Bound by Mystery Page 6

  “I found something, Inspector. Come have a look.”

  Wells mounted the steps and followed the patrolman into the washroom. The detective pointed to the mirror over the vanity.“What do you suppose this means?”

  A three-by-five ruled note card was taped to the mirror. Written in large block letters across the card were the words: BE MY FRIEND.

  Wells lifted an eyebrow. “Strange. Maybe it meant something to the deceased. He was a bit of an odd duck.”

  Telling Tales

  Ann Parker

  I dipped a toe in the mystery-writing community back in 1997, when I first conceived of writing a historical series set in Leadville, Colorado, with a female protagonist working “in a man’s world.” It was my great good fortune to have a friend in the mystery community point me toward Poisoned Pen Press. I did the submit-and-wait game, and dear Monty Montee, the PPP “gatekeeper” (some may still remember him) helped me tweak my synopsis and the prologue, to make them the best they could be. The manuscript then began the vetting process, and I tried to sit back and be patient. It took over a year, and I’ll never forget opening the e-mail from Barbara late one night that said in essence, yes, she wanted Silver Lies, and was I planning to write more? Would this be a series? The Press would prefer a series.

  Sitting there in my little home office, I hooted and hollered (but quietly, because my kids were quite young at that point and I didn’t want to wake them). I was happy, I was excited, I couldn’t believe my good fortune in having such a high-quality publishing company not only want my novel, but also in having an editor and publisher who understood it for what it was. That magic feeling continues, even to this day, fifteen years later. Thank you, Barbara, Rob, and all the Press folks present and past who brought the magic to life for me and all the other PPP authors….

  —A.P.

  ***

  Deputy Kirkwood’s hand wavered between the two waistcoats. One vest was tan, functional, everyday. The other black, somber, Sunday-go-to-meeting style.

  He cogitated.

  Tan might be better. All the dust. Stagecoach’ll be kicking it up all the way to Buena Vista, and the window curtains’ll be rolled down tight. Here’s hopin’ the stage gets jumped sooner rather than later. We’ll be sweatin’ like pigs in there.

  But then again, Faraday’ll be around. He always is, when the gold’s loaded up. Having the bank president on my side’s important, with the election for county sheriff just two days away. I’d best look sharp and serious, keep that sheriff badge in my sights.

  He hooked the black vest from the peg, shrugged into it, and methodically buttoned the silver buttons. Stooped to peer at his gaunt reflection in his wife’s washbasin mirror. Picked up the small comb, neatened his coal-black mustache, careful not to disturb the waxed curl at the ends. Gave his reflection a hard stare. The kind of stare he gave to Leadville’s bunko steerers, footpads, and sneak thieves who thought they’d call his bluff.

  There was no bluff about Kirkwood. If he couldn’t tell the truth about something—like to his wife about today’s plans—then he chose silence. His reflection stared back, daring him to face up to his discomfort.

  I won’t lie. Just won’t state the whole truth. It didn’t sit right with him, but those were Faraday and the sheriff’s conditions. It was an honor to be asked to take part in the operation. It showed they trusted him. So when they said he couldn’t speak of it to anyone, even his wife, he didn’t argue.

  He headed down the short hall to the kitchen, slipping his mustache comb into an inner waistcoat pocket. The sting of outside air—chill as winter, despite it being early May—alerted him that his wife must have the back door open. A murmur of voices told him she wasn’t alone, either. As he ducked his considerable height under the lintel, he caught sight of Jane Kirkwood, back to him, broom in hand, as if pausing in the process of sweeping out the spring snow that had slipped under the door during the night.

  “Company, Mrs. Kirkwood?”

  Jane swung around, hands tightening on the broomstick. He was treated to the sight of two pairs of eyes staring at him. Jane’s startled brown ones, big, round, like an angel mourning the world’s sorry state. And Pretty Boy Sacks’ baby blues, narrowed beneath nearly nonexistent eyebrows.

  Jane blocked Pretty Boy from Kirkwood’s gaze. “Good morning, Mr. Kirkwood. Mr. Sacks came to settle up for some odd jobs I’d set him to doing yesterday. He fixed the loose boards in the steps out back.”

