"Thanks." Dean reached for his wallet.
"No charge. It gave me a break from all this stuff." He waved at bottles, beakers, and slides. Dean had no desire to know the macabre contents.
"What are you going to do with the finger?"
"Try and give it a hand-and an owner," Dean said as he left.
After a quick lunch-salad, no fries-and a stop for gas and a few groceries to further justify the trip, he began the forty-five minute drive back to Ouray. He hummed, a feeling of mild accomplishment sandwiched between the failure to contact Martha and the trepidation of potentially being made a fool by Seymour "Fitz" Fitzgerald, sheriff candidate. He didn't even mind the caravan of slow moving campers and motor homes that crawled along the summer byway, frequently stopping for photos of the majestic scenery before them.
Dean felt as if he might be getting somewhere, at least in identifying Martha's bones. The time frame was right for it to be the body of Senior Dawkins's mine manager, slain there in 1961. That would take some research by Fred and his stalwarts, if Dean could figure a way to distance that investigation from Fred's court-dictated jury duty restrictions. With an approximate date-or at least a year-and a first name, the chore would be infinitely easier than scouring decades for a nameless individual.
As Dean rolled his Jeep down the main street of Ouray, he caught sight of a familiar figure with a rounded haircut. It was the man he'd seen talking to Ginger Dawkins at the Farmer's Market on Sunday. The man, dressed in slacks and sport shirt, was entering the newly renovated Beaumont Hotel.
Buoyed by his successful human authentication of Martha's bone, Dean decided to do further snooping. In his mind, anyone tied to the Dawkins, no matter how obliquely, was fair game. There was time before the auction ended. After parking his vehicle-no easy chore with the summer traffic-he entered the beautiful and ornate Victorian hotel.
Absent one of those gizmos to see around corners or a newspaper with a hole in it to held high like all the really cool spies do, Dean tried the direct approach. The object of his surveillance was seated at a back table in the coffee shop, sipping a cup of something with frothy cream atop it. Dean ordered black coffee and took an adjacent table, smiling and nodding at the man as he did so. Both smile and nod were returned. So far, so good.
Maybe some scintillating conversation would break the ice. "Great day, isn't it?"
The man rose and came over to Dean's table. "Terrific! Mind if I join you?"