sharp about that, but he wasn’t in the mood to listen to a civilian. Morgan, I’m glad you’re staying at Bernie’s. In my opinion, this may not be over.”
“What about my brother and his family? What if Lorina’s right, and terrorists are roaming the hills? Maybe Kendall and Allie should move to town for a few days.”
“I dropped by to warn Kendall. If Chief Sharp is right, there’s no danger if you stay clear of Day’s ranch.”
“I’m glad I never went up there to borrow a cup of sugar.”
“You wouldn’t have gone past his no trespassing signs.”
“It sounds like an open and shut case,” Morgan said. “According to Chief Sharp.”
“If it weren’t for the gunfire and shouting,” Kurt said, “I’d be happy to leave it alone.”
“If you’re thinking of investigating, you’ll have to leave me out of this one.” Morgan paced in a tight circle in Bernie’s small living room. “I’ve had enough of amateur detective work. I’m going to be a grandmother soon. The last case nearly killed us both. I can’t take those kind of chances again.”
“Believe me, I’m not eager to get involved.” Kurt had as much reason to be cautious as Morgan. His life had been on the line, too. “If Chief Sharp is right, then I wouldn’t worry about your safety. But if he’s wrong, this is more than a case of an accidental death.”
“You think Eustace Day was murdered.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“What’s going on?” Bernie asked. “I heard you talking about terrorists.”
Morgan filled Bernie in on the untimely death of Mr. Eustace Day.
“Did you ever meet him?” Morgan asked at the end of her story.
“He doesn’t sound like the type who would come inside a frilly pink bakery of his own free will.” Bernie pushed Mr. Whiskers aside and picked up the velvet samples. “You’re not investigating, are you? The two murder cases you and Kurt were involved in both nearly ended badly. For me too, in case I need to remind you.”
“I didn’t mean for you to get tangled up in either case,” Morgan said. “Believe me, I won’t get you involved in another. So far Chief Sharp thinks Mr. Day’s death was accidental.” Morgan shrugged. “There’s no mystery to solve.”
Bernie raised one eyebrow. “I don’t like the sound of that ‘so far’.” But Bernie couldn’t take her mind off her wedding for long. She picked up another fabric sample. “Morgan, I still haven’t decided on the bridesmaid’s skirts. Which color would you be most likely to wear on a different occasion?”
* * *
Morgan was only fifteen minutes late by the time she pulled her old Buick into the rock shop parking lot Tuesday morning. Already, two vehicles sat in front of the shop’s hitching posts.
The shop door was locked tight, but the car and truck were both empty. Morgan walked toward the barn, looking for the vehicles’ occupants. She stopped when she saw two men standing at the pasture fence. A man in a fringed buckskin coat pressed one strand of barbed wire down with his cowboy boot while he pulled another strand up. Broad-shouldered and stocky, he seemed too short for his build, like he had been sawed off at the knees. A tall, thin man crouched to step through the gap and into the pasture.
“Hey!” Morgan yelled. “Where do you think you’re going?”
The intruder extricated himself from the fence. Both men turned to face Morgan. The short man’s round face flushed behind a white goatee. The other man, dressed in cargo shorts and an orange Denver Broncos T-shirt, dusted his hands together.
“We saw a little man,” the tall fence hopper said. “I was going to get a closer look.”
Morgan frowned. What on earth? Then she remembered Lorina’s leprechaun. Surely it hadn’t escaped the hawk.
“You can’t go in there,” Morgan said. “I have a dangerous watch-donkey. You could get hurt.”
Right on cue, Houdini trotted up to the fence. He brayed a raucous greeting, probably hoping for a cookie, but the strangers didn’t know that. Morgan wished she still had possession of Hawthorne, a rambunctious half-wolf, half-dog she had fostered for two weeks. The donkey was deterrent enough, though. The men scrambled back a few feet.
“What exactly did you see?” she asked.
“A tiny little man,” the tall fence hopper said.
“Why do you think it was a man?” That had been Morgan’s first impression, but logic insisted she was wrong. Still, she hadn’t replaced Lorina’s leprechaun theory with anything solid.
“He was standing up,” the fence hopper said, already convinced not only that it was human, but also of its gender.
“Do you have rabbits?” The stubby mountain man’s voice was high and nasal, bordering on squeaky. “They stand on their hind legs some times.”
“Lots,” Morgan said. “Wild rabbits. They’re all over the place.”
“Wild rabbits have grey or brown fur, right?” the fence hopper asked.
“I suppose so.” Morgan suspected she knew what was coming next.
“Well, this one had skin, not fur.” The tall fence hopper stroked a finger down his bare forearm. “He was bald, like a human. Except for this crazy tuft of white hair on top of his head.”
“Rabbits come in all colors,” the mountain man said. “Why not hairless?”
A new, sensible theory to explain Lorina’s leprechaun popped into Morgan’s mind.
“That’s probably what it was,” she said. “Some kid’s 4-H project escaped.”
“We should catch it,” the fence hopper said. “A domestic rabbit won’t survive in the wild. Especially a bald one.”
And yet this one had escaped a hawk, if it was the same creature she and Lorina had witnessed being snatched into the sky.
