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  There was just enough time for one last stop before he had to return for the loading of the gold and what was to follow.

  He hurried deeper into the red-light district, his destination the whitewashed two-story house standing like a beacon amidst the tiny cribs of low-class whores and slapped-together gin mills. Once there, a rap at the door brought the doorman who doubled as piano player and butler. A black man near as tall as himself.

  Kirkwood stepped over the threshold, making sure his receipt book was clearly visible. Don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about my being here. “Mrs. Pearl in? I’d like a private word with her.”

  The huge Negro led Kirkwood, hat and receipt book in hand, deeper into the house than he was rightly comfortable with, and left him in a parlor room full of china knickknacks and whatnot perched on a flurry of delicate tables. Kirkwood stood just inside, feeling like a giant amidst all the miniature finery, uneasy about moving around lest he knock something over.

  “Deputy.” A familiar female voice sounded behind him. “A pleasure, always, to have you visit. What can we do you for?” Mrs. Pearl—he didn’t know for certain if it was her first name or last, real or made-up—was a woman of bountiful God-given physical attributes, as befitted the madam of the best-run parlorhouse in town. Nature, though, in a fit of pique, had thrown smallpox at her and the disease had left its permanent imprint on her skin. Not that she let that stop her. Many a man had lost his heart and the contents of his pockets to the madam’s charm.

  “Mrs. Pearl.” He never knew whether to bow, shake her hand, or what. She ran a whorehouse, which made him want to keep her at arm’s length. But she was also a businesswoman and had the pulse—and more—of the town’s businessmen. He respected her intelligence, something that, like Mrs. Stannert, she possessed in the first degree. Like the woman saloon owner, Mrs. Pearl seemed to sense the inner workings of folks, more so than he did. He dealt with the surfaces effectively, efficiently, some might say even brutally. But the more subtle things—the “tells,” he supposed—were where he floundered.

  She solved his etiquette problem for him, waving him to a nearby chair and adding, “Whiskey, isn’t it?” The stiff pleats hemming her shiny dress hissed along the floor as she moved. The outfit probably cost more than his yearly salary. That’s something else…once I’m elected and got enough put aside, I’ll see that Jane gets all the finery and doodads she wants.

  After the obligatory chitchat and exchanging of cash for receipt of licensing fees, Kirkwood turned talk to the bandits.

  “Guess what I’m wonderin’ is, you know everything that goes on ’round town.” Kirkwood picked a thread of lint off his worsted pants. “You ever heard anything ’bout the identity of the gold thieves? It’d sure be good to put those fellas away. If you’ve heard any rumors and such, I’d be grateful. If I win the election—”

  “All odds I’ve heard are in your favor, Deputy.” Amusement shaded her tones, but proper respect too.

  At least, it sounded like respect.

  “So you see, I’d be most beholden for any ideas you might have. I’m not askin’ you to betray any confidences. More like, I’m interested in your opinion. And if you’ve heard, seen anything that’d help me do my job.” There. That sounded like a man already in the saddle.

  “I’ve heard a lot of talk, of course. Most think it’s an inside job. The shipments are a secret, right? So how would the bandits know, unless they worked for the bank or the stagecoach?”

  “Maybe there’s another way.” He explained about the “tells,” the possibility that someone was giving the shipping schedule away through some detail or mannerism.

  Mrs. Pearl studied him, as if plumbing his soul for close-held secret desires never spoken or acted upon. “It would certainly put the election in your pocket if the bandits were caught, wouldn’t it, Deputy? I’d like to think that, if I could help in some small way we’d be in accord, you and I.” She paused. “There is…something. Would I have your word that, should I share my thoughts, they’d remain between us? And that, perhaps, when my girls get on the wrong side of the law for some little transgression—girls will be girls, you know—that I might be able to count on your personal assistance?”

  Kirkwood hesitated. Making deals with the madam wasn’t what he’d had in mind. Went against his grain. But…Maybe that’s part of bein’ head lawman. Dealing with all kinds. In the end, it’s the justice of the situation that counts. “Depends on the transgression,” he hedged.

