A Ton of Gold (Crystal Moore Suspense Book 1) Read online

  “I’m fine.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Home. Where else would I be?”

  In the hospital. “What happened?”

  “Some fool tried to run me off the road.”

  Crystal’s back relaxed slightly. "Nana, I don’t think he was trying to kill you."

  "Were you here?"

  Crystal reminded herself that this was her grandmother, her only living relative. "Okay. Tell me what happened."

  "Well, I was going to town. And some redneck tried to run me off the road. Clear as could be. Meant to kill me!"

  Crystal rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. She worried about her grandmother driving, or living alone, for that matter. At seventy-six, reactions slowed. Maybe her grandmother shouldn't be driving at all.

  "Every week somebody tries to run me off the road while I'm driving to work. He just wasn't paying attention, that's all."

  "That dog won't hunt. I was paying attention. I saw him. He looked right at me, then pulled over in my lane. I could see it in his eyes. He intended to run me right off the road—or hit me head-on. He cotton-pickin' meant to kill me."

  "Did you call the police?"

  "What for? They'd give me the same routine you are."

  Crystal took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "What do you want me to do, Nana?"

  "Nothing. Nothing you can do."

  Crystal struggled to keep her voice as neutral as possible. She dearly loved her grandmother but Nana could be difficult sometimes. She saw the world very clearly, with seldom a doubt on how to interpret it. "Then why did you call me? Just to worry me?"

  "No.” Crystal detected a trace of hurt feelings in her grandmother’s voice. "Because I wanted you to know somebody's trying to kill me. And if I die under questionable circumstances, I want you to tell the police it was murder. And make sure they do something. You know how old Billy Goat is. If you don't stick his nose in it, he can't find—"

  "Nana!” Crystal cut her off. "Bill Glothe's been the sheriff for ten years—and your friend a lot longer than that."

  "Ugly truck. One of those, ah, what-cha-ma-callits. Ah, four-by-fours. Big as a dump truck. Puce."

  "Puce? They don't make puce-colored cars."

  "Well, maybe he painted it, I don't know. Looked puce to me."

  "Are you Okay? Is there anything I can do for you?"

  "Yes and no. I'm fine and there's nothing you can do. Just remember what I told you. Anything happens, get Billy Goat on it."

  "I will,” Crystal promised. “I love you, Nana."

  Crystal swiveled her chair around and gazed out the window. Already, the sun was baking the shops and restaurants in the trendy West End Historic District. An area of old warehouses, next to the schoolbook depository of Lee Harvey Oswald fame, had been transformed into a modern, attractive area popular with tourists and locals alike.

  Her thoughts gravitated back to her grandmother. Maybe I ought to go get her and bring her to live in Dallas. The corners of Crystal’s mouth curled up slightly. That'll be the day.

  Eula Moore was a maverick. A five feet two inch, gray-haired dynamo, she lived in the middle of three hundred twenty acres in East Texas. Her nearest neighbor’s house stood nearly a mile away as the crow flies and two miles by the pot-holed road. A trip to the store in the closest town covered twenty-four miles roundtrip.

  When Crystal's granddad died five years ago, she felt certain her grandmother would sell the place and move into town. But Eula steadfastly refused even to consider such a thing. She loved "The Park," as she and her husband had named it fifty years before. Why would she want to move?

  Crystal understood. After her parents died in an auto accident when she had just turned seven, her grandparents took her to raise. At first, she was so angry at the world she hated everything. But month-by-month, the pain eased and The Park helped in the healing process. The beauty made it difficult to stay bitter, and the tranquility slowly dried her tears. She pictured one of her favorite spots, a hill that fell off sharply to the water, across the lake from the house. Her seven-year-old eyes had seen it as a sheer cliff overlooking the ocean, promising adventure.

  “Pam said your grandmother sounded a little distraught. Is there a problem?” Mark stood in the doorway.

  Crystal swung her chair around. "I don’t think so."

  Mark cocked his head to one side and scrutinized her. “Did you do something to your mouth? The right side looks discolored, or something.”

