Stone Cold Case

by Catherine Dilts

  Del managed to keep his mouth shut until Kurt was out the door.

  “Church services?” Del asked. “I knew you two were getting friendly, but man, oh man, I never expected this.”

  “Kurt insisted on driving me to church tomorrow because I don’t have a car.”

  “Well, there is that.”

  “I thought you liked Kurt,” Morgan said.

  “He did grow on me some after saving my life back in January. Still, I guess I was kind of hoping you and Barton would hit it off.”

  “Not a chance,” Morgan said. “Barton is infatuated with Myra. She’s the secretary for the Pine County Gemstone Society and Prospecting Club, and she’s a knock-out.”

  Del chuckled. “I know Myra. The thought of a brainiac like Barton falling for Myra. Now that’s an odd couple.” Del raised one eyebrow and studied Morgan.

  “What?”

  “Now that I think about it, maybe you and Kurt aren’t a bad match after all.”

  Morgan might have agreed with Del, but she had the sinking feeling she might have missed the chance to escalate her friendship with Kurt to something more.

  The morning chores at the Rock of Ages had grown. After helping Del feed and water the donkeys, Morgan filled the dog’s dishes. Both of them worked one-handed, with Del holding his pistol in his right hand, and Morgan’s left hand wrapped in bandages. At least her fingertips were free, peeking out from the white gauze.

  Morgan rubbed the animal’s speckled head. With his new haircut, he looked more like a dog than a wolf.

  “We’re going to need a name for you,” she said. “What did the mountain man call you?”

  “I wouldn’t get too attached to him,” Del said. “He’s liable to run off to the hills again if the mountain man comes back for him.”

  The dog wagged his tail and rolled on his side for a belly rub. Morgan obliged his unspoken request, then headed to the living quarters with Del, refusing the dog entry indoors. Morgan showered and re-bandaged her hand. She tried to dress nice enough for church, but casually enough for an afternoon at the gem and mineral show. Khaki slacks and a long-sleeved sage top seemed to fit the bill. Her outfit could be dressed up with pumps for church, and dressed down with walking shoes and a fleece vest for the show.

  Being gone all day meant she needed to have everything with her. The southwest-print canvas bag she had used yesterday held as much gear as her hiking daypack, but looked nice enough for church. Morgan added bandages and hand sanitizer. She took a quick inventory, ensuring she still had the small canister of pepper spray, then pawing through the rest of the bag’s content.

  “Huh. Where is it?”

  She emptied the bag, shaking it upside down over her bed. The baggie with the ammolite chips was gone. Maybe it had spilled out during the wreck. She didn’t remember seeing any items strewn on the floor before her Buick was towed away, but a lot had happened fast. She remembered Bernie placing the bag on the driver’s seat after handing Morgan her insurance card and driver’s license. A dozen people had been milling around. Who could have access to the car, and not be questioned for digging through her bag? Police Chief Bill Sharp. His deputy. Bernie. None of them seemed likely. The mountain man hadn’t been there. Kurt? He didn’t need to pilfer the gemstone from her bag when he could collect his own samples.

  Morgan opened the drawer on her nightstand and shook ammolite chips from that baggie into a new baggie. This time, she slid it into the pocket of her slacks.

  The shop wouldn’t open for another hour, so Del was sleeping in. When Kurt called her cell phone, she grabbed her brownies and met him at the front door.

  “You look nice,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Morgan said. “You, too.”

  Kurt could have stepped out of a Newsreel in his dashing 1940s’-era suit.

  “If I spend much more time with you,” Morgan said, “I’m going to need to raid Greta Garbo’s closet. Wait. Make that Katharine Hepburn. That’s more my style.”

  “I’ll take you to the vintage clothing store where I find my wardrobe one of these days. How are you today?”

  “Just sore,” she said. “It could have been a lot worse.”

  “If your car is totaled, maybe you should consider an SUV like Bernie’s.”

  Morgan’s friend drove the equivalent of a tank.

  The streets were wet this morning, making a shushing sound as Kurt drove. As promised, he dropped Morgan off in front of the church. She carried her brownies to the kitchen.

