“Who are you talking about?” Mitchell asked.
“My host, Mayor Charles Banyan.”
“What?” her publisher gawked. “Holy Toledo! Are—are you sure?”
“Yeah. Well—pretty sure.”
“Goldie, with these kinds of accusations, you can’t be ‘pretty sure.’ Your evidence has to be one-hundred percent rock solid!”
“I’m workin’ on getting’ more proof. But I’m right, Owen. IknowI am. I’d stake my career on it.”
“Believe me, if we do something with a story like this, you are! W-what in the world led you to these accusations?”
“It’s a long story. I spent half the night typin’ up what happened and everythin’ I found. I’m mailin’ it off to you today by special delivery as an insurance policy.”
“Insurance policy? Do you believe you’re in some sort of danger?”
“I believe I’m playin’ a type of game with a pretty cagey opponent, and things are about to heat up.”
“I don’t like this, Goldie,” Mitchell protested. “I don’t like this at all!”
“What am I supposed to do? I didn’t ask for this. I just stumbled across it.”
“Go to the local law.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“The town’s sheriff might be Banyan’s boy. The mayor hired him.”
“I-I’ve got to think about this,” Mitchell said, the wheels in his head spinning.“Adventure Escape Magazinecan’t publish a story like what you’ve described. I mean, we’re a travel magazine for God’s sake. But Idohave a good friend at the Associated Press. You could call him with the details. Still, Goldie, if you’re wrong, you could be sued.Icould be sued. This could be a nightmare!”
“I’m not wrong!”
“Okay… here’s what I want you to do: Give me a little time. I need to talk to our attorney, then call my buddy at the AP. In the meantime, continue gathering information, but absolutelydo notput yourself in a dangerous situation. Understand?”
“Got it.”
“Alright. Call me back in two hours. Also, is there anyone in town you can trust with what you know?”
“Yes. A priest at Saint Mark’s Catholic Church named Father Fitzsimmons.”
“Saint Mark’s, Father Fitzsimmons,” Mitchell repeated, writing it down. “Good. Make sure he knows what you know, give me two hours, then call me back.”
At nearly the same time that Goldie was hanging up the phone with her publisher, Charles Banyan was sitting in the cab of Tully’s black pickup truck. It had snowed the night before, and there was now a solid six-inch base of snow in Sparkledove. Tully sat behind the wheel while the mayor reviewed a piece of paper he and Crosby had taken from the Midland Elementary School the previous night.
“No Diana Ross listed among the staff,” Banyan said, staring at the paper.
“The magazine writer told you her friend was a new hire,” Tully recalled. “Maybe she’s too new to be on the employee list.”
“I suppose,” Banyan said, still reading. Then, his eyes recognized a name. “Wait a minute. She didn’t go see Diana Ross. She saw Evie Hines.”
“Who?”
“Jason Shirk’s daughter. She’s a teacher who used to work in Denver.”
“What do you think the writer knows?” Tully wondered.
