Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) (17 page)

“
Wow,” I breathed.

“
Are they valuable?” Edna’s voice squeaked.

I glanced at her worried face.
“I don’t know, but they’re beautiful.”

“
Wade got them out of Spence’s desk, was waving them around saying he was going to be rich one day. He’s so full of hot air.” Edna clenched her fists on the table top. “Then he tossed them on a shelf and started wrestling with his football buddies. He was just showing off, and I knew he wouldn’t take care.” Edna traced the edges of a caribou with her finger. “If Spence wanted them, I would have given them back. But he never—”

Ramona pulled a certificate closer and peered at it.
“Spence made regular trips to British Columbia, but he never talked about what he did there. These are old. Would they have been in the family?”

“
I’ll go through Spence’s letters again and see if he mentioned silver mining. Would it be alright if I took these with me?” I asked.

“
Yes, please.” Ramona gathered the certificates and thrust them into my hands. “Take them away.”

Edna
’s pale face suddenly took on a pinched quality. She swallowed and her eyes flicked back and forth from the certificates in my hands to her treasures piled on the table. She jumped to her feet, scooped everything back into the box and slammed the lid on. She pushed it across the table. “Take it all. Please.” Her breath came in shallow bursts. “Please.”

I stood and cradled the box in my arms.
“I’ll keep them safe.”

Edna nodded, the muscles in her neck taut.

I glanced at Ramona. “Thank you.”

Ramona stood and placed a cool hand on my shoulder. Her pale eyes stared straight into mine for a long moment.
“Come again soon.”

Tuppence and I huddled in the chilly pickup cab. For the second time that night, we puttered down a long, dark country road. My mind was numb from adrenaline overload and from the swirling bits and facts I was trying to piece together. The shareholder certificates were old
— old enough that Spence should have known if the mine panned out or not. And his lifestyle hadn’t indicated a secret source of wealth. He’d left everything to Wade in his will. If he’d known he was a rich man, wouldn’t he have told Wade?

Edna
’s report of Wade’s bragging about the shares seemed like a case of immature, hot-shot jock posturing. I didn’t believe he brought me his family’s papers just because he couldn’t be bothered to sort through them himself in search of the mine shares.

I
’d check to make sure, but for now I considered the shareholder certificates pretty pieces of paper at best. They might have historical value to a collector, but I doubted I could walk into the Capilano Silver Mine office, if it even still existed, and redeem anything with them.

CHAPTER
19

The alarm came too soon the next morning. I rolled over and smacked the buzzer off. My entire body ached, and I slowly stretched one limb at a time. I’d slept with my left ankle propped on a pillow, and while it was still twice the size of my right ankle, it did seem improved. No boots for me today — loafers.

I rolled off the mattress and lifted the bed on its strut supports. I
’d tucked Edna’s box in the storage compartment alongside my summer clothes and spare bedding. I retrieved the shareholder certificates, slid them into a padded envelope and stuffed them in my tote bag.

Coffee was in order. I eased down the steps to the kitchen and poked the start button on the coffee maker. Tuppence groaned and stretched on her big pillow bed.

I knelt beside her and felt along her smooth side, kneading her muscles with my fingertips. “You as stiff and sore as I am, old girl?”

She thumped her tail once and rolled over with another groan.

“You want me to massage your other side? What a life you have.” I chuckled and complied. When finished, I sat back on my haunches and sighed. “Well, no dilly-dallying. I need to get to work and figure out what to tell Wade when he returns my call. ‘Oh, by the way — you shot at me yesterday after I saw you doing things that looked suspiciously as though you were preparing to set your cabin on fire.’ Great.” I exhaled. “Let’s hope he’s hundreds of miles away — maybe he went back to being out of the country like he said he was.”

I let Tuppence outside to make her rounds, showered, dressed and scarfed a quick breakfast of sourdough toast and dill Havarti. Armed with an insulated mug of strong brew, I took the RV steps one at a time and lugged my tote bag to the pickup. I slid into the cab, started the engine and turned knobs to get the defroster and heat going. An opaque layer of crystallized ice coated the windshield.

Tiny, dry snowflakes swirled around — as though the clouds had a light case of dandruff. The air was heavy and silent. The birds were holding their collective breath, not sure if this morning was one to rejoice over or not. I pictured them hunkered in nests of all sizes, wings slightly spread and feathers fluffed to trap warmth against their hollow bones. It was not a morning for expending energy on unnecessary activities.

Except me. The ice shaved off in powdery strokes, coating the back of my gloved hand. I freed a windshield wiper then moved around the hood to the passenger side.

Something caught my eye just as I was turning, and I whipped my head back to double check. A spot of daylight — a hole — through the tailgate, low, on the driver’s side.

Really? No way.

I pushed past the side mirror and hurried to the back.

Yes. Straight through.

One of the sandbags was leaking a dirty brown avalanche from a split in the side. I pulled my gloves off and tore open the bag. Sand gushed out, and I sifted through it, feeling for lumps. Sure enough, a few pieces of metal shrapnel — the remains of a bullet. Now I knew why bunkers in old war movies were lined with sandbags. Maybe they still are.

Nothing says
‘redneck’ like a bullet hole in your tailgate. Worse, this bullet hole was proof of my trespassing infraction and sure to prompt questions from anyone who saw it. I wasn’t looking forward to explaining the hole to my insurance agent. If the bullet had hit a few inches higher, I might not be in a condition to have a conversation with my insurance agent.

I wondered how good of a shot Wade was. Is accuracy with a firearm a genetic trait? Was he as good as Spence before the eye injury
— sniper caliber?

