"You will. He even points out the irony of the two hustlers choosing a site for their scam that could actually have been diamond-bearing, though nobody knew that in eighteen seventy-two." I stopped what I was doing and stared at Max.
I find it fascinating that a person can know something relevant, think about it, talk about it, and still not make an obvious connection with another piece of information until the words are presented in just the right manner that the brain has been waiting for, and then everything clicks together.
We stared at each other for maybe thirty seconds, our minds apparently whirling on the same circuit.
"Jeeze, Thea, why didn't we think of that earlier? If Dan, and whoever's in on this with him—and to be honest I don't think he has the smarts to do this on his own—are salting the area..."
"And that's what Opal discovered."
"She could've ruined their whole game. Salting is an expensive business. If that's what they're up to, someone has already put up a hell of a lot of money, banking on a return of millions."
"Enough money to provide a good motivation."
"For murder, yes."
"But again, this is just speculation, Max. How can we find out for sure?"
"The answer has got to be at Hog Heaven. You found the diamond there."
"And what about the tiny stones that were in Clyde's store?"
"Yeah," Max said excitedly, "that's exactly the kind of stuff that would be used in a salting operation. Do you suppose they're still there? I'd like to see what they are."
"I don't know." Ever the doubter, I added, "They could have been glass chips, Max."
"Let's find out."
I threw a few things in a fanny pack and within minutes we were on the way to Hog Heaven. Max was in the back seat, crutches on the floor, leg stretched out on the seat. Traffic was brisk, but became slower the closer we got to Hog Heaven. Trucks, SUVs, horse trailers, cars were parked all along the shoulders on either side of the road. Runners of all abilities stretched out in a thin line along the edge of the road while spectators in lawn chairs cheered them on. There were water stops for runners and horses, and finish lines at various mile markers.
It appeared as if many of the reenactors had camped out on the roadside, probably at the spot where they wanted to join the parade. Less than a mile away from Hog Heaven we caught up with the tail end of the parade of horse-drawn vehicles and came to a near halt. One by one the cars ahead of us went around the slow-moving procession. When it was our turn I could see why it was such a slow process. I was the worst of the lookie-loos.
"Oh, look, Max!" I kept saying. "Look! Look at that." Wagons of all kinds were accompanied by horsemen representing every variation of mountain man or frontiersman imaginable. Many wore fringed leather shirts, pants, and vests regardless of the heat. Others sported much cooler-looking cotton, linen, or calico shirts. Bandoliers and powder horns were slung over their shoulders, along with a variety of leather bags, pouches. The hats delighted me, floppy-brimmed slouches, or stiff felt with round brims and round crowns, and lots of fantastic takes on the good old coonskin cap. Some of the horses pulled travois draped with colorful blankets, rawhide bags, and bundles of hides. Everyone seemed to be having an enormous amount of fun.
"There's Monty, Max." The sight of the big man astride a palomino horse brought me back to our real world with a start. He wore a beaded, fringed leather suit that matched his mount's creamy coat. His long white beard gleamed in the sun as he rode alongside the road patrolling the line.
I stepped on the gas, passing a small community band. A flatbed truck paced slowly beside them on the road's shoulder, offering respite for weary feet. Three majorettes led the band. Walking proudly beside them in her own little costume was my chubby neighbor with the blond ponytails. She looked adorable. I wanted to wave to her and say hi so she could see that I was an okay person. But she wouldn't know that, and if she saw me she'd be frightened again. That's why I need to clear myself, I thought with a bitter pang. Vindication for the sake of children. I sped up. Back to the business at hand.
"What if Clyde has the store closed because of the Rendezvous?" I asked Max.
"Are you kidding? He'll have more business today with all these people out here than he's seen in five years."
"What will we tell him?"
"Nothing. We'll just go in to buy a candy bar, or something."
"The bathroom's off the storage room, that can be your excuse to go back there."
All the cars in front of us turned into the Rendezvous parking lot adjacent to Hog Heaven.
