“Sorry for making you wait so long, Mr. Lowery.”
He climbed off the buckboard to help her up. “Don’t think nothing of it, Miss. It’s my job. Your face is a bit drawn, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I do need rest. But that can wait until after we visit Pauper Grounds.”
* * *
The west end of Placer appeared to have been built on nothing but hills and grit. Houses and other buildings clung to the inclines as if to prevent themselves from falling off the side. The effect was that of a town folding in on itself like the pages in a book about to be closed. Sad wooden shacks and brick boarding houses were chaotically bunched together along dirt roads.
One section of a hill had been scarred laterally, as if a giant’s fingers had scrapped over it, burrowing for treasure. Tremendous piles of gray rocks, mounds of timber to brace mine shafts, and rail tracks on wooden skeletons covered the barren landscape. Working men and horses resembled industrious insects outside a gray hive.
Brutal A-shaped steel frames stood over the mine shafts. They supported ponderous cables, which lowered metal cages full of workers and supplies and brought out ore cars. According to Felicity’s reading, the frames were called gallows. Such an apt name, since they created the appearance of a modern Golgotha. Farther on were the smelters, huge, arklike structures. At more than one hundred feet high, the smelter stacks bellowed demons’ breath. Out of the buildings flowed lines of slag, the waste from the copper smelting. The hot melted excess of silica and iron coursed down the hills to large pools of red below.
Felicity had long admired the mechanical inventions of the decade, from electric light to the phonograph to the steam turbine. Marvelous ingenuity to help mankind. Soon after her father died, she had begun researching machinery that would be safer for the workers at her family mills in Lancashire as well as increase productivity. The mill manager had objected and groused until she explained how profits would be amplified. Still, she had also become increasingly dismayed at how some recent inventions had been perverted. Blue skies became black over such industries; science turned into greed, and benefit into death. She had hopes of science benefiting humanity but was realistic enough to know it could also be used to destroy.
The starkness of the mines and smelters and the land around them also stirred memories of the ruins of Pompeii. At the University of London, Felicity had studied ancient Rome and wanted to see where history actually took place. So she and Helen had taken a trip there during a Christmas break. The eruption of Mount Vesuvius in AD 79 had petrified the residents and structures with ash and cataclysm. Nature had been responsible for the sullen and gray wasteland of Pompeii. In Placer, the bleak landscape was all for the sake of commerce.
When the road bent north and away from the area, Felicity was relieved. Up the hill lay Placer Cemetery, with stately marble stones, metal crosses, and wrought-iron fences marking family graves. The grounds here were cleared of rubble and weed. Set a few yards away, Pauper Grounds had seen no such care. Many of the wooden markers had fallen with time and weather. Sprawls of long grass grew between and on the graves. When Felicity got down from the wagon, she tried to take care where she stepped, but she had no idea where people had been buried. She could not remember a more depressing spot.
LILY RAWLINS, 1856–1889 had been carved into a simple wooden sign erected in one corner of Pauper Grounds. In time, the marker would collapse into nothing, just like those on the surrounding graves. Felicity stood at the foot of the mound. She suspected the victim had lived a poor life that held no surprises. Lily Rawlins’s first and last surprise had probably come when she died in that dirty alley.
Felicity had wanted to place roses at the grave site, but Placer had no flower shop. In their place, she renewed her vow to find the man who had left Lily Rawlins in a place where even the dead had been forgotten.
CHAPTER 8
From the library window, Felicity observed Sheriff Tom Pike approaching the house on Bullion Boulevard. She shook her head. His right hand rested on the gun in his holster.
“I should assure him there’ll be no shootouts during tea,” Felicity said out loud.
Inspector Jackson Davies and Sheriff Tom Pike shared many characteristics. Both were good-looking men, sure in their jobs. She had won Davies over with her modern crime-investigating techniques and deductions. Well, some of them. Others he had dismissed with maddening swiftness. Now she would have to do the same with this Montana sheriff.
