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 think 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.
Halfway down the gravel road, a black SUV with tinted windows passed her going up. It looked like a cross between a Humvee and a jeep. She thought she saw a Mercedes Benz logo on the hood, but that didn’t seem right. Maybe Mercedes was in the SUV market now. If so, the driver surely wasn’t a customer for the Rock of Ages, Morgan thought. Unless the driver was in need of a Triceratops brow horn.
Morgan turned and watched the vehicle, trailed by a cloud of dust. It slowed as it passed the rock shop’s dinosaur sign, then sped up.
They had to be visiting one of the neighbors farther up the hill, where the road dead-ended. Morgan continued her trek to town, walking carefully down the steeper sections of road where her slick-soled sneakers refused to grip the gravel.
She ran through the argument she would present to Piers, to convince him to let the Rock of Ages put a sign on the corner of Main and Hill Streets. Morgan might have to smooth over past offenses delivered by her opinionated brother, but she would not apologize for him. She might think her brother was crazy, but family stuck together.
When Morgan neared the bottom of Hill Street, she heard a car behind her, engine racing, tires scattering gravel. She looked over her shoulder. The black SUV already took up more than its share of the narrow road, but it seemed determined to crowd into Morgan’s space, too.
Or run her down.
For a brief moment, she debated crossing to the other side of the road. The vehicle was coming too fast. Maybe the driver hadn’t seen her. Through the windshield, Morgan glimpsed dark glasses and a shaggy goatee. She waved her arms. Instead of correcting its course, it veered closer to her side of the road.
The wide tires scrabbled on loose gravel. Morgan teetered on the edge of the ditch. She flailed with her arms, struggling to keep her balance. The SUV barreled past her. Morgan’s feet slipped. She pitched down the steep bank and fell, landing in the slushy, ankle-deep water on her hands and knees.
Furious, she scrambled up the bank. The SUV raced past the pockmarked stop sign at the bottom of Hill Street without slowing. Morgan tried to read the license plate. It was a Colorado plate, green and white, but the cloud of dust kicked up by the SUV obscured the letters.
Morgan retrieved her bag from the ditch. She debated continuing to town, or heading back to the shop. Town was closer, and downhill. Her shoes squished with every step.
Piers’s be-back-in sign, the clock framed with glittery fairy stickers, said he would return in an hour. More time than Morgan had intended to spend in town.
Standing in front of his store, her jeans soaked from her knees to her sneakers, she regretted her decision to walk to town. Then she noticed the traffic rolling up and down Main Street. If she could put up a sign, some of those customers might drive the few blocks up the hill to the Rock of Ages.
She walked west on Main Street, smelling the bakery before she saw the pink and white striped awning. The teenage girls were not behind the counter today, but it didn’t look like Bernie needed help. Only two customers sat near the large bay window, sharing a bistro table.
“Hi, Bernie,” Morgan said.
“What happened to you? You’re all wet.”
“I walked from the rock shop. A car ran me into the irrigation ditch.”
Bernie’s mouth fell open. “You’re kidding. Are you hurt?”
“No, just wet.”
“You need to call the police.”
Morgan shrugged. “I didn’t get the license plate number. It was probably a case of someone changing a CD or lighting a cigarette.”
Bernie shook her head, making her pink striped chef’s hat wobble on her head. She looked more like an old-fashioned icecream vendor than a baker today.
“Or drunk. You really should report this.” Bernie picked up the phone receiver from the wall-mounted phone behind the counter. “I’ll call Bill.”
Golden Springs had a two-man police department that resided in a small office inside City Hall.
“Okay,” Morgan said, “but I’d rather call Officer Sanchez in Granite Junction. She already knows me.”
“You’ve been here less than a week, and you have your own personal police officer?”
Morgan shrugged. “They came by yesterday to ask about my report to search and rescue.” She dug the business card and her cell phone out of her bag.
