“Yep. Man’s name was Claude Bolton, and it was kind of a strange circumstance.”
“What do ya mean?”
“He came into town one afternoon in September. According to witnesses, he was very disoriented and confused. Claimed he didn’t know where he was or how he got here.” Eli paused and raised an eyebrow. “Sound like anybody we know?”
“What? Are you tryin’ to make a connection between a man who wandered into town five years ago and a journalist who was invited?”
“Not necessarily. But itiscurious you both seemed to have been confused when you first arrived.”
“It’s only curious if he wound up staying in room 9 of the Sparkledove Arms,” she replied. “Eh—he didn’t, did he?”
“No. He had identification and money in his pocket, and he stayed at the Pine River Inn for three nights. On the fourth, he jumped off the covered bridge.”
“What did he do during those three days?” she asked.
“The report’s not that detailed,” he replied.
“What time of day did he jump?”
“Coroner put it between 8:00 and 8:30 p.m. But his body wasn’t found until the next morning.”
Eli looked out the front windshield and down River Street, shook his head a little, then continued.
“The funny thing is that the water isn’t that deep. The report said about six or seven feet. But one of Bolton’s hands was jammed in between two boulders on the riverbed. Meaning, he didn’t want to come up. Matter of fact, Jason Shirk, the sheriff I replaced, speculated that—based upon the bruising on his wrist and arm—Mr. Bolton might’ve had to dive to the river bottom repeatedly to find just the right place to get his hand stuck.”
“Jesus,” Goldie murmured. Partly because it was a terrible way to die and partly because she was right. What she had seen on the bridge was indeed an apparition that apparently appeared every night at the time Bolton originally jumped.
She looked at Eli. “Can you meet me on the bridge at 8:10 tonight?”
“How did you know a man committed suicide from that bridge?” he asked seriously.
“I didn’t. It was a guess because of the glassless viewin’ windows. But people like jumpin’ off bridges. In New York City, where I was raised, you could practically set your watch to the bodies fallin’ off the Brooklyn and George Washington bridges.”
He gave her a suspicious look. “Are you somehow connected to this guy?”
“No. Why would you ask?”
“Because he listed a home address in Taos at the Pine River Inn that was a dead end. Same thing on his identification papers. Meaning, we had no way to contact the next of kin. Bolton’s buried right here in town.”
“Strange,” she said, under her breath.
“He could’ve been on the run from something,” Eli speculated. “Is there something you know about this guy that I don’t?”
“Can you meet me tonight, or not?”
“Yyyeah,” he drawled, “I figure I can.”
“Good,” she said, opening the car door and getting ready to hop out. “Bring the report with you and a flashlight. Don’t be late.”
At 6:20 p.m., Goldie came downstairs from her room in the Sparkledove Arms to find something new. A nine-foot-high Christmas tree had replaced the crimson circular sofa that usually sat in the middle of the lobby. Standing on a step ladder and decorating the tree was the young woman named Josie, who’d been dressed up as a Native American on Thanksgiving. Now, she was dressed up as one of Santa’s elves, complete with green pointed shoes, green leotards, a long red top with a wide black belt, and a red pointed hat with a white snowball-like pom-pom. With her Indian wig off, Goldie could see she had light-brown hair in a pageboy cut that accentuated her dimples.
“Ay, looks nice,” Goldie said, approaching the tree. “Josie, right?”
“Yes,” she said, tucking some lights into the branches. “And you’re Miss Maraschino? Room 9?”
“Call me Goldie.”
The young lady came down the ladder. “Can I help you with something, Goldie?”
