“This dinette set looks suspiciously nineteen fifties,” Morgan said.
“I assure you, it is from the forties, and it is authentic.” Kurt lifted the wine bottle. “Need a refill?”
“Not yet.”
She felt comfortable with Kurt in a way that had been totally lacking with Pete Melcher. Besides, she and Kurt had already shared one adventure, and now had a cold case to solve. No, Morgan reminded herself, Kurt had a case to solve. She was not getting involved in this one. They sailed right past the implications of the candle-lit dinner and plunged into work.
“Let’s move to the dining room,” Kurt said.
A timeline ran down the center of the table, hand written on a long narrow sheet of newsprint. Strings ran from the timeline to folders and photos.
“You must have spent hours putting this together.”
“This made the most sense to me. Start with a timeline of Carlee Kruger’s life, then fill in the events that were made public in some way.”
“You’re taking the cold case quite seriously.”
“I came late to the party for your last case, and you were nearly killed. I don’t want that to happen again.” Kurt’s expression was a little more tender than Morgan was prepared to handle, but he changed the subject quickly. “Besides, if the Golden Springs Gazetteer solves the case first, think of the publicity for my paper.”
That was the Kurt Willard Morgan knew—the self-serving newspaperman.
“Have you discovered anything that explains Carlee’s disappearance?” she asked.
“I don’t want to prejudice your take on her life. Let’s start at the beginning.”
Kurt and Anna had amassed an incredible amount of information about a small-town girl who disappeared at the age of twenty-three. The timeline began with her birth announcement in the Gazetteer. She had been born in Doctor Drewmoore’s clinic in Golden Springs. Four years later, her sister Camille was born in a Granite Junction hospital.
The Gazetteer reported nearly every school event imaginable, especially athletics. The timeline had a surprising number of strings leading to newspaper articles with Carlee’s name.
“Carlee was a busy girl,” Morgan said.
“An overachiever?” Kurt asked. “Or were academics and athletics the only outlet for a bright kid in a small town?”
Carlee’s name appeared on lists of students going to regional debates, soccer and swim meets. She had even participated in beauty pageants, going as far as state. Morgan would have been incredulous, but there was photographic evidence of her beauty, and of her proud parents. Carlee’s father had been a looker, and Gerda was lovely before age, anger, and alcohol had soured her expression.
A string led from the timeline to an obituary. Karl Kruger died after a brief illness.
“He seemed awfully young,” Kurt said.
“Beatrice told me he died of cancer. That’s what took my husband, Sam. Way too young and way too quickly.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” Morgan pointed to the timeline, eager to move past the memory of the most difficult time of her life. “So Car-lee graduated, class valedictorian and senior prom queen.”
A black and white photo showed beautiful Carlee with the prom king. Morgan picked up the photo, holding it closer. The prom king had a military-style haircut, cut close to the scalp, nothing frivolous like an attempt at style. He stood ramrod straight. His slacks had a crease that would slice through butter. Kurt moved closer to look over her shoulder. Morgan could smell his aftershave and a hint of garlic.
“Carlee must have been tiny. This Evan guy towers over her.”
“You’ll notice the important point. The king is not Jade Tinsley,” Kurt said. “Of course, the prom king and queen aren’t necessarily an item, but I’m not sure when Tinsley came onto the scene.”
“From what I heard, they were high-school sweethearts,” Morgan said. “But I don’t see Jade’s name on the timeline. You didn’t notice him on the honor roll, or listed on the baseball or football team?”
“No. Nothing. They seem like a mismatched couple.”
“Do you have any information about this guy?” Morgan set the photo on the table.
Kurt shuffled through the newspaper clippings. “Joined the military straight out of high school.”
“No surprise there.”
“He suffered head trauma when an IED blew up his transport truck near Fallujah.”
“How bad was his injury?” Morgan asked. “Did he move back to Golden Springs?”
“I haven’t investigated secondary figures in this story yet.” Kurt grinned. “Investigate. I like the sound of that.”
“I don’t,” Morgan said. “You remember what happened to me when I tried my hand at detective work.”
“I’ll take it as a good sign that you’re worried about me.” Kurt tapped the timeline with one finger. “But there’s more to Carlee’s story.”
After Carlee graduated from high school, her appearances in the Gazetteer thinned out. For several years, any mention of Carlee was brief, and brought tidbits of good news. Jade started to appear in news stories, too. He won a ribbon at the state fair for a painting, had showings in local art galleries, and a few months later was awarded a scholarship to an art school. Both attended college.
When Camille entered high school, the newspaper virtually ignored the younger sister. There were no beauty pageants or athletic trophies. She leaned more toward academic accomplishments, making the honor roll and winning a prize in a regional science fair. Those moments of acclaim seemed to fizzle out midway through high school.
“About the time Gerda falls apart,” Morgan said. “At least in public.”
Gerda appeared in an article about an assault case in a local bar in which she was the aggressor. A few months later, she totaled her car when she rolled in a ditch.
“Sound like she might have been drinking?” Morgan asked. “I can’t imagine Gerda having an accident. She’s kind of a car expert.”
