Mesozoic Murder (19 page)

Chapter 24

Ansel arrived in Butte by three. Born from a bonanza silver camp, the industrialized city sprawls across the “Richest Hill on Earth,” which yielded treasure-trove quantities of copper, silver, and by-product gold and metals from one thousand acres of mines.

As she passed steel architectures, lighted tennis courts, flower gardens, picnic grounds, swimming pools, and a landscaped baseball diamond, she wondered what Old West desperados would think of the changes. The Plummer gang, who ran amok through early mining towns until vigilantes hanged them, probably wouldn't believe their eyes.

And what would Chief Joseph think had he lived to see the World Museum of Mining, the Cooper King Mansion, Berkley Pit, and the ninety-foot-high statue of Our Lady of the Rockies set atop the continental Divide?

Ansel parked the truck beside the huge aluminum-sided warehouse called Rockheads, Incorporated. A gigantic, phallic-looking logo shaped as a rose quartz crystal with googly eyes and a sappy grin was emblazoned across the panels. She chuckled. Seeing that tacky cartoon figure made the long trip worthwhile in spite of her hangover.

A surprised gasp escaped Ansel's throat when she walked through the door. Rockheads bulged from seam to seam with towering metal shelves, glass cases, and a maze of narrow rows packed with wooden bins offering a myriad of high-quality gems, minerals, rare metals, lapidary supplies, and jewelry.

Ansel felt like a kid in a candy store. She pulled off her sunglasses. On one immense shelving unit she spied rows and rows of upright rock slabs displayed on metal stands. The fossils exposed on their surfaces resembled finely drawn etchings rather than prehistoric flora and fauna trapped between silt and dirt during the processes of decay. She experienced the same sense of wonder she'd felt when her mother gave her the blue copper-carbonate sea urchin.

Once these mineralized copies of creatures and plants had existed as organic matter. They grew and reproduced. Lived and died. The miraculous process of fragile life preserved as timeless imagery never failed to humble her. Touching a fossil meant touching the past. If such wondrous artifacts could be reduced to collectibles, she reasoned, they were art by God.

Ansel reached a long, glass case where an obese man wearing navy twill coveralls finished ringing up a girl's purchase of a six-inch slab of malachite. She waited patiently, staring into the display below her with pure lust. A breathtaking selection of luminescent minerals resting on black velvet cloth vied for her attention. Beneath small ultraviolet lamps, rock chunks of all sizes fluoresced with fiery blue, red, orange, green, and yellow hues.

The man gave a hearty farewell to the teenager, then grinned at Ansel with bright, white teeth. “I'm Gunther Osgoode,” he said with a good-old-boy twang. “What can I do for you?”

“My name's Ansel Phoenix. I'm acting on behalf of Mrs. Nicholas Capos. I've come to discuss a fossil collection belonging to her deceased husband. You called her the other day.”

Osgoode scratched a stubbled, doughy cheek and eyed her suspiciously. “Deceased?”

Judging from Osgoode's distrustful appraisal, Ansel wondered whether it was her formal black apparel or her mixed-blood heritage that had the shopkeeper buffaloed. Maybe both.

“Yes. I'm a close friend of the family.”

“How'd he die?”

“An unexpected tragedy.”

“Man, that's terrible. I'm sorry to hear that.”

Ansel gave him a deprecating smile. “Thank you. If you want to verify I'm representing Mrs. Capos, I have her number in my purse.”

Osgoode shook his head, the wattles beneath his chin shaking. “Naw, that's not necessary. I sold his fossil collection.”

“He placed the collection up for sale here?”

“Oh, yeah. Put the whole kit-n-caboodle in the store over a year ago. Fantastic stuff. His fossils and tools were top quality. Never saw such great petrified woods and fossil seed pods. Books and magazines went, too.” Osgoode squinted at her. “You saying Nick's wife didn't know about it?”

“No. She didn't. Do you know why Nick sold it?”

Osgoode shrugged and skin jiggled beneath his ballooning coveralls. “For money.” He grinned. “I pulled in over thirty grand for him with quick sales, minus my commission, of course.”

