Stone Cold Case

by Catherine Dilts

  “Sarah’s been a little run down lately,” Russ continued. “The doctor suggested she take it easy for the rest of the pregnancy. You know how Sarah is. Go, go, go all the time. This is just a precaution.”

  “I can come home if you need—”

  “Everything’s okay.”

  “I just talked to David, and he told me the doctor made Sarah quit her job. That doesn’t sound okay to me.”

  “I know how to take care of my wife.”

  Morgan noticed the deliberately possessive nature of the statement. My wife, not your daughter.

  “Sarah is okay. The baby is okay. We can handle things. I’m sure you have enough to keep you busy in Colorado.”

  Morgan felt as though she’d been slapped. Russ had probably been waiting for years for the perfect opening to put her completely in her place. Now she wondered whether he was the kind of kid to ship his parents off to the old folks’ home the first time they left a kitchen stove burner on. Heaven help the mother-in-law. To be fair, Morgan had been a stereotypical overbearing mother-in-law when Sarah had first married Russ. They had been so young, she was certain they needed her advice. Morgan held her words tightly in check as she spoke.

  “I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of my daughter. I was concerned when I got the news from David about her being on bed rest, instead of hearing it from Sarah herself.”

  There was a brief pause, and maybe Russ was reining in what he really wanted to say.

  “David didn’t get things quite right. She’s not on bed rest, and she took a leave of absence. The library wants her back as soon as she’s ready. I’ll let her know you called. Morgan, we’re not trying to keep you out of the loop. It’s just that Sarah knows you’re concerned about being so far away. She doesn’t want you to worry about every little thing.”

  There it was again. That impossible directive to not worry. Russ seemed to be trying, though, and so she had to try, too.

  “Thank you, Russ. If you and Sarah need me there, just let me know.”

  “We’re looking forward to your visit when the baby arrives,” Russ said.

  He almost sounded sincere.

  The rest of Tuesday passed quickly, with a few customers interrupting Del’s project to set up an antique display using pieces of an old wagon he found behind Barton’s barn.

  The phone rang.

  “Beatrice here.” Her crisp voice was all business. “Don’t forget, we’re taking casseroles to Gerda tomorrow.”

  “I made soup, not a casserole. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Absolutely. Soup is great comfort food. She may finally be willing to accept some support from us. I’ve never seen Gerda crack, but she came close this morning.”

  “What happened?”

  “She insisted on going to the morgue in Granite Junction. Seemed like she wanted company, so Teruko and I took her. Gerda said she wanted to make sure the bones weren’t Carlee’s before we ladies made any more fuss over her.”

  “How could she ID a skeleton? Was it her clothes? Maybe a purse with a driver’s license?”

  “Nope. Good guesses, Morgan, but it was the hair.”

  The blur of yellow in Morgan’s photo.

  “Carlee Kruger had masses of thick, blond hair. If the mountain man hadn’t been taking care of her, the birds and animals might have dragged it all off to line their nests.”

  “Ick.”

  “Not many girls in town had hair that long, and nobody had hair that color. Like spun gold. Gerda recognized it at once. I thought the poor woman was going to pass out, but Teruko and I managed to hold her up.”

  “I don’t know which would be worse,” Morgan said. “Gerda thinking her daughter ran away, or knowing she’s dead, and not knowing why. Did your nephew say anything about how she died?”

  “It could be difficult for the coroner to determine cause of death. But there’s always the possibility some new information will come out to explain it all.”

  “For Gerda’s sake, I hope so.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  Between Cindy’s announcement, her dust-up with her son-in-law, and encountering Big Foot and his hidden stash of human remains, Morgan decided she’d had enough excitement. At least it was Tuesday, and she could look forward to a relaxing evening with her friend Bernie. Almost every week, they joined the informal running club, O’Reily’s Runners, at a pub in Granite Junction. Time to wind down, Morgan told herself.

