Silver Belles and Stetsons

by Caroline Clemmons

  “Truly?” Mrs. Whipple asked, bright and cheerful and clearly to ensure Malloy and his companions heard. “You’d restore me to Saint Louis society?”

  Malloy cringed. Tone it down, Mama. Lockhart wasn’t an idiot. He’d figure them out if she didn’t settle herself right down. Worse, Lockhart might suspect she wasn’t as sincere as he desired.

  “Would you be happier there?” Lockhart asked.

  “You’d be there with me? We’d be a family?”

  And to complicate matters, here came the waiter balancing three dinner plates of roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, and glazed carrots with onion.

  Malloy looked at the waiter, but he kept his hearing focused one hundred percent on the conversation happening at the next table.

  “It will require I resolve your debt to First National, but I’m willing to do so.”

  Mrs. Whipple paused. “You would do such a generous thing? For me?”

  “I am wealthy, my dear, and you will be infinitely happier with me. I’ve waited for you for nearly thirty years.”

  “I’m—” Mrs. Whipple said, her hand to her throat. “I am overcome.”

  “When you are my wife,” Lockhart said, reasonably, “you won’t worry one moment about money. I’ll take care of you. You’ll never work nor sully your hands with anything but charity functions— and then, only if you wish to.”

  “Oh, yes! How I’ve missed altruistic work.” Mrs. Whipple paused. “Let’s just say Mountain Home isn’t Saint Louis.”

  “No. No, it’s not.”

  Malloy nodded at the waiter, endured the man’s interruptions with questions like, “Another glass of wine for you, sir?” and “Anything else I might bring you from the kitchen, gentlemen?”

  “No.” Talmadge picked up his knife and fork and tucked into roast beef as if he’d completely forgotten about listening in on Lockhart and Mrs. Whipple.

  “…didn’t recognize me. I sat there, in the bakery’s kitchen,” Lockhart complained, “wondering if you’d ever recognize me as the young man you should have wed.”

  “Please, darling, understand… my children were listening as was our minister. I… I didn’t know what to say or quite what to do. I have appearances to consider.”

  Malloy pretended to enjoy his meal. He scooped mashed potatoes into his mouth and chewed.

  “You’ve thought better of your reaction to me?” Lockhart couldn’t have sounded more petulant if he’d tried. “You realize your daughters— especially the eldest— must learn to show proper respect due their… shall we say, benefactor?”

  “Of course, dearest. Of course.”

  Malloy glanced at the attorney, who popped a carrot into his mouth. “Not enough,” he mouthed.

  Inadequate information to justify arrest.

  Malloy glanced at Talmadge. Did the retired sheriff agree? Apparently.

  Blazes.

  “I apologize, Sheridan. Truly I do. You had me in quite a state, I’m afraid. You… appeared after all those years. A vision in your finery. And… And…”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “What was I to do? The minister looked at us… at me… so askance. And with my late husband buried just three months ago…?”

  “I suppose I can understand that.”

  “Thank you, Sheridan.”

  “But understanding doesn’t mean forgiveness.”

  Malloy entertained the brief fantasy of driving his steak knife into Lockhart’s back.

  “I do apologize, truly.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement.” Lockhart’s tone sounded smug, gloating.

  The pianist finally segued into The First Noel, much softer and more peaceful.

  Several moments passed, and Malloy realized a waiter had finally approached Lockhart’s table. Apparently without consulting Mrs. Whipple, Lockhart ordered. “A bottle of your finest champagne. We’re celebrating.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Thoughtless boor. Did he once pause to consider the lady might not have eaten lunch?

  “Champagne does sound delightful.” Mrs. Whipple managed convincing pleasure.

  “It’s been a long while since you’ve enjoyed the finer things in life.”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, it has.”

  “I have one objection to marrying you, Miriam, and it’s a non-negotiable term.”

  Malloy dropped his fork to clatter against his dinner plate.

  With the reflexes of a much younger man, Talmadge grabbed Malloy’s wrist, pinning his fist to the table. “How’s the beef? Yours as tender and mouthwatering as mine?”

  “Yeah.” Malloy flexed his hand, and Talmadge released him.

  Malloy’s ears rang with the obnoxious idiocy coming from Lockhart’s mouth, and he knew, no doubt, Mrs. Whipple had made the far better choice in husbands.

