A few feet further, in a dry grotto scooped out from the main walkway, something glinted in Dean's flashlight.
A male voice answered and after Dean explained about the bone, he was told to bring it over.
A man Dean didn't recognize turned around and shook his hand before starting the old car.
A rope fell out of the sky, striking Dean on the shoulder.
A small rock trickled down, bouncing and skipping before stopping by Dean's shoe—the slight noise was a rumble in the mountain stillness.
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.
Acting Sheriff Fitzgerald was slipping two one-pint bottles of vodka into a paper bag as Dean was about to open the door.
After a jotted message to his wife who was back on the wire, Dean was on his way.
After a switchback, they crossed the bridge over a deep gorge, the location of Ouray's now-melted ice climbing park where David Dean had almost lost his life the prior winter.
After introductions, Dean was led to a laboratory in the rear of the building.
After what seemed even longer than the Dean's first trip to the mine just two days earlier, they emerged into the basin where the valley floor was a sea of wildflowers.
All had been collecting Social Security for a good part of Dean's lifetime.
And I'll start cooking lean and mean Dean specials.
And, Dean thought, the price is the same—free.
As Dean neared the structure, a figure emerged from the building.
As Dean rolled his Jeep down the main street of Ouray, he caught sight of a familiar figure with a rounded haircut.
As Dean rounded a curve, he caught sight of the tail end of a white vehicle speeding down the cliff-hanging road on the far side of the deep valley—a sheriff's white Blazer was his first impression.
As he left, Dean rolled his eyes in frustration.
As he started his Jeep, Ginger Dawkins, light blue sweater slung over her arm, came up the street and gave Dean an innocent wave.
As long as he was on a roll, albeit a limited one, Dean had one more errand.
As much as Dean wanted to press his guest on the possibility that the bones were those of her father, he realized such a question was tasteless and inappropriate.
As soon as Dean said it, he knew he'd made a mistake.
As the driver stepped from the car, Dean called out.
As they moved forward Dean stumbled when his back pack caught on a particularly low place.
As they neared the first turn, something glinted in the beam of Dean's flashlight.
As they stopped to catch their breath, Dean noticed his rope was down to a single coil.
At least Dean had refrained from disclosing the tie to the Dawkinses—Josh, the missing mine manager—nor had he mentioned he knew the name of the Dawkinses' stepmother.
Back on the pavement, Dean pedaled past Tom, a well-known wild turkey who'd in past months adopted a location on the highway from which he never seemed to stray more than a few hundred yards.
Before Dean could answer, Cynthia had started toward the trail.
Before Dean could answer, Paul added, "Thanks for the beer," and was gone.
Besides, Dean thought, Randy—single or married—probably has more sense than to get knocked on his ass by a zillion pounds of water pressure aimed at his body.
Birds of a feather, Dean thought.
Both Dean and his wife felt comfortable with Fred researching the identity of the skeleton as long as Fred remained unaware of any direct connection to the Dawkinses.
Buoyed by his successful human authentication of Martha's bone, Dean decided to do further snooping.
But as Dean hung up the phone he had no illusions about the pledges ever coming to fruition.
By the time Dean finished listing the information, Fred was gone and Cynthia was off to read in their quarters.
Careful, Dean thought to himself.
Congratulations, Dean said as Fred climbed in back.
Court starts at nine o'clock, Dean said as he piled silverware on the kitchen counter.
Cynthia and her husband were appreciative of his efforts, which Dean knew came as much from nerves over his pending jury duty as early morning kindness.
Cynthia Dean, in hoping for further confirmation that the bones had been switched, tried to contact the parents of Caleb Jones, Martha's friend who was with her in the mine.
Cynthia emerged with a tray of drinks and Dean was surprised that beer was the beverage of choice.
Cynthia had missed the prior year's duel, and Dean explained the procedure.
Cynthia held the door handle, looking ready to jump while Dean contorted around the shift stick, barely able to press the pedal with his toe.
Cynthia hibernated to some serious tears while Dean sleepwalked through the daily chores, helped by Maria.
Cynthia scrunched close to Dean's ear, trying to hear the conversation, and offered a word or two as well.
Cynthia suggested an outdoor barbeque for dinner and Dean began preparations in the late afternoon.
Cynthia telephoned her son and apparently made temporary peace, although Dean wasn't privy to the details.
Cynthia was seated with two other women at a card table in front of the Post Office when Dean arrived.
Cynthia was sufficiently sympathetic to the afternoon pounding Dean had taken to not bust his chops over the Fat Tire Ale.
Cynthia was the first to comment but Dean at first dismissed her concerns as mutual nervousness.
Cynthia wasn't finished, but now her sole audience was David Dean.
Cynthia would attend the New Jersey wedding—thank God for Visa—while Fred and Dean would hold down Bird Song.
Cynthia's little shriek of dismay caused Dean to turn.
