“Well, we’re not talking John Dillinger, and I’ll turn the light off before I go so he can sleep.”
She nodded and smiled.
“Okay then. Goodnight, Sheriff.”
“See ya,” he said, giving her a small salute with two fingers.
She walked out the door and back into the night. As she headed toward her hotel, she chewed her gum slowly, feeling that even though she had spoken with Eli, they hadn’t really communicated.
At the same time, Tully and Crosby were now standing in the mayor’s dimly lit kitchen, having beers. Stephie Banyan was over at the community center, helping to get it ready for the annual Christmas dance.
Tully was Greek, forty, and usually wore a black leather thigh-length overcoat. Crosby was forty-two, Scottish, born and raised overseas, and had a Scott’s temper. His red-haired bushy mustache was only accentuated by his plaid woolen winter coat. Both men looked like they might work in a Denver factory, and indeed, as Peter had once suggested, neither was a resident of Sparkledove. As Goldie had correctly guessed, these two did the mayor’s bidding, whether it was legal or not. Like the McCaw brothers, neither one was particularly emotional as they conferred with their employer. But unlike the brothers, there was nothing quirky or humorous about their lack of emotion; it was just stone-cold and threatening.
“And you have no idea why she was at the school?” Charles wondered.
“Since she’s a travel writer, she’s likely been to Colorado before and knows someone at the school,” Tully reasoned, taking a swig from a longneck bottle. “She was probably visiting an ol’ pal.”
“Aye, that makes the most sense,” Crosby agreed with his Edinburgh accent, also holding a longneck.
“Maybe,” Charles replied. He was still wearing his suit from work, leaning against the stove with a glass of beer on the counter next to him while his eyes searched for another explanation. “But, if she wasn’t visiting an old acquaintance, why would Goldie Maraschino go to a school? The scenic train ride makes sense. But the school…”
“Have Peter find out,” Crosby suggested. “They seem to be getting more and more chummy.”
“I originally didn’t want Peter to, well, ‘be Peter’ with another pretty face,” Banyan mused. “But now, there may actually be an advantage there.”
“We could always break into the school,” Tully suggested. “There’s bound to be a staff list in someone’s desk at the front office. Maybe we should get a copy. See if someone’s name means something.”
“Excellent idea, Tully,” Charles smiled. “Let’s make that happen.”
“Sunday night,” Crosby suggested. “Almanac’s predicting snow. Nobody will be out.”
Just then, they were interrupted by the sound of something being dropped on the stairs that led down to the basement. Charles looked at the basement door, just a few steps away, walked over, and opened it. He found Lupe on the other side, standing on the top basement step with the lights on. She was holding a bucket of dirty water in one hand and had just picked up a scrub brush with the other. She appeared just as surprised to see him as he was to see her.
“Lupe!” Banyan barked, displeased. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Ola, Señor Banyan,” she replied in her heavy Spanish accent. “Señora Banyan said I can leave early tomorrow and get ready for the dance, if I stay later tonight and clean the pantry shelves downstairs. They mucho dirty!”
She held up the bucket of brown water for proof. Banyan wrinkled his nose and waved it away. “How long have you been lurking on those stairs?”
“You want I should wash the stairs?” she asked, misunderstanding. “Okay!”
“No,” he corrected. “I didn’t hear you coming up the stairs. Were you standing just outside the door?”
“I was coming to open—but I dropped my brush,” she explained.
She came up the final step and into the kitchen, then went over to the sink. “I’ll change the water, then wash the stairs for you.”
“That’s not what he asked,” Tully said, setting his beer down and stepping over to the sink next to her until he was uncomfortably close. “Were-you-listening-on-the-stairs?” he asked, pronouncing each word slowly and distinctly.
“L-listen?” she asked nervously. “W-what should I listen for?”
The three men looked at one another for a moment, then Banyan, deciding her appearance was inoffensive, gestured with his head for Tully to step aside.
“Okay, Lupe,” the mayor said. “Put your stuff away and go home.”
“But I should still wash the stairs, yes?” she asked.
“Do them tomorrow,” he replied. “And Lupe, you know that anything you hear in this house is private, right?”