  She waved a hand. “Nothing serious. Charges of public drunkenness and disturbance of the peace. My girls don’t get drunk and disorderly, they’re just high-spirited. When you add up the fines and bail on top of the usual business expenses, city license fees, and taxes, well, they put quite a dent in my accounts. All I ask is, once you’re sheriff—and marshal, of course—if you would use your influence to see that, if my girls get a little out of hand while they’re out and about, they’re brought back here for me to deal with.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” he said.

  “Well, then.” She leaned forward, giving him an unhampered view of a pockmarked expanse of cleavage. “An esteemed member of the banking community is a regular customer. Someone who would not want his visits known. He’s married, you see. And he is someone, who, by virtue of his position, knows the shipment schedules, perhaps even arranges them. Sometimes when he visits he is harder to satisfy. When the girl has to lend a vigorous helping hand.” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “What, I wonder, could so distract a man, every other week or so, from the charms of those he so willingly, indeed enthusiastically, engages the rest of the time?”

  “Every other week,” Kirkwood said. “The night afore the shipments. Afore the stage gets hit and the news makes the paper.”

  He sat back. Stared hard at Mrs. Pearl. She stared blandly back.

  “You understand it would be indiscreet for me to say more.” Her words said one thing, her eyes something else.

  “Who’s the banker?” Kirkwood said. “Faraday?” No, couldn’t be. Faraday’s a widower. Then, the light dawned. “Larkin?”

  Mrs. Pearl smiled.

  ***

  The stagecoach creaked and rattled as it rocked down the old road between town and Buena Vista, thirty miles distance. Inside the dusky interior, dust seeped around the lowered canvas curtains. Kirkwood could taste it, knew it covered his mustache and his best clothes, which irked him something fierce. The deputy sat, long legs scrunched up, next to the sheriff, with the bank manager, Larkin, sitting across from them. Larkin’s knees kept bumping into Kirkwood’s, no matter how much Kirkwood tried to shift himself sideways. The three were armed to the teeth—rifles, shotguns, pistols. Each held fast to his weapon of choice and tried to keep the other hardware from rattling around.

  Larkin—never a favorite of Kirkwood’s—had been added to the posse at the last minute, before the gold was loaded onto the stagecoach. Faraday had insisted his right-hand man be part of the operation. “I’m not sending the gold today unless I’ve got one of my own going along,” he’d said.

  The sheriff shrugged. “Fair enough. I’ll just deputize him for the operation. Four against two makes the odds more comfortable anyhow.”

  It didn’t feel comfortable to Kirkwood.

  Every time he looked at Larkin’s prissy face he started to boil. Thinking of how Larkin always looked at him, Kirkwood, like he was a half-full pisspot. Thinking of what Mrs. Pearl had said about Larkin being a frequent visitor to her bawdy house. And finally thinking of how Mrs. Larkin always seemed to be so poorly, according to Jane, who was always going off to keep her company.

  It wasn’t right.

  “Hope you know how to shoot that,” Kirkwood said, staring pointedly at Larkin’s firearm. Some high-falutin English rifle, it hardly seemed fitting for the job.

  “Oh, don’t worry about me.” Larkin caressed the s
tock. “I’ve won many a shooting match with this. I won’t miss when the bandit shows himself.”

  “Bandits,” corrected the sheriff. “There’s two. One does the talkin’, another gives the orders, silent-like.” He shifted the shotgun he was holding and pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his sweating face. “We’ve got the element of surprise on our side, boys. They won’t be expectin’ us. We can only hope they’ll show this time.”

  “They’ll show,” said Kirkwood. “They know the shipment’s coming.”

  “And how would you know that?” Larkin sounded scornful.

  Kirkwood glanced at the sheriff. He’d explained to him earlier what he’d learned that day. The sheriff gave him the nod to continue.

  “There’s only a handful of folks who know beforehand when the shipment’s going to go,” said Kirkwood. “And some—includin’ you, Larkin—are tellin’ tales, without even knowing.”

