Stone Cold Dead

by Catherine Dilts

  When the college student left, they finished cleaning the display case. No amount of scrubbing could restore the well-worn fixture to its original condition, but it was still a huge improvement. Morgan envisioned the shelves covered with a southwest print material. Something with turquoise, earth tones, and a splash of red.

  By the time they had placed all the fossils back in the case, the sun slanted through the west-facing windows.

  “We’ve been working all day,” Morgan said, “and we’ve only had one customer. Is it always like this?”

  Del sat on the bench. “It’s the off season. We might get a few tourists heading to the ski resorts, but we’re off the beaten path. Business is better in the summer.”

  “That young man suggested we needed a sign,” Morgan said.

  “There’s a problem with that idea.”

  “What?” Morgan rubbed the aching muscles in her left bicep with her right hand.

  “The best spot to put a sign is at the bottom of the hill where our road intersects with Main Street.”

  “Sure,” Morgan said.

  “But Piers Townsend has buildings on both corners.”

  “I met him,” Morgan said. “He owns that metaphysical shop.”

  “He and your brother don’t exactly see eye to eye.”

  Morgan laughed. “I can only imagine.” She remembered Piers’s comment about her brother’s dark aura. “He doesn’t own the sidewalk. Wouldn’t the town clerk or someone in charge of city code enforcement decide whether I could put up a sign?”

  “Piers has a lot of influence,” Del said. “He’s blocked every one of Kendall’s attempts to put up a sign.”

  “Maybe I can talk him into it.”

  It was Del’s turn to laugh. “You can give it a try.”

  “I’ll put that on my list.” Morgan scribbled on her notepad.

  A car crunched across the gravel in front of the shop.

  “Two customers in one day,” Morgan said. “Business is picking up.”

  “I don’t think this is a customer.” Del tugged at his mustache. “Looks like a police cruiser to me.”

  “I filed a report with search and rescue,” Morgan told the two Granite Junction police officers. “The sheriff’s department was too busy.”

  Officer MacKenzie jotted in a notepad with a cheap mechanical pencil dwarfed by his huge hand. After brief introductions, he had not said another word.

  “We understand,” Officer Alicia Sanchez said for the fifth time. “We’re not questioning their response to the incident, considering the circumstances. We’re trying to determine whether a missing person’s report might be related to the young woman you think you saw.”

  Morgan bristled at the implication. “I did see a woman.”

  Officer Sanchez raised her hands, palms facing Morgan. “We understand.”

  Morgan was getting frustrated with the depth of the officer’s understanding. Sanchez struck Morgan as a just-the-facts style investigator, with dark brown hair slicked back in a ponytail, and dressed in a crisply pressed uniform.

  “Can you describe the person you thought you saw?” Sanchez asked.

  “That I did see. I’ve already given that information to search and rescue. Didn’t someone write it down?”

  “We understand how stressful this is,” Sanchez said.

  Morgan bit her lower lip and glanced at Del. He concentrated on starting another pot of coffee, but Morgan thought she detected an amused smile hiding under his mustache.

  Measuring out her words, Morgan spoke with exaggerated clarity. “I did see a woman on the trail. She was in her late teens or early twenties. She was white, very pale, and very thin.”

  Her stomach didn’t churn quite as much, or her heart race as fast, as she repeated the details for the fourth time in three days. She left out the part about a monster transforming into a magpie. When she stopped speaking, MacKenzie’s pencil stopped scribbling. Morgan felt drained.

  Del poured Morgan a mug of coffee, then offered Styrofoam cups to the two officers. Sanchez shook her head.

  “Do you have cream?” MacKenzie asked.

  It was dark by the time Officer Sanchez seemed satisfied that she had obtained all the information available from Morgan. She handed Morgan her business card.

  “Call me if you think of anything else.”

  MacKenzie ducked under the low shop door and headed for the cruiser. Sanchez followed.

  “Wait,” Morgan said.

