Murder & The Secret Cave: High Desert Cozy Mystery Read online

  MURDER & THE SECRET CAVE

  By

  Dianne Harman

  (A High Desert Cozy Mystery Series - Book 2)

  Copyright © 2015 Dianne Harman

  www.dianneharman.com

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form without written permission except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Website, Interior & Cover design by Vivek Rajan (Rewire Your DNA)

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1519432834

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To all of you who take the time to read my books, thank you. Without loyal readers like you, I wouldn’t be a writer, and it’s something I’ve come to love! Each and every one of you is very important to me. I always appreciate your emails with their thoughtful comments, praise, and often suggestions for new books.

  I want to thank my husband’s uncle, Bill, who many years ago invited us to his compound outside of Palm Springs, California. There were several artists living in the four houses which surrounded a central courtyard. The memory of that place has stayed with me for over thirty years. I’m so happy I was able to recreate that magical place in my High Desert Cozy Mystery Series.

  There are two people who make me and my books look good, my husband, Tom, and my friend Vivek Rajan. Tom patiently reads each book several times with a sharp eye for inconsistencies which I’ve missed. He’s an idea man and many a twist and turn in a plot has come from his fertile mind. Vivek is responsible for the book covers and the formatting – things which totally escape my technologically challenged mind. He is also a genius at social media marketing. I’ve learned so much from him. Thanks to both of you!

  And I would be remiss if I didn’t thank Kelly, my boxer puppy, for forcing me to take an occasional break from writing to let her out and play with her. I would probably atrophy without her. Thanks, Kelly, and I’m so glad to be able to return our house to some sense of normalcy now that you’re getting far better in your choices of what to chew on!

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  Recipes!

  ABOUT DIANNE

  Prologue

  Randy Jones sat at the old scarred wooden table in his one room shack and looked at the papers the appraiser, Marty Morgan, had left with him stating her fee and the estimate for the length of time it would take her to prepare an appraisal report for his Native American artifacts collection. He sat drinking his usual bourbon and branch water out of a tin cup. Dressed in worn jeans and a worn blue denim shirt, he looked every bit like the desert rat people called him when referring to him. Long unkempt hair, a missing tooth, and a shaggy beard had led to that description.

  The old shack looked as unkempt as its owner with its weather-beaten wood siding and a door that sagged and hung from a broken hinge. The inside was just as unappealing. A single unmade iron bed with sheets that looked like they hadn’t been washed for a long time were covered with a dirty blanket. An old iron stove Randy used for cooking was in the corner of the room. A single lantern was on a table, providing light when the sun set. He felt the cool breeze on his back as it blew through the open door.

  He could tell that the appraiser had been very impressed with the quality of his Native American artifacts, particularly the pieces he’d shown her in his secret cave. He knew that the word Indian wasn’t politically correct nowadays, but privately he always thought of it as his Indian collection.

  Randy told the woman he didn’t want to waste her time and his money finding out about the authenticity or the history of the items. He knew full well all about the artifacts and knew they were for real. He’d said that whoever bought the collection would already know about them as well. The only thing he wanted to know was how much money he could get for the collection. He had a pretty good idea what it was worth, but with the shooting pains in his chest along with the constant hacking cough getting worse, sometimes his mind wasn’t as sharp as it used to be. Having something in writing would give him some bargaining power with the buyer.

  That was the last thought Randy Jones ever had as the tomahawk plunged into the back of his head, killing him instantly. The killer heard a car door slam and quietly slid out the door, leaving Randy Jones dead on the floor with the tomahawk buried in his head. The killer quickly disappeared among the nearby boulders and rocks that surrounded the shack.

  CHAPTER 1

  Randy looked around the cave where he kept his best Indian artifacts – it had been his secret and his alone, but with the news the doctor had given him yesterday, he knew he’d have to share it with someone very soon. He’d found the secret cave years ago and was certain it had been home to Indians who’d lived in the area from the number of arrowheads and other artifacts he’d discovered in it. It was big enough he figured several families had probably occupied it. Over the years he’d brought in tables and a couple of lanterns that took away the eerie, mysterious nature of the cave. He’d gotten used to the cobwebs and figured if anyone ever did stumble into it, they’d be so scared they’d leave immediately. It was the one place that kind of spooked Randy. He knew old desert rats like himself weren’t supposed to believe in spirits and things of that nature, but he was pretty sure there were some spirits in the cave leftover from the Indians.

  He took the pack of unfiltered cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and shook one out, putting it between his lips in the indentation that thousands of others had made over the years. Don’t care what no doctor says, not givin’ these up, even if they did cause the cancer the doc says I got.