We went to the next drive that turned into Clyde's little store. Only one car was parked there at the moment. The elderly couple who had called on Clyde while I was visiting with him yesterday were seated on lawn chairs in front of the store, placed where they could get the best view of the excitement going on in the next lot. I waved to them and held Max's crutches while he struggled out of the back seat, then followed his slow progress toward the store.
"Hello, there," the heavyset woman said. "If you're looking for Clyde, he went over to check out the Rendezvous. We're holding down the fort for him."
"We thought we'd pick up some snacks before we go over there," I said.
"Why, they're going to have all kinds of food, honey, not all of it rattlesnake cooked over a campfire." She gave a trilling laugh that shook her bright peroxided curls. "I saw somebody hauling one of those fancy coffee carts in, and you want to be sure to try Marva's fry bread; she shows up at all these events."
"Sounds wonderful," I said, feigning enthusiasm, "but I like to have some little things in my purse, just in case."
"And I'd like to use the bathroom, if I could?" Max asked with his most charming smile. "Those portable potties are kind of awkward with these." He waggled one of the crutches.
"Why, go right ahead," the tall, almost skeletally thin man said pleasantly, and hauled himself out of his chair.
I steadied Max as he maneuvered himself up the awkward steps into the store.
The man followed us and I was afraid he was going to escort Max to the back room.
"Do you have any small packets of crackers?" I asked quickly, successfully diverting him down the grocery aisle.
"I don't rightly know, young lady, but we'll see what we can find." We looked over the stock while Max swung off to the back.
I spewed out a line of brainless chatter and took my time debating like an airhead between a small supply of candy bars and packaged cheese crackers. Unable to stall any longer, I selected a few items and ambled to the cash register. What was keeping Max so long? He finally appeared as I finished paying for my purchases.
"Thanks," he told the old man. "That was a life saver." When he turned to me I could see his eyes flashing with an excitement he tried to keep from his voice. "Got what you need?"
"Yes," I said, and hurried out. "Were they there?" I asked impatiently the minute we were back in the car. "Were the stones still on the table? What do you think?"
"Not only were the stones on the table, Thea, but I think I know how they're salting the claim."
Chapter 24
"Let's get out of here," Max said, wanting to avoid the old couple's interested stares.
A walkway for foot traffic had been opened in the fence that separated this lot from the Rendezvous site, but not one for cars. I had to drive back out on the highway fifty yards or so, and join the slow-moving line into the parking area.
Max began again. "The stones looked like the right kind of stuff, but it was seeing them on the table by the shotgun shell and reloader that gave me one hell of an idea. I don't know, I could be crazy, Thea, but what if you loaded up a shotgun shell with dirt and small pieces of appropriate gem and mineral rough and shot it into the hillside? You'd get a nice scatter of the material without telltale holes where stones had been tamped in, or obviously buried. You could even shoot the stuff into anthills and wait for—how long? Three weeks, a month, or more? I have no idea how long i
t would take for the ants to rebuild the mound incorporating your material. All you'd need is patience and you'd have damn near perfect salting. Certainly good enough to fool a group of eager investors hot to have a piece of the biggest diamond discovery in the United States."
"But wouldn't investors investigate thoroughly before plunking down their money? There are so many scams out there."
"Sure. They'd hire an expert who'd look the site over, find the planted indicators, and in this case some diamonds as well. It would look good. Even if the guy was suspicious—thought it looked too good to be true—that doesn't mean the money man would take his advice. The fever's real, Thea. Gold fever. Diamond fever. That's why there are so many scams out there. If they've got the money they don't care, they want the dream."
It seemed incomprehensible to me, but it did bring something to mind. "There's been a story in the papers recently, hasn't there? Some kind of gold mine in Asia, I think, that turned out to be a phony. People all over the world invested millions."
"Yeah, and if I remember rightly, it was all done by word of mouth. There wasn't even a site, or a fake mine. It was all words."
"Incredible. So it's just as easy to make a lot of money from a phony claim as from a real one?"