  Sanchez paused in the doorway.

  “Search and rescue didn’t believe I saw a girl. You sound pretty skeptical. Why take a report from me now?”

  “Your description matches that of a young woman who was recently reported missing.”

  Sanchez closed the door behind her before Morgan could ask more questions. Apparently, there was no reciprocity when it came to interrogation.

  “More coffee?” Del waved the nearly empty pot.

  “Thanks, Del, but I’ll have a hard enough time sleeping tonight. How many times am I going to have to tell that story?”

  “I’d think you’d be happy that someone in an official capacity finally takes your story seriously.”

  Morgan rubbed her temples with both hands. “I’d rather I had imagined it all, for that girl’s sake.”

  “If she’s mixed up with drugs, maybe they can find her and get her straightened out.”

  “If it’s not already too late.”

  Del stayed to close the shop for the night. Morgan had the distinct feeling that he was stalling around, not wanting to leave her alone after the police interview.

  “Are any office supply stores open this late?” Morgan asked.

  “There aren’t any in Golden Springs. But there are in Granite Junction. You have an urgent need for pencils?”

  “I want to start cleaning the office tomorrow morning. I need file folders, labels, things to get organized.”

  “Sounds like you’re settling in.”

  Morgan didn’t want to build false hope.

  “I’m not sure what’s going to happen yet, but if I sell the property, the financial records will need to be in order.”

  Del ducked behind the counter and pulled a battered phone book out from under the cash register. “Better call ahead and find out what’s open. You don’t want to drive all that way for nothing.” Del thumbed through the yellow pages, then looked up. “You want me to ride with you?”

  “Sure, Del. Maybe we could grab a bite to eat while we’re out.”

  Granite Junction was a curvy ten miles down Topaz Pass from Golden Springs. Del kept a conversation going about local history, the weather, and the merits or lack thereof of every vehicle they encountered.

  Morgan recalled that Del was a widower. She wondered if his offer to accompany her was due to loneliness. And now she was talking about selling his home out from under him.

  “Do you have any family here?” Morgan asked.

  “My son and his wife live in Denver. The grandkids make it down this way every so often. Which reminds me, I was hoping to repair the donkey cart before their next visit.”

  “I didn’t know we had a donkey cart,” Morgan said.

  They stopped at a family-owned restaurant. The service was fast, and the food was good. Just as important, it was cheap.

  Morgan still had money in a savings account. She had used some to compensate for the pay she lost taking time off from work to be with Sam. She didn’t regret her choice. The life insurance money went faster than expected, paying medical bills the health insurance didn’t cover. Her 401K was strictly off limits, unless the direst of emergencies arose.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” Del said through a mouthful of taco.

  “If only,” Morgan said. “I could use a few more pennies.”

  “After the office supply place,” Del said, “do you mind if we stop at the grocery store?”

  Granite Junction was nearly twice the size of Sioux Falls. Morgan was reminded of shopping trips to
the big city of Minneapolis as they drove to different shopping centers. They stopped at the hardware store, and a fabric store, where Morgan found material to line the display case.

  Heading home, Del commented on a particularly desirable half-ton pickup truck. Morgan asked the question she’d been debating since the grocery store stop.

  “Are you shopping for a new car, Del?”

  “The truck’s not running too well.” His cheeks flushed red, and he glanced out the passenger window into the darkness. “I sure hope you didn’t mind running me around tonight.”

  “I’m glad you showed me around,” Morgan said. “Now I know where the good places to shop are.”

  The Buick sputtered as they pulled in to the Rock of Ages parking lot.

  “Apparently, my car is running about as well as your truck.” The engine light flashed red. “It overheated the last hundred miles of my trip here.”

  “The garage in Golden Springs is honest,” Del said. “I know the owner.”

  “I suppose I need to find out what’s wrong, before the old girl blows up completely. I can’t afford to buy a new car.” She glanced at Del. “What about your truck?”

