by Julie Weston
Nellie tried to sip her soup, and nibble at the cornbread, but it was difficult not to eat quickly.
Her landlady plucked at her skirt. “Mabel tells me maybe you had a falling out with Gwynn and somehow you two got caught in the rain. She wasn’t too clear on what happened, but she said you went to see him.” A long sigh. “Lily was the sweetest, prettiest girl any father could want and he just drove her away.”
Nellie tested some of her newfound knowledge. “Lily ran away with the sheriff.”
“Who told you that? That old reprobate?” Another long sigh. “Gwynn wouldn’t stand for his daughter marrying a sheepherder. He figured Charlie wanted his money. Too blind and willful to see that them two loved each other. Lily came to me, wanted me to talk to her father. There’s no talking to that Gwynn. Figured he knew everything. He didn’t know the half of it.” She contemplated the empty dishes on Nellie’s tray. “Men.”
Men were certainly more complicated than Nellie had given them credit for. “And Charlie made sheriff. How did that sit with Mr. Campbell?”
“Liked to bust his boiler. The old-timers ’round here was pretty tired of Gwynn running everything from Twin Falls clear up to Stanley. Figured maybe they’d do him one in the eye. Turned out they got a good sheriff. Charlie’d got some schooling down in Boise. Nobody cared he was Basque, except a few miners and Gwynn and he shoulda knowed better. Got Basque working for him. They’re honest and hardworking. Rosy and Charlie now—they had a set-to here and again, but that’s just natural. Both of ’em loved Lily. Rosy didn’t get over her dying. I don’t know about Charlie. He hid his feelings so long, maybe forgot he had ’em.”
“Where are the boys?”
For the first time, Mrs. Bock seemed not to want to talk. “Well, you’re done and I got work to do. Better sleep more if you’re going out tomorrow. You’ll need your strength. Looks like another storm barging right in.”
“Aren’t you worried about Rosy?”
“Some. He’s not gone missing this long before. Sometimes, he goes off on a toot and holes up somewhere. I’d guess at the ranch, too.” She nodded to Nellie. “Something about you must remind him of Lily. He’s taken a shine to you, which he don’t often do with people.”
Mrs. Bock picked up the tray and pushed the light switch on her way out of the room. “Don’t you bother your head. He’ll turn up. Bet he’s got Moonie with him. Nice dog, that.”
“Mrs. Bock, who is Mrs. Smith?” It was easier to ask the question in the dark.
The landlady stopped in the doorway. “Gladys? Why she’s . . . Gladys Smith. Why?”
“She had my negatives and gave them to Sammy.”
“Land sakes.” Her tone of voice belied her words. This was not news to Mrs. Bock. “Jack was Gladys’s brother. Her and Rosy cooked up how to get your photographs so she’d have something to remember him by. That’s what she told me when we drove down to Hailey to see you. Maybe she thought Sammy would tell, which he must have done. Jack was no good. Wouldn’t work. Then he got mixed up in that blasted opium. She had enough. Left him and moved in here.”
“But why ‘Smith’?” Nellie knew it was Bradley, but she didn’t say anything to her landlady. Sneaking around Gladys’s room would not be acceptable.
“People use different names here. Sometimes, they don’t want to be followed from town to town or they don’t want to be found. Hers started with a ‘B’ if I remember correct. Gladys said she never wanted to hear it again, so I just forgot it.” She made a tsking sound. “Then that brother started callin’ himself Smith. Enough to drive a good woman crazy.” The landlady closed the door. Then it opened again.
“Forgot to tell you. Sammy wanted to know if the sheriff killed his father.”
“What?” Nellie was instantly alert and sat up.
“That’s what he said after you left saying that about the sheriff—to find a thief ’cause he couldn’t find a murderer. Said, ‘Maybe he be one.’ I remember Rosy called the sheriff to bring Ah Kee out to take care of Jack. Don’t sound good.” She closed the door again.