"Easier, maybe. Diamond mining is an extremely expensive undertaking. You have to process something like five tons of rock for each diamond found. An honest claim is usually based on finding indicators. You know, start with a known diamond-bearing formation like kimberlite, or the lamproite found here, then the right companion minerals known to be found along with diamond, maybe even a tiny industrial-quality diamond itself. Based on that you might be able to get investors to finance the processing of that first five tons. If nothing more is found, you might lose your financing. But if you sweeten the pot a bit with a judicious sprinkling of quality stones like that diamond we gave the sheriff, so that the claim looks like a sure bet, not only can you get an investor, you'll get people clamoring to buy the claim. At that point you take your money and run."
"But what happens when the new owners don't find any more diamonds?"
"Well, if they can prove an attempt to swindle, they can sue. But I'd think a good salting job would be hard to prove. Chances are it would just look like another mining claim that didn't live up to its promise. They're out of luck, but the original salters have made a tidy profit on their investment."
"As long as no one knew the site was salted."
"Right."
"And that's where Opal comes in. If she was going to blow the whistle on them..."
"We have a motive for murder."
"Is there any way to really prove it?"
"I don't know, but if they're salting with a shotgun, I bet we almost caught one of them the other day."
"The guy in the monk's robe. An easy disguise. That shot he took at the hill went off right beside my head, Max. I bet I could show you exactly where it went into the hill. Couldn't we dig there and see if anything special shows up?"
"Yeah, and compare it to material dug from another spot a few feet away. It might work, Thea. Are you sure you can find the location again?"
"Yes. I was headed for some rocks that looked like a good hiding spot when the guy showed up. I froze. One hand was braced on a clump of dirt next to a wispy little white wild-flower. If I got on the hill again, I'm sure I could find the place. The shot hit about two yards away from my nose. I can still see the spray of dirt."
"Good." A speculative gleam began to grow in his eyes.
"You—we—are not going out there again," I stated flatly. "No way. One broken leg is enough."
"I suppose so, and besides, it might be a better idea to let the sheriff handle that one. At least we're providing him with a strong motive. Now we just need the murderer."
"Dan."
"I don't know. Could be, but we know Dan has at least one partner. Maybe more. One of them could have done the actual killing."
"Well," I said, rubbing my temples as if to stir up some activity inside, "let's see what we know. We know for sure that it wasn't Dan taking potshots at you yesterday, because I saw him with Pussyfoot and the monks. You're worried that the person who shot at you might have been Monty Montgomery. If it was Monty then I think we're dealing with three people, because I'm positive Monty was not the person who attacked me in my house. Monty is way too big. He wouldn't have had any trouble overpowering me, and if he had grabbed me from behind, he's so much taller than I am that he would've lifted me off my feet. That didn't happen."
"And the shooter in the monk's robe?"
"That wasn't Monty either, but it could have been the same person who ransacked my house. What about his truck? You got a better look at it than I did."
"It wasn't Monty's."
"An anonymous truck that might have been the one Clyde saw coming out of Hog Heaven the day Opal was killed. Driven by the killer. Maybe," I said, discouraged. "We're not making much progress, Max. We're right where we started. It's Dan and somebody, or maybe two somebodies. We've neither proved nor disproved Monty's complicity."
"Well, while he's busy with his parade is a good time for us to find out where he was yesterday."
"There is another clue, Max."
"What?"
"Opal had a piece of leather clutched in one of her hands. I have just a fleeting impression of it, but it seemed like a piece of fringe, or a thong, maybe, from a jacket, or a belt, or any one of those things the reenactors drape all over themselves."
"And you're thinking you might see someone with torn fringe?"
"Grasping at straws, isn't it?"
"Particularly here. You'll see more leather in all its forms today than you would in a whole year."
The boy directing parking lot traffic motioned me to follow the other cars to the far end of the lot. I rolled down my window. "Do you have any spots close to the entrance? I've got a man on crutches with me." He peered suspiciously into the back seat, then grinned and waved me to a place directly against the fence several yards from the entrance and behind a pickup loaded with an enormous water tank that had Volunteer Fire Truck #4 stenciled on its side.
