“Hmm. I was pretty sure the plan was to get me involved because you couldn’t get it open last night.”
“With time, I could’ve managed. You’re missing the point—on purpose, I suspect.” She glared at him. “So do you have a plan?”
His grin deepened. She felt a sizzle of fire; he really could assault the senses with that smile of his.
“I kind of have a plan,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“We’ll get some lunch and come up with a plan. That’s the plan.”
“They don’t serve lunch at the theater.”
“We can make sandwiches, can’t we?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, while we’re having our sandwiches, we’ll come up with a plan. It’ll be easier to do that if we’re in there, right?”
“You can’t just say you want to check out the dressing rooms?”
“You don’t think someone will ask why? Of course, I could tell them all that you seem to be friends with the ghost of my great-great grandmother,” Sloan suggested, ignoring Jane’s groan.
“Let’s have lunch—and come up with a plan.”
Sloan grinned. “Isn’t that what I said?”
6
Jane exited quickly as Sloan parked the car. If she didn’t move fast enough, he’d be around to open her car door. It was nice, but not necessary every time.
They entered the theater and she blinked a minute, letting her eyes adjust after the bright sunlight.
Alice Horton, dark hair swept back in a ponytail, in sweats, as unvamplike as could be, was digging in the refrigerator. She looked up and greeted them with “Hey, Jane. Sheriff. Any news on the murder?”
“We’re investigating,” Sloan said. He walked through to the bar. “But a man has to eat.”
As he came up next to Alice, Jane noted that she wasn’t the only woman who seemed to flush when he was around. Alice was enough of an actress to behave casually, but Jane got a glimpse of her eyes.
“Salami?” Alice asked him. “Oh, Jane, how about you?”
“Salami. Do you have cheese, tomatoes, maybe lettuce and mayo?” Sloan was saying.
“I’ll eat anything,” Jane assured Alice.
Alice plopped paper plates and the various makings on the bar.
“We can do an assembly line if you want,” Jane offered. “Make lunch for all of us.”
“Great,” Alice said. “I’ll throw some bottles of water up here and we’ll make a few extra sandwiches. I know Valerie is coming down, maybe someone else.” She seemed pleased that Jane took a seat at the bar while she stood behind it with Sloan. They got a system going—Jane put out the bread and spread the mayo, Sloan added the meat and cheese, and Alice finished up with lettuce and tomato slices and cut the sandwiches in half.
“Is anything going on this afternoon?” Sloan asked. “Rehearsal for the shows?”
“Rehearsal? Today?” Alice said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “Oh, yeah. But not for the show. We’re going to take our act out on the street for a trial run with the locals.”
“Your act?” Jane echoed.
“Tomorrow’s the yearly arrival of the lemmings,” she said. “Actually, I mean that appreciatively. We get huge crowds. By the weekend, Silverfest will be crazy. There’ll be ‘settlers’ selling all kinds of things—some antiques, some reproductions, you know, Old West clothing, weapons, belts, buckles, dresses, plus corn cakes, barbecue and beans. Oh, yes, and silver jewelry, of course. Turquoise. A lot of Native American art. We all play a part out there, taking on the roles of old settlers.” She paused to grin mischievously. “Sloan gets in on it. He plays Trey Hardy sometimes.”
“I always had a soft spot for Hardy,” Sloan admitted.
“What’s that deal?” Jane asked. “I’ve heard about him from Heidi. He was sort of a Robin Hood character, wasn’t he?”
“Hardy had been a lieutenant in the Confederate cavalry,” Alice explained. “He held up trains and stagecoaches, but he’d give to whoever needed it—whites, newly freed slaves, Native Americans. He was finally caught by our local sheriff, Brendan Fogerty, who seemed to like him, too. It was just that he had to bring him in. We had a traveling circuit judge back then, and—do you know this part of the story?”
“Some of it. Go on.”
“Okay. I think Fogerty thought he might face his charges and get off—since no one would act as a witness against him. But the deputy at the time, Aaron Munson, had a thing about Hardy. When he was on duty alone, he shot Hardy in his cell. Pumped him full of bullets while he was in there like a caged rat. Well, someone saw him and Munson wound up being dragged out onto Main Street and lynched by the crowd. It was sad all the way around.”
“I remember hearing that,” Jane said.
“Hardy haunts the jail, Munson haunts Main Street,” Sloan said.
“Hey, I don’t go to the Old Jail alone, and I don’t hang around the street at night, either,” Alice said solemnly.