“But don’t you want people staying in Trey Hardy’s cell?”
“Sure, but the more haunted the cell gets, the more I’ll have people clamoring to stay there. The wife is some kind of big blogger. Now I’ll have reservations for every night of the year!” Mike said happily.
It was while he was talking to Mike that Sloan saw Jane walking on the raised sidewalk from the theater to the Old Jail. Her costume today was crimson, and the color of her hair and eyes seemed to be enhanced by the color. She looked more beautiful than ever; he wondered if the ghost of Sage was pleased. She waved and made her way over.
“Wow,” Mike murmured. “Wow. You know her?”
“That’s Agent Jane Everett,” Sloan said, realizing that Mike and Jane hadn’t met.
“She’s a fed?” he asked incredulously. “Oh, but she’s an artist. She doesn’t...I mean, she doesn’t have a gun or anything like that, right?”
“She has a very big gun,” Sloan assured him.
“Hi,” Jane said to them.
Sloan performed the introductions. Jane was pleasant as she met Mike, but then she glanced at Sloan, a silent question in her eyes. He shook his head slightly, letting her know he hadn’t learned anything new.
“Mike is all excited. His guests ran out of the Trey Hardy room,” Sloan said.
“Oh?” Jane asked.
“Double income!” Mike said happily. “As soon as people hear, I’ll have someone else in. Double income—oh, yeah!”
“Hey, don’t rent it out for tonight,” Jane told him.
“Are you kidding me?” Mike asked. “Don’t you understand? This is a great thing for me. I can make double! The couple who left had paid ahead for the next few nights. I’ll rent the room out again, and I’ll be in good shape. That’s a rule when renting here—if you leave early, I keep the money!”
“I’ll take it for the night,” Jane said.
Mike looked at her in surprise. “You like ghosts, huh?”
“I love them.”
“I heard you were staying at the theater.”
“Oh, I am, but I’m here for a bit longer. I’d love to have the haunted Trey Hardy cell for a night.”
“Um, sure, but...” He glanced at Sloan and then asked her, “You, uh, wouldn’t shoot up the place or anything if you freaked out?”
“Believe me, Mike. I don’t freak out,” Jane assured him sweetly. “And I’ve almost never had to shoot anyone.”
“I’d feel kind of badly taking your money,” he said next.
“Oh, I’m here working. You’ll be paying for it in a way, too. Your federal dollars at work.”
“Well, then, what the hell! The room is yours,” Mike said.
“May I see it now?” Jane asked.
“Sure. Come on in!”
Sloan looked at her curiously, and she smiled. “I’d love to get to know Trey Hardy,” she said lightly.
Mike opened the door. The three of them passed the old sheriff’s desk—the check-in area—and the deputy’s desk, where the concierge sat; it was empty at the moment. Sloan saw that the “concierge” was busy serving breakfast to a number of guests in the old gun room. He watched the way Jane studied the place as they entered. She commented to Mike on what a great job he’d done turning it from an old jail into a bed-and-breakfast, while keeping its historic integrity.
“It wasn’t me, really. I mean, I’ve made some improvements, but the guy I bought it from had all the ideas. I’ve made a point of improving the bathrooms, though!” Mike said. “Guests these days expect that.”
They went through the barred wooden door that led to the rows of cells, which were now guest rooms. “There it is!” Mike told her proudly. “The Trey Hardy room. Right where Aaron Munson gunned down the poor guy. Take a look.”
“Thank you.” Jane walked into the room and slowly looked around. There was a towel on the floor and the bed needed to be made. A water glass was knocked over—it seemed evident that the last guests had departed quickly.
“It needs to be cleaned, of course,” Mike said.
“Don’t worry, I won’t be going to bed for hours.” Jane dug into her crimson velvet wristlet—a perfect match for her costume—and produced a credit card. “Would you please charge me now? I don’t want to lose the room, knowing how popular it is.”
