The photos were far more candid and interesting than the celebrity glamour shots that had been tacked up to the walls outside Roxy’s office. I was betting that they’d all been taken by Ira Morris himself, given the old cameras, lenses, and other photography equipment that perched here and there, like metal birds roosting in a paper tree.

   “Just a second,” a man said.

   He seemed to be sitting behind the desk, although I couldn’t actually see him, given the massive stacks of papers there, each towering pile wobbling in the faint breeze we’d created just by opening the door and stepping inside the office.

   Owen noticed the leaning towers of papers and gently closed the door behind us, cutting off the treacherous breeze.

   A pair of rough, weathered hands emerged, grabbing one stack of sheets, then another, and moving them to opposite sides of the desk, revealing the man in the middle of the mess. No wonder I hadn’t been able to see him before. He was a dwarf, a little more than five feet tall, with a thick, strong body. His black hair had been cropped close to his skull and was shot through with a generous amount of silver, making the short, stubby strands look like needles poking up out of his scalp. His ebony skin was a shade lighter than his hair, while his eyes were a dark hazel. Given the deep lines that grooved around his eyes and mouth, he was probably more than one hundred years old, although it was always hard to tell a dwarf’s true age.

   Just like Roxy, he didn’t look like your typical resort manager, especially since he was wearing a holiday sweater, bright green with a giant red poinsettia in the center. As I watched, small red lights winked on one by one, ringing his chest and illuminating the tips of the poinsettia before flashing in unison. I didn’t think it was possible, but the dwarf’s sweater was even more garish than Jonah McAllister’s had been. At least the sleazy lawyer’s garment hadn’t had blinking lights on it.

   “Just a sec,” he repeated, his voice more sharp, twangy Western than soft, drawling Southern.

   The dwarf shuffled some more stacks from one side of his desk to the other, frowning in concentration as he looked at all of them, as though they were of the utmost importance. I didn’t see how they were any different from any of the other papers crammed into the office, but this wasn’t my work space to judge. Finally, he set the last of the sheets aside, adding them to the teetering stack on his left and looked up at us.

   “What do you want?” he growled.

   Not exactly a warm welcome, but Finn was undeterred. He plastered a smile on his face, stepped forward, and held out his hand. “I’m Finnegan Lane, the new owner of the resort.”

   “Ira Morris,” the other man snapped. “So you’re Deirdre’s spawn.”

   Finn winced a little, but he kept his smile fixed on his face. “Yeah.”

   “Hmm.”

   The simple sound had a whole lot of judgment in it. I got the impression that Ira hadn’t thought too highly of Deirdre.

   Ira ignored Finn’s outstretched hand, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned back in his chair, which let out an ominous creak, as if it were about to collapse. “And who are your friends?”

   Finn introduced us. Ira glanced at Owen and me, ­dismissing us outright, but he stopped and did a double take when he finally looked at Bria.

   The dwarf studied her for several seconds. “Your last name is Coolidge?”

   “Yeah,” Bria replied warily. “Why?”

   Ira stared at her for several more seconds, then his gaze darted around the office, as though he were looking for something. His gaze moved along the wall to his right, although I couldn’t tell what stack of papers or photo he might be searching for.

   He finally shrugged. “No reason.” He leaned forward in his chair, making it creak again. “I’ll ask again. What do you want?”

   His twangy tone was as brusque as ever. Finn frowned and slowly lowered his hand to his side, looking a bit crestfallen. No ass-kissing here. I hid a smile.

   Finn cleared his throat. “Roxy said that you had the key to my mother’s suite and could show me where it is. I’d like to go up there after the high-noon show and look through her things, if I could.”

   Ira snorted. “I reckon you can do anything you want to, since it’s your resort now.”

   The dwarf shoved away from his desk, and his chair slapped back against yet more stacks of paper, rattling them and the photos on the wall above. Ira yanked open a drawer in the middle of his desk and pawed through the junk inside. After the better part of a minute, he came up with an old-fashioned iron skeleton key, which he tossed on top of his desk.

   “That’s the key to Deirdre’s fancy suite. Top floor. You look like a smart enough guy. I’m sure you can find it all by yourself.”

   Finn blinked. He’d expected the dwarf to ooze cowboy charisma, charm, and cheer, just like Roxy had. But I kind of liked Ira’s surliness. At least he was honest about hating us. After all of Tucker and the Circle’s machinations, I appreciated honesty more than ever before.

   “But Roxy said—” Finn started.

   Ira glared at him. “I don’t give a damn about what Roxy said. I have a show to narrate. I don’t have time to take his royal highness around.”

   Finn’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.

   Ira snorted again, then stood up and turned sideways, deftly maneuvering through the narrow corridors created by all the paper towers, some of which were almost as tall as he was. Finn, Bria, and Owen all fell back out of his way, but I held my ground, forcing him to stop and peer up at me.

   He started to barrel right on past me, but I crossed my arms over my chest and widened my stance. He realized that I wasn’t going to move until I was good and ready, and he stopped and stared at me a little more closely, his hazel eyes narrowing in thought, and causing more lines to crease his craggy, weathered face.

   “Blanco, right?” he barked.