“Knowing how to repair cars doesn’t mean you know how to drive them. What caught my attention was that she doesn’t start having problems, at least in public, until several years after Karl’s death.”
“It could have taken time for all the consequences of her husband’s death to really hit the family.” Morgan and her grown children seemed to be going through a long, drawn out mourning process for Sam. The delayed reaction made sense to Morgan. “Maybe Gerda and her daughters held things together for the first few years, but they just couldn’t keep it going.”
“Maybe Carlee was the one holding them together. Gerda and Camille seem to fall apart after she goes away to college.”
A notice announced that Camille and three other students had graduated from high school in December. The former honor student had hobbled through to her diploma a semester late. Then she vanished, as far as the Gazetteer was concerned.
A string led from the timeline to a society page article.
“Carlee and Jade Tinsley became engaged,” Morgan said. “I’ve heard that from a dozen people already, but this makes it seem more real.”
The youthful faces smiling at them from the newspaper were attractive and full of life.
“And they all should have lived happily ever after,” Morgan said. “The kids make it through high school, the oldest daughter is engaged. Gerda seems to be staying out of trouble.”
“Until three months before Carlee disappears.”
Kurt followed a string from the timeline to a newspaper. Gerda made front-page news for her drunk-driving arrest.
“That seems cruel,” Morgan said.
“Driving while intoxicated?”
“No. Smearing Gerda’s name all over the front page,” Morgan said. “Couldn’t they have tucked it inside somewhere? Wouldn’t you have?”
Kurt had acquired the newspaper four years ago. In an era when papers large and small were folding, the Gazetteer hung on with its gossipy coverage of local news.
“You’re right,” Morgan said. “If I only read about her in the newspaper, and didn’t know her personally, I’d feel the same. But she is trying to change. She’s going to AA meetings.”
“Let’s hope reopening her daughter’s cold case doesn’t push Gerda off the wagon.”
Kurt pressed his beefy hands onto the oak table. His brown hair was breaking free from whatever gel he used to plaster it into place, and curled at the edges. He wasn’t a small man, but then, Morgan hadn’t worn size six jeans in over a decade. He was a nice looking man, with a solid jaw that hinted at a stubborn streak. His gold-flecked hazel eyes seemed to take in everything. Morgan realized, with a twinge of guilt, that she was glad Anna Heiden hadn’t come to dinner.
Startled by the attraction she felt, Morgan moved back a step on the pretense of needing a sip of merlot, and focused on the case. As she studied the oak table, an organized mess of folders, newspapers, and photographs, it hit her that this was the sum of a young woman’s life.
“We’re getting near the end.” Kurt watched Morgan for a moment. “Shall we keep going?”
Morgan shook her head. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this.” Tears filled her eyes.
“Are you okay?” Kurt asked.
“The whole story is so incredibly tragic.” Morgan wiped a hand across her eyes. “I didn’t even know Carlee. Well, I didn’t know her before. Now she seems like a real person. Of course she was real.” Morgan looked up at Kurt. “I feel like I know her now.”
“Maybe that’s the key to finding out what happened to her. We have to know her. Know what she would have done. Where she went, and why.”
Now the stacks of folders became thicker, the strings leading from the timeline forming a spider’s web. News of Carlee going missing dominated the Gazetteer for weeks. The search parties, a reward offer, interviews, clues.
“How could they have missed finding her?” Morgan asked.
“You’re assuming she was dead when the search began,” Kurt said. “We don’t know when she died, or where. If she did run away, like some people think, maybe she came back after the searchers gave up. A month, six months, a year later. But there’s another problem.” Kurt rolled out a map of the area, with the search parameters highlighted with a dark border and hash lines. “This is the area they searched. And here is where you found her.”
Kurt tapped his finger on a spot outside the search area.
“Why did they search here?” Morgan traced the boundary line.
“Trails from Golden Springs lead to this side of Temple Mountain. The searchers must have assumed Carlee left town on foot.”
“Maybe they were wrong about that.” Morgan pushed her hand through her hair, her fingers twining through her wild curls. “How will we ever know what really happened?”
“Someone talks. And the way to get them talking is to find the key people who knew her at the time. People who saw her last. The fiancée, her schoolmates, Gerda.”
“Good luck with that,” Morgan said. “Gerda is angry with anyone who tries to talk to her. So why are you investigating this case? If it’s just to drum up new headlines for the Gazetteer, you might end up with a lot of upset readers.”
“I’m not as opportunistic as you think,” Kurt said. “As bristly as Gerda can be, I feel sorry for her. She lost both her husband and a child. Two children, really.”
“Chief Sharp thinks the mountain man is the key,” Morgan said. “I’m inclined to agree. At first, I just wanted answers for Gerda’s sake, but after Bernie’s run-in with him behind the bakery, and then breaking into Del’s trailer to steal clothes, it’s getting too close to home.”
“The story’s out there,” Kurt said. “Someone might have gotten away with murder. I’m determined to find the answer.”
Morgan picked up the prom photo. “I just moved away from my children, but I still feel the pain of loss. I can’t imagine what Gerda’s been through.”