“Anything for you!” Mike said, and Jane smiled pleasantly.
After the arrangements had been made, Sloan walked Jane down the street. “What was that all about?” he asked as they posed together by an old watering trough for the pleasure of a few tourists.
“Sage wrote ‘Trey Hardy’ on the mirror. I thought we’d have to wait until this whole Silverfest thing was over to get in there.”
Sloan was silent. She spoke so naturally to him, and he wondered what it was like to be comfortable with seeing things that others didn’t. He’d wondered far too often himself if he wasn’t crazy, if Longman wasn’t a being his mind had invented, a sort of device to help him figure things out.
“Trey Hardy was dead before the stagecoach disappeared,” he reminded her.
“But...there’s something connected to this that has to do with him. I’m positive. Sloan—” Jane stopped to smile and say, “A pleasure!” to the people thanking them for posing. “So, have you spoken with Grant Winston?”
He nodded.
“What was the fight about?”
“Grant’s collection of rare books. He caught Caleb Hough in his office. Hough told him he’d ruin him if he didn’t sell him his own books.”
“Oh. But is that a motive for murder?”
“I don’t think so. I’m more concerned with what Caleb was looking for. I’m going to get back into Grant’s office before the end of the day,” he said.
His cell phone rang as they walked, and he answered immediately. It was Liam Newsome.
“My officer just called from the hospital,” Liam said. “Seems there was a woman in some kind of period costume there. She was bringing a basket of food to Zoe and Jimmy Hough.”
“Who was it?” Sloan asked.
“He didn’t know. When he stopped her in the hallway, she took off. He couldn’t go after her and still guard his patients, so he called to tell me about it.”
“Thanks, Liam,” Sloan said, and hung up. “I’m going to borrow a horse from the stables and ride out to the hospital. With all the traffic, not to mention the street closures, that’ll be the fastest.”
Jane had heard the conversation. “That woman—it could be anyone, Sloan. Could genuinely be a friend. Half the people here are in costume, or wearing old hats and skirts. She could be heading the other way now, you know.”
“And she could be heading this way,” he said. He hesitated, then suddenly took her by the shoulders. “Be careful.”
“I will. And Logan and Kelsey are due soon,” she added.
He started to walk off, but then turned around. “No basements!” he warned her.
“Not unless someone screams blue blazes and I’ll be ready if that happens,” she promised.
“Jane—”
“I’ll get backup, don’t worry.”
He left her on the street and hurried over to the stables. Heidi was just getting a group mounted for the trail ride to the Apache village.
“I need a horse,” he told her.
“Sure, Sloan, but why? Your horses are better than anything we have in our hack line.”
“I’m going to the hospital and I’d rather take a horse than a car right now. Don’t want to waste time going back to my place.”
Heidi looked at him wide-eyed. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “It’s about Jimmy, isn’t it? Is he all right? I should’ve known when he didn’t show up yesterday that something was wrong.”
“Jimmy is doing
well, Heidi. Now—”
“Take Bullet. He’s saddled and he has some spunk in him,” Heidi said.
Sloan mounted the horse and rode out of the stables.
He heard a loud cheering and realized people thought that he was part of the festivities. He tilted his hat to them—and set out on the road that led from Main Street to the hospital.
He took the trail at an easy lope until he was a good mile past all the hoopla. Then he slowed Bullet and moved to the side of the road, watching for cars.
People were driving slowly, even this far from town. He was glad to see it; they needed to be careful with the number of people moving around on foot.
A car carrying what appeared to be parents and three children passed him, followed by a car with three young women. He lifted his hat to them all. They waved in return.
More parents, more kids, went by. More young people.
And then he saw the car he was waiting for.
A young woman was driving. She wore a prairie bonnet.
She frowned, concentrated on her driving, clearly irritated that she had to slow for a van filled with schoolchildren.
Sloan moved Bullet back onto the road, behind the van and in front of the car.
