Murder & The Secret Cave: High Desert Cozy Mystery

by Dianne Harman

  “Nothing at the moment. I need to take a day or two to think about this. When I walked in tonight, I never expected all of this. I need to let it settle. I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, ending the conversation.

  Before he went to bed he took two sleeping pills, but he woke up sometime in the middle of the night troubled by a dream that was as clear to him as if it was happening at that moment. In the dream there was a tomahawk and his father, but the tomahawk was buried in the back of his father’s head.

  Luke wiped away the cold sweat from his forehead, not knowing if it had been a dream, a nightmare, or a premonition. Strange, he thought, like my father I’ve collected some very good Native American artifacts, although mine were all bought from reputable dealers in Los Angeles. I wonder if he and I have communicated at some unknown psychic level. I mean why would I collect Native American artifacts, and the father I never knew has a collection of similar items that’s worth millions? That’s just too strange.

  He got out of bed and walked into his study where several Native American weapons were displayed. He ran his hand over one of them, a tomahawk, and smiled, knowing how he could get rid of the anger he felt.

  CHAPTER 5

  Randy got into his dusty old rusted orange truck which he’d parked at the back of the Hi-Lo lot and drove out to his shack in the hills above the canyon. It was in the canyon where he’d found his first Indian artifacts, artifacts from the Cahuilla Indians. At that time the canyon had been full of them. In the last forty years, it had been pretty much stripped bare of all Native American artifacts after the magazines and newspapers began printing stories about some of the finds that could be made in the canyons around Palm Springs.

  When Randy could no longer locate anything worth collecting in the canyons, he turned to black market traders. Those were the people who sold Native American artifacts taken from burial sites and sheets of rocks that had been a canvas for rock art centuries earlier.

  He smiled when he saw his old shack and the shed behind it. No one would ever think some old desert rat like me would have a collection in those two old run-down buildings along with what’s in the cave, that’s worth millions. Imagine that antique appraiser’ll be purty surprised when she sees that stuff.

  Randy parked his truck in the pullout next to the dirt road. He stepped out of his truck and made his way up the footpath to where the shack was located. When he got to the top he walked over to the boulders by his cave, and pressed the number Lucy had given him into his cell phone. Randy knew from years of experience where the best place was to stand on his property so he could successfully place a cell phone call.

  “Marty Morgan. May I help you?” the voice on the other end asked.

  “Yeah, ya’ probably can. Name’s Randy Jones. Lucy over at the Hi-Lo’s been talkin’ ya’ up. Says yer’ a real hot shot appraiser. I gots a few Injun things I’d like ya’ to look at and tell me what they’re worth. Any chance ya’ could meet me tomorrow at my place? Kind of in a hurry to get this done.”

  “Yes, Mr. Jones. I believe Lucy mentioned she often developed photographs for a man who collected Indian things. I’m assuming you’re that man. I just finished an appraisal yesterday, so your timing is perfect. What time do you want to meet me, and I’ll need directions.”

  They agreed to meet at Randy’s shack at noon the next day for a walkthrough, so Marty could get an idea of what items she’d be appraising.

  Well, like them fancy talkers would say, ‘the die is cast’. S’pose I should call some prospective buyers and let ‘em know I’m thinkin’ ‘bout sellin’ all my stuff. Guess I better call Colin and tell him I’d like to see him. When he finds out I wanna sell my stuff, he’ll be all over it. Can’t say I blame him. It’s dang good stuff.

  Course the Agua Caliente tribe’s pretty wealthy now that they got that casino and spa in town. Rumor has it they could afford to buy about anything. Shoot. Heard they own half the land Palm Springs is sittin’ on. Maybe I should call that tribal member, Richard Sagebrush, who says he wants all the collectors to return their Injun things to the rightful owners. Told me once he wanted to honor some relative of his who was their chief in the mid-19th century.

  Better not forget ‘bout that collector who goes by the name of Dr. Samuel Lowenthal. Everyone knows doctors are rich. Meet him from time to time at shows, and he heard I had some of the really good stuff. Guess the guy lives in some mansion on a golf course.

