Stone Cold Blooded (A Rock Shop Mystery) Read online

  Stone Cold Blooded Copyright ©2016 Catherine Dilts

  ISBN 10: 1-893035-34-4

  ISBN 13: 978-1-893035-8

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual places or businesses, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher, Encircle Publications, Farmington, ME.

  Editor: Cynthia Brackett-Vincent

  Book design: Eddie Vincent

  Cover design and composite illustration by Deirdre Wait | ENC Graphic Services

  Cover images © Getty Images

  Map illustration © Merida Bass

  Online Orders:

  encirclepub.com

  Mail Orders, Author Inquiries:

  Encircle Publications, LLC

  PO Box 187

  Farmington, ME USA 04938

  Bookstores:

  207-778-0467

  DEDICATION

  To my sister Debby, who has personally seen a Sasquatch footprint and an alien spacecraft.

  To my granddaughter Lassina, horse lover, cat whisperer,

  donkey namer.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Although this book is a work entirely of fiction, the real worlds of geology and paleontology sparked many of the ideas.

  The vendors and celebrities at the 2014 Denver Mineral, Fossil, Gem & Jewelry Show generously shared their knowledge. In particular, the owners of Oreodont Fossils spoke with me at length about where fossil hunters dig, and how museums acquire fossils. They displayed DIY fossils still encased in newspaper and plaster that budding paleontologists could excavate at home. The Bad Boys of Cripple Creek explained how they came to be turquoise miners in an area historically known for gold. Particularly unforgettable was one of the stars of the Prospector’s television show Dwayne Hall, and his sister Yvonne.

  I owe many thanks to Patricia Coleman, beta reader, conference roommate, and author. Patricia “knew me when.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  With every breath and beat of her heart, the bull’s-eye seemed to wobble in and out of Morgan’s line of sight. She pressed the rifle’s stock firmly against her shoulder and focused on the target. Exhaling slowly, she pulled the trigger.

  The butt of the rifle jerked as the bullet exploded from the gun. Morgan peered at the target through the thick lenses of her safety goggles.

  “Did I hit it?” Morgan asked loudly. Everyone on the makeshift firing range wore ear protection. The cushioned plastic shells made Morgan feel like she was hearing the world from several feet underwater. She lifted a muff off one ear. “Can I go check, Del?”

  Delano Addison pulled his ear protection down, letting the twin shells dangle around his neck. Despite the heat of the July morning, Del wore a flannel shirt and fleece vest.

  “Is there one in the chamber?” Del asked.

  The old cowboy’s emphasis on safety was one reason Morgan had decided to pursue learning how to use a firearm. The other was her experience two months ago being on the receiving end of a gun held by a killer.

  “No,” she said. “There’s nothing in the chamber.”

  “How do you know?” A smile pulled Del’s bushy gray mustache up on one side.

  “Check the—” Kurt Willard began, but Del cut him off.

  “No help from the peanut gallery.”

  Morgan glanced at Kurt. Summer had forced him to abandon his usual 1940s era brown leather trench coat, but he couldn’t give up the white shirt and narrow tie, even for target shooting. A red, white and blue Willard for City Council button graced his fedora.

  The other peanut in the gallery wore a pink cowgirl hat over her short, pinkish-orange hair. Lorina Dimple looked ready to rodeo in a form-fitting Western blouse that showed off a figure lesser women her age had long ago relinquished to gravity.

  Both avoided Morgan’s imploring look.

  “Um, let’s see,” Morgan mumbled.

  The rifle was an elegant Remington bolt action. The carving on the wooden stock contrasted with the steel barrel. Morgan clicked the safety on, then pulled the bolt back and checked the chamber. Empty. She placed the rifle on the folding table, the muzzle aimed in a benign direction.

  “Now may I check my target?”

  Del blasted a short note on a shrill whistle.

  “Heads up, everyone,” he yelled to the two spectators. “Morgan’s going on the range.”

