A Lady Never Trifles with Thieves (14 page)

M
onday dawned as gloomy and wet as Sunday had ended. Farmers and cattlemen were surely rejoicing an end to the drought, but Denver City’s packed-dirt streets had gone from elongated dust bowls to elongated soup bowls.

As a saddle-mount, Izzy was a mudder par excellence. Papa used to brag that his surefooted Morgan could traverse the Arkansas River without bogging a nonce. Unfortunately, slogging a sea of clay gumbo with a buggy at his backside was a different matter entirely.

He was lathered and blowing hard when I deposited Won Li and a satchel of tools at the corner of the LeBrutons’ block.

“Don’t you dare hazard up on that roof,” I warned, “until the rain stops.”

“If I loitered until then, what need would there be to repair the damaged shingles?” With that, he tipped his gray felt hat and proceeded down the sidewalk.

Had I not been so eager to get to the office, I’d have dallied to await his flailing, Chinese curse-worded, unstoppable slide. At such time, I’d have rushed to break his fall, which arguably could have proven fatal, thus doubling his indebtedness to me.

That’d teach him.

Within a quarter hour, I sorely wished I was hunkered down in Mr. Ernst’s rain-soaked shrubbery as well. Whether a rescue or another bout of the chilblains came of it, either would have been preferable to my encounter with Darius H. Sweet.

The land agent, a second cousin to Beelzebub, earned a living inflating and collecting rents for absentee building owners, plus dunning them for maintenance expenses, bogus taxes, levies and whatever else he could dream up and pocket the money.

He was snugged upside the agency’s door, obviously having taken up his post a while ago, with no intention of abandoning it until a Sawyer of some persuasion arrived.

Had Papa been of this world, he’d have scared the water out of Darius Sweet without uttering a single word. I’d proffered numerous requests for an otherworldly haunting of the ferret-faced extortionist. I reckoned that Papa had either ignored them, or Sweet was impervious to vengeful apparitions.

“Are you aware of what day it is, Miss Sawyer?”

“Yes, Mister Sweet. I do believe it’s Monday.”

Scurrying noises accompanied the creak of the door swinging open. Rats seeking shelter from the rain, no doubt. I looked at Sweet, his dripping hat and overcoat forming puddles on the floor. Present company included.

“It is also the day rents are due, Miss Sawyer.”

“I’m aware of that.” I scooped up three yellow telegram envelopes that had been poked through the mail slot. I pressed them to my bosom, as if it would affect their content.

“Then if you’ll pay what’s owed for office space and your house,” Sweet said, “I’ll write out a receipt and be on my way.”

“I didn’t expect you first thing this morning,” I said, primping in the reflection from Napoleon’s portrait.

“Usually you don’t collect until later in the afternoon.”

“Time of day is no consequence. Either you have the money, or you don’t.”

I turned and knuckled my hips. “I go to the bank between noon and one o’clock, Mister Sweet. You may stop by again this afternoon, at your convenience.”

“Oh, bosh. What you’re telling me is that you don’t have the money.”

“Not in hand, no.” I wouldn’t have it this afternoon, either, but so far, I hadn’t lied once.

“I’ll be back, Miss Sawyer. Make no mistake about it.”

“Fine. I’ll be here when you return.” If I was, I’d keep the door bolted and duck behind the desk to evade him. The line between truth and falsehood was often finer than frog’s hair.

He paused at the threshold. “There will also be a two dollar-per-rent surcharge assessed for returning a second time.”

I nodded. What else could I do?

“And if you’re, shall we say, called away before I arrive, an additional five-dollar-per-rent late-fee will be added.”

You mealy-mouthed, scum-toothed son of a carpetbagger. Tenants already scraping nickels together can barely hash what’s owed, let alone your usurious penalties.

Aloud, I said, “I have business to attend, Mister Sweet.”

He sneered. “Oh yes. I can see you’re in danger of being trampled by a horde of paying clients.”

I made a mental note to ask J. Fulton Shulteis if Sweet’s monthly robbery was legal, then ripped open the first telegram’s envelope. Scanning the abbreviated lines, I cursed and sailed it into the ash can.

