Chapter 17
Seventeen
HYPOTHETICAL
Eight minutes after leaving the McCaw brothers and chatting for a few moments with Stu Frey, Goldie walked into St. Mark’s Catholic Church to find Father Fitzsimmons hurriedly putting on his overcoat and getting ready to leave.
“Goldie!” he said, concerned, taking his earmuffs out of his coat pockets. “I just got a call from one of my parishioners. She said there was gunfire down on River Street.”
“Yeah,” she confirmed. “I just came from there.”
“Everyone alright? What happened?”
“Some guy named Horace Mason went postal on his wife Alice.”
“Went what?” Father asked, never having heard the expression before.
“Everything’s fine,” she assured. “The sheriff diffused it. No one was hurt.”
“Oh. Thank goodness!” he said, relieved. “But where did you say Horace went?”
“It was a domestic thing,” she replied. “They’re both goin’ to need some counselin’, but not now. Right now, they’ve just gotta calm down.”
The young priest thought for a moment. “I don’t know the name Mason. They’re not congregants, but maybe I can get their information from the sheriff and offer to lend an ear to one or the other this afternoon.”
“Yeah. That’d be good,” she agreed.
He started to slip off his coat. “So, what brings you here today?”
“I-I need to talk to you about somethin’. At first, it might sound a little crazy.”
“Oh, you mean like living with a gangster, trespassing onto closed city land, or going into a dangerous abandoned mine?”
“Yeah. Like that,” she confirmed.
“Okay,” he said, putting his coat and earmuffs aside and sitting in a pew, “then I’d better sit down.”
She likewise took off her coat and glanced around the simple, quiet church to make sure no one was in earshot, but remained standing.
“Since she was here at the Thanksgiving potluck, I assume Martha Eggleston told you she has doubts about the circumstances of her husband’s death.”
“She’s a woman in grief,” he nodded.
“She told you about all the caffeine Bucky drank the day he died, didn’t she. So he couldn’t have fallen asleep.”
“I don’t like to repeat what people tell me,” he replied. “A priest has to be a strong holder of confidences.”
“That means yes.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yeah, it does. Otherwise, why make such a big deal about how you keep confidences?”
Father looked at her, slightly exasperated, knowing she was right. “Go on,” he urged.
“You ever been over to the historical society?”
“Yes.”
“Ever noticed a geological report they’ve got there in a glass case?”
“I-I can’t recall.”
“It’s a newer acquisition, obtained in late 1939.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“What about Mayor Banyan?” she queried. “Priests are kinda like cops and trained to smell insincerity. You think this guy’s a stinker?”
“Goldie, what are you trying to say?”
“I’m sayin’ I came to town to do one kind of story, but I’ve stumbled onto another.”
“What kind of story?”
She started to pace slowly up and down the center aisle of the church.
“Okay,” she began. “Let me run a hypothetical by you. Let’s say, there’s this mayor in a small town that was once known for its silver minin’.
This mayor is really into power. He likes to lay down a lot of rules, telling people how to live and how to maintain their homes.
He also imposes a lot of historical society dues on them.
Maybe he even extorts money from street vendors and skims from city accounts.
He definitely used other people’s money to bring in a journalist to write about the town. ”
“I’m not sure I—” Father started to say.
“Everybody in town, includin’ the mayor, thinks the local mines are played out,” she continued, still pacing.
“That’s what they’ve thought for years. But if you do some research, you’d learn that’s not what happened.
More profitable ore deposits were found in other places, and the minin’ interests simply moved away. ”
“Really?”
“Really. I verified it twice at the Denver library. Then, one day, the mayor, who also happens to be president of the historical society, gets and reads through an old geological report from the largest minin’ company that used to operate in town.
And the report says there’s one particular tunnel that might still have a large silver vein worth a pile of dough.
Let’s say, he hires some mining geologist from another county or state to explore this tunnel, drill some holes, and get ore samples.
And lo and behold, he discovers the report is right.
“Now, let’s say this tunnel runs under five houses on a particular side of a particular street.
Needin’ to obtain the mineral rights, he starts to acquire these houses one by one.
Some he acquires legally, like from a couple who wanna downsize and be closer to Denver, and another man who had arthritis and wants to move to warmer weather.