Of course, I couldn
’t account for my driving skills at the moment of impact. Most likely, I’d been swerving all over the place. Maybe it was a lucky shot — or unlucky, depending on how you looked at it.

I took a deep breath. Breathing is not to be underestimated.

Why was I shaking now? The close call was twelve hours ago.

Removing a tailgate is like hefting an eighty-pound disgruntled sheepdog in your arms while also giving him a trim and a shave. Pins and brackets hang up, stick, wedge where they aren
’t supposed to, and the whole time it gets heavier and heavier.

Panting, I finally slid the tailgate to the ground under the fifth-wheel
’s overhang and covered it with a tarp. I flopped another couple sandbags on top to keep the tailgate wrapped and out of sight.

I pocketed the bullet fragments and swept out the loose sand. I wondered how many bullets Delores and Yonder had found on their metal-detecting forays. Probably not any in a pickup bed.

I blew on my hands then pulled my gloves back on. Just a regular day. I needed to act like this was just a regular day. Not think about what might have been. I’d end up hiding under my bed with Edna’s treasures if I let my mind wander.

oOo

The museum was all mine for a couple hours. In deference to my ankle, I took the elevator. Leaning against the wood paneling, I closed my eyes and listened to the winch hum quietly while the wall vibrated against my back.

I should call Pete. Not yet
— it was a little too early. No doubt he was working — he worked all hours on the tug, but I didn’t want to interrupt him if he was linking up or navigating a tricky spot. He was probably dodging amateur sport fishermen anchored in the middle of the shipping lanes.

Besides, what was Pete going to think of the hole in my tailgate? That
’s the problem with significant others — they’re offended if you don’t tell them you’re embroiled in a stupid mess of your own making, and they become irritated and worried if you do tell them. Maybe I’d take to hanging out with Amos — he understood. I chuckled and pushed off the wall as the third floor bell chimed.

I settled into my chair, gulped a slug of caffeine and pulled out a pile of Spence
’s correspondence. I skimmed for the obvious terms — silver, mine, British Columbia, shares, Capilano.

I was two-thirds of the way through the stack before I found what might have been a brief reference.
Hiked C’s Foxtrot claim. Nothing worthwhile underground, but they should charge admission to what’s on top — spectacular, breathtaking. I could live here, build a lean-to and become a mountain hermit.

Two letters later, I found another mention.
Wish Theo was here. If he knew how beautiful this place is, he never would have put the shares in the pot when he ran out of cash. We were young and foolish. He thought they were probably worthless and was right, but he would have liked to see this place. I hope his Heaven is as good as this.

It sounded as though Spence had won the shares in a poker game from a friend, a friend who had later died. Given Spence
’s era, I imagined a lot of his friends had died. Young and foolish — didn’t know what they were gambling away. But Spence clearly thought at the time that the mine company was a bust.

Just about all initial mining is speculation. Mining companies, or people hoping to form mining companies, stake claims before they do the necessary testing because it
’s not worth investing all that time and money to have the land then claimed by someone else if it’s proved productive. So there are all kinds of claims for all kinds of metals and minerals that were never more than pipe dreams. Hence the term ‘prospecting’ — just ask Mark Twain.

I opened my laptop. Maybe I could track the history of the Capilano Silver Mine Company.

There is a Capilano Suspension Bridge Park — a tourist attraction that capitalizes on amazing forested canyon scenery. While the pictures looked similar to what Spence described, I didn’t think it was the right area. Capilano is fairly common as a street name and neighborhood designation in British Columbia.

I turned my attention to mine company buyouts. After sifting through pages and pages of search results, I hit paydirt
— a timeline of acquisitions by Rakker Mining & Mineral Exploration Company. They absorbed the considerable debt and negligible assets of Capilano Silver Mine Company in 1962, over a century after the shares were issued.

Spence must have known about the merger and found a way to identify the location of the original Capilano claims. Despite his dream to become a hermit, he seemed driven by a sense of wanderlust, a romantic notion about pioneering and prospecting, exploring backwoods country for himself. I wished I
’d known him. He must have had great stories.

On a lark, I dialed the phone number from Rakker
’s website. After punching a series of voice mail selections, I finally got a live operator. “Can I talk to someone in your shareholder relations department?”

“
One moment.”

A young male voice answered.
“Jace Conroy. PR and media. How can I help you?”

“
I’m Meredith Morehouse, curator of the Imogene Museum. I’ve come across a few old shareholder certificates from the Capilano Silver Mine Company. I just wanted to check on their history and find out if they’re of any interest to you.”

“
Capilano? Never heard of it.”

“
Rakker acquired Capilano in 1962.”

“
Dude. That
is
old.”

I smothered a chuckle.
“How old are you?”

“
Right. That probably wasn’t very professional. This is my second day interning and first day on the phones, and I can’t find—” His voice trailed off and shuffling thumps sounded over the line. “Aren’t they supposed to provide paper or something to take messages on?”

“
How about a computer? Do you have one of those on your desk?”

“
Uh, yeah.”

I took a chance.
“Can you give me the email address for the person who deals with your largest shareholders?”

“
That’s Mr. Jacobsen. He’s never in the office.”

“
Which is why I need his email address.”

“
Right.” I heard Jace’s mouse clicking furiously. “Right. Okay. You ready?”

“
Yep.” I copied down the address. “Thanks so much, Jace. Hang in there.” I hung up and giggled. Poor kid. You gotta love interns. I’d probably just obtained the fiercely protected contact information for Rakker’s executive shareholder liaison, the one who didn’t want to — and because of seniority, didn’t have to — deal with lightweights like me. But history’s important, right?

I scanned the shareholder certificates into my computer and attached the images to my note to Mr. Jacobsen. I hit send and crossed my fingers. Wait and see.