  She parked beside Bernie’s late model SUV, a hulking beast designed for rugged mountain roads. Tonight was Morgan’s turn to drive to Granite Junction. Bernie exited the back door of the bakery. Her shoulder-length brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she wore a bright green windbreaker tailored to flatter her generous figure.

  “Hi, Morgan. How has your week been?” Bernie’s green eyes sparked with anticipation as she climbed in the Buick. “Any adventures you’d care to share?”

  “You’ve probably heard most of it through the grapevine already.” Morgan pulled onto Main Street. “I’d rather decompress first by hearing some good news. I hope you have some.”

  Bernie did, and chatted about her boyfriend, Rolf, the entire drive down Topaz Pass. The big-and-tall guy seemed delighted with his plus-size gal, and he loved her cooking. Bernie owned Bibi’s Bakery, a popular tea and lunch spot in Golden Springs. She and Rolf were a match made in heaven. Just like Morgan and Sam had been.

  “We’ve only been dating three months,” Bernie said. “I’m afraid to think about the future. I wish we could fast forward past all this uncertainty, and get to the moment when I know whether we’re really meant for each other.”

  “I haven’t seen many people better suited for each other,” Morgan said. “Besides, that’s how long Sam and I dated before he proposed.”

  “I’d given up hope I would ever get married.” Bernie shivered. “Here I am, so nervous worrying about the future that I can’t enjoy finally dating a nice guy.”

  Bernie stared out the windshield. Maybe she was having visions of her wedding day. Morgan shook off a touch of depression and dash of envy, and let herself feel joy at her friend’s happiness.

  “So, Morgan.” Bernie paused. “It’s been over two years now. Have you considered dating?”

  “Beatrice strong-armed me into that dinner date with Pete Melcher from church. If that’s what dating has in store for me, I’m better off quitting while I’m ahead.”

  “Pete seems like a nice guy,” Bernie said. “It can’t have been that bad.”

  Morgan gave a brief, painful rundown of a dinner date full of long, awkward pauses.

  “He’s a great guy, for someone,” Morgan said. “We just have nothing in common. I rhapsodized about hiking in the mountains, while he told a story about being mugged by a chipmunk. I think he was as relieved as I was when the evening finally ground to an end.”

  “Okay, so the dating scene’s not working out. I haven’t seen you since last Tuesday. I’ve heard the talk around town about the body you found, but I haven’t gotten the straight scoop from the eyewitness.”

  “The last day of geology class was a field trip to Temple Mountain. Trevin and I carpooled with our professor.”

  She told the story slowly, hoping something would trigger an explanation for the bones in the dugout, and the mountain man guardian. Or murderer. Bernie asked questions, helping Morgan to fill it out even more. They were pulling into a downtown parking lot before Morgan reached the end.

  “Hold that thought,” Bernie said. “We’d better get signed in before the run starts.”

  The pub could have blended in on a Dublin street. Runners crowded their way through heavy wooden doors that remained propped open in spite of the chilly evening air. Lucy waved them over to her station at a chest high table surrounded by three tall stools. Her long black ponytail was threaded through the back of her baseball cap, and she wore sleek black running slacks, yellow and white sneakers, and a thin turquoise windbreaker. Morg
an and Bernie had updated their wardrobes with running shoes and fleece lined windbreakers, and Morgan had finally opted for running slacks that weren’t very warm, but did prevent chafing. Morgan scribbled her initials beside her name on the clipboard sign-in sheet.

  “Two more runs,” Lucy said, “and you both get your club shirts.”

  Bernie bounced on the heels of her running shoes.

  “I never thought I’d make it!”

  “You can add it to your collection,” Morgan said. “Along with your 5K shirts.”

  She and Bernie had participated in three fund-raising five-kilometer races since January. They walked most of the three point one miles, but the goal was not to win. Besides raising money for a good cause, the 5Ks were part social event and part exercise program.

  They lined up outside the pub and listened to the “rules of engagement” announced by a runner standing on a chair.

  “Obey the traffic lights and stop signs,” he said, “and be careful crossing streets.”

