Stone Cold Dead

by Catherine Dilts

  “You’re doing great,” the woman said in a cheery voice.

  “We think there’s a stalker behind that tree,” Bernie said. “But don’t worry. Morgan has pepper spray.”

  The man in the black coat stepped onto the trail. Morgan aimed the canister’s nozzle toward him.

  “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

  The man jerked his hands up, letting his camera drop against his chest, where it dangled from a wide strap. Morgan realized he was wearing a full-length heavy black canvas western duster, not a cloak. If the short-haired, clean-shaven man had a tattoo, it would probably be something from his days in military service. He was definitely not the gargoyle type.

  “Criminently, lady. Just tell me if you don’t want your picture taken!”

  Adrenaline abruptly drained from Morgan’s body as she realized what she had nearly done. The sweepers each grabbed Morgan’s arms. She sagged against the elderly couple. The man tugged the pepper spray gently out of her hand.

  “It’s just Harry, the race photographer,” he said. “He’s relatively harmless.”

  “Morgan’s a little jumpy,” Bernie said. “She was assaulted Thursday night.”

  The elderly woman wrapped an arm around Morgan’s shoulders.

  “You poor thing. Are you okay?”

  “Morgan,” Harry the photographer said. “You’re the gal who found the Smith girl’s body. I read about it in the newspaper. No wonder you’re twitchy.”

  “I see runners,” the elderly man said, pointing down the hill.

  “We’d better get moving,” the woman said, “before we cool off.”

  They started walking again, the sweepers hanging back, but following a little closer than they had before. The trail wound down the hill in tight switchbacks. The new running shoes did not grip the compacted snow as well as Morgan would have liked. She worked her way slowly down steep sections of trail.

  She heard the runner an instant before she saw him. He raced around a curve, churning up a flurry of snow in his wake. Bernie squealed. Morgan jumped to the side of the trail, into powdery snow. The runner, a lean young man, flew past.

  They watched him dash to the top of the hill in considerably less time than it had taken them to climb down. Another runner, this one older but just as fit, bolted around the curve. Then another.

  “Oh,” Morgan said. “Out-and-back. We go out, then turn around and come back.”

  “Then we must not have far to go, if they’re coming back already.”

  Morgan and Bernie kept to the right side of the trail, walking single file when clusters of runners approached.

  “One mile.”

  Bernie pointed to a hinged wooden sign that reminded Morgan of a “wet floor” placard. Propped up in the snow, bright yellow with red lettering, it announced Mile One.

  “Only one mile?” Morgan checked her watch. “It took us twenty minutes to get this far?”

  “Hills,” Bernie said. “And snow. It’s like wading through sand. I’ll never complain about O’Reily’s again.”

  Bright orange traffic cones guided runners to a folding table straddling the middle of the trail, blocking further travel. Rolf’s ATV idled while he dumped a ten-gallon plastic container of water into the snow.

  Warmly dressed volunteers held out paper cups with mitten-clad hands. Gerda appeared to be in charge, as usual. An enormous white quilted down coat enveloped her round figure.

  “Great job,” the volunteers yelled. “You’re halfway. Water or sports drink?”

  Discarded paper cups littered both sides of the trail.

  Morgan accepted a half cup of yellow sports drink. She chugged down the syrupy liquid.

  “You must drink something,” Gerda told Bernie. “You will get dehydrated.”

  Apparently Gerda had been following her own advice, but it wasn’t water or sports drink on her breath.

  Bernie braced herself against the table. “I don’t suppose you have a toilet?”

  “Pee over there,” Gerda said. “We won’t look.”

  “None of those trees is wide enough to hide my backside.”

  Gerda rolled her eyes.

  “We’d better keep moving,” Morgan said.

  “You made it to the aid station,” one of the volunteers cried. “Halfway! You’re gonna make it.”

  Their enthusiasm was annoying. When she and Bernie circled around the last orange cone and headed back, Morgan could overhear them.

  “Were those the last ones?”