  “Oh?” Mrs. Whipple managed submissiveness.

  Malloy didn’t have as good a view as Talmadge, but he’d bet the lady had about heard enough.

  Lockhart gestured with a hand. “That pesky eldest daughter—”

  Malloy tensed.

  “—will stay here,” Lockhart said. “I don’t like her.”

  “Oh, Sheridan,” Mrs. Whipple said, “not a problem, my dear. She’s a grown woman. Twenty-five years of age. I’d never dream of asking if you’ll bring her along.”

  “Good, because my answer is no.”

  A moment passed, and Malloy imagined sweet, kind Mrs. Whipple’s gaze lowered, focused on her hands. Probably to hide her frustration. Or perhaps her hatred of a man she’d once liked, at least a bit.

  The waiter approached with the champagne. Upon Lockhart’s agreement, the waiter opened the bottle and poured two flutes.

  Lockhart made quite a show of presenting Mrs. Whipple with her glass. “To you, the future Mrs. Lockhart.”

  Malloy chewed a bite of roast beef so hard he might have cracked a molar.

  “Excellent food quality, isn’t it?” Van Pletzen gestured with his fork. “Only the very best.”

  Malloy snorted. Indeed. Only the very best for Sheridan Lockhart.

  Come on, you arrogant reprobate, tip your hand. Tell us what you’ve done.

  After several sips, Mrs. Whipple asked, “Do tell me more about taking me and the twins to Saint Louis, won’t you Sheridan? You… y-you will take the tiny ones along, won’t you?”

  “Hmm.” Sheridan set his champagne flute on the tablecloth and turned it by the stem. “They did behave like little ladies this morning, didn’t they?”

  Malloy thought Mrs. Whipple would say something to agree with Lockhart, but she simply waited, mute. Already in the role of the submissive, eager-to-pacify wife of a self-important man.

  Thank God this woman he loved like a mother would not wed the fool nor subjugate her daughters to his cruelty.

  “I insist on adopting them. They will carry my name.”

  More likely, he wanted to abolish the Whipple name.

  “Oh, darling! How wonderful.” Mrs. Whipple nearly sounded convincing.

  Malloy could only hope Lockhart would be drunk on success and not notice the edge of sarcasm in Mrs. Whipple’s voice.

  “You’re welcome, Miriam. Most welcome.”

  A moment passed, and Malloy remembered to shove a forkful in his mouth.

  “Why?” Mrs. Whipple asked. “Why shower me with your magnanimous favor? After all of these years, why seek me out now?”

  Yes. Finally. Malloy had a rather good feeling about this. Come on, man, say something really stupid and implicate yourself.

  Lockhart drained his champagne, set the glass down with precision, and rose.

  Malloy dragged his fork through a puddle of gravy and fought to appear relaxed and minding his own business.

  Lockhart gestured with an open palm to the dining room at large.

  “Let us ask Malloy, shall we? I do believe he’s working for you… or perhaps you work for him. Which is it, my dear?”

  Chapter Nine

&n
bsp; Malloy fought the urge to whip his head in Lockhart’s direction. He must have heard wrong.

  The man approached and stood behind the empty chair at Malloy’s table.

  Okay, Malloy had heard right. But no sense giving away anything Lockhart didn’t already know. He very slowly set down his knife and fork, wiped his mouth, and leaned back in his seat. He finally met Lockhart’s gaze head on. “Help you with somethin’?”

  Fury simmered in the older man’s eyes. “Malloy, I see you’ve engaged the cast-off sheriff and this mountain town’s only attorney. Clever.”

  So Lockhart had done his research. A telling sign— knowing who the lawmen were. And no doubt knew the sheriff and all deputies were busy with the Noelle Finlay case.

  Malloy fought to remain cool. “No law against having dinner with friends.”

  “Do you think me a fool?” Lockhart asked, his tone oddly flat.

  “You don’t want to know the answer to that.” From the corner of his eye, Malloy found Mrs. Whipple sitting perfectly still in her chair.

  So Lockhart hadn’t outright stated something they could use against him, either to crack the case wide open or use as leverage to make him disclose the rest.

  Disappointing, but they’d find a different way. Malloy always did.

