And there it was. He took off at a brisk pace for the sad story of a buggy—JEFFERSON DELIVERY stenciled in faded white letters on the side—sitting quietly by the storage door of the depot. “Jefferson,” he said, rapping the sideboard, “How much to get me to a place for the night?”
The sleeping driver pulled his flat cap from his face and pushed himself up into attention. “F-f-fifty cents, sir,” the fresh-faced young lad said.
“Acceptable,” Rudy said. Actually, it was atrocious, but given the circumstances . . . He dropped his valise into the wagon bed and climbed up next to Jefferson. “Do I have a choice in this godforsaken place, or is ‘clean’ all I can hope for?”
“Oh, you won’t be disappointed,” Jefferson replied, holding out an empty palm.
Rudy gave him half up-front, and Jefferson unhitched the horses and sallied forth.
As they bumped down the road, Rudy correctly assumed Jefferson would hit every hole between here and their destination. He clapped one hand down on his fedora to keep it from sailing off to adorn some godforsaken dead stalk. The fields of brown seemed to stretch on without abatement.
“Just so I don’t fall off the map here,” Rudy said, seriously reconsidering the wisdom of striking out on his own. “Where are we off to?”
Jefferson added a pinch of snuff to the already sizeable wad in his cheek and offered up the Sir Walter Raleigh can. Rudy waved it off. “Downtown Clinton,” he said between chews. He appraised Rudy out of the corner of his eye. “There’s two board houses, but I think the Surratt Inn will be a better match. That’s as comfortable as it gets and that’s plenty good. How often do you get to spend a night in a haunted house?”
Dear God. Rudy was beginning to yearn for the stiff coldness of his deserted train seat. “Haunted, huh? And who might the unfortunate soul be?”
Jefferson looked at him as if he’d just fallen off a tobacco truck. “Why, you’ve never heard about the restless soul of John Wilkes Booth, the assassinator of Abraham Lincoln? Forever doomed to walk the earth in search of forgiveness? They say he and Mary Surratt were in cahoots, but we know that’s hogwash. The military screwed up and hanged her anyway. Not as smart as old Booth, no she wasn’t. Where’s a restless soul to go? It seems Dr. Mudd’s house was full, so ole Booth moseyed over to Mary’s house and has been there ever since. He haunts her rowhouse in Washington, too, but he ain’t there near as much as the Surratt Inn. Might say that’s his primary residence.” Jefferson chuckled and let fly a stream of brown tobacco juice out to his left.
Rudy closed his eyes and bemoaned his decision to jaunt off to Washington in the first place. He should have stayed in Nevis, where he was needed. He could have discussed the job later. Maybe.
The Surratt Inn was a tidy white clapboard farmhouse with a chimney at each end and a broad porch that ran across the front. There were three rentable rooms upstairs and a small public dining room on the first floor. A brick smokehouse sat just off the outdoor privy in the backyard. The accommodations would be satisfactory as long as they proved clean.
Signage just inside the door listed rates for rooms: forty cents a night or two-fifty for an entire week—meals included. To the left of the front desk he could see the long communal table in the dining room. The air was filled with the smell of cooked meat and garbled conversation.
“Would you have any rooms available?” Rudy asked the young brown-haired woman sitting behind the desk.
She stuck her spoon into the mound of mashed potatoes on the dinner plate before her and gave him a heavenly smile. “Yes, sir. Just one night?”
Sweet and virginal, she looked to be in her early teens. He got lost in her lovely blue eyes for a moment before fighting his way back to earth. He nodded and handed her the exact amount. In return, she slid the register toward him.
He gave the open book a brief review, chuckled to himself, and then scribbled Tatum Shoemaker across the first empty line. Private joke and he enjoyed it everywhere he went. What did it mean? He had no idea. Maybe he secretly desired to be Shoemaker. That Freud guy would find some deep-seated reason for it. Of all the reporters he had ever met, Shoe was the best. He crossed the second T in Tatum and looked up at the young girl, who was smiling at him. Ahh, to be a younger man. He took the proffered heavy brass door key to the bedroom that overlooked the front of the house and headed upstairs.
After he’d cleaned up and confirmed that the lock on his door was in good working order, he sat at the tiny secretary in the corner and jotted a quick message explaining his misfortune and whereabouts. Then he was off to find the post office. If he had any luck at all today, the missive would post to Nevis before he arrived. He didn’t want to leave the love of his life dangling. His delay could not have been more ill-timed.
The center of town stood at the intersection of two roads. He supposed they had names—Main Street and Whatever—but there were no street signs. On the four corners of this little slice of paradise stood four buildings. On the Surratt’s side of the street stood a small but stately brick building. There was no marquee on the latter, but considering the vertical iron bars across the windows, he assumed it to be the bank. A single chestnut nag stood tethered outside. Across the road from the inn stood an unremarkable one-room, white clapboard building housing both a post office and a school. A discreet plaque affixed just to the right of the black twin front doors proclaimed it so. On the diagonal, which he would guess to be north by the sun’s direction, sat B.K. Miller’s Market—easily the largest structure in town. If he somehow got into trouble, that would be the name he dropped. On the diagonal to the bank stood a stable, a blacksmith’s hammer tapping and ringing out a practiced rhythm.