The two customers left as Morgan settled at a table by the window. Officer Sanchez asked several questions that Morgan couldn’t answer, such as the license plate number. The description of the driver, wearing sunglasses and sporting a goatee, was probably no help. At least Officer Sanchez seemed to take Morgan seriously.
Bernie brought a tray with two teacups, a teapot, and two plates with lemon squares to the window table. She poured steaming water into the cups.
“Now tell me about the car.” She passed a container of tea bags to Morgan.
As she described the incident to Bernie, Morgan considered that it might be easier to start a blog than to keep repeating every Golden Springs experience ten times.
“I’m already the lady who imagines bodies on trails. I’m afraid people will think I’m a paranoid lunatic.”
“I believe you,” Bernie said. “I’ll keep an eye out for that SUV.”
“It looks like business is as slow for you today as it is for us,” Morgan said, hoping to change the subject. “We’re at a complete standstill. How do you survive the off season?”
“I’m fortunate to have a loyal following of local customers.” Bernie dunked a tea bag in her cup. “I work like the dickens during tourist season, and save for that rainy day. Or around here, that snowy day. Businesses are more likely to go under during the winter. That’s when Piers snaps them up. In Golden Springs, it’s not so much keeping the wolf from the door as keeping Piers from the door.”
Morgan tried to imagine the handsome metaphysical shop owner as a ruthless businessman. The image didn’t fit. Even if it was true, if other Golden Springs business owners ran their shops as lackadaisically as Kendall, maybe they deserved to go under.
“I’ve had time to do some serious cleaning,” Morgan said. “There’s no end to the to-do list.”
“It’s hard work, but there are so many perks to being your own boss.”
The bell over the door tinkled. Lucy entered, dressed in New West style, with jeans and western boots, a pale green silk blouse, and a black jacket. Morgan felt plain and dumpy in her baggy jeans and faded Washington Warriors sweatshirt.
“What happened to you?” Lucy asked, pointing to Morgan’s wet jeans and soaked sneakers.
As Morgan retold the incident, she tried to remember every detail. It had happened so fast.
“Do you suppose this has anything to do with the missing body?” Lucy asked.
“Why would someone try to run me down just because I saw a body?”
“There must be a dozen reasons,” Bernie said. “Maybe they thought you stole the body.”
“I just came from the rock shop,” Lucy said. “I brought some new jewelry to show you, but Cindy said you were in town. I didn’t see a black SUV.” Lucy sold her handmade jewelry on consignment at the rock shop. It was one of the few displays not gathering dust.
“Do I need to come back to the shop?”
“Cindy took care of me.” Lucy pointed at Morgan’s lemon square. “I might get one of those.”
“They turned out really nice,” Bernie said. She slid open the display case and retrieved a lemon square with a pair of tongs. “But you can tell me what you think.”
“Are we on for tonight?” Lucy asked as she took a bite of lemon square. “Mmm, this is good.”
“Tonight?” Bernie asked.
“O’Reily’s Runners.” Morgan must have looked as lost as Bernie, because Lucy added, “The running club.”
Morgan and Bernie spoke at the same time. “Oh.”
“It’s supposed to be a nice night,” Lucy said. “Clear skies, temps in the thirties. Great for your first time.”
“First time?” Bernie asked. “That implies there’ll be another.”
“I’ll give it a try,” Morgan said, “if you will, Bernie.”
“Okay. I guess it won’t kill me. But I’m not running.”
“Great,” Lucy said. “It’ll be fun.”
“Only someone as young, thin, and healthy as you,” Bernie said to Lucy, “would consider running around Granite Junction in the dark fun.”
Lucy laughed, apparently thinking that Bernie was kidding. Morgan was sure she was not. Lucy stood and turned to leave. She froze, her eyes glued on the window.
“Uh-oh.”
Morgan followed her gaze.
“Houdini and Adelaide!” Morgan cried.
The two donkeys trotted up the middle of Main Street.