  Lockhart clasped his hands behind his back and strolled around Mrs. Whipple’s table. “Dearest Miriam, forgive me for stating the truth— you’re a poor actress. You’re not interested in me and all I can offer. Just as you were a fool years ago, you are a fool now.”

  Malloy watched with care, ready to pounce if Lockhart physically threatened Mrs. Whipple. But it seemed he enjoyed his moment on center-stage. He skirted behind Mrs. Whipple and hardly glanced at her.

  “I think,” Lockhart said, “I’ll retract my offer of a life of ease, comfort for you and your daughters. I’ll do nothing. And thus, allow First National Bank to seize your property.” He glared at Malloy, continued to lazily sketch a figure eight around their two tables.

  Malloy held his tongue. Let the scoundrel keep talking— he might yet tie his own noose.

  “Once the bank seizes your humble home, you’ll live with the pathetic memory of your redneck husband who couldn’t control his finances and ruined your life. All over a woman.”

  Lockhart halted on the opposite side of Malloy’s table.

  Malloy had to choose. He couldn’t keep both Mrs. Whipple and Lockhart in his line of sight. He opted to keep his eye on the snake.

  “You do realize, Miriam,” Lockhart said with mock gentleness, “Thaddeus Whipple was never faithful, don’t you?”

  Mrs. Whipple’s cry of distress came right on cue. She’d fallen for Lockhart’s ploy.

  The pianist, apparently started by Mrs. Whipple’s exclamation, fumbled over a passage in It Came Upon the Midnight Clear.

  Malloy glared at the man. Dig yourself deeper. Keep digging.

  Fury pounded through Malloy’s veins so he folded his arms to control his fists. He nearly interrupted, grabbed the monster by the collar, and hustled him outside.

  Lockhart kept his eyes on Mrs. Whipple and continued his stroll. “You do realize Thad kept her hidden from you for years, don’t you? His mistress, since long before you were foolish enough to wed him.”

  Malloy leaned forward to better see past Lockhart’s back and catch a glimpse of Mrs. Whipple— just to read her expression. While Malloy hoped she’d realize this liar wouldn’t know the truth if it trampled him, he almost hoped she’d screech with indignation. Obviously Lockhart wanted a reaction. Maybe then he’d get on with this, say whatever else he intended to say and incriminate himself.

  Lockhart stood behind Mrs. Whipple now, such that she had to turn about in her chair to see him. Yeah, Malloy would be mighty uncomfortable with Lockhart at his back, too.

  “He never told you about her, did he?” Lockhart made a cocky tsk-tsk in faux sympathy. “You know, Thad told me, that night before you two married in most inappropriate haste, that he’d never divulge his love’s existence to you. I see now he kept his word— to me, at least. Thad never told you about her, did he, Miriam?”

  Malloy may not have known Mr. Whipple personally, but he knew the man’s family. He’d talked to his neighbors and friends and asked hard questions. He’d spent hours immersed in the man’s business ledgers, knew precisely how much the man had given away out of the goodness of his heart to feed those less fortunate.

  If Mr. Whipple had kept a mistress for the past thirty years, Malloy would eat his hat.

  Lies. Cruel falsehood meant to wound Mrs. Whipple deeply. All of it. Fury swept through Malloy, nearly shoved him to his feet to respond with fists and brute energy to end Lockhart’s tirade.

  Mrs. Whipple stood, her movements jerky, her face red with what Malloy figured to be a mixture of rage and mortification.

  Malloy surged to his feet. The attorney and retired sheriff gained their feet just as fast. Two hotel waiters stood, frozen in place. The remaining few dining room guests gaped in embarrassed sympathy.

  “Son,” old Liam Talmadge said to Lockhart in a tone that implied a mix of disappointment and threat of bodily harm, “that was the worst display of mean-spiritedness I’ve ever seen. Button your flap, ‘fore I button it myself.”

  Talmadge made quick work of escorting Mrs. Whipple toward the door.

  Before they could retreat more than three steps, Lockhart laughed. “Obedience Dymond.” He crowed in victory. “One telegram from his lady-love was all it took.”

  The piano music died. The musician leaned on his stool to peer into the dining room.

  “Thad went running,” Lockhart bellowed, “to Denver. Into her arms—”

  Mrs. Whipple whirled about, fully composed. “You’re an imbicile, Sheridan Lockhart. A blockhead the size of Texas.” Satisfaction gleamed in her eyes. All shadowed pain and embarrassment, completely gone.

