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“Okay, but try not to tear it apart. Mirabelle has had that thing for a long time, and it's worth a lot to her, if not monetarily at least sentimentally,” I said.

“No promises, but I'll pass that along.”

Creighton lifted the typewriter like it was as light as an empty shoebox and placed it under one arm.

“Clare, call me if you need anything or if you hear anything or if you're concerned or scared. Or anything,” Creighton said. “My cell number hasn't changed.”

A flicker of regret over not telling him about the letters and numbers flashed in my chest, but then I remembered that not only had he just insulted my best friend, but he'd cheated on me, so I managed to douse that flicker pretty quickly.

“Thank you,” I said.

Without further good-byes, he marched out of the workshop. I followed behind slowly, only reaching the middle door as Creighton's feet hit the sidewalk outside The Rescued Word.

“Oh, hello, I'm sorry,” I said to the man who was perusing our shelves of old-fashioned pens and ink bottles. “I didn't know we had a customer.”

Technically, we shouldn't be open for another half hour, but with all the police activity in and out, the front doors had been unlocked.

“No problem. I was just looking around at all your stuff. What a great place,” he said.

I'd never seen him before, and though he was dressed oddly, he wasn't wearing leather and didn't have a glowering look on his interesting face. And he wasn't Creighton. I decided that he was a welcome new sight.

He wore torn jeans that weren't torn in any fashionable way. They were also dirty. No, not dirty—dusty. His T-shirt had seen better days, and I did a double take when I read the
words emblazoned across the front. “Geologists make the bed rock.” I stifled a smile. He had to be at least in his midthirties, I thought, and was very tall, probably around six feet, five inches. He wasn't necessarily thin, but he was trim and in shape, the muscles in his arms well defined but not enormous. His skin was pale though I thought he might be sunburnt in a couple places; it was difficult to tell with all the dust. His dark, wavy hair was messy and needed some attention from a good pair of scissors. His blue eyes made a surprising contrast with his skin and hair. They were difficult not to stare at. He was handsome, but that wasn't the first adjective that came to mind as I looked at him. “Interesting” was the first word I thought of, followed by “handsome,” then “tall,” then, of all things, “cute.”

“Thanks,” I said as my eyes landed on the contraption that he held under his arm. I thought it was a mining helmet light, but I couldn't be sure.

“Oh,” he said as he noticed where my eyes had gone. He lifted the thing from under his arm, looked at it, and then put it back where it had been. “It's a mining light. I was at the mine all night. Anyway.” He shook his head. And then as if the transition made all the sense in the world, he continued, “I'm Seth Cassidy. You have my book,
Tom Sawyer.
”

“Oh! Yes, of course. I finished it last night. Let me go grab it.”

“Thanks.”

I'd never seen Seth before, but I'd met a geologist or two. Even an old mining town that didn't really do much mining anymore had need for them every now and then.
We'd corresponded via e-mail and he'd sent the book via snail mail. He'd mentioned that he'd be in town to pick it up this week but hadn't given me any more details than that. I gathered the book, looked it over one more time, and then carried it out to him.

Seth had changed. He had somehow smoothed out his hair and the T-shirt slogan was no longer visible. Had he turned the shirt inside out, right there in the middle of the store?

“It's a beautiful book,” I said as I handed it to him. “Very well taken care of.”

“Thanks, yes, it's pretty special to me.” He opened the book to the page I'd inserted. “Wow, this looks perfect. Really nice.”

“I'm glad you like it.”

“I do.”

As he inspected the book some more, I inspected him. I thought he must definitely be close to my age. I couldn't stop myself from looking at his ring finger. No sign of a ring or a tan line on the finger that was part of a pair of strong, sure hands. But if he was, indeed, a geologist who worked out in the field, then jewelry might get in his way.

A moment later, he looked up and said, “Thank you. I can't believe I found you in Star City, of all places.”

“My grandfather started this business a long time ago. He began by fixing typewriters.”

“Wow, it was probably good to diversify considering what's happened to most of those.”

“It was.”

Seth looked at me a long moment, almost too long. I began
to feel uncomfortable, so I decided to speak, of course choosing a cliché to move things along, because one can always count on clichés when trying to make a good impression.

“You new in town?” I cringed—only inwardly though.

