A Treasure to Die For Read online

  “Anyway, Drake must have found the mine and dug out five thousand dollars worth of nearly pure gold, for he left a message describing his find and the location of where to find his gold and the lost mine. However, according to an article I found in the Rocky Mountain News, his message wasn’t found until some uranium miners stumbled on the remains of his pack mule in the early fifties. There was a frenzy of sorts, searching for the gold, but because Drake had encrypted the location in code, the treasure was never found, and it soon became just another forgotten fable.”

  “You’re telling us there’s only five thousand dollars?” It was Cory again. “I don’t call that no treasure.”

  Wilson didn’t seem to be very upset at the latest interruption. He smiled and looked back with cold, gray eyes at the kid. I’d seen that same smile before. I think it was Hannibal Lecter in the movie, Silence of the Lambs. “Well, son, that would be about twenty pounds at the price of gold back then. Do the math if you want to know how much twenty pounds of gold is worth today. Twelve troy-ounces per pound, times twenty, times twelve hundred dollars is a nice day’s work. But of course, the real treasure is the mine itself. Crack Drake’s code and you have wealth beyond imagination.”

  Cory didn’t say another word. I couldn’t see his face from where I sat, but I could imagine him counting on his fingers trying to calculate the sum.

  Wilson didn’t wait for the kid to come up with a figure. “That’s nearly three hundred thousand, Son,” he said before refocusing on his book.

  He waited a moment for it to sink in then continued. “I think I left off where Drake had found shelter in an abandoned silver mine and lost his frostbitten fingers when the wind blew the mine door shut on his outstretched hand. I’ll skip ahead now to the good part where he has started a makeshift fire from all but one book in his pack.

  “‘Drake huddled over the flames, trying to catch every last ray of its nefarious warmth, as the fire burned with the words of dead writers. Drake needed all the help Penny's friends could give him if he were to make the twenty-mile trek into Leadville once the fire died out. As he fed more pages to the fire, and watched them slowly die, he remembered a story Penny had read to him about how British spies would send coded messages keyed to a popular book. It was a simple code: a series of numbers representing a page and word count for each word of the message. The cipher would search the book for a word he wanted to use and then count how many words came before the chosen word on the page. To decipher the code, the spy simply found a copy of the key book, and wrote down the word corresponding to each pair of numbers.

  “‘Hours later, Drake finished his Last Will and Testament in which he says Penny’s consumption will be cured when she solves his riddle. On the back side of the will, he put twelve lines of numbers, and a note telling her to read the story where a boy gets his friends to do his chores. Then he put Penny’s copy of Tom Sawyer in his pack with the gold, and threw it down the shaft at the end of the mine.’”

  “So you’re telling us we got to buy your book to find where the gold is hidden?” It was Cory again. His tone suggested more than a question; it came out like an accusation.

  Wilson answered condescendingly. “I told you, this is a fictionalized story of an article I read from a 1953 issue of the Rocky Mountain News. The book you want to buy, if you insist on believing the story is real, is written by Mark Twain, not me.”

  “And what book is that, Mr. Wilson?” asked a bald man in the front row, wearing worn Levi's and a sleeveless shirt that showed a crude tattoo of the Marine Corp symbol and the words, Semper Fi, beneath it.

  Craig took it upon himself to answer for the author. “Jeez, dumbo, any idiot can see it’s Tom Sawyer.”

  The bald guy in the front row turned to Craig, allowing me to see his face. There was real hate in his eyes, and for the brief second I saw him before he turned back, I thought he looked familiar.

  “I’m right though, ain’t I, Wilson?” Craig asked as though nothing had happened between him and the bald guy.

  “Yes, but not just any copy of Tom Sawyer. You must remember, Drake wrote the code in 1895 and Tom Sawyer was first published in 1876, so it’s anybody’s guess which version was used. The wrong edition will throw off the word count.”

  Wilson was about to continue when a gray haired woman sitting in the row ahead of me raised her hand.

