Jeff wrapped up charcuterie to take with him as a midnight snack and left after making Dee promise she’d text him if she felt any concern for her safety. Dee put away the rest of the food board, then took Nugget for a quick walk.
While waiting for the doggy to do his business, it occurred to Dee that she’d yet to watch any of Michael’s writing “tutorials.” Nugget signaled he was done, and they returned to the apartment. She rewarded him with a bone, then powered up her laptop.
A pretentious website popped up at the top of the search she entered for “Michael Adam Baker.” The landing page featured a list of his how-to videos—none of which she could open unless she paid twenty-five dollars to subscribe to Baker’s channel. Dee reluctantly typed in her credit card information and joined nineteen other viewers who paid for the privilege of hearing the writer pontificate.
If Michael thought these videos would be a cash cow with thousands of subscribers clinging to his every word, wow, was he wrong, Dee thought. She clicked on one and the late writer filled the screen from his shoulders up.
He flashed a smile that was more of a smirk and then launched into his spiel. “Hey. I’m writer-producer Michael Adam Baker. I’m not gonna bore you with my credits. You can look me up on IMDB for that. And I’m not gonna share my screen with some BS PowerPoint listing the steps to great writing and a successful career, blah blah blah. I’m just gonna talk to you. About work. About life. About my work. My life.” He flashed another smarmy smile. “My writer life, that is.”
Dee managed to stay awake during the first video of Baker bloviating. She forced herself to watch clips of two more. She paged through the rest. One titled “Those Who Can’t” sparked her curiosity. But assuming Michael would never out himself as “one who couldn’t,” she kept going until she landed on a video titled “How the Past Creates a Successful Present.” Maybe there’s something here about his experiences in Goldsgone that could provide a lead, Dee thought as she pressed Play.
A half hour later, she woke up with her head on the computer keyboard. “Thanks for an hour of my life I won’t get back,” she said to Baker’s frozen image on the screen. Dee turned off the computer. Still feeling the aftereffects of her drugging, she decided to shelve sleuthing and turn in for the night.
After the discomfort of the hospital trappings, Dee welcomed the warmth of her own bed. But to her frustration, sleep proved elusive. Her mind kept flipping back to the moments before and after she drank her cup of punch. Still, no faces formed out of the memories. She decided to tread a new path. It occurred to her she hadn’t given much thought to when she found Michael sneaking around her apartment. He must have been looking for something. But what? She’d assumed he was hunting down information that would come in handy when he transposed her life into a pilot script. But what if that wasn’t why he was snooping? Could the reason be hidden in one of Jasper Gormley’s trunks? She remembered something he’d said when she was giving him a tour of the Golden: “Jasper was a weird guy.” He’d added that the gas attendant had told him this, but now whe realized it was a lie. Michael’s history in the area meant he knew Jasper Gormley—or at least knew of him.
Dawn had barely broken when Dee, still wearing her sleep tee, resumed hunting through Gormley’s belongings. Two hours later, she was surrounded by piles of worn clothes destined for the dustbin, half-empty chewing tobacco packets, an assortment of loose screws, and a couple of mismatched shoes.
“I give up,” a defeated Dee said to Nugget. “There’s nothing valuable here and now I need a shower in the worst way.”
The dog snuffled and stuck his snout into the final trunk. He nosed around and began whimpering. “You found something you want, buddy?” Dee asked, wiping dust and sweat from her brow. “Let me get it for you.”
She bent over the trunk and rifled through its contents until she found an extremely chewed-up baseball. Nugget barked joyfully. Dee tossed the ball, and he bounded after it. Successful in his quest, he deposited himself on the rug with the ball between his front paws and commenced gnawing at it.
“I’m glad one of us got lucky today,” Dee said, amused. She was about to close the trunk lid, when she noticed something. In his mission to retrieve the ball, Nugget had knocked the top off a small box. Curious, Dee removed the box from the trunk and peered into it. She let out a gasp.
Inside lay a mesh bag filled with shiny gold nuggets.
CHAPTER 22
Jeff examined the shimmering nugget he held in his hand. He let out an impressed whistle, then carefully placed it back in the bag. “I think we found what Michael Adam Baker was looking for.”
“I know!” Dee hopped from one foot to the other with excitement. “We need to get these appraised. Jeff, think of what we could do with the money. Fix every leak in the roof. Upgrade all the appliances. Finally fix the neon sign. No more OLD Motel. We can truly welcome guests to”—she made a theatrical gesture with her hands to paint a picture—“the GOLDEN.”
