After a few too many broken bones and concussions, Dicky quit the rodeo life and came back home to Hartsboro in his thirties and bought the old Hartsboro Hotel, turned it into a used furniture and antiques shop. Olive had heard about the séances. People said he was trying to make contact with his father, which seemed just plain sad to Olive. Kids at school said Dicky was mental, that he’d landed on his head one too many times after being thrown off horses. Olive had seen the signs around town, heard stories about the ghost parties at the old hotel. Some kids, they said they’d seen it for themselves: Dicky moving from room to room in there, surrounded by the shadows of ghosts. But for the most part, people made fun of Dicky, including Olive’s parents, who liked to tell the story of how Dicky was kicked out of a town meeting in the elementary school gymnasium a couple years ago for showing up with a loaded six-shooter.

“The guy never takes his gun off. He thinks he’s an actual cowboy,” her mama said when they got home from the town meeting.

“A cowboy who talks to dead people,” her dad chortled. “He’s got a permit and it’s registered, but you can’t bring a gun into a school like that.”

“No exceptions, not even for John Wayne—I mean Dicky Barns!” Mama said back then, laughing, shaking her head.

Now Sylvia leaned against the bar so that she was real close to Olive. She smelled like roses, only it was off somehow, more chemical. Like a kid’s rose-scented perfume. “Lori went to those meetings hoping to make contact with Hattie.” She kept her voice low, nearly a whisper. “She wanted to know about the treasure.”

“Did she? Did she make contact? Did she find out anything?” The words tumbled out fast.