  Headlamps were no longer required. Even slow walkers could finish the race before the sun went down. The man on the stool yelled “Go!” and runners surged down the sidewalk. After negotiating two stoplights, they ran on the less traveled side streets. Bernie slowed her jog as they reached the park.

  “That’s enough running for me.”

  “We go a little farther each time,” Morgan said. “I can’t say I’ve lost much weight, but I feel better.”

  “I’ve lost eight pounds,” Bernie said. “Just from walking. But no one can tell on a girl my size. Oh well, we’re doing this for our health, not to become supermodels, right? Now back to your story. How could Gerda be so sure the bones are her daughter’s?”

  “Her hair—”

  “Euw.”

  “You asked. Carlee had thick, long, golden blond hair. Her natural color. Beatrice said the coroner will look at dental records to be sure.”

  “What about the mountain man? Have they found him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why do we always end up talking about your cases when we’re walking though the park by ourselves? At least the sun is still up.”

  “They’re not my cases,” Morgan said. “And I’m not involved in this one at all.”

  “You only found the body that the entire town searched for sixteen years ago.”

  “And that’s all I’m having to do with this cold case. It’s up to someone else to solve it. Although not many people think the true story will come out after all these years.”

  They reached the pub after everyone else had been seated for a while, as usual. Morgan was surprised to see Barton at the long wooden table with Lucy, Paul, their two children, and Chuck and Vonne. Barton’s long whiskers and shaggy hair made him look more like a mountain man than a dedicated runner, but he participated in nearly every running event in the region, and often placed in his age group. Barton was typically long gone by the end of the run. He wasn’t exactly the most social guy.

  “Hi, Barton.” Bernie slid onto the bench next to him. “You’re usually back way before we are. You must have been sitting here a long time.”

  “I forced him to stay and keep me entertained,” Chuck said. “I can’t run for the next four to six weeks.” He held his foot out from under the bench. His foot was encased in a heavy sock and a low-tech foot boot, but the thirty-something businessman still wore his top-of-the-line running slacks and jacket.

  “What happened?” Morgan asked.

  “Broken toe,” Chuck said. “I tripped over the dog. Didn’t hurt him one bit. Vonne made me go to the doctor, but if you’ve ever had a broken toe, you know what they tell you.”

  Half the table chimed in with some variation of, “There’s nothing we can do about a broken toe.”

  Danny, Lucy and Paul’s black-haired three-year-old, chanted an unintelligible ditty, ending with, “Toes, toes, toes.” Then he resumed coloring his kid’s menu.

  “The doctor wrapped your toe and gave you a boot,” said Vonne, Chuck’s wife. Her makeup and hair never seemed mussed by running three miles. “It was worth the trip to the emergency room to get you to stop whining.”

  Barton was typically a man of few words, but he quipped, “For a man with a broken toe, Chuck moved really fast to grab me before I could escape.”

  “We don’t bite,” Lucy said.

  “But if you’re not careful,” her husband Paul said, “Lucy will sign you up to volunteer for the next charity race.” Paul was a member of the Arapaho tribe, like Lucy. He wore his thick, black hair in braids that reached halfway down his barrel-chest.

  Bernie clapped her hands. “Another race? Count me in! What’s this one for?”

  Paul shook his head. “You never learn.”

  “You weren’t here then, Morgan, but there was a forest fire last summer,” Lucy said. “It burned up part of the Golden Springs Homestead Park. We’re having a race to raise money for seedlings to replant the damaged area.”

  “It’s on a weekday, though,” Paul said, “and just a week away. I don’t know how much participation we’ll get.”

  “The city is getting a deal on the seedlings,” Lucy said. “We need help planting them.”

  “So it’s not just a race,” Bernie said.

  “It’ll be fun,” Lucy said. “There won’t be any T-shirts for this race, but you’ll have a tree named after you.”

  “See,” Paul said. “That’s how she gets you. Lucy promises a fun time for all, then you’re knee deep in mud digging holes with a rusty shovel. So can I count on all of you?”

  “Sign me up,” Bernie said. “How about you, Morgan?”