  Larkin’s face soured. “Oh? And how’s that?”

  “You do things different the day before. And people notice.”

  The stage wallowed, throwing the passengers to one side, and stalled. The driver whistled sharp, and the stage jerked forward and began to climb. Kirkwood pictured the area they were approaching. Rocks to either side. Road narrowed down. Perfect place for a holdup.

  “Do things different? Well, then, I’m not the only one.” Larkin’s eyes swept the deputy, boots to hat. “Every time you arrive to discuss the shipment, you come dressed for church. Just like today. Trying to impress Faraday with how good the sheriff’s badge will look pinned to that black waistcoat.”

  Kirkwood glared even as the truth of it settled inside him, hard as a stone in his chest. “And your missus—” he shot back. “Heard tell while she’s doin’ poorly these days, you spend your time at Mrs. Pearl’s.”

  Larkin’s face flushed. “That’s none of your business.”

  “It’s my business when my wife’s always playin’ nursemaid to your wife. Like today.”

  Larkin’s expression shifted into puzzlement. “What are you talking about? My wife left last week to visit relatives in Denver.”

  The stage slid to a sudden halt, nearly throwing Larkin into Kirkwood’s lap.

  “God-DAMN!” swore the driver. “Not again!”

  The men inside the stagecoach froze—arguments dissolved. Those words were the signal they’d agreed to before the stage had left town.

  “No sudden moves!” someone shouted. “You know what to do. Toss down the box and we’ll let you go your way, no harm done.”

  Kirkwood knew that voice. He’d heard it outside his back door that very morning. Pretty Boy, you’re a dead man.

  The sheriff threw open the door, shouting, “Throw down your weapons! You’re under arrest!”

  Two figures, heads covered with hoods, swiveled toward them.

  Two pairs of eyes…

  Kirkwood’s scream to stop was drowned out by the twin blasts of shotgun and rifle.

  He was by the bodies, not knowing how he even got there. The first hood he ripped off revealed the face he expected—Pretty Boy Sacks.

  The other hood revealed the face he’d feared to find…

  “Jane,” he whispered. “Jane.”

  Kirkwood sank to his knees. He heard nothing, not the voices of the men behind him, not the horses, not the sound of the wind.

  The fact of his wife lying there—dead, dressed in men’s clothes, brown eyes wide but still—filled him to the point that there was nothing left to feel…

  “What’ll we do with them?” The uncertain voice of the driver brought Kirkwood back.

  He stood up shakily. The other men stared at him, as if he were already sheriff. Already the one they looked to for orders. The sheriff included.

  Kirkwood removed his hat. Pulled a handkerchief—starched and ironed by Jane all of yesterday—from his waistcoat pocket and wiped his eyes. The waistcoat. The clothes. I never said a word about the shipments, but I told her anyway.

  “What’ll we do with them?” the driver repeated. “Should we load ’em in the stagecoach and head back?”

  “We’re going to bury her right here, by the side of the road,” Kirkwood said. “We got our bandit.” He nudged Pretty Boy with his boot. “We’ll take him with us. As for her—” He couldn’t say her name. Doubted he ever would again. “She went home to her family. It’s as true a tale as any other.”

  ***

  Author’s Note: This is my imaginative extrapolation of an old Leadville “legend” dated early 1879, which would be during Inez and Mark Stannert’s “salad days” in Leadville, about a Leadville sheriff named Kirkham. For a short version of the legend, see: http://blogs.denverpost.com/library/2012/09/30/colorados-wild-women-left-notsodelicate-brand-wild-wests-outlaw-lore/3960/ and scroll down. True or not? Only Jane’s headstone remains, and it’s telling no tales.