  What the blazes had just happened?

  “Of course my husband loved Obedience Dymond.” Mrs. Whipple stood tall and proud and imperturbable. “Thaddeus loved Obedience with all his heart.”

  Lockhart sputtered.

  “Shut up, Sheridan.” She strode nearer, provoking Lockhart’s retreat.

  The gears in Malloy’s head spun then finally caught. Everything had changed the moment Obedience’s unmentionable name was pronounced.

  And to think he’d promised Adaline to never reveal it to Mama. How long might he and Adaline have believed a lie?

  Mrs. Whipple propped a hand on one hip, her posture proudly announcing full composure. “Obedience, you twit, is my husband’s elder sister. She married Mr. Ezekiel Dymond when my Thaddeus was twelve years of age. Obedience suffered melancholia so severe after the birth of their only child that she became disconsolate. She’s been a resident of Saint Louis Insane Asylum ever since.”

  Ah, so that explained a whole lot. Malloy grinned big and made no attempt to hide it. A valid reason why Adaline didn’t know she had an aunt, much less that aunt’s name. No one spoke of insane relatives, to do so wasn’t merely socially unacceptable, the taint would follow the girls the rest of their lined

  Malloy couldn’t wait to see the happiness on his love’s face when Mama told her all about Auntie Obedience and Lockhart’s attempts to destroy their family by badly misrepresenting the truth.

  “But—” Lockhart began.

  Mrs. Whipple cut him off. “Of course he thought to keep his sister’s insanity a secret at our marriage. His parents told him no one could know about the weak branch on the family tree, but we had an uncommon romance, Thaddeus and I.”

  Amazed at the difference between this empowered woman, and the mother who’d cried with her daughters mere hours before, Malloy’s sense of pride in her grew. This strong, capable, woman had reclaimed her full capacity.

  “I loved him deeply,” Mama said with force. “I still do. He was the most honorable man I’ve ever known.”

  “No!” Lockhart’s face reddened and madness flared i
n his eyes.

  Giving zero notice to his outburst, Mrs. Whipple continued. “I know everything about Obedience. You have zero leverage there, Sheridan. You made Thaddeus believe his sister had escaped and needed help. You lured him to Denver using her name.”

  “You know nothing.” Lockhart’s jaw clenched.

  “I know my husband sent a telegram to the asylum while in Denver, asking after his sister. I saw the Western Union reply confirming Obedience’s safety.”

  “Liar.” Lockhart spat on the dining room carpet. “Lies.”

  She shook her head, disappointment marring her features. “And you manufactured a false mortgage on the same date and forged his signature. Who did you bribe to process the paperwork, Sheridan? Who forged my husband’s signature? How did you obtain his signature for the forger?”

  Lockhart shrieked with fury and called Mrs. Whipple a most vulgar name.

  “I’m flattered,” Mrs. Whipple told Lockhart. “Flattered you went to such extreme measures to claim me as your bride. But that couldn’t have been your plan last March, could it? Last March, Thaddeus was alive and well. For all you knew, he could have lived another twenty years.”

  “You were mine, Miriam. Mine. He stole you from me.” Lockhart halted, pounded his chest to draw and keep her attention. “He stole. From me! I did what I had to do to steal you back.”

  “If I didn’t know better, and I do, I would think you murdered my husband.”

  The last tumbler fell into place. Malloy felt the key turn in the lock. The revelation was so much more complete than before, every motivation, detail, and purpose laid out before him.

  It all made sense, in a sick sort of way.

  And this avenging warrior angel, Miriam Whipple, had divined the latter part, all on her own.

  What an amazing woman.

  Malloy muffled a chuckle. They’d gathered more than adequate information and knew where to look for the rest of it. A prosecuting attorney shouldn’t have difficulty piecing together the evidence. Lockhart would lose his job at First National Bank of Denver and have his day in court. Malloy suspected they’d find Lockhart left Saint Louis for Colorado in order to put his obscene plan into motion.

  Eventually First National Bank of Denver would close the criminal mortgage and the Whipples would be free. Malloy would offer to assess the bank’s records to prove no money transferred from the bank to Thaddeus Whipple, and Whipple made no monthly payments. Shouldn’t take more than a week.