  “Warn’t no need for hirin’ someone.” Kirkwood didn’t mean to snap at her, but there it was.

  He strode forward. “Take your thievin’ hide somewhere else, Sacks. I find you near my home again, you’ll be the worse for it.”

  Pretty Boy replaced his wide-brimmed hat on hair bleached white by the intense sunlight of Colorado’s high mountain country, and retreated off the porch. “Meant no harm, Deputy. Was down on my luck, lookin’ for honest work and Christian charity.”

  “There’s no charity here for the likes of you. Get off my property. Now.” Kirkwood’s hand balled into a fist. He was aching for a word of disagreement; it’d give him an excuse to smash Pretty Boy’s good looks with a well-placed blow.

  He watched until Pretty Boy, slouching like a whipped dog, was out the snow-spotted back lot and moving down the alley.

  Kirkwood closed the door and sat heavily at the kitchen table. “I don’t want him around here.” He didn’t want to say more. Didn’t want her to know the full of it. But the thought of Pretty Boy hanging around his neighborhood—his home! his wife!—made him itch to knock Sacks down, put a boot on his neck, and shut the air from his throat. “He’s been here afore, I gather. And you’ve paid him. With my money.”

  Jane moved to the cast-iron stove, her long skirts swishing over the plank floor. “I can’t say no to that, Mr. Kirkwood. I’ve provided, on occasion, a nickel from the household funds you provide me.” There was the slightest hint of resentment there. As light as the covering of snow from the previous night. “Or, if the funds have run dry, I offer supper leftovers in return for the outside chores that require doing.”

  Kirkwood noted she avoided saying anything direct about the long hours that kept her husband from performing said chores.

  Kirkwood chose his words carefully, determined to make her understand without offending her female sensitivities. “Sacks is a bad sort. You wouldn’t’ve known this, but I’ve run him in plenty of times. He’s not averse to takin’ advantage of the tenderfoots comin’ to town these days.”

  The newcomers poured in, hundreds a day, drawn by tales of the silver rush. They arrived, starry-eyed and fevering for silver, thinking they’d pick it up off the ground and get rich in the blink of an eye. And when they stepped off the stagecoach, there’d be Pretty Boy and others like him, ready with their three-card monte, shell games, and crooked dice, not to mention the more direct methods of coercion such as pistols, knives, and saps. Some of the greenhorns hardly had time for the street dust to settle on their shoes before their pockets and purses were cleaned out.

  Jane dropped her gaze. “It seemed the Christian thing to do, to help someone less fortunate.”

  Kirkwood sighed. “Sacks’ misfortune is his own doing. I don’t want him round here.”

  She set a delicate china cup and saucer before him. “When will you be home tonight, Mr. Kirkwood?”

  It’d been a long time since she’d called him by his first name—Eugene—just as long as since she’d last turned to him in their bed, all willing and warm. Now, when he slipped under the covers at night, her back was all he saw. Kirkwood had no hesitations about pistol-whipping a man who was hell-bent on causing a ruckus, but he could not find the tender word or touch that would breach the short—yet infinite—distance in their marriage bed.

  “I’ll be late,” he said. “I’ll be collectin’ business fees and glad-handin’ the merchants for the last tim
e afore the elections.”

  She nodded, without reply.

  He wanted to say more. Say that, once the county sheriff position was his, he fully expected to inherit the city marshal’s badge as well. That with the salaries of the two positions—plus all the extras that’d come his way from being in charge of collecting fees, licenses, and so on—he planned to surprise her. Buy her a ticket to visit her family back East.

  Her family. They were the cause of it all. The silence. The coldness at night, colder than the snow she’d so efficiently swept out the back door. Her family didn’t cotton to him taking their only daughter to the wilds of Colorado and the even wilder silver boomtown of Leadville. Still, she’d managed all right the first year. Then, something had happened once Jane’d realized they weren’t going back, as originally planned. That he intended to stay. Stay and be part of those bringing order.

  They’d had words.

  She’d had enough, couldn’t take the nine-month winters, the mud, the lack of women…at least, decent women…to talk with. She’d pleaded with him to let her go back home for the winter, and return in the summer. He’d refused. “Wife’s place is by her husband,” he’d said. “Those vows you took—to honor and obey. This is your home, Jane. I’m your family now.”