  Probably a good thing I kicked Mary BirdSong out a few months ago. She knew too much. Purty sure she spected’ somethin’ ‘bout my cave, but don’t think she ever saw what’s in it. I ‘member one time catchin’ her lookin’ at it. That’s why I made that special peephole. Lets me see if anyone’s around. Anyway, that’s where the good stuff is. Hate to show all of it to that appraisal woman, but probably needs to get me somethin’ in writin’ ‘bout my collection’s value if I’m gonna sell all of it.

  CHAPTER 6

  “This is Colin Sanders, may I help you?”

  “Ya’ jes’ might, Colin, ya’ jes’ might. This is Randy Jones. Colin, I’m thinkin’ ‘bout sellin’ my stuff. Time to get out of the desert. Been here long enough. Thinkin’ the Caribbean sounds good ‘bout now. Anyway, got an appraiser comin’ tomorrow to set some prices on my stuff. Bought a few pieces from ya’ over the years, but as ya’ know, I gots a lotta other stuff. Wonderin’ if ya’d be interested in buyin’ my collection. Want to sell the whole thing at once, not nickel and dime it.”

  Are you kidding me? Colin thought. Any dealer in Native American art and artifacts would kill to have the old man’s collection. I’ve been trying for years to figure out a way to get his collection.

  “Of course I’d be interested. I’m pretty familiar with what you have. You even took me to the cave once to show me some of your better things. Why don’t you forget about the appraiser? You and I have a very good idea of what the values are for your items. I’ll give you a fair price and save you the cost of the appraisal. I could come tomorrow.”

  “Nah. That won’t work. Wanna see what this appraiser says. She doesn’t buy or sell the stuff, just appraises it, so she ain’t got no dog in the hunt.”

  “Randy, you’re hurting my feelings. I’d give you a fair price, and I’d buy all of your things. Let me take a look at them, and I’ll give you a cashier’s check for the whole lot and arrange for the items to be packed up and taken away. Only thing you’d have to do is let me look at it and then I’d tell you what I’m willing to pay. You could be finished with the whole thing by tomorrow evening and on your way to the Caribbean.”

  “That’s a dang tempting offer, Colin, but I wanna call a collector I know and let him look at it after I talk to the appraiser. Seen him around at a lot of the shows and know he’s a big buyer. Gave me his card and tol’ me if I ever wanted to sell my collection, he’d be interested in buyin’ it. He’s got some mansion at Bighorn Golf Club in Palm Desert. Showed me a picture of it once and that sucker is huge. He’s decorated the whole thing with Native American stuff. Tol’ me he was thinkin’ ‘bout building a Native American museum in a few years. Anyway, want him to take a look at my stuff and see if he’s interested before I make any decisions.”

  “All right, Randy, it sounds like your mind is made up. I really would like to have the right of first refusal. We go back a long ways, and I definitely would like to have the chance to buy your collection. I’ll wait for your call,” Colin said as he ended the conversation.

  Wait for his call? Like I’m supposed to hope he’ll give me the chance to buy that collection? Fraid not, Randy. I sold you a lot of the items in your collection, things that should never have seen the light of day, and I’ve been waiting to get my hands on your collection for a long time. All I need is for some sanctimonious collector to go to the authorities and have Randy sing about who sold him his stuff. I’d have to explain a lot of things that might get pretty messy. Even someone who doesn’t know much about Native American art would be suspiciou
s when they saw pieces of rock with drawings on them. Wouldn’t be much of a stretch for someone to know they were removed from sacred Native American grounds, probably even from caves that were on the reservations.

  I’d like to go tonight and convince him, but I’ve got that meeting with the rich guy from Las Vegas who’s coming here just to see me. He told me he specializes in collecting baskets, beaded work, and weapons.

  I don’t want the appraiser around when I talk to Randy, so I’ll wait until tomorrow afternoon after the appraiser has been there, and then I’ll pay a little visit to Randy. I might have to do some serious convincing to make him understand that I’m the one who should have his collection. It’s about time Randy got rid of his collection. He’s old, and he’s probably going to die pretty soon anyway. I’ve never heard him mention children or a wife, so don’t think any family members will mourn his death.

