The Gold Miner's Wife: A Young Woman's Story of Romance, Passion and Murder (8 page)

In Denver, the Rocky Mountain Detective Association was located on the upper floor of a sturdy brick building on Colfax Avenue.  One of the associates, Daniel Cookson, had experience investigating mining incidents of all types, from discovering the instigators of crippling strikes brought by disgruntled mine workers to allegations of sabotage from competing mine owners. 

              Jack arrived for his appointment on time and was ushered into Mr. Cookson’s office.  It offered a fine view of the distant mountains.  Cookson sat at a large mahogany desk, and behind it, on the wall, was displayed his Civil War saber as well as a framed photograph of him in his Union Army uniform.  He was part of the 130
th
Illinois Infantry and had attained the rank of captain.  The American Flag hung from a stand near the window.  The room also contained bookcases with many leather-bound volumes and a row of filing cabinets which took up one wall.  Papers were scattered across the desk along with one of the books, “Official Record of Livestock Brands in Colorado Territory, 1875”.  Some of the loose papers were anchored in place by an old deck prism – an unusual antique probably salvaged from a vessel that sailed long ago.  A Colt revolver with holster was hanging casually from a wooden peg and the room itself smelled heavily of tobacco smoke.  From the looks of the place, Cookson had more business than a cranberry merchant.

             
Mr. Cookson quickly stood and offered a firm, warm handshake.  He looked to be in his late thirties, tall and fit, with light brown hair, a receding hairline and bright blue eyes.  He was clean shaven, wore a brown sack coat and black string tie.

             
“It is a pleasure, Mr. Simmons,” Cookson greeted him.  “How can I be of help to you today?”

             
“I understand you specialize in mine investigations,” said Jack, taking a seat.  “My gold mine is the Five Nuggets near Pine Creek.  I’m afraid I have troubles.”

             
Cookson’s eyebrows rose.  “Trouble is my middle name,” he remarked with a grin.  Jack liked him already.

             
Jack related the whole of his story to the detective, including his suspicion that the size of the fatal blast pointed to sabotage.  “We are still only mining ore close to the surface,” he felt compelled to explain.  Jack was pleased to see Cookson writing down pertinent details.  He also interrupted him with questions.  It was almost as if he was pushing the puzzle pieces around in his mind.  This man would be his ally in discovering the truth, he had no doubt.

             
“In any investigation, our starting point must be with the concept of ‘motive’.  We must examine all the facts and ask the question, who would stand to benefit from the damage done by this catastrophe?  To be blunt, one person’s disaster can sometimes be another person’s opportunity.  Money can be a powerful motivator,” Cookson observed.  “Are you in any kind of dispute with the adjacent mine owners over your claim?”

             
“Our claim is proven.  We have the deed.  This has never been questioned,” was Jack’s answer.

             
“You said your partner was one of those killed.  Since you believe this was no accident, you think he was murdered?” Jack nodded.  “Did he owe anyone money?  Did anyone hold him a grudge?”

             
“Not that I am aware.  He never gambled.  He was a family man and was very honest and trustworthy.”

             
“And what of the other man who lost his life?” 

             
“Heinz Schultz.  He had been with us for over a year.  A German immigrant.  Never a problem.  A personable fellow.  Left behind a wife and child,” Jack replied.

             
“And your partner, Mr. Sprague, he was happily married, I assume?”

             
“Yes,
very
happily married,” said Jack as he recalled how despondent and miserable Susannah looked the day he left Denver to return to the mine.  Susannah was never far from his thoughts, helping her in any way he could was always foremost on his mind.  He also believed she would always be off-limits to his desires and tender affections.

             
“Who are his relatives?” Mr. Cookson continued.  “Do you know who the beneficiaries are of his estate?”  As the questioning continued, Jack was impressed with how relentless Mr. Cookson was in ferreting out important details.  Eventually he came back to the curious appearance and disappearance of Mr. Brophy and the strange timing of these events.

             
“From your description of how your employee Mr. Flynn instructed Brophy in the use of the auger, is it safe to assume that this Brophy fellow had limited experience as a miner?”

             
“I believe that is the consensus among my men, yes,” said Jack.

             
“And are you certain he has left the area?  Is it possible he is working at another mine?  Have you checked with the other mine owners?”

             
“Of that I cannot be certain.  No one has seen him however.  I can ask around.”

             
“Were you able to interview the prostitute he assaulted?”

             
“No.”

             
“And what was her name?”  Mr. Cookson asked.

             
“Mary Dempsey, but she goes by Jade.  She is one of Madam Delilah’s doves.”

             
“Do you possess a gun, Mr. Simmons?”

             
“Yes,” Jack responded.

             
“And you carry it with you?”

             
“Of course,” he answered, opening his jacket to reveal it.  “Thomas always carried one when he was working, but it did not seem to help him did it?” he commented rather crossly.

             
Cookson ignored the remark.  “Here is what I think we should do, Mr. Simmons,” said the detective as he looked up from the notes he had taken.  “You are going to find out who stands to inherit any part of Sprague’s estate.  I am going to Pine Creek and to your mine to make some inquiries of my own.  I will also find more information on your Mr. Schultz and see where that may lead.”

             
“Excellent,” said Jack.  “When can you begin?”

             
“There are a couple of pressing items I must button up first,” he said, consulting his calendar.  “Give me five days.  I will go to Pine Creek and visit your mine in five days.  That would put us at the 17
th
of August.  Would that be satisfactory?”

             
“Yes,” said Jack, “and if I discover any new information, you will be hearing from me.”

