CHAPTER 9
Over the next few days, Goldsgone grieved the loss of their somewhat-native son with an intensity that made Dee and Jeff dread running errands in the town. Since Michael Adam Baker died on at least half-private property, depriving mourners of a public shrine, they turned the picturesque town square gazebo into one. A poster-sized headshot of the late sitcom writer sat on an easel, surrounded by a carpet of flower bouquets.
“There was less of a fuss when the retired pope died,” Dee muttered, taking in the growing memorial.
Having run out of furniture wax and not trusting online delivery, where rural two-day service was more of a wish than a reality, she’d worked up the courage for a run to the Goldsgone hardware store. This meant braving stink eye from the locals, which was somehow creepier coming from people dressed like characters out of Westworld. “It’s innocent until proven guilty, bub,” she shot back at the village blacksmith, who fake-sneezed the word “murderer” as he walked past her.
Head held high, Dee marched up the front steps of Goldsgone Feed and Hardware, housed in yet another of the town’s historic brick single-story storefronts. The store exhibited the timeless chaos and clutter of the average hardware store, which overwhelmed Dee in the non-fake Western world. She hunted up and down the aisles for furniture wax with little success.
Giving up on finding it herself, she tried to flag down a sales associate. He made a point of ignoring her. Annoyed, she followed him down an aisle.
“Excuse me. Excuse me. Helloooo!” She cut in front of the associate, making contact unavoidable, and enjoyed the brief triumph. “I’m looking for Howard Feed-N-Wax.”
He gazed at her with contempt. “We’re out.”
Dee folded her arms in front of her chest and returned his contemptuous look. “You weren’t out when I called an hour ago.”
“Sorry,” the man said with a shrug.
“You need to get your eyes checked, Hamish,” a male voice said, “because I see three bottles right up there.”
Dee pivoted to see a tall, good-looking man a few years her senior pointing to the top shelf of the display. He reached up and corralled the bottles.
“How many do you need?” he asked Dee with a warm smile.
“I’ll take them all,” she said, grateful for the stranger’s kindness.
He turned over the bottles to her. “I’ll walk you to the register to make sure you don’t run into any other problems.”
“My hero,” she said, hoping to sound a little, but not too, flirtatious. “I’m Dee Stern. My friend and I are the notorious new owners of the Golden Motel. If you’d like to take this opportunity to scowl at me and accuse me of murder, I give you permission. You earned it with these.” She indicated the bottles.
The man chuckled. “Jonas Jones, and pass. My cousin Elmira only has good things to say about you and your friend.”
“You’re Elmira’s cousin?” Dee lit up. “We love her.”
“She’s good people. I trust her judgment a hundred percent. And”—he lowered his voice—“knowing the victim, I’m guessing he finally pushed someone too far.”
Dee stared at him. She hadn’t expected to hear a negative comment about the late writer in a place that treated him like a deity. “You’re the first person I’ve met in Goldsgone who’s not a member of the Michael Adam Baker fan club.”
“There are a few of us. But we keep a low profile.”
They reached the cash register. Dee placed her bottles on the counter, appreciating the fact Jonas hovered over her to ensure the cashier didn’t try to thwart the transaction. Dee paid for her purchase and stuffed the bottles into her tote bag. Jonas held the door open for her, and as she left, she couldn’t resist calling back to the judgmental sales associate, “Thank you so much for your assistance.” She pointed to him with both hands. “I want every customer here to know that this man went out of his way to help Dee Stern of the Murder Motel. Bye-yee!”
Jonas applauded as Dee made a grand exit from the store. “Brava,” he said, laughing.
She bowed, taking a mock curtain call. “Thank you, thank you very much. Throw money, not flowers.” She straightened up. “But seriously, this ‘murder motel’ rap is terrible for business. If things don’t pick up at the Golden, I’ll definitely need a part-time job, if not full-time.” She glanced at the scenic village street. “But Lord knows it won’t be in Goldsgone.”
“If it comes to that, and I hope for your sake it won’t, I’m sure you’d be able to find something in West Camp,” Jonas said, referring to the Gold County seat. He took out his wallet and removed a business card. He handed the card to Dee. “I’m a real estate agent. I handle properties all over the county. If you and your partner decide running the Golden isn’t for you, give me a call. I’m sure I can find new owners.”
“Oh. Okay.” Dee took the card. “Well . . . nice meeting you. And thanks again for your help in there.” She motioned to the store.
“No problem. You need more wax, you got my number.”
Jonas strode down the street and Dee watched him go. So much for a non-transactional exchange, she thought, disappointed. She stuck the business card in the back pocket of her jeans and started for her car. As she walked, she considered her conversation with Jonas. He’d said something that struck her as important. What was it? She suddenly remembered and stopped in her tracks.
“Finally!” she blurted the word, earning confused looks from passersby. Dee was too absorbed in her own thoughts to care. Jonas had said Baker finally pushed someone too far, indicating the writer had a history of taking advantage of people, like he planned to do with Dee. This meant there were other suspects in Baker’s murder besides her and Jeff.
Here’s hoping Aguilar and O’Bryant come to the same conclusion, she thought as she drove off.
* * *
Once back at the Golden, Dee immersed herself in waxing furniture to the point where for a few hours she even forgot about the demise of Michael Adam Baker. That ended with a rap on the door from Deputy Sheriff Aguilar. He tipped his cowboy hat to her, and they exchanged brief greetings.
“I’d like to talk to you and your partner.”
“Okay.” Dee’s heart thumped like the big drum in a marching band. She hoped the sheriff couldn’t hear it. “I’ll text Jeff.” She quickly did so. “He’ll meet us in my apartment.”
She pulled the motel room door closed and, with the young sheriff, followed the walkway lining the front of the motel.
“Do we need to wait for Ranger O’Bryant?”
“No. He’s busy at the park. Someone called in a missing hiker.” As she spotted the mischievous glint in Aguilar’s eye, it wasn’t hard for Dee to guess who the caller might have been, and her opinion of Aguilar rose exponentially.
Jeff met them outside Dee’s living quarters. Like Dee, he made an effort to remain calm, but the shaking hand he extended to Aguilar gave him away. To the sheriff’s credit, he pretended not to notice and responded with a sympathetic smile.
They went into Dee’s living quarters. After declining an offer of water, Aguilar took the seat opposite the couch, allowing Dee and Jeff to sit next to each other.
“We have some new information regarding your guest’s murder. Based on the fact I observed evidence of facial rigor mortis on the victim when we showed up at the crime scene, which was around eight-thirty a.m., Harry Liu, the sheriff coroner, puts the time of death somewhere between one-thirty and three-thirty in the morning. We’ve examined the security camera footage from this location and the victim’s cabin.” Aguilar addressed Dee. “There’s no evidence of you leaving your living premises during the hours of eleven p.m. and seven-thirty a.m.”