  Crystal touched her face where the lipstick had smeared. “Oh, no. No. I was, ah, just rubbing it and it got red, I guess.” By now, her cheeks had a pink glow.

  Mark nodded a couple of times. "Remember, you promised to take me to see your grandmother’s place. And try the fishing."

  "Next time I go, I'll invite you."

  "Don't forget.” Mark started to leave, then turned back. "Oh, I'll be out of the office tomorrow. Hot prospect down in Waco. But I'll be back Wednesday for our lunch meeting. Looking forward to your presentation.” He paused a moment, as if checking a mental to-do list. “We’ll put together such a great demonstration the venture capitalists will throw money at us.” He winked, gave her an encouraging smile and left.

  Crystal leaned back in her chair, relief spreading from head to toe. That was more like the Mark she knew.

  She recalled the first time she met Mark. And the events leading up to it. She had been writing her dissertation in information retrieval at Stanford University, but a misunderstanding with her advisor had effectively killed that. Crystal had felt discouraged and worthless. After a week of sitting in her room crying, she left school and returned to Texas.

  Sally Pampson appeared in the doorway. “There’s to be no smiling here today. Rooney’s coming.” She plodded over and slid into a chair. “What’s caused such a contented look on such a hectic day?”

  “Oh, I was just thinking about my first interview with Mark.”

  “Wasn’t much to mine. Whatever he said, I just repeated my mantra, ‘I can do that.’ Finally, he asked me what I couldn’t do. I looked him square in the eye and said, ‘Work for a low salary.’” Sally leaned her head back and roared. “He hired me. Can you believe that?”

  “Well, my interview certainly didn’t go that way. I was really down at the time, wasn’t sure I could do anything. When he said he needed a project leader, I wanted to run out of the room, but was too scared to get up and leave. I remember thinking, ‘This will be over soon; it’s almost lunchtime.’ Would you believe he ordered in sandwiches and we kept going? I’m not sure I answered any of his questions. I was so nervous, I went to the restroom four times.”

  “You could have just kept going out the front door.”

  “Didn’t have the nerve. Then about 4:00, he offered me the job. I was terrified. I couldn’t believe he really wanted me. What if I couldn’t do it? What if I didn’t have the brains for this work?”

  Crystal’s smile faded as she remembered her apprehension. What if she were humiliated again? She might never regain any confidence, any self-respect.

  “Well, Mark made a good decision. And so did you,” Sally declared.

  “He wasn’t too happy with me this morning.”

  “He’s not happy about anything today. Mark is completely confident about his abilities and IRS, but he’s not so confident about the good judgment of the venture capitalists. And he doesn’t know who they’ve hired as a consultant.” Sally pushed herself up out of the chair. “I guess that’s my cue to get back to work.”

  For a minute, Crystal sat there thinking about her first weeks at IRS and how Mark had helped her regain some self-confidence. Mentally, she shook herself. Now, he needs me to produce. If they were to load data this week, she and her group would have to really push. She picked up the phone and punched a button. “Hi. Get the team together in the conference room in, ah, ten minutes. Thanks.”

  Chapter 3

  BRANDI Brewer finished washing the last of the dinner dishes, dri
ed her hands with a bright, floral dishtowel and turned to face her housemate. “All right. What’s going on?”

  Crystal put away a skillet, keeping her back to Brandi. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, something’s going on with you right now and you’re clamming up. You couldn’t get it together this morning. You wore mismatched clothes. And no earrings. Not like you at all. And to top it off, I fix my specialty for dinner and you can’t string five words together.”

  “Lemon chicken is the only thing you fix that doesn’t come out of a box.” Crystal gave a half-hearted laugh, but her eyes remained cloudy.

  “That’s what makes it my specialty. Now, what happened at work today?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “You know I don’t give up. Might as well tell me now and save us both a lot of energy.”

  Crystal shrugged, walked into the living room and slumped into an overstuffed chair. “Mark was on a tear today, that’s all.”

  “That gorgeous hunk? Hard to imagine those deep blue eyes angry.”

  “The venture capitalists are unhappy. They’re going to send in somebody to pick at our work.”

