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.