Blue Goodness (Michael Kaplan Mysteries)

by David W. Cowles

  MYRA WOKE UP a little after five. The telephone had rung often all afternoon—almost continuously, at times—but she was sound asleep and had failed to hear it. The phone rang again as Myra was refreshing her face with a cold wet washcloth, and she rushed to pick up the instrument.

  “Hello.” Myra spoke tentatively. She hoped it was Michael on the other end of the line, but had no idea what to say to him if it was.

  “Hello.” It was a woman’s voice, starched and businesslike. “Is Mr. Kaplan there?”

  “No, he isn’t,” Myra replied. The voice was not familiar to her. “May I give him a message?”

  “Yes. Tell Michael that Soozie called. It’s very important. I’ve tried all day to contact him. I’ve left messages at work, but he hasn’t returned any of my calls. I even called you at the Gold Crest—I thought you might be able to tell me how I could get in touch with him—but they told me you went home sick today. You must not have been sick enough to stay home, though. I dialed your condo at least thirty times. What were you doing, Myra, out playing the slots all afternoon?”

  Myra knew she didn’t owe the woman an explanation, but she was so taken aback by the rude accusation that she spurted one out before she had time to think. “No, I wasn’t playing the slots. I was right here, at home, in bed, sleeping. I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “You sound like you’re feeling okay now, sweetheart. When will Michael be home? He should be there by dinner time, shouldn’t he? You do cook, don’t you?”

  Myra did not want to admit to the obtrusive woman who called herself Soozie that she didn’t know if her husband would ever return. “I’m sorry, I really don’t have the slightest idea when Michael will be home. He may be somewhere on assignment. I’ll be sure to give him your message the minute I hear from him.”

  Soozie’s voice took on an ominous tone. “You do that, Myra. Tell Michael he’d better not be trying to avoid me, if he knows what’s good for him. Tell him I said we have some unfinished business to attend to. He’ll know what I mean.”

  Myra was shocked by the caller’s sudden shift in attitude from pushy to belligerent. “Uh, yeah, I already told you I’ll give Michael your message. I’m sure that when he gets it he’ll get in touch with you. Does he have your number?”

  “Michael has all my numbers, sweetheart. He knows how to get together with me day or night.” With that final remark, Soozie hung up without saying goodbye.

  Myra stared into the telephone for a full minute before putting it down. She shook her head in disbelief. That was a very strange call, she thought. And disturbing. Michael had never mentioned anyone named Soozie. Apparently Soozie knew all about her—including her name.

  Thirteen

  GUNTHER HOGG’S DAY deteriorated by the minute. When his meeting with Oscar Stein was over he took a taxi to the impound lot where Metro had towed his Toyota truck after the juvenile officers picked up Jennifer. It cost him fifteen dollars for the taxi ride and a hundred fifty more to reclaim the truck. Then, he drove to his bank and removed the deed to his clinic property from the safe deposit box, took the document to Stein’s office, and handed it to the lawyer’s secretary.

  As he left Stein’s office for the second time that day, he spotted the headline. It was on the front page of the Las Vegas Times in a news rack bolted to the sidewalk in front of the office. It read LOCAL VETERINARIAN ARRESTED. Hogg dropped two quarters in the slot, lifted the plastic door, and removed a copy. Thank God, they hadn’t used his picture.

  He climbed in his truck, started the engine, turned on the air conditioner, and sat in Stein’s parking lot. He read the article three times, from start to finish. The facts were all there, but the story was biased by the fact Jennifer was only fifteen. If she had been of age, as he’d truly believed, there would have been no cause for his arrest, no reason to write the story.

  Jennifer wasn’t mentioned by name, of course, to protect her because she was a minor, but she was quoted. The little slut must have been afraid of what her parents or the authorities would do to her if she told the truth, he figured. The article—how did the reporters get to interview her, anyway?—made it appear she was a virgin and Gunther had practically raped her and kept her captive. That wasn’t the way it went down at all. She was completely willing, very experienced, and had practically initiated the sex.

  Then, the article went on to tell about his upcoming hearing before the Veterinary Board, the hearing to revoke his license to practice. He wondered how they’d learned about that so quickly. It seemed all of his dirty laundry was being aired in public at once.

  Gunther pulled into the drive-through lane at a McDonalds and ordered three Big Macs, a large order of fries, and two chocolate shakes. He ate in the truck on the way to his clinic.

  The building was eerily quiet. The animals that had been in his clinic for boarding or treatment were still at Animal Care. They might as well stay at Animal Care until tomorrow, he decided. He didn’t want to be bothered with them today.

  The phone began ringing almost immediately. Three people canceled appointments, without stating a reason. Most of the calls, however, were of another sort entirely. As soon as he answered the phone, “Hogg Veterinary Clinic,” the person on the other end of the line would call him a pervert or a child molester or shout obscenities at him, and slam the phone down in his ear. Some threatened to do bodily harm to him, and one particularly rough-sounding man with a southern accent said if he didn’t leave town immediately he would wind up in the morgue. Gunther was learning the power of the press. Ironically, his advertising—for which he paid dearly—had failed to get anywhere near the same response.

