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“H
e was wearing leather?” Jodie said.

“Yes, all leather from what I could see,” I said.

“In this heat?” Jodie said.

“Yes,” I said.

Jodie jotted another note in her notebook. To most everyone in Star City, Jodie was Police Officer Jodie Wentworth. She was also my best friend, had been since we were sixteen and I'd stopped hiding out in The Rescued Word as much. However, I'd still been too shy, but she'd been the opposite. Somehow, our opposites had attracted and the result had been a thirteen-year-long camaraderie. I'd seen her through a brief marriage and the resulting divorce, and she'd stayed by my side even after I'd broken up with her brother. Of course, I'd broken up with him because he'd been cheating on me, but still I'd appreciated where she'd placed her
loyalties, ignoring the whole blood-being-thicker-than-water thing.

Jodie looked up from her notebook, her green eyes softening like they weren't supposed to do when she wore her uniform. “You okay, Clare?”

“I'm fine. Shaken up but fine. No harm done.”

“Good,” Jodie said. “Let me know if that changes at all. Can I get you a cup of water or something?”

“No, I'm fine.” I smiled.

Jodie had always been such an odd mix. She was naturally pretty, not knock-out gorgeous, but pretty. Her green eyes were her best feature, but she mucked them up with way too much eye shadow. I'd told her this a number of times, but it hadn't stopped her from applying the powdery layers. She was petite and curvy in her uniform but walked with the heavy steps of either a medium-sized man on a mission or someone still in their ski boots. Her soft blond hair was always pulled back in a short, low ponytail—even when she wasn't working. I'd also told her a number of times that she had the type of hair and face shape that would be perfect for letting her hair down every now and then, but she hadn't taken that input either.

She was the youngest of five siblings, all boys except her. Her father had been a police officer and so was the brother that I'd broken up with. The other three brothers were firemen, and their mother had worked dispatch at the fire department for years. Though we lived in little Star City, we had our fair share of crime and villainy. Okay, probably just crime and fires, not so much villainy. Even though the Wentworth family members weren't
required to be big-city cops and firemen, they had small-mountain-resort-town tough down to a science.

“Got it,” Omar said as he appeared from the other side of the counter. In his gloved hands, he held the item the man in leather had dropped: a camera.

Omar Miller had been Jodie's partner for three years, and they worked well together. Omar and his wife had moved to Star City from California in search of easily accessible snow that could be skied upon as frequently as possible. Omar's wife, Jacky, had recently given birth to their first child, a daughter they'd named Star to honor the home they'd come to love. I'd mentioned to Jodie that I hoped a middle name had come into play because I didn't see Star from Star City wanting much to do with her first name once she hit junior high or so. Jodie still hadn't gotten back to me with an answer. Whenever Omar or Jacky was around, I could see dark circles from sleep deprivation under their somewhat swollen eyes. I wondered just how much skiing they'd get in this winter. Jodie assured me they'd already purchased Star's first set of skis.

Omar wasn't a big man, but he was—according to Jodie—the strongest person on the police force, his wiry but muscular arms able to lift heavier weights than all the other officers. I didn't understand weight-room jargon, but I'd been pleased to hear that Omar's talent had bothered Creighton, Jodie's cheating brother and a much bigger man who spent hours in the gym.

Omar's pale skin and white blond hair caused him to stand out in a crowd, almost glow a little, and when he was with his wife, who had darker hair and skin, they
made a striking couple. It looked like Star had gotten her dad's complexion, but it might be too soon to tell.

“That must be what fell out of his pocket. I'm not sure if he noticed or not, but I really don't think so. I think he was too panicked to care,” I said. “He wasn't really good at being . . . gosh, criminal-like. If that makes any sense. Maybe he didn't have much experience at it.”

“I get that,” Jodie said. “Let's dust for prints, Omar, but bag that first, please.”