The driver looked up and saw him. For a moment, he thought he saw surprise and dismay on her face.
Then it was gone.
For a frightening few seconds, he was afraid she was going to hit the gas and try to run him over.
She didn’t. She smiled. “Sloan! What are you doing out here? Oh, my God—nothing else happened, did it?”
11
At one o’clock, Cy Tyburn and Brian Highsmith dazzled the crowd with feats of derring-do on horseback.
They rode at each other almost as if they were jousting; they were supposed to have ridden with reins between their teeth, guns blazing, but Sloan had outlawed the use of weapons.
Cy stood in his saddle and leaped for Brian. The two flew from their horses and staged a brawl right between the theater and the saloon. Jane watched the action anxiously, but they put on a good show and when it ended—with both of them “dead” on the street—they leaped to their feet and took a bow.
Jane applauded with the others.
After that, she slipped into Desert Diamonds and found Grant Winston, whom she hadn’t officially met. He seemed harried and harassed, but he was cordial to her, and he offered her a chance to look through the books in his office.
“Terrible thing about Caleb, but...not totally unexpected. Okay, well, his throat slit in the old mine—that was unexpected. This is Arizona, and a lot of people carry weapons. Me, I keep a shotgun behind the main checkout counter. He pissed me off so much I might have shot him if I actually carried a weapon. I’m sorry. I know I sound terrible. But you won’t find many people here who are crying over the man,” he told her. “Go into my office, Agent Everett. I told Sheriff Trent he was welcome back there anytime.” He suddenly frowned at her. “Wait. I thought you were an artist.”
“I am.”
“Oh.” He still seemed confused. “Well, make yourself at home. I can’t help you, I’m afraid. Busy, busy, busy. And, of course, you know—”
“I know that the items you’re letting me see are the real thing—collectible and priceless. I’ll be very careful with anything I touch,” Jane promised.
He nodded. “Cappuccino? Espresso?” he offered.
She shook her head. “I’m fine, thanks. And I wouldn’t risk spilling anything.”
That pleased him. She wondered if the offer had been a test.
He walked her past rows of pamphlets and souvenirs to his office. It was a large room with a plush swivel chair behind the desk, which held memo boxes on one corner, plus a computer and printer. Behind the desk and along both sidewalls were rows and rows of books carefully placed in glass-covered wooden shelves. “Behind the desk—that whole shelf is on Arizona history and Lily.”
When the door closed behind him, she turned to look at the shelves. She saw the original of the republished book she’d been reading by Brendan Fogerty.
Carefully, she removed it from the shelf and sat behind the desk. The book was in excellent shape for its age. She was surprised that the original had a dedication she hadn’t seen in the replica edition.
“To Sage, wherever in this world or the next she may be.”
Apparently Brendan Fogerty had thought it possible that Sage was dead.
But who had killed her? Not her husband. First, he’d been in the bar waiting for her when she’d gone to her room. And then, it was unlikely that he could have gotten away with burying her in a dressing room. Or had she been buried elsewhere first? Jane could only imagine that even in the Old West, the smell of a decomposing body would have alerted someone to Sage McCormick’s presence under the floor.
A man named Eamon McNulty had been owner, manager and artistic director of the theater back then. His actors had been more transient; only Sage had won so many hearts that she was hired to play role after role.
Jane kept flipping pages.
Most of what she read she’d already seen.
A “rancher” named Tod Green had been in town for several weeks before the deaths of Hardy and Munson and the disappearance of Sage, Red Marston and the stagecoach. Fogerty stated that he’d been suspicious of the rancher, since no one had known him until he started moving cattle. He’d checked with friends in Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas and other states, but the man had no background that he could discover. Fogerty openly voiced his dislike and suspicion of Green as far as the robbery went, while saying at the same time that he had no proof against him. Nor would he ever learn anything—because Tod Green had died in the streets just days after the stagecoach had disappeared. He’d been staying at the Gilded Lily and gotten into a huge dispute with Eamon McNulty; the two had taken it to the streets and Green had died in the dirt, shot to death by McNulty.