There was little else in the thriving metropolis. Beyond Miller’s stood a white building with a barber pole prominently displayed. And past that on the same side of the street, the Clinton Inn, which looked more like a booze joint than a respite for the weary traveler, and lastly, a fair-sized church. He walked far enough to see that its denomination was Catholic and that confessions were heard on Monday through Friday from 9 a.m. until 4:30. It seemed Clinton did quite a bit of sinning.
He crossed over Main Street—or Whatever, if one preferred—to Gwynn’s Ford car lot. Out front, two brand-new black Model Ts glistened in the sun, and out the back several decent-looking horses munched weeds from their short tethers.
And that was it. He could stock up on provisions, get his hair cut, bend elbows with the local boys, or confess his heart out. Clinton was tiny and as unexciting as he’d imagined—the kind of place its youngsters no doubt dreamed of escaping one day.
In a small backwater like this, keeping to oneself was always the wisest choice. He returned to the inn. Supper was well underway in the dining room, but there were only dregs to be had in the various communal serving dishes. He made an about-face, nodded good-night to the lovely angel at the counter, and headed for bed.
“Wait, Mr.—” The angel paused to consider the register. “Mr.—"
“‘Rudy’ is fine.”
“I think I might be able to find something for you, Rudy,” she said with a wink. “Just go on about your business and I’ll bring it up shortly.”
He was inclined to tell her not to bother, but the aroma of good food lingered and his stomach was grumbling. He agreed and retired upstairs.
After an hour or so, without his promised meal, Rudy began to doubt her word. It was the perfect ending to a perfectly miserable day. He hung his trousers and suitcoat neatly over the brass clothes valet and climbed into the spindle bed in his skivvies. The bed was firm, but comfortable. With the heavy, warm patchwork quilt pulled up tightly under his chin, he slipped quickly into sleep.
He jerked awake just as quickly at the creak of the heavy bedroom door. A sliver of light from the hallway sliced the dark space and grew wider as the door opened. He remained silent and still, bemoaning the fact that his pocketknife and pistol were snugged away in his trousers.
“Mr. Rudy?”
“Yes, sorry.” He sat up and fumbled for the light on the bedside table.
“Don’t,” she said. “I’ve enough light. I’ll switch on the light by the door as I go.” She deposited a tray on the writing desk under the window. She then went back to the door and closed it, once again returning the room to total darkness.
And then he heard the lock on the door click, which was peculiar, because he was fairly certain it could only be locked from the inside. Before he could swing his legs out of bed, Rudy felt the bed sway and the touch of a soft hand against his cheek. It was one of those rare sweet moments that did not need to be explained or rejected. He didn’t need to say a word, just pull her into his bed and accept all the hospitality she could offer.
He politely escorted her out the door and locked it. He had but one love these days, and he would never betray her.
He fell into a deep sleep, and the next time he awoke, morning light was streaming through the window. He discovered the angelic desk clerk asleep on the floor next to his bed, a room key still clasped in her hand. She—they’d never gotten around to formal introductions—was as beautiful as the first time he set eyes on her. He took a moment to admire her face. His only complaint would be her chubby physique, but to dwell on that would be unkind.
He got up and dressed quickly, struggling with a difficult question of protocol. Did she expect him to leave some sort of payment on the nightstand? Or should he chalk this up to his charm and dashing good looks?
He didn’t get a chance to decide.
“Arlene?” a man’s voice called out, followed by insistent knocking on doors, including his. When the doorknob began to rattle, Rudy grabbed a roll off the tray of untouched food and scampered out the window. He managed a controlled slide down the porch roof and perched there a moment to see if the coast was clear. Why, this was a lucky day, he decided, spying Jefferson looking up at him from his wagon directly below.
“Any chance you’re going to the depot?” he asked, checking to see if anyone had climbed out of the window behind him.
Jefferson threw aside the apple he had been eating and nodded. “Two bucks will get you back there.”
“A bargain at any price,” Rudy said. He jumped off the roof and landed onto several hay bales in the wagon bed. “Bonus for you if you can get me there in time to catch the 8:30.”
“No problem,” Jefferson said. He lashed the horses and set off lickety-split.
Thank God for this man, Rudy thought as they jounced back to the depot. It seemed good fortune had decided to keep him company once more. What were the chances of him being right there? “If you can keep all of this among friends, it would be most generous of you.”
“Yes, sir, not my business.”
“Much obliged. It was all a small misunderstanding, you see. I paid in full.” He looked at Jefferson, who was smiling pleasantly, and suddenly he knew exactly what Jefferson’s business was all about. “Something tells me this isn’t a new experience for you.”
Jefferson’s smile broadened and he winked at him.
