A Curious Affair by Melanie Jackson

was looking for an old gold mine that Crystal had shown me last summer, but hadn’t a clue where to start searching. The old vein was supposedly played out, and it sounded like it was good for nothing but hiding illegal stills, even more illegal pot patches and possibly a meth lab or two. But Irv had liked to hike up there, in fair weather and foul, and I was running out of things to investigate in town.
    I pulled into the Can Tank R Us graveled lot, now carpeted with pine needles and other wind-borne debris, and walked up to the glass door. The hand-painted sign read: shut at 5. Underneath in smaller letters it said: open at 10. It was well after ten, but I wasn’t surprised to find this par tic u lar house of commerce empty. These sorts of signs weren’t hard and fast guarantees of business hours, but rather optimistic statements of intent. Winter mornings tended to be drowsy times, especially after Christmas. There simply wasn’t any benefit to hurrying into the dark and cold when there weren’t any customers. I sympathized. The sun would not rise and warm this shady spot until at least noon, and most days the sky would remain an unleavened gray. That was super if you ran a ski resort, but not if you had a non-snow-related business like renting gold pans to tourists who wouldn’t arrive until school let out in June. I’d had a bit of trouble adjusting to this lackadaisical way of mountain commerce at first, but eventually learned to adapt to life in a place where the only popularmeasure of time was geological—and that only if gold and silver were involved.
    Shrugging in ac cep tance, I walked next door, resigned to seeing one of Cal’s old friends and hoping for fresh-brewed coffee, though prepared to eat ice cream if I had no other choice. Somehow, I wasn’t entirely surprised to reach the end of the short wooden walkway and see the nose of the sheriff’s Jeep peeping out from the side of the building. Great minds—or inquisitive ones—really did think alike. Or maybe he just didn’t care for Prune Typhoons either, and had remembered that our French bakery is closed on Sundays and Mondays even when Nolan isn’t holding rallies right outside the door.
    This sign was turned to in instead of out, so I let myself inside, wincing at the jangle of cow bells above the warped door. Not even trying to pretend that I had actually come to town to hire a snowplow, or for any of the eight exciting flavors of ice cream, I sat down at the four-seat counter next to Tyler Murphy and said good morning.
    The proprietor, Don Crandall, wore Old Spice, a smell that always reminded me of my grandfather. I inhaled, closing my eyes and allowing myself a moment of nostalgia. It almost compensated for the vague smell of burning coffee that was always in the air.
    “Hi, Don,” I said at last, eyes still closed. He was used to my sniffing when he was around. I think he found it flattering.
    “Hi, Jillian. We haven’t seen you for a month of Sundays.” It had been longer than that, but I didn’t correct him.
    “Let me guess. You’ve had a sudden craving for spumoni,” Tyler said. He blew on his coffee, sending an acrid cloud in my direction. This stuff might have been fresh at sunrise, but was long past it now. And Don wouldn’t brew another pot until this one wasgone—waste not, want not. Cal had never minded the taste of singed brew, but it wasn’t my favorite.
    “No, the rocky road. One scoop in a dish, please,” I answered, opening my eyes and smiling at Don Crandall. Screw the bad coffee; it wasn’t any good here, and thinking of Grandpa made me want his favorite ice cream.
    “Better choice,” Tyler admitted. “So, shall I save you some time and tell you what’s up with our little conundrum? By the way, you sound much better this morning.”
    “Thanks, it’s the sun. So, let me guess—you came up here on a whim, maybe to keep an eye on evildoers who are passing through on the way to go skiing,” I answered,