Mountain Ice (David Dean Mysteries)

Fred grumbled on. "You can make fun of that stuff, but a lot of wild things happened around this old mining town a hundred years ago." Then he added, "I should know, being as I'm in the business, so to speak."

With the proceeds of a recent stock sale, Fred O'Connor had invested in a complete computer system and was off and running. He began by selling some of his numerous mystery novels on a book finder's web site, then expanded to garage sale scouring for items of dubious value. Dean was reluctant to admit it, but the old gent had met with some success. As the esteemed Mr. Barnum said, there's one born every minute. Lately, Fred had expanded his electronic rummage sale, advertising himself as a local resource for anyone seeking ancestral information in Ouray County.

The town of Ouray, while only a century and a quarter old, was rich in history and Fred O'Connor, together with a cadre of widows with similar interests, spent many hours reading Ouray's old newspapers and written accounts. While these endeavors had produced zero income, the activities endeared him to the local ladies of the historical society who fluttered around the dapper gentleman like chicks at feed time. The sole response to Fred's electronic advertising was not a sale of services, but a questionable purchase he was conned into buying. It remained a sore point with the old man.

"Your box of junk that Chicago guy palmed off on you probably caused my nightmare. I think the gal in my dream was wearing the same white dress he sold you."

"You can make all the fun you want about that stuff, but I'm still working on selling it. I got some ideas and I have a few feelers out," Fred answered, a defensive tone in his voice. "Besides, if you don't take a chance in life, all the best opportunities will pass you by."

The box, advertised as containing Ouray, Colorado correspondence from the last century and "other items of local interest," was offered via the Internet at three hundred dollars. Fred, remembering historical items from an earlier mystery in which he and his stepson were involved, jumped at the offer. But the eagerly anticipated package was a gross disappointment. The letters, eleven in all, were not from Ouray, but to a Ouray minister's wife, from her sister, a Boston matron. The correspondence was stiff and formal and said little, certainly nothing about the town of Ouray and was totally absent any tidbits of historical nature. The "other items" proved to be a notebook with hundreds of practiced letters and numbers, a pen and dried ink bottle, a white dress with a thrift store smell that had aged to yellow, a comb, hair brush, some ancient under things and a pair of ladies shoes.