Seasons of Death

by M. K. Wren

  She didn’t answer immediately, the lines deepening across her forehead and around her mouth. Finally, she said, “I don’t know, Conan. I don’t even have any suspicions about anybody. All I know is Tom didn’t do it.”

  They resumed their strolling pace around the curve of the road onto Morning Star Street as Conan asked, “Why is Sheriff Newbolt so convinced Tom did do it?”

  “The knife, I guess, was the main reason, and then Tom didn’t have an alibi for the time of the murder—I mean, between eight-thirty, when Lee went up to the office, and ten, when Dex found the safe open and his payroll gone. Tom was in the parlor working at his desk all evening, but I couldn’t prove that because I was busy in the kitchen the whole while. Andy said Tom could’ve left the house and I wouldn’t have known it, and that’s possible. The kitchen doors were closed. I…didn’t want to wake the kids. But I think what it really comes down to is that Andy and the jury were satisfied to blame Tom because they couldn’t see any other answer, and that sewed it up nice and neat, with Tom dead. No loose ends to worry about.”

  “No loose ends!” Conan looked at her, catching the ironic glint in her eye. “All right, how did Newbolt’s scenario run—that Tom saw the light in the office from the parlor, went up there without saying a word to you, found Lee ransacking the safe, and in the proverbial fit of rage, stabbed him with a handy letter opener?”

  She nodded. “That’s about it.”

  “By the way, did Tom say anything afterward about the knife being lost?”

  “Not that I remember, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t. We were all in a state then. It wasn’t just Lee. The money—it was an awful blow losing that much money right then.”

  A pair of bluebirds sprang into the air from the willows. Conan watched them flashing like jewels as they turned in the sun and finally sank again out of sight in the foliage. “Delia, how did Tom and Lee get along? Any bad blood between them?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Why? You think maybe Andy’s right about Tom killing Lee?”

  Conan only smiled at that, clasping his hands behind his back. “You’re my client, Delia, and my policy is that the client is always right.”

  “Even if they’re wrong?”

  “Well, at least until I have irrefutable evidence that they’re wrong, which I certainly don’t have in this case.”

  She studied him intently a moment, then laughed. “Fair enough. Well, Tom and Lee did have disagreements, especially in the last year or so when things were going bad with Lang-Star. Lee wanted to sell out, but there wasn’t anybody interested in buying then—not the business as such. Tom said all they could sell was the equipment and lumber for salvage and maybe the claims. In the end that’s what it came to—selling for salvage. Tom kept the claims, though, and stayed here to put in the claim work. He prospected a lot of new claims, too, cinnabar and molybdenum along with silver, plus running a placer operation for gold. Kept food on the table. Then just before he died, one of the big mining syndicates came in and decided there were real prospects up here after all. Tom made all those claims pay off then. A little late for him to enjoy it, though, except for the satisfaction of knowing he left me and the children well provided for. After Tom died, Dex helped me invest the money, so now Clare and I don’t have to worry. But you were asking about bad blood, and all I can tell you is there’s a big difference between bad blood and disagreements.”

  Conan nodded. “What conclusion did the sheriff reach about the stolen money?”

  “Well, Andy figured Tom killed Lee in the heat of the moment, then when he saw what he’d done, he tried to cover his tracks and make it look like Lee and Amanda had taken the money and left town.” She looked up at the schoolhouse, where Lettie Burbage was waving from a second-story window. Delia waved back, but didn’t pause, and as she turned up the road toward her house, her pace quickened.

  “Andy couldn’t find any evidence at all that Tom ever had the money,” she went on, “mainly because he didn’t. So, he decided it was Amanda who drove the car to Reno, and Tom used the money to bribe her into leaving town. I guess that was the only way Andy could explain what happened to the money.”

  “Or what happened to Amanda?”

  “Especially that. Amanda was a question mark all around. Just disappeared into thin air.”