  Before he could light his cigarette, Randy started coughing, doubling over in pain. He waited a few moments for the spasm to leave his body, lit the cigarette, and took a swig from the pint whiskey bottle on the table next to him. He took one of the pills the doctor had given him yesterday for pain and washed it down with the whiskey, waiting for it to begin to work its magic. While he waited for the pain to subside, he looked around the cave at his treasures. He kept the best of the best here, out of sight. The second rate stuff was in his shack and the shed behind it. Some people knew about the stuff he kept there, but the only one who had seen what was in the cave was Colin, and he’d only been in it once. He was pretty sure Mary had suspected Randy had a secret cache.

  He thought about what Lucy, the photo department clerk at the drug store had told him about the appraiser, Marty Morgan. Lucy said she was good peo
ple, and since Marty was an appraiser and both of them had Lucy develop their photos, she thought Randy should meet her. Even though Lucy had been suggesting it for several months, he’d always found a reason not to. Now he had a very big reason to meet her – the Grim Reaper.

  Never planned on doin’ nothin’ like this, but since it looks like I’m gonna bite the big one real soon, probably better get somethin’ in writin’, so I can show it to a couple of people who’ll want to buy my stuff, not that the money’s gonna do me much good now. Only relative I got is my boy, and I ain’t seen him since he was two years old. I didn’t want nothin’ to do with him or my wife when they left, and I’d be willin’ to bet he never wanted nothin’ to do with me neither. Guess that’s what happens when yer’ a desert rat, least that’s what my wife said when she took the kid and left for Los Angeles.

  She tol’ me I’d never make nothin’ of myself , and she was leavin’ fer good, and so she did. If she saw this stuff, she’d know jes’ how wrong she was. Since I haven’t seen my son in almost forty years, no reason for me to give him any money I get fer my collection. Don’t know if I’m still married or not, but sure don’t want her to get a cent. She’s the one who left. Would kinda like my son to know jes’ how successful his ol’ desert rat dad was. Maybe I’ll try and find him. Give him a call and tell him now I’m a millionaire, but he and his mother ain’t getting’ none of it. Serve ‘em right, it would. Then again, when I’m dead maybe somebody’ll call ‘em and tell ‘em I had a lot of money, but they ain’t getting’ none of it.

  He crushed his cigarette out and put it in the empty can of pork and beans he used as an ashtray and at the same time expertly pulled another cigarette out of the pack and lit it. I ‘spose that’s why they call these dang things “cancer sticks” cuz when you smoke ‘em back-to-back like I do, ya’ get cancer, he thought as he took a deep drag off the newly lit cigarette.

  I know it’s one of the best collections of Indian things, probably in the world. That gold I found early on sure helped me be able to afford a lot of the black market stuff. Problem is, I can’t sell it legitimately. Probably have to sell it all to Colin. He’s been hot fer me to do it forever.

  Think I’ll live out my last days down in the Caribbean on one of them lil’ tropical islands. Get me some rum and an island mama. I could do with that. Been a long dry spell fer me. Yeah, that’s what I’m gonna do. Have that appraiser write up something ‘bout what this stuff is worth, show it to Colin, that guy who’s so hot to trot, and tell him what I want fer it. As anxious as he is to get his hands on my collection, it should be easy. Course there’s also that hoity-toity doctor I keep runnin’ into at the shows. He’d probably be interested. Maybe I can set up a little biddin’ war between ‘em.

  He put his cigarette in the bean can, left the cave, and like he always did, rolled the rocks in front of the entrance to conceal it from view. Years ago he’d had a couple of large fake boulders made that he could easily roll in front of the entrance, so even if someone was trying to find the cave, which he didn’t think anyone knew about, the rocks would look like all the others on the small rocky ridge. Nothing else indicated the treasures that lay hidden inside.

  CHAPTER 2

  Marty Morgan rolled over and looked at the clock on her nightstand which read 6:15 a.m. She groaned and knew she was through sleeping for the night. Her inner clock was still on Chicago time. She looked down at her big black Labrador retriever, Duke, who was still asleep on his dog bed next to her.

  She’d gotten in late last night after driving from the airport in Ontario, California, to the compound where she lived in High Desert with her sister Laura and two men who had become like family to her. When she opened the gate to the compound she saw Les, the artist her sister had been with for years, and John, the owner of The Red Pony food truck, sitting at the picnic table in the communal courtyard, having a late glass of wine. They told her Duke hadn’t slept the entire five days she’d been gone, although both of them had tried to coax him into their homes which surrounded the courtyard. They said he’d laid next to the gate, looking under it and waiting for her return, his customary place whenever she left the compound. He became ecstatic when he finally saw her. She was amazed that a dog that big, all seventy pounds of him, could twist into curlicues whenever she returned to the compound.

