“Naw. I just think it’s nice how you dress up for the holidays.”
“Maddie and Dean pay me extra if I dress up as an elf.” She looked at the guest, then suddenly remembered. “Or, should I say, ‘Native Northpoler.’”
Goldie smiled. “If that’s the title Santa’s helpers prefer. I’ll have to check with Will Ferrell about that.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
“I prefer the title of broke, overworked high school student,” the younger one noted. “But I don’t think that would fit on a nametag.”
Goldie smiled again as she headed for the restaurant. “I like your ambition, Josie. It’s cool. See ya later.”
A little after 8:00 p.m., after she’d had a delicious pork chop dinner with green beans, Goldie approached the covered bridge. A young couple was just leaving the bridge arm in arm, and this was the first evidence she’d seen that the place was a romantic stop, as Eli Johnson had once suggested. It was another cold night in Colorado; the temperature hovered in the mid-thirties, but with her outerwear from Miller’s, she was fortified for it. She slowly walked the entire length of the bridge. At the other end, near the dirt road that went up and into the woods, she heard footsteps behind her. Turning around, she saw Eli Johnson walking toward her. He was wearing his brown suede jacket but not his police uniform. Instead, he was wearing slacks, casual shoes, and a crewneck sweater. As she’d requested, he carried a flashlight, and as he came toward her, she couldn’t help but think he’d cut a nice figure were it not for his limp.
“Howdy,” he greeted in his usual way.
“Oh, my God,” she moaned under her breath, weary of his country song manners. “How ya doin’, Sheriff?” she called. She looked him over. “You’re out of uniform.”
“Got off duty at 6:00,” he replied, coming closer. “Supposed to be at my parents’ tonight. My mother’s making pot roast.”
“You blew off your parents for me?” she asked. “I’m honored.”
“Wellll,” he drawled, “you’ve never had my mom’s pot roast. If we could mass-produce it and bomb Germany, the war would be over within days.”
“Pretty bad, huh?”
“Yeah, but she keeps makin’ it. Sheisdetermined,” he grinned. “Like you.” He was now standing next to her at the far end of the bridge. “So, what’s goin’ on? You wanted me here at 8:10, and here I am.”
“You said the coroner said Claude Bolton jumped off the bridge between 8:00 p.m. and 8:30.”
“Right. But that was in September. This is November. You gonna ask me to re-enact the event?”
She gestured to the overhead lights. “Was the bridge lit five years ago?”
He turned and glanced at the lights, thinking. “Y’know, I don’t rightly know. But what difference would it make?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe none.”
He turned back to her. “Why’d you want me to meet you here, Goldie?”
“Did you bring the incident report with you?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, patting the inside pocket of his jacket. “Why are we out here?”
“Did the report say anything about how Bolton was dressed?”
“Dressed?”
“Yeah. What was he wearin’?”
Just then, at the other end of the bridge, Claude Bolton came walking out of the shadows and silently stepped onto the bridge with his footsteps making no sound. His hands were in the pockets of his lightweight plaid jacket, his face was emotionless, and his eyes were fixed on the glassless window to his left in the middle of the bridge. Goldie saw him but didn’t react and waited for Eli, facing her, to answer her question.
Eli dipped a hand into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out the incident report. Even though the bridge had overhead lighting, he clicked on his flashlight and used it for additional illumination.
“A plaid jacket and blue slacks,” he replied, reading.
“How old was he?” she asked.
