‘Barnabas “Batty” Burns,” Curt replied confidently. ‘Eighty-seven years old. Tried to run all 26.2 miles of Grandma’s Marathon. Made it to within ten yards – ten yards! – of the finish line and dropped dead of a heart attack. Tragic. To this day, he runs the last block of the marathon over and over, trying to make it to the finish line, and he disappears into wisps of smoke just before he gets there. I’ve seen him dozens of times.’

‘You are so full of crap, Curt,’ Maggie told him. She grabbed the skeleton by his bony arm, and Serena took the sickle and poked him in the back.

‘Folks, hang out here for a while, we need to borrow your tour guide.’

With Maggie on his left side, and Serena on his right, they quick-walked Curt along the wall of the canal. Waves slapped loudly on the pier and doused them as they marched away from the bridge. When they were out of earshot of the tourists, Maggie grabbed the top hat and yanked the skull mask from Curt’s head. Curt, a twenty-five-year-old beanpole, tried to tame his greasy black hair. Musk cologne oozed from his skin.

‘Jeez, guys,’ he complained. ‘I’m trying to do a show here.’

‘Duluth has a cool history,’ Maggie told him. ‘Next time, try to stick to it, okay? No more Batty Burns the Long-Distance Runner.’

‘Hey, I’m a storyteller. There’s nothing wrong with that. Stride told me I should make an honest living.’

‘Well, you’re getting closer,’ Serena agreed. ‘Don’t worry, we’re not here to bust your ghost walk. It’s your other job we want to talk about.’

‘I’m not pimping anymore. I swear.’

‘Not that one,’ Serena said.

‘I found those boxes of camping gear behind the Duluth Pack store. I swear I thought they were throwing them away.’

‘Not that one, either,’ Maggie said. She held up an enlarged photograph of Janine’s ring on a piece of paper that quickly became sodden in the spray thrown from the canal. ‘Your other job, Curt. Fencing stolen merchandise.’

Curt put two skeleton hands on his chest in mock dismay. ‘Whoa, what? You got the wrong guy.’ He added an echo with his microphone: ‘Wrong guy wrong guy wrong guy.’

‘Save it,’ Maggie snapped. ‘You sold this ring to an accountant named Neal Fisher. He identified your photo, Curt, so quit playing innocent. Oh, and by the way, he ripped you off. He gave you two hundred bucks, and this thing is worth at least a few thousand.’

‘That asshole!’ Curt bellowed. ‘I know you can’t trust lawyers, but I figured accountants were okay.’

‘Where did you get the ring?’ Serena asked.

‘Um, let me see. I think I found it on the street.’

‘You found it?’ Maggie asked. ‘It was just lying there?’

‘That’s right. Over near the Depot. I figured it slipped off somebody’s finger. Their loss was my gain.’