Close enough, I thought. Max had brought his pain killers with him, but even so, he was going to be hurting enough without more walking than necessary. He'd already become much more adept at using the crutches, propelling himself through the entrance gate with considerable speed.
The food and drink concessions were clustered by the entrance, so as not to spoil the old-time ambiance, I supposed. Straight ahead were four rows of commercial booths. We moved past the outside row. All the dealers were dressed in frontier costume and hustling to get their wares laid out in the most advantageous way. I wanted to linger over the handcrafted storage boxes, racks of period clothes, pots, pans, everything one would need to set up an historically accurate frontier home site or camp.
"There," Max said, pointing to a booth at the end of the row, "that's the guy we need to talk to." The booth wasn't actually part of the row, but angled about twenty feet away from the others, set apart rather as a centerpiece for the area. It was a tentish affair with canvas draped over a rustic pole framework to form a top and backdrop. Side flaps were rolled halfway up, ready to welcome any cooling breeze that might pass by. The whole thing was set up as a sutler's store with wooden barrels stacked in a corner, pelts and tanned hides hanging from the poles, and a rack of Hudson Bay blankets. In fact, a wooden sign on top of the whole affair said, Sutler's Store. Another smaller sign beside it said, Monty's Place.
The Aussie, Wiley Colton, dressed in his voyageur outfit, was arranging smaller items on the rough plank tables that formed the front of the booth. "Ho, ho, mate," he called out when he saw Max, "what happened to you?"
Max laughed. "Fell in a rat hole." His eyes wandered through all the displays. "So this is Monty's bailiwick."
"Yeah. He's got another place set up over there by the shooting range." He pointed to an area set off by itself in the far corner of the lot
where there was another booth similar to this in size and make-up. "That's the Powder House. We do all the black powder shooting over there."
"Well, I'll have to have Monty give us a demonstration. We saw him out on the road herding his parade along. They should be getting here any time now."
"The silly bugger wanted me to traipse along with him. No way am I gonna parade me bloody arse more than a couple blocks for anybody. I'd rather set this up." He spread his arms, indicating his handiwork and winked at me. "How'm I doing, luv? Artistic enough, or do I need a woman's touch?"
He had a humorous way of twisting the simplest words into mild sexual innuendoes.
I laughed. "It's looking good."
"Where was Monty yesterday afternoon?" Max asked with all the subtlety of a bull in heat. I moved off, feigning interest in a display at the end of the table so we wouldn't look like two avid people fishing for information. "I thought I saw his truck in town. Looked all over, but never found him."
"Dunno, mate. I was helping a guy wrangle a string of mules most of the day. Thought I saw him take off in his truck around noon." He shrugged as if he wasn't sure if the statement was true or not. "What do you want to know for?"
"No reason. Just wanted to talk to him. I'll catch him later." Max fingered through a pile of small hardware, then came over to where I was pawing around in a wooden crate marked Bargain Box. "I should get something for my brother while we're here," I said.
"We'll have plenty of time to look," he said, urging me on. "Let's check out the shooting range."
"I'll tell Monty you're looking for him," Wiley called after us.
"What do you think?" I asked after we'd moved away.
"I don't know. Doesn't look good, but let's ask some others."
Bales of straw with distance markers were being set up as target supports at the far side of the shooting range. A short picket fence blocked off the front of the range with a warning sign that spectators weren't to cross over the fence. Lidded oil barrels filled with water were strategically placed around the area. To the right of the range, slightly more accessible to spectators, but still heavily posted with CAUTION NO SMOKING and BLACK POWDER AREA signs was the POWDER HOUSE booth, featuring supplies, displays of muskets, muzzle loaders, and a wide variety of accessories. A couple of picnic tables were lined up in front of the booth along with a big display board announcing a cannon event for tomorrow and a list of demonstrations set for today.
Dead in Hog Heaven (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book Three) Page 20
