The morning sun was shining at an angle through the window behind me. My feet were up on the corner of my antique desk, careful of the gold-tooled leather top. I was reading from my football scrapbook, which dated back to my high school years. The binder was thick and battered, filled with hundreds of yellowed newspaper clippings. I read some of the articles, sometimes even blushing. People can say the nicest things. I was a different man back then. Of course, I had been nothing more than a kid, but I could see it in my eyes in some of the pictures. I was arrogant, smug, and cocky. Football came easy to me. Grades came easy. Girls came easy. Life was good, one long party in those days. No wonder I missed those days to some degree. Now I’ve come to realize that there is more to life than football, and it has been a hard lesson to learn. In fact, I’m still learning it, every day.
As usual, I closed the scrapbook just before I got to the last game of my senior season at UCLA. I knew all too well what happened in the last game. I had a grim reminder of it every time I stood.
Outside the sky was clear, a balmy sixty-four, according to my internet weather ticker. Southern California’s version of a crisp fall day. Brrr.
I put the scrapbook back in the desk’s bottom drawer, within easy reach for next time. I next brought up the internet and went immediately to eBay, and saw that my signature was now selling for two dollars and twenty-five cents. I put in a bid for two-fifty. Next I checked my email and saw one from Cindy. In it, she described in jaw-dropping detail what she was wearing beneath her pantsuit. I flagged the message for later reference.
Two hours later, when I was done goofing around on the internet, I was ready for real work. In the Yahoo search engine I typed “Sylvester the Mummy” and up popped a half dozen articles written mostly by historians.
I didn’t learn anything new. One forensic expert determined Sylvester had probably been twenty-seven at the time of his death. Officially, he had died from a single gunshot wound to the stomach. Not much there to go on.
Of the dozen or so articles, one name popped up more than once: Jarred Bloomer, official historian for the Rawhide Ghost Town Museum. He called himself the world’s greatest expert on Sylvester the Mummy.
It’s always nice to be good at something.
I knew from my interview with Detective Sherbet that Bloomer and his assistant were the last two people to see Willie Clarke alive. If I’ve learned one thing as a P.I., it’s to take note when a name appears more than once in a case.
I sat back in my chair, laced my fingers behind my head. Perhaps it was time to visit Rawhide and Jarred Bloomer.
But first a little nap. Detecting was hard work.
I was dozing in that very same position when I heard a deep voice say: “Get off your lazy ass, Knighthorse. It’s the middle of the day.”
I knew that rumbling baritone anywhere, for I hear it in my dreams and sometimes even in my nightmares.
Standing before me was Coach Samson, my old high school football coach.