             
“We have a plan then,” said Cookson.  “Remember what I said though, money is frequently the motive in situations such as these.”  The men shook hands and Jack left.  His assignment was to find out who the beneficiaries were of Thomas’ estate.  He had intended to call on Susannah anyway, but he knew it would probably be difficult to convince her that such personal information was needed for the investigation.  It had to be done; he would pay her a visit tomorrow.

             
Susannah had not slept well again, in fact, she had not slept at all.  As the first rays of morning sunlight peeked through the curtains, she stopped pretending to be asleep and rose.  Two weeks had passed since the funeral and Susannah was not yet ready to face the world.  By early afternoon, she found herself nearly alone.  Catori and Mrs. Sheppard had gone to the market and the Mansfield’s were visiting the Purfields.  Susannah had excused herself at the last minute, feigning a headache.  On some level, she welcomed a quiet, brief period of peaceful, uninterrupted solitude.  It was equally true that in the midst of her bereavement, she was unfit company, dull, brooding, prone to tearful episodes, and introspective.  It was a dispiriting thing to find oneself so suddenly on a very solitary path with only a heart full of memories.  This had happened to her once before, when she was a young girl.  She never thought fate would be so cruel as to revisit her again with such a painful loss.

             
To restore her equilibrium she now looked to commonplace tasks.  These days Susannah frequently tended the flower garden, she helped Mrs. Sheppard with canning the strawberry preserves and on one day she occupied herself with a complete inventory of all the table linens.  Her time was spent focused on mundane tasks, but each night when she turned down the lamp, she thought of Thomas and how much she missed him.  In some ways she felt trapped; not ready to rejoin society but tired of being home.  Her hidden reserves of fortitude were dwindling away.

             
Her footfalls crunched as she made her way along the gravel path to the carriage house.  Susannah had not visited her studio since before the accident, but something called her there.  Her studio was her refuge and her artwork had always been a healing balm to her soul.  Those around her meant well but it was painful to recognize the pity in their expressions and this caused her to hide her emotions at times.  If she broke down in the privacy of her studio, at least she would be away from prying eyes.  She was tired of pretending to be whole.

             
As she looked around, Susannah glimpsed several unfinished projects still on their easels awaiting an artist’s inspiration.  There were sketches of flowers to be transformed into watercolors.  There was an almost-complete oil painting of the mine and another rough sketch of Fluffy Lucero contentedly sunning himself on the flagstone path.  There was the unfinished painting she planned to give to the Purfields.  It portrayed a favorite spot in the mountains where they had enjoyed many picnics together. 

             
Susannah listened to the silence for a long moment, she was well and truly alone.  She stood there, half thinking, perhaps half hoping she would see Thomas step through the door at any second.  How she missed his lively affection, his endlessly warm embrace, his lover’s touch, his tender kiss, his easy laughter.  The tears welled up again unbidden.  Susannah was not unlike someone who had stumbled upon a stage without a script.  There were things needing her attention, such as following up on Edward’s advice to have the mine’s account books examined.  But in these and other important matters, she was paralyzed by indecision.

             
She blotted the tears and turned her attention to the worktable.  Soon the jars of paint were gathered up and restored to their shelves.  She efficiently organized the paintbrushes according to their sizes.  Several unused canvasses were stacked neatly into a cabinet.  Finally, the slate floor received a good sweeping.  Satisfied, she glanced around the studio one last time and then headed for the door.  The next time she visited her private domain, all would be ready.  But she wondered when she would be ready to tackle a project once again.

             
The cicadas were putting forth a very loud humming in the nearby trees, unreeling their melodic shrills under the summer sun as she walked the gravel path back to the mansion.  Their rhythmic song had everyone on notice that the frost would arrive in only six weeks.  Soon the spectacular foliage of the beautiful landscape of nature’s palate would be distilled into a dull brown; all would become dried and dormant.  Did she really want to spend the winter here?  Her friends the Purfield’s would be leaving soon; she would miss having them nearby.  How nice it would be to escape to Larkspur and stay there for a time with Grandmamma.  Her years spent at Larkspur with Grandmamma had been the source of so many happy memories.  No matter how wretched Susannah’s fate, one constant blessing remained in the abiding sweetness of her loving grandmother.  Writing to her of Thomas’ death had been one of her most painful tasks.  What exactly might a 25 year old widow say to her grandmother that could possibly make any sense?

             
She made her way through the dining room, pausing for a few moments.  A light breeze ruffled the lace curtains.  It was a favorite spot, the wide window offered such a lovely view and the angle of the sun was just right at this time of day.  The house was all quiet, so quiet, the rhythmic tick, tick, tick, of the grandfather clock in the hallway was noticeably amplified.  The mahogany cellarette holding the bottles of liquor sat innocently next to the sideboard.  It was a sturdy cabinet, highly polished and inlaid with an intricate mother-of-pearl floral design.  Usually the cellarette was kept locked.  Her nerves in tatters, she wanted only to shake off her melancholy.  What was one glass?  But would she be content with only one?  Susannah was wasting her time arguing with herself.  She took a fortifying breath and turned the key.

             
It was about an hour later when she heard someone at the front door, then a man’s voice and that of the maid.  The front door closed again, the footfalls drew closer, and then Jack was standing in the dining room.  Susannah was seated all alone at the big table, the decanter before her, half empty.  She looked up at him and saw the fire in his eyes.

             
“Jack!” she said.  “Will you join me for a drink?”

             
“What are you doing, Susannah?” he sighed.