The Kokopelli Caper: Diane Phipps, P.I., #4

By Karen Hudgins

Diane Phipps, P.I. dusts off facts and digs for truth in Colorado and finds out who killed renowned archaeologist Dr. Ray McCormick.

Who killed renowned archaeologist Dr. Ray McCormick, and why? launches Diane Phipps, P.I. into a new investigation adventure in Colorado. Unfamiliar with the mountainous terrain of Peak Village near Garden of the Gods, Diane drives an old pick-up truck, dusts off facts, and digs into Dr. Ray's life for answers. Theories about locals who shot him rise, but none warrant murder—which prompts Diane to sift through time. Surely his enemy's motive lurks in the past. When bartender Tex Wayburn is found dead, shock again ripples through the community. Diane scrambles to connect the two homicides—but in vain?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613094785

Book preview

Prologue

Dr. Ray McCormick accepted the prestigious and coveted Paul Steward Award for Outstanding Archaeological Achievement with modesty and to resounding applause. He hadn’t expected this, yet he offered a smooth, impromptu acceptance speech citing his teammates and thanking The Steward University of Colorado for sponsoring the High Mesa Project.

Looking out over the crowd, in the glow of the amber table candles, Ray knew the faces of the attendees who stared admiringly up at him. He’d put on many miles with lots of them. They’d shared happy memories and sometimes adversities in their searches for pot shards, projectile points, scrapers, fossils, and primitive painted or pecked figures on rock surfaces.

Still, though, he doubted one person in the crowd was truly celebrating this moment with him. Ray held the etched crystal trophy to his heart and left the dais in the Peregrine Room at the Kokopelli Lodge.

Making his way back to his table, he repeated, Thank you, to colleagues who shook his hand and gave him hearty backslaps along the way.

Beers and trek stories followed at the bar with cronies, and by midnight, Ray was ready for bed. He left the bar and found his way to the carpeted corridor where his room was located. Once inside, he set his coveted award on the desk. He loosened his tie and slung off his jacket. His cell phone hummed.

The photo on the screen surprised him. Hello, he said politely. How’re things?

The caller replied, Congratulations on your award. You certainly know how to come out smelling like a rose.

Ray frowned. His euphoria was taking a hit. Look, I did what I could, and you know it.

Not the way I saw it. You’d left me for dead.

Ray eased himself down onto a stuffed chair. I did go back, you know.

Too damn late, my friend. No water. Left alone. No gold to buy my way out, the caller charged. Trapped in a cave for three days while those gold-monger rebels set fires and shot up the village, women, and kids.

Ray said tensely, It was fifteen years ago. We knew the risks.

Humph. So, where’s the urn? Did you give it to your grandma for Christmas?

It’s in the museum archives in Rio. Where it belongs.

Which one?

Ray rolled his eyes. "What do you want?"

Hoping you’d ask. The caller paused. You’re right. It was a long time ago. We should be willing to let bygones be bygones. Don’t you think? There’s important work to be done.

That’s nice of you, Ray patronized doubtfully.

We need to meet. About business...a project. Fully funded, in Alaska.

It’s late. I need to go. The only reason you were left in that cave was because you went back in after we’d packed up to leave. The rendezvous airlift waited, and we were shot at because of you.

The caller coughed. Hard. Ray had heard someone coughing from the back of the room during the awards dinner. Now he was doing it in his ear. And you never asked me how come I went back in.

Ray sighed. He didn’t need to ask. They’d left pre-Columbian artifacts behind. Didn’t take much to figure out what he was after. No way would Ray condone smuggling.

Nope, I didn’t. What mattered was that we got out of there...on time.

Well, timing is everything, right? the caller asked. The project? You’ll like this one.

Ray shook his head. This conversation was headed nowhere, but something made him stick. Maybe it was because fully funded caught his attention. Perhaps it was because what euphoria he had left was softening him up. Or was it the influence of three beers?

The caller butted into his thoughts with one word. Neanderthal.

In Alaska? Ray asked, unbuttoning his dress shirt.

An ice fisherman found pictographs...another cave. I have notes in my truck. Meet me in the back parking lot? I don’t have a lot of time, okay? He coughed again. This work needs done, and done right. And since you like caves...