David and Cynthia Dean had experienced little success in trying to secure a more formal arrangement for long term custody of Martha, managing only undocumented assignment as temporary foster parents.
David Dean was hanging patriotic bunting by dawn's early light when Cynthia finished setting out the usual assortment of pastries for the guests and joined her husband for the short walk to the Community Center.
David Dean whistled a patriotic tune as he strolled up town from the park.
David Dean, without a remote control, had difficulty with the TV and these two old fogies were out surfing the net like a couple of Silicon Valley youngsters.
Dean "attended" college, served in the military, and was employed by the Parkside, Pennsylvania Police Department for fifteen years.
Dean acknowledged and explained the directions.
Dean acknowledged he was still there and started to make an excuse for Cynthia's exit but Randy cut him short.
Dean agreed as he and Cynthia were caught up in the dispersing crowd.
Dean and his wife joined the group, followed by Brandon Westlake, Pumpkin Green, and a newly arrived Midwesterner named Hank.
Dean answered it and was delighted to hear Martha's voice.
Dean arranged to pick up Jennifer Radisson at her hotel later that afternoon, after the parade and the water fight.
Dean asked over his shoulder.
Dean asked to break the silence.
Dean asked without answering the question.
Dean asked, "Do Jen's parents know?"
Dean asked, as he shaded his eyes from the late afternoon sun.
Dean asked, jumping up to move the meat from the splattering grease.
Dean asked, picturing the Scout creeping along a Kansas Interstate.
Dean asked, remembering Fitzgerald's purchase.
Dean asked, the one question that had bothered him from the start.
Dean assumed she remained interested.
Dean began to protest but she crossed to her bedroom and slammed the door.
Dean began to walk in the opposite direction from which they'd come.
Dean bumped into Joseph Dawkins, who was coming in from the patio, a beer in each hand.
Dean bumped into Pumpkin Green, who was leaving, a black cape and tuxedo over his arm.
Dean called the auctioneer but reached only his answering machine.
Dean caught sight of Paulette Dawkins grabbing wildly at a purple contribution.
Dean certainly hoped so—at least the clean part.
Dean changed the subject.
Dean chuckled to himself.
Dean clapped as a pair of poodles pranced by.
Dean climbed the stairs to the old man's room.
Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Dean closed his eyes as Randy explained excitedly about an offer to play ball.
Dean considered a further prompt, but a dozen years of dealing with attorneys taught him it would be both unsuccessful and unwise.
Dean considered his poking options as he used half a cake of soap to scrub away the stink of the mine.
Dean considered mentioning Martha's discovery of bones but decided not trespass on Jake Weller's vacation.
Dean considered sitting in on the proceedings when they resumed on Monday, just out of curiosity.
Dean continued to exhibit restrain with his comebacks in deference to the improved moods around Bird Song.
Dean continued to his bedroom with Cynthia following.
Dean continued to stare at her, waiting for further explanation.
Dean could barely wait for Cynthia to finish her conversation before he tossed out his inspiration concerning the skeleton.
Dean could do little more than put his arm around her.
Dean could hear Randy taking a deep breath.
Dean could hear the sound of Cynthia crying and then the click as she hung up the extension.
Dean could only guess how painful so strong a blast directed at your body—and sometimes head—must feel.
Dean could picture him and the old man breaking into the storage building in the dead of night.
Dean could picture the meal.
Dean could picture the messing around.
Dean could see Cynthia bite her tongue.
Dean could see nothing behind him, only the slope directly beneath his feet.
Dean could tell by the look on her face that Lydia wanted to forget about Billy Langstrom and the accident, but she answered.
Dean could tell his stepfather's curiosity was at a peak.
Dean couldn't get a word in edgewise.
Dean couldn't think of any reason not to confirm its authenticity to the old man and did so.
Dean crawled on his hands and knees, peering under the vehicle for Billy's young girlfriend but there was no one else, only a liquor bottle—unlike its victim, unbroken.
Dean cringed at the word "fat."
Dean crossed to the bureau, picked up his hairbrush.
Dean cursed himself for not wanting to talk to the redheaded deputy, who would have been infinitely preferable to this obnoxious jerk.
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.
Dean didn't even offer a quip about Fred's tightness with a buck and his moth-eaten purse as the old man called over a waitress to do the duties.
Dean didn't want to go there.
Dean didn't want to pop his bubble, so he remained quiet.
Dean dittoed her sentiments.
Dean dropped it on his desk.
Dean emerged from behind the cluster of boulders and jogged to the edge of a clearing where he had a better view down the valley.
Dean examined the ground for tracks but the water, which while shallow, in most places covered the width of the narrow passageway and obliterated any footprints.
Dean explained how she'd stopped him for speeding.
Dean explained to their guest the winter power of Mother Nature.
Dean explained, as succinctly as possible, their concern for this child who'd spent six months in their care.
Dean felt a pang of sympathy—a child herself about to bring a life into the world.
Dean felt as if he might be getting somewhere, at least in identifying Martha's bones.
