West of Paradise (18 page)

Katherine’s eyes followed his to the horizon where storm clouds had gathered; a deep heavy gray, as if the weight of them any moment would cause them to drop.

“Rain?”

“And thunder and lightning, I’ll wager.”

Katherine shivered a little.

“Don’t be afraid,” Jack said, putting an arm around her and hugging her close. She hugged him back and it felt good, comfortable.

They went in and Jack made something that might have passed for some kind of coffee cake, using the last of the flour and raisins. It was pretty bland even with the molasses. Now there was nothing left. Harlan was days late. They had already talked about walking to Hays City or striking out in the other direction. But Jack didn’t know what was there or how far away. They had decided to give Harlan one more day.

And then there was that small voice, the one Jack argued with, the one that asked, what if Harlan didn’t come? What then, Jack? And he would play out the various scenarios in his head, write the scripts, imagine the setting—until he told himself to stop.

They were sitting on the steps, drinking their second cup of coffee when the wind rose up and changed direction. Within minutes the clouds rolled in: big, dark, heavy clouds followed by heavy raindrops. Just a few at first, spattering the dirt, tapping the roof, and then more and more until it was raining in earnest and the wind was blowing and the sky was the color of slate. The chickens had all disappeared and Jack and Katherine went inside, shutting the door and windows.

They made love again, and afterward Jack held her and told her stories until the storm passed and the clouds blew away and the sun came out to dry everything. They had almost finished getting dressed when they heard a noise they’d been expecting. It was the sound of a horse drawn wagon.

Chapter Twenty-Three
Alanna

A
lanna was pleasantly surprised by the accommodations. She had been worried about the lack of amenities so far away from the east coast. But she found the Grand Hotel to be one of the finer establishments she had stayed in, tastefully furnished and adorned with a number of fine oil paintings.

Chandeliers hung from the lobby ceilings, illuminating a luxurious dining room with walnut tables covered in linen and cut glass, the latest style of cutlery, and cloth napkins formed in the shape of roses. A wide staircase with a heavy black banister wound up to the second floor where all the rooms were carpeted, the beds with a spring mattress, and every window with a view. Even better was the availability of hot water for her bath, which she enjoyed while Mrs. Pratt took young William for a walk after dinner.

She waited until they had both settled down for the evening before donning a peach watered silk gown with velvet embossed organza. She wore pearls at her ears, long black gloves and carried a small beaded purse. She wished for a full-length mirror but the truth was, she didn’t really need it; she knew she looked spectacular.

She could feel eyes on her as she walked past the ornately carved bar in the Oriental Saloon, which was lined with crystal glasses and colored bottles, all sparkling beneath the brilliance of the suspended chandeliers. The Brussels carpet was soft and plush beneath her heeled shoes as she made her way toward one of the faro tables. The pungent smell of cigars and whiskey hung in the air and the room was abuzz with talk and laughter and the sound of cards being shuffled.

A tall gentleman in a black frock coat and neat tie rose, offering an appreciative smile and a bow.

“Ma’am,” he said, “care to play?”

“I would, thank you,” Alanna said, giving him one of her most brilliant smiles.

The remaining players all rose while she took her seat, laying her little black purse on the table.

She had been playing for nearly an hour when she noticed a young man at the bar who kept glancing at her. She was well accustomed to men staring at her, and the low cut dress she wore did everything to encourage such behavior. However, this particular young man was not gawking at her with desire but rather with something else. It took her a moment to remember what it was, and as soon as she did she cursed herself and him, whoever he was.

She played another round before collecting her modest winnings and thanking the gentlemen for the entertainment. The man in the frock coat, a banker, quickly rose. “May I walk you home, wherever that may be?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I have an appointment to keep but perhaps another time?”

“I will look forward to it.”

Alanna turned her gaze toward the bar where the young man had been standing not a moment before. He was halfway to the door, glancing back nervously as he went. She carefully kept her eyes averted, not wanting to alarm him, and casually made her way toward the bar as he exited, then veered away, walking as quickly as she dared without drawing attention to herself, her stomach churning into small knots.

Outside the air had turned cool and crisp, reminding her of autumn in Boston. There were a surprising number of people about despite the lateness of the hour, and she could hear music drifting from the other saloons. She looked left and right, spotting the object of her search crossing the street. She hurried after him, following him halfway down Fifth Street before he stopped at a door, fumbled with the lock, and entered.

Alanna took a deep breath and crossed, walking slowly now that she knew where he had gone, taking note of the street and the businesses, the blackened windows, and the dark alley next to the building the young man had entered. A sign said
Tombstone Epitaph
in old English lettering.

