“I feel like everyone is staring at me,” Catherine Laeche stated quietly. Chris Bayer immediately reached for his fiancé’s hand.

“No one is staring, Cath,” Chris said soothingly.  “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I’m not so sure he agrees,” Catherine said, fear edging her voice.

Chris looked up and across the diner where the couple was having lunch.  Sheriff Leroy Longtooth was making his way toward them.

“Miss Laeche,” Longtooth greeted, and then turned to Chris.  “Morning, Mr. Bayer. Mind if I join you?”  He quietly sat in the empty chair across from Catherine.

“Thought you might like to know,” the sheriff began, keeping his voice at a whisper, “the autopsy report indicates that Mark was definitely murdered.  However, neither Saunders nor Moss found anything to positively point to the murderer.”  He stopped and carefully watched Catherine’s eyes.  Were they the eyes of a cold-blooded killer? He really didn’t think so.

Longtooth rose, but then bent close to the table again.  “You don’t happen to own a Hopi Manyteeth, do you Miss Laeche?”

“A h-hunting knife?” Catherine stammered.  “N-no.  I certainly don’t!”

The sheriff tipped his hat, “Have a nice day, folks.”

* * *

Luke Martin distractedly tossed another pebble into the quiet stream.

“Hey!” Chet Morton protested, “Luke, you’re scaring the fish away!”  The stout boy was sitting on the bank with a fishing pool carefully planted in the ground between his knees.

“Sorry,” Luke apologized.  “I just feel so restless.  We should have gone into town with Frank and Joe.”

“That wasn’t logical,” Phil Cohen countered.  “It will be difficult enough for the two of them to see the sheriff.  Can you imagine all six of us barging into his office?”

Biff Hooper chuckled, “Yeah! That would be a sight.” 

Tired of not catching anything for their efforts, the four boys gathered their fishing equipment and began the hike back to Morefield Village.

“Shouldn’t they be back by now?” Luke questioned, pulling his backpack tighter.

“Not necessarily,” Phil answered.  “It’s really not been that long, Luke.”

“Just seems like it ‘cause we’re bored out of our skulls,” offered Biff.

“Argh! I just want to do something to help!” Luke cried in frustration.

Biff grinned at his friend, “That was so totally ‘Joe Hardy’!”

“Yeah,” Chet agreed with a laugh.  “It was a real ‘Hardy’ moment!”

“Hardy-har-har,” Luke said in mock seriousness, but quickly joined in the laughter.

“Look,” Phil said suddenly.  His three friends looked to where their diminutive friend was pointing across the Soda Canyon Overlook toward Balcony House.

They had been told that morning that Balcony House would remain closed until after the investigation was over.  However, as they stood silently watching, a lone figure dressed in dark clothing was climbing up a rope toward the pueblo structure.  The figure stayed in the shadows, almost invisible to the casual eye.

“Maybe it’s the cops,” Chet suggested.

“No,” Phil shook his head. “If it were someone from the sheriff’s department, he would climb the ladder like we did.  This person doesn’t want to be seen.”

“Might be a curious tourist,” Biff offered.

“Doesn’t matter who it is,” Luke stated firmly, “they don’t belong there.  We need to move it and report this right away!”

* * *

Before his death, Mark Campton lived in what had once been a hunter’s cabin outside of Cortez, along the Navaho Wash River.  He’d lived alone in the run-down, three room house.

“Bet your dad didn’t teach you how to pick a lock,” Billy Moss commented as he watched Frank Hardy pull out a lockpick set.

“I’ll never tell,” Frank Hardy responded quietly.  He started to insert one of the instruments into the lock, when Joe touched his arm to stop him.

Joe pushed on the door and it slowly swung open.  “Not locked,” he said with a shrug of his shoulder. Frank and Billy chuckled softly before following Joe inside.

“Separate,” Billy suggested, passing each of the boys a set of latex gloves.  “I’m not at all sure what we’re looking for, though.”

“Something out of place,” Frank replied, “Anything that doesn’t fit with the painted image of Mark Campton.”

“But we don’t really know Campton,” Joe commented, slowly panning his flashlight along the wall.

“By the time we’ve searched this house, we’ll have a pretty clear image of who he was,” Billy said.

“Okay,” Joe nodded.  “I’m following you now.  His environment should tell us something about him.”  Billy nodded.

The three men searched for about thirty minutes before Joe spoke.

“This is weird,” Joe said, breaking the silence.

“What?” Billy asked, moving closer to the blond teenager.  Frank stepped up to where Joe stood also.

“Campton has quite a music collection here,” Joe said, pointing to neat rows of CD’s and older cassettes.  “Mostly old show tunes and sound tracks from classic movies.  Also, few classical pieces, but nothing top forty or remotely rock’n’roll.”

“So?” Billy questioned.

Joe held up a clear CD case.  Inside was a CD with a hand written label on the front.  Frank took the case from his brother and looked at the inscription.

“Rock Marathon,” Frank read.