Dean felt compelled to do something even if he didn't know what.
Dean felt equally acrimonious toward the overbearing state official whom he hadn't seen since the winter and who, in Dean's mind, had no business being back in Ouray.
Dean felt satisfaction that his wife's dark mood had improved, but Martha's departure remained on her mind.
Dean figured Fred was making a last ditch effort for a dispensation from his public duty.
Dean figured the trunks sold for about a dime a pound.
Dean filled his coffee cup.
Dean followed close behind, with Fred O'Connor trailing.
Dean followed Joseph into the parlor.
Dean gingerly checked the pant's pockets but they were empty.
Dean glanced inside as he passed.
Dean glanced up, trying to catch his breath and spotted the mine portal before them.
Dean grabbed a bottle of inexpensive merlot and three glasses.
Dean grabbed Fitzgerald's arm.
Dean guessed no male juror would even bother listening to the testimony before giving her anything her little heart desired.
Dean had a feeling the woman was the tall blonde he'd seen leaving the courthouse behind Fred O'Connor.
Dean had blanked his campaign for sheriff from his mind, but now it returned with a headache fury.
Dean had filled his wife in on his morning's meeting while giving her a hand with the chores.
Dean had just finished telling Cynthia the bone was human when Fred knocked and entered.
Dean had no desire to know the macabre contents.
Dean had no intention of specifically mentioning Billy Langstrom, though the young man's death was on everyone's mind.
Dean had no stomach for going any deeper than necessary and the water from the mine seepage was getting deeper.
Dean had to admit—never out loud—that Fred O'Connor was far ahead in this junk collecting game.
Dean had to agree as she continued.
Dean had trouble remembering who was who but all were of like mind in their affection for the old man who turned up the charm meter a notch or two.
Dean hadn't detailed the last evening's happenings to the pair.
Dean hadn't even managed a last name for bitch-Jennifer, much less the details of Dawkins v. Dawkins.
Dean hadn't opened his mouth.
Dean handed Fitzgerald the photocopy of Martha's drawing and comments she and Cynthia had made.
Dean handed the phone to his wife as the light went on like in the comic books—a flashing bulb of inspiration.
Dean held back the door and Fitzgerald brushed past him, turning into the parlor where most of the Bird Song guests were gathered.
Dean held his wife closely, expecting more tears, but they didn't come.
Dean ignored the rejoinder.
Dean ignored the sarcasm.
Dean joined the applause while Lydia Larkin looked embarrassed.
Dean just rolled his eyes.
Dean just smiled, wondering how Ginger and Joseph would know where brother and sister-in-law were if they themselves hadn't lied like the proverbial rug and done the exact same thing as the pair they were accusing.
Dean knelt and examined the tires.
Dean knew from reading their newspaper comments and hearing of their exploits that age had in no way diminished their faculties.
Dean knew Joe Calvia; they'd met when he was first dating Cynthia.
Dean left the group for the kitchen and found Paulette Dawkins had beaten him there.
Dean looked around the crowd but couldn't spot her.
Dean looked at Fred, who had no idea what was going on.
Dean looked at his stepfather, who nodded in agreement.
Dean looked at his wife for help, but she just shrugged and smiled, and Dean let himself be led up the street.
Dean looked back at Fred in the rear view mirror but there was no hint of clarification.
Dean looked down at the two holes in his belt, now rendered unusable.
Dean looked longingly at a half-finished apple pie—set out of reach by Cynthia—while he nibbled on cold salmon and salad.
Dean looked up from squeezing honey from a plastic bear onto a piece of whole wheat toast smeared with peanut butter.
Dean looked up to see just such an opportunity present itself.
Dean motioned toward Lydia's direction.
Dean moved close enough to bump Fitzgerald but held his temper.
Dean moved into the shade and closer to the building for better reception.
Dean muttered an agreement as he began to open Dawkins's bureau drawers, more out of a nosy nervousness than anything sinister.
Dean nodded in agreement, his stomach roiling and his heart racing as he hoisted his knapsack to his shoulders and they slowly entered.
Dean only caught snatches, but enough to know Cynthia was speaking to Rose, son Randy, and Jen.
Dean ordered a cup of black Kona.
Dean paid no mind that the old man wasn't in the know about the latest Hollywood styles and so informed him.
Dean planned to spend his free time biking, but changed his mind when he saw the crowds in town and remembered the traffic that would clog the narrow roads.
Dean pointed out the peaks that ringed them; Cirque and Teakettle Mountains, and Potosi Peak, all over 13,000 feet, and Mount Sneffles, standing tall beyond the others, stretching 14,150 feet to the sky.
Dean promised himself to keep driving past the building if the deputy Larkin's car was in evidence, but only the sheriff's vehicle was present.
Dean promised to talk to Cynthia but Randy was devastated as he ended the call.
Dean pulled away from the curb, keeping his speed to a parade crawl.