  He finally took the instrument off the hook. His only appointment for the afternoon was a no-show, and, after waiting half an hour beyond the scheduled time, he locked up the clinic and drove to his house.

  Hogg had another surprise waiting for him. His clothes and other personal effects were spread all over his front lawn and his wife had changed the locks to all the doors. He knew she was at home—her car was parked in the driveway—but she wouldn’t come to the door when he rang the bell. He was tempted to break the front door down and confront the bitch, but thought better of it when he spotted a Metro black-and-white cruising back and forth in front of the house, the officer inside eyeing him with suspicion. He didn’t need to add to his troubles with the law.

  The next door neighbor was mowing his lawn. The man watched, with a smirk on his face, as Gunther gathered up his belongings and tossed them in the bed of the truck. Gunther couldn’t find his favorite boots, the expensive ones made of ostrich skin. He stopped at a 7-Eleven, bought two six-packs of Coors, and checked in at a Motel 6. Perhaps, he thought, tomorrow will turn out better.

  MICHAEL PICKED UP THE BROKEN HANDLE of the old pickax and used it as a makeshift cane. He could hear Kimberly working her way down the shaft and hobbled as close as he could get to the place where she would be entering the chamber. “Watch out,” he called up to her. “The ladder isn’t long enough. You’re going to have to let go at the bottom and drop onto the pile of bags. They’re soft and squishy—be very careful.”

  After Kimberly could go no farther, she hung by her hands, much as one would on a horizontal chinning bar, and lowered herself the rest of the way, one rung at a time. When she felt the mound beneath her feet, she released her grip. As her weight transferred from the ladder to the spongy pile of dead animals, she lost her footing, as Michael had the first time he descended into the mine. He reached for her, just as she started to fall. Because Michael’s weight was supported by only one leg, he also lost his balance, and they ended up together on the floor. Their bodies entwined and they embraced for a few moments. If it were not for the face masks they were wearing and the repugnant surroundings, they might have been tempted to kiss.

  Kimberly sat up and leaned over Michael’s legs. “Let me look at your ankle,” she said solicitously. After a brief examination, during which Michael flinched every time Kimberly pressed
too hard on a sore spot, Kimberly stood and helped him get to his feet. “Well, nothing seems to be broken. That’s the good news. Now, all we have to do is figure a way to get you out of here.”

  “If I could reach the bottom rung of the ladder I could pull myself up,” Michael explained. “The problem is, I can’t climb onto those bags with just one good foot.”

  Kimberly surveyed the situation. “We need to place something solid across the bags and make a ramp, so you can crawl to the top of the pile without sinking in. Is there any lumber in here?”

  “No. There’s a wooden bench, but it’s not large enough to straddle the mound. I suppose we could try to pry some of the planking off the walls, but, if we do, we might cause a cave-in, and then we’d be in real trouble.

  “Besides, the wood’s rotten. When I saw the rat, I jumped back and went crashing right through the wall like it was made of balsa wood. Over there.” Michael pointed to the hole he made when he fell. It was almost possible to see the outline of his body, like the silhouettes characters in animated cartoons make when they’re thrown through solid objects.

  “There’s another room on the other side of the wall,” Michael informed her.

  “What’s in there?” asked Kimberly. “Maybe there’s something we can use.”

  “I don’t know. I crawled out immediately, and I didn’t bother to look back inside.” He held the lantern, so its light illuminated the second chamber, and peered in. The second room was much smaller than the first, measuring about six feet square. “It’s entirely empty, except for an old wooden crate, and that’s too small to be of any help,” Michael told her.

  Kimberly stuck her head through the opening. “Maybe not,” she said. “I’ll bring the box out. By using both the bench and the box we might be able to improvise a couple of steps. Hold the lantern for me, Michael.” Kimberly dropped to her hands and knees and crawled through to the other chamber. “Ugh,” she grunted, tugging at the box. “I can’t budge it. It’s full of something heavy.”

  “Oh? What?” Michael questioned.

  “I don’t know. The lid is nailed on.”

  Michael limped across the room, favoring his injured ankle. He picked up the ax head, then edged sideways through the hole and joined Kimberly in the small room. He tried to move the wooden container, but was unable to do so.

  “You’re right—this box is very heavy. It feels like it’s loaded with bricks. I’ll try to pry the lid off with this ax head,” he told her. “It would be a whole lot easier if I had a crowbar.”

  After struggling with the makeshift tool for several minutes Michael succeeded in removing the top of the box. He and Kimberly stared down at the contents in awe.

  Kimberly was the first to break the silence. “Well, you said it felt like the box was loaded with bricks. It turns out you were right.”

  Michael reached down inside the box and picked up one of the objects. “Yeah—but I never thought they would be made of solid gold!” The metallic bar gleamed in the light from the lantern.

  “Do you think they’re real?” Kimberly asked incredulously.

  “I think so. Unless we’re hallucinating and they’re mere figments of our imagination,” Michael kidded. He hefted the brick. “This ingot weighs about ten pounds. Let me think for a minute. That would be approximately twelve pounds troy weight, or 144 troy ounces—that’s how precious metals are measured. At the current spot price of gold, each bar is worth nearly a quarter million dollars!” he stated excitedly.

