“Well, let’s see,” he said putting his cigarette out in an empty can of beans that doubled as an ashtray and was overflowing with cigarette butts, while at the same time lighting another cigarette. “Started some thirty-five years ago or so. Had a little luck with a mother lode of gold, and one thing kinda led to another.”
“You mentioned something about selling your collection. Do you have a buyer for it, or are you going to sell pieces to collectors who might just want to buy the pottery, say.”
“Nah. I’m sellin’ the whole kit and caboodle. Goin’ to the Caribbean and figger won’t do me no good there. Got two people who are gonna be lookin’ at it. One’s a hot shot bone doctor who collects high-end Injun stuff. He’s comin’ out here later to look at my purties. Also got a dealer who’s sold me some of ‘em, so he’s got a purty good idea of what I got. Problem is Colin’s cheap. Don’t know if he’ll pay what I’m gonna ask for it, course that depends on what ya’ think it’s worth.”
“It’s none of my business, but what about gifting your collection to a museum? In my opinion pieces of this quality should be available for everyone to see.”
“Nah, want the money. Anyway, don’t think I’ll be around long enough to use the tax break I’d get. Uncle Sam ain’t got no idea what I got here and don’t want him to find out about it. Try to stay off the grid as much as I can, and I been purty dang good at it.”
“I don’t mean to pry, but what about your family? I’m thinking your children might want these items.”
“Jes’ might. Only got one kid and ain’t seen him for forty years, so don’t think it matters much to him. Matter a fact, don’t even know where he is. Sure as heck hasn’t tried to find me. Now if yer’ finished jawin’ at me, like to show ya’ what’s in the shed, and then we’ll go to the cave.”
“That’s fine. Could you give me a couple of minutes, so I can take some photographs?”
“Sure. Help yerself’,” he said, lighting another cigarette. “I’m havin’ a little bourbon and branch water. Care to join me?”
“No, thanks. Don’t want to jeopardize my judgement,” she said as she started snapping photographs.
Twenty minutes later she put her camera in its case, turned to Randy and said, “I’m finished. I have a very good idea of what’s here. I’m ready to see what’s in the shed.”
They walked to a small building behind the shack, and he unlocked the door. Again, she stood in amazement at what was before her. Each wall of the shed had shelves that held Native American pieces. A stack of Native American rugs filled one corner. Bright headdresses and beaded work had been hung from nails in the walls. The shed was overflowing with incredibly beautiful pieces. Marty’s heart was racing, and her mouth felt dry as she looked at them.
I am so glad I didn’t listen to Laura. This is one of the best days of my life. To have the opportunity to see these things is like I’ve been given a gift. I feel like I should pay him for allowing me to look at his collection.
She took more photos and after a half hour said, “All right, Mr. Jones. I’m ready to see what’s in the cave.”
As they walked over to the cave, he said, “First of all, name ain’t Mr. Jones. It’s Randy. Been Randy all my life, and I’m stayin’ Randy. Second thing, think yer’ gonna be surprised when you see the purties in my cave. Not many people have those things, specially since you can’t buy ‘em anymore, but that don’t make no difference fer what yer’ doin’.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Jes’ a minute and you’ll unnerstan,” he said. “Wait here.” She watched as he pushed two large artificial boulders away from the entrance to the cave, opened a roughhewn wooden door, entered the cave, and lit several lanterns.
“Okay. Ya’ can come in now.”
She stepped into the cave and gasped.
CHAPTER 13
Nothing in Marty Morgan’s appraisal adventures had prepared her for this moment. Everywhere she looked were things she’d only read about. In the center of the cave, which extended back about fifty feet, was a huge piece of rock with pictographs of Native Americans doing a war dance.
Three walls of the cave were lined with shelves that held baskets, arrowheads, pottery, and just about every other type of Native American artifact there was. Her eyes swept the large cave for several moments, and then she turned to Randy, who was smiling broadly.
“So, whaddya think of my purties?” he asked.
“I’ve never seen anything like this. You have things here that aren’t even in museums that specialize in Native American artifacts. I didn’t think rock art could be bought.”
“Can’t. Had me a couple of suppliers over the years who knew where to go to get the good stuff. Lemme give ya’ a ‘lil tour. Course ya’ can’t tell people what I got in here. Might present some problems fer me if the law found out,” he said, winking.
“I’ll jes’ tell ya’ ‘bout some of the rarer items. This here eagle feather headdress belonged to a chief. Don’t think there’s another one like it. And this Anasazi seed pot is in perfect condition, as ya’ can see. I’m sure ya’ know the Anasazi were Pre-Columbian so that puppy has a little age to it, like ‘bout eight hunnert years or so. This here eagle claw necklace is the only one I’ve ever seen. Read me an article once that said one was found in Croatia that dated back over 130,000 years ago. Always been curious ‘bout this one’s age, but not curious enough to have some scientist turn it over to the Bureau of Land Management.”
“Aren’t you concerned about the legality of owning these items? Some of them sure look to me like they shouldn’t be in a private collection.”
“Nah,” Randy said. “If’n no one knows about it, ain’t illegal. Leastways that’s how I look at it. Here’s one of my favorites,” he said lifting a mask off of a shelf. “It’s a sacred Hopi Kachina mask. It’s worth a bundle.”