“Will do,” he said as he followed her instructions. Omar had always been second fiddle to Jodie. He seemed to like it that way; so did she. It worked.

After Omar put the camera into a plastic bag he pulled out of his side pocket and then walked it over to a case he'd brought into the store with him, Jodie turned back to me.

“You say that Mirabelle's typewriter isn't valuable in any way?” she asked.

“No. Well, yes, there's a little monetary value attached to an old Underwood No. 5, but not much. Some people collect, some people still like to write with them, but not many. Mirabelle's is in great condition, other than the one small repair I have to make, but it's well used. I doubt even a serious collector would want it.”

“Can we go take a look at it?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said.

We left not only Omar in the front of the store, but Chester too. He'd come back in after seeing Mirabelle to her car and walking Marion home. Baskerville greeted him with an angry meow before jumping into his arms. He petted the cat absently as he looked around the store.
I caught his glance and signaled that Jodie and I were going to the back. He frowned and nodded and then cut a path toward Omar.

Chester had been stoically silent after all the ruckus. His face had pinched with worry and concern, but he hadn't become visibly upset or angry. I knew him well enough to know that he was in fact very upset and very angry. The idea that his daughter, granddaughter, and a beloved friend had been put in harm's way did not please him at all. I was sure he was holding his emotions in check so he appeared strong and in control. He was trying not to worry everyone else, but I also thought there was a chance he could blow at any second. Chester could huff and puff and flail his arms in a big way when he was upset. I hoped Omar wouldn't have to be on the receiving end of a Chester tirade, but I knew the police officer could handle it. It occurred to me that Chester shouldn't be taxing his emotions anyway. Even if he didn't have pancreatic cancer (oh, please no), he was in his seventies. No one got hurt, and there was no need to risk upsetting his health.

I turned and led Jodie to the back. Her heavy footfalls followed me to the desk with the typewriter. First, she lifted it.

“Both heavy and awkward. I love technology,” she said as she placed it back on the desk. “Can't imagine life without my computer and a good word processing program.”

“I agree. Mostly. Sometimes there's something quite wonderful about typing on these old things. The sounds.” I pushed a key, creating the metallic click that almost
everyone but the younger generations could identify with. I pressed the space bar enough to make the bell ring, which actually caused Jodie to smile. And then I returned the carriage. “See, you and I had computers, but there were also some typewriters around back in our high school days.”

“I see what you mean, but I'm still choosing my computer. What's wrong with this one? Why did Mirabelle bring it in?”

“The ‘L.'” I pushed the nonresistant and ineffective key. “The fix isn't a difficult one. I can have it done for her by tomorrow.” I sent a quick glance toward the printing press. I still had the book to finish too, but I'd get everything done even if I had to work late.

“Why would someone want this typewriter?” Jodie said.

“I have no idea. There's nothing extra special about it at all. If a person wanted one, they could probably find something online somewhere, and without much of a search.”

Jodie tapped her finger on the boxy typewriter case. She picked it up again and with my help heaved it every direction, looking at the bottom, the sides, inside, at the keys.

“Is it made of anything that's valuable nowadays; you know, like copper or something? Copper's being swiped from everywhere.”

“No, I don't think so.”

Jodie put the typewriter back on the desk with a solid thunk. “You don't suppose that the man's desire to have the typewriter was more about Mirabelle than the typewriter itself?” she said thoughtfully.

A shot of concern rattled me. Did leather man just want
to get at Mirabelle, and perhaps harm her in some way? The ideas didn't connect without more information, but still, the thought that someone might possibly want to do something bad to Mirabelle was worrisome.

“We've known Mirabelle all our lives, Jodie. I can't imagine that anyone would want to hurt her, but I suppose it's possible. You can never know everything about someone, I suppose.”

“Right. Excuse me a minute,” Jodie said as she reached for the radio on her belt and made her way back out to the front of the store. I heard something about sending officers to Mirabelle's house, but I didn't catch all the details.

