Heather Graham - The Night is Watching

He couldn’t help grinning at his ridiculous feeling that the sudden chill in the air and the sweep of sagebrush could be a forewarning of some kind of evil.

He opened the door of the bed-and-breakfast. The old sheriff’s desk was now the check-in counter, and the deputy’s desk held a sign that read Concierge.

Because, of course, in Lily, Arizona, you needed a concierge.

But the concierge did double duty, working the morning coffee and continental breakfast station that was laid out in the old gun room and pitching in when the gun room turned into a restaurant. The food wasn’t bad and there was often a need for reservations, since the room held only six tables.

“Sheriff, thank God you’re here!”

Mike Addison, owner and manager of the Old Jail, was at the sheriff’s desk. He stood quickly when Sloan walked in.

“I came right over, Mike,” he said. “What is it this time?”

“The couple in Room One! You know, Hardy’s cell,” Mike said dramatically. “They were robbed last night!”

“What happened?”

“They woke up this morning—and their wallets had been stolen. I wouldn’t believe it myself, Sloan, if they weren’t such fine people and if they weren’t so honestly upset. The husband says they were over at the Gilded Lily, they saw the show, had one nightcap and came back. As you know, only our guests have keys to the front and the cells. I swear, I can’t figure out how someone could have gotten into their room!”

Mike was in his thirties, tall, lean and earnest. He’d come out from Boston, having been a lover of all the Old West movies he’d seen growing up, thanks to cable channels. He’d bought the jail from old “Coot” Stevens, who’d first turned it into a B and B. Mike had worked hard to maintain its historic aspects and make it a nice place to stay. While the rooms were extremely small—they’d started out as cells, after all—they featured beds with luxurious mattresses, exceptional air-conditioning and tales of the outlaws who’d lived and died in the area, some in the cells and some at the scaffolding on Main Street.

“Where are they?” Sloan asked.

“The breakfast room. I offered to spike their morning coffee, they were so upset. Jerry and Lucinda Broling.”

Sloan nodded and went in. The walls were covered with various weapons and rifles dating from the early 1800s to the 1960s. The tables were stained wood, which gave the place atmosphere and was easy to clean.

The young couple in question certainly looked dejected enough as they sat at the table, heads bowed and shoulders slumped. They appeared to be in their late twenties. Jerry Broling glanced up with hope in his eyes as Sloan entered. “It’s the sheriff, honey. He’ll do something. Everything will be fine, you’ll see!” he said.

Lucinda, a blonde with cornflower-blue eyes, smiled tremulously. She’d been crying.

“How do you do? Sloan Trent,” he said, introducing himself. “So, you think you were robbed during the night. In your room?”

“It had to be!” Lucinda insisted. “We went to the show—it’s very funny, by the way—and afterward we stopped at the bar in the Gilded Lily.”

“We had Kahlua and cream,” Jerry said.

“I had Tia Maria. You had Kahlua and cream.” Obviously, the robbery had made them both irritable.

“Neither of us drank a lot,” Jerry said. “We—”

“I hadn’t been drinking at all,” Lucinda broke in. “Jerry was draining a few beers in the saloon during the show.”

“I wasn’t even slightly buzzed.” Jerry’s tone was hard.

Lucinda waved a hand in the air. “I paid for the drinks.”

“And that’s the last time you saw your wallets?” Sloan asked. “At the saloon and the bar?”

“Mine never came out of my pocket. It should’ve been in my jeans this morning,” Jerry said.

Lucinda waved a hand in the air. “I’d been using my credit card. Jerry hadn’t paid for anything all day. His might have been anywhere. But I know that my wallet was in my purse when I went to bed.”

Sloan nodded thoughtfully. “I understand you were in Room One.”

“I’ve already searched it,” Jerry told him.

“We even pulled the mattress up,” Lucinda said.

“Did you ask at the Gilded Lily?”

“Well, they’re not open this early, are they?” Jerry asked.

“Not for business, but they have rehearsals, meetings... The costumer goes in to sew up rips and tears and so on.”

Mike was at the door. “I called. Spoke to Henri Coque. They’re up and about, working down in the old storage room digging up more wigs. He went up to the bar area and searched through everything. Couldn’t find any credit cards. Talked to everyone he could, but no one handed in a lost wallet.”

“So, you were in Trey Hardy’s cell,” Sloan said.

They nodded. “Excuse me. I’ll give the place a search, too, if you don’t mind.”

The couple looked at him doubtfully. “Sheriff, there’s a thief in this town,” Lucinda said.

“A low-down, no-account pickpocket!” Jerry muttered.

“Stop trying to sound like some Old West bank robber,” Lucinda groaned.

“Lucinda—”

Sloan left the squabbling couple, passed through the barred wooden door to the cells and walked down the length of the hallway. The door to Room One, the Trey Hardy cell, was open.

Hardy had been a true character in his day. A Confederate cavalry lieutenant who had lost everything during the Civil War, he’d started robbing banks. He was a hero to some back in Missouri—just like Jesse James. He’d stolen from the carpetbaggers to give back to the citizens. He’d been dashing and handsome, and when things had gotten hot for him in Missouri, he’d gone farther. But in Lily he came up against another ex-Confederate, Sheriff Brendan Fogerty. Fogerty felt that the war was over, and ex-Reb or not, Hardy wasn’t stealing from the citizens of Lily, Arizona. He’d taken Hardy in after winning a fistfight on Main Street. Hardy had promised to come willingly if Fogerty bested him. To a cheering crowd, he had turned himself in when Fogerty had pinned him. Sadly, unknown to Fogerty, his deputy, Aaron Munson, had a long-standing beef with anyone who’d fought against the Union. Before Hardy could be brought to trial, Munson shot Hardy down in his cell, only to be dragged out to the street and lynched himself by a furious mob enamored of the handsome Hardy.

While Munson haunted Main Street, Hardy was said to haunt the jail and the cell where he had died.

The doors to the cells were wooden with barred windows. They were entered with large jail keys that had to be returned—lest the guest be charged a hefty fee. In the age of the plastic slot card, the Old Jail was a holdout. But entering a cell with a big jail key held greater charm.

The door wasn’t locked, so Sloan stepped inside. The couple had done a pretty thorough job of searching. Drawers were still open and the mattress lay crookedly on the bed.

Sloan turned back to make sure he hadn’t been followed. There was a security camera in the hall but he knew that was just for show; Mike never remembered to change the tape. He seldom had trouble. Guests seemed to love talking about the shadowy apparitions they’d seen in the halls or the “cold spots” that had moved into the room, et cetera, that went with staying at such a place. He walked to the dresser; it was heavy. A wide-screen TV sat on it, along with the bust of an Indian chief.

Sloan waited a minute, then shook his head, said quietly, “Give it up. Return the wallets.”

He heard the rasp of something against the wall. Turning, he saw that that there were two wallets on the floor. They might have been wedged behind the dresser and wall—and fallen when he tugged at the dresser.