“I am,” he said happily. “I was sent here last year to evaluate an old mine. I left but then the job turned into a full-time reclamation gig this year and they offered it to me. I thought it sounded like a fun place to live.” He paused. “Well, that made me sound like a kid right out of college. Truthfully, I was living and working in Alaska. I loved Alaska, but the winters were beginning to wear on me. When this job opened up, it seemed like a good opportunity.” He smiled again. “And a fun place to live.”

“It is a fun place to live,” I said.

“I'm beginning to see that,” he said.

I bet he cringed inwardly on that one, but he hid it well.

“I'm Clare Henry,” I said extending my hand.

His hand was warm and calloused and strong, just like I thought. Probably dusty too, but I didn't mind.

“Nice to meet you, Clare.”

We held on to each other's hands a little too long.

“Nice to meet you too, Seth.”

We finally disengaged, and Seth retrieved his wallet out of his back pocket. “What do I owe you?”

We moved back to the cash register and completed the transaction. Seth was slow to put his wallet away and I didn't make any excuse to rush off to work.

After I'd placed the book in a bag, he said, “Clare, is there any chance you'd be available for dinner sometime in the near future?”

“I think I might be,” I said.

“Good, I'll stop by again soon to ask you more formally. I'd like to prove to you that I do know how to clean myself up and I do have clothing without suggestive sayings written across the front.”

I laughed, probably a bit too loudly. “I'll see you later.”

I liked the way he looked at me through the front window and waved as he turned right, toward Main Street.

“Well, that hasn't happened in a while,” I said aloud as I put my hands on my hips.

In fact, a spark like that had been such a rare thing over the last several years that I began to wonder if Seth had been real, if any of that had actually happened. I'd given him back his book though. The book was real. I'd worked hard on that book, so our conversation must have really happened, right?

“What hasn't happened?” Chester said from behind me.

He and the cat in his arms must have come in too late to see the town's newest geologist.

“Nothing, Chester. But I need to talk to you. Do you have a minute?” It was time.

“Of course, my dear.”

With Baskerville on his lap and as we sat in facing chairs in the workshop, Chester assured me that he did not have cancer. He promised me that he was healthier than the proverbial horse, that he was going to live to be at least one hundred and twenty years old, and that I had nothing to worry about.

“Then what's going on? The search for pancreatic cancer? You've been a little less like yourself lately.”

“I have? I haven't meant to be. I think you're imagining things, Clare. Now, if I haven't been around the store as much lately, it's just because I've been busy with a few projects.”

“See, that's what I mean. You never have projects, unless they have something to do with The Rescued Word. You're not a multi-tasker, you've said so yourself.”

“Well, I have some now. They have nothing to do with cancer, of the pancreas or any other body part, and they have nothing to do with my imminent death because it isn't imminent. Maybe I'm working on a surprise.”

“What kind of a surprise?”

“Clare, if I told you, then it wouldn't be a surprise, now would it?”

“Why were you looking up pancreatic cancer?”

“I wasn't. Maybe that arrow mouse thingy hit something that was about pancreatic cancer but I wasn't looking at it.”

What he said was possible, but I also thought he was lying about something I couldn't pinpoint. However, I was relieved because I didn't think he was ill. I believed he would live to be one hundred and twenty, or at least close. If he was sick, I would have seen more signs, like a decrease in his energy level or appetite. There was something else going on though, and I'd figure it out eventually.

Baskerville looked at me and yawned. He blinked and seemed to want to tell me to get over whatever was bothering me.

“Okay. For now,” I said. “Also, you should probably know that Creighton took Mirabelle's Underwood. He said his sister should have taken it yesterday.”

Chester cringed. “I was afraid that might happen. I had thought about calling Jodie and telling her to take it, but I didn't want to interfere.”

“You think she should have taken the typewriter?”

“Sure, it was the item the man was after. If I were a police officer, I'd want to become totally acquainted with that machine. Know it from carriage return to space bar.”

I thought about the numbers but decided not to tell Chester about them quite yet. I wasn't sure why I wanted to keep the find to myself. Maybe I thought that if he had a secret, then I should too.

“That makes sense,” I said. It did, but I felt disloyal to Jodie for even thinking it let alone saying it aloud.

“Mirabelle's not going to be happy that her Underwood will be detained,” Chester said.

“You don't think they'll tear it apart, do you?”

“Oh, holy moly, I hope not. If so, we'll have to search the universe for a replacement. Mirabelle will be devastated.”

“I'll go talk to her. I'm caught up on everything here.”

“Good, she'll be happy to see you even if your news isn't the best. And I plan on remaining closed again for the rest of the day. I already called Marion. I'll put a note on the door to ring the bell if someone needs something.”