Pike cut the classic figure of a western lawman, just as in the dime novels she had read. But there was a troubled set to his mouth as if he was tired from keeping something unsaid. He had a secret as well.
She answered the door. “So good of you to come, Sheriff. And so prompt.” She led him to the parlor.
“Thanks for asking me. Now, Miss Carrol.”
Before Pike could say more, Helen brought the tea service and curtsied to him. “Nice to see you again, sir.”
“Call me Tom.”
“Tom, sir.”
He smiled, and Felicity noticed one dimple in his left cheek. “Thank you, Hellie.”
“You’re welcome, Miss.” Before she left, Helen winked at Felicity as if saying, He is quite handsome, you know.
“Sheriff, do you take sugar?”
“No, thanks.”
“Lemon or milk?”
“No.”
Felicity offered him the cup. “You do like tea? Maybe, we should brew coffee.”
“Tea is fine.”
“Biscuit?”
“Nothing.”
“Helen’s scones are absolutely delicious.”
“Miss Carrol, please.”
He breathed with exasperation. The sheriff was probably used to dealing with harsh criminals. Obviously, tea and biscuits left him quite disconcerted, which Felicity thought a bit endearing.
“Try the cucumber sandwiches. They’re Helen’s specialty.”
He held his large hand up against the plate of sandwiches she offered. “I don’t want coffee, biscuits, or those cucumber things. I want to know why you’ve come to Placer.”
“Ah,” she said with deliberation.
“What?”
“You’re one of those get-straight-to-the point men. Do you treat all visitors in this manner?” She sipped from her cup.
“Just the ones who ask about murder.” He crossed his arms.
Felicity recognized an obstacle. She had seen them all her life. But his cooperation was essential if she was going to conduct her investigation in his jurisdiction. “Very well. I shall tell you.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It means I’m ready to listen to whatever you have to tell me.”
“An American expression.” Felicity cleared her throat. “I write crime and mystery stories, which are unpublished at this point, but I soon hope to remedy that. I’m here because I read about Lily Rawlins in the New York Times, and it inspired an idea for my new book.”
“What kind of book?”
“A novel about a man who kills prostitutes. Naturally, I’ll change the name of the town and the deceased if you think it best.”
As she spoke, the skin on her arms itched. The deception was difficult to maintain with the sheriff. His dark-brown eyes examined her as if she were an organism under her own microscope. When they met, he had said he was good at reading people. Maybe he was. As a result, her mouth parched with the untrue words, and she had the most upsetting sense that the more truth she hid, the more she might divulge. The only thing to do was lie very well.
She smiled. “My dear readers will welcome any particulars you’re willing to share about the crime. Your observations will be extremely valuable.”
“I wouldn’t want to let down your readers—when you get them.”
Like Inspector Jackson Davies, this sheriff employed sarcasm. Must be a male law enforcement officer affectation, she concluded. “I’ll ignore that ridicule, Sheriff.”
“Didn’t know it was.” He had a nice smile, which she ignored also.
“I’ve read the newspaper accounts about Lily Rawlins’s death but want your view of the incident. I’m also planning to visit the alley where Lily Rawlins’s body was discovered. After we finish our tea, of course.”
“What?” He stood up, flipping the spoon in his teacup. He caught the spoon in midair. “The murder took place in the Red District, which is no place for a lady such as yourself. It’s the roughest part of town, which is saying a lot.”
“Such a violent place. I had no idea. I must remember to make note of that.”
“The Red District is populated with gambling houses, brothels, saloons, and opium dens, not to mention the men out for a good time no matter the cost. And let’s not forget, the varmints who’ll steal you blind or kill for a good pair of boots. Hell, some of my deputies even hate going there at night, and they’re packing guns.” He pointed the spoon at her when making each point.
“Such vivid descriptions. Sheriff, I’m surprised you’re not a writer.”
