by M. K. Wren
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Oh, Conan, I know Dex has been awfully cantankerous about this whole thing, but he really means well.”
“I hope so. Does he believe Tom was guilty?”
“No, of course not. At least…” She paused, clasping her hands around her knees. “I don’t know. Maybe he says he thinks Tom is innocent just for my sake. Mostly, I don’t think it matters to him who’s guilty.”
“I’d say it matters—something matters a great deal to him. Still waters run deep.”
Delia regarded him with an inquiring half-smile. “What was that?”
“Something Lettie said about Dex. I have the feeling she’d like to cast Dex as the villain of this piece.”
Delia was visibly shocked, then doubtful. “Are you sure? I always thought Lettie and Dex got along fine. They worked in the same office for a long time, you know.”
But proximity seldom breeds respect. Conan didn’t pursue that, however. “Delia, do you have a sample of Lee’s handwriting?”
“Lee’s handwriting? Well, I don’t know. Clare probably has.…” Then she rose and crossed to the bookshelves. “Maybe there’s something here. Bring that lamp, would you?”
Conan brought the lamp from the table and held it while she went down the rows of books. She pulled three out and looked inside the covers, but put them back. “Some of these were Lee’s,” she explained, pulling out another: Handbook for Prospectors and Operators of Small Mines, M. W. von Bernewitz. “Here it is. He put his name in this one.”
Conan took the book. Inside the front cover Lee had written, “Leland Langtry—Silver City.” A scant sample, but for Conan’s purpose it was enough.
“Thanks, Delia. Do you mind if I take this upstairs with me?”
“You’re welcome to it.” She was on the verge of a question, but Conan turned away and put the lamp on the table, then picked up his whiskey glass.
“I’ll finish this upstairs, too.”
She nodded acceptance both of that statement and the termination of the discussion. “Good idea for you to get to bed early. You’ve had a hard day. Oh—you need some more aspirin?”
He laughed. “Thank you, yes. It has been a hard day, but I’m lucky to be so hardheaded.”
*
Conan readied himself for bed, downed four more aspirin, then took the note he’d purloined from Mimi Bonnet’s room out of his briefcase, carefully opened it on the bed, and by the light of a kerosene lamp, compared it to the handwriting in Lee’s book.
The result of that examination wouldn’t stand in court—he didn’t pretend to be a handwriting expert—but it left no doubt in his mind. Lee Langtry had written this note. But when and where? And more important, why?
Lee was forty years past answering those questions, and Reub Sickle, who had safeguarded this message for the same length of time, wasn’t even admitting it existed; not to Conan. And Amanda Count, to whom Lee had addressed it—
The Roseberrys had been right. Clare had seen a ghost yesterday at their store: the ghost of Amanda Count reincarnated as Mimi Bonnet.
Amanda/Mimi no doubt knew the answers to Conan’s questions. He put the note back into his briefcase, then climbed into bed, groaning as he sought a comfortable place to lay his aching head.
It had, indeed, been a hard day.
Chapter 15
Conan was late—at least, by the standards of the house—in waking. It was nine o’clock before he left his bed. But sleep had been elusive last night. While he dressed, he heard voices from downstairs, one a man’s. He went out on the balcony in time to see Vern Roseberry departing, swinging jauntily down the road, despite his girth. When Conan descended to the kitchen, Delia and Clare were at the table delightedly sorting through a flat of fresh strawberries.
Clare smiled at him. “Look, Mr. Flagg—aren’t they beautiful! Vern’s son brought him three flats from the valley, so he gave us one. Oh, we’ll have plenty of strawberry jam this winter.”
Delia added, “And you’ll have strawberries and cream this morning, Conan. Come on, Clare, you can start washing these while I fix Conan’s breakfast.”
Conan stayed out of the way by the hall door, noting Delia’s practiced efficiency as she readied a colander, bowls, and sugar cannister for Clare by the sink. In contrast, Clare seemed confused and uncertain. That was underscored when she dropped the paring knife Delia handed her, tried to catch it, and cut her palm.