Nell was almost asleep when a floorboard creaked outside her door. She turned on the lamp and thought she saw the handle of her door turn, then stop. She slipped quietly out of bed, tiptoed to the door, and whisked it open. No one was in the dark hall. All the doors along it were closed tight, even the bathroom door at the end. No light shone from under that door. Was someone waiting for her to enter? She listened, her heart pounding. The skeleton key lay on her dresser. If she locked herself in and the building burned down, she might burn with it. She decided to risk fire rather than confront someone with murder in mind. But someone had already entered her room when it was locked and taken the robe. She shoved a chair against the door, but she didn’t sleep for a long while.
No storm.
Nellie paced her studio. It was several hours before noon. She decided to deliver photos to her customers. She again used the skeleton key to lock her door and hoped Rosy was the only one with a duplicate. Except for Mrs. Bock, everyone seemed to have left for the day. The sun was bright again, the sky blue, the snow beginning to look old with an iced-over sheen. Against her landlady’s advice, she bundled up, donned her boots, grabbed her photo case, and began her rounds, starting with Bert the Butcher.
“Good morning, Bert. Here are your photographs. I still have the negatives. If you want additional prints, let me know. Your bill is in the envelope, less the deposit you left with me last week.” She wanted to hand him the packet, but his hands were bloody. “I’ll just leave them by the cash register.”
He thanked her and said he’d take them home to show his wife and children.
On the way down the street to the hardware store, Sheriff Azgo fell in step with her on the snow-covered boardwalk. “I heard you were ill. Anything to do with Mr. Campbell falling sick at the same time?” He matched his pace to hers, which made him look as if he were taking rather dainty steps for a tall man.
“Do you suspect all sick people of being in collusion with each other?”
They walked in silence for the space of three storefronts. When Nell finally glanced at him, he was studying the ground as he walked. “Everyone who’s seen my photograph knows the dead man is Three-Fingered Jack Smith. Why didn’t you say so?”
The sheriff shrugged. “I thought I’d see who wanted to hide his identity. You wouldn’t have known his name anyway.”
“Hide his identity . . . Oh, that is what you warned me about. I was in danger because only I knew there was a dead man.” They walked along a few more steps. Then Nellie stopped. “You used me for bait.” The sheriff stopped too and looked down on her. “What if I had been attacked?”
“You were,” he said, his face like stone. “I’m sorry. I should have published his name. The severed arm persuaded me that someone would go to some lengths to hide his identity, particularly if that someone didn’t know he was in a photograph. Or, if knowing, the photograph disappeared. Who would believe a young woman, new in town, and crazy enough to go out at night to take pictures in the dark?” His mouth twitched.
“How did he die?”
He studied her and resumed walking and looking down. “He’d been hit on the head. He’d also been underwater, but not drowned.”
“How do you know that?”
“There was no water in his lungs. There was faded blood on the sleeve of the cut-off arm and across his chest, but no obvious wound. Dead bodies don’t bleed.”
“Couldn’t the blood have come from the part of the arm that was—” Nellie stopped. The sheriff had already answered that question. “There was no blood on the floor that I could see, nor did I notice any when I moved . . .”
An image of that dead body with an arm cut off lying on a slab in a cold room sickened her. “Did he freeze to death?”
“No.”
“You’re not going to tell me what you think about how he died, are you?” She paused at the hardware store. “I’m going in here to deliver photos.”
“I’ll wait.” He seemed subdued and distracted.
The store owner studied each photo of his wife and him, then drew cash out of a box and paid her the money still owing. “I do have the negatives,” she said, “if you want copies. Perhaps you have family who might be interested?”
“Good idea,” the man said. “Let me talk to Harriet and I’ll get back to you. These are darned good pictures.” Then he lowered his voice. “Harriet is pretty picky about her likeness. I’ll have to wait and see if she likes ’em.”
Nellie smiled. “All right. But if you like them, I’d appreciate it if you’d send others to me for portraits if you’re so inclined.”
“I’ll just do that. Our commerce group meets tomorrow noon. I’ll take mine and show ’em around. You might get some business work too.”
