Stone Cold Blooded (A Rock Shop Mystery)

by Catherine Dilts

  “I had a full time job when I was their age,” David continued. “They had no consideration that I had to get up early.”

  Great. Her boyfriend’s kids were pampered brats.

  “My phone is almost dead,” Morgan said. “Did you charge up yours by any chance?”

  “That’s one nice thing about Jase and Burke. They’re generous about sharing their stuff. They let me charge my phone, use their cooler, and eat their food.”

  “Can you set an alarm?” Morgan asked.

  “Sure,” David said. “Don’t get me wrong. I mean, I really like Jase and Burke. They’re smart and fun. But they have no concept of reality. It’s like they’re Hollywood royalty or something. Good night, Mom.”

  If Morgan had wanted to pry more, she couldn’t have. David fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. She crawled back into bed, but a thought nagged at her. How could Kurt give up the glamour of Hollywood for Golden Springs?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Wednesday morning Morgan thought David exaggerated when he took a shower first, his yelps sounding like the coyote yips that had filled the hills the night before. Morgan didn’t want to wake her brother’s family just so she could take a shower in comfort. When it was her turn, she could only endure the cold water for a cursory clean up.

  Plumbing and electricity were the cornerstones of civilized society. Acquiring them for the cabin would not be cheap, but life was hardly worth living without them.

  When Morgan entered the barn, Ned crawled down the ladder from the loft, rubbing his eyes and pulling straw from his sadly rumpled boy band hair. He wore the angel donkey T-shirt Morgan had given him. He might be a mooch, but at least Ned was capable of putting in a day’s work, unlike his park hippie parents. An honest day’s work, unlike his grandfather. As Ned cleaned the stalls, Adelaide waddled in for breakfast.

  “Looks like she hasn’t had her baby yet,” Ned said.

  “Nope,” Morgan agreed. “It’s still inside.”

  Ned hung the rake on its hook and started to leave. He was probably going to Kendall and Allie’s for breakfast again. Not only had they adopted a Central American baby, but now it seemed they had taken in a homeless teenager.

  Ned paused in the open barn doorway, his silhouette scrawny. He turned.

  “Ms. Iverson, I should have told you something.”

  Morgan couldn’t stop herself. “That your grandfather is Mr. Willard’s political rival? That you hung out in campaign headquarters for an evening, privy to all Kurt’s plans?”

  Ned held his hands out, palms up. The gesture was half surrender, and half beseeching.

  “If I’d told you I was Erwin Sylvester’s grandson, you wouldn’t have let me eat pizza. And I was hungry. I didn’t tell grandpa anything, I swear.” Ned wiped the sleeve of his once-white shirt under his nose. “Grandpa hates Dad and Mom more than ever now. He’s mad they’re supporting Mr. Willard’s campaign, and he won’t even talk to me. My own grandpa.”

  Ned spun around on one heel and stomped toward the rock shop.

  “Ned!”

  He ignored Morgan, heading around to the back entrance to the living quarters, no doubt to take comfort with people who cared. She felt two inches tall, even shorter than the mysterious creatures that had once inhabited the pasture.

  Soon after charging her phone at the rock shop’s checkout counter, Bernie called, full of apologies. Morgan had to reassure her friend a dozen times that she did not hate her for her verbal indiscretions at O’Reily’s pub.

  Customers kept Morgan busy, even though most were more interested in finding small, naked aliens than rocks, gemstones, or fossils. When the mail arrived, Morgan pawed through it, searching for something official. There was no envelope from the county sheriff. Morgan had not seriously considered carrying her new gun on the trip to meet Roxy Day, but having the option would have been nice.

  She had to wonder whether Roxy really wanted her grandfather’s death investigated, or if she were part of what happened to him. Were Morgan and Kurt being lured to the mountains so Roxy had a better opportunity to dispose of the snoopy amateur detective and nosey newspaperman? That didn’t make sense, though. The woman had contacted her. She and Kurt might have lost interest in the seemingly closed case of Eustace Day if his granddaughter had not been relentless in her pursuit of answers.