“You won’t survive very long in the pasture with my donkey,” Morgan said. “I’ll send someone out later to catch the rabbit. Did you get any photos?”
The shorter man slapped his palm to his broad forehead. “The thought never occurred.”
Morgan was grateful when an ancient dusty station wagon pulled into the rock shop parking lot, interrupting the conversation. Bright-colored spray paint transformed the dents and rust splotches on the station wagon into rainbows and marijuana leaves.
“I have to get to work,” Morgan said.
“Is this your shop?” the mountain man asked. “The ad in the business directory said you open at nine.”
“Typically we do,” Morgan said. “I’m running late this morning.”
Morgan headed for the shop. The two men followed, apparently satisfied to give up their hunt for the tiny man, or bald domestic rabbit, or whatever it was lurking around her pasture. She put her key in the lock and pushed open the door, sending the cowbell clanging. Morgan flipped the cardboard brontosaurus sign so that the “open” side faced out.
“Come on in.” She held the door open.
“I was about to give up.” The mountain man grasped Morgan’s hand in a painfully firm handshake. “I’m Buckskin Quinn.” He paused in obvious expectation. “Buckskin Quinn’s Fossil Emporium? Internationally renowned?”
“I’m new to the area,” Morgan said.
“I left a message,” the tall fence hopper said, “asking if you had gold panning equipment in stock. When you didn’t return my call, I thought I’d take a chance and drive up here.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t get the message.”
The antiquated answering machine was in the shop’s living quarters. Morgan didn’t receive messages left for her on the shop phone unless Kendall or Allie remembered to tell her.
“That’s okay,” the fence hopper said. “I wouldn’t have seen that tiny little man if I hadn’t come here.”
“Tiny man?” The driver of the station wagon pushed stringy long hair out of his eyes and looked around the shop.
“It was merely a hairless domestic rabbit.” Buckskin Quinn pointed toward the door. “In the pasture.”
“You haven’t convinced me.” The tall fence hopper shook his head vigorously. “I know what rabbits look like, and this was no rabbit. Ears?” He held his fingers on either side of his head to indicate long rabbit ears. “And no fur? Nope. It was human.”
Morgan started a pot of coffee on the checkout counter as she witnessing the birth of a wild rumor. Except that perhaps the rumor wasn’t that wild.
The station wagon hippie bought a hand drill and a bag of polished rocks, and the fence hopper bought a plastic pan that came with a how-to-pan-for-gold pamphlet.
Buckskin Quinn pressed his nose to a locked glass display case. Inside, a Triceratops brow horn rested on a stand. The two-foot object could have been mistaken for an oddly tapered rock, if not for the description typed on a yellowed file card.
“Species: Triceratops horridus,” the card read. “This Triceratops brow horn is from the Cretaceous Period, approximately 70–66 million years ago.”
The price listed on a tag in faded pencil was over three thousand dollars.
“Nice.” Quinn looked up at Morgan. “But pricey. I’d be doing you a favor to give fifteen hundred for it.”
“I don’t need favors like that.” Morgan smiled. “It’s worth three thousand.”
“You can’t keep a treasure like this locked up in a dusty display case,” Quinn said. “It belongs in a museum. I could find it the place of glory it deserves.”
Glory? Morgan thought. For a fossilized dinosau
r body part?
“Then you should be willing to pay the fair market price,” she said. “A ‘treasure’ is surely worth three grand.”
“Not by itself.” Buckskin Quinn stepped back from the case, the leather fringe of his jacket swaying. “I can’t pay that much for a fraction of the entire creature. Have you more Triceratops fossils? Perhaps pieces of this animal?”
“That’s it.” Morgan pointed at the case. “Take it or leave it.”
The stubby mountain man wandered around a few more minutes, then left with a cheery goodbye and no purchases.
She would never sell the brow horn for half price, but Morgan wondered what the fossil’s rock bottom price should be. Kendall would have an opinion. He always did, no matter the subject. Morgan knocked on the door dividing the attached living quarters from the rock shop. She didn’t feel right using her key. This wasn’t her home now. Morgan knocked again.
“Hello?”
No answer. Morgan stomped across the gritty pine floor to the front door of the shop, turned around the be-back-in sign, and headed to the barn. Adelaide waited in her stall, pawing at the straw with a front hoof when Morgan entered the barn.
“Don’t tell me,” Morgan said. “They forgot to feed you this morning.”
Adelaide snorted.
“I know,” Morgan said. “How thoughtless, right? And you in a delicate condition.”
Morgan checked the clipboard. Adelaide could be convincing when she wanted extra oats. With Del, Kendall, and Morgan all sharing barn duties, they needed a system to ensure they did not overfeed the donkeys. Morgan scribbled her initials, and “am,” beside the date.
Then she broke off a flake of hay and dropped it into a metal rack inside the stall. Adelaide tore a greedy mouthful and munched. Houdini stuck his head in the stall next door, as though checking to see whether the coast was clear.
“Was your wife hangry?” Morgan asked, combining the words hungry and angry in the descriptive slang term.
Stone Cold Blooded (A Rock Shop Mystery) Page 3
