Shallow grave, p.1
Shallow Grave, page 1
“I’ve never had a day like this,” she said. “Best of times and worst of times.”
“Yeah? What was the best?” In his mind, he replayed their kiss by Teacup Lake.
“The autopsy, of course.”
He should have guessed. “And the worst?”
“Being scared by the big bad Wolff.”
He appreciated her sense of humor but knew she used jokes to deflect her real feelings. This woman didn’t like being vulnerable. “I’m sorry that happened to you. If I’d been with you, Wolff never would have come close.”
“True. You’re definitely an alpha male.”
“Can we be serious for a minute? I’d feel better if I could—with your permission—keep an eye on you.”
“Like a bodyguard?”
Exactly like a bodyguard.
Shallow Grave
USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Cassie Miles
Cassie Miles, a USA TODAY bestselling author, lived in Colorado for many years and has now moved to Oregon. Her home is an hour from the rugged Pacific Ocean and an hour from the Cascade Mountains—the best of both worlds—not to mention the incredible restaurants in Portland and award-winning wineries in the Willamette Valley. She’s looking forward to exploring the Pacific Northwest and finding mysterious new settings for Harlequin Intrigue romances.
Books by Cassie Miles
Harlequin Intrigue
Mountain Retreat
Colorado Wildfire
Mountain Bodyguard
Mountain Shelter
Mountain Blizzard
Frozen Memories
The Girl Who Wouldn’t Stay Dead
The Girl Who Couldn’t Forget
The Final Secret
Witness on the Run
Cold Case Colorado
Find Me
Gaslighted in Colorado
Escape from Ice Mountain
Shallow Grave
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Daisy Brighton—While the high school anatomy teacher from Denver researches hidden outlaw treasure in mountain graveyards, she discovers evidence of a serial killer.
A. P. Carter—A National Park Service (NPS) ranger and investigator, he tracks down the killer using his knowledge and love of the mountains.
Violet Rhodes (Aunt Vi)—Daisy’s vivacious sixty-eight-year-old aunt, who lives in Leadville.
The Good Guys—FBI agents Pat Wiley and Mickey Hicks, medical examiner Dr. Julia Sweetwater, and NPS director Joaquin Stanley.
Suspects—Jackknife Jones, Slade Franklin, and Eric and Gerald Wolff.
Victims—Rene Williams, Andrea Lindstrom, Hannah Guerrero and Eileen Findlay.
To my New York family: Signe, Aaron and Finn. Can’t wait to see you all. And, as always, to Rick.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Excerpt from Spurred to Justice by Delores Fossen
Chapter One
“Are we lost?”
“Not hardly.” Jackknife Jones stuck his head out the window of his ramshackle truck and spat tobacco juice onto the two-lane gravel road. “Don’t you worry your purty little head. I’ll get you where you’re going.”
Daisy Brighton turned her head—which really wasn’t all that purty or little—away from the grizzled old man behind the steering wheel and stared impatiently through the filthy windshield. Over an hour and a half ago when they’d left her aunt Violet Rhodes’s house in Leadville, sunset had painted the skies above the Saguache Range in shades of magenta streaked by golden clouds and framed by blue spires of ponderosa pine and spruce. A snowy-white cloak draped over Mount Elbert, even though it was mid-June.
She’d expected to reach the cemetery before nightfall. No such luck. Obviously, Jackknife had no idea where he was going. Jostling on unpaved roads, the truck meandered and doubled back and circled around. Dusk had settled. Daisy was furious.
The headlight beam splashed across a boulder where someone had scrawled a heart and initials: RAH + KB. She scowled. “Mr. Jones, I’m sure we already passed that graffiti.”
“Like I told you, call me Jackknife.” He cackled. “Don’t let my name scare you.”
It took more than a jackknife to frighten Daisy. For the past seven years, she’d taught high school biology in Denver, and a classroom full of teenagers was enough to strike terror into just about anybody, especially when she handed out scalpels for frog dissections.
Jackknife swerved the truck into an almost invisible right turn, and they continued to weave through San Isabel National Park and private property that was fenced off with barbed wire. They hadn’t passed a town for miles.
She looked down at her cell phone. No bars. The GPS had quit working. No maps available. “You said the cemetery is near Butcher’s Gulch, correct?”
“It’s called a boot hill, sweet thang. Criminals and poor folks got buried there. Being left in a boot hill usually meant a violent death. These souls got kilt so fast they died with their boots on.”
His description seemed apt for what she’d discovered from research into her ancestors—a motley collection of scoundrels, cheats, gunslingers and bandits. Her project over the summer break was to track down the final resting place for Sherwood Brighton, an outlaw who died in 1896. Her aunt believed her great-great-great-grandfather’s grave would lead to the hiding place of his ill-gotten gains and had recruited Daisy to search. Already, she’d visited eight cemeteries.
“Just to be clear,” she said. “You told Aunt Vi that you saw a grave marker in this boot hill cemetery with the name Brighton on it.”
“You betcha.” He tucked a fresh chaw of tobacco into his cheek. Disgusting habit. “Lemme ask you something about your auntie. Is she seeing anybody?”