“Are there any items left?”

“Just a used orange pick hammer back in aisle seven.”

Sadness coursed through Ansel as she listened to Osgoode speaking about Nick's beloved artifacts, tools, and reading materials as articles of barter. He stared at her with beady gray eyes cushioned within folds of baby-pink flesh.

“Can you get the check, please?” Ansel asked, hoping to move things along.

“Sure.”

Osgoode waddled from the counter on trunk-like legs and disappeared through a curtained opening. Ansel searched for aisle seven. She found it toward the rear of the store. On her left, large rock cutting and spool polishing machines occupied floor space. The other side of the aisle held a pegboard wall which contained new and used tools organized in neat, well-labeled rows.

Various brands of picks, chisel hammers, and gad pry bars hung on metal clips. Ansel didn't look long before locating Nick's Estwing rock hammer. The fluorescent orange paint made it impossible to miss.

Ansel pulled the hammer down. She read the white tag hanging from the twenty-two-ounce head, immediately recognizing Nick's writing. The leather grip was sweat-stained and the neon paint sprayed on the neck and head looked atrocious. He had listed a ten-dollar sale price.

She knew Nick had painted the tool so he wouldn't leave it on an outcrop where dull colors of rock and dirt could camouflage it. She ran a finger across the cold, smooth surface of the strike edge. Ansel remembered kidding Nick about the orange monstrosity during a fossil-hunting trip. He had proclaimed that as long as he had the hammer in his hands, he'd never get shot by hunters. Something much worse had happened to him.

A loud, metallic sound startled Ansel from her reverie. What in the world was that? She looked left, then right. A person at the end of the aisle jetted across the opening. She caught only a split-second glimpse: bright red and green shirt, dark pants. Male or female she didn't know, but the movement was furtive. Was someone watching her?

Ansel paced to the aisle opening, clutching Nick's hammer in her right hand. Determined to locate the person skittering past, she turned right. She passed several deserted aisles. A few customers in rows much farther away caught her attention, but none wore the shirt she'd seen.

Ansel went toward the front. Maybe the mysterious patron had moved in that direction. She rounded a corner and almost ran head first into Osgoode's elephantine chest.

“Been looking for you. Here's the check.” A blue paper flapped in his sausage fingers.

“Thank you, Mr. Osgoode. I'm sure Mrs. Capos appreciates all you've done.” Ansel took the check, looking over Osgoode's shoulder. “Have you seen anyone with a red shirt?”

Osgoode's face turned quizzical. “Hmm. Haven't paid any attention, ma'am. Tell the widow I'll be glad to sell any other fossils or minerals she doesn't want. Even amber.”

Ansel's head snapped toward Osgoode. “Amber?”

“That's right. I figure if her husband asked where to buy it, he probably did.”

“When did Mr. Capos ask?”

Osgoode shuffled toward the checkout counter, coveralls swishing as he gained momentum. “Last summer.”

Ansel tagged behind step for step. “He bought amber from you?”

“Naw, I didn't have anything but small pieces. He wanted something big.” Osgoode walked behind the register and hefted himself onto a rickety stool. “I sent him to the board.”

“What board?”

“Bulletin board. Outside.” Ansel bolted away. “Ma'am, you gonna buy that hammer?”

She stopped short. She'd forgotten about it. Ansel set the tool on the counter. “Yes,” she said, hurriedly digging in her handbag for a twenty-dollar bill.

“Can't get a better pick. Too bad it looks like a Halloween toy. This for you?”

“Uh huh.” Ansel passed him the money.

Osgoode made change and dropped the tool into a bag. “You're a rockhound?”

“Uh huh.” She grabbed the sack. “I'll see you. Thanks.”

“Thank you, ma'am. Come again, you hear?”

The sunlight outside was brutal. Ansel winced, scrabbled through her purse, and pushed on her sunglasses as if her life depended on it. A twenty-four by thirty-six cork bulletin board hung next to the entrance beneath a home-built wooden overhang. Multicolored push-pins speared through thick stacks of accumulated personal advertisements.