“Oh! Oh—I…Delia!” She stared wide-eyed at her hand, shakily rubbed the other across it, and with that succeeded in smearing both palms with blood. “Delia!”
Delia sighed and turned on the faucet, then held Clare’s hands under the cold stream. “There, you see, it’s just a little cut. Clare, for heaven’s sake, there’s nothing to cry about.”
But she was crying, almost silently, head bowed. Delia gently dried her hands with a towel, then took a box of bandages from a cupboard. “I know, dear, it startled you. Let me put a Band-Aid on it. Now—that’ll stop the bleeding. Oh—” She seemed momentarily chagrined. “Do you know what I forgot? The peas. I forgot to water them yesterday, and they really should have some water this morning before it gets too hot. Would you mind, Clare?”
She smiled wanly and nodded. “I’ll take care of it. My gloves…my garden gloves…”
“I think you left them on the porch.”
“Oh. Thank you…”
When the back door closed behind her, Delia picked up the knife, put it in the sink, then stood frowning out the window. “Clare had a bad night again. Nightmares.” She looked around at Conan. “Maybe Dex was right: it’s just damn foolishness. All this raking over the coals of the past. Clare’s worse than I’ve seen her for a long time. Like the crying; that’s the second time this morning.”
Conan got a mug out of a cupboard, then crossed to the stove and filled it from the coffee pot. “Delia, you can always call a halt to the investigation. You know that.”
She hesitated before shrugging that off. “I told you last night, I’m not ready to wave any white flags yet. By the way, how’s your head?”
“Better. The swelling’s gone down.”
“Good. Well, I’ll get your breakfast started.”
Conan sat down at the table and lit a cigarette, while she went to the stove and filled the firebox, squinting into the heat as the fire took hold. “Conan, I asked Clare about that gun you showed me. That’s the other time this morning she started crying.”
“I’m sorry. Could she tell you anything about it?”
“Well, she did remember that Lee kept a revolver at the house, but she didn’t know what happened to it. She thought it was probably sold with the furniture and things. It all went to a second-hand dealer in Homedale.” Delia closed the firebox and straightened. “That’s what started the crying, talking about selling the house. She said, ‘What will Lee think?’ And she was right there in the cemetery when we buried him last month.”
“In the Silver City cemetery?”
“Yes. The one across Jordan Creek as you come into town.” She pulled a frying pan from the back of the stove to the front, then returned to the counter and began slicing a slab of bacon. “Conan, where did you find that gun?”
He took a drag on his cigarette. “In Reub Sickle’s cabin.”
She stopped in mid-slice, head coming around abruptly. “In Reub’s cabin? How on earth did he get hold of it?”
“That’s a good question.”
“Well, what did he say?”
Conan laughed. “Nothing that bears repeating in polite company.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How did you come to find it in Reub’s cabin?”
“Well, that’s something that probably doesn’t bear repeating in polite company, either.”
She mulled that, then resumed her slicing. “You think that gun fits into the murder somehow?”
“Probably, but I don’t know how. Delia, are Reub and Dex Adler good friends?”
She raised an eyebrow, th
en took the bacon slices to the stove and slapped them into the skillet; they sizzled noisily, sending up a white, aromatic cloud. “I guess you’d say Dex and Reub are friends. Don’t usually see much of each other, though. I wouldn’t call them good friends; I mean, not close friends. Why?”
“I was just curious.”
She eyed him obliquely, then laughed. “Of course. Just curious.”
* * *
When Conan left the house he had no particular destination in mind, nor any purpose. The sky was curdled with a thin skim of clouds, the wind shifting uncertainly to the southwest. He guessed another storm was on its way. When he reached Morning Star Street, he turned right and walked up to the church, which was quite literally built on a rock: an outcropping of exfoliated granite. It was boarded up, although Delia had told him services were still occasionally held there. Not this Sunday, apparently. He retraced his steps down Morning Star, waved to Lettie Burbage, who was peering out of her second-story observation post. He rounded the bend in the road to the bridge, where he spent some time watching small fish darting in the refracted net of sunlight, then up to Washington Street to examine the ruins of the courthouse. At the back he found a series of small, windowless rooms that would have been underground before the collapse of the walls. He wondered if they had been jail cells. And he wondered where the staircase sandwiched between the courthouse and the next building to the south had originally led. Now it mounted into nothing but clear air.