  The homemade shooting range occupied an unused area of the Rock of Ages property, fenced off from the donkeys’ various paddocks and pastures, and with a berm of dirt built up against the natural slope of a low hill. Stray bullets were sure to be absorbed by dirt.

  After Del gave Morgan the go-ahead, she walked to a target tacked to a straw bale in front of the berm. Morgan studied the square of paper printed with concentric circles as she approached, disappointed that the center of the target appeared intact. Then she noticed a small hole in an outer ring. She jumped in the air and whooped.

  “I hit it!”

  Del opened his mouth, possibly to congratulate her, but Morgan couldn’t hear his words.

  An explosion rocked the air. Rapid gunfire followed. Del crashed to the ground. For an instant, Morgan feared he’d been shot.

  “Hit the dirt!” Del yelled. “Somebody’s shooting!”

  Morgan dropped to her knees, feeling every sharp rock through her jeans. Gravel dug into her elbows. Distant shouting ended with more gunfire. Kurt belly-crawled to Morgan.

  “It sounds like a battle!” He shouted above the noise of another explosion.

  “Terrorists,” Lorina yelled. “I’d bet my best horse on it.”

  Morgan pulled her cell phone from her jeans pocket. Thankfully, she had signal on this part of the property. Deputy J. B. Parker answered. Before Morgan got very far in her explanation, another explosion shook the ground.

  “What in the heck’s going on?” the young deputy asked.

  “Gunfire,” Morgan said. “Explosions. World War Three.”

  “On your ranch?”

  “No, the noise is coming from north of the rock shop,” Morgan said.

  “Probably old man Day’s place,” Deputy Parker said. “The Chief and I are headed that way, Ms. Iverson. Hold tight, and don’t go anywhere near Day’s property.”

  Morgan relayed the gist of her phone call to Kurt, Del, and Lorina.

  “Makes sense,” Del said. “If anybody around here was capable of starting a war, it’d be Eustace Day.”

  Morgan hadn’t met any of her neighbors at the end of Hill Street. She had imagined suburban tranquility reigning in the three houses occupying the cul-de-sac.

  The explosions stopped. Kurt checked his watch.

  “Eight minutes.”

  “Is that all?” Morgan asked. “It seemed much longer.”

  Smoke dulled the normally intense blue of the Colorado sky. By the time they packed their gear, birds sang again in the pine trees. Del tucked his handgun in a shoulder holster under his fleece vest. Lorina was staunchly Old School concerning the Second Amendment. Taking Del’s class had convinced her to opt for discretion and apply for her conceal carry license, along with Morgan and Kurt. Until then, she slung her r
evolver in a holster on her size three hips.

  As they left the range, two donkeys, long time rock shop residents, trotted to the fence. Their gray ears stood at attention, and crescents of white showed at the edges of their large brown eyes. The donkeys frequently sounded the alarm when there were intruders, but right now they just looked scared.

  “I’d better put them in the barn,” Morgan said.

  “I’ll give you a hand,” Kurt said. “They might be skittish after all that noise.”

  “Good idea,” Del said. “Meet us at the front gate. I’m not missing out on the action.”

  The donkeys weren’t hard to convince. They seemed anxious to reach the security of their barn. Morgan and Kurt closed the stall doors, then hurried to a nearly life-sized T-Rex guarding the rock shop’s parking lot. It wore a fresh coat of green paint and crisp new lettering.

  Rock of Ages

  Rock Shop

  Fossils

  Gemstones

  The Golden Springs police department’s sole vehicle, a rugged SUV, raced up Hill Street. Before Morgan could even get her seatbelt clasped, Lorina chased behind them in her flashy pickup truck. They passed the Dalton ranch, then skidded to a halt in a cul-de-sac terminating at three divergent driveways. One angled left to a faux log cabin nestled in an aspen grove, and a second led to a sprawling one-story rancher close to the road.

  A sturdy gate marked the third driveway. Creaking on its hinges, the aluminum ranch gate swung back and forth, pushed by the warm breeze. Up the driveway, a spiral of black smoke rose from beyond a stand of aspen trees. Chief Sharp eased his SUV in front of the gate, blocking it. Deputy J. B. Parker opened the passenger door and hopped out. Morgan, Del, and Kurt began to follow.

