Fugitive hearts, p.6
Fugitive Hearts, page 6
She withdrew her hand from beneath his and stepped away. “What are you suggesting?”
“Suggesting? Nothing. I’m asking. Was there an altercation? An argument? Some sort of misunderstanding that resulted in somebody getting a gun?”
“How many times do I need to tell you? Billy had nothing to do with it. You can choose to believe me or not, but I have no more to say on the matter.”
“Take it easy, Claire, I’m haven’t faulted you or Billy. That doesn’t mean I’ll turn a blind eye to the truth, which you haven’t seen fit to share.”
“Thank you for your kind assistance, Sheriff. I’ll take my leave of you.” She put him in his place, then whirled away and started down a narrow road.
The uneven path could be treacherous, the weather just as wicked.
Frank caught up with her. “Where’s your buggy?”
She kept her eyes forward. “Why would I waste money to rent a buggy?”
“Because it’s a long walk back to town. You aren’t dressed for being out in the weather.” To prove his point, he grasped her wrist and held up a hand covered in a flimsy knitted mitten. “These aren’t warm enough. You ought to be wearing fleece-lined leather.”
She wrenched her hand out of his grasp. “I am not ignorant of how to dress for the weather. My leather gloves wore out. These will do until I can replace them.”
As she marched off, Frank shook his head in confusion. She didn’t have enough money to buy gloves? He had no idea the hotel wasn’t doing well. It was always full.
He made a quick decision. Jogged over to the foundry where he’d hitched his horse. He wouldn’t let her walk two miles back to town in this cold, windy weather.
Claire scurried to the far side of the road as he approached on horseback. He rode ahead a few feet, stopped and dismounted, then led the horse over to where she stood.
She backed away. Had she forgotten that a couple minutes ago she’d been huddled up next to him?
“Come over here. I’ll help you up. You can ride back with me.”
“I am not riding with you. That would be improper.”
Offering assistance was the most proper thing he’d done. Rather than argue, he draped the reins over the horse’s neck. “You ride. I’ll walk.”
His bay gelding turned its head. Ulysses’ dark limpid eyes reproached.
“He’s telling you to make up your mind.”
“I already told you, I’m not riding. Why would you think I could sit a saddle in a dress?”
“Some women do.”
“Not wearing a bustle.”
After making her somewhat valid point, she started off down the hill.
Frank strode up beside her with Ulysses dutifully ambling behind.
She jerked around, then executed a little hop away from him. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like? I’m walking with you.”
“Why?”
He released a weary sigh. He ought to mount up and vamoose, catch up with her later. Except, he didn’t much like the idea of leaving her alone to walk all the way back to town. Parsons had gotten fairly civilized, but no place was free of scoundrels.
“Mrs. Daines…” He wouldn’t call her Claire. Not after she’d made it clear she didn’t appreciate his too-familiar use of her name. “There are men you ought to fear. I’m not one of them.”
She responded with a look of surprise. “I don’t fear you, Sheriff.”
“That so? Then why do you keep skittering away?”
She tossed a wary look over her shoulder. “Does your horse bite?”
“Ulysses?” Frank couldn’t hold back a dry laugh. “He might take a bite if he mistakes you for an apple.”
Claire’s frown told him she didn’t find his joke funny.
“You’re afraid of my horse?”
“He’s very large.”
By gum, it hadn’t entered his mind she would be scared of horses. Being around them was second nature to anyone who’d grown up on a farm. If she’d lived in cities all her life and wasn’t used to the large animals, he could understand why she might be intimated. “You walk here on this side. I’ll keep the horse away from you.”
She heaved a sigh and gave in. He felt like he’d won at Keno.
Now that he thought about it, he only recalled seeing Claire on foot. It wasn’t usual for townspeople to walk everywhere. Parsons wasn’t that big. But she might choose to walk because of her fear of horses. In the army, he’d run across a few men who’d feared the big animals. He knew how to help her get past her fear enough to gain more freedom. “Have you ever driven a buggy?”
