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“What specifically did he want to know?”

“Historical stuff, like when they went out of business and if there were any items from them left in the building.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him that I found a huge chunk of silver in the back but that I sold it years ago, long before silver was worth what it's worth today. And that the mining company went out of business in 1958.”

“You found silver?”

“Of course not. My stories are to entertain, Clare. How bored would he have been if I'd told him I found a useless pickax, a couple mining helmets, and a bunch of dust?”

“What about when the mining company went out of business? Was it really 1958?”

“Yes, the building was empty for two years before I purchased it.”

“Weren't you two good friends at one time?”

“Yes, that was many years ago though. I started The Rescued Word about the time he was promoted to editor. He, Mirabelle, and I skied,” he said. I thought I heard regret.

“What happened to the friendship?”

Chester shrugged. “Time moves on.”

I waited a beat for him to say more, but he wasn't going to.

“Do you remember the newspaper article about you and the press you built?” I asked.

“Ah, I see. Homer brought that up yesterday.”

“Not really. I did. I remembered you and he being testy with each other when we went out there when I was a teenager. I asked him if he remembered what it was about. He guessed the newspaper article.”

“Good guess. He's been mad at me for years about that, and I suppose that had something to do with our friendship fading.”

“The article was a pretty big deal, huh?”

“Oh, I don't know.”

“Olive knew about it. She told me you were famous for a short time. So was the reporter.”

Chester waved away the notion of fame. “Not really.”

“So why didn't you want Homer to write the article? You and he were pretty good friends.”

“We were.” Chester looked down at the ground and ran his knuckle over his mustache. Whatever he was remembering or thinking about, it wasn't pleasant.

“Chester?” I said.

He looked up, surprised, as if he'd gone so far into the past for a moment that he'd forgotten I was in the room.

“Mirabelle asked me to talk to the Salt Lake reporter, not to Homer,” he said sadly.

“Why?” Mirabelle was like Chester when it came to Star City. She loved her home and wanted the best for it, above all other places. Always.

“She wouldn't ever tell me, Clare. I quit asking a long time ago. But I did as she requested. How could I not have—it wouldn't have been gentlemanly of me to go against her wishes.”

“That makes me very curious.”

“Me too.”

“Do you care if I ask her?”

“Only if you share the answer with me if she gives you one.” Chester looked at the typewriters, touched a key on the Underwood Ace, and said, “Excuse me a minute.”

I watched him walk to the back, wondering what sorts
of nerves I'd touched and how it was possible that all these years later they were still so tender.

I took the closer look at the typewriters that I wished I'd been able to take at Homer's house. There were no numbers or letters scratched onto the key bars, nothing unusual about any of them except for the fact that all but the old Underwood were in amazing condition, probably wouldn't even need tune-ups. Why had Homer
really
brought them in? He could have just brought one in if he wanted to talk to me or Chester, or to inquire again about Mirabelle's No. 5. He could have just stopped by without any typewriters in tow. What was going on?

And what was the deal with his curiosity about Mirabelle's typewriter? If he knew about the scratches on the key bars, did he know what they meant? Did he put them there, forget about them, and I'd jogged his memory? If that was it, why didn't he just say so?

When the front door opened again, I expected it to be Jodie, but it was Seth. He was dressed as though he had a day of dirty work ahead of him. He wore overalls and boots that had seen better days.

“Hi,” I said.

He stood by the front door and said, “Hi. I don't want to risk tracking any muck I've got on me through your store. Do you have a minute to talk outside?”

“Sure,” I said.

“I'm so sorry about last night,” Seth said when we were both on the sidewalk.

“Did it go okay?” I asked.

“It went fine. I wasn't even in town when the man was killed. I have plenty of witnesses. I was in southern Utah—just got back in town when I came in to pick up my book from you. So I'm off the hook.”

“That's good,” I said, but even I heard my lack of enthusiasm. I smiled big to try to cover it up.

Seth blinked and cocked his head slightly. “What's up?”

I sighed. It was no use. I could not have a secret about him and be expected to keep it to myself. I was sure that both Jodie and Creighton knew about this fault in my personality, my inability to be friends with someone while knowing something about them they might not want me to know. Their intentions were probably only good, but at the moment I was not happy with the Wentworth family.

“Seth, you know that I'm pretty good friends with the police, right?”

“Sure, your blond friend scares me more than the guy from last night. She's not someone to be messed with.”