  Morgan dropped Ned at the park that evening. His parents had requested his presence for dinner. The park hippies were grilling in the picnic area.

  She picked up Kurt at his townhome. It was too warm for his 1940s outfit, but he seemed to wear the vintage suit and fedora to any vaguely official event. He climbed into her Buick and collapsed, resting his head on the back of the seat.

  “Ugh!”

  “Hello to you, too,” Morgan said.

  Kurt sat up and arranged a briefcase at his feet, then fastened his seatbelt. “Sorry. It has been a day.”

  He gave the rundown of his failing campaign, if the polls were to be believed, and his issues with Zulina attempting to insinuate herself into his activities with the boys.

  Morgan started to speak, then hesitated.

  “What?” Kurt asked.

  “Your campaign for City Council has an end point. The election. So far, I haven’t heard whether Zulina’s visit will ever end.”

  “I don’t know.” Kurt lifted his fedora and rubbed a hand across his short brown hair. “It seems as though she moved here to make my life miserable.” He placed the fedora firmly on his head. “I’m here to stay. It’s she who has to go.”

  While reassuring, Kurt’s statement had nothing to back it up. How could he convince a mother to leave her children, even if they were nearly adults?

  “I brought your piece,” Kurt said.

  “Piece of what?” Morgan asked.

  “The gun I gave you.” He pulled the briefcase onto his lap and snapped open the latches.

  Morgan took her eyes off the winding mountain road briefly, glancing at the open briefcase. Inside rested a box, and inside that, Morgan knew, a .32 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver, brand new.

  “I haven’t received my conceal carry license yet,” Morgan said.

  “It must be in the mail,” Kurt said. “It will arrive tomorrow, I’m sure, because I got mine today.” He grinned. “I’m packing heat.” He patted the side of his vintage 1940’s suit coat.

  Morgan shook her head. “I’m not taking any chances. I’ll wait until I get my license.”

  “We don’t know what we’re headed into,” Kurt said. “I’d feel better if you had protection.”

  “You can be my protection,” Morgan said.

  That earned another grin from Kurt.

  * * *

  After two wrong turns, one of which took them a mile down a narrow, twisting dirt road before Morgan could turn the Buick around, they found Wild Donkey and the Wagon Wheel Cafe. Two wagon wheels framed an opening in the split rail fence leading to a small dirt parking lot.

  A woman stood on the wooden porch of the faux log cabin, checking her wristwatch. Long brown hair trailed over her broad shoulders in a tangle. Morgan couldn’t tell whether she was chunky, or if it was the loose canvas Carharrt slacks with multiple bulging pockets and baggy, grease-stained sweatshirt that gave her the appearance of bulk. The woman didn’t care about figure-flattering fashion, that was certain.

  “You’re late.” It was the same raspy voice Morgan had heard on the phone. Roxy Day.

  “We got lost,” Kurt said.

  “I gave you directions.”

  She didn’t wait for a response. Just spun around and pushed through the screen door of the Wagon Wheel. When she stopped abruptly, Morgan nearly ran into her. Roxy stepped back onto the porch, muttering something about laws interfering with her rights, in her own place of business no less. She dropped a cigarette onto the wooden
porch and crushed it with the scuffed toe of her lace-up roper boot.

  The interior of the Wagon Wheel had an ambiance imitated by many chain restaurants. Antique tools, farm implements, mule harness, butter churn handles, and seed signs cluttered the rough walls. Benches lined up along wooden tables, but unlike O’Reily’s, these were not varnished. They looked like they might have done actual service outdoors as picnic tables before being dragged inside. Two old ranchers sat in one of the five booths, drinking coffee. Morgan wondered how the place stayed in business.

  “Over here.”

  The woman waved toward the back door. Morgan exchanged a worried glance with Kurt. The screen door opened onto a deck overlooking a creek. A couple and a family of five occupied two of the dozen tables on the deck. The woman took a seat at a round metal mesh table shaded by a tattered umbrella. Kurt sat next to Morgan on a wobbly metal chair.

  “I’m Roxy Day.” The woman extended a hand. “This here is my place.”