She walked to the end of the block, crossed the street again, and turned around to retrace her steps, this time hugging the buildings and keeping to the shadows until she came to the
Epitaph.
The door was not locked.

She opened it ever so slowly, and heard a sound she did not immediately recognize, a tap-tapping noise, like fingernails on a hard smooth surface.

Her eyes narrowed darkly as she reached down to her ankle, pulling out the knife she kept there—her just-in-case-knife. She tip-toed toward the sound, barely breathing, eyes focused.

There he was, hunched over his little machine.

She crossed the distance between them in a few short steps, not bothering to be quiet any longer because by the time he started to turn around she was already at his back, the knife at his throat.

“Do not move,” she said quietly, calmly, though her heart was racing.

“It’s too late; I know who you are,” he said in a trembling voice. “I’ve already sent the wire.”

“Ah, but it’s never too late to send another one,” Alanna said.

He started to shake his head but she made a dissuading noise, pressing the knife closer.

“Send another. Tell them you were mistaken.”

He hesitated and Alanna nicked him with the knife. “Do it! And don’t think I don’t know Morse code either. I do, and I shall know if you try to send anything other than what I’ve instructed. Now begin.”

The young man began tapping and Alanna listened, hoping to God he had believed her because the truth was, she hadn’t the slightest idea how to read Morse code. She was, however, a very good liar.

“I’m finished,” the young man said.

“Indeed you are,” Alanna said, drawing the knife swiftly across his throat and stepping aside to avoid the blood spray.

He gurgled a cry as he fell, his hands going to his throat in a useless effort to stop the bleeding. But it was already too late.

She stood there a few minutes more, waiting until he was dead. Then she picked up her skirts and grabbed him by his collar, grunting a little as she dragged him away. She searched him and found a set of keys, which she hoped would lock the place up, then rolled her gloves down carefully and stuffed them in her purse.

She gave the room a quick inspection, her eyes picking out the dim outline of the press, the banker’s desk that sat kitty corner, and the lawyer’s bookcase that took up a whole wall. Vaguely she wondered who might find the operator as she locked the place up, imagining their shock and bewilderment.
Who would want to kill the telegraph operator?
they would ask themselves.

It is unfortunate he recognized me
, she thought, making her way back to the Oriental Saloon. She checked herself in the glass at the door, making certain there were no tell-tale signs to give her away.

The faro banker smiled broadly at her return as the other players made a place for her. She spent the next few hours winning at a game she seldom played.

The hour was near to dawn when she finally quit. The banker rose, his hazel eyes gazing deeply into hers. She felt herself flush, noting the fine cut of his coat and his physique. He was quite tall and carried himself in an alert manner that reminded her a little of Will.

And it occurred to her that she could use a little male company. It had been some time since she’d been kissed properly, and something in the man’s smile told her he might be up to the task.

“I don’t usually walk with strangers,” she said, “but perhaps you might introduce yourself and take me to my hotel?”

“I would be delighted,” the man said with a faint smile. “My name is Bat Masterson.”

She took the arm he offered and they walked out of the saloon together.

“And where is it you would like to be escorted to Miss . . . ?”

“Mrs. Mrs. Shepherd.”

He didn’t say anything to this, perhaps mulling over where the husband in question might be. Alanna saved him the trouble.

“I’m afraid my husband has passed away,” she said with the appropriate note of regret.

“You have my condolences. But what brings you to Tombstone, if I may inquire?”

“My grandfather owns McLeod Shipping in Boston; perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“I’m sorry to say I haven’t.”

“No matter. At any rate, I have been helping him with his business. He’s looking to expand his interests beyond shipping, which brought me here to your fair town.”

Mr. Masterson chuckled a little. “I’m not sure Tombstone is what you’d call fair, but there are a number of mines in which to invest as well as real estate. I understand a parcel that went for a few dollars four years ago is now selling for over a thousand.”

“Ah, you see? That is exactly the sort of information I need. You shall have to tell me more about this town of yours.” She gave his arm a suggestive squeeze as they walked into the lobby of the Grand.

❧

Jim Woolbridge had never been as glad to feel the ground beneath his feet as he was when he arrived in Tombstone.

Half way from Contention the driver had taken a turn too sharply and nearly sent them all into a ravine. Most of the luggage, consisting of trunks and crates and baskets of varying sizes and weight, went spilling over the side, contents spewing forth in an extravaganza of fabrics, household items, foodstuffs, shoes, and a very small dog that immediately began yipping at everyone.

