by Ami Diane
Flipping through the tomes, she struck out. Even a boat encyclopedia failed her.
Ella dropped the last book on the stack, letting out a disgusted sigh. She checked her watch again. Ten minutes. With a grunt and popping of joints that should’ve come from someone three times her age, she rose.
She returned the books to their proper homes and began to leave. As she passed the scientific periodical section, her steps stuttered. Her brain shifted gears to the other mystery she was looking into.
Walking the row of books, she brushed her fingers along the spines of the periodicals. Since the town’s first jump had happened in 1951, nothing later than that year appeared, for obvious reasons.
Back then, there were far fewer theoretical physicists than in her time—or at least, that’s how it seemed.
What if…?
She grabbed a few scientific publications at random. There wasn’t enough time to go through them now, but there would be later. With the pile of journals in hand, she cautiously slid up to the librarian, as if approaching a hungry lion.
“Where’s Gabby?”
“What’s it to you?”
“She’s a friend. I was just curious.” Ella hefted her stack on top of the desk and watched the woman’s limbs crawl like branches towards the periodicals as she took down numbers.
“It’s her day off.” The old woman’s peeled back hair shifted with each quiver of her eyebrow as if her hair was somehow attached. “This is a good edition.”
Ella leaned over, noting the woman referred to a Physical Review journal from the year 1935.
“A bit dated,” she said, trying to be funny.
“Both this and the 1936 edition,” the librarian said in an acerbic tone, holding up another, “contain papers submitted by Dr. Einstein. Maybe he’s not big in your time, but he is in ours.”
Ella swallowed, feeling foolish while simultaneously awed. It wasn’t like she couldn’t have read any of his work in her time, but she felt a slight prickling of her skin at the use of the present tense verb describing the genius as still alive. She supposed for these people, he was.
The librarian returned her attention to the stack of journals. “Such a shame he stopped submitting to this journal.”
“Why’d he stop?”
Slow as a creaking bough, the librarian’s eyes rose, suspicious at Ella’s curiosity. “He published elsewhere, but the Physical Review’s my personal favorite. He stopped submitting to them when they critiqued one of his papers he’d written along with another scientist—Dr. Rosen, I believe—on gravitational waves.”
Ella nodded, knowingly. “Gravitational waves, you say?” She had no clue what those were but had heard the term in a few of her favorite sci-fi shows.
After politely thanking the woman, she carried her haul outside, making a mental note to grab her backpack next time she made a trip to the library. She dropped the periodicals off at the inn and made it back to Grandma’s Kitchen a few minutes late.
She’d just finished tying her apron on over her pink gingham uniform when the telephone rang on the wall. Picking it up, she said, “Grandma’s Kitch—”
“HELLO?”
Ella’s head jerked away from the earpiece, and she swore. There was now a high-pitched ringing in that ear, and she searched for some sort of volume on the ancient device. If there was one, she didn’t see it.
“MS. BARTON? IS THAT YOU?”
“Sheriff, is that you? Holy megaphone, why are you shouting?”
“Oh.” His deep, gravely voice came out softer, and she cautiously bent her good ear closer again—not quite confident enough to press the receiver all the way to her head.
“Sheriff? Everything alright?”
“Yeah, fine. Just wonderin’ if you’d come by the office when you get off work.” While he spoke, his voice began growing louder again.
She said she would and quickly hung up before even asking what it was about. She’d find out when she got there. It hadn’t been worth the risk of bursting an eardrum to ask.
Wink swept into the kitchen, her dress swirling in an invisible wake.
“Chapman doesn’t use a phone that often, does he?” Ella said.
“Not really. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
Ella swung out of the kitchen, nearly tripping over a butt crack. Shaking her head, she made a beeline for the coffee maker. She had a feeling she was going to need a caffeine boost to get through the rest of the day.
Her mind swirled with questions. Who was the pirate and where had the ship come from? Where had his body gone? Had a treasure hunter killed him?
But a far more immediate question vied for attention: Why did Chapman want to see her?
CHAPTER 10
ELLA STOPPED BY the inn right after work in order to change clothes. Before running out of her bedroom, she scooped up a small present she’d bought the sheriff while shopping in the General Store the other day. On the front stoop, she vaulted over Fluffy who had stretched to his full, furry length for his nap, taking up an entire step.
Strolling up Main Street, she turned her face up to the sun, letting it warm her skin. Who knew how long the town would remain where it was or where it would travel to next, but for now, she could pretend it was June back in the Willamette Valley, and she was ambling through the park, listening to the cherry trees grow.
All too soon she was stepping into the dark confines of the sheriff’s office. The old brick was worn inside just as much as it was outside. The large picture window behind Chapman’s desk—the only window—that faced the street did little to warm the drab interior.
The sheriff sat at his desk, his derby hat resting on top while his hands were busy twisting his long handlebar mustache.
A woman with hair curlier than Ella’s sat across from him, wringing a handkerchief in her gloves. She wore a black pillbox hat with a net veil that partially covered her eyes.
She sniffed, covering her mouth with the embroidered handkerchief. “I just don’t know where he could be.”