Until she almost ran into the sheriff, she’d forgotten he was waiting outside. Nellie felt mildly pleased to walk beside him. Not many handsome men who were also dedicated to their work had graced her life. The sheriff must be older than she first thought, perhaps as much as ten years older than she. His black hair and his high cheekbones might never give away his age, not until the former turned gray and the latter grew wrinkled. Neither happenstance appeared imminent.
“I was wondering,” she said, and paused, slipping on the snow and grabbing his arm to steady herself. He waited for her to continue. She realized she could not bring up Lily. His connection to Campbell’s daughter was none of her business. His serious expression was tinged with something besides law business, though.
“What were you wondering?” A hint of a smile flickered.
Although Nellie let go his arm, she rather wished she could hold his hand. She wanted to feel his skin against hers and a hand would do, to start.
“Are you all right, Miss Burns? You’re red. Maybe your fever has returned.” He led her to a bench where the snow had melted off and the wood had dried. “Sit here.”
“No, no. I’m all right. I wondered why you did what Rosy requested—took Ah Kee out to the ranch the same day he disappeared.” She hadn’t known she would say this, but the question continued to prick at her. It seemed to her this information was much more important to know about than any long-lost love relationship.
His face resumed a blank expression, his badge of office. “The details are none of your business, but an emergency situation arose where I thought a doctor was necessary.”
“But he wasn’t a real doctor. He was just a Chinese herbalist.” Saying so made her feel like a traitor. His nostrum had saved her.
“If you want to think that. Fortunately, his skills weren’t limited by your opinion.” His cold stare left her in no doubt about what he thought of her opinion.
“Certainly, his herbs, or whatever it was, rid me of pneumonia. But maybe it was opium. Isn’t that wrong? Or against the law?”
“There are many things against the law these days. I don’t try to catch all of them. If I did, the jail would be full and the streets empty. Opium sold as laudanum is not illegal. It’s a patent medicine for headaches, bellyaches, toothaches, muscle aches, night aches, day aches.”
“I see your point. But where did you leave Ah Kee?”
“I left him at the trail to Last Chance Ranch. Rosy said his friend Jack needed help, but that Ah Kee wouldn’t come if Rosy tried to get him. Too much water under that bridge. I suppose you know that since you’ve stayed with Goldie. Hard to keep secrets in these towns.”
Nellie nodded. “Some of it.” On the contrary, she thought. Secrets abounded.
“I didn’t know Ah Kee disappeared until I found his body under the snow at your direction,” he said. “The Chinese are tight-lipped for good reason.”
He didn’t sound as if he were lying. The two of them began to walk again, but this time back toward Mrs. Bock’s. It was almost noon.
“But then, it must have been Rosy who—” She refused to say more. She wouldn’t believe that Rosy would kill the man who helped his wife. Anger at fate, rage even, but not murder.
“It isn’t Rosy.” The sheriff sounded firm. “But I’m not sure who. Or why. If it had been old Campbell lying under the snow, I could have arrested four or five suspects.”
“Including you?”
His expression warmed and the smile hovered again. “Including me.”
“The Ah Kees thought I did it.”
“So did I, for a minute or two.”
“Me? But how could I? And why?” She hurried her pace. She wanted to be inside before Sammy drove up to the door, and she wanted the sheriff gone.
“You might have been someone other than who you said. Nobody believed you really could take pictures until you opened that studio. Common thought was you were escaping from something in Chicago. You might be a hardened criminal. Just after you arrived, at least one man was dead, and there you were, right in the same house with him. Then there were two dead men. What’s a busybody town to think?”
They laughed together. Then Nellie, wanting to get away, said, “What did you want with me, Sheriff? I have some work to finish in my studio.”
“I wanted to know what you thought of Gwynn Campbell. If you thought he could have killed either Ah Kee or Jack.” He stood at the door as she made to go in.
“But I thought you considered that possibility remote.” Sammy’s remark about the sheriff made her wonder if he was trying to throw suspicion on Mr. Campbell. “I don’t know about either one. Mr. Campbell thinks you killed Ah Kee. So does Sammy.” She stepped over the door jamb into the entry. “I must go now.” Slowly but firmly, she closed the door in his surprised face.