  Del sighed. “I’ve been trying to decide whether to sink more money into it, or to start looking for a good used truck.”

  “Until you do,” Morgan said, “feel free to borrow the car.”

  “I couldn’t—” Del began, but Morgan held up her hand before he could finish.

  “I might ask you to run errands for the shop,” she said. “Consider it the company car.”

  It was the only running vehicle at Rock of Ages. Kendall had given his rust bucket of a van to a single mom in exchange for driving them to the Denver airport. The woman might not have gotten a good deal.

  “Then you have to let me help with the repairs,” Del said.

  “It’s a deal.”

  Morgan started cleaning the office the next morning, clearing a path to the computer. It did run, but using pencil and paper might have been faster. She had trouble making sense out of her brother’s antiquated accounting system. Records ended in August of the previous year.

  When Kendall had told Morgan he was leaving his computer, she’d made the wild assumption that the rock shop was up to speed with technology. Morgan wasn’t sure she could survive the next week and a half without the Internet.

  She rested her elbows on the desk and lowered her face into her hands.

  “Fella from the newspaper wants to talk to you,” Del said.

  Before Morgan could insist that she was too busy, Del escaped.

  The husky man standing in the office doorway could have walked off the set of a 1940s era film. He wore a rumpled white shirt under a brown leather trench coat. A jaunty brown fedora, complete with a press card tucked into the hatband, perched on his short brown hair. Morgan wondered if costumes were required attire in Golden Springs.

  “Welcome to the neighborhood.” The man beamed a smile that was as sincere as a politician’s. His broad cheeks were candy-apple red, and his teeth brilliantly white. Morgan decided he might have possessed boyish good looks forty pounds and a decade or so ago. “Kurt Willard, owner and editor-in-chief of the Golden Springs Gazetteer at your service.”

  Kurt stepped over a stack of papers and held out a hand as big and thick as a bear’s paw. Apparently, he didn’t share Piers’s aversion to human touch. Morgan stood to grasp his hand briefly.

  “Morgan Iverson,” she said. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Willard.” She sat back in the wobbly office chair. “I’ve seen your paper.”

  The article she had read in the bakery had seemed like one big editorial.

  “Oh, good.” Kurt beamed. “Then you’ve noticed how valuable advertising in such a high-quality publication could be.”

  Morgan gave him credit for getting to the point quickly.

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss advertising right now,” Morgan said. “I’m in the middle of cleaning up.” She waved a hand around, hoping the desperate condition of the office would deter Kurt from further sales pitches.

  “And you have no doubt already noticed how slow business is,” Kurt said.

  “I suspect that has more to do with not having a sign on Main Street. Right now, I think that would be the most cost-effective use of our advertising dollars.”

  Kurt smiled his best used-car-salesman smile. “Are you aware of the history behind your absent sign?”

  Morgan leaned back in the office chair. “I understand it has something to do with Piers Townsend.”

  “Precisely!” Kurt looked pleased. “Piers and your brother hold opposing views on nearly every subject under the sun.”

  “I don’t see what their personal differences have to do with putting up a sign on Main Street. Why should one shop owner be able to dictate what another does?”

  Kurt shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trench coat. “I hear you came from Sioux Falls. You’ll soon discover that small towns operate differently than the big city.”

  “You seem to know a lot about this disagreement.”

  Kurt shrugged. “What can I say? Reporting is in my blood. Anything I happen across in the course of the week is potential fodder for my newspaper.”

  Morgan sighed. She really needed to get back to work straightening out the office.

  “Say, we’ve gone far afield from my original purpose,” Kurt offered in a friendly tone.

  “Which was?” Morgan asked.

  “I understand one of your first days in Golden Springs was quite eventful.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Morgan could see what was coming. She decided to head it off at the pass. “You mean the incident on the hiking trail?”

  “Everyone in town is talking about it,” Kurt said, “but no one seems to know what really happened.”

  Every detail she had shared with the church ladies had no doubt traveled through all the information channels in town by now.