  Colin walked into the large room in his house where he kept many of his Native American artifacts. He’d carefully arranged pieces he thought would appeal to the buyer he was meeting tonight. He stood looking at them for several minutes then reached down and picked up a tomahawk decorated with eagle feathers. From the number of eagle feathers on it, Colin knew the owner had been a high-ranking warrior, maybe even a chief, at least that’s how he’d intended to sell it.

  Might just give this tomahawk to Randy as a present and tell him he can have it along with the money. Big bucks will never miss it. Matter of fact, he’ll never even know it was supposed to be part of what I’m going to show him, but it sure might come in handy when I go see Randy.

  He smiled, but the smile never reached his cold eyes. On Colin, a turned up mouth was so rare that it almost hurt him to smile. One didn’t make a fortune dealing in Native American black market artifacts by being a nice guy, but he had a fleeting thought of how fitting it would be for Randy to die from a tomahawk blow to his head, and he couldn’t help but smile.

  That would give a new meaning to the term “burying the hatchet,” Colin giggled as he took the tomahawk to his office and put it aside for tomorrow’s meeting with Randy. Maybe it’s just as well that my new client doesn’t see it. Who knows? It could be a federal sting operation and almost everybody knows that possessing eagle feathers is illegal, plus I really don’t want to get into a lot of explanations. No, it’s far more fitting to confront Randy with an illegal Native American item.

  CHAPTER 7

  Dr. Samuel Lowenthal stood in front of the framed war bonnet he’d just hung in his living room and admired it. He’d carefully positioned it over the cream-colored couch, so that the brilliant colors in the bonnet were the focal point of the off-white wall. When Dr. Sam, as he preferred to be called by his orthopedic patients, had finally convinced his mother to let him display the Great Plains war bonnet that had been in the family for almost a century, he was thrilled. It was a piece that commanded the attention of everyone who saw it. Intricately decorated with beadwork, ribbons, and thirty-three feathers from three golden eagles, it was stunningly beautiful.

  He realized how fortunate his family was to even have it. The sale of war bonnets with feathers from eagles had been outlawed since the 1960’s. The one Dr. Sam had just hung was given to his great-great-grandfather by a tribal chief in Montana in exchange for medical treatment he’d provided free of charge to members of the chief’s tribe over a period of several years.

  Dr. Sam looked around his house and smiled, as he admired the different pieces he’d collected and displayed in his large home on the golf course. When he hired the interior designer to decorate his home, he’d been very clear that she was to use a neutral palette for the furniture, walls, and floors. Dr. Sam wanted his Native American artifacts to be the focal point of the house.

  He regretted that his collection lacked any really fine Pre-Columbian pottery such as bowls, ollas, and unique Native American baskets. He had a few pieces of each of them, but when he’d found very good, one-of-a-kind pieces, they weren’t in perfect condition. Dr. Sam wanted only the best for his collection and was prepared to pay whatever it took to obtain them. The problem was, he couldn’t find them.

  Lately he’d been waking up in the middle of the night obsessing about the pieces he wanted to add to his collection. He’d been in contact with a number of antique dealers who specialized in Native American items, but none of them had been able to find exactly what he wanted. He knew it wasn’t healthy to be obsessing about something he might never be able to obtain. Even though he’d always considered himself to be mentally healthy, he was beginning to have second doubts. He kept having a recurring dream where he was murdering a man who had the pieces he wanted. His rational side couldn’t believe he’d even dreamt something like that. Dr. Sam’s dark side had started surfacing with the dream. It was getting to the point where his dark side was willing to do anything to get the pieces he wanted, including murder.

  His phone rang, breaking his reverie. He looked at the monitor and didn’t recognize the number. “Dr. Sam Lowenthal. May I help you?”

  “Jes’ might, Doc. This here’s Randy Jones. Met ya’ at a coupla Indian shows around these parts. I’m the one who tol’ ya’ I had better Anasazi pottery and baskets than we was seein’ at the shows.”

  “Why, yes, I do remember you. As I recall, I believe you told me you were a collector with a number of high quality items in your collection.”