Dean pulled down the top on his Jeep and slowly drove uptown, giving off what he hoped were candidate smiles and waves to the locals, all of whom seemed to be walking the sun drenched street.
Dean pulled his flashlight from his pocket, handed it to her, and turned away.
Dean pulled out the photocopies of the old newspaper ads requesting information on Josh published first by Edith Plotke and later by her father.
Dean reached for his wallet.
Dean reached in his pocket as he was undressing for bed a few hours later.
Dean recognized the man but didn't know his name.
Dean recognized the markings as a rental from town, but it was not the same vehicle either of the Dawkins brothers were driving.
Dean remembered the open window and the guests gathered outside on the back patio.
Dean resolved to try once more in the morning to get word to her.
Dean returned to Bird Song mid-morning, showered, and walked the three blocks to Diversions, a combination used book store, coffee shop, and local gathering place, on Sixth Street, a half block from Main.
Dean rocked back and sighed.
Dean rubbed his fingers through his hair and looked at his wife.
Dean said as he braked the Jeep, nearly tossing his standing passenger.
Dean said something polite as he glanced at the abundance before him and then at his Jeep across the street.
Dean said with a salute as Fred rose and drained his glass.
Dean sat in the corner, trying to read up on Colorado law as it pertained to the duties of sheriff, but was drawn by politeness and the darkened room to view the exhibit.
Dean sat on the ground next to the vehicle.
Dean saw no reason to lie.
Dean simply held out his hand.
Dean skidded around a tight corner and emerged from the elbow.
Dean slammed his fist against the Jeep in frustration at the sight.
Dean smiled at Fred's exuberance but didn't contradict him.
Dean sniffed the gun and opened the chamber, careful to not make a noise.
Dean speculated that they might be concentrating too much on Fitzgerald and the Dawkinses, and not on others who had access to the Deans' quarters.
Dean spotted another public servant at the liquor store.
Dean spotted Cynthia waving from the corner, just as Pumpkin shocked her with a stream of liquid.
Dean stood up and Fitzgerald noticed him for the first time.
Dean stood up and held her close so she couldn't see his cheering smile.
Dean stood up and turned around.
Dean stopped his Jeep beneath the trees and watched.
Dean stretched and extinguished the bedside lamp but neither slept.
Dean suggested before returning that they drive ten miles to the Ridgway fairgrounds, where a Sunday morning farmer's market offered fresh fruits and vegetables.
Dean summarized his meeting with the curmudgeons.
Dean swung by the Beaumont Hotel and dropped off Jennifer Radisson's camera, not unhappy to be rid of the reminder of the prior evening.
Dean telephoned the sheriff's office, crossing his fingers that the redheaded deputy Lady Larkin was out bagging the ten most wanted speeders.
Dean thought a moment before answering.
Dean thought a moment before responding.
Dean thought about Lydia Larkin, the new redhead in town.
Dean thought about the pictures, especially the one of Dickinson Faust standing next to his Jeep, with the woman's sweater hanging over the seat.
Dean thought he'd lost her completely but she remained sitting, clapping with the other spectators—a bit too strenuously—as the puppy parade continued.
Dean thought him to be in his late forties but he looked physically in shape and much younger.
Dean took a deep breath and continued.
Dean took a deep breath and looked at Cynthia who simply shook her head in wonderment.
Dean took a pencil and paper from the night stand and handed it to her.
Dean took a seat and joined her, part politeness, part to guard the remaining slice.
Dean took advantage of the time before the water fight to detail to Cynthia his conversation with the Dawkinses' stepmother.
Dean took her arm as they began the slosh home.
Dean tossed one—at him, not to him—as he passed.
Dean tried hard to exclude Jennifer Radisson from consideration as a malefactor, although he reluctantly admitted his sole reason to pass on her as a suspect was his belief in her story.
Dean tried to isolate the sound, looking frantically in all downward directions, trying to see a trace, a telltale puff of smoke in the gathering dusk.
Dean tried to pull away but she wasn't letting go.
Dean tried to remember all the methods he'd been taught to stem panic and act rationally.
Dean turned away from the frightened woman and hurriedly tied one end of the line to the back bumper of his Jeep.
Dean turned away without answering and walked toward his Jeep.
Dean wandered back to the kitchen, where his wife was fixing supper.
Dean was afraid she'd passed out.
Dean was amazed at the size of the crowd.
Dean was anxious to not hear about the Hutchins clan but in politeness let the conversation drift a while before he interrupted.
Dean was content to let them chat and concentrate on his driving.
Dean was enlisted as part of the convoy to the popular spot.
Dean was feeling more comfortable that Cynthia just needed time to get her priorities in line.
Dean was glad to see Fred's line of reasoning stray away from the Dawkinses.
Dean was hoping to at least finish his salsa before having to stop Fred from dashing up the mountain to single-handedly solve the caper.
Dean was hoping to find it or at least telltale signs that a body had decomposed on this spot, but no such evidence was apparent.