  “Yes, Patty?” Evidently she wasn’t his mother, or he wouldn’t have used her first name.

  “Perhaps the old miner was using one of the pirated Canadian versions.” She spoke so softly, I had a hard time hearing her.

  Craig was still standing and turned to face the timid woman. “A what version?” he demanded.

  Wilson answered for her. “I believe the question was about Canadian versions that were copied from the London edition. Is that your question, Patty?”

  She nodded her head without speaking.

  Craig cut in again. “You mean my first edition might not be the right version?”

  Wilson’s eyes seemed to dilate. They had been a light gray, but were now pure black. “You have a first edition of Tom Sawyer?” he asked. “My God, do you have any idea what that’s worth?”

  Shelia, who hadn’t uttered a word during the debate, suddenly nudged Craig in the leg and told him to shut up. “Look who’s the idiot now. Why don’t you tell everyone where we live while you’re at it, so they can come and rob us tonight?”

  “What? Who would steal that old thing? Didn’t he just tell you we don’t have the right copy anyway? And I don’t need no woman telling me I’m a frigging idiot.” He didn’t wait for her to answer and stormed out without her, slamming the door so hard it shook the glass walls at the front of the store. Shelia followed on his heels. She reminded me of Fred when I yelled at him for doing something bad. I’m sure if she had a tail, it would be between her legs.

  “Miss? Wait up. I need to talk to you.” Those who were watching Shelia turned to see the old lady jump out of her chair and run after her; we had no problem hearing her this time.

  Shelia looked annoyed, but slowed down long enough for the old lady to catch up. “Do I know you?”

  They had everyone’s attention, including the author. “I may have one of those pirate copies, if you’re interested. Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  Fred yelped when Bonnie jumped out of her seat and stepped on his foot. “I need to tell Patty your copy isn’t for sale, Jake, before she sells it to them.”

  “You know her, too?” I asked, running after Bonnie with Fred at my heels. He wasn’t limping, so I doubt if he was hurt, since she couldn’t weigh a hundred pounds, and that’s when she carried her ten-pound purse. She probably scared him more than anything. I caught her before she got to the door.

  “Is that why you brought me here? To sell the copy of Tom Sawyer Julie gave me?” I asked before noticing we were now the center of attention. I turned to the audience and uttered a lame apology before leading Bonnie and Fred outside.

  Shelia and Patty were in the midst of a heated conversation while standing next to a beat-up Camry not much newer than my Jeep. I could have been wrong about them arguing, but they were both waving their arms in the air like a couple of prize fighters. Craig had already started the car and was revving the engine. We couldn’t hear the argument over his noisy muffler.

  “Damn it,” Bonnie said. Her posture spelled defeat. “I can’t tell her now, not with Shelia there.”

  I felt bad for raising my voice, but didn’t have time to say so before Shelia got in the car. We all watched as Craig raced out of the parking lot in a cloud of blue smoke.

  Patty turned and came back toward us, smiling. She could easily pass for Bonnie’s sister if I didn’t know better. They each stood about five-two, had the same cloudy-blue eyes and didn’t bother to dye their gray hair.

  Bonnie bent down to Fred’s level and held his head between her hands. “I’m sorry, Freddie. Did Aunt Bonnie hurt you?” Before he could bark his answer, she
looked up at me. “I should have asked first. I thought you’d be happy to get the money for your book.”

  “Is this Fred the Wonder Dog?” Patty asked when she joined us.

  Fred beamed and offered his paw.

  “See, I told you, Patty. I swear he’s human sometimes,” Bonnie remarked.

  Then turning to me, “Jake, I’d like you to meet an old friend. Patty, this is Jake.”

  Patty extended a frail hand. “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you.”

  I didn’t know how to answer. The first thing that came to mind was to say Bonnie must be smoking something other than cigarettes, but I held my tongue. Luckily, Bonnie broke the awkward silence before I put my foot in my mouth.

