The Country Club

The Dawson Country Club has been a landmark in Colorado since the early 1900's. It was built for those persons with greater financial status than I'll ever know, and who needed a place to meet, dine and even live. Most of the members made their money from mining, real estate, cattle or other related business ventures and although several books have been written about the Dawson Country Club, many in the know, feel that many truths were left out; that there was too much written about golf and not enough about the club being blatantly racist.

Evidently, this Country Club area (as the area came to be called), became a Mecca for the elite. It was and is a private club, located on the southern boundary of an exclusive, historic part of Dawson. There were still are, parties, golf, fine dining, a place to mingle, beautiful black tie galas and balls held almost every weekend, because of the elite area, housing boomed with beautifully and now historic homes, which currently are on the real market for millions of dollars.

The Dawson Country Club is a private club and is located on the southern boundary of this exclusive, historic part of Dawson, and this is where our story of those with broken souls begins.

Melissa Jane Baker

There were numerous puffy white clouds in the western Colorado sky and the sun, which was about to set, displayed a golden glow around many of them. Sunsets are always beautiful in Colorado. Folks who live here, claim that God is a local football team fan, as sunsets seem to be more orange than gold, and are often surrounded with just a touch of blue. I agree. I stare up at those clouds for just a moment, realizing that football season is about to begin; but only for a moment, as I definitely don't want to take my eyes off the road — road rage you know — it can happen to anyone on this section Greenwood Boulevard.

* * *

Oh, sorry, I've forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Melissa Jane Baker — Missy, because my father called me by that name after he picked me up out of my crib one morning and asked how his "little Missy" was doing today. If I recall, I should have been called "little Messy" at that particular time, but oh well, you know how fathers can be. Anyway, instead of being called by my Christian name — Melissa Jane, the name stuck and everyone has called me Missy for forty-two years.

I am one of six children, two girls and four boys. My mother is a stay-at-home mom, although she could have been about anything she wanted to be. She could sew, bake, cook, remodel the house, mow the lawn, plant petunias, bake ten dozen cookies for a church bake sale, all the while, stitching up a huge cut on Rocky's (our big, black Labrador Retriever), ear and she could can twenty-four quarts of green beans — all in one day. My dad on the other hand, was laid back at home playing ball with his kids in the back yard, maybe washing a dish or vacuuming a carpet once in awhile, or restoring old pick-up trucks in his back yard. He was also one of the meanest, junkyard type detectives the state of Colorado had ever seen. He was a scrapper and not just with old pick up trucks. He was noted for putting away more shoddy customers than any other detective had in the past twenty-five years on the force. He never took on a case that he didn't think he could solve, and me, his baby girl, "little Missy", grew up to be just like him. The only difference being, daddy got paid, and paid well, and little Missy, well, she did a lot of work, saved a lot of people, helped put away a lot of bad guys, and all for pert-near nothing!

* * *

I honk at the driver, who, without signaling, swiftly pulls his immense, red, Chevrolet truck out in front of my old green Buick, just missing my right front fender. Out of his driver's side window, he gives me the "Hawaiian good luck" sign when he hears me honking my horn. Because he's paying no attention to the traffic and he's intent on giving me the finger, he almost rear-ends the dark blue Lincoln town car in front of him. He slams on his brakes. I slam on my brakes, but the driver in the car behind me and my old Buick doesn't brake in time, and I'm the one who gets ended, while the guy who started this entire fiasco drives away, hand out the driver's side window, waving back at all of us, once again, with the "Hawaiian good luck" sign.

I'm angry, no doubt about it, but anger doesn't help you in a situation like this. Once I grabbed my crutch, exited my old Buick, checked out the damage to my "rear-end" and saw that the damage was minor, I realized that my ego was injured more than my old Buick.

The man, about my age, who had rear-ended me, also exited his new, shiny, silver Cadillac, so new that it didn't even have license plates (there was a sticker over where his license plate should have been), and walked up to me.

"I'm so sorry", he said. "I really did try to stop, but I guess I was driving to close too you. Should we exchange insurance information or do you think you'll be okay?"

As we both walked over to check out my rear-end and his front-end (literally), we agreed that just in case there were "unseen" damages to either of our vehicles, we should not only exchange insurance policies and license numbers, but perhaps I suggested, we should also contact the police.

"Isn't this the middle of rush hour?" The middle-aged silver-haired fox (and still noticeably attractive), man inquired of me. "We've already got traffic jammed up behind us, and there is very little damage to either car, so I don't think there is a need to call the police."

I didn't agree. There was something about this silver-haired, evidently elite member of East Dawson's community, that didn't settle well with me. I insisted that call the police, and I did. After all, I'm a detective's daughter and Private Investigator.

After fifteen minutes, a squad car managed to get through the traffic jam, lights flashing, siren blaring, and the officer pulled up behind the Caddy. He introduced himself, showed us his badge, checked out the damage, and asked that we try to move our vehicles into the parking lot — you got it, the parking lot of the infamous Dawson Country Club. I had been so busy trying to get through traffic unscathed, that I hadn't realized my location. I did as the traffic officer ordered and while he stopped traffic, both the silver-haired fox and I moved our cars — it's then that the real fun began.

Mandy and Mittens

In a rundown apartment building on East Jeremy Place, in Arribio, Colorado, a suburb of Dawson, a young woman with soft brown eyes, matted blond hair and a small tattoo of Jesus on her neck, paced back and forth across the red and pink linoleum of her kitchen floor. In one hand, she had a double shot of vodka in a yellow plastic cup to which she had added tad bit of Sprite. In the other hand she nervously held onto butcher knife that measured approximately seven inches length. From her right wrist, a trickle of blood dropped onto the kitchen floor, matching the red, spilled spaghetti sauce from three days earlier. Time and again she had checked her watch, and each time she checked the time, she would walk up to and open her front door, look out, and when she saw no sign of Missy Baker, she would slam the door, and tell the mangy black cat that she was going to do it.

"This time, I'm going to do it. I'm going to slash-em' good...