  “Finally. I’m freezing. Let’s pack up and get out of here.”

  The sweepers smiled as Morgan and Bernie passed.

  “Good job,” the woman said.

  Heading back uphill, Morgan needed every breath just to keep placing one foot in front of the other.

  They heard the ATV long before it appeared. Rolf had managed to load the table, water container, and Gerda onto the ATV. The two younger volunteers jogged behind. Rolf offered them a lift, and Morgan thought Bernie might take him up on it. She bravely turned him down, but Morgan could see the longing in her friend’s eyes as the ATV rolled out of sight.

  “You could have gone with Rolf,” Morgan said. “I’ve still got the sweepers.”

  “I want to earn my T-shirt,” Bernie said. “It took Amanda two months to be able to walk without assistance. I’ve got to do it for her.”

  The sweepers kept a respectful distance behind. Morgan was convinced the athletic seniors were holding back, not wanting to humiliate the slow ladies. She would have preferred that they stay in sight.

  The walking became mindless for Morgan. One foot in front of the other. One more step, one more step, one more step.

  “This looks familiar,” Bernie said.

  “It should all look familiar,” Morgan said. “We’re going back the same way we came.”

  “Well, of course. I meant I think we’re getting close to the end.”

  The split-rail fence appeared through the trees and brush. Then the dirt parking lot. Then sidewalk, which felt heavenly under Morgan’s tired feet. Finally they saw the park and the big digital timer.

  “If we hurry, we can finish in under an hour,” Morgan said.

  “I can’t move any faster,” Bernie said. “I’ve given it all I’ve got. You go on without me.”

  “We started together. We’re finishing together.”

  Volunteers and spectators cheered as they entered the park. Beatrice trotted alongside them.

  “You made it! Good job!”

  They had to walk single file across the finish line. Morgan and Bernie lost a few seconds arguing about who should go first, both insisting the other should have the honor. Bernie pushed Morgan ahead. Waist-high plastic poles strung with orange nylon rope funneled them through a narrow chute where volunteers tore off their bib tags.

  “How was it?” Beatrice asked.

  “Fantastic!” All the struggle and pain seemed to vanish in an instant as Bernie gushed about the experience.

  “We came in last,” Morgan said.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Bernie said. “We finished!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The next morning, Morgan was not as sore as she anticipated. What hurt the most were her inner thighs. She had worn blue jeans to the race, but they had caused serious chafing.

  First running shoes and socks. Now she needed special running pants. Her accidental sport was becoming more expensive by the day.

  Morgan didn’t want to get out of bed, but she knew people would want a report on the Run for Amanda. After feeding the donkeys, Morgan showered and changed into going-to-church clothes.

  New snow glistened on the church lawn. The sidewalks and parking lot had been cleared. Morgan parked close to the rear door in the half-empty lot. She entered through the kitchen, walking into the middle of a conversation about the murder. Beatrice was stuck on her theory about Dawn’s drug problem.

  “She was mixed up with druggies. Her boyfriend was a known addict. He might ha
ve been upset that she spoke to the police.”

  “But why kill her?” Anna asked. “Wouldn’t it be better to be arrested for drugs than for murder?”

  “Drug people aren’t logical,” Beatrice said with great authority. “They probably weren’t thinking straight to begin with. Good morning, Morgan.”

  Morgan pulled off her coat and hung it over the back of a kitchen chair. “Good morning, everyone.”

  “Did you enjoy your race?” Teruko asked.

  “It was hard,” Morgan said. “But fun, too.”

  While she and Anna described the challenges of the slushy trail to the other ladies, the introit music began. The kitchen ladies headed for the sanctuary. Morgan was stunned by all the empty pews.

  The distinctive red hair of Cindy and her family caught Morgan’s eye. They took up most of a pew. Cindy and the girls wore denim jumpers over blue and white checked blouses. Herb and the boys had on western shirts in the same blue and white gingham.

  Cindy waved when she saw Morgan.