  Conan was silent for a time, and when they reached the crab apples, he stopped in their shade to look north toward the white mound of tailings that was the only thing left of the Lang-Star Mining Company. At the moment, he was wondering—again—how he’d let himself be talked into investigating a murder forty years old. The victim was a silent skeleton, the accused twenty-five years in his grave, and not a stick was left of the site of the murder. Then he frowned and looked around at Delia, who was watching him, waiting.

  “Delia, the sheriff assumed the murder took place in the office? On what basis?”

  “Well, because Clare and Dex knew Lee had gone up there at eight-thirty, and at ten the door and safe were still open and the light still on. And that’s where the murder weapon was. I mean, before the murder. Anyway, it fitted in with Andy’s theory, but I don’t think I’d dispute it. The murder is tied in with the robbery.”

  He nodded. “The loose end that bothers me most is Amanda Count. If she witnessed the murder…well, Newbolt may be right about the killer buying her silence with the payroll.” Then, with an oblique glance at Delia, “The killer who was not Tom.”

  “Thank you,” she said dryly. “Maybe Amanda was murdered, too. That would explain why nobody could find her.”

  “Yes, but there’s another possibility: she might have been the killer.”

  Delia squinted up at the tracery of blossoms above her. “Maybe, but from all I’ve heard, she was as much in love with Lee as he was with her. Love. Whatever it was. Besides, she didn’t weigh more than a hundred and five pounds soaking wet, so how could she carry Lee’s body all the way up to that mine? Or even drag him? She’d have been all night at that, and the car was gone by ten o’clock.”

  “That’s assuming she killed him in the office. Maybe he went to the tunnel—or, at least, part of the way—on his own two feet.”

  “Voluntarily?”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Then how would Amanda force him to go up there? By waving that knife in his face? Lee was a big, strong man, and he didn’t mind hitting a woman.”

  Conan sighed. “All right, so that leaves Amanda a question mark still.”

  “Just like she’s always been.” Delia looked westward where the sun was verging toward the saddle between Potosi Peak and Florida Mountain. “Well, I guess it’s time for me to be thinking about supper.”

  The house was cool as old houses know how to be however hot the summer. Conan followed Delia through the dining room, skirting the round oak table in the center, and on into the kitchen, a small room with a good part of its space lost to three doors: one into the dining room, another into the back hall, and another opening onto the veranda. Next to that door there was just enough room for a sink and a narrow drainboard; the adjoining wall was taken up with a refrigerator, cupboards, and a wooden counter scarred with use and years. A table surrounded by four chairs blocked the way between the counter and an old nickel-plated, wood-burning cookstove on the wall by the dining room door. Conan smiled, remembering the stove in the kitchen at the Ten-Mile Ranch that his mother had used—steadfastly refusing more modern alternatives—until she died.

  “Oh, dear.” Delia shook her head as she surveyed the counter, which was littered with packages of cookies, crackers, and bird seed, a jar of peanut butter, another of wheat germ, and a bowl of wild greens. “Well, Clare has come and gone.”

  “It looks like she was suddenly very hungry.”

  Delia laughed and began putting the packages away in a cupboard. “No, this is all for her animals. She has a spot over on Slaughterhouse Gulch—she calls it her grove—where she puts food out every morning and evening for the birds and chipmunks
and squirrels. I have a feeling crows and coyotes end up with most of it.”

  Conan screwed the top on the peanut butter and handed it to her. “Well, crows and coyotes have to eat, too.”

  “Oh, they do around here—and very well. Summer or winter, she gets the food out no matter what, and she has some of the birds and chipmunks eating out of her hand, literally. Clare’s one of those people who understands animals, and they seem to understand her. I always said a rattlesnake wouldn’t bite Clare; it’d just wait for somebody else to come along.” She closed the cupboard, then went to the sink, dumped the greens into a colander, and ran cold water over them. “You don’t have to worry about rattlers around here, by the way.”

  Conan leaned against the counter, hoping his relief at that wasn’t too obvious. “I’m surprised. This looks like prime rattlesnake country.”