  “That be right. Probably have one of the best collections that’s in private hands. Anyway, thinkin’ of sellin’ it. Thought I’d give you a call and see if you got any interest in buyin’ it. Woman’s comin’ here tomorrow who’s an appraiser. Gonna show her the stuff, and she’s gonna write me up a report ‘bout what it’s worth. Got a coupla other people who wanna see it. Any chance you’d like to have your name added to the list, cuz I could make time for ya’ tomorrow afternoon, so ya’ could take a looksee and tell me if ya’ got any interest.”

  “Just a moment, let me look at my schedule.” He walked over to his computer and pulled up his schedule for the following day. “I have a couple of appointments in the afternoon, but I can easily cancel them. Would you be willing to sell me a few pieces, or are you thinking of selling your whole collection to just one buyer?”

  “Don’t want to mess around with it. Getting’ a hankerin’ to go to the Caribbean for a little fun in the sun if ya’ know what I mean. Ain’t breakin’ up the collection. Take me too long to sell it piecemeal. Want someone to buy the whole shebang.”

  “Well, I see no reason why that can’t be arranged if I’m interested in the pieces.”

  “Doc, yer’ gonna be interested in the pieces. You can take that to the bank. Ya’ see what I got, and ya’ won’t ever have to look for any more pieces. I gots the best of the best.”

  “Good. I’m looking forward to it. Please give me your address, and I probably better have your phone number as well.”

  “Ain’t got no address, leastways not one ya’ could find on one of them computer maps. Here’s how to get to my place.”

  A few minutes later, after he’d taken down the directions to Randy’s shack, Dr. Sam sat with his elbows on his desk, chin in his hands.

  If Randy Jones really does have the pieces I want, and I don’t think he’d call me about them if he didn’t, I’ll have to buy the whole collection, and I have no idea what’s in it or how many pieces there are, and that’s not to mention the cost of buying the entire collection when I only want very specific types of pieces. The cost of the entire collection could be in the hundreds of thousands of dollars, even millions. Although I’m wealthy, I simply don’t have that kind of money. Of course one alternative is I could just kill him and take the pieces I want. Make it a lot simpler. Then I wouldn’t even have to buy the entire collection, or that matter, even have to buy the pieces I need.

  Good grief. I can’t believe that thought even went through my mind. Maybe I should make an appointment with the psychiatrist who’s on staff at the Medical Center. I feel like there
’s a dark side of me that’s becoming stronger and stronger. Me? A murderer?

  “Yeah,” a voice inside his head said. “You could kill him with one of those tomahawks in your collection. No one would ever suspect a mild-mannered doctor, and you’d have what we want. I’ll help you.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Richard Sagebrush had been visiting a friend near High Desert when he realized he needed a few things, and decided the Hi-Lo Drug Store was as good a place to buy them as anywhere. He was standing at the checkout counter when Mary BirdSong approached him and said, “Richard, I need to talk to you. Can you tell me a time that would be convenient for you?”

  “I have some time right now, if that works for you, Mary.”

  “Yes, please follow me out to the parking lot. We can sit in my truck and talk.”

  Richard followed her out to her truck and got in on the passenger side. Although they both were members of the Agua Caliente tribe and received large monthly stipends from the casino money the tribe earned, they’d both lived at a poverty level for most of their lives. They were reluctant to spend their newly found bonanza of money, instead investing it in stocks and mutual funds. Many other tribal members spent every cent of their monthly allotment on whatever caught their fancy, and a lot of it went towards alcohol and drugs. It wasn’t uncommon to see a brand new truck in front of a dilapidated trailer that was about to collapse in the next winter storm.

  The upside of the new wealth that had come to a number of the tribes in California when the tribal gaming compact had been ratified in 1999 was that not only were the tribal members wealthy, but the extra money had allowed the tribes to build state-of-the-art schools on their reservations as well as medical facilities to match. The tribes generally paid all of the college costs for tribal members who wanted to get a higher education. Psychologists were now on the medical staffs as the tribes tried to find ways to deal with the rampant abuse of alcohol and drugs as well as with problems of spousal abuse.