“Ever noticed a geological report they’ve got there in a glass case?”
“I-I can’t recall.”
“It’s a newer acquisition, obtained in late 1939.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“What about Mayor Banyan?” she queried. “Priests are kinda like cops and trained to smell insincerity. You think this guy’s a stinker?”
“Goldie, what are you trying to say?”
“I’m sayin’ I came to town to do one kind of story, but I’ve stumbled onto another.”
“What kind of story?”
She started to pace slowly up and down the center aisle of the church.
“Okay,” she began. “Let me run a hypothetical by you. Let’s say, there’s this mayor in a small town that was once known for its silver minin’. This mayor isreallyinto power. He likes to lay down a lot of rules, telling people how to live and how to maintain their homes. He also imposes a lot of historical society dues on them. Maybe he even extorts money from street vendors and skims from city accounts. Hedefinitelyused other people’s money to bring in a journalist to write about the town.”
“I’m not sure I—” Father started to say.
“Everybody in town, includin’ the mayor, thinks the local mines are played out,” she continued, still pacing. “That’s what they’ve thought for years. But if you do some research, you’d learn that’snotwhat happened. More profitable ore deposits were found in other places, and the minin’ interests simply moved away.”
“Really?”
“Really. I verified it twice at the Denver library. Then, one day, the mayor, who also happens to be president of the historical society, gets and reads through an old geological report from the largest minin’ company that used to operate in town. And the report says there’s one particular tunnel that might still have a large silver vein worth a pile of dough. Let’s say, he hires some mining geologist from another county or state to explore this tunnel, drill some holes, and get ore samples. And lo and behold, he discovers the report is right.
“Now,let’s say this tunnel runs under five houses on a particular side of a particular street. Needin’ to obtain the mineral rights, he starts to acquire these houses one by one. Some he acquires legally, like from a couple who wanna downsize and be closer to Denver, and another man who had arthritis and wants to move to warmer weather. But others he acquires perversely. Like runnin’ a guy with no life insurance off the road and committin’ murder. And remember, this mayor most likelyknowsabout people’s finances and securities because he’s the mayor, president of the historical society,anda realtor. Let’s even say, maybe he’s killed more than one person. Because another homeowner, the town’s former sheriff, lived on that same side of the street and died about a year earlier. Now the mayor owns all of the houses on that side of the street except one.”
She stopped pacing and turned to him.
“What do you think?”
The clergyman was emotionless and quiet for several seconds before answering.
“I think you said, ‘Let’s say’ four times, ‘maybe’ three times, and ‘most likely’ once,” Father noted, a little sternly. “That’s alotof wild conjecture you’ve stitched together, Goldie. Not to mention, you’re accusing the town’s biggest public servant of committing murder.”
“Well, he may not have actually killed anyone, but he most likely gave the order.”
“Again with the ‘most likelys,’” Father groaned.
“I grant you, there’s some additional proof I need to find,” she admitted. “Like, does he own the land where the old Maynard mine used to be? But the sheriff himself thinks the circumstances of Bucky Eggleston’s death are sketchy. And there’snohistorical evidence that says the Maynard mine went totally dry.Andtunnel “22”doesrun under Falcon Drive.Andore sampleshaverecently been taken.Andthe mayorhasacquired most of the houses on the Eggleston side of the street since the geological report showed up.Andhe who owns the houses abovealsoowns the mineral rights underneath.”
“Yes,” Father conceded. “But the houses you’re talking about are for sale. I’ve seen the red signs in their yards.”
“Cover,” Goldie dismissed. “Smokescreen. It’s a depressed market. If someonewereinterested in one of those houses, as owner, he could set a ridiculously high price. Plus, you gotta admit, the guy’s a megalomaniac.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone obsessed with their own power.”
“One could also say you’re obsessed with your own conspiracy theory.”
She took a deep breath, went over to the pew behind him, and sat down. “So, you think I’m wrong?”
“I think you’re a fearless, spirited woman who’s accustomed to suspecting the worst in people because of that former boyfriend of yours.”
“But—”