“Do you know where it came from?”
“Never asked. Imagine it might have spent some time at a burial ground, but makes no difference, cuz I’m the one who owns it now.”
Marty shivered involuntarily. When she’d researched some of the Native American artifacts she’d done in past appraisals she remembered coming across an article about the illegal looting of burial grounds and people who sold the stolen items to collectors who didn’t care where they came from. At the time she couldn’t imagine anyone buying anything that had come from a burial ground. Now she was looking at someone who thought nothing of buying things that were illegal or from sacred burial grounds.
“If I were to keep one thing, might be this prayer stick with the eagle feathers. Guy I bought it from told me it was used in the Navajo Nation Holy Way ceremony. Don’t know how they knew where somethin’ like this was when they dug it up. It was used by the medicine men. Here’s another thing them medicine men used. It’s called a chamajillas or monster slayer stick. Comes from one of their bundles. Think maybe I mighta’ been a medicine man in a past life. Anything that them medicine men used interests me.”
Marty shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m having a little problem with some of these things.” She knew that a medicine man’s bundle contained varied objects and representations of spiritual significance, from animal skins and effigies to ceremonial pipes and were passed from one keeper to another. It didn’t seem right to have one in a non-Native American’s collection of artifacts. She turned and looked at an item that was hanging from the net Randy had draped against one wall so he could display items. “That’s a cradleboard isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said taking it off of the netting. “Remember when I was a kid in school and saw somethin’ in a book ‘bout Sacajawea carrying her kid in one when she was a guide fer Lewis and Clark. Always wanted one, but this one’s special. Was tol’ it was a board that probably belonged to the wife of a chief because of the eagle feathers and the beading on it. Don’t know what that thing’s worth. I’ve had it for a long time.” He lit another cigarette
and took a deep drag. “That’s jes’ some of the stuff. Take a little time and look around. Imagine you’ll be wantin’ to take some more pix, and then we can go back to the shack and talk about what yer’ gonna charge me to do this, and when I can get it.”
Forty-five minutes later Randy extinguished the lanterns and rolled the two pseudo-boulders back in front of the cave. They walked over to the shack. “So, whaddya think of my purties?” he asked.
“In all honesty, I don’t know. I’ve never before seen many of the things you have. It’s amazing.”
“Yup. Figgered you’d say that. Now let’s talk about dollars. That’s what life’s all about, right?”
“Not necessarily,” Marty said.
“Well, whaddya think yer’ gonna charge me fer writing up a report?”
“Look Randy, I might as well be honest with you. I’m really concerned about some of the things you have in your collection. We both know they’re illegal. If something is illegal and can’t be bought or sold, how can I put a value on it?”
“Darlin’, I got the buyers willin’ to take that stuff. Ain’t yer’ problem. Now ya’ jes’ tell me what yer’ report is gonna cost me.”
“Let me sit down and do some calculations. I need to think about the research involved in this. It will probably take me three days to take the information and photographs of the collection, but the research is stumping me. I usually get in touch with museums and dealers to get comparables, but if something can only be bought and sold on the black market, I don’t know how I’d go about that.”
“Well, I’ll save ya’ the trouble. I know what I got, and I got a darned good idea of what it’s worth. All I want from you is somethin’ in writin’ ‘bout what the whole collection is worth. Shoot. I could probably do it in my sleep, but makes it more business-like if ya’ put it on yer’ official paper, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I guess you’re right. Here’s my estimate,” she said, handing him a piece of paper. “When would you like me to start?”
“As soon as possible. I’m kinda in a hurry to get this done. Got my reasons. Probably too late to start today,” he said looking at his watch. “Anyway, I got some people comin’ out here. How about say, eight tomorrow mornin’? I’m an early bird kinda person, and like I said, wanna get this over with.”
“Fine,” she said standing up. “That will give me time to do some preliminary research tonight. See you tomorrow morning. Do you want me to close the door?”
“Nah, leave it open. That breeze feels good. See ya’ in the mornin’.”
CHAPTER 14
The killer turned his car onto the narrow dirt road that snaked its way along the floor of the canyon. He soon saw the old shack that was located on his right about two hundred feet up the side of a small ridge that rose from the edge of the road. There was an old orange truck parked in a turnout area next to the road that was large enough to hold two or three other vehicles. Next to the turnout was the start of a small foot path that led up the side of the ridge to the shack.
The killer opted not to park in the turnout, but instead drove several hundred yards past it and then turned off the road and parked behind several large boulders that concealed his car from view. He pulled on a pair of latex rubber gloves and picked up the tomahawk that was lying on the seat beside him. Using a towel he’d brought with him, he wiped down the tomahawk, removing any incriminating fingerprints that might have been on it. He quietly opened the car door and stepped out into the bright late afternoon sunshine. As he walked back to the dirt road, he tucked the tomahawk under his belt and pulled his shirt over it so it was concealed.