  Kimberly was counting. “There are forty ingots in the box, and they all seem to be the same size. That means there’s at about nine million dollars worth of gold here, Michael!” Kimberly exclaimed. “I wonder who it belongs to?” she questioned cautiously, almost in a whisper, as if the walls were listening.

  Michael was still stunned by their find. “That’s something we’ll probably never know. This mine hasn’t been worked for a very long time. Whoever owned the mine may or may not have been the rightful owner of the gold bars. If this much gold was mined here, I doubt if the mine would have been abandoned.

  “I’m guessing someone hid the ingots here, perhaps years after the mine closed—and, for some reason, wasn’t able to come back to get them. Based on the rotted condition of the wood used to seal off this room, it’s my opinion the gold must have been stashed decades ago. Whoever stored it here is probably long dead. The question is, who gets it now?”

  Kimberly’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand what you mean. We found the gold. Doesn’t it belong to us?”

  Michael shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know right now. I’m going to have to do some legal research. I don’t remember learning anything in law school that’s right on point. I do know that if the rightful owner can be found, the gold belongs to him. If he can’t be found—which will probably be the case—it might legally belong to the person who owns the land. Remember, we’re trespassers here. I think this is BLM land—that is, land owned by the federal government—but, I’m not sure.

  “There’s another matter to consider, also. We didn’t come out here on a frolic of our own. We work for the Times, and we’re here as reporters following up on a news tip. The Times is paying our salaries. The Times is paying for all of the equipment we bought or rented. We found the gold in the course of our employment, so it may belong to the newspaper.”

  An immense grin formed on Michael’s face. “Or, it could be ours, Kimberly. All ours. We could be rich!”

  Kimberly became very sober. She was more concerned about Michael than the treasure. “The most important thing right now is to get you out of here safely. We can always come back for the gold later. All the gold in the world wouldn’t be worth a thing to me if you’re stuck down here in this mine forever.”

  Michael’s eyes grew as big as saucers. He picked up the box lid and examined the underside of it carefully.

  “What is it, Michael? What are you staring at so intensely?”

  He held the lantern close to the wood. “Look at this, Kim. It’s a map. A map of the Las Vegas area.” He pointed out landmarks drawn on the map. “See, there’s the old Mormon fort. There’s the railroad track. There’s Sunrise mountain. There’s the Colorado river, before Hoover Dam was built and Lake Mead was formed. That means this map must be at least seventy-five years old. Notice the big red X—according to the map, that’s the location of the Doberman Mine.”

  “I’ve heard of that mine,” Kimberly said. “Nowadays, it’s called the Lost Doberman Mine. According to legend, it had the richest vein of gold ever found in Nevada. The ore was practically pure. The prospector who worked it was a secretive old codger; whenever he went to the mine he always took a circuitous route, to make sure nobody followed him and learned where his mine was. After he died, no one else could ever locate his claim—though many people tried over the years.”

  “If that’s the case, and if we can find the mine, the map may be even more valuable than the gold bars we just found,” Michael realized. “Kimberly, until we can check out the map, and until I can find out who’s entitled to the gold, we can’t say a word about this to anyone. We must keep our find a secret.”

  “Even from Myra?” Kimberly asked impishly.

  Michael nodded. “Especially from Myra. At least, until she calms down and realizes you and I haven’t been doing the wild thing together.

  “I think I’ve figured a way to get out of here. There’s an old tire in the main chamber. I’ll tie one end of the rope to the tire, and you tie the other end to the trailer hitch on the Jeep. I can stand on the tire with my one good leg, like a kid on a tire swing, and you can pull me to the surface with the Jeep.”

  Kimberly nodded her head. “I think that might work. It’s certainly worth a try.”

  “First things first,” Michael insisted. “I want you to go back up to the top of the shaft and lower the pail. I’ll send up one or two of the gold bricks at a time—whatever you can hoist easily. After they’re all on to
p, I’ll tie the wooden map to the rope. When that’s in your hands, I’ll attach the tire to the rope and you can haul me up. At some point, though, I might need to have you lower another bottle of air down to me.”

  Kimberly’s face showed more concern than fear. “There’s only one tank of air left, Michael. What are you going to do when that’s used up?”

  “If things go the way I think they will, we’ll be done long before all the air is gone,” he said confidently.

  “If we’re not, Michael, I’m coming back down to be with you. Air or no air.”

  But Michael’s plan did work, and, within thirty minutes, the ingots, the wooden map to the lost mine, Kimberly, and Michael were sitting on the hot desert sand.

  Fourteen

  THAT AFTERNOON, SOOZIE PHONED Myra three times more. She became increasingly importunate with each call. When Myra heard the woman’s voice for the fourth time, she fibbed by saying she hadn’t spoken with Michael personally (which was true), but she had received word from his secretary he was on an overnight assignment (a falsehood), and therefore she did not expect to hear from him until the following day (she hoped that was not true).