When Dance and the kids had been ushered into the green room, the musician had smiled and introduced everyone to the band members present.

“Kayleigh sends her best,” he told her.

“Where’s her show tonight?”

“Denver. Big house, five thousand plus.”

Dance said, “She’s doing well.”

“I’ll head out there after tomorrow’s show. Maybe we’ll get to Aspen.” He was grinning shyly.

That answered one of Dance’s questions. The beautiful singer-​songwriter hadn’t been dating anyone seriously for a time. There were worse romantic options than a Portland troubadour with dreamy eyes and a lifestyle that seemed more mom-and-pop than Rolling Stones.

“Uhm,” Maggie began.

“Yes, young lady?” Hartman asked, smiling.

“Ask him, Mags.”

“Can I have your autograph?”

He laughed. “Do you one better.” He walked to a box, found a T-shirt in the girl’s size. It featured a photo from one of his recent CDs—​Hartman and his golden retriever, sitting on a front porch. He signed it to her with a glittery marker.

“Oh, wow.”

“Mags?”

“Thank you!”

For Wes, the gift was age appropriate: a black T-shirt with NHB, for the name of the band.

“Cool. Thanks.”

“Hey, you guys want to noodle around on a git-fiddle or keyboard?”

“Yeah? Can we?” Wes asked.

“Sure.”

“Wooee,” Maggie called. She sat down at the digital keyboard—Dance cranked the volume down—and Hartman handed Wes an old Martin. You couldn’t live in the Dance household without knowing something about musical instruments, and though Maggie was the real talent, Wes could chord and play a few flat-pick licks.

When he started “Stairway to Heaven,” Hartman and Dance glanced at each other and laughed. The song that will never die.

They talked about the show tonight. Hartman was growing in popularity but not at the Kayleigh Towne level yet, though his Grammy nomination had guaranteed a sold-out house at the MPAC; nearly a thousand people were coming to see him.

With the children occupied in the corner, the adults spoke in low voices.

“I heard you got him. The guy behind the attacks.”

“Well, one who hired him.”

“Grant, right? He lost his farm.”

“That’s him. But we still don’t have the hit man he hired. But we will. We’ll get him.”

“Kayleigh said something about you being…persistent.”

Dance laughed. “That’s what she said, hm?” Her kinesic skills told her that Hartman was translating. Maybe “obstinate” or “pigheaded” had been the young woman’s choice of words. She and Kayleigh were a lot alike in that regard.

“I thought we were going to have to cancel the show.”

Dance had been fully prepared to do just that—if they hadn’t closed the case before the concert.

“You hear about Sam Cohen?”

“No, what?”

“He’s going to rebuild the roadhouse. A dozen of us or so are doing some benefit concerts, donating the money to him. He’s going to tear down the old building and put up a new one. He didn’t want to at first but we were…” He laughed. “Persistent.”

“Great news. I’m really happy.”