He easily made his way back to the turnout where the foot path was located and then started the short climb up the path that led to the shack. When he got to the top of the path he saw the shack that was built on a small level clearing in the side of the ridge. The door of the shack was wide open and was no more than twenty feet from where he was standing at the end of the foot path, and he could easily see into the shack. Randy Jones was sitting at a small table in the shack with his back to the open door, apparently looking at some papers that were on the table.
Okay, the killer thought, it’s now or never. I won’t get a better opportunity than this. I’ll be in and out in just a few minutes. He seems to be completely engrossed in looking at those papers, and he’ll probably never even hear me when I sneak up behind him.
The killer withdrew the tomahawk from his belt, crept up to the door of the shack, and stepped inside. Randy never knew what hit him as the killer smashed the tomahawk into the back of his head. Randy fell to the floor, obviously dead from the massive blow delivered by the tomahawk.
The killer glanced around the shack looking at the Native American artifacts that were everywhere in the small shack. Just as he was deciding what to do next, he heard the sound of a car door being slammed. He quickly moved to the door and peeked around the corner, making sure he wouldn’t be seen. There was a car parked in the turnout, and he saw a woman standing next to it.
I don’t know who this person is or why in the world she’s out here in the middle of nowhere at this time of day, but I better get out of here pronto. I have no idea why anyone would want to come calling on Randy Jones, an old desert rat who currently is very, very dead and lying on the floor of his shack.
The killer darted out the door and made his way to the large boulders and rocks that surrounded the shack. Keeping the boulders between himself and the shack so he wouldn’t be seen, he made his way down to the dirt road where he’d hidden his car. He started his car and turned left onto the narrow dirt road, knowing that the wind which had picked up would mask the sound of his car. Before he’d started today’s little trip to pay a visit to Randy Jones, he’d checked the GPS map in his car, and he knew that by driving in the direction he was going, the narrow dirt road intersected a county gravel road only a mile or so ahead. The gravel road in turn intersected the main highway that connected High Desert and Palm Springs.
Once I’m on the main highway, I’ll just blend in with the other traffic, and I’ll be safe.
CHAPTER 15
Marty drove away from Randy’s shack feeling conflicted. On one hand the Native American collection was better than any she’d ever seen, and she was thrilled to have had the chance to see it in person, not just in books. On the other hand, she was well aware that a lot of the items, no, make it most of the items, had been purchased on the black market. Not only had the items been purchased on the black market, it was illegal to buy or sell them. Knowing that many of them had come from ancient tribal burial grounds spooked her.
If what Randy says is true, he’s going to keep the appraisal, and the only thing he wants from me is a number, a number he can use so he can justify what he’s going to ask for the collection. He mentioned two people who were interested in what he had. They must know it’s illegal to buy or sell those items. Perhaps I could ask him to return the appraisal after he’s shown them the value I place on the collection. Maybe that’s what I should do.
She vacillated back and forth about whether it was ethical to do an appraisal of items that were going to be sold illegally based on her appraisal. Marty wondered whether or not it was a crime to do an appraisal of items that shouldn’t be in a private collection, items that should be returned to their native tribe based on the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act of 1990. She wondered if someone found out about it if she could be charged with being an accessory to a crime.
Ten minutes later, she made her mind up and turned the car around, making an illegal U-turn, and headed back to Randy’s shack. If I’m having this much inner conflict now, it’s better for me to simply tell him I can’t do the appraisal. I don’t think I can live with myself if I do. The appraisal fee is not worth this much mental anguish. Nothing is worth what I’m feeling at the moment.
She retraced her drive and parked her car in the same roadside turnout she’d used earlier. Marty opened her purse
and took out her phone. She looked at it and realized she didn’t have any signal strength bars which meant she couldn’t call Jeff. Then she remembered when she and Randy had been walking over to the cave, he’d made an offhand comment that the only time he could get a cell phone connection was when he was standing next to the boulders in front of the cave. He told her he’d always thought that was an odd place for a connection.
Well, I’ll call Jeff later and let him know I’m all right. When he comes to dinner tonight I can fill him in on the details.
Marty stepped out of her car, closed the door, slung her purse over her shoulder, took a deep breath and started walking up the footpath that led to the shack. As she was walking she mentally prepared herself to tell Randy she wasn’t going to be able to do the appraisal. She was not looking forward to the next few minutes. What she didn’t know was just how bad the next few minutes were going to be.
As she neared the door, she called out in a loud voice, “Randy, it’s Marty. I’m back, and I want to talk to you for a minute.” She saw that the door was still open, and she walked in. She took one look at Randy, who was lying on the floor with a tomahawk in the back of his head and screamed, running backwards to get away from the scene. For a moment she couldn’t catch her breath or think what to do next, and then she remembered what Randy had said about the cell phone connection.
She stumbled several times as she hurried over to the boulders near the cave, and saw that there were bars displayed on her cell phone. She pressed in Jeff’s number, and he answered on the first ring.
“Marty, is everything okay?” he asked.
“Nooo,” she said trying to talk. “Jeff, he’s dead. Randy’s dead! Jeff, please come. I gave you the directions last night.”
He interrupted her, “Take a deep breath. I’m on my way. Just answer one thing. Are you all right?”
Murder & The Secret Cave: High Desert Cozy Mystery Page 6