It took more than an hour for the passengers to sort and gather their belongings, and another twenty minutes for the owner of the dog to capture the thing and put it into the basket from which it had escaped. Hours late they arrived and Jim grabbed his own case and hurried away, determining to hire or buy a horse for the return trip.

He made his way over to Fremont Street and Fly’s Boarding House, a clean but inexpensive establishment. Jim put his few pieces of clothing away in the pine dresser before leaving his room in search of the sheriff, who he found at his office in a corral off Fifth Street.

“Good afternoon Sheriff Behan, I am Jim Woolbridge, Pinkerton Agent and here in regards to this woman.” He handed the sheriff the old wanted poster of Alanna McLeod.

Sheriff Behan looked at it closely before handing it over to his deputy sitting at the desk. “Recognize her, Billy?” he asked.

The deputy shook his head. “Sure is pretty, though.”

“Sorry,” Sheriff Behan concluded, “but I can’t say as I’ve seen her.” He returned the poster to Jim.

“I received a telegraph three days ago that she had been seen here,” Jim said.

Sheriff Behan looked up at him sharply. “Three days ago?”

“Yes, why?”

The sheriff and his deputy exchanged a glance.

“Something happened,” Jim guessed.

“Our telegraph operator was murdered in his office Saturday night. Throat cut.”

Jim swore. “Any suspects?”

“We asked around,” Billy offered. “No one saw anything.”

“I’m not surprised. Mind if I talk to people? You never know when someone remembers something that proves helpful.”

“Feel free. Mr. Clum discovered the body. He’s the editor over at the
Epitaph.
That’s where Mr. Edwards was killed. Some folks said they saw Edwards in the Oriental that night, you can talk to Lou Rickaburgh there; he owns the place. But I’d appreciate you leaving your gun here with one of us. We have an ordinance here prohibiting folks from carrying weapons. You can pick it up when you’re ready to leave,” Sheriff Behan replied.

Jim frowned at this, certain that Alanna McLeod wouldn’t be abiding by any ordinance but he gave a curt nod. “As you like,” he said, taking the colt from its holster and handing it over.

Sheriff Behan took it and put it in one of the desk drawers, and Jim went over to the Oriental where he spent an hour talking to Lou Rickaburgh, who happened to remember Mr. Edwards.

“He’d only been here a few months, poor guy,” Lou told him from behind the bar. “I heard him talking to Ed Schiefflin a week or so ago about investing in some mine. Not sure which one.”

“What about the night in question. What was he doing here?”

“Drinking, same as everyone else.” Lou laughed. “Left around midnight or so.”

“Did he have words with anyone?”

“Nah. Edwards was pretty quiet.”

“Did you by any chance see this woman?” Jim pulled out the much worn poster from his pocket and spread it out on the bar.

Lou looked at it closely for a while before shaking his head. “Sorry. I was at the bar most of the night. But if you come back tonight the dealers will be in. Maybe one of them spotted her.”

Jim nodded and put the poster away and headed over to the
Tombstone Epitaph
on Fifth Street, just down the street from the Crystal Palace, which was doing a brisk business though the hour was still quite early by Jim’s standards. But then again, Tombstone wasn’t like most of the towns he was familiar with, possessing more saloons in a three block radius than towns five times its size. He opened the door to the
Epitaph
and stepped inside.

The first thing he saw was the huge press, taking up a large space toward the rear of the room. A moment later a tall, lean man rose from behind a desk to the right, smoothing his non-existent hair. He wore a dark vest and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, no tie, and as soon as he stretched his hand out Jim could see the ink stains on his fingers.

“John Clum at your service,” he said.

They shook hands “Jim Woolbridge at yours,” he replied.

“What can I do for you today?”

“Well, I was hoping you could tell me something about your operator.” Jim gestured toward the telegraph and the empty chair before it. “I’m with the Pinkerton Agency.”

Mr. Clum gave a sad sigh, shaking his head. “A bad business that was.”

“I understand you were the first to come upon the body,” Jim said.

“I was. When I came in that morning I smelt it right off, knew something terrible had happened. Found him behind the press. Must’ve been moved because there was a long smear of blood across the floor.”

Jim glanced at the floor and saw the tell-tale stain that led from the operator’s chair to the press. If it was Alanna who had killed Mr. Edwards she must have dragged him herself, which was surprising until he recalled who she was; a cold-hearted killer.

“After you found him what did you do?”

“I went and fetched the sheriff. They came and took the body over to the coroner.”

“Was there anyone who might have wanted Mr. Edwards dead?” Jim asked.

Mr. Clum shook his head. “Edwards was well-liked by everyone. He hadn’t been here long enough to make any enemies.”

“Have you seen this woman?” Jim asked, pulling out the poster.