Stone Cold Case (A Rock Shop Mystery) Read online

  STONE COLD CASE

  A ROCK SHOP MYSTERY

  STONE COLD CASE

  CATHERINE DILTS

  FIVE STAR

  A part of Gale, Cengage Learning

  * * *

  Copyright © 2015 by Catherine Dilts

  Map of Golden Springs © Merida Bass

  Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced, transmitted, stored, or used in any form or by any means graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, scanning, digitizing, taping, Web distribution, information networks, or information storage and retrieval systems, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  The publisher bears no responsibility for the quality of information provided through author or third-party Web sites and does not have any control over, nor assume any responsibility for, information contained in these sites. Providing these sites should not be construed as an endorsement or approval by the publisher of these organizations or of the positions they may take on various issues.

  * * *

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Dilts, Catherine.

  Stone cold case : a rock shop mystery / Catherine Dilts. — First edition.

  pages ; cm. — (Rock shop mysteries)

  ISBN 978-1-4328-3099-1 (hardcover) — ISBN 1-4328-3099-6 (hardcover) — ISBN 978-1-4328-3093-9 (ebook) — ISBN 1-4328-3093-7 (ebook)

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3093-9 eISBN-10: 1-4328-3093-7

  1. Women geologists—Fiction. 2. Cold cases (Criminal investigation)—Fiction. 3. Teenagers—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 5. Precious stones—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3604.I4633S755 2015

  813'.6—dc23 2015008358

  * * *

  First Edition. First Printing: September 2015

  This title is available as an e-book.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3093-9 ISBN-10: 1-4328-3093-7

  Find us on Facebook– https://www.facebook.com/FiveStarCengage

  Visit our website– http://www.gale.cengage.com/fivestar/

  Contact Five Star™ Publishing at [email protected]

  Printed in the United States of America

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 19 18 17 16 15

  To my daughter, for your unexpected and amazing editing

  skills, and your encouragement.

  To my father, who wants it known that he is my

  Number One Fan.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  * * *

  I was fortunate to attend CPR classes with health and safety instructor Adam Lucero, who made this very serious topic approachable and entertaining. If I got any first aid or CPR details correct in this book or Stone Cold Dead, credit goes to Mr. Lucero.

  The Rocky Mountain chapter of Mystery Writers of America and our fantastic carpool group have provided instruction, inspiration, and encouragement.

  Donna from Lin Ottinger’s Moab Rock Shop shared her enthusiasm for fossils and minerals during my visit to Moab, Utah, where I found fun specimens of ammonite.

  The Western Museum of Mining and Industry in Colorado Springs, Colorado, keeps the history of mining alive, and maintains working mining equipment. They also have two charming donkey mascots.

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  Nothing buffered the wind above tree line. Morgan Iverson shivered and zipped up her windbreaker. Springtime in the Rockies was a rollercoaster ride. The May weather went from warm and sunny one minute to freezing the next. Half the geology class had already hiked back to their cars in the distant parking lot. When Morgan heard the brief rumble of thunder, she wished she had been among them.

  “Is this fine specimen a mineral or rock?” Professor Tony Esteban slapped a leather-gloved hand against a stone outcropping abutting the steep trail.

  “Rock,” Trevin Pike said. “It contains a mixture of different minerals.”

  “What minerals do you see here?” he asked.

  “Mostly quartz,” Morgan said.

  “Which might indicate the type of crystallization that forms gemstones.” The wind tousled the professor’s thick black hair. He pulled a small pick ax from a loop on the side of his backpack and prepared to strike. “Shall we dig in and see?”

  “No!” Three people shouted at once.

  Professor Esteban smiled. “And why not?”

  “We don’t have a mining claim.” A white-haired woman shook her head, causing the brim of her floppy sun hat to wobble. “Digging would be illegal.”

  “Excellent.”