As Ansel set the purse and hammer on the concrete walkway, she hoped any amber ads posted had remained on the board. A year was a long time, but even a current sales notice could lead her to someone who knew another person selling amber. Word of mouth worked wonders in mineral and fossil collecting circles.

“Help me, Nick,” Ansel muttered, as she pawed through curling notepaper messages, faded photos, yellowing three-by-five cards, and stained business cards for several minutes. When her fingers lifted a flier offering Web site construction services, she found a piece of aged notebook paper offering amber for sale. She hooted with joy.

A man named Pete Becker had sold Baltic amber. There was a Helena address. No phone. She found no other ads. Could this be one Nick had responded to?

Ansel looked nervously over her shoulder toward the Rockheads entrance. Nobody wearing a red shirt had exited. She picked up her purse and hammer, then headed quickly to her truck. Along the way she inspected the few cars in the parking lot to see if she recognized any of them. Nothing. Well, she could reach Helena in less than an hour if she cruised north on Interstate Highway 15.

And she'd make sure nobody followed her.

Chapter 25

Pete Becker lived in a two-story, gray stone house sitting on a rolling, two-acre lot. Surrounded by immense oak trees, the home's dark rock profile melded perfectly into the late afternoon shadows cast by foliage.

Ansel drove around the block twice. As far as she could tell, nobody had tailed her. Her suspicions about being watched in the lapidary aisle bothered her, but the loaded gun in her purse made her feel safer. She reached for the tactile comfort of her Iniskim and a wave of sadness crashed over her.

She liked the state capital area, and it brought back fond memories of a trip she and her mother had made when she was eight years old. Mary took her sight-seeing and told her the history of Helen Piotopowaka Clarke, the daughter of a Blackfoot princess born in 1848.

Her mother told her how Helen had started her career as a classical actress of great acclaim in Europe, then returned to Helena to become a schoolteacher. She eventually became the first woman elected to county office as the superintendent of schools. Later Helen had worked in Indian affairs as an interpreter and mediator for several Blackfoot tribes. During that visit, Mary had made it very clear that if Helen Clarke rose above negative circumstances in her life, Ansel could, too.

“Never give up your dreams, Sarcee,” her mother said. “There is freedom in dreams that gives you power. A man dreams of fitting the landscape. A woman dreams of being the landscape. Your dreams make you a force of nature to be reckoned with.”

Fortified by those words, Ansel parked on the river stone drive behind a black and white Bronco. As she exited, she heard a dog barking inside the residence. The animal's powerful voice contained a deep intonation of alarm.

She went up a serpentine, natural stone walk surrounded by blooming beds of forget-me-nots and pushed the doorbell. Westminster chimes reverberated and the door opened instantly. She looked down at a short, wizened old man with gossamer wisps of white hair combed across his head. His emaciated body was swathed in a blue jogging suit. The man glanced at Ansel and swatted at something behind him.

“No,” he yelled. “I will get the muzzle. Do you want Papa to do that?” He twisted toward Ansel. “How do you do?”

“Hello. Are you Pete Becker?”

“Yes, I am.”

A massive black nose poked out beside Becker's left elbow and a snuffled spray of mucus flew in all directions. Ansel took a step backward to protect her skirt and blouse. Did dog snot wash out of black cotton-polyester?

“My name is Ansel Phoenix. I got your address from a bulletin board at Rockheads in Butte. You advertised Baltic amber for sale.”

Becker's vibrant, sapphire eyes dulled. “Did I advertise amber? Oh, I remember. Those pink pills the doctor gives me. They thin my blood and my brain cells. I put the ad up a long time ago. Come in, pretty lady. Make yourself at home.” He stepped back and swung the door wider. “Doppelbock loves visitors.”