Dean was in front of Bird Song, trying to mow the lawn, still blanketed with the moisture of the now-ended drizzle when he remembered his promise to pick up Pumpkin Green and whoever else needed chauffeuring from the pool.
Dean was introduced—as the new sheriff— while Fred winked and the ladies laughed and clapped.
Dean was loading three full sacks in the rear of his Jeep when he was surprised to see Ginger Dawkins several yards away.
Dean was more than just surprised by her request.
Dean was no expert, but he could tell his guest was a first-class photographer.
Dean was pleased with the opportunity.
Dean was seated on the step of a rescue vehicle when Lydia was pulled up to the road.
Dean was sorry Cynthia was missing the presentation.
Dean was sure she was concerned that he'd attempt to investigate, but he had no such intention.
Dean was sure that, deep down, she thought whacking at a ball or chasing one someone else clobbered was an extended children's game and certainly not a worthwhile profession.
Dean was sure the old man and his dilapidated old Scout had done this a thousand times before.
Dean was sure they had not passed an unmarked turn.
Dean was thankful they both wore old hiking boots as they stepped forward, gazing with trepidation as the cool breath of the mine met them.
Dean wasn't anxious for Westlake to pursue the conversation and was relieved that the subject apparently held no interest for him.
Dean waved his arms and at first thought the driver didn't see them, but finally the vehicle stopped.
Dean went outside and checked, but it wasn't there.
Dean went to cat and girl and gave them both a long hug.
Dean willed his hands to remain in his pockets.
Dean wished Cynthia had waited until they were alone to bring up the subject.
Dean wished the bird luck as he pedaled by.
Dean wondered for a moment if Fred might have borrowed it, but dismissed the thought.
Dean wondered if Fitzgerald might be a closet drunk.
Dean wondered if he'd fortified himself with one of the pints of vodka.
Dean wondered if the boy played other sports.
Dean wondered if the young man knew the girl's condition.
Dean wondered, too, and then remembered.
Dean, sensing she wished to be alone, returned to the living room.
Dean, the big spender, reached for one ticket, but a look from his wife changed his purchase to seven.
Dean, towel over his arm, answered it.
Dean's arm felt as if he'd taken on half the World Wrestling Federation.
Dean's continued silence prompted her to explain.
Dean's Jeep was at the uphill end of the line of cluttered vehicles and Lydia Larkin was long gone by the time he was free to leave.
Dean's lack of proficiency at mountain climbing left him to make do instead of utilizing a more effective and safer method of descent.
Dean's only hope for an answer was if the woman volunteered it, but that didn't happen.
Dean's question was met with a smile and a kindergarten finger to Fred's shushing lips.
Deputy Sheriff Lydia Larkin drove by in her official white Blazer and Dean repressed the impulse to give her a one-finger salute.
Detective Dean might have been on a roll, but his wagon had suddenly come to a stop.
Don't forget the Dawkins boys, Dean told himself.
Either Cynthia's presence relaxed her or she'd decided David Dean was not a combatant from the enemy camp.
Even David Dean, although he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut in front of his wife, was forced to cross every finger of both hands.
Even more disconcerting, while Dean knew a small number of those present, he didn't spot a one of Fred's supportive cronies.
Even the cat looked up, more from the cessation of her patting than Dean's expletive.
Fitzgerald hardly waited for Dean to finish.
Fitzgerald moved too close to Dean.
Fodder for another horse race, Dean thought.
Fred explained the beads—she'd gone to Mardi Gras—as he unceremoniously pushed Dean into the rear seat of the open vehicle.
Fred ignored Dean and reached in his coat pocket and withdrew a letter, handing it to Cynthia.
Fred just snorted, but Dean noted the old man didn't deny the question.
Fred O'Connor had arranged the affair and Dean had reluctantly agreed to subject himself to the scrutiny of the cream of the town's lady folk.
Fred O'Connor, dressed to the nines in a dapper suit, pink shirt, bow tie and sporting a boutonniere, asked Dean if his iron was broken when he took one look at his stepson's new but wrinkled slacks.
From this higher level, Dean could see a patch of the road a thousand feet below him.
He asked Dean what the event was all about.
He chuckled as he reached over Dean and patted Cynthia's arm.
He glanced in the kitchen and asked Dean if he'd seen Ginger.
He publicly continued to express strong feelings about Dean's involvement.
He tied the line around Dean's waist with practiced fingers, keeping it below Dean's naked upper torso.
He turned and looked at Dean as he spoke.
He was a handsome kid who somehow reminded Dean of Cynthia's son, Randy, but more brash.
He was happy to be out of the dining room where Brandon Westlake and Pumpkin Green, both distraught over Billy Langstrom's death, were pressing Dean for details.
He was the one who switched the bones, killing two stones with one bird—" "I think you've got that a bit mixed up," Dean offered, but Fred was on a roll.
He would have hauled Fred along for company, but the old man had a date, so Dean was on his own.
