Dalton took her elbow and steered her along the outdoor path at the living history village. “Butter house, blacksmith shop, or smokehouse? Or should we check out the fishing hut next?”

“Let’s go to Baffle House before it gets too crowded.”

They had to pass by the jail again. The marshal stood in the doorframe talking to a wiry fellow in a denim overall.

Dalton’s cell phone buzzed. He’d put it on silent at the jail house. “I have to answer this text. It’s from Captain Williams. Wait here a minute,” he told her before walking away.

Marla’s steps lagged as raised voices reached her ears.

“You won’t get away with it, Phil,” the man in overalls said in a gruff tone. “Don’t try to cut in on my operation.”

“It isn’t yours, Simon. You may have some fancy title, but you’re not in charge.” The marshal adjusted his cowboy hat while glowering at the other man.

Marla froze in place, hoping they wouldn’t notice her. Just in case, she made a pretense of looking at the site map.

Simon jabbed a finger in the air. “They couldn’t have gotten far without me. So don’t imply that my contributions aren’t important.”

“I’m just saying they’re using you. You’re too blind to see it.”

“Oh, and you’re perfect? You think you’re so high and mighty bossing it over on us. But let me tell you something, I can bring you down like an avalanche if you don’t leave this alone.”

Marla’s bones chilled at the hostility in the man’s tone. Was he another cast member?

Phil gave a nasty chuckle. “You wouldn’t dare, because then you’d bring attention to yourself. That’s the last thing you want, isn’t it?”

“There are other ways of blocking you. Be warned,” Simon said before scurrying off.

A tap on her arm startled her. Dalton had returned. He gestured that they should move on. Keeping pace beside him, she dared a glance over her shoulder. The men were nowhere in sight. Phil must have disappeared back inside the jail house.

“Did you hear any of that argument?” she asked Dalton. “And what did the police chief want? I hope it wasn’t a new homicide case.”

“Nah, he had a question about some paperwork I’d turned in. What argument?”

Marla repeated what she’d overheard. “Maybe this Simon fellow wants to be marshal. I wonder if the staff are required to audition for their roles. It can’t be easy to learn the history and stay in character all day.”

Dalton pointed to an older woman wearing a long skirt and a high-buttoned blouse along with an apron. She stood a couple of buildings over. “You could ask her about the requirements.”

Most of the early visitors had already made it past this section, leaving it rather empty. The woman hummed a tune while stoking a campfire in front of a derelict shack. Her eyes sparked at their approach.

“Hello. I’m Millie Bleecher. If you have a few minutes, I’ll teach you how to make homemade biscuits in an outdoor oven.”

Marla hesitated. She wanted to tour the large residence, but the mention of cooking tempted her. The aroma of freshly baked bread convinced her to stay.