“If Joseph ever shows up,” she replied.
“Josie and her beau, Dexter, are doing a nativity play over at the Episcopal church,” Maddie explained. “She even rides a real donkey.”
“Sound like fun,” Goldie enthused.
“Depends on the mood of the donkey,” Josie replied.
“Last year, it kicked one of the performers, and we had to get by with onlytwowise men,” Maddie recalled.
Just then, Josie’s boyfriend, Dexter, came through the front doors of the lobby. He was wearing biblical robes, his high school varsity jacket over them, and had a beard with a string tie hanging loosely around his neck.
“Hi, everyone,” he greeted.
“You’re late,” Josie answered disapprovingly.
“Eh, sorry. Ran into a troop of Roman soldiers.” He smiled at Goldie. “Some biblical humor there.”
“An oxymoron if ever there was one,” she quipped.
“Have you got your father’s camera?” Josie asked.
“In the car,” Dexter said.
“With the flash attachment?”
“Yes.”
“And color film. They want color film this year.”
“Yes,” her boyfriend replied wearily.
A guest came up to the counter, so Maddie excused herself to wait on them. “Well, good luck. Break a leg or whatever you’re supposed to break.”
As Josie came around the counter, Goldie formulated an idea.
“Hey, would you guys be up for a little adventure? Not today, but soon. There’s money in it for you.”
“Extra money? Sure,” Josie said. “Do I have to dress up as something?”
“No. Not this time.”
“What do we have to do?” Dexter asked.
Twenty-Five
CHESS
Two days later was Monday, December 7, 1942, and the first anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor. Goldie was aware of the anniversary and realized it was the day Eli Johnson had been wounded. She felt bad that she hadn’t kept her promise to slow dance with him after he saved her from the mountain lion. Especially after having met his mother, Mary Louise. She had no excuse for the blunder other than being preoccupied with Peter and the article he wanted to run about her; an article she persuaded him not to publish when he drove her back to her hotel early Saturday morning.
She slept in on this Monday, grabbed a late breakfast, then called her publisher.
“Been expecting to hear from you,” Owen Mitchell began. “You’ve been in Sparkledove for thirteen days. I figure you’re about ready to wrap things up.”
“For the article I was sent to do? Yeah. But what if there was another story I found?”
“What kind of story?” he asked, intrigued.
“The story of a man who uses his position to bully people and impose his will on others. The story of a man buyin’ up a row of houses to obtain valuable mineral rights underneath them, but the people who own those houses don’t know what they’re sittin’ on. The story of a man who—when he couldn’t buy these houses from some of the owners—resorted to murder so he could buy them from relatives in distress. The story of a man who, if he succeeds, stands to make millions and millions of dollars. And if we don’t publish this story, he’ll get away with it.”
