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  “So what does it mean that Adele knew about them?”

  “She didn’t know, I’m sure. For some reason she came into The Rescued Word. Was she following Nell? Was she tracking my footsteps? I don’t know, but it’s weird.”

  I thought back to when she’d come into the shop. Had I been the one to ask her if she was there for the note cards? She hadn’t brought them up first. It might have just been a case of my planting the seed. I couldn’t be sure.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Things are weird and crazy,” I said.

  A conglomeration of noises came from the guard’s desk. A number of people were coming through, all of them looking mighty official. Creighton led the way. He was followed by other police officers, none of whom I recognized.

  “Step back, Clare,” Creighton said.

  There was no way to squeeze past the crowd, so I did as he’d instructed and stepped back toward the wall with the chair leaning against it.

  “What’s going on?” Matt asked Creighton.

  “You’re being relocated to Salt Lake City.”

  “Why?”

  No one answered the question, but I suspected it was because his arrest in Star City was causing too big a traffic jam in our little town.

  It was all very precise and official. They had Matt out of the cell, cuffed, and moving toward the guard station quickly.

  As he was being herded, he strained to look back over his shoulder at me. His eyes were pleading.

  Against my better judgment, I put the piece of paper into my pocket and nodded. I’d go to the party and I’d try to figure out what Matt’s “friends” were up to. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see him again in person, but his eyes told me how scared he was, how alone. One of the biggest movie stars in the world needed a friend.

  I could play that part.

  8

  “Not much of anything, Creighton,” I said. I looked at Jodie.

  “She’d tell you if he said anything important,” Jodie said.

  “He’s scared,” I said. “He’s just scared. That’s all. Says he’s innocent.”

  “We had to get him out of Star City. Things are difficult enough to manage around here during the festival. It was getting out of hand,” Creighton said. I wondered why he was explaining.

  “Makes sense.” I watched the corner of his left eye twitch once. Something more was bothering him.

  My phone rang and buzzed and I grabbed it out of my pocket.

  “It’s Chester. May I be excused?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Jodie said.

  Creighton looked at me a long moment before nodding like he didn’t really mean it. I hurried out of their office and into the hallway. It was much less crowded now.

  “Clare, are you working today?” Chester said when I answered.

  “I am. Sorry I’m late. I’ll be in in just a few minutes.”

  “All right, dear. You’re going to be busy. The customers are coming in like we’re giving away paper with currency printed on it.”

  “I’ll hurry.”

  After I ended the call, I peered around the doorway and caught Jodie’s attention. Silently, I eyed her to come out to the hallway. She got the message.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “You in trouble?”

  “Not at all. Creighton won’t say a word about me letting you talk to Matt first. He wouldn’t dare. He’s still stretching his ‘chief’ muscles. I’m prepared to fight back. And he’s my brother before he’s my boss. We’re good. So, did Matt tell you anything important?”

  “No, nothing. He says he’s innocent. I’m glad you’re not in trouble.”

  “Of course Matt says he’s innocent. He might be, but it doesn’t look good at the moment. We—and now the Salt Lake police too—will be thorough. Don’t let an actor manipulate you, Clare. Criminals are good at that sort of thing, actors too. He’s probably doubly good.”

  “Got it. Thanks for the dinner and movie last night. You’re always a good date.”

  “Right. You too. You didn’t get in any trouble after you darted out of my car, did you?”

  “No. It was a nice walk home.” I tasted something bitter at the back of my throat. I’d originally come to the station to talk to Jodie, to tell her about Nell, the iPad, and Howie. “Jodie, why hasn’t Matt spoken to an attorney yet? Isn’t that supposed to happen quickly?”

  She looked at me a long moment with something in between a Jodie-glare and a question. “I gotta get back to it, Clare. Call you later?” she finally said.

  “Sure.” I nodded, trying to hide my reaction. She hadn’t just dodged my question; she’d kicked it to the curb.

  I watched her hurry back into the office. Was everything on the up-and-up around here? Despite my friendships and history, I was glad the Salt Lake police had come aboard.

  I took a deep breath before I turned and left, thoughts of misplaced trust coming at me from every direction.

  I wasn’t too surprised to step out into a snowstorm. It was a gray-skied, fat-flaked, warmish storm. The slopes would be busy today. I pulled the collar of my coat a little tighter to keep the flakes from falling in, and enjoyed the moment. The snow took away my immediate concerns and put me in a better mood. The Salt Lake police would take care of Matt, and I would go to a secret party tomorrow. It wasn’t a bad sacrifice.

  Whatever vehicles had transported Matt to Salt Lake City were gone, and the news vehicles had mostly cleared out too. There was only one left and it was parked right next to my car. It was just an old white van with a magnetic sign on the side of it that read BLOG OF THE STARS. I’d never heard of the blog, if that’s what it was really called. I had to cut a wide path around the back of it to get to my driver’s side door. As could happen, the snow was building quickly on the asphalt, so I had to lift my boots, using a high-step maneuver. The combination of moves should have been easy, something I’d done plenty of times before, but this time something caused me to slip, and I was on the ground on my backside before I could make the turn behind the back bumper.

