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As a little girl, she used to lie in Paradise Ladling, look up at the pinpricks of light set in an endless stretch of black, and chat with her relatives. No sight had ever rivaled the one painted by night. Until now.
She enjoyed watching the boys work together as a team. She’d first thought only Beau needed a friend, a buddy to hang and do guy stuff with. But seeing the pair side by side, hearing them call each other jerks and trashing the other’s favorite sports teams, she realized Conrad needed the friendship every bit as much.
What she didn’t appreciate? When the duo ganged up on her to declare her investigation days were over.
They could commiserate together when she proved them both wrong.
Chapter Nine
Arnold Hagen
Hole in One.
Plot 1024, Garden of Memories
Jane locked her car and jogged across the street toward the Aurelian Hills Gold Rush Museum, more determined than ever. Someone had endangered her precious cat, and that someone must be unearthed. Things were personal now.
The break-in must have a connection to Dr. Hotchkins’s murder. Catch one, catch the other.
Would the intruder come back?
A shudder racked her. She didn’t have to worry about Rolex while they were parted, at least. Those added bolts could hold a dragon.
The sun blazed, and she lamented her lack of a hat. Rolex had nibbled the tiniest little hole in her favorite straw, and she hadn’t yet figured out how to repair it. Besides, any headgear might make her stand out. Though new to investigating, she knew not to draw undue attention to herself, especially in a small town. She would draw enough attention already. So she’d opted for a plain T-shirt and jeans, hoping to blend in with other visitors.
She soared inside the building. A former county courthouse. Every schoolchild in Aurelian Hills visited the place at least once, and she couldn’t help but relive the sense of giddy excitement she experienced that day. Clutching a sack lunch, Beau at her side. Oohing and awing over old tools.
A guide led a group of five past her, saying with a hushed tone, “Notice the red brick. Beautiful, right? Every piece is locally sourced, and if you squint really hard, you might even spot a trace of gold.”
The same spiel Jane had heard at age six. And again at nine. Not once had she ever spied a hint of the stuff. Still, she’d always loved the federal-style building, with its white-painted shutters and tree-shaded sidewalk. An imposing yet charming picture.
Jane slowed when she reached the new and improved gold rush exhibit. She’d gotten mere glimpses at these crucial pages in Conrad’s office. Now, she would have her own copies to study. And luck was on her side. After a month-long closing for repairs, the museum had reopened today for a limited time. Could there be a clearer sign that Jane was supposed to do this?
An attendant sitting at a rounded desk emblazoned with a golden peach greeted her with a smile. “Hello and welcome to the Gold Rush Museum, where you don’t have to dig to find a treasure. If you’re here for the morning tours, I’m sorry to say you’ve just missed the cutoff. You’re free to do our self-guided one, however.”
“Oh yes. Thank you,” Jane replied with an eager nod.
“We only ask that you refrain from flash photography.” The older woman handed her a pamphlet.
Well. She would just turn off her flash and take all the photos her heart desired. Problem solved.
After paying the entrance fee, she strode down a hallway lined with framed portraits of the courthouse and judges who’d once presided in the building. Beneath an arched doorway read a sign: Welcome to the Nineteenth Century.
Soft banjo music greeted her as she entered a large room. Detailed black-and-white murals depicting maps, settlers and mining equipment covered the walls. Backlit displays housed the tools of everyday life for the miners. Jugs, wooden spoons and the shallow pans used to sift gold flecks from the river rock.
On a mission, she headed for the journal displays. Hopefully, the staff hadn’t retired anything after the renovation. She scanned the room until finding a special, five-sided glass enclosed table case.
Jane glanced from side to side. Alone. Good. She pulled out her notebook and catalogued some thoughts. Another look left. Right. She discreetly withdrew her phone. Flash off. Excellent.
She aimed her camera and tapped the screen without drawing notice to herself, then eyed the entrance. The coast remained clear. Tap. Tap. Tap. Emboldened, she moved on to the next display case. And the next. Jane visited presentation to presentation, capturing journal pages, legends of a once-secret society, maps and lists and scribbles and doodles and too many other things.
“Thanks,” a woman called as she entered the smaller exhibit.
Wait. That woman. Red dress. Matching lipstick. Curvy figure. Jane remembered seeing her at Tiffany Hotchkins’s house. Abigail Waynes-Kirkland. Did the socialite come here often?