  “Morgan, I heard about your accident.” Beatrice pointed at the bandage on Morgan’s hand. “Anything broken?”

  “No, just scraped up a little.” Morgan wiggled her fingertips, extending from the mass of cotton gauze.

  “The streets were slick yesterday morning,” Beatrice said. “Thank goodness they thawed out quickly.”

  Morgan wanted to tell the ladies that it wasn’t the weather or her driving that had caused the wreck, but there was a stranger in the kitchen.

  “Morgan, this is Camille Folsom,” Teruko said. “Mrs. Kruger’s daughter.”

  Morgan had expected someone younger. All the talk had been of people in their late teens and early twenties, but of course that had been sixteen years ago. She clasped hands with the frumpy thirty-something woman.

  “Nice to meet you. I wish it was under happier circumstances.”

  “That’s my family for you.” Camille brushed a lock of dishwater-blond hair out of her eyes. “We Krugers have never been accused of being short on drama.”

  A freckle-faced boy leaned through the doorway. His wavy brown hair needed combing, and half his shirttail was untucked. Morgan guessed him to be no older than ten or eleven. “Mom, the service is starting. Gayle saved us seats.”

  Morgan heard the introit music. As Camille joined her son, Beatrice hooked an arm through Morgan’s and began whispering.

  “Camille resembles her sister, but wait until you see her daughter, Gayle. Spitting image of Carlee.”

  As they headed to the church ladies’ accustomed pew, Morgan risked a sideways glance at Kurt. He smiled and winked. Beatrice didn’t seem to notice him, which was amazing considering her general nosiness and his vintage suit. Camille’s son joined a teenage girl on the pew in front of theirs. She looked about five years older than the boy. She glared at him as he bumbled his way past seated people. The resemblance to the photos Kurt and Anna had dug up of Carlee Kruger was striking, except for the streaks of orange and purple in her long, golden-blond hair. A thin, cream-colored sweater hugged her shoulders.

  Pastor Charles Quinton was several years younger than Pastor Filbury. He wore his thin reddish brown hair neatly styled, and his eyeglasses were the modern version of horn rims, but there the differences ended. Quinton preached with the same bland style as Pastor Filbury. Morgan didn’t think this was the sermon that would make a convert out of Kurt Willard. Still, as she followed the ladies back to the kitchen to ready the coffee and cookies, he was engaged in conversation with a group of men. Morgan attempted a subtle hand motion to indicate she would be in the kitchen. This time, Beatrice noticed Kurt, her eyes opening wide in alarm. When Beatrice glared at her, Morgan caved.

  “He gave me a ride this morning.” Morgan shrugged. “My car is in the shop after my wreck.”

  “We’ll talk about that later,” Beatrice said.

  Morgan felt like her mother had scolded her for hanging around with the wrong crowd.

  Camille’s son trotted to her side with the grace of a spring colt and hung on her arm. Gayle followed, wobbling on the platform soles of slinky pink sandals. The sweater covering her torso was tight, and her skirt too short for church.

  “Mom, they have a youth group here,” the boy said. “It’s supposed to be intense. Can I go?”

  Camille looked to Beatrice, who had swiftly established herself as the leader of the kitchen ladies.

  “The youth group activity is an hour long,” Beatrice said. “We can go to the hospital after
ward.”

  “Come back here when you’re done,” Camille told her son.

  “What am I supposed to do for an hour?” Gayle asked in a whining tone.

  “It’s either youth group,” Camille said, “or you can help us wash dishes.”

  Gayle vanished.

  The ladies chatted amiably as they cleaned up. Morgan was off dishwashing duty, with her bandaged hand, so she helped with the bake sale in the social hall. When the sale ended, Morgan joined the ladies in the kitchen as they waited for Camille’s children. Anna brewed a pot of tea. Morgan got clean mugs from the cabinet.

  “Isn’t your ride waiting?” Beatrice asked Morgan, raising one eyebrow.

  “Ride?” Anna asked.

  The ladies froze in the middle of tea preparation to stare at Morgan. She willed her face not to flush, and failed.

  “Kurt Willard gave me a ride.”