  When her ma had died, he’d felt bad. Worse than ever. But she wouldn’t take his comfort. She took her pain, folded it up, and put it away, like the lock of her mother’s hair Kirkwood had seen pressed between the pages of her Bible.

  Wish I could tell her about today.

  He drained the cup, rose. She was at his side, coffeepot in midair.

  “No more,” he said. Then added, as he always did, “What are your plans for today?”

  Her gaze strayed to his waistcoat, then away. “Mrs. Larkin is doing poorly. Again. I thought to visit her. Perhaps go to church first, for a while.”

  He nodded. Leaned forward to kiss her. She turned her head so his lips brushed her cheek.

  With a lump in his throat, he grabbed his hat from the peg and shrugged into his good frock coat. “’Til tonight, then, Mrs. Kirkwood.”

  She was moving toward the cast-iron stove, not looking his way. “’Til tonight, Mr. Kirkwood.”

  Outside, the wind cut him. By noon, the wind would die, the snow would melt, and he’d be scorching in his proper black coat and hat. Still, folks’ll be more inclined to vote for a man for sheriff who means business and looks the part. He bent his head, holding the hat tight, and headed toward the main street. He’d told Jane the truth about going to collect fees, usually the city marshal’s job. The town was so big now that the sheriff, who also acted as city marshal, couldn’t do it all. Too, the sheriff was tired. He’d said so. Said he couldn’t wait for the elections to be over and the new sheriff to step in so he could leave. “Town’s outgrown its britches with the silver strike.” He shook his head. “Wearin’ both hats has worn me down. It’s a plum position, mind you, but a job for a younger man. When my term’s up, I’m moving on. A small town’s my preference. Somewhere you know everyone you bump into on the street.”

  Kirkwood didn’t mind the bigness. Nor the possibility of double jobs. Meant a bigger salary, for one, and more fees and licenses to collect.

  But he had to keep in mind the other reason he was doing rounds today. “Listen up and keep your eyes open,” the sheriff had advised him. “If you hear talk of the stage robbers, take note. It’d be a feather in your cap if we could capture the sons of bitches today, before the election and before the gold ships out. Would save us some shooting, and maybe some lives.”

  Hell. He didn’t mind if it came to shooting. The stagecoach bandits’d be out of business, one way or another. Kirkwood was determined he was going to be the one to hang the “permanently closed” sign on them and their activities—whether through a lead on their identities this morning or through firepower later on.

  He worked his way down the street greeting merchants, scribbling out receipts for fees collected. Pocketing the extra coin and greenbacks passed to him with a wink—“For you, Deputy. ’Spect you’ll be in charge before long, right?”—and finding ways to slide in a casual comment about the robbers—“Yep, that’s what I’m plannin’ on, if I have your vote. First order of business, catch the bandits makin’ off with your hard-earned profits.”

  They all knew what bandits he referred to, and, as merchants whose gold regularly left on those secret stagecoach runs, they were all too willing to speculate and pontificate on the whereabouts and identities of the two thieves.

  Noon was approaching when he arrived outside the Silver Queen Saloon, last of two stops. He had his hopes pinned on the Silver Queen and Mrs. Pearl’s bordello as being his best bets for gathering information. And for obtaining a free shot or two of rye. He pulled out his comb, gave his mustache a quick straightening, and pushed open the door to the saloon.

  It was cool, dark. Comparatively deserted and quiet enough that Kirkwood could hear the soft murmur of a woman’s voice blending with the muffled whir of cards being shuffled. Behind the bar, owner Mark Stannert straightened. Across the bar, Inez Stannert—his wife and co-proprietor—said in a voice as cool, dark, and inviting as the interior of the saloon itself, “Good morning, Deputy Kirkwood. Before long, we’ll be calling you Sheriff on some days, and Marshal on others, if the talk around town is any prediction.”

  “Mr., Mrs. Stannert.” Kirkwood removed his hat and set it on the bar along with his receipt book. As if it were a signal, Mark Stannert placed a shot glass next to the hat and poured a generous amount of bourbon, remarking, “Time to support the city government again, is it? Mrs. Stannert, do you have the coinage or should I take it from the till?”

