has he been buried there? How old is he?”
“Nothing definite, but the ME thinks we have a Caucasian male who’s been buried there for around thirty years, give or take a few, and who was between twenty-five and forty when he died.” Sam never took his eyes off Jacob while he talked. Donovan glanced at Emily. She was oblivious, but Donovan wasn’t. There was a reason Sam had shown up tonight, and it wasn’t just to share details.
“The knife adds to the mystery.” Sam continued watching Jacob. “Or, solves it. Good news is that it’s not a generic knife found in any box or convenience store. It’s hand tooled. We’ve been researching it and think we’ve found a match. Back in the sixties and seventies there was a family over in Wickenburg who had a silver and leather shop. They did quite well. The business fell apart, however, years later when the father died. They pretty much stopped making saddles and knives after that.”
Sam pulled a photo from a folder he carried and held it out. The knife was stunning. Donovan knew good quality, even as tarnished as this knife was, when he saw it. There was some kind of stone near the handle, maybe ruby. Then there was a raised silver swirl design that stopped at the initials.
J.H.
“Maybe you’ve heard of the Rannik family. They made knives for a lot of carnivals, festivals, rodeos. I spoke with their youngest daughter. She is the last one working the trade, specializing in jewelry. She emailed me their client list, along with purchase dates and transactions. There was only one name I recognized.”
It was the first time Donovan had witnessed Emily speechless. Jacob, for his part, paled a bit. Then, giving Sam a look that Donovan hoped he was never on the receiving end of, Jacob stood and left the room.
Emily got her voice back. “Of all the fool ideas, Sam. You know my father is not involved. He catches lizards and lets them go loose outside. He—”
“Had a life before he met your mother and started a family,” Sam said quietly.
“He’s an elder at our church.”
Donovan knew that “our” church meant hers as well as Sam’s. The church he’d been invited to but hadn’t attended.
“I don’t like this either, Emily,” Sam said, “but questioning is what I do. Right now, I’m just venturing out. It could be nothing.”
“It is nothing.” Jacob returned and tossed something on the table. It was a knife. The same knife as was in the baggy. Ruby, initials and all.
Only this knife wasn’t tarnished.
The Lost Dutchman Museum was on the edge of town, and Emily always came out on her days off. Sometimes she spent hours in the barn, working on the back section that was considered storage. She wanted to open it up to Apache Creek history, and she had enough pieces from the Majestic for one display that would appeal to people interested in both small-town and movie lore.
Just not John Wayne.
She also had remnants from Apache Creek’s first church, school and post office. If she could talk the trustees into going to the city for more funding, she’d buy a few acres from the Pearl family. They owned most of the land around the museum. At one time, there’d been a Pearl Ranch. Now it was open space and for sale.
Emily hoped no one ever bought it.
Another reason she came in was to make sure everything was where it should be. Twice she’d deterred tourists from breaking in to the barn where exhibits were.
Even adults thought it okay to pull away boards and pick or break locks just so they could see. Once, she’d just missed a vandal who’d spray painted graffiti on the barn housing a replica of Jacob Waltz’s cabin. The paint had still been wet! Officer Sam Miller had filled out a report. She’d repaired the damage.
Emily noted now how quiet the museum was first thing in the morning. Usually she felt a little jog of excitement when she opened the door and entered. Her world. She felt privileged and amazed. How blessed she was to have a career she loved. She cared for the past, brought history to life and made sure an imprint remained for the future.
Today, the woven blankets and pieces of pottery didn’t speak to her. The air in the museum felt different, quiet and unassuming.
She was being ridiculous. And she knew it. Turning on the lights, she adjusted the temperature and went around checking the exhibits. Nothing was out of place.
No, it was her life that had been trespassed on, and she wasn’t sure how to restore peace.
She walked through the aisles of the main building, whispering prayers while straightening photos and realigning displays. She did not believe her dad had a connection with the body discovered last week. Still, her prayers felt ineffective.
Sometimes the present was more important than the future, especially when it involved her dad.
She’d made it through only one room when someone knocked at the front door. She ignored it. Hours were posted and she wasn’t in the mood for giving a private tour. She didn’t dare go to the window and try shooing a visitor away. For one thing, it felt rude. For another, twice when she’d done that it had been church members with family in town. Thus, the private tours.
Her phone buzzed. Taking it out, she checked the caller ID.
Elise’s name displayed. She swiped her thumb across her phone to answer it, and said, “What’s happening?”
“They’ve taken Dad in for questioning.”
“I’ll meet you at the police station.” Emily turned, wanting to grab her purse from her desk drawer.
“Sam says it’s routine. I’m on my way to be with him. Of course, he says he doesn’t need me. Eva’s handling everything here. Are you sure there’s nothing you overlooked at the Baer place?”
“I’m sure, but I only looked at a certain perimeter where the body was found.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I stayed within about one hundred and forty-four square feet.”
“Paint me a picture.”
“The size of your bedroom.” Already, Emily was thinking ahead. She needed to look farther. The man had somehow arrived at his burial spot. He’d either walked or been carried. It would take a while, but she might be able to discover the path.
Yeah, right.
“I’m heading to the Baer house now,” Emily promised, entering her office to grab her purse and then locking the door on her way out.
But as she stepped onto the front stoop, she found the one person she wasn’t in the mood to see. Randall Tucker.
“I’ve been meaning to check out the museum. Any chance you could show me around?”
“I’ve an appointment. We open at nine tomorrow.”
To his credit, he didn’t brush past her and enter. Instead, he studied the building. Emily couldn’t help herself. She looked, too. The exterior was roughly sawn ponderosa pine. The museum sign was lighter wood and the words Lost Dutchman Museum appeared to have been burned in.
Emily smiled. Her museum looked at home nestled against the backdrop of the Superstition Mountains. The barn distracted from it a bit, but the cook shanty to the left helped.
“This is a great location,” Randall said. “You get much traffic?”
“We get plenty of traffic. We, however, are closed on Monday. Come back on a different day, and I’ll show you around.”
He scanned the main building. “Solid foundation. How old?”
“About fifty years. It was built in the sixties.”
“Private