Ray kept a cool tone. I like what they’ve preserved for us. The prospect of documenting unprecedented Neanderthal rock art shook him to the core. He might regret this; it might not pan out. But he’d kick himself if he heard about this later down the road. All right, he said. Meet you in fifteen.

The caller sputtered. Gray Ford F-150 pick-up, parked by the fence. I’ll turn on the parking lights.

Ray hung up. It was a Saturday night in October and getting chilly in Peak Village. He exchanged his dress shirt for a long-sleeved, gray knit shirt and slipped into his L.L. Bean jacket. He also put on his new Garden of the Gods cap, a gift from the conference committee.

It’d been a long but interesting day studded with professional presentations from geologists, paleontologists, grad students, science journalists, and the like. It was the soft side of what he did for a living—mapping in rugged terrain, excavating, and dusting ancient grit off artifacts or cave walls. Driving or hiking into remote global areas gave him joy. Identifying, dating, photographing, registering mostly Native American rock art panels—his favorite to find—kept him busy.

Very often, during conferences like this one, he’d catch tips about rock art sightings. Many were on private land, but still worth checking out with due permissions. So this little trek to the parking lot might really lead him to some of the undocumented Neanderthal rock art he’d yearned to find. Just to gaze upon a deer image or rust-colored, primitive handprints left on stone would thrill him to no end. He was such a sucker for antiquities of almost any type. Old by definition, but something new to find could be waiting for him over the next ridge.

That’s what had happened with the recent High Mesa Project. He’d unexpectedly found more undiscovered Kokopelli rock art in a crevice in the northwestern part of the state. His recent article in Archaeology Journal brought him due notoriety. Frankly, it helped him snag his next chance to do what he did best.

Ray glanced over at the glistening award. Tonight’s ceremony had marked a new pinnacle in his career. Honestly earned, too. Best part was he was still single and could travel wherever, whenever, he wanted. Lots of women had been attracted to him. Only a local girl stirred his heart, but tying the knot with her wasn’t on his To Do list. He kept himself trim, his chestnut brown hair clipped, and he flashed his engaging smile at the drop of his well-worn wool field hat. Yet he was married to his work, considered to be an enviable status by many wanderlust vocations.

Spending time in Alaska wouldn’t pose a problem. The opportunity was a godsend for his soul, skill, and senses. Dealing with the amateur who had blamed him for losing his chances to be a pilot when his eye was seriously injured by a rebel force attack on a blood gold village in Brazil, was a small price to pay for catching his first glimpse of rare Neanderthal leavings. Certainly, the caller would want a cut of the spoils. Rightfully so, Ray figured. This wasn’t a time to be greedy or selfish. Through his work, the world gained new understanding of those who had come first and forged modern human ways.

Amazing, isn’t it? ran through his mind. How good things could come from unexpected sources? He damn well knew the caller shouldn’t have been on that rugged Brazil trip in the first place. But Ray wasn’t the organizer. He had bought his way in.

Furthermore, the caller was apparently doing very well for himself. But some guys couldn’t let go of the past. Except...time healed, and Ray was grateful this one was finally having a change of heart. He wasn’t out to give anyone pain. Ever.

Ray left his room and followed the signage to the back parking lot, passing through a hall with large-format color photography of Garden of the Gods rock formations mounted on the walls. It was like walking amongst the rocks, except he was on carpet. Exiting the glass door at the end brought him out into the still, night air. The stars above dazzled, despite the city glow from Colorado Springs off to the east.

Only one light shone from a pole out on the asphalt lane that led into the lot. Cars were sparse. He figured employees probably parked back there, or it was used for guest car overfill. He walked over the gravel a few yards when the truck’s amber parking lights flashed on and held. He chuckled and quickened his pace. His new archaeological destiny awaited.

He reached the driver’s side of the truck and found the caller sitting behind the wheel with a marked-up map spread out over his lap.

C’mon in, he said to Ray and hiked his thumb toward the passenger side.

Ray walked through the headlight beams, rounded the front, opened the door, and hoisted himself up into the empty seat. The radio played country, although he couldn’t say who was singing.

Good to see you, Ray said, resolved to be polite. He even proffered his hand for a shake. Years had put some wrinkles on their faces, but their grips were still firm.

