The Night Is Watching

“I see.”



“It’s so strange! I’m from Philadelphia. There’s something going on there all the time. But when you’re in a small place like this, well—it’s different. And this is scary. Of course, in a way, the whole place is scary.” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “I don’t know how you can stay in that room upstairs!”



“It’s a nice room.” She smiled. “I like staying there. In fact, I want to.”



“But it’s haunted. I know that for a fact.”



“Oh?”



Valerie nodded with assurance. “I actually think Henri put you in there on purpose.”



“Because he hoped he’d scare me?”



“I guess you don’t scare easily, do you?” Valerie asked her. “But you should be scared.”



“Why? What has this ghost done?”



Valerie was shocked. Her pretty face wrinkled in confusion. “Done? Well, it’s a ghost, for one. But I tell you, people have run out of that room. They say Sage McCormick shows up in the middle of the night, looking at them. They wake up—and there she is, watching them sleep.”



“She’s never hurt anyone, has she?”



“Well...I’m sure she has. Indirectly. She makes them nervous wrecks and then they trip and fall and... People are weird! Some come here because they want to see her, but she scared the producer of a ghost show right out of here. And over at the Old Jail, Trey Hardy is still there, you know. He moves people’s things around. And he just plain scares them, too!”



“But you’re not afraid to stay at the theater?”



“No one died in my room or became overly attached to it.” Valerie’s eyes widened. “This is horrible timing. Silverfest is next weekend. The money it brings in helps keep the town going for the whole year.”



“What happens at Silverfest?”



“Everyone dresses up in old frontier wear. We have a horse parade down Main Street, we perform all day and night as our characters. All the kids in town and half the adults dress up, too. And down by Sloan’s property there’s a rodeo. Oh, and we have a shoot-out on Main Street. It’s fun, and brings in a ton of money.” She paused. “Too bad it isn’t Goldfest, but it’s not, it’s Silverfest. They found way more silver than they did gold. And there was the gold heist, so I guess we don’t celebrate gold.”



She suddenly seemed to remember her coffee. “Want some coffee? This machine is great. American, caffe latte, cappuccino and mochaccino!”



“Sure. Actually, I could use something to eat.”



“Oh, that’s right. Sloan came for you so early. We have a refrigerator with sandwich meat, if you want, or I’ll run across the street with you. There’s pizza, there’s the saloon—”



“A sandwich will be fine. I’m going to have to get back to work,” Jane said.



“Let me make it for you. Salami, ham or turkey? And do you like cheese?”



While Valerie rummaged around under the bar, Alice joined them and then so did Brian and Ty, all talking about the two corpses.



A minute later, Henri Coque joined them, as well.



He didn’t want a sandwich; he walked around the bar and poured himself a large Scotch.



“What the hell?” he said, gulping down the shot. “Who’s digging up old corpses—and why? And why shoot a tourist?” He shook his head with disgust, then sighed. “I guess people can be ghoulish. Maybe these corpses will make us more popular this Silverfest. Let us pray!” He lifted his glass to the beautiful nineteenth-century, oval-framed portrait of a woman over the bar. “To you, my love! May we prosper, despite chaos! What is the world coming to here in Lily?”



“Or going back to?” Valerie asked, shivering.



Jane frowned and studied the painting. There was a sharp similarity between it and the sketch she’d drawn.



She frowned, looking at Henri.



“That’s Sage McCormick?” she asked, but she already knew the answer.



“Our beautiful ghost!” he said reverently. “Yes, indeed, that is Sage McCormick!”



Jane studied the old painting. It portrayed the woman she’d seen on the landing. Sage McCormick had rich dark curls that surrounded her face. Her eyes were large and gray, framed by rich lashes. Her lips were generous and curled into a secretive smile. She did, indeed, have the look of a queen—a sweeping, emoting drama queen. And yet...there was something about her eyes. She would have done well in their modern world, Jane thought. She was a bit of a wild child, a rebel. A woman before her time.



“Ah, Sage! Bless this place!” Henri said, overemoting himself. “May you help us prosper, indeed, because we cannot let this theater fail, can we?”



* * *



“At least it’s a slow week,” Dr. Arthur Cuthbert, one of the county medical examiners, told Sloan. “I have a died-at-home-alone octogenarian on my schedule and that’s it. I can keep the old fellow on ice awhile longer. My diener—assistant—is just cleaning up our tourist, Mr.—” he paused, checking his notes “—Mr. Jay Berman. However, I’m willing to bet he died from a .45 caliber to the back of the head.”