  “I hope your friend doesn’t think we were rude running out on his reading, but I had to tell you Jake’s book isn’t for sale.”

  Patty sighed before answering. “Why don’t you tell Paul yourself when he drives me home, Bonnie? I’m sure he won’t mind dropping you off first.”

  Bonnie looked confused. “Paul? Oh, the author.”

  Her blank expression turned ecstatic, looking at me like a teenager who was just invited to the prom. “Do you mind, Jake?”

  I couldn’t speak for Fred, but after the day I had, I didn’t mind at all. We said our good-byes and headed for home.

  ***

  I had completely forgotten about the incident at the lake until the next day when Fred and I made our way to Bonnie’s for coffee before going on our walk, or in Fred’s case, his swim. Bonnie lived just below us in a house built back in the seventies that resembled the structures covering old mines; she called it her mine shaft. Whatever architectural style one wanted to pin on it, it was huge compared to my little cabin and sometimes a little too close.

  She put the television on mute after letting us in the back door. I helped myself to coffee while Fred went over to his bowl that Bonnie kept by her refrigerator.

  “You came home late,” I said as I took my usual chair at her kitchen table. I knew this because her television was off all night. I never watch much television, mainly because I don’t own one, but Bonnie does. She has it blasting nearly twenty-four-seven, and I never miss an episode of Doctor Oz or Ellen when her windows are open.

  She removed a spoon from her cup and looked up. Her eyes showed bewilderment. “What makes you say that, Jake?”

  “Your TV wasn’t on.”

  She frowned and went back to stirring her coffee. “Well, if you must know, that nice author took us to the Wildflower for coffee, then we all went next door to the Little Bear for a few drinks before he brought me home.” Her tone suggested I was intruding.

  “Sorry, Bon, just trying to make conversation,” I said before jumping out of my chair to turn the sound back on the television when I saw the jerk from the lake flash by on the screen. The news reporter was saying something about a burglary and a murder. I grabbed for Bonnie’s remote and hit the back button. She had a DVR that allowed her to reverse or pause whatever she had been watching.

  Bonnie stopped stirring her coffee again. I once remarked that if she drank cream instead of coffee, she could turn it into butter. She pointed at the television with her spoon. “Isn’t that’s Shelia’s new boyfriend? What’s he doing on TV?”

  “Shelia’s been murdered,” I answered, realizing Bonnie must have missed the part about Shelia checking out.

  It looked like she was going to drop the spoon. Her face went blank, and she stared at the television before speaking again. “Murdered?”

  “So it seems. Someone stuck her in the neck with a nail file and punctured her carotid artery.”

  The interview must have been live. The reporter, Paula Morgan, was shivering in the cold morning air while interviewing Mr. Jerk, AKA Craig Renfield. He, in turn, couldn’t seem to focus on anything above her neck. “I came home from watching the CU game at a buddy’s house and found the door wide open, and she was laying in the kitchen,” he said without taking his eyes from Paula’s cleavage.

  Paula was too focused on the camera to notice where Craig was looking. “Was it a burglary gone bad?”

  “How would I know?” He seemed annoyed, having his concentration interrupted. “I ain’t no psychic.”

  Paula rolled her eyes for the camera. “Well, is anything missing?”

  “She had a signed copy of Tom Sawyer she found at a garage sale last week I can’t find nowhere. She was looking it up on the Internet to see what it was worth when I left her.”

  “That must be worth thousands?” Paula asked.

  “Yeah, but that’s all smoke. I know who did it, and it wasn’t for no book.”

  Paula’s eyes lit up. “Oh?”

  “It’s those old bitties we saw at a book-signing yesterday. One of them pretended to be some kind of Mark Twain expert, so she could find out where we live.”

  Paula touched the ear-bud that kept her in contact with her producer. “Thank you, Mr. Renfield. I need to switch back to the studio for more breaking news. This has been Paula Morgan reporting for Channel Three News.”