Finally, as he turned east down Avalanche Avenue toward the Idaho Hotel, he wondered if he wasn’t unconsciously searching for Mimi Bonnet. Sooner or later he would have to talk to her.
Then he saw the Jeep parked between the hotel and the store. It was Reub Sickle’s. But Reub was nowhere in evidence. Laurie Franklin was in the street near the Jeep playing boisterously with Sheba, who ran in mad circles around her, laughing, it seemed, amid mock growls and exuberant barks. Conan watched Laurie, thinking of youth; age seemed to have been so much a part of his thoughts lately. Laurie, as blithely exuberant as Sheba, wore denim cut-offs and a sleeveless blouse, showing off long, golden limbs enhanced by the sun. She was a thing of beauty, and it seemed an insupportable tragedy that she would one day, inevitably, grow less golden, less supple, less tolerant of the dessicating power of the sun; that she would grow old.
Sheba was the first to see Conan—or perhaps to catch his scent—and her playful barks turned serious. Sheba obviously never forgot or forgave.
Laurie, nonplussed at Sheba’s sudden change of attitude, looked around at Conan, pushing her tawny hair back over her shoulder. “Oh, hello, Mr. Flagg.” She knelt and stroked Sheba’s head, and the dog was reassured enough to stop barking, but still suspicious. Laurie laughed up at Conan. “Don’t worry about her. I don’t think she bites.”
He smiled, stopping a short distance away. “I hope you’re right.” They discussed the dog for a few minutes, then her owner, and Conan asked, “Where is Reub?”
Laurie rose and looked back toward the store. “Well, I suppose he’s talking with the Roseberrys. I just came outside. Haven’t seen him yet.”
Conan nodded. “Have you seen Mrs. Bonnet?”
“Not since breakfast. She went out early this morning. Said it’s her last day in Silver, and her last chance to get some more pictures.” Laurie hesitated, turning sober, then, “Mr. Flagg, is…is Clare all right?”
“Well, all things considered, yes, I suppose she is.”
“I hope so. I saw her yesterday evening. John and I were walking over near Slaughterhouse Gulch, and we ran into Clare and Delia. Clare seemed…funny, you know. She didn’t even recognize us.”
“She probably will next time she sees you.” Laurie couldn’t seem to make sense of that, but Conan didn’t try to clarify it. He smiled and turned north up Jordan Street. “I’ll see you later, Laurie.” Sheba heralded his departure with another spate of barking.
He strolled past the hotel, noting the slatted shadows of the railings, but when he reached the north corner, he stopped. Between the wall of the hotel and the next building, there was an open space about ten feet wide, and through it he could see across Jordan Creek to Morning Star Street and the schoolhouse. He stopped to study that view because he saw someone walking north on Morning Star. Even from this distance, he had no trouble recognizing Reub Sickle.
Conan walked on past the building, a two-story hulk with all its windows boarded up. Beyond it, the street sloped down to Jordan Creek as it curved west briefly before resuming its northerly course, but before Conan reached the stream, he stopped and again looked across to Morning Star. There were two figures now, the second walking south. Dex Adler. When he met Reub, they talked for a few minutes, then Reub abruptly turned away and retraced his steps southward. Adler stood apparently undecided for a while, then followed him, but at a slow pace that suggested no attempt to catch up with him.
Interesting, Conan thought, then sighed resignedly when he heard a feminine voice calling his name. Betty Potter, rather an astonishing sight burdened and bristling with her equipment, was bearing down on him from the hotel. “Good morning, Mr. Flagg. How goes the sleuthing?”
He managed a smile. “It’s Sunday; a day of rest. I’m just sight-seeing. How goes the painting?”
She frowned up at the sky. “Oh marvelously, but I hate to see those clouds. They do spoil the light. I hope it’s not going to rain again. I have to leave tomorrow.”
“Monday seems to be the great day of exodus. Where are you working today?”