We were a small staff, but it was rare that someone wasn't around to help the customers. In even rarer moments when no one else was in the shop and the front doors were locked but Chester was home, he left a note out front that asked the customers to push a button on the outside of the building to the side of the entryway. The button was attached to a buzzer that extended up to Chester's apartment
as well as a hollow tubelike space that carried voices back and forth. It was an old system put in by the mining company, but one Chester still used. If someone needed something, they could communicate with him via the tube, and then he could come downstairs and help them.

“I don't know, Chester. Should we just close all the way? No note? I don't want you answering the door with no one else here.”

He looked at me through his glasses with a stern squint.

“I will not live my life afraid, Clare. This is not only my place of business, but it is my home. I will conduct myself as I always do.”

“I understand,” I said, but the corner of my mouth twitched. I liked it when Chester became adamant about something. And at the moment it proved to me even more that he was still the same old Chester. If he did, indeed, have health problems, he wasn't letting it change him in any way.

“Good, now, go see Mirabelle and give her the less-than-happy news. She'll take it better from you than she would anyone else.”

“Will do,” I said.

Chester put the note on the door and locked it after me. He waved and I watched as he and Baskerville made their way through the store and to the back.

He seemed perfectly fine.

I hoped he truly was.

“I
have some sugar cookies,” Mirabelle said. She was standing in front of her pantry, holding an old, wrinkled bag of cookies. From my vantage point in the kitchen doorway, it looked like it might just be an empty bag.

“None for me. Just some coffee would be great,” I said.

Mirabelle had never gotten into cooking or baking or anything overly domestic. Her house was neat, but always a little dusty. She was fond of frozen pizzas and ice cream sandwiches. She was still thin and in good shape, so no doctors had thought it necessary to chastise her for her eating habits.

She was also very fond of coffee; hot, hot coffee that burned weaker humans' mouths. Whenever she offered a cup, I took it but didn't drink from it right away. I didn't know how she got her coffee hotter than anyone else
could get theirs, but it was a talent I respected with my few-minutes-to-cool rule.

“Just as well. These are so old they might break teeth.” Mirabelle folded the bag and threw it in the garbage can under the sink. “Sit. The coffee will be ready in only a few minutes.” She eyed me sideways as I sat. “You didn't bring the No. 5. Is there a problem?”

“The police took it. Well, Creighton took it on behalf of the police. Have you heard the news about what Chester and I found behind our building?” Getting the story out quickly was the best way, like ripping a Band-Aid off instead of pulling it slowly.

“No.”

I told her about leather man's tragic demise.

“He deserved it,” she said without any remorse whatsoever. “How dare he come in and threaten you and Marion, or anyone else for that matter? How dare he!”

“Anyway, Creighton thought that your No. 5 should be looked over thoroughly by the crime scene techs. Just in case there's any sort of evidence or a clue that will lead to the killer.”

“I guess I understand that reasoning, but I hope they don't hurt it. I'll call Creighton and let him know I'd like to get it back in one piece. Did you have a chance to fix it?”

“I did,” I said as Mirabelle set a steaming cup on the table in front of me. She sat in another chair.

Mirabelle lived in a small square house with a spindled front porch and white shutters. The siding was pale pink,
pale enough that it was difficult to identify the color unless you looked very closely. The inside was made up of simple old and comfy furniture. Her living room fireplace was framed in decorative tile that had been painted with all different sorts of kittens. The house was very different than my small chalet-type house that sat at the top of Main Street, but I thought Mirabelle's home fit her perfectly. Even though Mirabelle had never had a cat—she was a dog person—the cute kittens worked.

Her side of the street held six houses that had been built during a Star City silver-mining boom. They'd originally been houses for miners and their families. They were all small and square-ish like Mirabelle's, but I'd heard that some had held large families, kids packed side to side like sausages on cots or mattresses. All six houses had been refurbished over time, and though they were still small, they were pretty adorable and were featured in a Star City postcard collection that many of the gift shops sold.

“I saw something,” I continued after Mirabelle had taken her first hot sip.

“What do you mean?”

“I saw something interesting on the typewriter,” I said. “Well, on the key bars.”

“What did you see?” She placed her mug on the table and leaned forward a little.

“There were numbers and letters scratched onto the sides of the bars”

“Really? I don't understand. Scratched onto the metal?”