  Tony Esteban looked like a prospector. The half dozen pockets on his canvas vest bulged with gear, a worn daypack hung from his wide shoulders, and his scuffed leather boots had seen many a mile. He spoke like a professor, though, repeating the rules about prospecting on private or public land as though there would be a quiz later.

  The final field trip of the semester counted as extra credit. There would be no more tests, and for Morgan and an older couple auditing the class, grades had been optional. Even so, she had studied right along with the younger college students. The class was more than a fun diversion or a degree requirement. She needed to learn about geology if she had any hope of keeping the family rock shop in business.

  Thunder sounded again, a long low rumbling that echoed off the surrounding peaks. Professor Esteban shielded his eyes and studied the dark clouds bunching at the top of Temple Mountain. He muttered something that Morgan’s high-school Spanish classes hadn’t covered.

  “We need to get below tree line,” he said in English, “before the storm reaches us. We are the tallest objects on this mountain, and most of us carry metallic implements, making us prime lightning targets.”

  A nervous classmate squeezed around Morgan, sending a cascade of stones skittering down the rocky slope. The falling rocks startled a pair of ravens perched on an elk carcass. Morgan pressed a gloved hand to the unyielding granite mountainside, seeking stability while her brain processed being above the flight of birds. A valley stretched below, the highway up Topaz Pass a narrow ribbon running parallel to a twisting creek.

  Trevin touched her shoulder. “Are you okay, Mrs. Iverson?”

  “I will be when we get back to tree line. Just feeling a little lightheaded.”

  Going uphill always took longer than the return trip, and today’s hike had included plenty of stops for mini-lectures. The distinct boundary across the mountain where trees could no longer grow, approximately eleven thousand feet, was not far. The class would reach it in fifteen minutes. Still, it would be at least an hour before they reached the trailhead and their vehicles. If it began raining, the hike would be miserable. Morgan moved as swiftly as she could without losing her footing on the steep, rocky trail.

  When they dropped back into the forest and the trail widened, Morgan walked beside Trevin.

  “There are rock formations on your property just like the one Professor Esteban pointed out,” the young man said.

  “No one has ever found gemstones at the Rock of Ages.”

  “Maybe no one has looked.” Trevin pushed a stray dreadlock back under his stocking cap. His honey-brown cheeks were flushed from the strenuous hike. “You could be sitting on a fortune.”

  “If only,” Morgan said.

  When Trevin had signed up for the geology
class to fulfill a science requirement for his bachelor’s degree, Morgan had hesitated to tag along. The handsome young man had assured her he didn’t mind having a chaperone to keep coeds at bay. The quip had only been partially sarcastic, and Morgan was only partially effective as a mom-type figure to discourage the interest of the female classmates. Trevin’s heart had not yet healed from the murder of his girlfriend four months ago. He was nowhere near ready for college romance.

  Rain came down in huge splattering drops for a few minutes. Then just as abruptly, it lightened to a mist. Morgan enjoyed the sensation of walking in a cloud. Ambitious early wildflowers splashed yellow against the pink and gray decomposing granite that passed for soil in this part of Colorado. Professor Esteban consulted his GPS.

  “We do not have far to go, as the crow flies,” he said. “But there are so many switchbacks, we have three times that to hike.” He tucked the GPS into a pocket of his vest. “Now that we are back in the trees, does anyone need to make a rest stop?”

  Professor Esteban had reminded them constantly to drink water to avoid dehydration. Frequent trailside bathroom breaks were a necessity. As her classmates stepped off the trail, Morgan could see students through sparse undergrowth between the pines. The men especially did a cursory job of concealing themselves. Some folks seemed to lose all inhibition in the forest.

  Trevin stepped back onto the trail. Necessity overrode Morgan’s sense of modesty, made easier by the departure of the rest of the class down the trail.

  “Go ahead,” Morgan told Trevin. “I can catch up.”

  “No way,” Trevin said. “We’re supposed to be using the buddy system.”