I tried not to smile, but the corner of my mouth twitched. “Anyway, Jodie, the blond woman, and I have been best friends for a long time, and, well, since you're new to town and all . . . and probably because there was a murder . . . well, Jodie did a background check on you.”

Seth's eyes squinted and all hints of humor disappeared from his face.

“And she gave it to me, and I read it,” I finished. I pulled in a deep lung full of air and then released it through puffed-out cheeks. “I had to tell you, Seth. It didn't seem fair that I knew what I knew without you knowing that I knew.”

“I see. And what's your verdict based upon the background check?” He asked the question, but his icy tone told me that he didn't really care, that this was probably our very last conversation. My future was about to be filled with glances out my front windows, watching him go in and out of his apartment with other women for the rock-and-mineral tour and the best lasagna in the world. I would be very, very jealous of them all.

“I like you,” I said with a shrug. “If I didn't like you, I wouldn't have told you.”

For an instant his anger was gone and I saw the friendly, inquiring eyes I'd first thought were so attractive, but they didn't stick around long.

He looked at his watch. “I've got to get to work, Clare. Thank you for the lovely evening last night.”

I nodded and wanted to say something else, but nothing came out of my mouth before he turned and walked down Bygone toward Main Street.

“Well, that was fun,” I muttered to myself quietly, finally finding my words.

As if on cue, Jodie and her noisy Bronco turned the corner and pulled up to the curb in front of the store. She rolled down her window.

“Did I just see your boyfriend walking that direction?”

“I don't think I want to talk to you about that today,” I said.

She squinted. “All right. I'm sorry?”

I sighed and put my hands on my hips. “What's up?”

“Do you want to come with me out to talk to the motorcycle gang again?”

No, I didn't want to go anywhere with Jodie. I wanted to puncture her tires and break the windshield on that damn Bronco. Nevertheless, I also really wanted to see what she might uncover next. “Yes. Let me tell Chester I'm leaving. I'll be right back.”

I
told myself to shape up. There was no reason for me to feel such an immediate sense of loss.

When I'd gone to talk to Chester, he'd seen right through me.

“I'm going with Jodie for a bit,” I told him.

“What's wrong?” he said.

“Nothing.”

“Something's wrong,” Chester said.

“No. Well, I just told Seth that Jodie pulled a background check on him and I read it.”

“Why on earth did you tell him that?” Chester said.

“Seemed like the right thing to do.”

Chester had been sitting on the corner of my worktable reading from a magazine. He stood and frowned and walked to me, placing his hands on my arms.

“Well, those Wentworths are far too intrusive in your life, Clare, but they do mean well, in their police, bossy ways. And I understand why you told Mr. Cassidy what you told him.”

“But you think I shouldn't have?”

“Was he steamed?” Chester asked.

I liked it when he used words and phrases that weren't quite from this time period.

“Boiling, I think,” I said.

Chester looked up to the ceiling a moment and then back at me. “I make up my stories, but have I ever lied to you, Clare?”

“Never, even when it might have been a good idea.” I smiled.

“Right. Well, give him a little time. He just reacted, perhaps. I do think that if he likes you enough, he'll come back around. Probably not today though, so don't get your hopes up too high that you'll see him in the next twenty-four hours or so.”

“Thanks, Chester.” I hugged him.

“Love you more than ink on paper, Clare,” he said as he hugged me back.

“Love you more than books,” I said when we disengaged.

“Oh. Well, that's tough to beat. Go with Jodie. Try to enjoy yourself, but don't get shot or anything.”

“I'll be back in a couple hours. I do have work to get done.”

“See you then.” Chester waved me away.

I felt a million times better by the time I exited The
Rescued Word, but that empty void of loss was still there in the background.

“Coffee?” Jodie said hesitantly as she nodded to the mug she'd already put into the cup holder on my side.

“Thanks, that's perfect,” I said.

We didn't talk much as she drove us back to Purple Springs Valley. Jodie hummed with the radio a little, but we'd had enough of these sorts of moments together that we both knew that silence for a short time was best.

Our friendship was too strong not to get through an occasional bump in the road.

“There aren't nearly as many motorcycles,” I said, speaking the first almost-complete sentence of the trip as we pulled into the valley. I didn't mention that I'd seen no motorcycles the day before. I didn't want to explain my visit to Homer.

“No, most are gone. Most of the goats have been transported too. Mutt's here to finish things up. He said a few others will be too—some of the organizers of the project. They had gathered names of those who would be participating. I got the list and it didn't yield any Mayfairs, but in-person visits can sometimes bring good surprises.”

