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“Do you know when the box was opened?” Dale asks.
“No. I was so surprised by the whole thing, I didn’t ask. I could go back.”
“No, never mind all that. What was in the box?”
“An envelope. A plain white envelope with some small object inside.”
“And…?”
“I didn’t open it.”
A huge scoffing sigh meets my ears. “For God’s sake, Don.”
“Get over yourself, Dale. I had this image of white powder coming out of it. You know, anthrax, like is sometimes delivered to politicians’ offices. I was freaked.”
“All right, all right. Calm down. Do you have the envelope there?”
“Yeah.” I grab my suitcoat and pull it out of the pocket. “It’s just a white legal-sized envelope. I meant to open it outside, you know, so if there’s white powder it won’t be concentrated in a room.”
“Go outside, then.”
“I don’t have to. I can go out on the balcony of my room.”
“Okay. FaceTime me, and we’ll open it together.”
I end the call and begin FaceTime. I set the phone on the railing so Dale can watch what I’m doing. “Here goes nothing.”
I slide my finger through the envelope, this time being careful not to get a paper cut. The object clatters to the floor of the balcony, and I pick it up.
“What is it?” Dale asks.
“It’s a ring. Gold with a big orange stone. God, Dale, it looks like flames.” I hold it up to the phone. It’s not quite the color of Callie’s eyes—it’s lighter—but that’s what the color reminds me of.
“Whose is that?”
“Do you think I have a clue? It’s… I have no idea what kind of stone this is, but it’s white gold or platinum, surrounded by diamonds.”
“You sure they’re diamonds?”
“Do I look like a jeweler to you? Of course I’m not sure. They’re small clear stones. They look like diamonds.”
“What else is in the envelope?”
“Good question.” I pull out a lone piece of paper. “It looks like GPS coordinates. A few sets. And some phone numbers. Colorado and another area code I’m not familiar with.” I hold the paper up so Dale can see.
“Any white powder?”
I tent the envelope over the rail of the balcony. “No,” I say sheepishly.
“Okay, then.” Dale rakes his fingers through his long, tangled hair. “At least we have something to start with. A ring. And information someone wanted you to have.”
“They could have sent me an anonymous note,” I say. “Why go to all the trouble of opening a safe-deposit box in my name? And who has my ID? This is freaky, Dale.”
“Uncle Joe and Brock have got our guys working on this. They’ll come up with something.”
“Yeah? Well, get them in on this safe-deposit box bullshit. I want to know who opened this box with my ID and my signature. And for that matter, I want to know who put it in my damned house!”
“Monarch hasn’t called you with the footage?”
“No. Not yet.”
“We’ll get to the bottom of this, Don. Without you breaking the law.”
“I hope we can. Maybe we just should have—”
“No, don’t go there. It was consuming you. Not worth it.”
“I still have to pay off Lambert.”
“So what? It’s pennies to us. You did the right thing, Donny. Trust me on that one.”
I nod. He’s right and I know it. The problem? So much else is still jumbled in my brain. “So what next?”
“Call the numbers. Look up the GPS coordinates.”
“I can do all that, but I have to get back to Snow Creek as well. I’m in charge while Mom’s not there. I can’t let her down.”
Dale sighs.
“Don’t even start,” I say.
“Wasn’t going to.”
“Sure you were. And you’re wrong. Yes, I took the job for Mom, but I also have a responsibility to the city. I need to be there especially while Mom’s in Grand Junction with Dad.”
“I know that,” Dale snaps. “Send me a photo of the document, and I’ll make some calls this afternoon.”
“Good idea.” I snap the photo and text it to him.
“How’s your Syrah going?” I ask.
“It’s good. Almost ready to move to barrels for aging.”
“When do you think that’ll happen?”
“Why this sudden interest in my wine?”
“Because, doofus, when the Syrah is done, you’ll have more time to spend on this mess.”
He scoffs. “You really think all I do is sit around watching grapes ferment?”
“No, of course not. Shit, Dale, I don’t mean to belittle what you do.”
“It’s okay. I don’t mean to belittle what you do either. We’re both on edge. You’re right. You’re in charge while Mom’s not there. Looks like neither of us have the time we need to devote to this mess.”
“I guess we let the experts take care of it, then,” I say.
“You mean Uncle Joe and Brock?”
“Of course not. I mean Uncle Joe and Brock’s guys. Uncle Joe and Brock run the beef ranch. They can’t just stop doing it. Hell, Uncle Joe and Uncle Bryce run this whole damned enterprise.”
