Dead Man's Hand (Caden Chronicles, The) by Eddie Jones Page B

box and felt under the passenger seat.
    Sweat erupted on my forehead and I started thinking:
This is no place for a fourteen-year-old to be. No place at all. But I can’tgo to the marshal with just some crazy story about Billy the Kid being buried on Boot Hill. I need the murder weapon
.
    The pounding on the driver’s window nearly sent me into orbit. My sister pressed her face against the glass and peered in.
    “Whose car is this?” she blurted out.
    “None of your business. Now go away.”
    “Does the marshal know you broke into someone’s car? Does Mom know?”
    “Wendy, please! I’m working on the case.”
    “Come on Nick, tell me what you’re looking for. I want to help. Is it that dead cowboy’s body?”
    “No. I found that already.”
    “You did? Where? Can I see it? Is it gross?”
    “I can’t tell you where it is but it’s not here, okay? Now please go.”
    “Mom wants you in the saloon right now. We’re dressing up like those people on Little House on the Prairie and going to have our picture taken for our Christmas card.”
    “Tell her I’ll be there in a sec.”
    “She said to come
now
.”
    I shut the door and bent over to look under the passenger seat. No gun. I sat up and swept sweat from my face. Wendy marched toward the buildings facing Main Street. I knew she’d tell Mom. She always did when I shut her out like that. But I couldn’t risk her blabbing to my parents that I was hunting for a gun. Mom would freak if she knew.
    I twisted and felt under the driver’s seat. Nothing. I wanted to look in the trunk but didn’t dare risk it. Not with employees milling around the rear of the laundry building, smoking. Iwaited until the lot was empty, then cracked open the door and hit the door lock. Crouching by the side of the car, I snuck to the rear and peeked over the roof. When the last of the workers snuffed out her cigarette and went inside, I walked quickly away from the laundry building toward Sassy Sally’s Saloon, wondering where Billy’s killer had ditched the murder weapon.

    The photographer handed me a sack of clothes and pointed me in the direction of the men’s restroom. I peeled off my shirt, shoes, and pants and slipped on the hokey Little House on the Prairie outfit, complete with high-waist pants and suspenders.
    “Let’s do this,” I said, joining my family by the piano.
    “Boy, you’re bossy,” Wendy replied, twirling her parasol over her shoulder. “Especially for someone who kept the rest of us waiting. Did you find what you were looking for?”
    I shot her a quick glance and said to the photographer, “Where do you want me to stand?”
    The photographer positioned Mom and Dad on either end of the piano. Wendy and I sat on the short bench with our backs to the keys.
How quaint
. I hoped Mom was kidding about the Christmas card idea. I could just imagine what my friends would say if they saw me dressed up like Albert (Albert!—of all names) Ingalls.
    Flash. The photographer snapped a series of photos, moved us into different positions, and reeled off a few more shots. He put the camera away and told us the pictures would be up on a flat-panel monitor in just a sec. I told Mom she had my vote.In the bathroom I changed back into my real clothes and hurried to the marshal’s office. Even without a murder weapon, I needed to tell him what I’d seen in the graveyard. Maybe Bill Bell’s body would prove to him that I wasn’t lying about the murder in the hayloft.
    I’d just stepped from the saloon onto Main Street when a bank customer bolted from the bank yelling, “Quick! Get the marshal! The bank’s being robbed!” The old woman shuffled away to join the other shopkeepers and townspeople who’d taken cover on the boardwalk and inside stores. A burly man in overalls pulled me behind a porch post and told me to get down. My family cowered inside Sassy Sally’s.
    “Banco de los Bandidos,” Overalls said, lowering his voice. “Muy malo.”
    Very bad,