  The wife set the deck of cards on the bar and pulled a handful of coins from a pocket in her long skirt. She counted out several ten-dollar gold pieces. “For the license. And—” She lay a half eagle on the bar.“—for you. To help pay for the campaign posters I see all over town.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The half eagle disappeared into his own pocket. “Would appreciate your support, Mr. Stannert, when the time arrives. I know you and your business’re highly regarded.”

  “As long as our firewater’s strong and Mrs. Stannert keeps to dealin’ with an honest deck,” said Stannert, with a wink at his wife.

  Inez smiled back at her husband, the warmth of her expression like the sun slipping from behind the clouds.

  Jane’s face—stone-cold and emotionless whenever he caught her looking at him—flitted through Kirkwood’s mind. He cleared the vision and the tightness in his throat with a cough. “As I’ve been tellin’ everyone, my highest priority is catchin’ the stage robbers. It’s your hard-earned gold in those shipments. I’d like to see an end to the robberies as much as you would.”

  “Any leads, Deputy?” Mrs. Stannert tapped the deck of cards on the bar once, cut to the queen of diamonds.

  “We’re keepin’ our ears to the ground. Thing is, the schedule for those gold shipments is secret, close-held information. What’s got us stumped is tryin’ to figure out how the bandits know ahead of time. If we knew that, we might be able to rustle up some suspects.”

  “Hmmm.” Inez shuffled again, thoughtful. Tapped the deck on the bar. Cut to the queen of diamonds. She looked at him, her gaze straightwise as a man’s. “You’ve a shipment going out today. Am I right?” She laughed at his expression. “Don’t worry, Deputy. I’ll not spill your secret. What’s more, I’ll tell you how I know—each and every time—the day before the shipment’s due to go out. But—” She waggled a finger; the diamond ring on it glinted. “You must promise to be our very special friend once you’ve been elected, and whenever you’re asked what’s the best place in town for a decent drink and a straight game, put the Silver Queen top of your list.”

  Kirkwood had frozen, unable to work his jaw around a word, at her telling of the shipment. But she’d given
him a chance to recover during her speechifying, so he was now able to croak out, “How, how…?”

  “Faraday likes to drop in for an occasional game. When he does, we treat the bank president well, just as we do the current sheriff, and plan to do the new sheriff. Right, Mr. Stannert?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” This time, the wink was directed at Kirkwood.

  She continued, “I usually let Faraday win just enough to keep him coming back for more. That’s one of my little secrets. The other is this.” Inez lowered her voice. “Every couple of weeks or so, Faraday comes in, distracted. Not smiling. Off his game. Eschews his brandy for rye. It takes more work to ensure he departs as a satisfied customer, but after all, that’s our business. A couple of days later, more times than not, news comes through that the stagecoach has been hit, yet again. The day of the robbery is always the day after Faraday’s poor showing at the table.” She shrugged. “My point being, Deputy, that anyone with a sharp eye for reading ‘tells’—those little tics and habits that give away whether a player holds a strong or weak hand—could put two and two together. So, you might consider: Who knows the schedule ahead of time? Where do they go and what do they do that might, inadvertently, give that information away? It doesn’t have to be through words. And, lest you, heaven forbid, suspect Mr. Stannert or me of perhaps scheming to add to our accounts with stolen gold,” she smiled again, sweet and slow as molasses, “just consider. I would not have told you all this if that were the case.”

  She took a snifter from her husband; the brandy glinted like liquid gold. “Thank you, Mr. Stannert.” She turned to Kirkwood and raised her drink. “Happy hunting, Deputy.”

  Who else knows?

  Inez’s questions churned in his mind as he exited the saloon into the noonday sun.

  Who’s there when the shipping schedule’s decided? Faraday, of course. His right-hand man, that son of a bitch bank manager, Larkin. The sheriff. Me. He squinted, both in thought and against the sun’s glare. Once the decision’s made and the schedule’s set, who else? The stagecoach driver, but it’s not always the same fella. And the manager of the stagecoach line.