“You mean dating?”
“I sure as heck do. Vi is a fine-looking woman.”
Daisy wouldn’t argue with that. Her aunt was tall and maintained her slim figure with daily exercise at the Leadville Yoga Center. The sun-streaked blond of her chin-length bob was dyed to match the color of Daisy’s ponytail, and they both had green eyes. Vi was definitely stylish. Also, she was sixty-eight years old. Not that her age meant she couldn’t have a boyfriend or two. But Daisy couldn’t help feeling a twinge of irritation when she realized that Jackknife wanted her to play matchmaker. When was the last time a man had shown interest in Daisy? Here she sat on a Saturday night—date night—in a junky truck with a creep who’d offered to show her a cemetery.
“Violet doesn’t have a steady guy,” she muttered.
“Mebbe you could put in a good word for me.”
Not going to happen. Her lips pinched together, holding back the obvious truth. No way would classy Vi go out with Jackknife unless he made some changes, starting with giving up tobacco. Also, he needed to shave the patchy whiskers. And it wouldn’t hurt if he changed clothes and took a long, hot bath in industrial-strength disinfectant.
Still, she didn’t want to alienate her ride home. Grudgingly, she said, “Maybe.”
“Your auntie owns her house, right? She oughta have a man around to take care of her.”
“Doesn’t need a bodyguard. She’s got a double-barreled shotgun.”
“Does she have any other property? What about money in the bank?”
She gaped. Was this backwoods gigolo going after Vi for her money? Before she could tell him to back off, Daisy heard the discordant echo of electronic music. In the middle of the forest? The headlights shone on a sign for Butcher’s Gulch Campground. “Finally! We’re here.”
“Nope, not yet,” he said. “The ghost town is a coupla miles more, and then—”
“Stop. Right now.” In a teacher voice that didn’t allow for discussion, she gave the orders. “You’re going to drive into the campground, where I can ask for directions.”
Grumbling, he parked beside the Butcher’s Gulch sign. “You shouldn’t get out of the truck. Ain’t safe.”
“I can handle some kids playing their music too loud.” As if to emphasize her point, the volume lowered. “See. Not dangerous.”
“The boot hill’s haunted,” he said. “And there’s rumors of a man beast in a ski mask who attacks purty young girls like you.”
Not wanting to argue until she got safely back to Leadville, she said nothing but got out of the truck, put on a denim jacket over her red cotton shirt and followed the gravel road that looped through a small campground. The two slots nearest the entrance provided parking for several vehicles, ranging from trucks and SUVs to a racy little sports car. She counted four tents and more than a dozen college-age people gathered around two fire pits. Some of them continued to dance to the tamped-down music while others guzzled beer from red plastic cups.
Asking the partygoers for directions seemed like a waste of time. This crew would be lucky to find their way to the outhouse in the middle of the night. She almost pivoted and returned to Jackknife’s truck when she noticed a gunmetal-gray SUV with a National Park Service shield on the door. The tall man who reached for the door handle on the driver’s side didn’t wear the typical flat-brimmed hat, but he had a bison badge pinned to his dark green vest. A park ranger. He was exactly what she needed.
She approached him. “Excuse me.”
The reflected blaze from the campfire flared in his deep-set eyes and outlined the sharp edge of his jawbone, which contrasted with full, well-shaped lips. When he looked at her, he didn’t smile, which was a bit disconcerting. “Can I help you?”
She met his unsmiling gaze with a toothy grin. “I’m looking for the Butcher’s Gulch boot hill.”
“Are you staying in this campground?”
“No.”
“Coming to the party?” He gestured to the young people who barely looked old enough to drink but were carefully behaving within the limits of the law.
She widened her grin, probably causing him to wonder why she was so delighted to be searching for a cemetery. “You see, my ancestor is Sherwood Brighton, and I’m trying to find his grave. I’m Daisy Brighton.”
He touched the brim of his weathered brown cowboy hat as he introduced himself. “I’m A. P. Carter. I go by Carter.”
“Please call me Daisy.” She nodded toward his badge. “You’re a ranger.”
“National Park Service, investigative services branch.” Finally, he smiled. “And you’re the heir to the legendary Brighton’s Bullion.”
“I am.” She nodded, not surprised he’d heard the story of hidden treasure.
A pink-haired woman in skimpy cutoffs and combat boots sashayed toward them. She batted her super-long eyelashes at Carter. “What legend? Please tell me, Mr. Ranger.”
He lived up to Daisy’s expectations of an honorable park ranger when he put distance between himself and Pinkie. Though too young for the ranger and too drunk, she was clearly smitten. And who could blame her? Carter was a good-looking guy with a great smile when he chose to use it. He gave Daisy a nod. “Go ahead, Ms. Brighton, tell the story.”
“My ancestor, Sherwood Brighton, was an outlaw. In 1887, he pulled off a robbery on the Denver–Rio Grande Railroad.” Pinkie had already lost interest and scooted closer to Carter, which annoyed Daisy. Though the NPS ranger might not actually be her Saturday-night date, he could have been. At least, she was age appropriate at twenty-nine. He couldn’t be more than midthirties.
