“I never said it wasn’t an accident,” she interrupted. “I simply said you should talk to Martha.”
“Now you want to go explore a dangerous mine filled with more holes than a piece of Swiss cheese. You’re about a hundred miles off course from what brought you here.”
“Well, I wasn’t wrong about Claude Bolton jumpin’ off the bridge,” she defended.
“No, you weren’t. But it’s kind of odd that you’d visit a beautiful covered bridge and come away from the experience thinking about suicide instead of the scenery and the job that brought you here.”
“So, you tellin’ me what to think?” she asked, becoming prickly.
“I’m saying Claude Bolton was a lucky guess, but he’s ancient history. He’s got nothing to do with why you’re here. Same with Bucky Eggleston. I was told you’re supposed to be writing a feel-good piece. You know, ‘I’m dreaming of a White Christmas in Sparkledove?’”
Goldie’s quick temper flared up, and she stiffened her back.
“Well, excuse me for carin’ about the teary-eyed concerns of a sufferin’ widow. Excuse me for bein’ concerned about a man who died here years ago, and his family has no idea of what happened to him.”
“Now, c’mon,” he said. “Don’t get your nose out of joint. You said yourself, you’re hungry to do a more investigative type of journalism, and I simply meant?—”
“I know what you meant,” she interrupted. “Don’t wonder about things that might interfere with the flow of-of whatever the hell it is youdoaround here! Don’t ask questions, Goldie. Don’t think. Just go to the historical society, talk to the mayor, and write a nice fluffy piece about all the holiday fun in Sparkledove: ‘The perfect place for Christmas.’”
“It’s not fluff to the merchants,” he reminded. “Or your readers who are hungry for other news besides the war.”
She picked up her glass, tossed her head backwards, and finished her whiskey. Then she brought the empty glass firmly down onto the wooden table.
“Thanks for the drink, Sheriff. Sorry I kept you away from your folks.”
With that, Goldie grabbed her coat sitting next to her, slid out of the booth, rose, and left the bar, leaving Eli Johnson with a half-finished beer and a furrowed brow.
If she were being totally honest with herself, Goldie wasn’t exactly sure why she went off so hard on Eli. Everything he said was reasonable and true. But she didn’t like being told no. Especially since she was on the scent of something but didn’t know what it was. Or maybe it was because Eli was a cop, and she didn’t like cops. Or maybe it was the cowpoke laissez-faire tone of his voice. Or perhaps it was because of the whole time-travel conundrum she was caught up in. Whatever it was, he bugged her.
Twelve
THE TREE LIGHTING
On Sunday, November 29th, the 1,002-person population of Sparkledove seemed to double as people arrived from Denver, Golden, Idaho Springs, Brownsville, and a half dozen other hamlets and villages to witness the community Christmas tree lighting. In addition to tourists, pickup trucks pulled trailers into town that sold everything from cotton candy to funnel cakes to a new snack quickly becoming popular in America called the corn dog. Goldie couldn’t imagine where all the people came from, but come they did, and it gave her a much better understanding of the hundreds of families that Charles Banyan had spoken of earlier, as well as the commerce for the town. Christmas in Sparkledove clearly meant serious business.
At 6:50 p.m., Goldie walked down a crowded River Street, chewing her gum and seeing the main thoroughfare in all its festive glory. The street and all of the side streets that turned onto it had been closed off with wooden barricades at both ends. This allowed the overflow of people to walk the street as well as the plank sidewalks. All the stores were open, the vending trailers were decoratively lit, and several people carried lit candles in glass lanterns that were for sale at Clara’s Gifts. Goldie even heard someone say that pine roping had been hung on both sides of the covered bridge. Even though the temperature was thirty-three degrees, the crowd made it feel warmer. She spotted Father Fitzsimmons, and they briefly chatted. He had his camera and promised to take photos of the crowd and tree for her. She saw Maddie’s husband, Dean. She recognized Melvin Purdle, who’d played his mandolin in the basement of St. Mark’s. It was odd to see so many people that she knew compared to an event on the streets of New York, but she liked it. She spotted Sheriff Eli Johnson at a distance, putting up the last side street barricade with the help of two other men she’d never seen before. One had short black hair and a day’s worth of black stubble on his face. The other had red hair and a bushy mustache. They weren’t young; both were in their forties, but they were big, physically fit, and foreboding with no-nonsense looks. Because of her years with Markie, she couldn’t help but think they looked like enforcers for somebody’s family.
The courtyard of the post office was the centerpiece of the downtown activity. It featured the decorated but still unlit Christmas tree. There were choir rafters not far from the tree that held an eight-member choral group, singing “Carol of the Bells.” Josie was one of the singers, wearing a lovely red-and-white ankle-length Victorian hoop dress, complete with a bonnet. Her boyfriend, Dexter, was smiling proudly from the crowd, wearing his varsity jacket. On the other side of the courtyard was a podium and microphone where the mayor would say a few words. Next to the podium was an overly large prop light switch. It didn’t connect to anything, but once thrown, a nearby city engineer would turn on the real power.
Weaving her way through the crowd and cracking her gum as she did, Goldie spotted Paul and Saul McCaw near the courtyard of the post office. They were wearing the same clothes she’d seen them in when they took her into the mountains. They stood there like totem poles, staring unemotionally at the tree and apparently unaffected by the people and holiday spirit in the air. Standing with them were five younger children, ages six to thirteen. Like the brothers, they were dressed in somewhat ragged clothing and looked like they’d all been cast in a production ofOliver.They likewise stood looking at the tree, stone-faced, waiting for something to happen.
“Ay, Paul, Saul,” she greeted. “How ya doin’?”
“Hey, Goldie,” Paul acknowledged.
“Hey,” Saul said, straight-faced.
“Come to see your tree all decked out?”
“Yeah,” Saul replied. “And to get the kids some jerky from Miller’s.”
“They got good jerky,” Paul noted.
“Yeah, I remember,” she said, smiling and looking at the kids. “And who do we have here?”
“Nieces and nephews,” Paul said.
“They called us and wanted to see the tree all lit,” Saul explained.
