Stone Cold Dead

by Catherine Dilts

“Beatrice said the girl had a boyfriend. Maybe that was him. What did he look like?”

  Del took a bite of his bagel. “Oh, no.” He wiped his mustache with a paper napkin. “I don’t want you going out there looking for the guy. He might be the killer.”

  “I just want to ask Beatrice,” Morgan said. “See if it’s the same guy.”

  “I’ll probably regret this.” Del shook his head. “He was dark skinned, but not real dark.” Del pointed at Morgan’s coffee, heavily dosed with cream. “About like that.”

  “Was he African-American?” Morgan asked. “Hispanic?”

  “African-American,” Del said. “He was medium build, medium height. What stood out was the tattoo and his hair. He had long ropes of hair. Looked like snakes.”

  “Dreadlocks?” Morgan asked.

  Del nodded. “If that’s what you call them.”

  “Beatrice said Dawn and her boyfriend were involved with drugs,” Morgan said. “He might have been trying to rob us.”

  “With a Mercedes for a getaway car?” Del asked. “And why not go rob one of the houses farther up the hill? Why us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe he thinks you saw the murder,” Del said.

  Morgan tried to swallow, but the bagel seemed caught in her throat. She gulped coffee.

  “I’m moving in to the guest room for a few nights,” Del said. “And you need to start carrying this.”

  He pulled his handgun out of its holster and pushed it across the table toward Morgan.

  “Del, I can’t carry a gun. I haven’t fired one in ten years.” Morgan pushed the gun back toward Del. It was heavy, and the metal was cold. “But you’re welcome to stay in the guest room.”

  She wasn’t ready to admit how comforting it would be to share the small house with another person.

  The bell above the shop door sounded.

  “Maybe it’s the police,” Del said. “They might have caught the guy already.”

  It was only a customer.

  The sign at Gerda’s worked better than any of them had anticipated. On Monday, Morgan called Cindy and asked her to come to work. Most of the customers were locals, checking out the new management and prying for details about the murder. They were far from making the kind of profit that would enable Morgan to pay the property taxes, but she decided Del and Cindy deserved a reward for their enthusiasm and hard work.

  “I’m getting lunch from Bibi’s,” she said, when they had a lull. “What do you want?”

  After calling in the order, Morgan grabbed her coat.

  “You should take the car,” Del said. “After that attack Wednesday night, and then that kid trying to break into the shop Sunday, I don’t think it’s safe for you to walk by yourself.”

  “Did I miss something?” Cindy asked.

  “I’ll fill you in later,” Del said.

  “I’ll take Houdini,” Morgan said. “You told me he’s better than a watchdog.”

  “Then let me hitch them both to the wagon.”

  Del followed Morgan to the barn. The donkeys trotted into their stall, probably hoping for oats. They seemed just as pleased when Del hitched them to the cart. He unhooked a buckle, lengthening a strap on Adelaide’s harness.

  “I think we need to get the vet out here,” he said. “If she wasn’t so old, I’d suspect this girl was carrying a foal.”

  “Pregnant?” Morgan asked. “What are the chances of that?”

  Del patted Adelaide’s side. “You’re probably right. It’s just a case of too many oats.” He opened the barn door. “Be careful, Morgan.”

  “I’ll be fine with my trusty steeds at my side.”

  Hill Street was not nearly as wet as the previous day. Roads dried out fast after a snow, especially when the sun shone bright and clear. Adelaide was lively enough going downhill.

  Morgan kept alert for gargoyles, magpies, and a black Mercedes, but nothing more threatening than a flock of finches disturbed their walk. Morgan wondered if life would ever return to normal.

  When they reached the corner of Hill and Main, a car stopped. The window of the green Subaru lowered, and a man wearing a wool ski cap leaned out.

  “Can I take a picture of your donkeys?”

  Houdini and Adelaide were happy to pose. Two more carloads of skiers stopped Morgan for photos. When the tourists left, Piers stepped outside his shop. Morgan held up a plastic trash bag and shovel.

  “I promise I’ll clean up after them,” she said.