“Of course I’ve driven a buggy. I don’t like riding horses, but I’m not helpless.”
“You’re about as helpless as a porcupine with a litter.”
“Did you just call me prickly?”
Having been a soldier, he’d learned the importance of knowing when to retreat. “No ma’am, that was a compliment. On your protective nature.”
“If that’s your idea of a compliment, I can only imagine what you consider an insult.”
“Probably best you don’t.”
After a long walk, they plodded into town. His horse couldn’t accompany them down the sidewalk and she’d sealed her lips for the time being. He halted at the intersection and touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll leave you here.”
She acknowledged his departure with a nod. “Thank you for the escort.”
Well, well. She sounded grateful and didn’t appear quite so tense. He might be making progress.
“My pleasure.” Frank meant it. He enjoyed every minute spent in her company, even when she was being stubborn and wouldn’t give him straight answers. She’d come around. He had to be patient, continue to exercise restraint, and above all, remain objective.
Eventually, he’d get to the truth. He always did.
Chapter 7
The next morning, Claire was no closer to finding Billy than she had been the evening before. Pat Tobias, the engineer who’d seen him last, had left on a run to Texas and wouldn’t be back for three days. No one else had spotted the boy. She wondered if Billy had convinced Pat to take him along.
She didn’t share her suspicions with the sheriff. Instead, she asked several of the railroad workers to keep their eyes open. If Billy hadn’t returned after Frederick’s funeral, she would find out which direction he’d gone and go after him.
In the meantime, she had to mourn her husband.
A black wreath hung on the front door of the hotel. Black crepe draped the interior. Public rooms were decorated with black beribboned baskets of lilies and morning glories. Mr. Murdoch, the undertaker, had provided silk flowers in lieu of real ones, which were unavailable this time of year.
Since dawn, she’d held vigil in the parlor beside her husband’s body. His coffin had been lined with black silk, draped with crepe and flanked by flower arrangements.
Frederick was dressed in a formal black suit with his dark hair neatly combed to one side. His hands were folded serenely over his chest, the ever-present worry lines smoothed into a peaceful expression. He appeared far less troubled in death than he had been in life.
Mr. Murdoch had suggested having his picture made as a memento. Claire declined. Instead, she displayed a velvet-covered case with a photograph. Frederick, proudly wearing his uniform shortly after enlisting. That man was the one she wanted to remember.
The visitation dragged on through the day, with a brief break in the middle so she could get something to eat. She couldn’t manage more than a few bites. Numb with fatigue, clothed in solid black to the ends of her lace gloves and long flowing veil, she felt like a sleepwalker in a nightmare.
She’d lost track of time. All clocks in the hotel had been stopped on the time of Frederick’s death. It must be late afternoon, though the crowd hadn’t diminished. If anything, more people showed up. They weren’t here to mourn her husband, who socialized with no one. They had come to gawk at her.
A solemn man with a bull-like neck approached the coffin. He awkwardly clutched a black dress hat against his broad chest. “He looks real peaceful.”
Claire did a double take before she recognized the Katy fireman in his Sunday best. His face was usually wreathed with soot from stoking the boilers on the big engines.
Earlier, a surprising number of railroad workers had stopped by to offer their condolences. Good, kind men. Her brother had cared about the railroaders. He’d made sure they were treated well and paid fairly, unlike their current boss. Their kindness to her showed they hadn’t forgotten the former general manager’s concern for them and their families.
“Thank you, Mr. Elliott. It means a great deal to me that you stopped by to pay your respects. Have you, by chance, seen Billy?”
“No ma’am. Truly sorry I can’t help you.”
He moved along, leaving Claire to wrestle with despair. If Billy wasn’t in town or at the rail yard, where could he be? She didn’t want to consider the possibility that he’d sneaked onto a train headed for Texas, as he’d done once before. That time, Henry had caught him. Billy might not be so fortunate this time.