“So,” she murmured to herself, “if Fogerty was right, Tod Green took down the stagecoach, murdered everyone and hid the gold. Where?”
She turned another page. As she did, a fragile piece of old paper fell out. The ink was barely legible. “‘I will see that he is brought to justice. My word to you, old friend,’” Jane managed to make out. Her fingers trembled slightly. The writing was full of flourishes and very pretty—a woman’s hand, she thought.
Sage McCormick’s?
She pondered whether that could be the case when there was a tap on the door. Before she could answer, it opened. Heidi was there. “Agent Everett, I’ve found your friends!” she said happily.
Jane quickly stood, closing the book.
Kelsey O’Brien and Logan Raintree entered the room behind Heidi.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Jane said, stepping around to greet them both.
Of her Krewe, Jane knew Logan the best. They had often worked together in Texas when he’d been a Ranger and she’d been called in to do facial reconstructions. He was the perfect Texas Ranger, steady and strong, simply there to do what he was called upon to do. He always used reason and negotiation before brawn and bullets. He’d had a horrible time when his wife was murdered, but a couple of years had gone by and during the San Antonio case, when they’d all been brought together, he’d been paired with Kelsey O’Brien—a U.S. Marshal back then.
Kelsey had known that she wanted to be in law enforcement all her life. Despite the fact that she’d already been a Marshal, she’d had to go through the academy at Quantico to become part of the Krewe.
She’d been tougher than Jane from the get-go, but she’d taught her a great deal about inner strength; Jane thought she’d gained a great deal of her own confidence with Kelsey’s help. Jane was also proud of being a very good shot—if not quite as good as those in their Krewe who’d been practicing at the range much longer.
She was grateful to have them here. She’d never worked any case without at least another few members of her Krewe before. It had just been days, of course, since she’d left them, but it felt like a lifetime.
Then again, she’d only come here to do a facial reconstruction.
“Lily is pretty interesting,” Kelsey said. “I’ve never been anywhere quite like this. And may I say that you’ve, uh, managed to fit right in?”
Jane remembered that she was in period attire and grimaced. “Just being part of the theater crowd.” She turned to Heidi. “Thanks for finding Logan and Kelsey and bringing them here.”
“My pleasure.” Heidi smiled. “Well, back to the grind. We’re all doing double shifts today—so many people in town. I would’ve thought...well, that these events would’ve scared off more people. I mean, after I found that old corpse out by the Apache village...” She gave an elaborate shudder.
“I’m sure you’re safe with your trail rides, Heidi,” Logan told her.
“With another guide and parties of up to fifteen...yeah, I hope so,” Heidi said. “Anyway, I’ll see you around.”
They all said goodbye. “You’ve found something?” Logan asked Jane.
She confirmed that the door was closed and then showed them the note. “It’s not addressed to anyone, but I believe it might be from Sage—written to Trey Hardy.” She glanced at Kelsey. “I’ve tried to keep Logan up on what’s going on—”
Kelsey nodded. “He’s filled us in on what he knows.”
“I was honestly surprised that Sloan was okay with bringing you in. But as we’ve discussed, he doesn’t seem to entirely trust his own people. Logan suggested he’s afraid that one of his deputies might have—inadvertently or not—shared information. There’s also the possibility that someone in town instigated whatever it is going on, and I suppose it could be over the gold.”
“From what I understand, that shipment was about a hundred pounds of mined gold, but at about fifty dollars a gram...someone could consider it enough to kill for. But we’re talking about millions today. Trey Hardy was dead before the gold was stolen, so what would Sage have meant by this—if she was writing to Hardy?”
Krewe of Hunters, Volume 3: The Night Is WatchingThe Night Is AliveThe Night Is Forever Page 22