“Looks likely,” Sloan said. He hadn’t worked with Cuthbert before, and he wasn’t sure of a medical examiner who made quick suppositions. What seemed obvious... Well, things weren’t always what they seemed. He might be judging too hastily, though, he told himself.



Whoa, there, Sloan. Getting testy these days.



However, Detective Liam Newsome with the county joined him at the autopsy. He’d arrived at the crime scene when the forensic units were finishing up. Newsome was a decent cop, an oddly thin little man with sharp eyes and a sharper mind. They’d worked a hit-and-run on the town line when Sloan had first returned to Lily.



When the three of them headed into the autopsy, Sloan’s opinion of Cuthbert began to change. Cuthbert was precise, speaking to him and Detective Newsome and into a recorder all the while. Their dead man, Berman, had been approximately five-eleven and two hundred pounds. He had suffered no defensive wounds, which seemed consistent with the fact that he’d probably been kneeling. His attacker had likely walked behind him and pulled the trigger almost point-blank, judging by the powder burns. When he was done with the initial work, Cuthbert told Sloan he’d have the stomach contents analyzed, which would help narrow down the time of death. His informed guess was between two and four in the morning. When the lab reports came back, he’d send all the information to both Sloan and Liam at their respective departments.



“So, our tourist came to Lily and was shot execution-style,” Newsome said as they exited the morgue together. “You ever seen anything like that before?”



“Not in Lily.” Sloan had seen the style of killing, but that had been when he was dealing with known drug lords and their minions and in a big city rather than a little town where it seemed everyone knew everyone. Even the tourists. He pulled out his phone, looking at the information Betty had sent. “My deputies traced his identity—he’d given the management his credit card at the Old Jail and at the stables—and they’ve been checking his movements since he got to town. He’s from New York. Flew out to Tucson and drove to Lily late last week after picking up a rental car at the airport. He said he was on his own and just loved all the stories he’d heard about the Old West. He went to the show one night and took a couple tours with the stables. That’s all I’ve got at the moment. Appears he was friendly with everyone he met and seemed like a regular guy on vacation. I’ll start making further inquiries, try to find out if anyone got anything more from him.”



Newsome nodded. “I’ll work on the home angle. Maybe he was running from New York. Maybe his killer was never in Lily. Any word on the rental car?”



“No. Betty called the rental agency. No tracking device on his car. It was a new Nissan XTerra. Silver-gray.” Sloan looked down at the page and gave Newsome the license number.



“I’ll get a trace on it,” Newsome said.



Sloan nodded. “I’ll start with our locals.”



“We’ll see if he had family or friends—acquaintances—in New York who might’ve known if he had a different reason for coming out here. You had any trouble with drugs lately?”



“No more than the usual. Kids, mostly,” Sloan told him.



The two parted ways at the morgue. Sloan headed back to his office, stopping at Old Town first.



Mike Addison was at the desk in the Old Jail. He already knew about everything that had happened in the desert.



The fact that news traveled like wildfire in a small town had its good points; he didn’t have to explain what he needed to know.



“Sloan, don’t it just beat all?” Mike asked him. “I’m so sorry to hear about this. That Jay seemed like an all-right guy.”



“Tell me about him, Mike. Tell me everything he said and did while he was here.”



“Hell, I don’t room with my guests!” Mike said. “He checked in, and he talked to me about things to do in town. I told him to see the show and take tours from the stables. If he didn’t ride, he could do the haunted hayride at night. He was really a nice guy.”



“Why was he out here on his own?”



“Said he was a history buff, that he’d read all about Arizona and Lily.”



“Where did he stay?” Sloan asked. “Which room?”



“Well, you can imagine. A guy like that.”



Sloan prayed for patience. “Mike, I don’t want to imagine. Just tell me which room he stayed in.”



“The Trey Hardy cell. He was the guest in that cell right before the young couple who lost their wallets.”



“And he checked out?”



Mike nodded. “Let’s see. It’s Tuesday now.... He came in last Tuesday night, checked out Thursday morning. Our young couple got here Friday afternoon—and, well, you know about Saturday. Their wallets disappeared, they freaked out and left that day after you found the wallets. No one stayed there on Saturday night. They were supposed to be there another few days. I have it booked again starting Thursday night. Everything in and near town is booked as of Thursday. The Silverfest activities start on Friday, so folks will be coming in big numbers.”