I’d have had the blasted rents if I hadn’t put inordinate faith in a hunch. Nor would my skin be as gray-green as moldy bread from my neck to my comely ankles if I hadn’t sat in the rain half the night in a baggy, old Union suit. Or had I remembered to add a splotch of vinegar to the dye-bath.

If I owned the world, Mondays would be stricken from the calendar and replaced with another Saturday. Doubtless, the Gregorians didn’t know one from the next when they invented it. If they had, they’d have tacked a thirty-first one onto April, June, September, or November, instead of skimping on February’s allotment, three years out of four.

The second telegram I skimmed, laid aside, then snatched up and reread. The third message had me screaming “Hallelujah” and running to fetch my hat.

Suffice it to say, my entrance to the police department station house was less than demure. The constable in charge, a sergeant by the name of Nasmith, refused to dispatch a squad of officers until I could explain why I wanted them with some degree of comprehensibility.

Drawn by the commotion, three, then four, constables crowded in to give audience to my explanation. I’d hardly begun relating my theory that an abuser was likely to have engaged in similar acts over a lengthy period of time when Jack O’Shaughnessy strode in the front door.

I hadn’t asked for him when I’d arrived, but now said with infinite sincerity, “Oh, thank God you’re here.” The sentiment was echoed by Sergeant Nasmith.

“Oh, yeah? Well, I’ve been looking all over Creation for you. I heard a rumor got started yesterday by a—”

“Never mind that now.” I thrust out the telegrams.

“Rendal LeBruton, otherwise known as Randall Burton, Burton Randall, and R. Leroy Bruton, is wanted in Sacramento, California, and Comstock, Nevada.”

Jack whistled backward through his teeth. “Holy Moses. Bigamy, fraud, attempted murder, suspicion of murder…” He shook his head. “Did you know this when you asked me about him at dinner the other night?”

“Of course not. I had my suspicions, but if I’d had any proof, I wouldn’t have spent a week absolutely terrified that he’d beat Penelope to death or ship her away to an asylum.”

To Sergeant Nasmith, Jack said, “Remember that assault case a few months ago? Name’s LeBruton. The lady that went after her husband with a knife and fell down the stairs?”

“Sure do. I was on that call.” He chuckled. “Never did figure out why she didn’t cut herself to pieces on the way down. Tweren’t a speck of blood on her, that I could see.”

I growled low in my throat. “Was the knife in her hand or near her when you arrived?”

His mouth pursed. “No, ma’am. Now that you mention it, the husband told us about the knife. I just figgered he’d—”

“You didn’t
figger
squat, Nasmith.” Jack’s baritone ricocheted off the grime-crusted walls. “There’s no way in God’s green earth a body can fall down a flight of stairs, knife in hand, without cutting themselves somewhere.”

Nasmith blustered, “Hold on, there, bub. Best I recollect, you weren’t even there. Where do you come off telling me how the cow ate the cabbage?”

“I didn’t have to be—”

“She was drunker ’n two barn owls, man. Prob’ly went limp as a rag doll. Her husband said she’d started hitting the bottle…” The sergeant’s voice trailed away.

“That’s right,” Jack said. “The husband this, and the husband that.” The telegrams rattled like dry leaves. “Miss Sawyer had the smarts to wire California and Nevada and see if there were any warrants on
the husband.
If she hadn’t, it’s your hands Penelope LeBruton’s blood might’ve been on, by and by.”

He pointed to the other constables, who’d backpedaled as far as the wall allowed. “Kent. Paglia. Come with me.” To Nasmith, Jack added, “Why don’t you think about those cows and cabbages while we’re out arresting Mr. LeBruton.”

The instant we were outside under the awning, I said, “Thank you for the compliment.”

“You deserved it, darlin’. I only wish you’d told me about LeBruton before.”

“I should have, I suppose—though after you told me about that earlier call, I wasn’t sure what to believe. Then Belinda Abercrombie was murdered and…” I smiled.

