Chapter 11
Eleven
THE PINE RIVER INN
The Pine River Inn was another hotel in town that was smaller than the Sparkledove Arms, but it had a full bar next to its restaurant, so it was every bit as popular.
The walls of Pine River’s bar were pine logs, and mounted animals sat on wooden perches, staring down at customers.
A mountain lion here, a horned ram there, and a moose head with Christmas tinsel hanging from its antlers behind the bar.
The place was pretty busy, and Eli and Goldie got the last available booth.
She ordered a whiskey on the rocks, and he ordered a beer.
“Since you’re missin’ dinner with your folks, go ahead and order somethin’ if you’re hungry,” Goldie offered.
“I made a sandwich at my apartment,” he said. “But if you’re hungry—”
“No. I ate at my hotel.”
He nodded, and they were quiet for a moment. Finally, Goldie asked:
“So, your boss, the mayor, you like him?”
“He hired me, so sure.”
“And you’re the only cop in town?”
“Yeah. As you may’ve noticed, Sparkledove isn’t exactly a hotbed of crime. It’s actually more of a PR job.”
“And the guy you replaced?”
“Jason Shirk. He passed away after a heart attack. I never met him, but from what I understand, he had a great background as a lawman. He was a state trooper before he came to Sparkledove.
“And Banyan just hired you out of the blue?”
“Well, I did have military training, I’m pretty good with a weapon, plus, I’m taking a correspondence course in law enforcement.”
“You mean, you’re not even a real cop? You’re a pretend cop?”
“No. I’m a real sheriff. But I’m trying to improve myself by learning more. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“No,” she said. “‘Course not. I’m just surprised.”
The waitress brought their drinks. After she left, Goldie took a sip, nodded her approval, then changed directions. “Did you ever investigate Bucky Eggleston’s death?”
He looked at her, surprised. “Bucky Eggleston? How do you know about—” Then he remembered. “Oh, Martha. She was at the potluck dinner.”
“And I had coffee with her today,” she added.
“Uh, no. I wasn’t involved in the investigation,” he answered, sipping his beer. “The state police handled that.”
“What’d they say?”
“He fell asleep and went off the road on an embankment. His car rolled over several times, and he was killed. Very tragic, but pretty cut and dry.”
“Have you spoken to Martha about it? She thinks otherwise.”
“What does she think happened?”
“She thinks he didn’t fall asleep. She thinks there’s more to the story, and she might have good reason to believe that. You should talk to her.”
“You saying it was foul play, or something?”
“I’m sayin’, you should talk to Martha, and don’t discount a woman’s intuition.”
He thought for a moment and took another sip of beer. “Okay. I will.”
She likewise took another sip of her whiskey on the rocks, then continued:
“I also wanted to ask you about the road at the end of the covered bridge. It goes up into the woods, but there’s a fence and a gate that says, ‘No Trespassing.’”
“It leads up to the old Maynard Silver Mine,” he nodded.
“It was the biggest mine in town back in the day. There’s the mine itself, an office, even a house where the director of operations used to live.
They say it used to be every bit as nice as some of the homes here in town, but it’s all dilapidated now. ”
“Why is the area fenced off?” she asked.
“Safety. The main mine entrance leads into dozens of tunnels and can go down a quarter of a mile into the mountain. The entrance is sealed off, but you know how tourists or kids can be. If someone got in there, they might never find their way out, and the town doesn’t have the resources for a search and rescue.
Then there’s the buildings. Like I said, they’re falling apart.
It’s too much of a temptation for wannabe explorers, so the entire area is fenced off. ”
“Can I go up there?”
“What? No. I just told you, it’s dangerous.”
“Yeah, but the mining history of the town is part of what makes Sparkledove, Sparkledove.”
“No, Goldie,” he insisted, taking another sip of beer. “The mayor’s got pretty strict instructions about that.”
“Aw, pleeease,” she said, batting her green eyes. “I mean, if the big, strong, handsome sheriff goes with me…”
“Look, I’ve only been up there twice myself. There’s nothing to learn that you can’t learn at the historical society. The mine was played out and abandoned years ago. End of story.”
Goldie shrugged and took another sip of her drink while glancing around the busy bar. As she did, Eli looked her over.
“You, uh, you don’t like your job very much, do you?”
“What do ya mean?
“I mean, you seem to be more interested in sensational things: people jumping off bridges, car accidents that you suspect might not be accidents—”
“I never said it wasn’t an accident,” she interrupted. “I simply said you should talk to Martha.”
“Now you want to go explore a dangerous mine filled with more holes than a piece of Swiss cheese. You’re about a hundred miles off course from what brought you here.”
“Well, I wasn’t wrong about Claude Bolton jumpin’ off the bridge,” she defended.
“No, you weren’t. But it’s kind of odd that you’d visit a beautiful covered bridge and come away from the experience thinking about suicide instead of the scenery and the job that brought you here.”
“So, you tellin’ me what to think?” she asked, becoming prickly.
“I’m saying Claude Bolton was a lucky guess, but he’s ancient history. He’s got nothing to do with why you’re here. Same with Bucky Eggleston. I was told you’re supposed to be writing a feel-good piece. You know, ‘I’m dreaming of a White Christmas in Sparkledove?’”
Goldie’s quick temper flared up, and she stiffened her back.
“Well, excuse me for carin’ about the teary-eyed concerns of a sufferin’ widow. Excuse me for bein’ concerned about a man who died here years ago, and his family has no idea of what happened to him.”
“Now, c’mon,” he said. “Don’t get your nose out of joint. You said yourself, you’re hungry to do a more investigative type of journalism, and I simply meant—”
“I know what you meant,” she interrupted.
“Don’t wonder about things that might interfere with the flow of-of whatever the hell it is you do around here!
Don’t ask questions, Goldie. Don’t think.
Just go to the historical society, talk to the mayor, and write a nice fluffy piece about all the holiday fun in Sparkledove: ‘The perfect place for Christmas.’”
“It’s not fluff to the merchants,” he reminded. “Or your readers who are hungry for other news besides the war.”
She picked up her glass, tossed her head backwards, and finished her whiskey. Then she brought the empty glass firmly down onto the wooden table.
“Thanks for the drink, Sheriff. Sorry I kept you away from your folks.”
With that, Goldie grabbed her coat sitting next to her, slid out of the booth, rose, and left the bar, leaving Eli Johnson with a half-finished beer and a furrowed brow.
If she were being totally honest with herself, Goldie wasn’t exactly sure why she went off so hard on Eli.
Everything he said was reasonable and true.
But she didn’t like being told no. Especially since she was on the scent of something but didn’t know what it was.
Or maybe it was because Eli was a cop, and she didn’t like cops.
Or maybe it was the cowpoke laissez-faire tone of his voice.
Or perhaps it was because of the whole time-travel conundrum she was caught up in. Whatever it was, he bugged her.