  Morgan trudged toward a clump of bushes, weighed down by her heavy daypack. Del Addison, the old cowboy employed by the rock shop, had loaded her pack with what he deemed essential survival gear. Morgan had all she needed for anything from a quick trip to the bushes to a three-day stay in the wilderness.

  She could see Trevin standing in the middle of the trail, scanning the pines for birds. Then she saw flashes of red, yellow, and blue as hikers garbed in brightly colored rain gear rounded a switchback. Morgan thrashed through the bushes to a more secluded spot behind a boulder and shrugged out of her daypack.

  The call of nature answered, she pulled her pack onto her shoulders and headed for the trail. Morgan wished she could linger in the solitude. The voices of her classmates faded into the forest. Rain dripped off pine needles and plopped onto the rocky soil. A bird chirped a lively spring song. The peace of the forest draped around Morgan like the cloud that hugged Temple Mountain.

  I need more moments like this, Morgan thought.

  The temptation to linger was tempered by the reality that Trevin was waiting. Although the rain had momentarily stopped, rumbling thunder suggested that more could come. She followed her own boot-prints, the disturbances in the damp leaf mulch and pine needles obvious. Occasionally a perfect print showed in a patch of snow, alongside heart-shaped deer tracks.

  A squirrel chattered from a Ponderosa pine tree. Morgan searched the branches for the creature, finally spotting the black fur and tufted ears of an Abert’s squirrel. Seeing one of the shy squirrels was a treat. Yanking off her knit gloves, she fumbled for her new cell phone’s camera icon, aimed at the squirrel, and tapped the shutter button.

  “Darn. Missed.”

  She circled the trunk of the tall pine, hoping for another chance for a photo. The squirrel climbed higher, scolding her. Morgan backed up a step. Her boot sunk deep into damp mulch. She teetered for an instant, flailing with her arms, but the heavy pack pulled her off balance.

  Morgan landed on her side in a narrow gulley stuffed full of rain-slick branches and leaves. As she plummeted headfirst downhill, Morgan clutched her phone with one hand and grabbed with the other at anything to slow her slide. A kaleidoscope of green pine trees and gray sky flashed by until she splashed to a stop in a puddle. Morgan scrambled to her feet, brushing leaves and mud off her wet hiking slacks. Thankfully, the gulley had deposited her at the base of a ten-foot cliff, while the runoff from the rainstorm continued its descent to a swift-moving stream. Much more rain, and she might have been washed halfway down Temple Mountain.

  “Trevin!”

  Morgan listened. All she heard was water gushing over rocks.

  “I’m not lost,” she said aloud.

  If she was lost, she would do what Del had drilled into her: sit tight and wait for rescue. Morgan wiped off her cell phone. It was undamaged, but there was no signal. Her classmates had attempted several times on the hike to make calls, with no success. They had lost contact with civilization shortly after leaving the trailhead parking lot.

  Morgan rested her hands on her hips and forced herself to breathe. Think. Trevin may not be worried right now, but soon he would realize something was wrong.

  Morgan cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hello! Trevin!”

  No answer.

  “Hello!”

  The forest muffled her voice, soaking it up like the rocky earth absorbed the rain. Morgan thought a person had to do spectacularly stupid things to get lost in the wilderness, but apparently all it took was losing your footing.

  Trevin wouldn’t panic and run through the forest looking for Morgan. He had more woods-savvy than that. No, it was more likely that he would return to the parking lot to get help.

  For now, the dull light of a cloud-shrouded sun illuminated the pine forest, but soon it would drop behind Temple Mountain. Morgan studied the cliff. Crumbling earth rose above her. Even dry, it would be difficult to climb. Rain saturated, it might be dangerous. The geology class had crossed a bridge during their multi-vehicle caravan up the dirt road, carpooling to the small trailhead parking lot. If she followed the stream, surely it would lead her to the forest service road. Morgan scrambled alongside the cascading water.

  When she glimpsed blue through the brush, she dared hope it was a windbreaker worn by one of her classmates. Morgan abandoned the bank of the stream. She trotted across a patch of open ground, where a rock campfire ring corralled rusting tin cans.