Pike set the spoon in the cup and exhaled. “Last year, more than two hundred people died in Placer. Some fifty of them were killed in the mines or smelters. Thirty passed on from old age or disease. Five people were hung. The rest were either shot or knifed to death, and the majority of those killings took place in the Red District.” His voice lowered with warning. “You’re not going to like what you see there.” He said each word carefully.
She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “I appreciate your concern, Sheriff. If it makes you feel any better, you can go with me.” She handed him a plate. “Try a scone.”
* * *
Sheriff Tom Pike clasped the reins so hard his knuckles blanched. He drove Felicity’s buckboard with his horse tied at the back. His head appeared ready to blow like the dynamite at noon. She infuriated men with her questions, which she wasn’t going to ever stop doing. Still, she had to say something. He had agreed to escort her, after all. “I’m grateful you decided to accompany me. I’m sure you have many other things to do.”
“If I let you go alone and something bad happened, it’d lay heavy on my conscience, Miss.”
“What could possibly happen on a nice day like this?” she said, with such exaggerated sincerity that he returned a flash of a smile. She exhaled with pleasure at having dulled his temper for the moment, at any rate.
He directed the wagon to Ore Avenue, which measured twice as wide as many of the other streets she had seen in Placer. Poles with five rows of electrical wires stood on each side. Huge wagons loaded with timber and pipe rambled up the road. Groups of bearded men with lunch tins ambled toward the mines and smelters, while another group with dirty faces and clothing moved the other direction. The traffic from the men and wagons created a rumbling noise.
“Why is this route so busy?” she asked loudly.
“Ore Avenue is the main road to haul equipment to the mining and smelter operations yonder. The mining companies use the same road to move out the gold, silver, and copper.”
“What happens when the minerals are depleted, Sheriff?”
“We’ll dry up and blow away.” He guided the wagon left.
The surroundings began to change as they drove on. No electric lights here. The roads were bumpier. Saloons, gambling houses, and shanties replaced the markets, banks, and more commercial businesses of Ore Avenue. Felicity smelled frying bacon and beer.
“Welcome to the Red District,” the sheriff pronounced.
“How did it get that name?”
“From the red lights or curtains in the windows of the girls’ cribs. Kind of an advertisement for their business.”
She had read about the cribs. They were the houses where the prostitutes lived. “Were you acquainted with Lily Rawlins?”
Pike nodded, regret in his eyes.
“Tell me about her.”
“Big Lil Rawlins had the tiniest feet of any whore in Placer, Montana. Dainty as angel cake, small as a child’s.” His cheeks reddened. “I didn’t mean to say whore, ma’am.”
“I’m not offended, Sheriff. Please go on.”
“Well, anyone who knew Lil, client or otherwise, wondered how such little things could hold up a woman of such girth and immorality. Lil often bragged she washed her feet in milk twice a week and paid an old Chinese woman to dig dirt from under her toenails since she could not reach. Besides food and beer, Lil’s whoring profits bought the best shoes from San Francisco, which she considered the only ones good enough for her pearly gems.”
“She sounds like a unique individual.”
“Big Lil liked to drink, but a lot of the soiled doves do. She had a poke of indecent jokes and had men laughing till they choked. Big Lil could be your best friend, unless she filled herself with beer; then she could get ornery as a skunk with fleas. Like most women in her trade, she wanted to get rich. But they don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Generally they drink themselves to the grave or become addicted to opium or laudanum. Some also kill themselves to escape the life.”
“Big Lil was drunk that night, wasn’t she?”
He gave a nod. “She might not have realized her predicament and died without pain. I hope so, anyway.”
“The man who stumbled upon her body.”
“Joe Maxwell.”
“I’d very much like an interview with him.”
The sheriff stared straight ahead. “Good luck finding him. A week after he stumbled onto Big Lil’s body, Joe left town. He told me he didn’t like the kind of people who lived here, ’least not the kind who’d do that to a woman.”