“Make way, make way…” The mournful wail came from behind the line of mourners. They parted like the Red Sea. Gertrude Bond paraded across the room wearing a black silk gown trimmed sumptuously in velvet, with a matching bonnet and a lace fan. She never missed the opportunity to make a fashion statement.
On a gold chain around her neck hung a delicate glass vial. Why the lachrymatory? She wasn’t family, wasn’t even a close friend. She had as much need of a tear-catcher as a crocodile.
She paused in front of the coffin, flanked by her followers, which included the mayor’s wife.
One of the bitterest pills for Claire to swallow was seeing former friends, like Minnie Taylor, switch loyalties after Henry had left town and a new general manger took over.
His flamboyant wife drew the fan to her shapeless breast with a loud sigh. “What a terrible, terrible loss. An honorable, respected man. Cut down in his prime.”
The room fell into silence. Some gave her sharp looks. No one, however, rebuked the harpy for her rudeness. Instead, they turned away and pretended not to notice. Due her influential position in the community, no doubt.
In a brief fantasy, Claire stuffed her black handkerchief into the other woman’s mouth.
Things were bad enough without a spectacle.
She gave a cool, yet polite, reply. “Thank you for coming by to pay your respects.”
Gertrude maintained a mournful expression, practiced enough to appear convincing. “Do allow me to convey our deepest condolences for your loss. I’m sure your heart must be broken. With your husband gone, what will you do?”
Claire bit down on a saucy reply. This wasn’t the time or place to be discussing her future, and she certainly wouldn’t fill Mrs. Bond in on her plans. “I’m afraid I can’t think past the moment.”
“Of course. You’re beset with grief. A very great burden to bear alone. Family can be a comfort. Have you sent for your brother?”
Oh, Gertrude would love that. She took every opportunity to remind people that the former general manager had left under the shadow of scandal. She’d even gone so far as to suggest it was Henry who had defrauded the railroad instead of his assistant, George Caldwell, the man who’d murdered the investigator and very nearly killed Henry.
Claire had written to advise her brother and sisters of Frederick’s death, but not the manner in which he had died. With the trouble she’d caused her siblings over the years, she didn’t want to add humiliation to the list. “My family has been informed,” she said simply.
“Will you go to live with them?”
Why did the wretched woman care?
“Why should I burden them? My home is here.”
Gertrude looked down her nose. “You wish to remain in Parsons?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“To avoid jail, I suppose.”
Claire’s face grew hot. She couldn’t stand this abuse another minute. She put her shoulders back and faced her tormenter, albeit through a black veil. “Out of respect for my husband, please take your leave.”
The other woman dipped her chin. “As you wish. I meant no disrespect to Mr. Daines.”
Claire kept her head high as Mrs. Bond and her black-garbed covey sailed away, conversing in loud whispers.
“Can you believe it? She threw Mrs. Bond out for telling the truth.”
“The hussy went to a saloon in her unmentionables.”
“And admitted she killed her husband.”
“She ought to be in jail.”
The remaining visitors cast fearful glances in Claire’s direction. Perhaps they were worried she might shoot them—or Mrs. Bond. Ah, that was an option she hadn’t explored. If she were to hang, it might as well be for a crime she’d committed.
She reached beneath the veil to loosened the lace collar so she could breathe easier. No one could see. Even if they could, a loosened collar was nothing compared to wearing one’s unmentionables into a saloon.
Her stomach knotted tighter. She had to get through the funeral, then the hearing before the judge, and the worst would be over. Unless the judge, like the sheriff, refused to believe her story. If that happened, the nightmare would worsen.
Chapter 8
Buggies and wagons lined the hitching rails up and down the street. Ladies in black gowns crowded the sidewalk outside the hotel. In the lobby, more women had gathered in tight knots to talk in low whispers.
Frank caught enough to cinch his suspicions about why all these folks had showed up for the viewing. The Black Widow. She was the topic of conversation all over town.