  “I’m going to sit with Cindy’s family,” she whispered to Beatrice. “I’ll see you in the kitchen after the service.”

  She settled next to Cindy and grabbed a hymnal.

  “Do you believe all these people?” Cindy waved a hand around at the empty seats, presumably indicating the people who weren’t there. “They’re so quick to believe a lie.”

  “Maybe people overreacted,” Morgan said. “But not everyone knows the pastor like you do.”

  “Whatever happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty’?” Herb grumbled.

  The choir stood. The first hymn invoked faith in the face of adversity. Morgan suspected that would be the theme of Golden Springs Community Church for many months to come.

  When the guest pastor took his place behind the podium, a new situation occurred to Morgan: A jealous younger preacher seeks to discredit Pastor Filbury, who seems to have no intention of retiring, in order to assume the position as leader of the congregation.

  Then there was the enraged congregant theory. Someone caught wind of Dawn’s accusation, and decided to eliminate the accuser. That implied a certain amount of doubt that the pastor would be able to beat the charges.

  What if Dawn’s accusation and her murder were unrelated events? Suppose Beatrice was right, and someone put Dawn up to accusing the pastor, but her druggie friends didn’t appreciate her involvement with the police, resulting in her death?

  Morgan ran through her other theories. She had crossed off the stranger-in-the-park from her list because the autopsy had revealed no signs of sexual assault. Of course, Morgan might have walked up on them before the assault could be accomplished. Barton could have caught the girl digging in his topaz mine. He as much as admitted that he would shoot anyone trespassing on his claim. Except the girl hadn’t been shot. Finally, she considered that Piers might have put Dawn up to accusing the pastor so he could pass his zoning ordinance. If anything, that would eliminate him as a murder suspect. He would have wanted Dawn alive and pressing her case against Pastor Filbury.

  It seemed a dark curtain was drawn across the entire situation. But the more she considered the possibilities, the more she thought Beatrice might be right.

  Morgan needed more information about Dawn’s boyfriend.

  The opportunity to question Beatrice didn’t arise until after the coffee cups were loaded in the dishwasher, and Anna left to drive Teruko home.

  “Beatrice, when I came in this morning, you were talking about Dawn Smith’s boyfriend.”

  “Oh, yes. The young man Dawn was living with was involved with drugs.” Beatrice sorted the pile of clean silverware on the counter. The utensils chimed musically as she dropped them in their proper drawers. “So was she.”

  “Did the boyfriend have an alibi?”

  “The police haven’t been able to find him.”

  Morgan sat down hard on a kitchen chair.

  “She had a boyfriend,” Morgan asked, “and he’s missing?”

  “The police rounded up all the known members of that group of druggies. They claimed they didn’t know where the boy was. That he disappeared the same time she did.”

  “So he might have killed her,” Morgan said.

  “Could be.” Beatrice closed the spoon drawer.

  “Or the gang might have killed him and Dawn.” Morgan clasped her hands in her lap. “Are they from Golden Springs?”

  “Oh, no,” Beatrice said with assurance. “People here wouldn’t put up with that kind of thing for long. They congregate at General Minton Park. You know, in downtown Granite Junction?”

  “I know where that is,” Morgan said.

  She walked past it every Tuesday night.

  People had been driving since the snowstorm, marking their comings and goings in the gravel road. Morgan followed tire tracks up Hill Street. One set of tracks continued to the houses farther up the road. Another turned into the Rock of Ages parking lot. Her tracks led to the carriage house garage. A new set of tire tracks had made a loop, passing close to the short, scrubby trees on the north side of the Rock of Ages parking lot. The vehicle was gone now.

  Someone lost, Morgan thought. They had used the rock shop parking lot to turn around.

  The melting snow made a mess of the parking lot. Her dress shoes would not survive mushing across the mud from the garage, and she only had one pair left. The left shoe from the other pair she had brought to Golden Springs had been lost in the creek the night she had been attacked. Morgan parked in front of the shop. She dug in her purse for the key.