“Oh, Jodie! I totally forgot to look again for the cards with the names I'd written. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. We'll check later.”

I swallowed the guilt I felt and told myself to make the card search a priority.

Mutt spotted the truck, separated himself from the small crowd of people, and walked over to greet us.

“Clare, good to see you again,” he said as he extended his hand to me first. “Jodie, always a pleasure.”

They didn't shake hands but they didn't hug either. They looked at each other briefly in that way that told me they weren't quite sure how they should go about their physical greetings at this stage in their relationship. I wasn't jealous, I didn't think, but I had to stop my eyes from rolling.

“Thanks, Mutt. Did you let them know we were coming?” Jodie said.

“Nope. I thought it best just to let you show up. If anyone knows anything, they didn't have the chance to think about rearranging the facts.”

“Thanks,” Jodie said, all business now. She'd turned off the flirtation and somehow made her shoulders seem bigger. I could never quite figure out how she did that. The smile was gone, and when she sniffed once and rubbed her finger under her nose, I knew she'd transformed into full police-officer mode. “Let's have a chat or two.”

“This way,” Mutt said.

There were eleven people left from Angels for Animals. Of the eleven, it was clear that eight of them had nothing to contribute regarding the Mayfair name or it in conjunction with someone who'd attended the goat relocation project.

They were “dismissed.” Jodie firmly told them so, and they didn't need to be told twice to go find something else to do.

Mutt was one of the remaining three, but whatever he knew he'd already shared with Jodie. The other two actually proved to have more information, though tying it all
back to the man who was killed behind The Rescued Word would be difficult at best.

Lillian Thurman was in her midforties but looked closer to sixty than to fifty. There was no mystery as to the reason for her gruff, gravely voice; she chain-smoked, literally. While we were there, I never once saw her pull out a lighter or a match. When she was close to the end of one cigarette, she'd pull out another one and use the stub to light the new one. Watching her smoke was, to me, almost hypnotic, a choreography of puffs and smoke and fire. It was most definitely a nasty habit, but at least she did it with style.

She had no time for fixing her hair or donning makeup. She probably saw a barber for the short cut she sported, and the thick field of tiny hairs over her top lip made me wonder if she shaved. If she did, she'd neglected that part of her grooming routine for at least a couple of days.

When Jodie brought up the name Mayfair, Lillian made a quick noise in the back of her gravelly throat and waved her hand, the one with a cigarette between her two fingers, and said, “Here, right here. I almost talked to someone with that name.”

Along with Lillian, another Angels for Animals member seemed to potentially have some information regarding Mayfair. Duncan Bates was a small man with narrow shoulders; short, black, greasy hair; thick glasses; and a sickly skin tone, ghostlike and gray. He wore a leather vest with no sleeves, and I wondered how he wasn't tanned or sunburned.

“Yeah, I know a Mayfair from southern Utah,” he'd said.

Jodie looked at me. It took me a second to understand
the question in her eyes, but I responded with, “Yes, at least some of Homer's kids and grandkids live in southern Utah, I think.”

“All right. Lillian, tell me about the Mayfair you talked to here,” Jodie said as she turned back to the woman.

“There was more than one.” Lillian blew out smoke and then took more in, which was how she rolled apparently—constant in and out even amidst conversation. “There were two men, I think. One of them had Mayfair on the back of his jacket.”

“What did they look like?” Jodie said.

For a long, thoughtful, smoke-filled moment, Lillian slowly shook her head. “I don't remember at all. The only reason I remember the name is because the first time I saw it, my eyes played tricks on me and I thought it said Mayflower, which I thought was interesting.”

Jodie pulled a picture out of her back pocket and showed it to Lillian only, purposefully keeping it out of Duncan's line of sight.

“Do you recognize the man in this picture?” Jodie said.

Lillian blinked and frowned. “Not a great picture.”

“No, but it's all we've got,” she said.

“No, I don't recognize him,” Lillian said.

“All right.” She put the picture back in her pocket. “Anything else? How do you know there were two of them?”

“I assumed they were brothers, I suppose. When I saw the name, I was standing pretty close to them. We were waiting to begin the relocation. I was going to say something to the one with the name on his back—you know, ‘Hey, dude, thought you were a Mayflower at first'—something like that.
Small talk to pass the time. Mutt said that as those in charge of the event, we should talk to people, get to know them, said it was good for the group, good for everyone. Anyway, as I got a little closer, I heard the Mayfair vest say to the other one, ‘The old man will never go for it. He's a blankity-blank idiot.' I'll leave out the expletives. So I stepped back. Sounded like a brotherly conversation about their dad or something, but I could be guessing wrong, I suppose. And there was something about his tone, meanlike, maybe. I don't know, but something in my gut told me to step away, so I did.”