“Well, opportunities got kind of scarce.”

“Especially after I went to your office and gave you what-for, then really let ’er rip at the jailhouse.” He grinned.

“It’s enough to make me think I oughta wear my hat on my hind-end, often as it seems to belong there.”

Officer Paglia stepped out the door. “Be ready to roll directly, sir. Kent’s bringing the paddy wagon around.”

“Sooner the better.” Jack glanced back at me, then rolled his eyes. “Yes, I was just about to ask if you wanted to follow behind. Like I needed to.”

I could have kissed him. Except it would have been in broad daylight on the street and in front of another cop. A lady must have standards and adhere to them. Starting for the buggy, I heard Jack say, “But you’re not going into the house with us.”

Naturally, I intended to do precisely that. It riled me no end when Jack ordered Constable Kent to guard me at the curb, for crying out loud.

A very wet, mud-caked Won Li scooted into the buggy beside me. He opened his hand to show me the coins he clutched. “An honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.”

I turned to look at Mr. Ernst’s precision-trimmed shrubbery. A square of new shingles contrasted with the weatherworn roof. “An honest day’s work, for sure.”

“He offered me more. I took as little as he would allow.”

I reared back my head. “Why? You must not have taken time to wipe your brow, since I left this morning.”

Won Li shrugged. “Mr. Ernst is a man of humble means. I am a man of humble needs. It was a square deal.”

Laughing, I hugged his mucky shoulder. “A square deal, eh? Next thing you know, you’ll let out a ‘yeehaw.’”

“No. I think not.”

A fair ballyhoo erupted on the LeBrutons’ veranda. My first glimpse of Penelope’s husband had him dressed in silk pajamas and shackles on his wrists and ankles. Red-faced and sweating, he struggled mightily to free himself from Jack’s and Officer Paglia’s grasp.

I could see why Jack had chosen the barrel-chested, neckless Paglia over Constable Kent. The younger, more slender officer would be bouncing off the porch posts and hand railing like a rubber ball.

From the house, a woman screamed, “No,
no.
Don’t take him away. Please, don’t. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

A second voice yelled, “Get yourself back in here.”

A sobbing Penelope LeBruton ran out and launched herself at Jack. “Let him go. Let him go, damn you.”

Abelia wailed, “Oh law, Miss Penny. Don’t do this. I’m abeggin’ you. Come on back in the house with me.”

Officer Kent ran to pull the hysterical woman off Jack’s back. I swung a leg out of the buggy. Won Li grabbed my arm. “Sit down.”

“I can help Abelia calm Penelope down.”

“No, you cannot. The maid will take care of her mistress. I am certain she has done so before.”

I fell back in the seat. “I don’t understand. How can you know that?”

“It is the most vicious of circles, Joby. It is no different than the dog who never knows whether his master will beat him or speak lovingly and stroke his head. He tries his utmost to please his master, thinking if he does enough, is loving enough, the beatings will stop.

“He may dream of running away, of biting the master—killing him, even. After a while, the dog has no will of his own. He comes to believe he deserves the pain. If someone should take the master from him, he will attack the rescuer, for if the master is saved, perhaps the dog will be loved in return.”

Abelia and the constable were dragging Penelope back into the house. I thought about Janey Lou Bakker, who’d stayed with and defended her husband until the day he’d killed her. “She’s a grown woman, not a dog.”

“The analogy was intended not as an insult but as a commoner example. You have never received such treatment, hence it is difficult for you to conceive of it.”

Anger, compassion, mystification, and emotions I couldn’t name braided and coiled into a hard knot at my chest. “I’m not certain I ever will, Won Li.”

“It is enough that you do not condemn the actions or inactions of one weaker than you.”

I nodded at LeBruton, trussed and lying prostrate on the paddy wagon’s filthy floor. His pajama trousers were stained. Sometime during the altercation, he had soiled himself.

“What about him? To my mind, any man who’d take his fists to a woman, a dog, a horse—anything who poses no threat—is the weakest of the weak. And I sure as six kinds of hell condemn what he’s done to Penelope.”