But others he acquires perversely. Like runnin’ a guy with no life insurance off the road and committin’ murder.
And remember, this mayor most likely knows about people’s finances and securities because he’s the mayor, president of the historical society, and a realtor.
Let’s even say, maybe he’s killed more than one person.
Because another homeowner, the town’s former sheriff, lived on that same side of the street and died about a year earlier.
Now the mayor owns all of the houses on that side of the street except one. ”
She stopped pacing and turned to him.
“What do you think?”
The clergyman was emotionless and quiet for several seconds before answering.
“I think you said, ‘Let’s say’ four times, ‘maybe’ three times, and ‘most likely’ once,” Father noted, a little sternly. “That’s a lot of wild conjecture you’ve stitched together, Goldie. Not to mention, you’re accusing the town’s biggest public servant of committing murder.”
“Well, he may not have actually killed anyone, but he most likely gave the order.”
“Again with the ‘most likelys,’” Father groaned.
“I grant you, there’s some additional proof I need to find,” she admitted.
“Like, does he own the land where the old Maynard mine used to be? But the sheriff himself thinks the circumstances of Bucky Eggleston’s death are sketchy.
And there’s no historical evidence that says the Maynard mine went totally dry.
And tunnel “22” does run under Falcon Drive.
And ore samples have recently been taken.
And the mayor has acquired most of the houses on the Eggleston side of the street since the geological report showed up.
And he who owns the houses above also owns the mineral rights underneath. ”
“Yes,” Father conceded. “But the houses you’re talking about are for sale. I’ve seen the red signs in their yards.”
“Cover,” Goldie dismissed. “Smokescreen. It’s a depressed market. If someone were interested in one of those houses, as owner, he could set a ridiculously high price. Plus, you gotta admit, the guy’s a megalomaniac.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone obsessed with their own power.”
“One could also say you’re obsessed with your own conspiracy theory.”
She took a deep breath, went over to the pew behind him, and sat down. “So, you think I’m wrong?”
“I think you’re a fearless, spirited woman who’s accustomed to suspecting the worst in people because of that former boyfriend of yours.”
“But—”
“Look,” he interrupted. “I’ve only been in town a couple of months.
This is my first assignment. I was lucky to get it.
I’ve worked hard to build positive relationships.
If you’re going to pursue this kind of hypothetical, you’re going to need more proof than what I just heard if you want my support. ”
She thought for a moment. “The best proof would be to have a deed with Banyan or his company’s name on it for the old Maynard mine.
But those records would be down at city hall, and since he’s mayor, I couldn’t go makin’ inquiries without him findin’ out.
Other workers at city hall probably feed him information unintentionally all the time.
I bet nobody can take a crap in this town without him knowin’ about it. ”
She looked at the priest, then remembered her language. “Sorry, Father.”
“No,” he agreed. “You could be right. During my time in seminary, I had to do a title search for a piece of property next to our campus that my school was interested in buying. I did it as extra credit for a business class. When I was conducting the search, I had to sign a logbook with my name and the property address I was interested in. If Sparkledove has the same type of procedure…”
“What about the former sheriff?” she wondered. “Jason Shirk? Did you know him?”
“No. He passed away before I arrived. But his funeral was held here. I just reorganized my predecessor’s files and remember seeing the contact information for his family. He was a widower but has a child who lives around here.”
“A daughter in Idaho Springs?”
“Yes… yes, I think that’s right. However would you have known that?”
“Harriette Noise at the historical society mentioned it. I, uh, I don’t ‘spose you could give me her phone number, could ya?”
“Goldie, you can’t go stirring up trouble.”
“What trouble? You just told me to find more proof, and me going to city hall would be like an air raid siren for the mayor.”
Father shook his head. “I-I’m not really comfortable with this.”
“If you don’t give me the daughter’s number, I’ll just get it from Peter Banyan.
I’m sure he wrote the obituary and has her contact info.
But I’d rather get it from you. As a newspaperman, Peter will ask all sorts of questions, and something like this requires discretion. Delicacy. Don’t you think?”
The priest looked at her, then breathed out a heavy sigh.
“I suppose I could… but I want you to keep it quiet.”
“Hey, quiet as a church mouse, Padre.”
“Anything else?”