  “Your donkeys are quite the attention getter. And the cart. You couldn’t do better with a billboard.”

  The sides and back end of the colorful cart were emblazoned with “Rock of Ages fossils, rocks, and curios”—the phone number, and directions—“north on Hill Street.”

  “I think they’re enjoying the attention.”

  Piers walked down the wooden steps. He rubbed Adelaide’s neck with skilled fingers. Apparently he didn’t fear contamination from a donkey’s aura.

  “You are a beautiful creature,” he whispered in Adelaide’s ear. “When you’re not eating my flowers.”

  Morgan wondered how she could have imagined the gentle healer would maliciously release the donkeys to run wild in the streets. He clearly loved animals. Unless this was just a ploy to get to Morgan, and her land, through the donkeys. After all, he had convinced City Council to pass an ordinance banning livestock.

  “After your encounter in the park,” Piers said, “I recommend therapeutic massage.”

  “I’m okay,” Morgan said.

  “Your very being exudes tension.” He returned his attention to Adelaide, whose blissful expression seemed a good advertisement for Piers’s skills as a masseur. “Have you considered my dinner invitation?”

  “I don’t think they serve hay in any of the local restaurants,” Morgan said.

  Piers laughed. “Although this gentle creature might prove to be a delightful dinner companion, especially for a vegan vegetarian like myself, I was referring to the invitation I extended to you several days ago.”

  Piers turned the full intensity of his blue eyes on Morgan. She wanted her reply to be casual, but she feared she would stammer and make a fool of herself. Again.

  “Oh. Um. What day were you thinking?”

  “Would this Friday be agreeable?” Piers asked.

  “I think Friday is open,” Morgan said.

  Piers pressed the palms of his hands together and bowed. “Excellent. May I pick you up at the rock shop? Perhaps sixish?”

  Morgan was not about to climb into the car of anyone on her suspect list until the murder was solved. Even going to a public restaurant was probably foolish.

  “Can I meet you in town?” Morgan asked. “I might be running errands anyway.”

  “Certainly. Let’s meet at the Hot Tomato at six-thirty. They serve vegan dishes as well as more traditional fare.”

  “Okay.” Morgan shook the donkeys’ reins. “I’ll see you then.”

  The cart rolled up Main Street. Morgan felt quite pleased with herself. She tried not to think about Piers’s plan to run the Rock of Ages out of business and rezone the hill. Maybe she wasn’t destined to spend the rest of her life alone. The twinge of guilt she felt at betraying Sam’s memory subsided with the realization that she wouldn’t have wanted him to remain alone if the situation were reversed.

  The sun was shining. The air was crisp and clear, the sky a stunning shade of cornflower blue. Morgan clung to the soaring optimism filling her spirit. Until reality intruded on her carefully constructed fantasy.

  She was going on a date with a man who might be a murderer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Morgan looped the donkeys’ reins around the hitching post outside Bibi’s Bakery and went inside. Bernie’s jaunty pink and white striped chef’s hat bobbed above the pastry display case. Morgan waited in line, happy to see her friend so busy.

  Finally it was her turn at the counter. “We’re here to pick up our order,” Morgan s
aid.

  “We?” Bernie looked around the bakery.

  “Me and the donkeys,” Morgan said. “I thought I’d better leave them outside.”

  Bernie laughed. “Yes, that was probably a good idea.”

  “Call me later,” Morgan said. “I want to run something by you.”

  Morgan paid for her order and left. She told herself there had been no time to tell Bernie about her dinner date with Piers.

  Adelaide plodded slowly back uphill. Morgan climbed out of the cart and tugged on the reins.

  “Come on, girl. Lunch will be stale by the time we get home.”

  When they reached the Rock of Ages, two cars sat in the parking lot. More customers. One of them had stopped to take photos of the donkeys in town earlier.

  “I guess you’re not totally worthless,” Morgan told the donkeys.

  Bernie called late in the afternoon.

  “Hang on.” Morgan carried the cordless phone into the office and closed the door. She didn’t want Del to catch wind of her plan.

  “What’s up?” Bernie asked.

