“Then there’s Red Marston, who disappeared the same night as Sage,” Jane said. “He might have been part of the conspiracy. People thought Sage ran off with Red Marston, but if Fogerty was involved, the rumor makes sense—Fogerty is the one who implied that Sage had gone off with Red. So, let’s say Red was part of this, and he did care for Sage. Maybe he didn’t want her killed, and because he wouldn’t take part in the murder, he had to go, too.” Jane wrinkled her nose. “This is getting really complicated.”
“No kidding.” Kelsey frowned. “But if Fogerty and McNulty came out of it alive, why didn’t they take the gold and get out of town when it all blew over?”
“I don’t know. That is a dilemma. And I doubt Fogerty admitted anything in a book he wrote himself,” Jane said.
“No. I wonder about Eamon McNulty, though.” Kelsey pulled out her phone. “I’ll look for him on Google.”
Jane waited, watching her.
“‘Eamon McNulty, renowned actor, director, theater manager,’” Kelsey read. “‘Born April 2, 1833, in New York City, New York, died June 4, 1873, Lily, Arizona, of a suspected aneurysm.’” Kelsey looked up at Jane. “It goes on to talk about his start as a poor Irish kid working in the bawdy houses of Five Points, getting a leg up in legitimate theater, staging some of the hits of the day. After critical success and financial failure, he accepted a request to manage the infamous Gilded Lily, in Lily, Arizona, where he brought in artists like Sage McCormick and Daniel Easton, known for their brilliance on the stage.”
“What if McNulty was the one who stashed the gold—maybe lying about where it was or keeping it a secret. And then he up and dies of natural causes!” Jane said. “That would mean Fogerty had to spend the rest of his life looking for the gold. But since he didn’t find it—and he’d gotten rid of all witnesses—he wrote a book!”
“Why would he do that? Although he wasn’t a half-bad writer.”
“I guess he wanted his version of Lily’s history to be the one future generations accepted as truth,” Kelsey said. “But how does that affect what’s happening now?”
“Someone else knows what we know. And they’re determined to find the gold.”
“If that’s the case, they must have some idea of where it might be. Hidden in the old shaft of the silver mine where Caleb Hough was killed?” Kelsey suggested.
“Maybe. But I still don’t understand why Sage McCormick’s skull was found on a wig stand, and why the body of an old-timer was dug up to point the way to Jay Berman’s corpse,” Jane said. “Unless, of course...”
“Unless it’s a warning to all the players to stay with the program,” Kelsey said.
“And Jay Berman somehow became a liability, just as Caleb Hough did. Whoever killed them thinks Jimmy and his mom knew what was going on, that Caleb let something slip,” Jane said. “Someone’s pulling the strings here. We know that at least two people, one of them a woman, are involved, because two people put Jimmy and Zoe Hough in the car in the garage and left them to die. Jennie was attacked in the basement. I was, too. Someone attempted to kill either Cy Tyburn or Brian Highsmith around the same time as Jennie was hurt. And the skull was found in the theater. Two things—the theater has to be implicated in some way...or someone’s going to a lot of effort to suggest it is. And, second, I think we’re looking at something similar to what happened all those years ago. There are partners in this, and a few of them are warning the others—or killing those they’re afraid might be on to something.”
“And the ghosts aren’t talking?” Kelsey asked.
“Sage...leaves messages. I’ve yet to meet Trey Hardy, but I’m hoping to make his acquaintance this evening.”
Sloan had just gotten Bullet back to the stables and was dismounting when Logan called him. He was glad to hear his old crime-fighting partner’s voice, glad he was in town.
“I’m at the morgue,” Logan told him. “With Liam Newsome. He’s brought me up to speed. We’re expecting some lab reports any minute.”
“Where are Kelsey and Jane?” Sloan asked.
“Reading at Desert Diamonds.”
“They should be safe enough there,” Sloan murmured.
As he spoke, Heidi came up to him. “I’ll take Bullet, Sloan, unless you still need him.”
He gave Heidi a quick smile, handing her the reins. He realized Logan was silent at the other end.
“Logan?”
“Yeah, I’m here. They’re both good at what they do,” he said.
“But I found Jane with a concussion down in the basement of the theater. We’re lucky our killer didn’t finish her off. Or Jennie.”
“You’re going to need to have faith in Jane. This is what she does. Trust in her training,” Logan said. “You, me—anyone out there—can be taken by surprise, especially when we’re not on alert.”