  She shook Kurt’s hand, then Morgan’s, her grip firm to the point of painful.

  “Sorry to drag you all the way out here, but this is my busy time of day.”

  “I hadn’t heard about the Wagon Wheel,” Kurt said. “Looks like it has a lot of potential.”

  “Some airhead Californians decided creekside dining and fine wine would be a sure hit,” Roxy said, “but they failed to calculate the local customer base was more the meat, potatoes, and domestic beer crowd. It’s mine now. I got it cheap, and they even threw in the chef. He’s one of those light-in-the-loafer boys, but he’s all right.”

  Kurt nodded, sneaking an amused look at Morgan. They placed orders with a creaky old waitress. After the granny in a white apron left, Roxy placed her sweatshirt-clad elbows on the mesh metal table and leaned close.

  “First off,” she said, “I gotta make it clear. My father had nothing to do with this.”

  She pulled a pack of cigarettes from a pocket on her canvas pants and lit it with plastic lighter set on flame-thrower. Roxy’s voice was so raspy, Morgan wondered if she’d started smoking when she was five.

  “Sonny Day?” Morgan asked. “He’s your father, right?”

  “So you have been investigating.” Roxy leaned back and blew a lungful of smoke toward the creek, but the breeze pushed it across the table and into Morgan’s face. “I’m glad you got right on the case.”

  The ancient waitress wobbled across the deck, her tray of drinks tilting at a dangerous angle. She made it to their table and deposited a domestic beer in front of Roxy, and two Colorado microbrews for Kurt and Morgan.

  “Why would we suspect your father?” Kurt asked. “And what would we suspect him of? Killing your grandfather?”

  Roxy waved a hand like she was shoeing away flies.

  “People,” she said, disgust dripping from the word. “Dad’s pretty wacko, but in a different way than grandpa is.” She took a swig from her beer. “I mean was. While grandpa wanted to hunker down and survive, Dad is more into healing the planet, making us all live in peace and harmony. That kind of crap.”

  “Where do you fall on that spectrum?” Morgan asked.

  “I believe it’s all going to hell in a hand basket, and there’s not much we can do about it.” She shrugged her broad shoulders and tilted her beer up for a long swallow. She set her bottle on the table with a decisive thump. “Might as well live it up while we can.”

  Morgan wondered if that meant bumping off her grandfather so she could inherit his property. Roxy had to need money, trying to run a restaurant in the middle of nowhere.

  “What do you think happened to your grandfather?” Kurt asked.

  “That’s what I want you to tell me.”

  “We know what the police told us,” Morgan said. “Which wasn’t much.”

  Kurt looked at Morgan with a questioning look, one eyebrow raised. “If we’re going to help Ms. Day, we could begin by telling her what we heard that day.”

  Morgan nodded. She and Kurt took turns filling in the details of that day two weeks ago. Roxy’s expression was grim.

  “Do you know anyone who might have had a disagreement with your grandfather?” Kurt asked.

  “The only one I know of that might have been mad enough to kill him is already dead.” Roxy looked at Morgan. “Grandpa and your Uncle Caleb used to do business together. As I understand it, they had a big fight over digging rights and some fossil.”

  “I was young when Great-Uncle Caleb passed away, and my brother is the one who lived on the ranch after we inherited it. I only moved there six months ago.”

  “Then maybe you should ask your brother some questions.” Roxy flicked cigarette ash into a coffee can half-filled with sand. “Grandpa used to cuss a blue streak whenever Caleb’s name came up. He said Caleb stole something from him, but he wouldn’t say what.”

  “I can’t imagine Uncle Caleb stealing from anyone,” Morgan said.

  Her memories of her great-uncle were of a gruff but kindly man, skin weathered by the sun. Uncle Caleb had been deeply spiritual, to the point of naming his place the Rock of Ages. But maybe he had changed his ways after a rambunctious youth.

  Roxy clasped her hands together on top of the table.

  “So what’s your plan for the investigation?”

  “I’ll be out of town for the next week,” Morgan said.

  “You’re gone a lot,” Roxy said. “Another grandbaby?”

  “No,” Morgan said. “This time I’m going to the mineral show in Denver.”