Same, the man said, letting go and slipping his hand back under the map. I’ve been waiting for this for a long time. He reached up and tapped a small brass compass that twirled on its chain from the rearview mirror. This was my grandfather’s.

Ray glanced at it. Nice.

It’s why I went back into the cave, he said bluntly. I’d dropped it and couldn’t leave without it. He meant everything to me back then.

Ray gave the driver a benevolent point, until he withdrew a Smith & Wesson with silencer and swung it toward Ray’s heart.

Ray froze, mid-breath. You can’t be serious!

As a heart attack, came the gruff, cliched answer. Don’t move.

Ray blinked up at the bright stars through the windshield. Swiftly, he jerked his left arm toward the pistol to knock it off aim. The caller’s trigger finger didn’t flinch. Thunk! Ray sucked in his last breath and agonizingly took the bullet...

One

Getting Acquainted

Diane’s next to last vacation day in March at Garden of the Gods started with coffee in the Kokopelli Lodge Café. Tom had just finished his stack of pancakes when Park Ranger Logan Fremont stopped at their table on his way out. He removed his hat.

Good morning, Logan began. I remember you from my rock art program here last evening. Just wanted to say thanks for coming.

We enjoyed it very much, Tom said. We don’t see much rock art in Florida.

We’re here on vacation, Diane put in. Your program was great. I learned a lot.

Thank you. I couldn’t make it to the dinner afterward. But Sydney told me you were all at the same table. He owns this Lodge.

Yes, Diane said. He and his wife were delightful company.

They added a whole new dimension to our visit, Tom added, equally impressed.

Again, so did your program, Diane complimented.

Logan stepped closer, fingers wrapped around the brim of his hat. His short sandy-colored hair caught the highlights of the sun streaming in the window. He stood about six feet tall, trim, and wore his uniform well. My uncle Ray would’ve done a better job. A very good one, because he was an archaeologist. My background is in business and natural sciences, but I’ve learned a lot from him about the Utes, the rock formations, and the flora and fauna around here from back then and now.

Maybe we’ll catch him here doing a program on our next trip? Diane asked.

Logan’s expression darkened. Unlikely, Ms. Phipps. He passed away last October. Suddenly.

Oh, my, Diane responded with due respect.

We’re sorry to hear, Tom added. I lost my aunt Meredith last month. Unexpectedly, too.

It’s been a rough time, Diane said. We loved her.

We’re out here to finalize the sale of her property in Denver, Tom said. "Coming down to the Garden of the Gods for a short getaway was suggested to us by her attorney. This is an amazing place, and has given us relief."

Logan agreed. I’m lucky to have made this area my home for work.

You mentioned your uncle died suddenly, Diane said, sensing he wanted to talk with them more. So, she prompted, From heart failure?

The park ranger glanced over at the top of Pike’s Peak and back to them. That’d been better. His voice almost shook.

What do you mean? she asked, putting aside her coffee cup.

Logan lowered his voice. My uncle was found murdered, ma’am. And, to be honest, I was hoping to catch you here this morning. Sydney told me a bit about you both and what you do for work. That you’re a private investigator, Ms. Phipps.

I am that, Diane said, her interest rising. Murdered?

Tom moved toward the window, creating a space at the end of the booth seat on his side. Here, have a seat.

Logan obliged and thanked him. Yes...Uncle Ray was shot in the heart. Close range. He was found by Cody West, our resident rock climber, on the Rocky Point Trail.

Diane leaned forward. How awful. Dismay echoed in her tone. How’s the case moving along? Has an arrest been made?

Logan frowned. Unfortunately, no. I know the police are doing their best, though. But I wish it were over. Everyone who knew and liked my uncle also does, including Sydney. We go into each new week with hope for a breakthrough. Now there’s a stall, and it’s maddening. The more he spoke, the faster his words came. Frustration and remorse poured from his hazel eyes. I just want justice. That killer snuffed out an extraordinary life and stole my inspiration. My aunt Florence, his sister, is still the walking wounded without final closure.

Diane listened with understanding. An arrest would help.

Yes. A step in the right direction.

A step? What’d be the rest? Tom asked.

Restitution...life in prison.

Diane felt a tad of relief. She’d run into some folks who