“Look,” he interrupted. “I’ve only been in town a couple of months. This is my first assignment. I was lucky to get it. I’ve worked hard to build positive relationships. If you’re going to pursue this kind of hypothetical, you’re going to need more proof than what I just heard if you want my support.”
She thought for a moment. “The best proof would be to have a deed with Banyan or his company’s name on it for the old Maynard mine. But those records would be down at city hall, and since he’s mayor, I couldn’t go makin’ inquiries without him findin’ out. Other workers at city hall probably feed him information unintentionally all the time. I bet nobody can take a crap in this town without him knowin’ about it.”
She looked at the priest, then remembered her language. “Sorry, Father.”
“No,” he agreed. “You could be right. During my time in seminary, I had to do a title search for a piece of property next to our campus that my school was interested in buying. I did it as extra credit for a business class. When I was conducting the search, I had to sign a logbook with my name and the property address I was interested in. If Sparkledove has the same type of procedure…”
“What about the former sheriff?” she wondered. “Jason Shirk? Did you know him?”
“No. He passed away before I arrived. But his funeral was held here. I just reorganized my predecessor’s files and remember seeing the contact information for his family. He was a widower but has a child who lives around here.”
“A daughter in Idaho Springs?”
“Yes… yes, I think that’s right. However would you have known that?”
“Harriette Noise at the historical society mentioned it. I, uh, I don’t ‘spose you could give me her phone number, could ya?”
“Goldie, you can’t go stirring up trouble.”
“What trouble? You just told me to find more proof, and me going to city hall would be like an air raid siren for the mayor.”
Father shook his head. “I-I’m not really comfortable with this.”
“If you don’t give me the daughter’s number, I’ll just get it from Peter Banyan. I’m sure he wrote the obituary and has her contact info. But I’d rather get it from you. As a newspaperman, Peter will ask all sorts of questions, and something like this requires discretion. Delicacy. Don’t you think?”
The priest looked at her, then breathed out a heavy sigh.
“I suppose I could… but I want you to keep it quiet.”
“Hey, quiet as a church mouse, Padre.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. Could you shoot me a nice daytime photo of River Street for my article? Preferably from a high elevation. One in color and one in black and white?
“You mean, for the Christmas article that supports the mayor whom you’re trying to prove is a skimmer of city funds, a land defrauder, and a murderer?”
“Yeah,” she grinned. “Now you’re gettin’ it. I’m multitaskin’.”
About ten minutes later, Goldie went into the offices ofThe Sparkledove Wing.It consisted of a twenty-by-twenty-five-foot storefront divided into different sections by waist-high bookcases and worktables. One of these sections was Peter’s office. The place smelled of paper, ink, and old wood. But it had a sense of purpose and efficiency.
As Goldie came into the office, Peter was typing at his desk in his frameless glasses and a suit with no tie. There was also another, older man with white hair and glasses getting letters out of the printer’s drawer for an old printing press. He wore slacks, a dress shirt with arm bands just below the elbows, and a buttoned vest.
Upon seeing her, Peter smiled, slipped off his glasses, and rose.
“Hey, good morning. How are you?”
“Great.”
She looked around as she walked over to his desk. “So, this is where the magic happens, eh?”
“Yes. Welcome to the world headquarters ofThe Wing,with a circulation of fifteen hundred to the entire community and surrounding hamlets and villages. Over there is Jack, he’s the chief spokesman for the staff. Jack, meet Goldie.”
“Ay, Jack. How’s it goin’?” she greeted.
“Fine, ma’am,” the older man smiled.
“How big’s your staff?” she asked Peter.