  “Terrific.” Roxy almost smiled. “There’ll be lots of folks who knew my grandpa and your uncle at the show. Some old prospector might know the real story.”

  Morgan mulled that over while the waitress returned. Thankfully, a bus boy carried the large round tray laden with dishes. The waitress set a steaming plate of pan-fried trout, a baked potato, and fresh yellow bush beans in front of Morgan.

  “Wow. I wasn’t expecting this.”

  Kurt looked equally impressed with his buffalo burger and hand cut fries.

  “The cook the California people brought with them does pretty good with what’s available,” Roxy said. “We buy what we can from local gardens.”

  After they had eaten for a few minutes, Morgan savoring every bite, Kurt went into reporter mode. Or maybe it was amateur sleuth mode.

  “The only thing we’ve settled with certainty is the fact that none of us knows what happened to your grandfather.”

  Roxy nodded as she bit into her buffalo burger, the juices running down her fingers.

  “I know what happened,” she said through a mouthful. “My grandpa was murdered. I want to know who did it, and I want them to pay.”

  “You’re absolutely positive he wasn’t suicidal?” Kurt asked.

  Roxy’s face flushed red. Morgan thought she would choke.

  “He didn’t kill himself, and he was too smart to fall into his own trap.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes, letting the emotion die down.

  “If we want to learn what happened that day,” Kurt said, “we need to know of any motivation to murder your grandfather.”

  “How about the property?” Morgan asked. “Who inherits his ranch?”

  It was obvious from her surprised expression that Roxy hadn’t given inheritance any thought.

  “Who gets the place? I don’t know. It’s grandpa’s ranch.” Her homely face crumpled, and tears filled her eyes. “He’s really gone.”

  Kurt waited while Roxy wiped her eyes with a paper napkin. When she had composed herself, he spoke.

  “Sometimes when you dig into a murder, you find things you didn’t expect. You find answers to questions you didn’t intend to ask.”

  That had been true when he and Morgan had been caught up in a cold case investigation. More than a few folks didn’t like what they uncovered. />
  “Are you prepared for that?” Kurt continued. “Unpleasant things could see the light of day. Things you’d rather not have learned.”

  Roxy seemed to think it over, staring at the creek. Water gurgled over smooth rocks, and birds celebrated the warm summer evening with song. Finally, Roxy gave a decisive nod.

  “I feel really good knowing it’s you investigating Grandpa’s death. I can tell you’ll do right by me.” She pulled out the pack of cigarettes and lit up again. “I don’t make a lot of money off this place, so before we go too far down this road, how much do you charge?”

  Kurt glanced at Morgan.

  “I told you,” Morgan said. “We’re just amateurs.”

  “If you want a professional,” Kurt added, “I can pass along a recommendation for a good private investigator. But we’re not licensed. We can’t charge anything.”

  Roxy’s momentary disappointment was replaced by a smile.

  “Well, that’s terrific. I’ve heard you two were good, but I didn’t know you were free.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  On the ride back to Golden Springs, Morgan and Kurt discussed their meeting with Roxy. She had confirmed Chuck’s story at O’Reily’s pub that Morgan’s Great-Uncle Caleb and his neighbor Eustace Day had a falling out several decades ago. The feud was possibly, but not definitely, over a fossil. Roxy Day was convinced her grandfather would not commit suicide. Morgan and Kurt had heard shouting and gunfire that day, as well as explosions, so they doubted the suicide theory, too.

  “I did find Roxy’s assertion that her father isn’t involved interesting,” Kurt said. “I wouldn’t have known to consider him a suspect in Eustace Day’s death. Now he’s on my list.”

  “Is that where we start?” Morgan asked. “With Sonny Day?”

  “Who inherits the land?” Kurt asked. “That’s a tried and true motivation for murder. I would assume the son, an only child, inherits.”

  “Not necessarily. Roxy could inherit. She might have contacted us as a smokescreen, to keep herself from being a suspect.”

  “When she owns that prime real estate and a gourmet chef?” Kurt asked. “I wonder how one comes to be in possession of a chef?”