Jeff handed Dee the bag of gold. He pecked away at the search engine on his phone. “There’s a jewelry store in Goldsgone that buys and sells gold and weighs nuggets and flakes tourists find.”
“Let’s go.” Dee clutched the bag in her hand. “This may be the reason Michael was murdered. We need to get it appraised, then stored in a safety deposit box at the bank.”
They took Dee’s car to Goldsgone and lucked out by finding a parking spot right in front of the Gold Mine Jewel and Gold Exchange, which they quickly identified by the ersatz nineteenth-century wooden sign dangling from black iron hooks, which Dee assumed were fashioned by the current town blacksmith.
The duo parked and entered the store. “Yay, a store in Goldsgone that doesn’t smell like sarsaparilla,” Dee murmured to Jeff.
“God forbid,” a male voice declared.
Dee glanced around to see who spoke. A cheery, chubby-cheeked man in his late thirties stood behind a row of wooden display cases running the length of the shop. He wore the costume of a prosperous nineteenth-century jewelry store proprietor. A patterned vest sat atop his crisp white shirt, with a black cravat tucked into the collar. A gold chain draped across the front of the vest, connecting to a pocket watch tucked into the vest’s front pocket. His leaning-toward-doughy frame stopped a few inches short of Jeff’s six-foot-plus height.
“So much for thinking I was whispering,” Dee said, embarrassed.
The man waved a hand to dismiss her concerns. “Please. I love my hometown, but even I can’t stand that horrid scent.” He rounded the corner at the near end of the display case row and came to them, making sure not to bump into the additional cases creating an island in the center of the shop. He extended a hand first to Dee, then to Jeff. Dee noticed the cuff links on his shirt were small red hearts. She also registered the anachronistic touch of three rows of piercings on each ear. “Owen Mudd Junior. Went under another name when I lived in S.F. because ‘Mudd.’ Ugh.” He shuddered dramatically, then grinned. “But I’m owning it now that I’m back in the ‘Gone.”
“You lived in S.F.?” Jeff said, lighting up. “Me too.” The two compared geographical notes, while Dee impatiently tapped her foot and cleared her throat. The message she was trying to send went unanswered until Owen finally asked, “So, what brings you here today?” He flashed a coy smile. “Ring shopping?” He held up his left ring finger and winked.
“No, no,” Dee said, eager to prevent a rumor from starting and spreading. “Jeff and I are just friends.”
“We tried the marriage thing. Did not work out.” Jeff made a comical face and pretended to hide the finger he pointed at Dee. She glared at him.
Owen chuckled. “Whatever you’re here for, I’m glad you stopped in. I’ve seen you both in passing and wanted to introduce myself. My boyfriend and I are beyond thrilled there’s some new blood in town. At this point, everybody in Goldsgone and Foundgold is probably related to each other.”
Being welcomed rather than ostracized by a local made Dee almost giddy with joy. “We’re glad someone in Goldsgone is actually happy to see us. Getting acclimated’s been kind of a rough road.”
Owen gave a sympathetic nod. “I can imagine. I grew up in Goldsgone, so I know all about the cult of Michael Adam Baker.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I never got it myself. He always seemed the legend-in-his-own-mind type to me.”
“On-target description,” Dee said. She lowered her voice. “We have to show you something.”
“It’s valuable,” Jeff said, matching her tone. “Probably best to show you in private.”
“Not a problem. I’ll lock the door and we can go to my office in the back.”
Owen secured the front door and adjusted the clock sign dangling from the doorknob to read BACK IN TWO SHAKES OF A LAMB’S TAIL. He motioned to Dee and Jeff to follow him. The three walked to the back of the shop, where he lifted a curtain that separated the main area from a small office. A gold-weighing scale sat center stage on the room’s desk.
Dee and Jeff sat on wooden Shaker chairs facing the desk. Owen took a seat opposite them. “So let’s see what you have.”
Dee reached into her fanny pack and pulled out the bag of nuggets and gave it to Owen. She clutched Jeff’s hand as they waited to hear his estimate of its value.
The jeweler pressed a button that illuminated a magnifying lamp. He held a nugget under the magnifying glass and studied it intently. “Amazing. I haven’t seen one of these in years.”
Dee’s heart thumped. “What are they worth?”
“They’re priceless,” Owen said. Dee and Jeff squeezed each other’s hands. “In terms of memories.”