  “Well, at least we know his last name now,” I said, hitting the mute button. Instead of breaking news, they went to a commercial. How putting a man and woman in two separate bathtubs will cure ED I didn’t need to know.

  “Did you hear that, Jake? He’s accusing me and Patty of killing her!”

  Her raised voice woke Fred, who had slept through the television broadcast. He moved closer to the door while I got up for more coffee.

  Bonnie seemed to be preoccupied looking around the room when I refilled her cup. “Have you seen my purse?” she asked.

  “On the counter by the fridge,” I answered.

  She got up and went over to her purse. “We would never hurt anyone. Why would he say it was us?”

  Now Fred wanted out, making me get up again. “Who better to blame than someone with a motive,” I answered while patting my dog on the head before opening the door.

  Bonnie stopped fumbling through her purse and looked up at me in horror. “You think I did it, too?” I thought she was going to cry. Julie once said I should duct tape my mouth before speaking, and this time I had to agree.

  “Of course not, Bon,” I answered, trying to think of something to stop the tears before they started. “It’s obviously that nasty boyfriend of hers. The way he spoke to her, and the bruise she had on her face at the signing, proves he doesn’t think much of women. He probably lost his temper arguing over something, grabbed the file, and then stabbed her with it. Now he’s trying to make it look like you and Patty did it. You’ve got to admit, the nail file was a brilliant touch.”

  “My God, Jake! It’s gone!”

  “What’s gone, Bon?”

  “My manicure kit. I always keep it on top of my purse where I can get to it. It’s not here, Jake. You don’t suppose…”

  I finished for her. “That Craig took it and is framing you? No, he doesn’t strike me as the kind who would plan that far ahead. His kind kills out of rage. I’m sure you misplaced it somewhere.”

  She came back to the table and resumed stirring her coffee. “Well, I hope you’re right. My prints are all over the file.”

  I hoped I was right too. If it her nail file, she would have the means, as well as motive, to kill Shelia. The only thing missing for a conviction was opportunity, and I wasn’t so sure she didn’t have that too.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Shelia’s murder all but vanished from the media’s radar; marijuana sales still trumped local news stories, and Shelia was soon forgotten. Nearly a week had passed since Fred and I stopped at Bonnie’s for morning coffee. A contractor I did odd jobs for had called and offered me a few weeks work hanging drywall in a house he was building in Bailey. As much as I hate drywall, it would pay the bills for a while.

  It wasn’t until Friday that Fred and I saw Bonnie again. The drywall job was finished for the week, and I had been paid in cash. I stopped off at Beau Jo’s for a large Mountain Pie,
with pineapple and pepperoni, after picking up some groceries at Safeway before heading home. It wasn’t my favorite pizza, even Fred wouldn’t eat the pineapple, but I knew Bonnie loved it. We could pick out the sweet fruit and give it to her.

  We had just pulled into my driveway when I saw a truck racing down the road. I didn’t think much of it and let Fred out. We were isolated, but not so that we didn’t get the occasional lost driver now and then. I’d never known Fred to chase cars, so I was quite surprised when he ran after the truck, barking. The truck was much faster than Fred, and left him in a cloud of dust. But Fred was smarter. He left the road and ran down the hill, knowing the truck would have to pass by Bonnie’s on the way out. That’s when I noticed my front door wide open.

  Whoever had been in there must have heard us coming up the road and got out before we pulled in. I put the pizza and groceries on the ground and ran after Fred. I made it to the lower road just in time to see a beat-up F150 come barreling down on him. It was the sleeveless guy from the book signing. He had no intentions of swerving to miss my dog. Luckily, Fred had no intentions of becoming road kill, and he jumped out of the way a second before the truck could run him over. But it wasn’t in his nature to quit so quickly and he took off after the truck again. This time there were no shortcuts; he gave up the chase in less than twenty yards and came back panting to sit by my side.