For two days, the story of Claire’s audacious confession in the saloon and speculation about her motives had filled the front page of the Parsons Sun. Nothing this interesting had happened since last spring when they’d dug up the first of eleven mutilated corpses behind the Bender place. Since then, Parsons had settled into boredom. The newspaper was all too eager to find a new scandal.
He gave wide berth to a bustled black skirt, but he wasn’t able to slide past without drawing the woman’s attention. She turned with an inquisitive expression.
“Sheriff Garrity. Good afternoon.”
“Ma’am.” Frank lifted his hat in a general greeting to the woman who’d spoken and the three others with her: the mayor’s wife, Mrs. Bannerman, who owned the hat shop, and Mrs. Callahan, the wife of a local Grange leader. All four were influential members of the community, as well as notorious gossips.
Mrs. Bond’s lips stretched in a thin smile. “Are you here to arrest Mrs. Daines?”
Add bloodthirsty to the list. Claire stood a better chance in front of a firing squad.
“I’m here to pay my respects.”
Danged if Mrs. Bond and the other biddies didn’t look disappointed.
“Of course,” she murmured. “That’s why we’ve all come by, to pay our respects.”
“Glad to hear it. You have a nice day.” Frank lit out for the parlor before he said something he might later regret. He couldn’t condemn the women for voicing the question when the mayor and town council had urged him to jail the widow. He’d put it off as long as he could. If Claire didn’t start talking soon, he’d have no choice but to lock her up.
He removed his hat as he entered the parlor. Used his fingers to comb down his hair, which got unruly after he washed all the oil out of it. He’d cleaned up, gotten a haircut and a shave, and put on a suit. He didn’t want to disrespect Claire by showing up looking as dirty as a dog. He doubted she’d notice his efforts. He hadn’t done it to impress her. Much.
Frank counted heads and came up with two dozen. Mostly women, along with three or four men, all crammed into the small sitting room. The coffin had been set up in a corner, perched on two chairs, with Claire seated close to it.
Generally, women took care of each other during times like these. Claire wasn’t surrounded by a passel of friends. She sat there all by herself while visitors filed past her dead husband. He couldn’t tell if she’d seen him yet. Her face remained hidden behind a long, dark veil.
The room had been drenched in black fabric. It hung over the windows, the mirror above the mantle, the clocks, tables, chairs. Black ribbons were tied around baskets and bundles of flowers. He’d had been in more than a few death rooms, but this one… Well, Claire had outdone herself with the dismal display.
A dour woman, also in black, approached the widow. Frank recognized her immediately. Mrs. Thrasher. She didn’t like saloons, billiards halls, dance halls, gaming halls or boarding houses. She didn’t care for the railroad because it ran on Sundays, or the hotel because it served travelers who needed someplace to stay on Sundays. Mrs. Thrasher routinely held prayer meetings out in front of each of the many establishments she disapproved.
Could mean trouble.
“May I pray with you?” Mrs. Thrasher asked Claire.
She tipped her head in what looked like a nod.
The older woman gripped the widow’s shoulder and clamped her other hand on Claire’s head. “Oh Lord, I beseech you!” She always prayed loud enough for the whole town to hear. “Give this woman strength to bear up beneath the weight of this terrible tragedy. Even if she brought it on herself.”
What the heck kind of prayer was that?
“Repent!” Mrs. Thrasher bellowed. “Repent, and ask the Lord to forgive your great wickedness…”
Self-righteous windbag.
“Excuse me.” Frank squeezed past a robust matron in front of him, pushed aside the other onlookers crowded around the coffin. He reached Claire just about the time Mrs. Thrasher had worked up a full head of steam.
“Amen,” he said in a loud voice.
Old hatchet face glared at him. She didn’t take her hand off Claire’s bowed head. “I am not finished—”
“Sounds to me like you are. Did it sound like that to the rest of you?” Frank looked around the room.