  “Beatrice told me yesterday that the murdered girl had a boyfriend. The police have been looking for him so they can question him, but he’s nowhere to be found.”

  “Interesting,” Bernie said.

  “Then yesterday, when I got home from church, Del was repairing the back door. Someone tried to break in.”

  “Who would be silly enough to break into the rock shop?” Bernie asked. “Especially with Del around?”

  “Del said the man had a tattoo on his forearm. It sounded like the same tattoo the girl had on her neck.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Beatrice said the boyfriend’s buddies hang around downtown Granite Junction, in General Minton Park.”

  “That’s where all the teenage druggies hang out,” Bernie said.

  “I’m thinking of going there tonight—”

  “What?” Bernie asked, disapproval thick in the one word.

  “I want to see if Dawn’s boyfriend is hanging around the park. Or someone who knows him.”

  “Morgan, are you crazy?”

  “I’m going to be crazy if the police don’t solve the murder soon.”

  “If you and Del are right, the guy tried to break into the rock shop. He might have committed murder. What are you planning to do? Make a citizen’s arrest?”

  “If he’s there, I’ll call the police.” Morgan hesitated. “I can’t tell Del about this, but I wanted somebody to know what I’m doing, in case, you know, I don’t make it back.”

  Bernie was silent for so long, Morgan thought she’d lost the connection.

  “Hello?”

  “I volunteer at the soup kitchen,” Bernie said. “I know some of the street people. I don’t think you have a clue what kind of people hang around the park. I have to go with you.”

  “I’m not asking you to go—”

  “Stop. I’m not trying to talk you out of this, so don’t you try to talk me out of coming with you.”

  “Thanks, Bernie. I really appreciate this.”

  Bernie sighed. “I must be as crazy as you.”

  Bernie insisted on driving. Her SUV would be more reliable if they had to make a quick escape.

  “Before we go to the park,” Bernie said, “I want to talk to Mrs. Calloway.”

  Morgan walked beside Bernie through the streets of Granite Junction. Some were familiar from their Tuesday night O’Reily’s outings.

  “I hope she’s around,” Bernie said. “Some of the homeless people migrate to warmer climates in the winter.”

  Bernie boldly walked into a dimly lighted alley that was surprisingly tidy and clear of trash. An elderly lady leaned over the edge of a dumpster, lifting out plastic trash bags and placing them on the ground.

  “Hello, Mrs. Calloway.”

  The lady looked up, startled. She smiled as she recognized Bernie. “Hello, honey!” She lifted a to-go container out of the dumpster. “They know me here. They leave me some special treats.” She opened the container, revealing an untouched sandwich. “I don’t tell nobody, but I trust you, Miss Bernie.”

  The lady shuffled toward them. Morgan could smell unwashed body and cheap liquor over the rotted food stench of the dumpster. Mrs. Calloway wore a remarkably clean men’s tweed jacket, several sizes too large, over soiled pink sweatpants. Filthy gloves covered her hands. A tangle of matted gray hair spilled out from under a baby-blue wool cap decorated with the remnants of iridescent white spangles. She had the ruddy complexion of a longtime alcoholic.

  Mrs. Calloway glared at Morgan. Bernie rested a hand on Morgan’s arm.

  “This is my friend. She won’t take your food.”

  Mrs. Calloway smiled. She was missing four front teeth.

  Morgan was anxious for information, but Bernie took her time, engaging the old woman in conversation. Mrs. Calloway perched on the edge of a concrete step and devoured her meal.

  Finally, Bernie got down to business.

  “You know a lot of people.”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Calloway rocked back and forth. “Lots of people. I got lots of friends.”

  “Do any of them have tattoos?”

  “Lots of people have them tattoos nowadays. It’s the thing now. Like people don’t think they’re pretty, so they want pretty pictures on their skin.”

  “And sometimes not so pretty,” Bernie said.

  “Like maybe a monster?” Morgan asked. “With wings?”

  Mrs. Calloway frowned at Morgan. “Birds have wings,” she said slowly. “People like birds on them. All kind of birds. Eagles, mostly.” She threw her arms in the air, releasing a cloud of funk that nearly knocked Morgan down. “A firebird! All in flames!”