  “Whoa!” Chief Sharp stuck his head out the driver’s window. The badge pinned to his leather vest glinted in the sun. “Where do you characters think you’re going?”

  “The kid needs backup,” Del said.

  Chief Sharp shook his head. “You stay right there.”

  Deputy Parker stalked around the SUV, then crouched down. He picked up a branch and poked at the gateposts. He probed the dirt driveway. Stepping cautiously, his cowboy boots sending up puffs of dust, the deputy moved through the gate. He angled to the right toward a pine tree. He grasped an arrow Morgan hadn’t noticed, and jerked it from the trunk.

  “Clear,” Parker yelled to the police chief. “This looks like the only trap here at the gate.”

  The deputy pointed with the arrow to a crossbow rigged to a pine tree on the left side of the driveway.

  Chief Sharp leaned out of the driver’s window again. “You folks keep on this side of the fence, or I’ll arrest you for interfering with police business.”

  To any other civilians, the admonition might have seemed harsh, but Morgan, Del, and Kurt had all been known to stick their noses where they didn’t belong.

  Deputy Parker tossed his stick aside and returned through the gate to the SUV. He placed the arrow in the back, then climbed into the passenger seat.

  “No one follows us, no matter what you hear,” Chief Sharp said. “That crossbow’s most likely not the only bit of fun on Mr. Eustace Day’s ranch. I won’t be responsible for one of you getting a foot blown off. Or worse.”

  A cloud of dust obscured the back of the SUV as it bounced up the rutted dirt driveway.

  The gate hung open like an invitation, but the faded NO TRESPASSING signs attached to the sagging barbed wire fence indicated otherwise. A newer sign on the gate warned potential intruders “Property Owner Is Armed,” with the drawing of a gun, barrel pointed at the reader.

  “Those two just headed into untold danger,” Lorina said. “Now that’s what I call brave.”

  “J. B. Parker is a decorated veteran,” Del said. “He did two tours in Afghanistan. This is most likely child’s play to him. But just in case, we’ll stay here as backup.”

  Some backup, Morgan thought. A skinny old cowboy, a flashy cowgirl who’d been around the block a time or two, middle-aged Morgan who could count the number of times she’d fired a gun, and Kurt, a newspaper editor who knew more about 1940s movie gangsters than modern day criminals.

  “Any of us got anywhere to be?” Lorina asked.

  “Kendall and Allie are running the Rock of Ages today,” Morgan said.

  “I’m off duty until tomorrow.” Del worked part-time at the rock shop to supplement his meager Social Security checks.

  “Finding out what’s going on is my job.” Kurt stared up the driveway with a reporter’s longing. “I’ve got no intention of leaving until I get the full story.”

  He and Del strolled along the fence. Kurt wore hiking shoes that clashed with his 1940s attire. Del’s cowboy boots and the tooled leather belt cinching blue jeans to his narrow frame seemed entirely in character.

  Lorina perched in the bed of her truck and watched the driveway. She and Morgan waited, ears straining for any sounds other than the wind rustling through the aspen trees, magpies cawing, and cattle lowing from the Dalton Ranch. Smoke and an acrid smell like Fourth of July fireworks competed with the gentler scent of sagebrush and pine.

  Morgan sat on the tailgate of Lorina’s truck, checking the clock on her cell phone with increasing impatience. She squinted against the bright sun, hoping to see the chief and his deputy returning with news. Instead, she saw the tops of the tall grasses quiver as something pushed through in a serpentine path. Morgan expected to catch a glimpse of a rabbit or squirrel. Maybe a marmot.

  The movement stopped. Morgan’s eyes watered as she stared. A flash of white showed bright against the dusty brown and olive green weeds. Maybe it was just a heat mirage, but the creature did not appear to have fur, except for a tuft of white on top of its head. Morgan blinked. It was still there, and it was no rabbit.

