"I just don't like the way this is coming together, that's all."
"The mine sits on a few hundred acres old man Dawkins owned. He bought the land in chunks over the years. The Lucky Pup is one of a dozen or so digs scattered around his property up in Governor's Basin. Dawkins bought the parcel that contained the mine in 1955, part of sixty acres. A sister of the widow of somebody named Roland Rowland who'd owned it since the 1920's sold it to him. Before that, a company out of Denver started the dig, back around the turn of the century." Fred sorted his notes, a smug look on his face. "Old Paul Dawkins had a California address when he bought the land. That's where his sons are from."
"So whose bones are they?" Cynthia asked.
Fred frowned. "Give me some time! Nobody I talked to ever heard of Dawkins, but Mrs. Worthington said she remembers reading about this Rowland guy. He lived right here in Ouray. She thinks he was even the mayor for a term, way back before the war. He drowned in 1941. The land went to his wife but then she died a few years later. Closest relative was a sister who finally got around to selling the property in '55."
"Dawkins never lived here?" Dean asked.
Fred shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't check all the records but the taxes were paid from California over the years."
"Why don't you just ask the boys, David?" his wife said. "That's quite a coincidence, their being out here at the time we learn about the bones."
Dean didn't answer but had no intention of asking the boys diddly, at least for the near future, at least until he sensed what was going on. "I don't believe in coincidences," he grumbled.
"The Dawkins brothers didn't know Martha. How could they be aware of what she saw? She swore to us she didn't tell a soul," Cynthia said.
"Her little friend Caleb knew the bones were there," Dean said. "And someone else found them in the first place and told Caleb about the discovery."
"We got a real live mystery on our hands," Fred said.
Maybe so, but the pronouncement gave Dean no solace. He'd traveled that road before, more than once. The whole troubling business snarled up his mind through the otherwise pleasant afternoon.
Monday was transition day at Bird Song, with the arrival of six new guests to fill three vacated rooms, with only the four Dawkins, Brandon Westlake, and Pumpkin Green staying on. Westlake was once again off photographing; the Dawkins, in independent pairs, Jeeping somewhere in the mountains, probably spying on one another. Young Billy Langstrom came by for Pumpkin, his newfound friend, announced by the absence of a muffler on his bright red Jeep. He was a handsome kid who somehow reminded Dean of Cynthia's son, Randy, but more brash. His size was inadequate for any hopes of a serious basketball future but he was obviously a fine athlete. Dean wondered if the boy played other sports. Neither baseball nor football was available at the small Ouray High School.