“The first powder house. Terrific walls. I’m trying acrylic on that. Where are you off to?”
Conan saw a wooden sign across the street with “Cemetery” incised over an arrow pointed westward and decided, “I’m going to take a look at the cemetery.”
“Oh, yes, I did a couple of watercolors there. Just charming! Well, I’d better hurry before the light goes. Have a good day!”
He watched her rattling along her way, shook his head, then crossed to the road the sign indicated. It followed the curve of Jordan Creek along an avenue of willows that put him out of sight of Mrs. Potter within a short distance. He might have changed his mind then, but the cemetery seemed as good a destination as any. The road petered out when it reached the foot of the open slope where the cemetery lay exposed to the sun but surrounded by aspen and fir. It was fenced with metal poles suspended between stone posts, the untended grounds given over to low-lying thickets of weeds with lupine and balsam providing the only color.
Conan wandered the paths between the graves, thinking of the poets who had found their substance in places like this where life and death were juxtaposed and the fey evanescence of individual lives was so inescapable. Many of the markers were simple wooden planks blasted to the grain by sun and ice, names and dates obliterated. Some graves were marked only by small metal tablets bearing the poignant designation “Unknown.” Others, however, were marked more permanently with polished stone. White marble seemed to have been the material of choice in this land of granite mountains. A few plots were enclosed in elaborate, wrought-iron fences. He paused by one in which young aspen grew, crowding as they shaded the stones. There was—typically for old cemeteries—a tendency to a particular style of marker. Here truncated obelisks had been popular either with the bereaved or the stonemasons. An incised drape was a frequent decorative motif, as were scrolls and open books.
He noted the number of children’s graves, like the two infant daughters of A. A. and S. B. Getchell, whose brief lives were memorialized with carved forget-me-nots. Nannie Frances, beloved daughter of Frank and Hannah Hunt, born October 20, 1879, died October 25, 1880: “Our darling has gone to rest.” Alice, only daughter of John and Christina Wagener, born August 19, 1885, died December 8, 1898. Frederick Julius, son of J.M. and Anna Brunzell, died March 25, 1877, “aged 11 yrs 2 mos 16 d’s.” For young Frederick, the stonemason added an optimistic verse:
Gone to a land of pure delight
Where saints immorta
l reign;
Infinite day excludes the night,
And pleasure banishes pain.
The survivors of Alfred Hicks, who died in 1896 at the age of forty-three, were equally optimistic—and affluent enough to mark his final resting place with a white marble monument over six feet high topped by a draped urn resting on an open book.
’Twill recompense the woes of earth
To think we’ll dwell with him in heaven.
But the parents of Lewis F. Leonard had apparently not been at all optimistic when they ordered the monument for their son, who died in 1887 at the age of nineteen. It was an imposing marker, again of white marble, employing the truncated obelisk form. It also used the motif of the book carved in full relief atop the shaft, but his book was irrevocably closed, and the poem incised on the back of the stone had Conan leaning closer for a second reading.
Leaves have then time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath,
And stars to set; but all—
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
After a third reading, Conan took a deep breath, thinking of the Leonards’ grief, wondering what young Lewis, at nineteen, had been like. Very much like John Kulik, no doubt, or golden Laurie Franklin.
But Lewis wasn’t forgotten, even now. There was a coffee can wrapped in foil and filled with plastic flowers at the base of the stone. Similar plastic offerings lay at the feet of other monuments.
A short distance up the slope from Lewis’s grave was another that attracted Conan’s attention not because the marker was so unusual—it was an austere slab of red granite—but because the recently-turned earth indicated it was a new grave. There were no flowers on this grave, not even an uninvited wild flower, and no carving on the stone, nor poetry; nothing but the words, “Leland Langtry February 2, 1898—September 22, 1940.” At least, Lee Langtry’s existence was substantiated by this spare monument, but little more.
Conan continued upslope, pausing again when he reached a weathered board streaked with blood-red rust stains from the nails securing the supports on its back. The legend was still legible, and in simple, block letters asserted that this marker was erected “In memory of Chris Studer, killed by Indians June 8th at South Mountain.”