“I see,” Jodie said. “You keep saying the one with Mayfair on the back of his jacket. How come not everyone is required to have their name on them?”

Lillian shrugged. “We ask them to, but someone made such a big stink about it once that we had to make it a suggestion instead of a requirement. Right, Mutt?”

“Right,” he said.

“Anything else you can remember? More about the clothes, hair, accent in the voice?” Jodie said.

“No, nothing.”

“Thanks, Lillian. If you remember anything else, anything at all, give me a call.” Jodie handed Lillian a card.

“Will do.” Lillian looked at the card in the palm of her hand. She didn't strike me as the type who would hold on to it for very long. But one glance at Mutt's stern face probably told her she should keep this one. She put it in her back pocket and patted it once as if to punctuate that she would do as she was told.

Jodie turned to Duncan. “Mr. Bates, you know some Mayfairs?”

“No, I don't know them really, I just know of them,” he said.

I got the impression that Mr. Bates didn't like talking to the police. He held his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest, and he glared at Jodie. He wasn't much taller than her, but he was puffing, as if to make himself seem bigger. Jodie didn't appear to notice.

“Tell me what you know
of
them,” she said.

“Just that they're a pretty quiet group, keep to themselves mostly. They aren't like some of the crazies who live out in the boonies and bring out their rifles whenever someone drives up their road. But they do live out of town a bit, have a few houses. Don't know a thing about any guns though. Don't think so.”

“A few houses? All Mayfairs?”

“I think so.”

Jodie looked at me again, but I had no idea if those Mayfairs were Homer's family or not. I shrugged and pushed up my glasses.

“I see. You're sure you didn't see or talk to any Mayfairs here?”

“Pretty sure. I don't ask everyone's name, but still . . . I think I know who I talked to.”

“What do the Mayfairs you know look like?” She pulled out the picture again.

“Nothing in particular.”

“Any chance this guy looks familiar?” She held the picture out for the man to look at.

“Criminently, that's a dead man!” he said.

Jodie nodded but didn't pull the picture away.

“No, I don't know. How would I know?” Duncan said, but even I noticed that he never truly looked at the picture.

“All right. Call me with anything else.” Jodie handed him her card too. He was much less interested in putting on a show of keeping it as he absently stuffed it into his front jeans pocket.

“That all?” he asked.

“For now,” Jodie said. She didn't thank him as he turned to leave.

“Not much of anything useful. I'm sorry about that,” Mutt said.

“Do you think they were both being honest?” Jodie said.

“I do. I can't think of any reason either of them would lie. They've both had a couple run-ins with the law but nothing dangerous. Duncan's not interested in talking to the police, obviously, but he could have just said he had no information if he'd wanted to. Lillian's your best bet. It'd be great if she remembered more,” Mutt said.

As he spoke to Jodie, I inspected him. He spoke well and had bright, intelligent eyes. But he looked like a thug, or a potential thug at least. I was disappointed in myself for the observations. I knew better. But still, I decided to ask Jodie what Mutt's background report said about him.

Suddenly, Mutt looked at me, his bright, intelligent eyes now full of question.

“Clare?” Jodie said.

“What? Oh, sorry, I was off in my own world. Did you ask me a question?”

“How many children, exactly, does Homer have?” Jodie said.

“I think he has two sons and one daughter, but I'm not sure how many kids each of them have.”

“You know some of Homer's family is in southern Utah. Do you know who?”

“No idea. Sorry.”

“No problem,” Jodie said. She turned back to Mutt. “Just let me know.”

“Will do. We still on for tonight?” he said.

I took an unconscious step backward, but Jodie kept it simple. “Tonight would be fine.”

Mutt smiled. “Very good. See you then. Excuse me, ladies. Duty calls,” he said before he turned and walked away.

“I need to track down some Mayfairs. See what they look like, see if anyone from their family has gone missing,” Jodie said.

“Seems like a pretty weak connection,” I said, realizing I now needed to tell her about Homer and his typewriters.

“It is, but it's all we've got.” Jodie allowed her eyes to watch Mutt a moment longer before she turned back to me and said, “Let's go.”