  “Big deal.”

  “It’s never good to have the ‘bean counters’ checking on research. They’re too shortsighted. Only concerned with what you’ve done for them this week. Never look at the long range good you might be accomplishing.”

  Brandi settled back on the couch and put her feet on the coffee table. “Okay. I’ll buy that. What about Dr. Coup?”

  Crystal glanced up for an instant, then refocused on the marble top of the table. She didn’t want to think about Dr. Krupe, much less talk about him.

  In a singsong voice, Brandi asked, “What’s the scoop on Dr. Coup?”

  “Krupe,” Crystal said without looking up. “Has an ‘R’ in it.”

  “Okay, Krupe. Was this an affair gone bad?”

  “We had a misunderstanding. It was a long time ago. Not important now.”

  Brandi snorted. “Not important? You were sure worked up about it in the middle of the night. Not the first time, either. And did you look at yourself this morning? It’s a little early for Halloween. He dumped you, right?”

  “No. He did not dump me.”

  “I’ve been the dumper and the dumpee. When I did the dumping, I forgot it. When the guy walked, it bothered me. Maybe a lot. Maybe a long time.”

  “It wasn’t an affair. He was my dissertation advisor at Stanford.”

  “Well, I’m not very smart, but I’ve been to street U., and I can tell you this from experience. If you don’t deal with it, talk about it, scream and holler, you’re going to keep having nightmares and bad mornings. Been there, done that. Let’s get rid of that devil.”

  Crystal squirmed in her chair. She studied the picture of a Spanish mission on the opposite wall as her eyes became moist.

  Brandi’s voice softened. “Come on. Tell Mother Brewer what happened.”

  Crystal didn’t want to talk about it. But Brandi was right about one thing: the nightmares weren’t going away. They were getting worse. Right now, she struggled to hold back tears. Why did he still have the power to destroy her self-confidence, her self-esteem? To make her uncertain of everything she did?

  Contrary to her intentions, words began to tumble out of her mouth. “He asked me to come by his house to talk about my research. He’d never done that before, and it was a nasty night, but of course I went. He was the Great Dr. Krupe, the high priest of information retrieval. You couldn't say no.

  "We discussed a few points, he made a couple of suggestions and in ten minutes, the meeting was over. I got up to leave. It was . . .” Her voice began to falter and it was several moments before she could continue. “The rain was really coming down. He offered to help me with my jacket, so I handed it to him and turned around.”

  Her throat began to close, as if to prevent more words from coming out. She shut her eyes. She didn’t want to continue, but the words had been bottled up for a long time and now they escaped. “I felt his breath on my neck first, and he was saying it was too nasty to go home right now. I should stay until the rain stopped.” A slight tremor rippled through her body. “And then his hands were up under my sweater and he was groping my breasts, pulling me back against him and kissing my neck.” She ducked her head down, blinking her eyes, trying not to cry.

  After a minute, Brandi leaned forward and whispered, “What happened?”

  “I managed to push his hands away and turn around. He was looking at me like I was a … a ripe peach. I felt … .” She shuddered. “I picked my jacket up off the floor and said I wasn’t about to go to bed with him.” Crystal looked at the ceiling, then back at the Spanish Mission, all the while blinking rapidly.

  “And?”

  “As I put on my jacket, he puffed up and said I had misinterpreted. He was just helping me with my coat and suggesting I might want to wait until the rain eased up a bit. If I had misread it, that was my lack of experience.”

  Crystal swallowed and there was a catch in her voice as she continued. “He said I often had trouble interpreting things correctly. And perhaps we’d better talk about my paper in his office the next afternoon.”

  She was quiet for a while, her eyes closed, her head bowed. Finally, Brandi said, “Well, that’s not so bad. Let me count the times. There was Fast Freddie. And Sleazy Sam. And Fat Tony, and—”

  Crystal’s voice rose an octave and the despair came from down deep. “He was my advisor.”

  “Fat Tony was my boss.”

  “Did he fire you?”

  “I quit. How come it’s never anybody I like? Oh, well. What did old Poop do?”

