Free The Alpine Advocate by Mary Daheim Page B

thing around this part of the country—abandoned shacks or cabins in the woods where recluses hole up.”
    I did. Often, they would bury their belongings, especially money. In the modern era, Sunday prospectors would trot out their Geiger counters and go in search of buried treasure. Once in a great while, somebody got lucky and actually found some.
    “Anyway, there was a story around town about—oh, ten years ago, I guess—that Mark and Gibb got into a fight over some valuable coins one of them had dug up. Mark was just a teenager then, but he was always pigheaded. Then again, so is Gibb. I think they split the loot down the middle.” She replaced her eyeglasses and stared out the car window. “I suppose Gibb has never forgiven Mark. But he wouldn’t have waited this long to kill him.”
    I had to agree. “So who do you think murdered Mark?”
    “Well.” Vida buttoned up her serviceable brown wool tweed coat. “I’d say Chris Ramirez is as good a pick as anyone.”
    There was no arguing with Vida. There never was. “Are you getting out?” I asked.
    Always game, Vida unwound herself from the front seat. We tramped across the muddy, leaf-strewn ground, careful to avoid branches that had blown down in last night’s wind. My green shoes were a mess.
    Bill Blatt, who had recently graduated from a two-year college in criminal justice and wasn’t much older than Adam, broke away from the others to meet us.
    “Hi, Aunt Vida, Mrs. Lord!” His round, freckled face beamed out from under his regulation cap. Bill was one of Vida’s numerous nieces and nephews, an engaging young man with ash blond hair and deep-set blue eyes. “Isn’t this something?” He stopped grinning, but the excitement remained in his voice. This was his first murder investigation, and he was clearly thrilled.
    “It’s wicked,” Vida declared. “What are you boys doing, Billy?”
    Bill Blatt glanced at the others who were crawling around on the sloping wet earth. We were surrounded by trees, with Icicle Creek tumbling downhill amid thick ferns and cattails. The road into the mine was no more than a dirt track that ended in a turnaround by a post marking the trailhead into Surprise Lake. “We’re systematically going over the scene,” Bill said, now very serious. “You’d be amazed at the stuff we’re finding.”
    “No, I wouldn’t,” Vida replied. “Human beings are pigs.” Her sensible shoes squelched in the mud as she pulled her hat down to her eyebrows. This morning she wore a black derby with a swatch of net. It was impossible to tell if she had it on frontward, backward, or sideways. “The point is, what have you found that’s pertinent to Mark’s murder?”
    “Now, Aunt Vida,” Bill began, looking nervous. “You know I can’t divulge—”
    “Rubbish!” Vida snapped her fingers. “I’m your own flesh and blood. Who used to take care of you when your crazy parents were gallivanting off to Reno every three months?”
    Bill’s heavy lids blinked over his blue eyes. “Well, it’s not much anyway. Just a bunch of junk, like paper and gum wrappers and cigarette butts and a plastic fork.” He gazed off in the direction of the creek, avoiding his aunt’s keen stare.
    “That’s it?” Vida was incredulous.
    Her nephew shuffled a bit. “Yes, ma’am. Except for the flashlight and the crowbar.” Bill Blatt swallowed hard.
    “Ah.” Vida turned smug. “The crowbar was the weapon? Or was it the flashlight?”
    “We aren’t sure yet.” Bill Blatt was virtually mumbling, his fresh, fair face downcast.
    Discreetly, I had taken out my notebook but refrained from transcribing Bill’s comments. I didn’t want to intimidate him, though it was clear that he found his aunt more daunting than a sea of Camcorders. As for Vida, she never took notes. Her memory was extraordinary.
    “Where did Eeeny Moroni find Mark?” I asked in my gentlest manner.
    Bill perked up. “Over there.” He pointed toward the mineshaft that