  “You okay?”

  I looked up, more embarrassed than hurt, at the overly padded young man, dressed in multiple layers of pristine winter wear.

  “You’re from California?” I said as I took his hand and let him help hoist me up.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Thanks for the hand. Your coat looks brand-new and you’re dressed . . . thickly.”

  The young man smiled with only one side of his mouth. His dark eyes matched the short tufts of dark hair sneaking out from under his cap. “Yeah, I’m from California. Never been to Utah before. Not sure I can describe the pure fear I felt when I started up this steep canyon and saw those ‘Runaway Truck Ramp Ahead’ signs.”

  “There are mountains in California, right?”

  “Not like these, and I’ve never driven in them before.”

  I inspected the side of the van and then his youthful face.

  “You’re here with the blog?”

  He glanced at the sign and then back at me. “I am the blog. It’s just me. Toby Lavery.” He extended his hand.

  “How long have you had your license, Toby?” I shook his hand.

  He laughed. “I’m actually almost twenty. I just look young.”

  “Nineteen is pretty young to be doing all of this.”

  He shrugged. “College didn’t appeal to me. I’m pretty good at sneaking around. I live near Hollywood. It seemed like a good fit.”

  “You’re a member of the paparazzi?”

  He laughed again. “Yeah, but I try not to be too intrusive. I don’t take naked pictures or anything.”

  He was wide-eyed innocent with dimples on each cheek. He seemed like a nice kid. “How’s it going?”

  His face scrunched slightly and he scratched above his ear. “I might have to
start taking naked pictures.”

  I smiled. “Keep at it. You never know when you’ll come upon a big story.”

  “You’re not in the movie industry, are you?”

  “No, I work at my grandfather’s shop up the hill. The Rescued Word.”

  “That’s a great name.”

  “Thanks. It’s a great shop. It’s on Bygone Alley. Stop by for some hot chocolate or coffee if you need a break.” I turned slowly just in case my fall had been caused by unseen black ice, and resumed walking.

  “What’s your name?” he said.

  “Clare.”

  “So, Clare, what were you doing in the police station?”

  “My best friend is a police officer.”

  “I see. Any chance you could get me an interview with her, or him, about Matt Bane?”

  “No chance at all, but nice try.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thanks for helping me up, Toby,” I said.

  He suddenly reminded me of a puppy with his sad, innocent eyes. The steadily falling snow had built up on the top of his red knit cap, and the ridiculous amount of layers he wore made me want to take him inside somewhere and fix him that hot chocolate with a huge dollop of whipped cream.

  “How about I tell you something off the record?” I said.

  “On the record would be better, but I’ll take off too.” His eyes lit.

  “Off the record. Meaning you can’t use anything I tell you for an article. But you might be able to use it to help confirm other things.”

  “I got it. I know what ‘off the record’ means.” He put his hands awkwardly on his hips.

  “Okay. Well, Matt Bane ordered personalized note cards from us. He was very friendly. He’s a nice guy.”

  “I have no idea how that might help me with a story. But thanks.”

  “He was in the store, being friendly, right before the murder occurred. There was no indication that he might be someone who could do such a thing, kill someone. Use that to find out if he really is a nice guy. Maybe you can uncover his true personality.”

  Toby bit his bottom lip and looked at the ground a second, a bit of the gathered snow sprinkling off the cap. He looked back up at me. “A nice guy, huh? Arrogant at all?”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “Good to know. Maybe I can do something with that.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Thanks, Clare.”

  “You’re welcome. Good luck!”

  “I’ll need it. Well, that or those naked pictures.”

  I smiled before I got into the car and then waved as I pulled out of the parking lot. It occurred to me that he was probably sleeping in the van, and a tinge of worry fizzed in my chest. He was young, and nineteen was the time to do that sort of thing, but I couldn’t help the concern.

  I didn’t have much time to worry about Toby Lavery. Chester had been correct. The shop was packed with customers. Well, actually the shop had only a few customers, but one of them had filled the top of the middle stationery shelves with so many typewriters I wondered why I hadn’t seen a truck or a van outside.

  I shook off my snowy coat and got to work.

  9

  “Clare, this is Zeb Conner,” Chester said. “He’s here to talk about these typewriters. I’ll let you answer his questions while I help the other customers. I’ve tried to track down Marion, but no luck yet.”

  “She’ll be in soon,” I said. I knew she was on one of the far slopes practicing some of her half-pipe moves today, but I didn’t want to go into the details in front of Zeb. Besides, I could tell that Chester wasn’t really concerned about Marion being late. He was simply not fond of this customer. I knew my grandfather well enough to read his tone.

  “Terrific,” Chester said, not meaning it. “You’ll be in good hands, Zeb.”

  Zeb and I watched as Chester moved to a woman who was looking at the colorful rows of sealing wax along a back corner shelf. I noticed three other customers, but they seemed to be browsing more than anything. Chester or I would get to them as quickly as we could.

