"You mean like us arguing the other night? Sorry about that. We got a bit rowdy."
"The Lucky Pup?" Dean prodded.
Paul sipped his drink and looked around as Dean returned to the chaise. "I got an offer, see. This is all hush-hush. It got me thinking that if someone wanted the place, there must be a reason. I started checking my old man's papers and I found these reports- way back when he first bought the property. There's gold up there and plenty of it!"
"Why didn't your father work the mine if it was so valuable?" Dean asked, jumping up to move the meat from the splattering grease.
"That's the funny part. This guy-Josh was his name-he was like a manager for pa. Pa never did any mining himself. God-that would have been a joke! He was mayor of our town in California-never got his hands dirty-sort of like my asshole brother Joseph. This Josh would send reports to my father of just how rich the mine was. He kept writing all one summer-ten or twelve letters. Then the guy just up and disappeared."
"What year?" Dean asked.
"1961. That's when all the letters and reports were dated and when the correspondence stopped."
"Your father didn't hire a replacement?"
Paul Dawkins just shrugged. "Nope. He tried to locate Josh what's-his-name a couple of times-there were notes-but then nothing. Beats me why he gave up. I never even knew the old man owned land out here until I got this phone call and a bunch of e-mails talking about making an offer."
"A bonafide offer?"
Paul looked around furtively. "Not until I have the title. But I sure took a close look at my old man's will."
"Tell me about the phone call," Dean asked, but saw immediately he'd pushed too far.
"You're awfully nosy not to have any real interest in this stuff. You sure Joseph isn't behind this? Or that bitch Jennifer?" Before Dean could answer, Paul added, "Thanks for the beer," and was gone. Dean hadn't even managed a last name for bitch-Jennifer, much less the details of Dawkins v. Dawkins. Add "honing detecting skills" to the to-do job list for sheriff.
Dean reached in his pocket as he was undressing for bed a few hours later. He held up the small white bone he'd found at the mine. "I think this little baby may have a first name," he said to his wife. "And the gold-digger, too. She's no longer Madam X." Cynthia was already in bed, an impossibly fat book in her lap- probably a long drawn out saga where generations of dysfunctional families romp around history. He held up the bone. "Meet Josh."