Becker's living companion was a one hundred and seventy pound Harlequin Great Dane. Becker held Doppelbock's thick, leather collar, allowing the friendly black and white Dane to greet Ansel from a distance. The dog sniffed energetically with a tennis ball-sized nose, licked her hand with eight inches of red tongue, and slashed his tail back and forth like a bullwhip. Despite his enormous size, Doppelbock had a gentle spirit.

Becker smiled. “He likes you.”

“He's beautiful. How old is he?”

“Three years. I bred Danes for protecting livestock. They are good ranch dogs.”

“I didn't know that. My father owns an Angus ranch.”

“Yes. Danes are very dependable and courageous,” Becker said, patting Doppelbock's massive head. “Enough, Dop. You will drive our guest away. Back to the bedroom.” Using his bony hip as leverage, he pushed the Dane's forequarters toward the foyer.

“Papa says,” he coaxed, pointing a finger down the hallway. The Dane's eyes, one gold and one blue, stared right through Ansel. At last, the dog pranced down the hallway on saucer-sized feet and disappeared around a right-hand corner.

“Come sit down in the living room. You are thirsty?”

“No thank you. I wanted to discuss your amber, Mr. Becker.”

“All right.”

Becker's living room resembled a spread from
Architectural Digest
. Aside from the cream-colored walls and tongue-and-groove wood flooring, all the interior woodwork was made of light bird's-eye maple. The furniture's rounded, cherry edges and marble accents gave the home a formal feel. A large contemporary gas fireplace set into a slate fascia took up an entire wall.

Ansel took a seat on a wingback chair placed next to a picture window overlooking the backyard. It was lovely with its bright green grass and a huge rock garden. Koi flitted through the blue-green water in a garden pond with flowering lily pads and bronzed waterbird statuary.

Next to her chair she noticed a round table with fly-tying equipment. An unfinished lure still in the vise was being constructed with thread and brown feathers. Becker was a seasoned trout or bass fisherman, too.

He sat on a Queen Anne-style sofa. “Now we will talk about my amber. You want to buy some?”

“I must be honest, Mr. Becker. I haven't come to buy it. I've come to ask about a friend who might have purchased some last year. Nick Capos.”

“Yes, Mr. Capos bought my amber. Why do you ask?”

“Nick was a good friend of mine. He was murdered. I suspect he was involved in a research project that got him killed. I'm trying to find out what it was. My legwork led me to you.”

“Murder? Shouldn't the police ask me these questions?”

“The police are investigating other leads. Quite frankly, this theory isn't considered a top priority. Before his death, he sold a life-long collection of valuable fossils and began collecting and studying amber. I want to know why.”

“I sold him one large piece of amber which I will tell you about.”

Ansel sighed with relief. “Thank you. That would be very helpful.”

“I inherited several pieces of amber from my father. He was an amber gatherer in Germany, like his father and grandfather before him. Always the Beckers of Palmnicken collected the mineral from the amber mines.

“My amber comes from the Blue-Earth mines. These gray-green clay sediments are from the ancient German lagoons. My father dug into the amber pits only thirty feet from the ocean and forty feet beneath sea level. Water was pumped out of the shafts so they could go into the mines and break apart Blue-Earth clods. Amber was tossed into a bucket of water, while leftover dirt was hoisted three levels onto a raised platform reached only by narrow ladders. At the top it was loaded into electric rail cars and taken away.”

Becker took a deep breath and continued. “The pits grew deeper and wider, the mines constantly moving along the coastline as the big companies searched for new amber deposits. Later, big commercial operations made the skills of my ancestors obsolete. Now amber is exposed by diesel shovels with moving buckets, deposited on conveyors, and washed and sorted on sluices.”

“When did Nick come to see you?”

“Let me think. I placed the ad on the board last June. I believe he came in July or August.”

“Can I see some of the amber you were selling?”

Becker nodded. “Certainly. We must go to the garage.”

Becker led her through an archway near the fireplace and down a wide hall. Ansel passed a kitchen filled with marble-top counters, glass-fronted cabinetry, Mission-style fixtures, and stainless steel appliances. They went through a maple door which led to a covered outdoor foot path, then directly into the detached garage.