  “You’d think so, but there’s never been a rattler sighted in Silver. Maybe it’s too cold in the winters. There’s plenty of them down in the lower elevations.” She turned off the water and reached for an apron on a hook by the stove. “Is this Thursday? Yes. Vern will have fresh fryers for me tomorrow, but tonight I guess it’s pot roast.”

  “That’s an inviting prospect. Can I help?”

  “Oh, Lord, no. I have my own way of doing things. You just go and relax. Oh—do you like a drink before dinner?”

  “Well, it’s not a habit of mine. I think I’ll pay a visit to Dex Adler.”

  Delia pursed her lips, then reached into a cupboard and took out a quart mason jar. “Take this over to him. He always likes my peaches.”

  Conan smiled. “Thanks. Maybe this will put him in a more cooperative mood.”

  Chapter 4

  Conan stopped at the north corner of the Starbuck house. Dexter Adler was on the porch of his house, but he wasn’t alone. At this distance, Conan could ascertain little about the man with whom Adler was talking except that he was big and rangy, dressed in khaki shirt and pants, boots, and a straw hat, and he was carrying a rifle or shotgun.

  The conversation ended, and the stranger departed. He didn’t come down the road, as Conan expected, but struck off southward, limping noticeably, and was soon out of sight behind the Starbuck house. Adler retreated into his house, the closing of his door a dull thud in the silence. Conan hefted the jar of peaches and started up the road.

  His knock was answered by an impatient “Come in!” from within the house. Conan did, and found himself in a small living room, comfortably but rudimentarily furnished. Adler was apparently a hunter: a rack on the wall near the fireplace held two Remington rifles. Adler’s attire was casual now, in keeping with his surroundings. He was bending over the woodbin, filling it with kindling. When he saw Conan, he straightened, his brows coming down. “Oh. It’s you.”

  At that greeting Conan hesitated, then proffered the jar. “Delia asked me to bring this over to you.”

  Adler eyed the jar, then crossed the room to take it, put it down on a table by the couch, and returned to the fireplace where he began sweeping the hearth with a short broom. He asked sourly, “What do you want, Mr. Flagg?”

  Conan almost answered, “Simple courtesy,” but restrained himself. “I want to ask you some questions about Lee Langtry’s murder.”

  Adler doggedly persisted at his task. “All I know about Lee’s murder I told to the sheriff.”

  Conan made no response to that, only waiting silently, until at length Adler put the broom aside and turned to face him.

  Then Conan said levelly, “Mr. Adler, Delia Starbuck holds you in high regard, and if that regard is reciprocated, I can expect you to help me, not because I ask it, but because Delia has every right to expect it.”

  “Right!” Adler drew himself stiffly erect. “You’ve got no right to speak for Delia! A private detective! Where the hell did she dig you up, anyway?”

  Conan’s dark eyes flashed angrily, but his tone was still level. “Ask Delia. I refuse to waste time trying to convince you of the validity of my credentials.”

  He turned to go, and his hand was on the door knob when Adler rasped, “What I want to know is how much do you charge for your private detecting? How much do you expect to stick Delia for? Answer me that!”

  Conan opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. Adler was right behind him. “Wait a minute, Flagg! I want an answer!”

  Conan turned, staring at him incredulously, and Adler blurted, “Whatever she’s paying you, I’ll double it! You think about that. I’ll double it just to get you damned well out of Silver and your nose out of our business!”

  Hands knotted into fists at his sides, Conan said distinctly, “Mr. Adler, go to hell.”

  There was a moment of silence as Conan stalked away, then he heard the door slam behind him. By the time he reached the Starbuck house, he could even smile at that. It was either smile or get hopelessly angry.

  Then as he started up the porch steps, he came to an abrupt stop. The sound at first seemed an echo of Adler’s slamming door, but more distant. It seemed to be coming from a point beyond and north of Adler’s house, and it was repeated. Two, three, finally four times. Gunshots.

  Conan stood listening for a full minute. A wind scented with sagebrush and fir whispered around him, and the blue of the sky was fading as the sun approached the nadir of the curve between the mountains. Finally, hearing no repetition of the shots, he went into the house.