  When she moved to High Desert after her husband told her he was divorcing her and marrying his secretary, one of the first things she’d done was visit the animal shelter in Palm Springs and taken home a little black puppy. Although Duke was a constant source of joy to her, he did have one little issue that at times, drove her nuts. A few months ago he’d developed a new habit. He refused to step out of the compound. No amount of dog treats, bologna, bones, or hamburger meat could entice him to put his feet on the desert sand. There were times when she wanted to take him for a little walk outside the compound, so both of them could communicate with the beauty of the natural desert surroundings, but Duke would have none of it and steadfastly refused to leave the compound.

  John had suggested dog booties. He told her he had a friend with the same problem, and once the dog had booties on her feet, she’d go anywhere. Resigned to looking ridiculous with a seventy pound dog wearing pink booties, the only color they came in according to the Internet site she’d bought them from, she put the booties on Duke. She opened the gate of the compound and for the first time in months, Duke willingly walked beside her. Of course her sister and the two men teased her unmercifully about Duke’s pink booties. Many months ago she’d resigned herself to the fact that someday she would probably see a picture of Duke and her on the front page of the local paper, above the fold, Duke resplendent in his pink booties, which was quite a contrast to his black coat.

  She thought back to the last few days which had been more than interesting. Dick Cosner, her sister Laura’s boss at the insurance company, Alliance Property and Casualty Company, had asked her if she’d be willing to go to Chicago to do an appraisal for one of their wealthy clients. Although the client now lived primarily at his home in Palm Springs, he still maintained a condo in Chicago where he’d lived prior to moving to the desert. Even though he now worked from his desert home, his formal business headquarters was still in Chicago.

  As she recalled, the conversation had gone something like this: “Marty, it’s Dick. We have a very wealthy client who lives in Palm Springs most of the time, but he also owns a condominium in Chicago. He’s an idiot savant and has one of the finest private Tiffany glass collections in the United States.”

  “Dick, I’m at a loss here. I have no idea what an idiot savant is.”

  “Well, usually it means a person who’s highly knowledgeable about just one subject, but clueless about everything else. They almost need a keeper. In our client’s case, he’s knowledge about two subjects, wall street finance and Tiffany art glass, and he has a personal assistant who takes care of everything else for him.”

  Dick continued, “He’s a hedge fund broker, a very successful one. He only has five clients, but he does so well with them he’s made millions, could even be in the billions, but here’s the interesting part. Somehow he became fascinated by Tiffany art glass and started collecting it years ago. He buys from auction houses throughout the world and even rents one floor in a warehouse building in downtown Chicago where he stores his collection of Tiffany art glass.

  “Of course, the best of the collection is in his waterfront high-rise condo on Lake Michigan and at his home here in Palm Springs. You’ll be appraising the items in his condo as well as the collection in the warehouse. His personal assistant will accompany you and do whatever you need him to do. He said he has the time right now because his boss is currently in Palm Springs. I told him you’d need two or three days to properly appraise the items, and he said that wouldn’t be a problem. Hope you agree to take this one. As I said, it should be interesting.”

  “I just finished an appraisal yesterday, so you caught me at a good time. Whe
n would you want me to go?”

  “I’d like to say today, but that’s probably a little too short of notice. Why don’t you drive to Ontario and fly out of there tomorrow? You can get into Chicago at a decent hour, get a good night’s sleep, and be ready to go day after tomorrow. If that works for you, I’ll make the flight and hotel arrangements and get back to you.”

  “Sounds great. Thanks, Dick.”

  “One other thing, Marty. From what his personal assistant told me, his house here in the desert is loaded as well. Looks like I’ll need you to also do those items.”

  A few hours later Dick called back with the necessary travel information, and the next day she was off to Chicago, Duke’s forlorn look notwithstanding. Both Les and John refused to walk Duke with his booties on, so Marty had enlisted her sister’s help. Marty knew the only reason she’d agreed to walk Duke was because Marty had promised to go to a bookstore in Chicago that Laura said was well-known for having the best books on psychic phenomena. Laura was a modern day psychic who eschewed turbans and crystal balls for business casual clothing. No one who ever met Laura would suspect she’d been a participant in a paranormal study conducted by UCLA that found her to have a very high level of extra sensory perception. It wasn’t something she talked much about, but from time to time, she was able to help people with her “inner knowing.” The list of books she’d given Marty was huge. Marty managed to have most of them shipped by UPS to Laura rather than trying to bring them back with her.

  She looked again at the clock and realized she must have dozed off, because it was now 7:00 a.m., an hour when Laura and John would be up and about, so taking Duke for a walk wouldn’t wake them up. She knew Les often liked to work on his paintings until the early hours of the morning and then sleep in until late in the morning. Marty got out of bed, put her bathrobe on, and walked to the front door where Duke stood with his leash hanging from his mouth, patiently waiting for her to put on his pink booties.