To get Pinkie’s attention, she used a teacher trick, waving a shiny object at the student. “Do you know how much a kilobar of gold bullion is worth?”
“A what?” Pinkie asked.
“Kilobar. It’s a brick, about two pounds of solid gold.”
“How big?” Pinkie held out the hand that wasn’t wrapped around a red plastic cup. “Could I hold it?”
“It’s about the same size as a paperback book. One kilobar is worth about $56,000 at today’s rates. Sherwood Brighton stole fifty of them. He got away, and the bullion was never found.” The math, she suspected, would be beyond Pinkie. “Fifty kilobars at fifty-six thou each. That’s $2.8 million.”
“No way.” Pinkie downed her beer with one glug, straightened her shoulders and motioned to the others. “Hey, we’ve got to look for the kilobars.”
Carter leaned close and said, “Should I give her the bad news or will you?”
“Let me.” Daisy waited until the dancers and drinkers gathered around. “Brighton’s Bullion has been missing since 1887. Hundreds have searched. No one has found it.” Which was why she had no problem telling the story.
“I wish you luck on the search.” Carter stepped forward and addressed the party-goers. “In the meantime, you people need to keep the music low, watch your fires and don’t drive drunk. If I get another complaint about disorderly conduct and have to come here again, tickets will be issued and some of you will be taken into custody.”
When they started to complain, he slashed his hand and cut off their voices. “That’s final.”
“Excuse me,” Daisy said. “Directions to the boot hill?”
He took her arm, escorted her to the passenger side of his vehicle and opened the door. “Might be easier if I take you there.”
She was about to regretfully refuse when she glanced toward the entry sign. The truck was gone. Jackknife had dumped her without transportation in the middle of San Isabel National Park. Though justifiably ticked off, she wouldn’t complain. The old tobacco chewer’s indifference resulted in her riding with Ranger A. P. Carter, which had to be pure serendipity. Cheerfully, she climbed into his SUV.
“Where did you park your vehicle?” he asked.
“At my aunt’s house where I’m staying in Leadville.”
“You’re a long way from home.” His smile dissolved, and he regarded her with the same kind of authoritative hostility that had silenced the pesky campers. “How did you get here?”
“I caught a ride with a friend of my aunt. We got lost, and when I saw the sign for the campground, I wanted to stop and ask for directions. He must have taken off.”
“Not much of a friend. Come with me.”
Carter’s SUV had been kept in tip-top condition, ensuring a smooth ride, a quiet engine and precisely controlled temperature, but she couldn’t relax. Daisy didn’t like his disapproving attitude. She wasn’t a flake and had never been a troublemaker. The opposite, in fact—she was the sort of woman who solved problems and was prepared for crises. Even now, when she might have been helpless and stranded, she’d thought to bring her cell phone and had a wallet with twenty bucks and a credit card in her pocket. It might be too far to get back to Leadville tonight, but she could manage.
When he looked toward her, she studied his face in the glow from the dashboard. His eyes were bright blue, and his hair was black. His smile had disappeared. “You’re not a happy camper.”
“Don’t worry, Ms. Brighton. I’ll make sure you get home in one piece.”
“Call me Daisy.”
“Okay... Daisy. Now, what’s the procedure when we get to the cemetery?”
“I find markers and read names. Some are carved in stone. Others are faded scribbles on weathered wood. Many of the old cemeteries have undergone restoration, which means the graves are neatly outlined with stones and the inscriptions displayed clearly.” The tombstones often left poignant epitaphs, such as “lynched and deserved it” or “trampled in stampede, died too young” or “stabbed by heartless wife.”
“What led you here?” he asked. “What is it about this particular boot hill?”
“The guy who abandoned me said he saw a marker with Brighton written on it. Don’t know if I can believe him, but it’s worth a look.”
Carter tapped the brake and brought the SUV to a near stop before bumping off the road and over the shoulder onto a track through high grasses and sagebrush. After about fifty yards, he parked and announced, “Welcome to Butcher’s Gulch.”
Before she left the SUV, he handed her an extra flashlight from the glove compartment. Outside, she noticed more of a chill in the air and fastened two buttons on her denim jacket. Her imagination cranked into high gear as she approached the ruins of the ghost town. The beam of her flashlight slid up and down a stone fireplace attached to a crumbling stone wall. A window without glass stood above the rickety planks of a porch. The ruins of what might have been a main street formed a line on one side. There was another fireplace. And a broken-down wagon with a busted wheel. A tire swing hung from a low tree branch.
Her gaze lifted, and she looked up at a million diamond-bright stars and a quarter moon. Whatever life energy populated Butcher’s Gulch had scattered on the summer breeze and vanished in the pine-scented mountain air. She didn’t believe in ghosts but felt the presence of memories. Long ago, these tumbledown houses had been filled with laughter and the sounds of children singing. Families had embraced. Lovers had kissed. But there had also been tears and tragedies. A shiver constricted the muscles in her neck. Had there been fear? Were there screams that slashed through the night?