His partner, a woman, lifted Dean's shirt from the body.
His shirt was untucked and Dean glanced at his fly, wondering if he'd been caught using a tree for a call of nature.
I finally agree with Mr. Dean on something!
I take great comfort in your company, Mr. Dean.
I'm sure you miss him, Dean said, fishing for a reaction.
If that were the case, Dean wondered, why had Joseph also rented a Jeep and parked out of sight behind Bird Song?
In spite of being a mediocre athlete at best, Dean had thrived on sports.
In spite of the inclement weather, there was a large crowd of bathers frolicking in the earth-warmed water of the million-gallon facility when Dean dislodged his passengers.
In spite of the protective gear worn, the challenge definitely excluded the weak of heart, and, in Dean's estimation, the strong of brain.
In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Dean was forced to stifle a chuckle.
It might have helped if you'd done your homework, master Dean.
It was a young man's—or woman's—game, although Dean doubted he'd have joined the contest, at least not willingly, even in his careless years.
It was Cynthia who volunteered for the nasty duty, turning down Dean's offer to join her.
It was Dean's turn to give his wife a look of caution.
It was here Dean was finally able to tell his wife about meeting Paul Senior's widow and his offer to show her the high country property in litigation.
It was impossible for Dean to get close enough to Billy to question him.
It was obvious to Dean that nothing in Ouray went unobserved.
It was on these byways that Dean opted to travel, rolling along the river with the down of cottonwoods filling the air like a winter snowstorm, past the occasional farm house, fields, and ever-present vista of mountains wrapping around him.
It was only a week past the longest day of the year and still light outside but Dean joined her, in case she changed her mind and needed him.
It was Roger who introduced first himself, then Charlie, who dipped his paper in acknowledgment, and Harold, who set down the news and looked at Dean over the top of his glasses, curious about the visit.
It's practically still dark out there, Dean answered.
It's true Mr. Dean has been under fire—it's fortunate we're standing here today—not sitting.
Jennifer asked "Probably to frighten us off," Dean answered.
Jennifer paused so long before answering that Dean thought she'd not heard his question.
Joseph stormed by Dean and Fred without a word, but Ginger lingered to finish her cigarette.
Joseph was ready to end the conversation but Dean was hoping for more fish in his creel.
Joseph, smiling for the first time in Dean's memory, said he and Ginger planned to walk about town and perhaps hike up to the nearby Box Canyon waterfall.
Like Billy's friend who's staying at Mr. Dean's boarding house, Bird Song!
Like hell, Dean thought, but he let Fred go on.
Liz plopped a straw hat with a red, white, and blue band on Dean's head just as three jets in close formation screamed overhead, buzzing the town in a deafening roar.
Long pants or grubby clothes weren't necessary, as Dean had no intention of entering the mine.
Lydia looked over at Dean.
Martha eventually slipped into a troubled sleep when Cynthia, with Dean by his side, again convinced the child they believed her, and promised to see the young girl's discovery reach daylight.
Maybe Dean should consider those two as well.
Maybe so, but the pronouncement gave Dean no solace.
Me too, thought Dean as the hall phone rang and Cynthia hurried in to answer it.
Mind reader, Dean thought, remembering his conversation with Cynthia.
More importantly, Dean now realized that the only real evidence that the remains from the mine were human had disappeared.
Mr. Dean here, part time detective and sheriff candidate, tracked down a hot lead on some bones—maybe a long dead villain—up at The Lucky Pup mine.
Mr. Dean wished he felt a modicum of confidence in himself as the three drifted off to sleep—David and Cynthia Dean, with SB, the Bird Song owl, snuggled next to them.
Mr. Dean, would you please discuss the circumstances of your injury in the line of duty?
Mr. Hutton introduced me to many of his literary friends, greatest of whom are Mr. William Dean Howells and Mark Twain.
Ms. Larkin was far from sober, but Dean had unanswered questions.
No one answered until Dean finally said, "The bus service stinks."
Nor, for that matter, would have anyone else Dean could think of, Acting Sheriff Fitzgerald included.
Oh, shit was all Dean could think, but he willed the words to stay put.
On the way to the pool, with Pumpkin and the Texas widow as his passengers, Pumpkin told Dean that Langstrom had recruited him for the Fourth of July water fight.
Once Dean turned from the highway; however, he had the road to himself.
Once Dean was standing at the podium and he'd controlled the shake in his knees and hidden the sweat on his palms, he felt he didn't do badly.
One look at Dean told her she was getting close to home.
One morning there was a loud knock at Dean Swift's door.
One of Fred's nameless cohorts buttonholed Dean as he stepped from his vehicle, and by the time he extricated himself from her verbal grasp, the blonde was lost in the crowd at the park.
One of Mrs. Worthington's friends taped the debate and Fred and Cynthia listened to it while Dean nursed his ego, and an ale or two, on the front porch.