Noon came and went. Nellie sat down with Mrs. Bock for a meal and asked her landlady to ring Mrs. Smith to borrow the automobile. This time, she could drive, and this time, she didn’t want Henry.
“You ain’t going out there alone. Not when you been as sick as you was.”
“All right, then, I’ll telephone her. You don’t want me to go with Sammy. You don’t want me to go alone. Aren’t you worried about Rosy? I am, and I have a photograph for him.” She pulled out one of the envelopes from her photo case. “And here are yours. They turned out very well. See if you like them.” She held up a second packet. “But first please ask Mrs. Smith. Or give me the keys. We know she’ll lend her auto to Henry, so if I just go, she’ll be none the wiser. I’ll be back before she gets home from the mine office.” Nellie left the table to load her camera and sled and tripod. As long as she was returning to the cabin, she would try for another photograph for her snow collection.
She considered trying to get another night photo or at least a deeply shadowed one around dusk and still get back before too late. She was glad to don long pants again. She added an extra blanket and extra socks. Her hand touched the belt. She had forgotten again to tell the sheriff about it, but everyone knew who the dead man was, so it didn’t matter anymore. And she wanted to keep it a little longer. She found one last sachet in her camera pack and stuffed it in her pocket. For luck, maybe.
Back in the kitchen, Mrs. Bock studied the photos and looked up as Nellie re-entered the room. “I look old in these here pictures.”
“A camera reflects what’s in front of it.” The words sounded cruel, but Nellie had heard Mrs. Bock’s complaint a thousand times before. “What it does show is a woman who has worked hard for a living taking care of other people, cooking meals, keeping a house, listening to sad stories, and sharing in some happy ones. In these pictures, you look as if you’ve lived, not vegetated.”
“Humph. That’s what a young girl would say to an old woman, a girl without wrinkles.” She slapped the photos down. “I can’t send these to family in Indiana. They’ll think I’m as ancient as Methuselah.”
“Do you suppose they quit aging when you left?” Nellie scooped the pictures up. “If you don’t like them, you don’t have to pay for them.”
“Could we try again? I’d fix my hair better, put on some of that rouge stuff and lipstick. Wear a
better dress.”
Her desire to please family who hadn’t seen her for years touched Nellie. She put her arm around Mrs. Bock’s shoulders. “We can try again if you’d like. No charge. And maybe you would help take a photograph of me that I could send to my mother. I think it might be the number of years bothering you rather than the photo. Could that be true?”
The landlady mulled the suggestion, then held her hand out for another look. “Maybe that’s the trouble. Just too many years.” She rubbed the lines in her cheeks.
“Let me photograph you in the kitchen baking a pie. You won’t look old doing something you love so much. I promise. And you could send the flyer about our joint business here in the boarding house. They’ll be impressed.”
Mrs. Bock went to a kitchen drawer. “Keys aren’t here. They’re in her room then. I’ll get them.” The telephone brrrred and she went to answer it. Nellie mouthed that she would get the keys. Upstairs, she let herself into Room Six. The keys lay on the dresser. Nothing seemed changed until she turned around. The skis were gone.
Downstairs, Mrs. Bock gave instructions. “You be back before dark. I don’t want to have to send for a doctor to pull you from the brink. They’d soon poison you as look at you.”
This time, Nellie had a plan. The snowfield in front of Last Chance Ranch had lain smooth and flat both times she traversed it. If people were going in and out of the cabin at the rate she was beginning to figure, they must have used a trail off to one side or the other. She’d seen one person to the north who had not appeared to be wearing snowshoes.
After a false start or two with the auto jerking like a bucking bronco, Nellie finally settled the machine into a smooth forward movement. This dance with her feet on different pedals would take getting used to, and yet she already loved how fast she traveled over the snow-packed road. The steering wheel gave her a feeling of power. The farther north she traveled, the less obvious the berms on either side of the road, the more rutted the track. Along the river, near where it curled close to the road, she saw a bull elk with a huge rack nibbling on bushes.