“We’ll find him, Mrs. Alexander.” Chapman’s gray eyes flitted Ella’s way and gestured for her to have a seat somewhere and wait.
Turning, Ella considered her options and found nothing but the holding cells’ musty cots by way of chair options. She opted to stand but moved away to give them some semblance of privacy.
“I’ve been looking for him since you came in Saturday morning. You still can’t tell me what time he went missing on Friday?”
The woman shook her head, dabbing at her eyes. “He left for work but never came home. It’s not like him.” Her lower lip quivered.
“Are you sure he didn’t just catch a bead on the treasure and had been preoccupied with that?”
That’s when the last name clicked for Ella. Alexander. This was the treasure hunter’s wife. Based on her appearance, she didn’t match Leif’s description of the woman seen in the forest.
“For four days?” Mrs. Alexander’s voice grew shrill.
Chapman’s hand moved from his mustache to his stubbled jaw, revealing a flicker of emotion: doubt. “You’re right. That don’t seem like him.” He stood, his drawl coming out thick as he said, “Don’t worry, ma’am. He’ll show up. I’ll go searching for him again as soon as I have a chat with Ms. Barton here.”
Mrs. Alexander glanced back at Ella as she stood. Dabbing her eyes again, she shuffled out of the office with a mumbled “thank you.”
Ella eased into the recently vacated chair, and Chapman settled back in his. Reclining, he stacked his boots on top of his desk in his usual relaxed demeanor.
“So, Darren Alexander’s missing?”
“Hm, appears so.” His badge caught the light trying to seep through the dusty window, causing the gleaming metal to wink at her.
“He’s been missing since the day I discovered the pirate,” she said pointedly.
“You think Mr. Alexander killed your phantom?”
She bypassed the “phantom” c
omment. “Makes sense. Maybe he finally got sick of not finding the treasure, questioned the pirate, and snapped.”
Chapman seemed to consider this. Or maybe he’d just grown bored. It was hard to tell with the man.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” She snapped her fingers and straightened, digging into her back pocket. “I got you something.” She fished out the object and tossed it onto his desk.
“What’s this?”
“It’s called a notebook.”
“I know what it is. I meant, what am I supposed to do with it?”
Ella blinked. “Take notes?”
He continued to stare at her, and she squirmed.
“Look, it’s just for taking notes down while at a crime scene or interviewing people. That way, you don’t have to remember every little detail.”
“I don’t forget details.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine, then doodle stick figures into it for all I care.”
He shoved the notebook into the trouser pocket next to his holster. “Thanks.”
“So… you rang? If this is about that whole skywriting business of Flo trying to poison the town, I had nothing to do with that. And neither did Wink. That was all the beehive queen.”
“This ain’t that. Although, I do need to get around to having a chat with that woman. I’m considering requiring her to have a chaperone at all times.”
That idea appealed to Ella a lot. “Is this about the grenade?”
“What grenade?”
“Yeah, what grenade? Who said anything about a grenade?”
“You did.”
“When?”
“Just now.”
“No. That doesn’t sound like me.” Her eyebrows rose. “Oh, I said ‘Grenada’. You know, the small Caribbean country. I was asking if this had anything to do with that.”
She smiled, proud of herself for being so quick on her feet. Meanwhile, Chapman continued to stare at her as if she’d had a stroke.
He let out a long-suffering sigh. “I just wanted to ask for a favor—”
“A favor?” She leaned forward and began reaching for her cellphone to record whatever he was going to say next. “From me?”
“I’m already regretting it.”
“Don’t say that.” She held up the phone, ready to press record. “It means a lot to me that you consider us equals.” Her thumb pressed the red button.
“I don’t. I never said nothing of the sort.” His boots slid off the desk as he leaned in and wrapped a massive hand around her phone. “Be serious, for one moment.”
Her smile evaporated, and she stowed the device in her back pocket. “What’s up?”
“I can’t officially investigate your hangman—”
She resisted the urge to joke about his use of the term.
“—which is one reason why I’m chatting to you about it. I’ll look into Mr. Alexander some more, especially now that he’s hiding, but I thought maybe you could ask another treasure hunter of there whereabouts on Friday.”
Ella stiffened. She had a bad feeling she knew where this was heading. Her head was shaking back and forth even before he finished getting the question out.
“Can you talk to Six?”
“Nope.”
“If anyone’s got hope of getting a straight answer from that mudsill, it’s you. You two got a special bond.”
“I wouldn’t call it special. He tried to kill me once if you recall.”
Chapman’s mustache twitched. “Ain’t a person in town he hasn’t shot at.”
She sighed, her shoulders slumping in resignation. “I’ll ask next time I see him. Am I only asking about his timeline on Friday? What if the pirate had been hanging there since Thursday?” She didn’t say sooner because she was pretty sure she would’ve noticed a smell if he’d been dead much longer.
In response, Chapman mentioned the marked absence of odor in addition to finding out that a couple of fishermen had decided to take advantage of Keystone’s current location and the lack of stipulations on sea fishing as opposed to the strict regulations on fishing in the lake.
“They were there on the cliff above the wreck most of Thursday and didn’t notice anyone.”