  A Lure for Murder

  Mark de Castrique

  Detectives Sam Blackman and Nakayla Robertson were not the leading characters of my first series. The small mountain town funeral director Barry Clayton was the protagonist of the first novel I submitted to Poisoned Pen Press. It was rejected—thoughtfully. But I’d been persistent enough to submit a second Barry Clayton mystery. Editor-in-Chief Barbara Peters encouraged me to take elements of both books and rewrite a stronger and more complex story. That was fourteen years and thirteen books ago. For each year and each novel, our writer-publisher relationship has thrived on encouragement and collaboration. Not only have I benefited, but I hope the reader has as well.

  —M.deC.

  ***

  There is something magical about a river in early morning. Maybe it’s the sound of the rippling water joining the chorus of waking birds, or the layer of mist hanging a few feet above the surface like a mirrored ghost coursing its meandering path. Maybe it’s because everything smells fresh and even the sun’s rays look newly minted.

  All of these are true, but for me, early morning on a river provides the illusion that I’m the first to touch the unspoiled splendor of its pristine character. At least that’s what I tell myself. Actually, I’m never first. My partner, Nakayla Robertson, is always the first to paddle her kayak into the current, and this Sunday morning in September was no exception.

  We’d started at six with the most difficult part being the jockeying of our vehicles for putting in and pulling out of the river. Our goal was to kayak down the French Broad on the section that runs through the enormous Biltmore Estate. Our endpoint was several miles downstream, which meant, unless you wanted to hike back toting a kayak, you needed a second car. But only my Honda CR-V had a rack for the boats, making the drop and retrieval more complicated.

  The first maneuver in our challenge was to drop Nakayla’s Subaru at the take-out point and have her ride with me to Bent Creek, a spot upstream where a sandy public shoreline granted easy access. We unloaded our kayaks and, with Nakayla standing guard, I drove my SUV back to the take-out area and returned to Bent Creek in her car.

  She had assembled the paddles and propped them across the bow of each kayak. A year ago, we bought two yellow nine-footers that were lightweight, nimble, and, according to the salesman, very forgiving. These weren’t the sea kayaks where you sat on top, but rather the sit-inside variety where the water flowed at your elbow and if you flipped, you needed to extricate yourself quickly or execute the Eskimo roll with the precise movement that up righted you and the boat. I excelled at doing half an Eskimo roll, which meant I was head-down underwater.

  So, I proceeded cautiously by first putting the leg with my prosthesis in the kayak and pushing off with my good right one. The technique was a little shaky, but as long as I wasn’t cutting across the current, I succeeded without mishap. Nakayla was paddling in a stationary position downstream, ready to retrieve my boat if I capsized. I would have to fend for myself.

&nb
sp; When she saw that I was safely underway, she swung her kayak in a tight turn and began a leisurely stroke that propelled her only slightly faster than the current. With the mist still low to the river, it was wise not to outrun your ability to avoid a jutting rock or downed tree.

  We’d traveled about a quarter mile when Nakayla suddenly veered to the left. I followed, thinking she’d spotted some impediment. But she continued her turn until she was paddling upstream and passed within a few feet of me.

  “I think I saw something snagged on the shore,” she said.

  “I didn’t see anything. How far back?”

  “About twenty yards.” She bit her blades deeper into the water and surged against the current.

  I took her effort as a challenge and pressed hard to overtake her. I was pulling alongside when I heard her gasp.

  “Sam.” She maneuvered around a toppled sapling that had snared drifting debris.

  As her boat cleared the mound of sticks and leaves, I spotted a rubber boot trapped against the brush. A deep stroke brought me nearer, near enough to see that the boot was at the end of a leg.

  ***

  “His name is Aaron Culpepper. His wife said he left early this morning. Maybe four-thirty.” Homicide Detective Curt Newland leaned against the fender of my CR-V. Nakayla and I stood facing him. Normally closed-mouthed, Newly, as everyone called him, proved to be in a talkative mood.

  Nakayla’s cell phone had been tucked away in a waterproof pouch strapped under the bow of her kayak. While I waited with the body, she’d climbed up the bank to Highway 191 that ran parallel to the river. She’d contacted the Asheville Police Department and Newly arrived about fifteen minutes after the first patrol car.