“Yes. Someone used a sharp tool and scratched them onto the bars. You never saw them?”

“No. I've never looked at the sides of the key bars.” Mirabelle's eyebrows came together. “You know, the older we get, the more we forget. I realize that's not a big epiphany, but there it is. However, I am certain I never scratched anything onto the side—or any part—of the key bars. I'm pretty sure no one I know did either. I don't have any memory of anyone doing such a thing.”

“Have other people typed on it?”

Mirabelle laughed. “Of course. My children and grandchildren have all played on it. I wouldn't be surprised if one of them came up with the idea, for whatever reason, but I don't think so.”

“Where did you buy it?”

Mirabelle closed her eyes and leaned her head back a little. “Gosh, Clare, I'm pretty sure I got it in Star City, but I can't remember where exactly. There couldn't have been many choices back then. Wait, there was an appliance store on Main. It's long gone, but I think I might have gotten it there. It was a place that at one time, when I was a little girl, sold iceboxes and those washing machines with rollers. Do you know what I'm talking about?”

“I think I've heard of the store.”

Mirabelle bit her bottom lip. “That's what I remember at this point, but I'm just not sure.”

Main Street had seen every form of retail outlet over the years. Currently, to best cater to the resort tourist community it was mostly populated by a number of restaurants, a few bars, and lots of art stores. The buildings
that housed the stores were all old, many of them with brick walls and iron-paned windows, charmingly left over from the mining town days.

I ventured a small sip of coffee. It was hot but almost manageable. “Did I tell you what the guy who came into the store looked like? I mean, really looked like?”

“You said he had dark hair and wore leather.”

I tried to give her a better description. I told her about his round face, that his dark hair was thick and straight, that the leather he wore seemed too tight for him. I also mentioned that his eyes were brown and unfriendly.

“Sound familiar at all?” I said.

“I'm afraid not,” Mirabelle said. “But I'll keep thinking about it. It was so strange that he wanted my typewriter and only my typewriter. Those carved numbers might have something to do with it. Do you remember what they were?”

“Sure.” I'd written them on a piece of paper. I pulled it out of my pocket and showed it to her.

“I have no idea what they mean,” she said after a quick glance. “No idea at all.”

“Me either. I didn't tell Creighton about the numbers. I know that's bad, but I thought I'd tell Jodie first. He was insulting her police skills.”

Mirabelle smiled. “I'd do the same thing, particularly if I had your history with Creighton.”

“Well, it's a little childish, but I figure he'll find the numbers or Jodie will tell him after I tell her.”

My phone buzzed and jitterbugged across the table.

“Oh, speak of the devil. Excuse me, Mirabelle.” I picked up the phone. “Jodie?”

“Hey, you're closed.”

“What?”

“The Rescued Word is closed. You at home?”

“No, Mirabelle's.”

“I just heard from Creighton. He picked up the typewriter. He's right, I should have taken it in. I'm not happy with myself, so I need to do something proactive. I'm heading out to the goat relocation group to have a look around. You want to go with me?”

I'd never seen a goat relocation before. “Sure. Are you outside the Word?”

“I am. I'll wait for you.
Hasta
.” She hung up.

“That was Jodie,” I said. “She heard from Creighton and she'd like some company. This is terribly rude, but do you mind if I go with her?”

“No, go, tell her about the numbers. Tell her to take the credit for seeing them before. He'll be mad she didn't tell him earlier, but still . . .”

“I will.”

Mirabelle walked me to the door and we hugged, but she was clearly distracted.

“What's up?” I said, thinking maybe I should stay with her instead.

“I'm trying to remember more about my No. 5. Why can't I remember?”

“Mirabelle, I can't remember what I did last week.”

“Right, but, well, I can't help but think I'm forgetting something important. Go, go with Jodie so I can have some time with my thoughts. I'll call you if I remember.”

“Okay.” I turned to leave but turned around again. “You sure?”

“Go, Clare,” Mirabelle said as she scooted me out of the house and then shut the door behind me.

Mirabelle's street was just around the corner from Bygone Alley. I walked down the sidewalk in front of Mirabelle's and turned onto Bygone, meeting up with Jodie only a few minutes after saying good-bye to Mirabelle.

Jodie stood in front of the store and was in civilian clothing, which was a surprise. In fact, she wore jeans and a T-shirt that was destined to soon hit the rag pile. The thin white cotton wasn't really all that white anymore.