She nodded, absently, while she tried to steel herself for her impending conversation with the outlaw.
CHAPTER 11
THAT NIGHT, ELLA stepped through the door of the Half Penny and into a cloud of cigarette smoke, musk, and apathy. It was exactly where she wanted to be during dinner time on a Monday evening and not at all curled up in bed with a good book eating cookies.
Just get this over with.
Unsurprisingly, she found Six at the poker table in the corner. She made eye contact with the bartender but didn’t order a drink since she planned for a quick getaway after a—hopefully—short conversation. The owner who’d been the main bartender, Lucky, was otherwise engaged at some undisclosed location, having been recently charged with murder.
Whether he was still in Keystone proper, awaiting sentencing, or had actually been disposed of in a jump as Chapman was wont to do, she couldn’t be sure. Honestly, she’d avoided asking details.
Rolling her shoulders back, she marched through the smokey haze, coughed, and felt her way over to Six. A ring of rough-looking men and a haggard-looking woman stared up at her. Perhaps this wasn’t the best time to question the cowboy, but she was already here.
All of the seats were taken, and she didn’t exactly want to join their game, anyway. She spotted an empty chair at another table and dragged it over. The screeching caused by grating it over the worn wooden planks nearly drowned out the protests by the players.
“What’s she doin’?” The woman glared at Ella. All the gal needed was a wart on the tip of her nose, and she’d be the spitting image of a witch.
“I just want to watch. Excuse me.” Ella jostled her way between Six and some guy with an actual hook for a hand. Neither budged. “I just need to…” She turned sideways and managed to get an elbow on the table. “Yep, there we go. Ah, that’s comfortable.”
They both pressed in on her, and it became a struggle to catch a full breath. Also, from the stench curling up her nose, neither were stringent about personal hygiene.
“Why don’t you get that pretty face out of here before I mess it up, eh?” The man with the hook for a hand growled.
“Easy, Captain Hook. There’s no harm in watching, is there? I might be a good luck charm. Who knows?” Despite her outward bravado, her heart hammered in her ears.
For his part, Six had wildly ignored her, save for a small wink he’d shot her when she had first entered. She got the feeling that after her awkward and forced entry to the table, he didn’t want to openly admit to knowing her.
As the lady with too little makeup and far too much cleavage dealt out another hand, Six sucked on a hand-rolled cigarette and blew the smoke straight into Ella’s face.
She’d seen it coming and held her breath. He knew how much she hated that and wasn’t going to let him get rid of her that easily. When the cloud had dissipated enough not to give her lung cancer, she asked if she could talk with him.
“Busy” was his only response. And like that, he’d dismissed her.
Fine. Two could play at that game.
His calloused hands fanned out his cards as he rearranged them.
Ella leaned in. “Oh, an ace of clubs. Is that good?”
A chorus of chuckles echoed around the table. Six’s head whipped around, and his hand dropped to the sixshooter strapped in his holster.
She smiled, innocently. “I just want to chat. I’ll make it quick, and you can get back to swindling them out of their money.”
This earned a loud chorus of jeers. Six waved the others off.
“I don’t rook, and I challenge anyone who says otherwise.” When nobody spoke up, he unfolded his lanky frame from his chair. “I’m out for a couple hands. Anybody touches my chips, and they’ll get a bullet to the head.” He patted his gun to underscore his threa
t.
After he led Ella to the end of the bar where they had a modicum of privacy and he could still keep an eye on the table, he rounded on her.
“Alright, darlin’. You got five seconds to make this worth my time.” He appeared like he’d aged years since last she’d seen him. Shadows crept beneath his eyes, his skin papery and sallow. It was like a losing battle was unfolding before her, his life slowly unraveling, and she was helpless to intervene.
“When was the last time you slept?”
“That’s what you come down here, interruptin’ my poker game to ask me?”
“What? No, of course not. Where were you on Friday?”
“What time?”
That was a question she wondered herself, but just to give him a reference, she settled for a set period. “All day.”
His cigarette dangled between his lips. Using his tongue, he moved it to the corner of his mouth. “Chapman ask you to ask me?”
“Maybe.” Ella leaned against the bar. “But I’m genuinely interested. You know that pirate I saw you chasing? I found him dead on Friday evening.”
Six’s eyes narrowed, and it was a breath before he responded. “Is that a bluff, or do you mean it for real play?”
Ella interpreted that as him asking whether or not she was pulling his leg. “No. He was—” She stopped herself short of giving him the details. On the off chance he was somehow involved, she wanted to be able to tell Chapman she hadn’t divulged anything about the case—or non-existent case, in this instance. “He was dead.”
“You touch him?”
“Why is that everybody’s first question? And yes, of course, I did. Anyway, I want to tell Chapman you aren’t a suspect, so if you could, pretty please, tell me of your whereabouts that day, that’d be great.”
He held up tobacco-stained fingers and ticked off a list of his activities on Friday, beginning with feeding Duke followed by unnecessarily graphic detail of his visit to his outhouse. She began to zone out at number eight (pouring sawdust in some man’s engine block) and came around again at number eighteen (picking apples).