  “I’m not sure myself what happened,” Morgan said. “So I’m afraid I won’t be much help.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Kurt said, “but my sources tell me you found an unconscious woman on the Columbine Trail.”

  “That’s what I thought. But when search and rescue arrived, the woman was gone.” Morgan shrugged.

  “What did you see, exactly?” Kurt asked.

  “Apparently nothing.”

  Kurt pulled off his fedora and brushed a hand through his brown hair. “Can you describe what you saw?”

  “How can I describe what wasn’t there?”

  Kurt turned the fedora around in his hands, fussing with the brim of the felt hat.

  “Can you describe what you thought you saw?”

  “I don’t see the point,” Morgan said. “It’s all speculation.”

  “My readers would find it interesting,” Kurt said. “In a town this small, there are rare few unsolved mysteries.”

  “As you pointed out,” Morgan said, “I’m woefully unschooled in the ways of small towns. I can’t take the chance of appearing to be a person who imagines bodies on hiking trails.”

  Kurt leaned back, an “I give up” expression on his face. He settled his fedora onto his head.

  “If you change your mind about the story, or about purchasing advertising, please give me a call.” Kurt retrieved a business card from an inside pocket of his brown leather trench coat and flipped it onto the cluttered desk.

  He left the office with much less flair than he’d had when he entered.

  Del stuck his head in the door. “Cindy’s here. I’m gonna go to the barn and pull the donkey cart out.”

  “You abandoned me,” Morgan said.

  “I figured you could hold your own, and I was right. Kurt tore out of here like his tail was on fire.”

  “We’ve got to get that sign up on Main Street.” Morgan stood. “I’m going to have a talk with Mr. Townsend. Make him listen to reason.”

  Del laughed.

  “You don’t thin
k I can?” Morgan asked.

  “I think a man who runs a shop called Faerie Tales doesn’t have much to reason with.”

  Del moved out of the doorway, letting Morgan pass.

  “I met him at Bernie’s Sunday,” Morgan said. “I think I can talk to him.”

  “You’re as stubborn as your brother.”

  “Nobody’s as stubborn as Kendall.” Cindy stood behind the checkout counter, a roll of paper towels in her hand.

  “I agree with Cindy,” Morgan said.

  “You spill something back there?” Del asked.

  “I haven’t seen the windows clean in the two years I’ve worked here,” Cindy said. “It’s kind of inspiring. I’d like to start cleaning out those dirty old rock tables.”

  Three narrow rows of tables in the center of the shop held dozens of rough-hewn open cases full of rocks and assorted junk. Shoppers had mixed shark teeth with trilobites, polished quartz had spilled into the turquoise nuggets, and dust, dirt, and crud malingered in the corners of the wooden cases.

  “You have my full support for any cleaning project you want to tackle,” Morgan said.

  “Can you manage by yourself?” Del asked Cindy. “I’m going out to the barn, and Morgan’s running a fool’s errand.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Del,” Morgan said.

  Del headed out the front door of the shop. Morgan went through the back, and the attached living quarters. She stopped in the kitchen to get her coat and car keys, then headed for the garage.

  Kendall had often called to brag about the good weather they enjoyed in the Colorado Rockies, while Morgan and Sam suffered through a South Dakota blizzard. She thought her brother was prone to hyperbole. Yet here she was, pulling off her wool cap and gloves. She stuffed them in the top of the canvas bag slung over her shoulder, and unzipped her quilted blue coat.

  Walking down Hill Street wouldn’t take much longer than pulling the car out of the carriage house garage. She changed direction. Morgan was still learning the layout of the rock shop property. Fences, driveways, and paddocks seemed scattered over the seventy-five acres without any sense of order.

  One thing she did have etched into her brain—always leave gates the way you found them. It was an inviolable law of the West. Morgan made sure the paddock gate was latched before she walked through the perpetually open front gate and headed down Hill Street.