  Now, the tears refused to be held back. Crystal’s body shook and she hid her face in her hands. Brandi went over, sat on the edge of the chair and wrapped her arms around Crystal.

  After several minutes, Crystal went on without raising her head. “The next day, I arrived at his office, expecting him to apologize for his behavior the night before. Without so much as a hello, he started in on my dissertation. He told me it was worthless. There was no originality, no merit to it. I should trash it. I could start over, if I wished. But I would have to come up with another proposal and try to get it approved by my committee.” She swallowed. “And get another advisor, which he thought might prove to be difficult.”

  A low moan escaped from Crystal. “He said, to be perfectly frank, he didn’t think I had the ability to make it. I should consider whether I was wasting my time in school. I certainly was wasting his time.” Her body shook with silent sobs for a minute before she could finish. “So I quit. Left. Gave up my Ph.D. I was so close.” Her voice became a whisper. "So close.”

  “That bastard.” Brandi had her arms around Crystal, and fire in her eyes. “Dr. Creep didn’t get your body, so he raped your mind.”

  For a long time, neither woman spoke, muffled sobs the only sound. The tears finally subsided and Crystal got up and trudged into the bathroom to wash her face. When she returned she apologized for her loss of control.

  “Don’t apologize. Get mad. And if you get the chance, get even.” Brandi jumped to her feet and looked down at her housemate. “And don’t call it a misunderstanding. When Dr. Creep couldn’t entice you into bed, he drummed you out of school. That’s not a misunderstanding, that’s an assault.” For a moment, fire blazed in Brandi’s eyes. Then, a grin crossed her face. “I was wrong when I called him Dr. Creep. He’s Dr. Crap.”

  The tiniest hint of a smile made its way onto Crystal’s face. “I like it. Dr. Crap. Dr. Lester Crap.”

  “Lester? Lester the lecher.”

  Crystal actually laughed. “Dr. Lecher Crap. Describes him perfectly.”

  “Dr. Crap don’t know jack.”

  “Dr. Crap is a big fat sap.”

  “And you don’t give a damn what he thinks.”

  “And I don’t give . . . a . . ." Crystal’s voice trailed off as the smile evaporated from her face.

&
nbsp; Chapter 4

  CRYSTAL drew diagrams on the white board while Phil Wilson and Sally Pampson, the other two project leaders at Intelligent Retrieval Systems, loaded their plates with food. Mark was already at the table, a sandwich, chips and several strawberries adorning his plate.

  The lunch was not a social event. They all knew that in their profession, you either kept up with new research, or quickly fell behind. So, each Wednesday, one person reviewed a current technical paper. The responsibility rotated through the group.

  This week, the task fell to Crystal. She finished the diagrams, turned around and began her talk. A navy and white, knee-length linen dress emphasized her model-thin figure. Her hair, black and shiny as obsidian, provided the perfect frame for a heart-shaped face. Her almond eyes reminded one of aged bronze. A tanned and flawless complexion made most makeup unnecessary. Today, a dainty, silver hummingbird hung from each ear.

  Twenty-five minutes later, she finished describing the material in the paper and began her conclusions.

  "What they found is that there is no statistical difference in these three methods.” Sally raised a forefinger as if to object, so Crystal quickly added, "When applied to the specific problem of transcripts of spoken language.”

  "Okay. If you limit it to people talking, I won't object,” Sally said.

  The telephone rang, but nobody paid any attention.

  "Maybe you should still object,” said Phil.

  The phone rang again. Mark frowned at the offending piece of plastic. Pam knew they did not like to be interrupted during these sessions. "Why do you say that, Phil?”

  On the third irritating ring, Mark grabbed the phone, listened, then pointed the receiver toward Crystal.

  With the discussion suspended, Sally and Phil replenished their plates. Talk shifted to food and the weather, no one wishing to continue analyzing the research without Crystal’s input.

  Crystal listened intently while twisting the phone cord around her hand. She replaced the phone in its cradle. "Mark.” Her voice quavered. "I've got to go. That was the sheriff from Wooden Nickel. Nana's been in a car accident.”