  I turned to Zeb. “How can I help?”

  Zeb wasn’t like any Zeb I might have pictured. He wasn’t an old guy in overalls, but a young guy with a seventies haircut, a thick mustache, and big metal-framed seventies glasses. I would have pegged him more for an Atari-collecting guy than someone who’d collected typewriters from that era.

  “I need a typing class,” he said as he pushed up his heavy glasses. I didn’t know how his nose wasn’t permanently marked with two indents from the nosepiece.

  “Um,” I said.

  “I mean, I need to find a typing class somewhere that might be able to use these. They were gathering dust.” Zeb sniffed enthusiastically and then pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket. He proceeded to blow his nose, causing everyone else in the store to turn and see what was causing the noise. This sort of thing didn’t get under my skin, but I knew how Chester felt about handkerchiefs and I suddenly understood why the two of them hadn’t hit it off.

  They are the most unsanitary items. They’ve bothered me ever since I can remember people using them. When I was a boy, I would have rather used a piece of sandpaper on my nose than a handkerchief that I put back into my pocket.

  Though Chester wasn’t a germophobe, he did have this one hang-up. Handkerchiefs never bothered me all that much, and to me, they, like all the shops on Bygone Alley, harkened back to a simpler time. But they were like nails on a chalkboard to Chester.

  And Zeb’s nose-blowing was particularly noisy, if kind of cute too.

  “I see,” I said.

  He’d brought in twelve typewriters that were identical, at least when it came to their make and model. Their different colors made a fun rainbow: black, beige, red, and green. I thought they’d also come in blue and maybe orange back in their day, but I couldn’t remember offhand. I was most familiar with the beige variety.

  The Selectric had been made from the 1960s to the early 1980s, transitioning over three models: I, II, and III. Zeb had brought in a dozen of the II models, which immediately looked to be in terrific shape though slightly dusty.

  Made as big, wide, heavy, utilitarian-looking creatures that took up a lot of space, they were one of the first typewriters that improved efficiency by using type balls instead of the more clumsy early typebars, which could, and frequently did, get jammed together and slow down the entire process, particularly if someone had speedy fingers. The type balls could also be changed out for different fonts. The Selectrics were actually one of my favorite old typewriters, specifically because of the changeable type balls. For usability, they were second in my heart only to the first typewriter with a correcting ribbon. Besides, even a grown, mature woman liked to giggle when the term “type balls” came into the conversation—with the appropriate crowd, of course.

  “I’m not sure I know of any typing class that still uses typewriters, Zeb. Most typing classes are now called keyboard classes and they’re for computer keyboards. I don’t know of anyone who needs this many old Selectrics.”

  Zeb scrunched his mouth as he looked at me. His mustache wiggled. He couldn’t have been very far into his thirties, but his fashion choices made me wonder if he’d just aged very well or practiced time travel. Between the glasses, the mustache, and the Selectrics, he struck me as someone stuck in the seventies, even though he looked as though he might have been born in the eighties. “Your grandfather said you wouldn’t buy them from me.”

  “No, but we might consider keeping them on consignment for a short time. We could see if any of our customers are interested. We’d take a cut of whatever we sold them for. I’d turn them all on first and make sure they worked at least well enough.”

  “They work fine. What could I make?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t count on funding a retirement ac
count or anything. You might get a nice dinner out of them.”

  “What about that polygamous group out in the valley over there?” He nodded to his right.

  “I think polygamists also use computers, at least those polygamists.”

  “Yeah, but they have so many kids. Maybe they’d like to have the keyboards to pound around on.” He typed in the air to illustrate.

  I could not think of any reason why Zeb’s idea might make sense, but something told me not to argue with him, that there was a small chance he might be onto something. It was either that or I was desperate to find a valid excuse to go see how my high school friend turned sister-wife Linea was doing, and maybe ask her what in the world she’d been thinking.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “How about we keep them here for a week or so? I should know pretty quickly if anyone is interested. My niece has been working on a database with all the requests we receive. Maybe there is some interest that I just don’t know about offhand.”

  “Give me any sort of deposit for them?” Zeb asked.

  “No. You’ll just have to trust me. We’ve been here a while, Zeb. I wouldn’t steal your typewriters. But for the sake of both our security and peace of mind, I’ve got an agreement we can both sign.”

  His mouth scrunched again, but a moment later he said, “Well, all right, if that’s the best you can do.”

  I assured him it was and led him to the back counter, where I found a copy of our consignment agreement. I filled in the blank spots and we both signed it. He left with a copy and a pep in his step. It was no wonder he was happier—leaving without having to carry them out with him had to be easier than the trip in.

  “Consignment?” Chester sidled up next to me after he rang up the woman who’d purchased three colors of the sealing wax and two letter stamps, and answered the questions of the other customers before they left without purchasing anything.

  “Yes. That okay?”

  “Of course. I just couldn’t continue on with him, Clare. The hankie was killing me.”