A Boulder of A Problem

I was behind the counter, reading the letter for the third time. It was handwritten, which was unusual enough, the return address, Boulder, Colorado.

A woman named Margaret Ellison had penned it, on behalf of her elderly father, who was looking to sell his collection. She’d heard about my tiny record shop through her cousin, Carol Hagen, who lived on the north side of Flat Rock. The collection of albums, she wrote, was substantial. Several hundred records, maybe more. Her father was in his eighties and moving into assisted living. He wanted them to go somewhere they’d be appreciated.

I set the letter down and stared at it as Jeremiah walked in, fountain soda in hand, briefcase swinging.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard,” he said.

“I got an interesting letter.” I slid it across the counter.

He picked it up and read it. Once, then again. I watched his expression shift from casual to interested to something I could only describe as hungry.

“Several hundred albums,” he murmured.

“That’s what it says.”

“You’re going.”

“Probably.”

“Well, I’m coming with you.”

I leaned back on my stool. “No, you’re not. Someone has to watch the shop while I'm gone."

“Tony...” He set the letter down carefully, like it was evidence. “...you’re not qualified to evaluate a collection of this size. We can have Trevor keep an eye on things while we're gone."

He was referring to Trevor Hanson, a resident of Flat Rock and Indigenous history volunteer and collector who made several visits to the shop every month.

“Trevor has better things to do than to sit here and babysit the store. Plus I'm offended that you think I'm not qualified. It’s my shop. I'm pretty sure I know what I’ll pay and what I won’t.”

“Do you know the difference between an original UK pressing and a domestic reissue? Because that difference could be worth a hundred dollars. Per album.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“You’ll overpay.”

“Jeremiah—”

“Or worse, you’ll underpay and miss something rare because you didn’t know what you were looking at.” He crossed his arms. “You need me there. And Trevor is always asking to let him know if you ever need help. He'd love spending time here. It beats his normal routine, wasting time roaming through the woods looking for arrowheads."

Jeremiah felt that anyone doing anything that didn't appeal to him was a waste of time.

I picked up the letter and put it back in the envelope. “I appreciate the concern. But I’ve got it covered.”

He was quiet for a moment. I should have known that meant he was regrouping.

“You know what else is in Boulder, Colorado?” he said.

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“NIST. The National Institute of Standards and Technology. They’ve got the atomic clock there. The one that sets the official time for the entire country.” He said it like he was revealing a great secret. “We could stop by. I've always wanted to go there.”

I looked at him. “Jeremiah.”

“What?”

“You don’t care about time.”

“Maybe not, but I care about precision.”

“You show up late to everything. You showed up forty minutes late last Thursday and told me your watch was wrong.”

“Which proves my point. If we visited NIST, that wouldn’t happen anymore.”

“But, you don’t even wear a watch.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “That’s beside the point.”

“Is it?”

Another silence. Longer this time. He picked up his drink and took a long pull through the straw, staring at the wall behind me like he was having an internal debate.

I waited.

“Red Rocks,” he finally said.

I set down the envelope. “There it is.”

“I’ve wanted to go since I was seventeen years old.” His voice had lost its argumentative edge. There was something else there now, something quieter. “Do you have any idea what’s been played on that stage?”

“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

“Jimi Hendrix. The Beatles. The Grateful Dead. Springsteen. U2’s entire War tour. Stevie Ray Vaughan played there three times.” He paused for effect. “Three times, Tony.”

“Jeremiah—”

“It’s not just a concert venue. It’s a cathedral. Red sandstone formations that are three hundred million years old, and somewhere in between all of that geology, somebody had the good sense to build a stage.” He shook his head slowly. “I’ve never been. I’ve always meant to go, and I’ve never made it. And now you’re telling me you’re flying to Colorado, and are going to let me miss my one shot.”

I looked at him for a long moment. The man who argued about everything. Who had opinions on every album ever pressed and wasn’t shy about sharing them. Who showed up late and drank convenience store soda and thought progressive rock deserved its own section.

He wasn’t wrong about Red Rocks, though. I sighed, knowing he'd wasn't going to give up.

“IF you go, we’re going to look at the records first,” I said.

His expression didn’t change, but something shifted behind his eyes. “Obviously.”

“And I’m not making any promises about Red Rocks. IF there’s time—”

“There’ll be time.”

“IF...” I repeated, “then, we’ll see.”

“I’ll take it.”

“We fly in, look at the collection, ship back whatever I decide to buy, and then we come home. That’s the plan.”

“Absolutely.”

“I mean it, Jeremiah. This is a business trip.”

“Of course it is.” He picked up his briefcase and set it on the counter, already moving on. “When do we leave?”

“I haven’t even called her to schedule it yet.”

“Call her. I’ll call Trevor.”

I shook my head, but I was already reaching for the phone. Outside, Monroe Street went about its quiet business. Inside, Jeremiah Olander stood at my counter, looking for all the world like a man who had just gotten exactly what he wanted.

Which, of course, he had.

---

 

Check out other stories about Tony DeLucca, the main character in the Originally Pressed Mystery Series here.