  Delia was at the kitchen counter peeling potatoes and placing them around a slab of beef in an enamel roasting pan. A fire burned in the wood stove, its heat putting a flush in her cheeks. She looked inquiringly at Conan. “That was a short visit.”

  He laughed wryly. “I’m afraid Mr. Adler and I did not part amicably. He seems to think I’m bilking you.”

  Delia’s mouth went tight as she reached for another potato and attacked it with her paring knife. “Now, that’s just silly. I’m almost old enough to be Dex’s mother, and here he goes trying to mother me.”

  Conan wasn’t entirely satisfied with that explanation, but he didn’t comment on it. He changed the subject. “I thought I heard shots a few minutes ago.”

  “Shots? That’s odd. We’re a long way from hunting season. Maybe it’s just potshotters. People are always going out in the hills around here for target practice on their beer cans, then they leave the cans littering up the place.”

  He nodded. “Is Clare still out?”

  Delia frowned as she checked the pendulum clock by the hall door. “Yes, she is, and it’s getting late.”

  “Has she ever gotten lost?”

  “No. Clare knows every hill and valley, every tree and rock for miles around here. She’s forgetful about some things, but…” Delia stopped, listening intently. A moment later Conan heard it, too: a voice calling her name, and it was a cry for help.

  “It’s Clare,” Delia said, and pushed past Conan into the dining room. As she went out into the hall, he was only a pace behind her, and he reached the sitting room in time to catch Clare when she stumbled in the front door, panting, mouth agape, hair flying wildly. But it was her eyes that struck fear in Conan; there was terror there.

  “Delia—oh, Delia…” She didn’t even seem aware of Conan, but reached out like a child for her sister and fell sobbing into her arms.

  And Delia held her as if she were a child, a frightened child, smoothing her hair with one hand. “Clare, what’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Kill me…shh—somebody tried to kill m-meee…”

  Delia frowned. “Now, why would anybody want to—”

  “I don’t know! They—they shot at me… Oh!” With a convulsive movement, she covered her ears with her hands.

  “Oh, Clare, I don’t think anybody was really shooting at you.” Delia pulled Clare’s hands away from her head and held them in hers. “You didn’t see anybody, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t…but I heard—I heard shooting and somebody…in the willows. Oh, Delia…”

  She began weeping again,
and Delia drew her into her arms, murmuring soothingly, “It’s all right, Clare, everything’s all right.…”

  Conan asked, “Clare, where were you when you heard the shots?”

  She didn’t seem to hear him, and Delia had to repeat the question for her. Finally, Clare answered brokenly, “The grove—I was in my grove. Jenny-wren was there, and Whiskers, and a whole little family of bluebirds, and Grayjay…then they all flew away, Delia, and—and I heard…where! Where did you…that voice! There was a voice in the willows, and nobody there!”

  Delia closed her eyes wearily, nodding as if to herself, then took Clare firmly by the shoulders and led her down the hall. “You’re safe now, Clare, so just put it all out of your mind. Come on, we’ll wash your face in cold water and comb your hair. You’ll feel so much better. We have company for dinner, you know. I’ll need you to help me…” The sound of her voice faded as she took Clare through the door under the stairs and on to the bathroom.

  Conan closed the front door, looking out through the lace that curtained the oval of beveled glass. The sun hung poised above the curve of the mountains, but its light had an amber cast.

  A voice in the willows. Was that a figment of an imaginative but failing mind? Delia’s attitude hinted at that, and it didn’t seem to surprise her.

  A few minutes later he heard footsteps. Delia stopped at the hall doorway. “She’ll be all right in a little while.”

  Conan nodded. “Does this sort of thing happen often?”

  “No, but since Lee’s body was found—well, it’s been hard for her. All these years she kept waiting for him to come home. Now half of the time she’s still waiting; she can’t believe he’s really dead.”

  “Delia, I’d like to look at her grove. Can you direct me to it?”

  Her eyebrows came up. “Conan, she heard the shots—so did you—but she turned them into…”