Like everyone else, Jodie had been bewildered by the man's request for Mirabelle's typewriter, certain that there'd been some mistake, some sort of typewriter identity mishap. She hadn't recognized any part of my description of the man, and she'd been angry that I just hadn't handed the Underwood No. 5 over to him.

“Clare, it makes no sense that you wouldn't just give him the typewriter. It certainly isn't worth anyone getting hurt over.”

It had been difficult to explain that my mind hadn't made it that far yet, that I'd only been able to think as far as not giving the man Mirabelle's prized possession. The wrongness of it bothered me. I supposed if he had hurt me or something more serious had happened, I would have given him the typewriter and whatever else he wanted with the hope he'd just leave.

I shivered.

I was glad nothing more serious had occurred.

I moved to the back door of the workshop and confirmed that it was securely locked. A narrow old walkway ran behind our building, and the small Star City post office was directly across from our back door. The walkway had only one spot for entry and exit, directly off Main Street. It wasn't welcoming and no one really used it to get to back doors anymore. The backs of the old buildings had once been lit by charming gaslight replicas, but as those had broken over the years, most had never been replaced. The population and the tourist influx to Star City grew large enough at some point in the 1980s to forgo the charming hidden walkway adventures of the town for the streets that were out in the open, where lurking wasn't as easily accomplished.

The walkway was mostly a forgotten space, but still a manner by which someone could potentially get to the back doors of buildings. I hadn't heard of any problems lately, but making sure we were safely locked in was suddenly a priority.

Leather man didn't look familiar, but I didn't know everyone who lived in Star City. If he wasn't from here, he might not have known that the walkway existed, but I decided it wasn't a risk worth taking.

We had what I'd recently told Chester was a useless security system. There were cameras outside the front and back doors of The Rescued Word, and one inside the front part of the store as well as sensors on the doors. The cameras were, in theory, supposed to be wirelessly attached to a program on my computer. That program was supposed to record all activity, and the sensors were supposed to
sound an alarm when someone used something other than a key to enter through the doors. The problem was that we'd gotten lazy. Again, the walkway was just an old unused space at this point, and nothing bad had happened inside the store before today. Neither the cameras nor the sensors had worked correctly in a long time, and we had made no effort to fix them.

I needed to turn on the computer and see if I could get them in working order before I went home. Home. Suddenly, I didn't want to leave Chester here alone, upstairs with someone like leather man roaming around. How could I get him to come stay with me for a few days?

My thoughts were interrupted by a forceful head butt to my ankle.

“Hey, Baskerville,” I said as I crouched.

The cat was not in a good mood, though that was not unusual.

He meowed grumpily and then let me scratch behind his ears for a moment before he rammed his head against my lowered knee and then walked away. He looked over his shoulder as if to signal that I should come along, so I did.

He leapt up to the desk that held the Underwood. He sniffed at the machine and then sat and looked expectantly up at me.

“What?” I said. “That's Mirabelle's.”

Despite Mirabelle's earlier evaluation that the cat didn't like her, he, in fact, liked her better than he liked most people. Or at least he acknowledged that he knew who she was. I'd seen him watch her from one of his high perches, his eyes following her as she shopped or just stopped by
for a chat. For the most part, Baskerville ignored our customers, giving them quick, impatient glances and then resuming his solitary ruminations or whatever he did up there on the shelves. Not Mirabelle, though. No, he watched her, inspected her, seemed to consider her perhaps a bit closer to being worthy of his attention than the other customers.

“Clare,” Jodie said as she came back through the door to the workshop. “You know we're taking the camera the guy dropped, right?”

“Of course.”

“I'll let you know what we find on it.”

“Sounds good.”

“We have a little more information. There's a biker group in town. They're helping with a goat relocation project over in Purple Springs Valley.”

“We have goats that need relocating?” I didn't go directly to the old inside joke between Jodie and me.