  “You didn’t see him?” Beatrice asked the other ladies. “He sat in the back row. Hiding. Probably taking notes for some tell-all story in that scandal rag he calls a newspaper.”

  “Beatrice,” Anna said, smiling, “calm down. It could be that Kurt is genuinely interested in finding a church home.”

  Teruko remained, as usual, politely neutral.

  “He’s more likely to be interested in a certain member of the congregation than in the sermon,” Beatrice said. “You watch yourself, Morgan Iverson.”

  “Oh, Beatrice,” Anna said, “you don’t have to worry about Morgan. She’s old enough to know what she wants.”

  Teruko seemed to be the only one to remember they had a guest in their midst who had no clue what they were talking about.

  “Morgan is a widow,” Teruko told Camille. “Her husband has been gone for over two years now.”

  “After my trip to Sioux Falls, the kids and I finally had some closure.” Morgan realized she was on the verge of giving a justification for her association with Kurt. Part of her felt indignant that Beatrice thought her life was any of her business, but another part realized she was a member of an extended family now. Morgan’s life was their business, with all the best and the worst that entailed.

  “Two years,” Camille said. “It’s been sixteen since Carlee disappeared. My family still hasn’t had closure.”

  “Perhaps they will now,” Teruko patted Camille’s plump hand. “How long has it been since you have seen your mother?”

  “In person, sixteen years,” Camille said. “And I’m not looking forward to seeing her now. The last time we talked on the phone, she was so drunk I don’t think she even realized when I hung up on her.”

  Camille’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

  “Gerda’s been sober for months,” Beatrice said. “Give her a chance.”

  “She wasn’t there when Carlee and I needed her. After Dad died.”

  Morgan touched Camille’s arm with her unbandaged hand. “When his father died, my son withdrew from the rest of us. But last weekend, I felt like he finally accepted his father’s death. Not that he’ll ever get over it. But maybe now he can move past it. The same healing will happen for your family.”

  Some of the tears in Camille’s eyes spilled over. She mopped them up with the cuff of her loose-fitting sweater. “I’m guessing you weren’t a drunk.”

  “No,” Morgan said. “But I did fall apart. I wasn’t there for my kids when they most needed me. We get caught up in our own grief, and get blinded to the needs of others.”

  “That sounds all neat and clinical,” Camille said. “What about when you live every day not knowing whether you’ve suffered a loss or not? For all we knew, Carlee ran away. She could have been living the high life somewhere, never thinking about us.”

  “Would it help to know what happened?” Anna asked.

  Teruko handed Camille a napkin. Camille wiped her eyes again. She nodded.

  “My boss, Kurt, the newspaper editor, he’s trying to piece together what happened.”

  “I knew it,” Beatrice said. “He’s here scoping out a story.”

  The commotion of energetic teens filled the community room.

  Beatrice stood. “We should head to the hospital.”

  “Are you ready to see your mother?” Teruko asked Camille.

  Blotchy spots of color erupted on the woman’s face, and she grabbed for the back of a chair. She was scared. With Gerda as a mother, that wasn’t an irrational emotion. Morgan had a thought.

  “Maybe it would be better if you went alone,” Morgan said.

  “What would the kids do?” Camille asked.

  “I’m going to a gem and mineral show,” Morgan said. “I could take your children with me.”

  “Morgan’s safe,” Beatrice said. “Her brother and sister-in-law used to run the youth group.”

  The arrangement was settled remarkably fast. After introductions to eleven-year-old Farley and fifteen-year-old Gayle, Morgan found Kurt engaged in conversation with Pastor Quentin and Herb Lyons.

  “Kurt, we’re taking Gayle and Farley with us to the Prairie Rockhound show.”

  “Oh. Change of plans.” Kurt didn’t exactly look happy, but he played along.

  “Rock and roll?” Farley looked suspicious.

  “No,” Kurt said. “Rocks and minerals. I think you’ll have fun.”

  “A rock show,” Gayle said, her words dripping with a sarcasm reserved for teenage girls. “I’m sure it’ll be thrilling.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  * * *

  The sun shone in a cloudless sky as the temperature neared sixty degrees.

  “Cool car,” Farley said. “What kind is it?”