At a battered sign with the writing VICEROY STREET, Pike turned the wagon again. They drove past sorry wooden buildings with long front porches and five doors set in each. Next to those were small shacks built end to end. The names of different women were hand-painted over the doors in fancy lettering. MARIA. MOLLY. RUTH. ANNIE. On they went.
“Are these the cribs, Sheriff?”
Pike mumbled a yes. “They belong to the girls of the line.”
“Girls of the line?”
“What people call the prostitutes who live there.”
The scene troubled Felicity. Not only because sadness coated the place like dust, but because these women were now targeted by a madman and Big Lil Rawlins was the first to fall. That is, if Jackson Davies’s suspicions were correct.
They continued on until they reached Melton Street four roads over. Stopping at an alley between a dingy café and an abandoned building, Pike helped Felicity from the wagon. Mice scrambled out from under one of the porches. Befouled water streamed along the middle of the alley.
At the sound of a splash, they whipped around to see a grossly fat woman tossing slop from a bucket into the alley across the street. The fat woman blew her nose at them and retreated into one of the buildings. Red humiliation brushed over Pike’s cheeks.
“Where did Mr. Maxwell find the victim?” Felicity asked.
“You can’t miss the spot.”
She entered the alley, which she estimated was ten feet wide and thirty feet in length. Midway, black spatters covered the west wall. Gruesome patterns in old blood, but still providing a narrative.
Felicity’s stomach constricted. The murderer had stood perhaps in the very place where her own shoes were now planted on the compacted dirt. His knife dripping blood. His mind a savage thing. Stomping dust from her boots, she couldn’t afford the emotional diversion. “What do you think took place that night, Sheriff Pike?”
Pike walked to the entrance of the alley. “I speculate the man waited here. He propositioned Big Lil as she passed, and she didn’t say no.” The sheriff stepped backward into the alley. “I reckon he got behind her and put one arm over her mouth to keep her from screaming. With his other hand, he finished her with the knife.”
“From the arrangement of the blood spots, I believe that’s exactly what happened.”
“What are you talking abou
t?”
Her hand swept over the main spray. “The killer sliced her throat here. Notice the largest amount of blood from the neck wound. Lily Rawlins then fell to the ground, where he continued to disfigure her body. He must have been methodical and knew what he was doing, because there is less blood closer to the ground.”
Pike looked over the blood spots and Felicity as if he had never seen either of them before.
“Sheriff, in what direction were Lily Rawlins’ feet pointed?”
“Toward Melton Street.”
“Ah.”
“What ah?”
“The man must be left-handed. I’ll demonstrate.”
“That I’d like to see.”
Using the fingers of her left hand, Felicity drew an imaginary knife across her throat and thrust her arm toward the west wall. “See, the blood flew onto this side of the alley. If he had been right-handed, there’d have been more blood on the other wall. One more point: the culprit must have been taller than Lily Rawlins.” She made her explanation defined, specific. Not too preachy or academic to avoid aggravating the sheriff any more than she had to.
“You’re telling me you know all this just by the blood?”
“How tall was Lily Rawlins?”
“About five feet.”
“Note how the spatters of blood point down slightly, indicating her assailant was taller. If he had been the same size as her, the blood spots would have been more level along the wall.” She again brandished the pretend weapon to prove her theory.
“I’ll be a son of a bitch. Sorry, Miss.”
“Merely the science of force and energy.”
“Do all book writers ask this many questions?”
“If we don’t ask, how are we to learn?” Felicity knew she had won the point when the sheriff tugged at his vest.
“You’re nosier than ten women in a sewing circle. And you’re wearing at my nerves.”
“Then one more question.”
“Shoot.”
“What?”
“Never mind, Miss Carrol, just ask.”
She promised herself to become more acquainted with American lingo. “Why do you believe Lily Rawlins was killed?”
Felicity Carrol and the Murderous Menace Page 7