The garage was converted into a woodworking shop filled with carpentry tools. Large lumber and sawdust piles hugged the walls. The smells of pine, cedar, cherry, and mahogany infused the air. The remainder of the room stored a cache of Becker's handmade furniture and whimsical wood sculptures of people and animals carved from logs.

Becker went to a corner and pulled out a grapefruit crate. “These are the pieces I showed Mr. Capos. There are only two left.” He took out a chamois-covered object and unwrapped it. A four-inch-long lump fell into his knobby fingers. Ansel peered at the amber chunk, a bumpy, pear-shaped blob of stone-like material. The surface looked like rough, brown-black tree bark.

“It doesn't even look like amber,” she said in amazement.

“This is pit amber,” Becker replied, passing the resin to her. “Amber looks this way when it comes from the Blue-Earth mines. Sea stone, or amber floating in the ocean, has already lost this outer crust and appears more polished. After this wrinkled layer is removed, you can tell the true quality of the resin. My samples are from the East Sea shores. My father said these were top grade, as golden as burnt honey.”

Ansel's heart skipped a beat. Freddy's message from the spirits was, “Burnt honey keeps the bees warm.”

“Could this amber have inclusions, Mr. Becker?”

“Yes. My father said he would sometimes find insects inside.”

“Did he ever mention any larger fossil specimens?”

Becker shook his gnome-like head. “Not that I remember.”

“Why was Nick buying the piece?”

“He only said that he wanted a large sample of fine amber. He mentioned nothing about inclusions. I told him if he wasn't happy with the quality to bring it back, and I would refund his money.”

Ansel fondled the amber nodule. It fascinated her. The mineral was warm in her hand and extraordinarily light. “How big was the piece Nick bought?”

“He bought my largest piece. About two hundred and fifty millimeters in size.”

“It looked like this?”

Becker nodded vigorously. “Just twice as big.”

“How much did he pay?”

“Fifteen hundred dollars. A very good price for old Baltic amber.”

It was a lot of money, Ansel ruminated, but if Nick was selling his collection and milking money from Leslie Maze, he could easily afford it. The question was: what did he want the amber for? She handed the chunk back.

“How did your father get these pieces?”

Becker wrapped the amber in its covering and replaced it inside the crate. “He stole them. Very slowly and very carefully over a period of years,” Becker said bluntly. He stood. “He knew that the new commercial machines would leave him jobless and penniless so he took them and sold them to the jewelry makers. He wanted the money to leave Germany.”

Ansel understood such desperate measures. Her reservation relatives knew the fear of hunger and homelessness every day of their lives, even if she didn't. “He planned ahead. He was a good father and husband.”

“Yes. He was afraid for our future, and he took a great risk. Avoiding capture by the mine overseers who watched constantly for pilfering was a dangerous game. Workers were kept moving through the pits every minute and thoroughly searched when they left at the end of the day. Not even my mother knew how my father got them out of the mines, but he sold enough pieces to get our boat tickets to America. This is the last amber from my homeland. If no one buys them, I will leave them to my spoiled grandchildren.”

They returned to the living room. “Thank you, Mr. Becker.”

“It was my pleasure. I will give you one of my cards,” he said, walking over to the fly-making table and opening a drawer. He pulled out a white card. “Come to visit anytime. Dop would love to see you again.”

She dropped his card into her purse and handed him a Phoenix Studios card. “Just in case you think of anything you need to tell me.”

Becker's smile was warm and wide. “Yes, thank you. I will show you out.”

Moments later Ansel waved a final good-bye to the kindly old man before the heavy maple door closed. She hurried down the stone walkway just as a squirrel among the trees gave a startled cry and scuttled up a trunk.

Ansel turned toward the animal. An immense shadow moved in the corner of her left eye. Before she could turn, a cold metal object was jammed under her left breast and angled upward toward her heart. A face pressed against her head, familiar rough lips brushing her left ear.

“Keep walking and don't scream,” ordered the cowboy. “We're going for a ride.”