That was true; he’d seen massive sharpshooter cops brought down by junkies because they weren’t prepared to be attacked, because they were trying to help.
“I know you’re right,” Sloan said. “I’ll stop in and see what they’re doing and then head over to join you,” Sloan said.
“You’ve got men in town, right?”
“Both my day guys, and the county has men in.”
“Yeah, Newsome told me. See you when you get here.”
Sloan walked over to Desert Diamonds. Seated on a fake boulder in front of the theater, Brian Highsmith was regaling the crowd with the story of Lily, proudly boasting that the Gilded Lily was older than Tombstone’s Birdcage.
Alice Horton was beside him, dressed in full vamp attire, handing out fliers.
Sloan walked on, to the store. There were long lines at the pizzeria and the coffee bar. People were shopping, spending money—everything was going as it should.
He passed Grant Winston, who was at one of the counters, cheerfully instructing a cashier to return a man’s money; the man had purchased the same book twice. Grant saw him and smiled, then motioned toward his office. Sloan nodded.
He entered the office. Jane was standing with a tall, pretty woman whose reddish blond hair was tied back in a ponytail. They were going through a book slowly, page by page.
She looked up at Sloan. “Well?” she asked. “Who was it?”
“Valerie Mystro.”
“Valerie? What reason did she give?”
“She likes Jimmy and Zoe Hough. She brought cookies and candy. And Caleb Hough donated to the theater. Apparently, she wants to make sure his wife likes theater, too.”
“You believed her?”
He shrugged. “We’ll see what else happens. What about you?”
“Oh!” she said with excitement. “We think we’ve got it!”
“You know who killed Jay Berman and Caleb Hough?” he asked cautiously.
“No,” she said, her smile fading. “But I think we’ve figured out the past. Brendan Fogerty wasn’t such a good guy—and he fooled the world with his book. He was in on the stagecoach robbery with his deputy, Aaron Munson, and the theater manager, Eamon McNulty. But Hardy heard them talking—and that’s why Munson shot him in his cell. He hadn’t expected the mob to go crazy and lynch him. Oh, and I forgot about Red Marston. I guess he was in on it, too. Sage must have found out from him or her friend, Trey Hardy. We think she was killed because she was trying to find a way out of town so she could tell the truth. She couldn’t go to the law in Lily, because the law was involved. Marston cared about her and wanted to protect her, which meant Fogerty and McNulty had to kill him, too.”
“Why didn’t they get out with the gold?” Sloan asked.
“Because McNulty dropped dead of an aneurysm—and he’d either been the one to stash the gold or he’d moved it, not trusting his partners!” Kelsey said. She flushed, offering him her hand. “Hi, Sheriff, I’m sorry. We haven’t met. Kelsey O’Brien.”
“Good to meet you,” Sloan said. She had clear eyes, a steady handshake and a lovely manner. He hid a smile; he’d expected no less from the woman who had finally lifted Logan Raintree from his pain. “And glad to have you here. Logan is at county, getting lab reports from Newsome. I’m going to drive over and see what he has.”
Jane nodded. “I’m going to suck up to Grant Winston and beg him to let me borrow this book for the night. Then I’ll acquaint Kelsey with the theater, and be Sage again for a while until we hear back from you.”
“Keep an eye on each other,” Sloan said.
“Of course. We’ve been doing that for a long time,” Kelsey said.
He nodded and left them.
On the street, Henri was giving a history lesson on the theater with each of his cast members popping up to illustrate a different character. People thronged around them. Others stood just outside the saloon, some of the men with plastic cups of beer raised high as they leaned against the sidewalk support posts, like old-time cowboys.
The drive took him about forty-five minutes. As he neared his destination, he received a call from Logan telling him they’d meet at the morgue. He arrived at a lab and offices that made his little place look like a ma-and-pa operation. But he was grateful that he had the county for backup; it was impossible to have the manpower and technical and forensic support in a town as small as Lily.
A receptionist met him and instructed him to follow a hallway. In an outer room, a man who introduced himself as Dr. Madsen’s assistant gave him a paper lab suit and mask, and he entered the room.
“Sheriff Trent, just in time,” Madsen said.
“Glad to hear that, Doctor,” Sloan said, nodding to Logan and Newsome.
“I was explaining to Agent Raintree and Detective Newsome that because of the way the throat was sliced, I believe the killer was right-handed and that the knife used was about six inches long and two inches wide.”