  “We’re looking for a man,” Morgan said.

  “They make them tattoos with needles, you know.”

  “I know,” Bernie said. “That’s why I won’t get one. But some people like tattoos. They get birds tattooed on their arms, or even their necks.”

  “I know some people say I’m not quite right in the head.” Mrs. Calloway cackled. “But sticking a needle in your neck for no good reason, now that’s crazy!”

  “Have you ever seen a man with wings on his arm, and a girl with the same kind of wings on her neck?”

  Mrs. Calloway looked away. “People with wings on them, they get flighty, like a bird.” She glanced at Bernie. “You know how a flock of pigeons does when they’re on the sidewalk and you walk through them?” Mrs. Calloway raised both arms again. “Whoosh! A lots of feathers! And they all fly away at once!”

  “Sure,” Bernie said. “I’ve seen them do that.”

  “That’s the way those people with the wings are. Jumpy. Flying off at the least little thing. You got to be careful around those kind of people. You understand?”

  “I’ll be extra careful around the people with the wings,” Bernie said.

  “You never know what they’ll do. Peck your eyes out if you give them the chance.” She grabbed Bernie’s coat sleeve with her filthy gloves. “Don’t give them a chance, Miss Bernie,” she wailed. “You’re one of the only folks around here who treats me right. I’d hate myself forever if anything bad happened to you.”

  “I don’t want to run into them by accident.” Bernie paused. “Can you tell me where they are?”

  “They come out at night,” Mrs. Calloway whispered. “They like those benches in the park. The ones under the trees.” She continued in a louder voice. “I like those benches in the summertime. The trees are shady when it’s hot. But this time of year, you don’t want shade, because it’s just cold everywhere.”

  “Why aren’t you in the shelter tonight?” Bernie asked.

  “They won’t let you in if you smell of liquor.” Mrs. Calloway looked sheepish. “I didn’t even have hardly any at all. The bottle spilled, see.” She pointed to a grease stain on her pink sweatpants. “So they won’t give me a bed.”

  Bernie extended a hand to Mrs. Calloway and helped th
e old woman stand.

  “A cup of coffee might warm you up,” Bernie said.

  Mrs. Calloway shook her head. “They won’t let me in those fancy coffee shops.”

  “I’ll get you something,” Bernie said.

  Morgan’s patience was stretched thin while she waited outside the coffee shop with Mrs. Calloway. Bernie purchased a huge to-go cup of coffee with lots of milk and sugar. Morgan could see her selecting what looked like one of everything from the pastry display. Bernie made certain Mrs. Calloway drank half the coffee and ate a pastry before they left her.

  They crossed a street and stood at the edge of General Minton Park. Bernie leaned her backside against a low concrete wall.

  “If your burglar is here, he’s with those people.”

  The group huddled on the benches under bare tree branches, just as Mrs. Calloway had said they would.

  “I don’t know, Bernie. There are quite a few of them.”

  One of the dark-clothed figures stood and drifted across the dead grass.

  “He’s coming toward us,” Morgan whispered.

  “He probably thinks we came here to buy drugs,” Bernie whispered back.

  “Us?” Morgan hissed.

  “Sure. This is where people come to find a drug connection.”

  The tall, thin young man looked like a wraith, his face pale. His black cloak fanned out behind him, reminding Morgan of the wings she’d seen fluttering over Dawn’s body. Silver rings protruded from his eyebrows, nose, and lips. He shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his worn jeans and drifted past.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Bernie nudged Morgan with her elbow.

  “Hello,” Morgan said.

  He walked past them. Morgan turned to watch. Other young people mingled with the street people, sitting on the cold ground, bundled in blankets on park benches, or drifting about like ships that had slipped their moorings.

  “It’s a garden of lost souls,” Morgan whispered.

  The wraith made a loop around the park, then returned. When he passed them this time, Morgan lifted her hand and gave a quick, discreet wave. He wandered close, looking across the park, not directly at her.

  “Need something?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Morgan said. “I’m looking for someone.”