One of the fire trucks, a few positions ahead of Dean, periodically let go with a squirt to the screech and scream of the victims.
Or whoever's ass ends up owning the mine, Dean thought, but he simply waved away the apology.
Paul Dawkins wiped his face with his hand and looked at Dean as if to ask if he were serious.
Paul sipped his drink and looked around as Dean returned to the chaise.
Paulette Dawkins, whom Dean thought was dining with her clan, bounded into the kitchen to report a mouse sighting in her room.
Pumpkin Green returned while Dean was killing the few minutes before he left.
Pumpkin trotted off, bouncing on legs Dean would die for.
Randy and Jen made a great pair and Dean knew it would all work out in the long haul.
Randy asked about Fred, and Dean related Fred's latest exploits with the bargains from the props of the play Boo!
Roger asked, turning to Dean, his blue eyes twinkling.
She bore a look of defeated resignation as Dean and his wife joined her.
She gave a shiver and handed it back to Dean.
She looked once more at Dean, turned, and began hobbling down the road to her car.
She might have been a fellow juror, but Dean sensed that he was watching Jennifer Radisson in his rearview mirror.
She opened her eyes and looked over at Dean.
She read it with Dean nosed over her shoulder.
She stood with a tall, good-looking man with a rounded haircut that might have been stylish somewhere but to Dean looked silly.
She turned to them and Dean could see a tear on her cheek.
She was staring down at the ground and didn't see Dean.
She wore an impish look, high cheekbones and the only lavender eyes Dean had ever seen.
She's got legs that—" "Yeah," Dean said.
Silly David Dean for thinking more time might be needed to put all these pesky details to rest.
Smiling Acting Sheriff Fitzgerald, dressed in his uniform, greeted Dean graciously as he poured charm on the ladies.
So far, except for stomach growls an hour or so before mealtime, Dean wasn't complaining.
Something told Dean it wasn't the time for poking fun.
Speeding on our highways— Mr. Dean knows about that first-hand—my competent deputy arrested him for doing just that a few days ago.
Sure, Dean thought, I'll put it on the list, right after food, clothing and shelter, all of which were tough enough to fund given Bird Song's present budget.
Tell me that, Dean continued, picking up a large bone and looking at it closely.
That might be painful, considering where Mr. Dean was shot!
That or Dean's announcement about running his fingerprints.
That takes guts," Dean said, then added with a smile, "So goodie little Cynthia used to get her bum-bum paddled, huh?"
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.
The bike was a trophy from a time when Dean's budget contained more expendable income.
The combatants left the room together, with Fitzgerald not even acknowledging Dean's presence.
The Dean took the rabbit and went out of the house.
The Dean's ages—both forty—and the financial limitations of their new business would make obtaining court approval difficult.
The Dean's private quarters, a sitting room-office combination and bedroom, were located in the rear.
The excavation was wider here and Dean could see signs of some earlier passage in the mud at the edge.
The last item on Dean's list of pleasurable activities was punching one if you want this and two if you want that buttons, then sitting on hold while listening to elevator music from some bureaucratic office.
The look Dean gave him left no doubt they knew where he'd been.
The man rose and came over to Dean's table.
The medic tried to examine her but she waved him away, her eyes on Dean all the while.
The next-to-last thing Dean wanted was to have to look out for the safety of his stepfather—the last was going himself.
The old man excused himself and followed Dean to the kitchen.
The other four trunks displayed like goods—a moth-eaten gorilla suit, two bloody collections of dresses, and an outfit Dean supposed Frankenstein wore when he went out for a little nightlife.
The phone rang, precluding a pithy rejoinder, and as Cynthia was elbow-deep in dishwater, Dean answered.
The remainder of the meeting rocked back and forth, but there was no doubt in Dean's mind that he'd been hurt badly—and unfairly—by Fitzgerald.
The six ladies-in-waiting of the Dean for Sheriff brigade cupped their hands and booed the competition, to the delight of the crowd.
The ten-year-old girl had resided at Bird Song with David Dean, his wife Cynthia, and Dean's seventy-seven-year-old stepfather, Fred O'Connor, for the past six months.
The three entered the Dean's office.
The vehicle, older than Fred, sounded better than Dean's Jeep.
The woman listened patiently, or so Dean assumed by her silence.
The women looked frightened, Faust actually ducked, and David Dean moved to the cover of a nearby boulder, pulling his wife along with him.
Then, Fitzgerald added, I understand Mr. Dean was in the area, too, though I don't as yet know why.
There was a chill, but once Dean began warming his muscles he felt comfortable in this familiar posture.
There was a look of resignation, not concern, on Cynthia's face as Dean shouldered his pack and Cynthia's camera equipment.
There was polite applause, a little less then followed Fitzgerald's words, or so thought Dean.
There was the Friday meeting with the town ladies— just two days away—and Dean knew he should be gathering thoughts and notes but his mind was too scattered to construct a coherent speech.