“My sons are in California,” Kurt said.
“I didn’t know you had a family.”
“Had is right. Past tense. When I first bought the paper, I imagined I’d convince my ex to patch things up and move here with me. In hindsight, I realize how lucky I am that didn’t happen. The boys visit me every summer, and with computers and phones, we’re not ever really apart, but it’s not the same as being there physically, as you know.”
Morgan nodded. She knew. Kurt kept talking.
“I’m sure the boys resent me for moving to Colorado, but it was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I’m trying to convince them to apply to Colorado colleges so they’ll be closer to me. Their mother may not appreciate that, but they’re young men now. Eighteen years old. They can make their own decisions.”
“They’re both eighteen?” Morgan asked. “Twins?”
“That’s an entire story in itself,” Kurt said. “For another time. But for now suffice it to say they’re stepbrothers.”
“You must be younger than me,” Morgan said.
“I’m pretty sure I started my family later in life than you did. I’m forty-eight.”
“Only two years older than me.”
“What about your kids? How old are they?”
“Sarah is twenty-three, married, and about to have a baby. David is twenty-one, but has been living on his own since shortly after his father passed away. He’s putting himself through college. I suppose I should be proud, but I wish they both needed me a little more.”
“I know how you feel. I haven’t been a part of my sons’ lives the way I imagined I would.”
Kids. And not middle-aged children who might be grateful their parents were finally getting involved with someone. No, Kurt’s boys and Morgan’s children were young enough to be resentful of a romantic interest in their parents’ lives. Especially Morgan’s son, David, who had yet to start healing from the loss of his father. The conversation was getting uncomfortable. She steered it back to the cold case.
“But at least our children are alive.”
Kurt turned the map around. “I’d like to see where you found Carlee. Can you take me there?”
Del could handle the shop for a few hours. Morgan could lead Kurt to the dugout tomorrow if she wanted to, but the thought of a walk through the forest alone with Kurt was a bit much to contemplate after their evening together.
“Saturdays are busy at the shop. And I need to run it by Del, since he’ll be managing the shop by himself.”
“I’d like to go soon. I’ll call Chief Sharp to make sure the dugout’s not off limits.” Kurt scribbled a note on a pad of paper.
Morgan glanced at the clock on the mantle, an antique, of course. The hands had a utilitarian grace as they pointed to numbers in an art-deco font.
“It’s later than I thought,” Morgan said.
“Only ten o’clock. Early for a Friday night. Can I interest you in another glass of wine?”
“I need to get home. I’m a rancher, according to my tax accountant. I have to get up early to take care of my herd of donkeys.”
“Do two donkeys constitute a herd?”
“Soon to be three,” Morgan said.
Kurt helped her into her coat and walked her to the Buick. He opened the driver’s door.
“I enjoyed tonight,” Kurt said.
“Me, too.” Morgan shrugged. “Dealing with Carlee’s case isn’t exactly fun. But the dinner and conversation were nice.”
Kurt beamed a smile, his cheeks flushed red in the chill night air.
“Maybe we can do this again some time. The dinner, I mean.”
Morgan surprised herself with her swift and sincere reply. “I’d like that.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
* * *
Saturday morning Morgan woke on time to feed Adelaide and Houdini, then allowed herself th
e luxury of crawling back into bed. It was a shame to waste a beautiful morning in the Rockies sleeping, but Morgan was exhausted. She ignored the sun peeking through the southwest-patterned curtains in the bedroom window, until she heard the shop’s cowbell clang. Disoriented, Morgan rolled out of bed and yanked on yesterday’s jeans and sweatshirt.
A man’s voice called from the shop. “Hello!”
Del wasn’t in the living quarters, and if a customer had to holler for help, he wasn’t in the shop, either. Morgan shoved her feet into slippers and opened the door dividing the living quarters from the shop. Barton Potts stood at the checkout counter. Perhaps he had brought more topaz.
“Good morning,” Morgan said.
“I’m looking for Del.”
“So am I.”
The old cowboy opened the front door and leaned in.
“About time everyone showed up” he said. “I’m not getting any younger, you know.”
“What’s going on?” Morgan felt she had missed out on something vital by sleeping in.
“After that old boy broke in and stole from me,” Del said, “I decided I’d better do some fixing up to make sure nobody can get inside my home again.”
Morgan hoped that meant boarding up the windows and doors of the broken down old trailer house.
“It’s time I moved back in my own place,” Del continued. “Come on. I’ll show you what I’ve got planned.”
Morgan squeezed into the cab of Barton’s truck for the short, bumpy ride to the trailer.
“I understand you want to protect your belongings,” Morgan said, “but with a potential killer running around, I’d rather you stayed in the shop living quarters.”
“I will. Until that fella’s captured. But after that I think it’s time for me to get out of your hair.”
The trailer looked worse in the light of day. Hail had left dents in the siding, the roof sagged, and the skirting had peeled back in places. Dry rot had eaten up the steps leading to the front door.
“What’s the plan?” Morgan asked. Hers would have been demolition.
Stone Cold Case Page 10