  She wouldn’t need it. The door was ajar. Cindy had the day off, and Del wasn’t due until later. Morgan felt her heart pounding as she pushed the door open and looked inside.

  “Hello?”

  Her dress shoes echoed on the pine floor. Morgan slipped out of them and held them in one hand. She tiptoed, creeping down the aisles. She doubted the effectiveness of her low-heeled shoes as weapons, and pulled Del’s pepper spray out of her purse.

  The door to the living quarters stood open. Morgan peeked inside. Del blocked the kitchen door. Cold air flowed across the open threshold.

  “What are you doing?” Morgan asked.

  Del spun around, his hand going to the holster strapped under his vest. Morgan dropped her shoes with a clatter and ducked back behind the door to the shop.

  “Morgan, you scared the crap out of me.”

  “How do you think I feel?” She peered around the door. “What’s going on?”

  Del stepped away from the kitchen door. The pane of glass nearest the doorknob was broken. Shards of glass lay on the linoleum.

  “Someone broke in?” Morgan slipped her shoes on and walked closer.

  “I heard Houdini and Adelaide braying,” Del said. “I thought maybe you’d forgotten to feed them before you went to church. I walked down to the barn, and saw a strange vehicle in the parking lot. But it was off to the side, like they didn’t want anyone to see them. I might not have seen it if it was spring and there were leaves on the trees.”

  “Did you see who it was?” Morgan grabbed the empty coffee carafe.

  “No. They took off when they saw me coming.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “A black SUV. Never saw anything like it before. If I’m not mistaken, it had the Mercedes logo, but I didn’t think Mercedes was in the SUV business.”

  “It sounds like the car that almost ran over me last week.”

  Morgan’s hand shook as she filled the carafe. Water spilled down its sides.

  “Why would someone in a Mercedes break into the rock shop?” Morgan poured water in the coffeemaker and set the carafe on its stand. “Unless they were after the triceratops horn!”

  Morgan ran through the shop. The display case was secure, the horn resting in its nest of southwest-patterned cloth.

  She returned to the kitchen, where Del was tapping short nails through a rectangle of plywood over the hole.

  “I’ll fix this ri
ght when I get to town for a pane of glass,” he said.

  “I’m not so sure I want a glass window in the door,” Morgan said.

  Del closed the door and locked it.

  “We’ll talk security later,” he said.

  “Did you call the police?”

  Del accepted a mug of coffee from Morgan. She opened the refrigerator.

  “I didn’t have time during the incident,” Del said, “but I did call afterwards.”

  Morgan paused, a bag of bagels in her hand. “Incident?”

  “I caught the burglar in the act,” Del said proudly.

  “Del, you could have been hurt.” Morgan turned, clutching the cream cheese in one hand. “Or killed.”

  “Houdini got to the burglar first. That donkey is better than a watch dog.” Del pointed to a scrap of black cloth lying on the kitchen table. “He got a mouthful of the guy’s coat. I gave half to Chief Sharp, but I saved some for you.”

  “What is it?” Morgan sat at the table.

  “Evidence. But I’ll get to that part. When I came in to the kitchen, the son of a gun had broken out the glass and had his arm stuck through the empty pane. I grabbed his arm and pulled the door open.”

  “He could have had a gun.”

  “I admit, I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Del said. “I just couldn’t see the point of turning and running when he was at a disadvantage like that. Plus he had Houdini at his backside, with a mouthful of coat.” Del picked up the scrap of cloth and tossed it to Morgan. “You’d think we had him hemmed up enough. But he got away.”

  Morgan touched the cloth. The girl had worn a black coat. It had made an impression on Morgan of being too thin to provide protection against the cold. Like this material.

  “As I recall, the girl had a tattoo on her neck,” Del said. “Do you remember what it looked like?”

  “You saw it, too.”

  “Tell me again.”

  Morgan spread cream cheese on a bagel. “It looked like a gargoyle. A monster with wings.”

  Del nodded. “The intruder had a tattoo on his forearm. It looked the same as the one on the girl.”