  “If I can get away from the shop. Cindy might quit. Her husband’s up for a promotion. Do you know anybody in need of a low-paying part-time job with no opportunity for advancement?”

  “Well, when you put it that way,” Chuck said, “they’ll be knocking down your front door for the chance to work at the Rock of Ages. May I make a suggestion?”

  “Sure, Chuck.”

  “If you’re going to run a successful business, you have to learn how to paint things in a spectacularly unrealistic light. Don’t think of how little you can pay a potential employee. Think about how it’s a great opportunity for a young person to gain job experience, or for a retired person to earn money to supplement their Social Security.”

  “There are plenty of reasons a person might want part-time work,” Vonne said. “Maybe you can find a college student home for the summer.”

  Like her son David. Morgan hoped he would consider her offer of a summer job.

  “Besides, there must be amateur detectives around who’d jump at the chance to work for the lady who finds bodies,” Chuck said.

  Vonne punched his shoulder lightly. “Don’t give Morgan a hard time.” She turned toward Morgan. “We heard all about it. Are you okay? That had to be traumatic.”

  Morgan glanced at three-year-old Danny and five-year-old Kimmie.

  “We have to get the kids home right after we eat,” Lucy said. “I’ve already heard the story. You can fill in the others after we leave.”

  The topic changed to lighter subjects while they enjoyed fish and chips and Guinness beer. After Lucy and her family left, Morgan described her discovery of the skeleton, and her frightening encounter with the mountain man.

  “Does your police chief think the mountain man killed Car-lee?” Vonne asked.

  “No one is saying she was murdered,” Morgan said. “We may never know, unless the cause of death is written in her bones.”

  Chuck looked at Barton. “You spend a lot of time in the mountains. Have you ever seen this character?”

  “I don’t run into many people.” Barton tugged at his beard, which was neatly combed and trimmed. “Some of those old prospectors can be pretty crusty, but I haven’t seen one as rough as the guy you described, Morgan.”

  “Speaking of prospectors,” Morgan said, “Harlan Cooper came in the rock shop yesterday. It seemed like he
was hunting for something specific, but he wouldn’t say what it was.”

  Barton had been quiet most of the evening, making little effort to join in the conversation. When the talk turned to prospecting, he took over.

  “Cooper’s not a pickaxe and shovel prospector. If he files a claim, he’ll have a backhoe and a hired crew out there, level the mountain and sift it all through a fine mesh screen to get every last gemstone or flake of gold out of the earth.”

  “Yikes,” Bernie said. “That can’t be good.”

  “Can he do that?” Morgan asked. “Aren’t there regulations about mining?”

  “Too many,” Barton said.

  “Not enough,” Vonne said at the same moment.

  “Cooper might be checking out the rock shop to see if you have gemstones on your land. Don’t agree to anything he proposes.”

  “I’m not going to let anyone dig holes on my land,” Morgan said. “Unless it’s someone I trust, like you, Barton.”

  “You should join the Pine County Gemstone Society and Prospecting Club,” Barton said. “I’m the vice president.”

  “That sounds interesting,” Morgan said. “I’m surprised Del hasn’t mentioned it.”

  “No surprise,” Barton said. “Lorina Dimple is the president.”

  “Del might be an old-fashioned guy,” Bernie said, “but he’s not opposed to a woman being in charge, or he wouldn’t be working for Morgan.”

  “It’s not that.” Barton spun his empty beer glass around in circles in the puddle of condensation on the wooden table. “Del and Lorina had a little history. Things didn’t end well.”

  “What kind of history?” Vonne leaned her forearms on the table. “Like romantic involvement?”

  “That’s Del’s business,” Barton said. “Sorry I mentioned it.”

  When Morgan got home, Del was already asleep. The old cowboy had confided a while back that he’d tried dating once, after his wife passed away. Morgan might have been tempted to pry out whether the president of the gem club was a former romantic interest, but a person’s past could cause him or her a lot of pain. Like Gerda and her family. There might be times when it was better to leave the past alone.