  Kurt rattled off details about his vintage Plymouth. Farley climbed in the front seat without being invited. Considering the trauma their mother was reliving, good manners could be suspended for the day. Morgan sat in the back with Gayle.

  Steam rose off damp streets. Green buds on aspens poised on the edge of unfurling while the cottonwood trees had already leafed out. Both children ignored the scenery as Kurt drove down Topaz Pass. The gem and mineral show was in a small town on the prairie a half hour’s drive east of Granite Junction. Morgan was saved attempting conversation with Gayle by the teen’s ear buds and pink smart phone, as she simultaneously listened to music and texted a friend. Farley’s interest in the car faded. Soon he was asleep, his brown curls mashed against the window.

  Morgan caught Kurt’s eye in the rearview mirror and silently mouthed the words “I’m sorry.” He shrugged and smiled.

  The small community center was jam-packed. Tables lined the outer walls, and canvas canopies marked out the vendors in the center. There were rocks, as promised, but Morgan felt she had stepped into an 1850s’ shopping mall. Leather wares in the form of purses, moccasins, and boots were displayed on tables. Mountain man, pioneer, and Old West clothing hung from racks. Hides and furs lay in heaps in one booth. Antique guns, modern knives, prospecting tools, arts and crafts, wind chimes, beeswax candles, and jewelry filled out the rest.

  “It’s not just rocks.” Gayle pulled one ear bud out to listen to Native American drumming and flute music. “Cool.”

  The kids trailed behind Morgan and Kurt as they slowly perused the mineral tables. This was going to complicate her search for ammolite. When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she spun around. Bernie bounced on her toes, a big smile on her face.

  “Morgan, I didn’t know you were coming to this. But I should have known. Who are your friends?”

  “This is Gayle, and her brother Farley. Gerda’s grandchildren.”

  Gayle rolled her eyes at the word “children,” but Farley extended his hand to Bernie.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Perhaps he did have manners after all.

  “You need to meet Rolf’s daughter.” Bernie waved a hand toward a jewelry display, where Rolf and a young lady were examining strings of beads.

  Rolf ambled over. His arm was in a sling. “Hi, Kurt. Morgan. This is my daughter, Stacie.”

  The girl l
ooked a couple of years younger than Gayle, but she had her father’s height. She was taller than Gayle. Stacie wore her sandy hair cut in a bob, and had the lean build of an athlete. She dressed in blue jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, which looked warm and modest compared to Gayle’s revealing skirt and tight sweater.

  “Hi, Stacie. I’m Gayle. Did you get those earrings here?”

  “No,” Stacie said, “but I saw some just like these.” She tugged at a concoction of tiny amethyst crystals dangling from her earlobe. “I’ll show you.”

  Gayle started to follow, then waved her cell phone at Morgan. “You know how to reach me.”

  “Just don’t leave the building,” Rolf called to Stacie’s back. She ignored him. “How’s your hand?”

  Morgan held up her bandaged hand. “It looks worse than it feels. How are you?”

  “I’d say the same, but that would be a lie. Ha.”

  “Has Chief Sharp made any progress finding the gunman?” Kurt asked. “Or gun woman?”

  “If so, he hasn’t told me,” Rolf said.

  A gravelly speaker announced an arrowhead-making demonstration. The men took Farley to watch.

  “Well, this worked out nicely.” Bernie looked like she’d just come from church, dressed in a mid-calf wool skirt and a bright sweater that flattered her generous figure. “So how did you and Kurt acquire Gerda’s grandchildren?”

  Morgan explained the situation, including the embarrassing grilling at church by an unexpectedly hostile Beatrice.

  “You understand why she’s giving you a hard time about Kurt, don’t you?”

  Morgan shrugged. “Beatrice suspects he’s just after a story.”

  “No, Morgan. She tried to set you up with her pick, that guy you had dinner with.”

  “Pete Melcher.”

  “Yeah. So then you show up at church with Kurt Willard. That’s serious.”

  “It just happened that way. My car—”

  “Don’t kid yourself. You upset Beatrice’s matchmaking attempt. But I’m sure she’ll get over it eventually.”

  “Gee, thanks. I feel so much better.”