  “Hello!” She stopped abruptly, her boots skidding on the damp gravel. “Oh.”

  The blue was the remnant of a tarp, faded by exposure to the elements. The shredded plastic covered a low, narrow door. If Morgan had not noticed the blue contrasting with the greens and browns of the forest, she might have hiked right by the structure.

  Prospectors’ shelters dotted the Colorado mountains in varied forms, from crude sod huts to finely constructed log cabins. This dugout was somewhere in between, and in better shape than the crumbling ruins Morgan had seen. From the front and both sides, it appeared to be a rough-hewn log cabin, while the rear butted up to the hillside. If she had to spend the night in the forest, the dugout might keep her dry. The wood-shingled flat roof, layered with pine needles and fallen branches, seemed intact.

  Flowers in neat mounds framed the doorway. Morgan stooped to squint at them. Rows of tiny elephant heads lined up along the stems. No one would believe her, if she survived the night to tell about them. Maybe fear was making her delusional. Morgan snapped a photo. The flash probably frightened off any woodland creatures in the increasingly dark forest. Either that, or it alerted potential predators.

  The clouds released a deluge of cold, stinging rain, ending her botanical study. Morgan pulled the shreds of blue tarp to one side and peeked inside. The shelter was too dark for her comfort, but most likely perfect for spiders and centipedes. She could dig a flashlight out of her pack once inside, but for now she used the flash on her cell phone camera. A half-dozen sturdy pine columns held up the roof. From the mounds of debris and expansive spider webs, she doubted a human had occupied the dugout recently. The shelter might be a disappointment in a dozen ways, but it was dry. She huddled inside the doorway, trying to think of what to do next.

  Stay put. Wait for help. When the rain slowed to a drizzle, Morgan fought the urge to continue hunting for the road. Doing nothing
was hard, but wandering around the forest would only make things worse. Morgan dropped her pack on the ground and unzipped a pocket, prepared for a long stay in the dugout.

  Cracking branches sounded from the far bank of the creek. Morgan pushed the pack aside and peeked through the shredded strips of tarp, hoping to see Search and Rescue.

  A dog barked once. A human voice muttered something that seemed to quiet the dog. Morgan strained to see through the gloom, but the sun had dropped behind the mountain, and gently falling rain muted what remained of the light. The noise of movement in the brush stopped. A step crunched in the rocky soil. Not a dog’s paw. A boot.

  If Trevin or one of her classmates had found the dugout, surely they would call her name, not sneak up from the side. Through the curtain of misty raindrops, she glimpsed a bizarre combination of homeless person and mountain man, dressed in canvas, leather, and fur, creeping closer to the dugout. Definitely not one of her classmates. The dark form of the dog followed.

  This had to be how Sasquatch sightings started.

  Morgan edged deeper inside the dugout, groping for her pack. Footsteps crunched toward the entrance. Morgan took another step backward. Her heel landed on something hard, twisting her ankle despite her firmly laced hiking boot. She threw her arms out as she stumbled, her hands grasping nothing but spider web as she fell onto the hard packed dirt floor.

  The footsteps stopped. Morgan watched the shredded tarp, knowing Big Foot had to have heard the racket of her tripping and falling. If not that, surely he could hear her raspy, panicked breathing. Silence settled over the forest. Morgan began to wonder whether he was still out there. Maybe the pounding of her heart had drowned out the sound of him leaving.

  When she couldn’t bear sitting motionless any longer, her body aching with tension, she rolled slowly to her hands and knees. Her right hand planted firmly on the object that had tripped her. A blanket neatly covered the mound. If she had to spend the night here, at least she had a way to keep warm. She pushed herself to her feet. As she tugged the blanket up, a cracked leather hiking boot tipped to one side. Morgan squinted in the dim light. An aspen branch seemed to extend from the bottom of a jeans leg to the boot.