  “Do you see that?” she asked.

  Lorina’s hand reached for the holster at her hip. She probably expected to see an AK-47 wielding terrorist, not an unarmed occupant of the forest.

  “What?” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I don’t see anything.”

  “There’s something in the weeds.” Morgan shook her head. “It must have been the glare from the sun. I thought I saw a tiny little person.”

  Lorina laughed. “You’re seeing things.”

  “No.” Morgan pointed. “Look.”

  Lorina squinted, creasing deep lines at the corners of her eyes. She slid off the tailgate and stepped cautiously toward the fence. The creature scurried along on all fours, then stopped.

  “I see it,” Lorina whispered. “What on God’s green earth is that?”

  The creature, the size of a scrawny squirrel, stood and looked around.

  “My stars and garters,” Lorina said. “It’s a leprechaun!”

  “Where’s his green hat?” Morgan asked. “Don’t they wear hats?”

  “He lost it in all the excitement,” Lorina said.

  “And his pants, too?”

  Lorina held a finger to her lips. “Shush. You’re going to embarrass him.”

  Morgan wasn’t convinced. She pulled out her cell phone and tapped the camera icon. She knew from past experience that a photograph trumped a lively description when it came to convincing people you’d seen something odd.

  As she aimed and zoomed, a hawk swooped down.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The hawk crashed into the weeds. The creature squealed. Morgan fumbled with her phone camera as the bird barely paused, continuing its flight with a writhing splash of white gripped in its talons. Lorina drew her gun out of its holster. Morgan grabbed her arm.

  “Don’t shoot!” Morgan said. “You might hit the—” She paused, then for lack of a better word said, “leprechaun. Or the hawk will drop it.”

  The hawk soared above the pine tress. Morgan snapped several photos. In the past, whenever she’d take
n cell phone pictures of birds in flight, they hadn’t come out well.

  “Nooo!” Lorina wailed. “That poor little fella! We have to follow that hawk.”

  “It’s long gone,” Morgan said. “Besides, the hawk is flying over Day’s property. Chief Sharp will throw us in jail if we cross this fence.”

  “Well, darn,” Lorina said. “If that was a leprechaun, we just missed out on his pot of gold.”

  Kurt and Del raced to the truck.

  “What’s wrong?” Kurt asked.

  “We’re fine,” Lorina said, “but a hawk just had a leprechaun for lunch.”

  Morgan examined the photos on her phone’s small screen, but as expected, none had turned out clear. She and Lorina explained to the men what had happened. Lorina leaned into Del, practically forcing the old cowboy to put a comforting arm around her shoulders as she whimpered. Morgan handed her phone to Kurt.

  “I can barely see the hawk,” Kurt said. “I can’t tell what’s in its claws. Maybe we’ll be able to make out something if we load these on a computer.”

  “I can already tell you,” Morgan said. “The hawk will be grainy, and the naked leprechaun will be a white blur.”

  The sound of approaching vehicles interrupted their discussion. Two Granite Junction police cars led a S.W.A.T. van into the cul-de-sac. Moments later, the Pine County Sheriff’s SUV, an ambulance, and the volunteer fire fighters’ yellow pumper truck arrived. They were rapidly running out of room to park until the S.W.A.T. van headed up the driveway.

  Morgan watched Granite Junction police officers approach the two houses. Probably telling the homeowners to hunker down indoors until the situation was under control. She wondered if the Rock of Ages was on a lockdown.

  “I’d better call Kendall and Allie, in case they didn’t hear all the commotion.”

  “Or in case they did,” Lorina said, “and are wondering what in creation is going on.”

  The phone rang several times, then went to voice mail.

  “They must be busy,” Morgan said.

  Her brother Kendall and his wife Allie were supposed to be running the family rock shop today. Since their return from a Central American mission trip, they had bumped Morgan out of the rock shop living quarters. The situation was supposed to be temporary, but several weeks had passed, and Morgan was still sleeping on her friend Bernie’s sofa. She waited a few minutes, then redialed. The phone went to voice mail again.