“We're not official?” I said as I gave her a once-over. I was far from a fashionista and my clothes were frequently spotted with ink, but even I knew it was better not to wear grungy T-shirts after the age of seventeen. Jodie struggled with these sorts of things, but her choices today were an even bigger surprise than normal.

“You're never official,” was all she said.

“Good point.”

“I'm off duty until later. I have my badge and gun, but I think that a pack of goat-moving motorcycle riders might be more apt to talk to me if I'm not in uniform.”

“Another good point. Who's driving?”

“I am. Come on.” She turned and walked to her old Bronco. She was not in a good mood and I knew why, but I also knew she would prefer to be grumpy than talk about it.

I hopped into the passenger side and buckled up.

“So, tell me about this goat relocation project,” I said.

Her grimace perked up to a look of tolerance. “It's all about the ecosystem. Goats, wolves, hunter, prey. The project's causing an uproar in some circles; other circles are pretty pleased. They are mountain goats and about fifty of them are being moved to the La Sal range down south a ways. Apparently, there used to be goats there, but there aren't any longer and we have way too many roaming around Polygamy Springs Valley. They're bringing other more vicious animals to the area. Specifically mountain lions.”

“The people living out there are upset?”

“The wildlife people are concerned that if the mountain lions go there, they'll just keep moving closer to Star City. The canyon is a gateway canyon.” Jodie laughed at her own joke. She was coming out of her funk.

“Guess what?” I said.

“What?”

“I know something about the typewriter key bars that Creighton might not have discovered yet.”

“Oh?”

After I told her what I'd found, she pulled out her cell phone and called her brother.

“Take credit. Say you saw them when you were there yesterday and you just hadn't put it in your notes yet,” I said.

Jodie smiled my direction and said, “Thanks, Clare, but I can't do that. Creighton was right to be mad at me, but just letting him know about this will help even if I wasn't the one to discover it.”

She didn't take credit for the find but she also did what she could not to throw me under the bus. She told Creighton
that I'd forgotten to mention the numbers to him because I'd been working late and my brain didn't function well with so little sleep, especially after finding a dead body. I didn't care much whether Creighton was mad at me or not, but I appreciated Jodie's BFF loyalty.

“The numbers are interesting,” Jodie said after she ended the call. “Any idea at all what they mean?”

“Nope,” I said. “I've never seen such a thing before. Once, on an old Remington, I saw that someone had scratched their name on one of the key bars, but there was nothing cryptic about that.”

“No.” Jodie stared out the front window. “We'll work on it. Creighton appreciated the call. He wanted me to tell you thank you.”

“He's welcome,” I said flatly.

Jodie laughed again. “Still not ready to cut him a break, are you?”

“Oh, look, a motorcycle gang,” I said as we rounded a ridge that opened below to Purple Springs Valley.

There were probably a couple hundred people in the valley below us, and most of them wore denim, leather, and/or bandanas. Many of them had their names patched onto the back of their denim or leather, like they were members of a sports team. I thought that was an odd feature, but it probably helped with the simple task of remembering who was who. Their motorcycles were parked along the side of the road at the bottom of the curvy switchback we traversed. The line of bikes was even, all of them leaning to their right just like obedient but slightly off-kilter soldiers.

“Considering the attire—minus the name patch, which would have been helpful—you would think that our mystery murder victim/potential typewriter thief came from this group, wouldn't you?” Jodie said.

“Or he wanted everyone to think that he came from this group,” I said.

“That's right. Looks are often deceiving,” Jodie said. “Let's go mingle.”

Jodie expertly steered the Bronco down and around the curves in the switchback. She parked at the end of the line of bikes and we got out of the truck. It was obvious we weren't part of the group. I now understood why Jodie had worn what she'd worn, but her effort at dressing appropriately for the crowd seemed forced. I just stood out like a sore thumb in my khakis and girly pink short-sleeved shirt.

The valley was spectacular though. You could see part of the monastery's walls and a few discrete houses around the perimeter, as well as the polygamy compound that sat in the middle and stood out even more than I did with its high gray stone walls and promises of the secret stuff going on behind them. I had come to the conclusion that there probably wasn't much secret stuff going on, but it was impossible not to speculate. The motorcycle group was spread out just this side of the walled compound in the middle, leaving the other side open with a multicolored sea of wildflowers and tall green grasses moving every direction with the light breeze. It was storybook charming, even with the motorcycles, the riders, and a big truck with “Utah Division of Wildlife” emblazoned on the side of its cab.