There, amid a cluster of floats, Boy Scouts and ballerinas, four of Fred's lady friends were in the final stages of hanging bunting about a beautiful old touring car whose vintage or name Dean couldn't identify.
There's a woman whose husband owned the land where the mine is located and she may know something helpful, Dean told her.
They pulled up to Bird Song but Dean made no effort to alight.
They sat for a moment while Dean opened his knapsack and checked their limited equipment.
They were just finishing dressing when Dean heard a sound, the door closing directly above, in Fred's room.
They'd traveled several hundred yards when Dean saw it, nearly covered by brush and invisible from all but a few feet away.
This is it, I guess,' Dean said glumly.
This isn't his first time here, Dean thought, but they took his exit as their cue to leave.
This time Dean was silent.
Time to scat, thought Dean.
To Dean, the tunnel was even more claustrophobic as he hunched forward, taking baby steps like a second grade schoolyard game.
To Dean's experienced ears, it didn't sound like a joke.
True to his word, Dean refrained from questioning Jennifer.
Twenty-four hours after his hour-long downhill hike from the mine, Dean's stilts felt like he'd run a barefoot marathon on cobblestoned streets.
Unfortunately, Cynthia Dean had chosen the wrong audience.
Walking back to Bird Song, Dean mulled over what he'd learned.
We have time for one last question—directed to Mr. Dean.
Westlake practically camps on it and even Pumpkin Green's has gotten in on the act, Dean said.
Westlake's eyes met Dean's in knowing sympathy.
What else could it be, Mr. Dean?
When Dean didn't introduce himself, Faust gave Jennifer what he meant as an "old boy" pat on her arm and added, "Checking out the property one last time?"
When Dean didn't respond—principally because he had no idea what this woman was talking about—she continued.
When Dean didn't respond, he added, "Tomorrow," but made no further move to stop him.
When Dean didn't respond, she answered.
When Dean entered their bedroom, Cynthia was no longer crying, but furious.
When Dean questioned her, she told of receiving a phone call concerning that same property some weeks earlier.
When Dean shook his head and wondered aloud why Westlake, who obviously wasn't poor, would mess around with five and ten-dollar items, Fred explained.
When Saturday's daylight arrived to David Dean's exhausted eyes, the time had slipped past his usual rising hour and voices and footsteps rattled the old timbers of Bird Song.
When the phone rang for the fourth time, Dean assumed it was either a call for reservations or more discussion on the upcoming New Jersey wedding plans, but Cynthia held the phone against herself and called to her husband.
Whether it was wedding plans, baby names, or ways to kill her son, Dean didn't know.
Which sounded to Dean exactly like 'coming to terms,' but who was he to say?
While Cynthia took her shower, Dean made a few phone calls, asking for Ms. Dawkins, but after a dozen tries, he came up empty.
While Dean could have officially requested Fitzgerald to pursue the matter, his past experience was beginning to teach Dean when to keep his mouth shut.
While Dean discounted hooligans as the source of his vandalism, he was more than happy to accept Brandon Westlake's timely rescue.
While Dean distrusted the Dawkins, given their mutual animosity toward one another, any collective effort on their part—on any project—seemed questionable, if not impossible.
While Dean enjoyed the spectacle of the exciting contest, he harbored no envy toward its participants.
While Dean felt foolish, he couldn't help feeling a tickle of pleasure as hundreds of people clapped and cheered as they passed.
While Dean had been at odds with the man since their first confrontation last January, it was Fitzgerald's venomous comments at the debate that led Dean to now believe him capable of almost anything.
While Dean had briefly touched on his search for Martha's bones at the park that morning, he and Cynthia now repeated the story in greater detail.
While Dean hadn't read the tome, Cynthia had utilized it faithfully in her recent perpetration of meals.
While Dean planned to again call the state agencies in an attempt to run down Martha, he didn't have to wait.
While Dean remained distressed over the accident, he knew he must concentrate on the Women's Club debate just hours away.
While Dean was fully exonerated from any wrongdoing in the unfortunate affair, either Fitzgerald failed to agree with the determination or simply despised being judged wrong.
While it was a long shot that the bitchy deputy could be any help, Dean was frustrated enough with the other available avenues to bite his tongue and ask for help.
While it was a nice ending, Dean didn't kid himself that he'd won the confrontation.
While Jennifer didn't complain, Dean could see her hands gripping the sides of the vehicle tightly as they moved steadily upward.
While the crow-flies distance across the gaping gorge was only a half-mile, Dean was at least twenty minutes away in driving time.
While the entire program was new to him, Dean realized that if he was running for public office, certain obligations were mandatory.
While the walk was less than a half-mile, Ouray's 7,800-foot elevation and the uphill rise caused Dean to quicken his breathing—one more reminder to get in shape.
Yes, Dean thought, and someone else knows we know.
Yes, Dean thought, unless someone decides to get more serious about stopping us.
You're going to have to do much better than that, Mr. Dean.