“Just you, me, and Arlene.”
Chapter Four
Tobacco to Cabbage
Rudy checked over his shoulder several times. Once or twice he thought he saw a dusty cloud kicking up behind them, but if Arlene’s outraged menfolk were in pursuit, they didn’t manage to close the distance.
As they neared the depot, Rudy could see a four-car blue passenger train already at the station, its engine billowing steam and its whistle wailing impending departure. “Can’t you go any faster than this?” Rudy asked. It was a rhetorical question, of course. Jefferson was already laying heavy on the lash, the wagon bouncing and creaking along the dirt road as if it were going to fly apart at the joints.
When they hit the station yard, the wagon jerked to a halt as close to the tracks as the horses would let it. If there had been a milling crowd, Jefferson would have mowed them all down. Rudy thrust a five-spot at him and bounded straight for the first carriage. The conductor was already preparing to give the all-clear signal.
“Wait, wait,” Rudy yelled at him.
“Ticket?” the conductor called back.
“Yes,” Rudy said, fumbling through his pockets for yesterday’s paperwork. He mumbled a curse. It was stuffed in his suitcase back at the inn. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and tried to catch his breath. “Yes . . . I’m afraid . . . I’ve misplaced it since yesterday’s mishap. I had to overnight in that godforsak—Clinton.”
The conductor gave him a disgusted look and pointed toward the depot. “Next train, ten o’clock.”
“That’s impossible,” Rudy said, watching a billowing dust cloud growing ever larger on the horizon. He broke out into a sweat. “Surely you have a master list of last night’s passengers? Rudy Becker. Check it.”
There was a bit of jostling and rearranging of bodies at the top of the stairs. A dapper older man in a fedora squeezed past the conductor and gave him the once-over. “Rudy Becker?”
“Yes, sir,” Rudy said, wondering if certain offended parties in Clinton had wired ahead about his ravishing of a virginal member of the household. The gentleman didn’t resemble any railroad dick he had ever encountered. “Have we—”
The new man turned to the conductor and said, “I can vouch for this man. Let him board.”
There may have been an exchange of money, but at the moment, Rudy didn’t care. He hustled aboard, followed his benefactor to the rear of the car—which was virtually empty—and sat down across from him. “How do you know me?”
“I was in Washington yesterday looking for you. I’m Douglas Emerson.”
“Emerson . . . Emerson . . . Emerson?” Rudy shook his head.
“No worry. We have never met, but I’d like to discuss with you a very important matter of the utmost sensitivity.” Emerson handed him a business card that indicated he was a lawyer. “I can only assume that our serendipitous meeting this morning bodes well for both of us. I have a proposition for you.”
Rudy held out his hands in protest. “I think I’ve had enough propositions for a while.”
Emerson leaned forward in his seat as if he didn’t wish to be overheard. There was a no-nonsense intensity in his gaze. “Rudolph initial S Becker. Investigative journalist. Born out of wedlock in Baltimore, Maryland in 1903. Other than that, your personal life is immaterial, Mr. Becker. I just need you to do a little investigative work which, if done satisfactorily, will net you a handsome profit. Still not interested?”
What was Emerson all about and why was he poking around in his personal life? Seeing as how he was momentarily beholden to the man, Rudy decided Emerson’s comments were more curious than offensive. If he had more thoroughly snooped, he’d have known Rudy had recently moved on to a more lucrative line of work—one which he was not at liberty to discuss. For now, “investigate reporter” would continue to suffice.
“No,” Rudy said, watching a wagonload of trouble pulling up to the departing train with baseball bats and sticks. He looked at the raging face of the driver. It was a face he wouldn’t soon forget. “I think you’re talking my language. What did you have in mind?”
“I have a murder in Nevis that I need you to investigate. There will be substantial resources at your disposal, and provided you can remain discreet, free rein to carry out your business.”
Why did things always boil down to money? The short answer was, because journalism had never paid well and his new position hadn’t paid yet. The long answer . . . well, as might be expected of him, it involved a woman. But this time, he was attempting to do the right thing. And to do the right thing took money. Lots of money. Probably more than he could ever accumulate, but he was trying. He assessed Emerson: well-cut clothes; expensive shoes, albeit needing a good polishing; and manicured fingernails. How fortuitous to have a well-heeled total stranger offering to fill the much-needed kitty. This could be a windfa
ll. Rudy eased back into his seat. A little more jingle in his pocket would make it all turn out swell, quicker than they had ever thought possible. “I’m your man, sir. Give me the particulars and I’ll start immediately.”
“Not here,” Emerson said, taking in their surroundings. “Somewhere a little more discreet. Meet me at the Bayside later today at three o’clock sharp and we can discuss it further. If you’re late, I’ll assume you’re not interested.”
Rudy gazed out the window and saw trouble disappearing into the distance. At least for the moment. He’d worry later about all the identifying information in the suitcase he’d left behind.
Chapter Five
A Convenient Cover
The Chesapeake Railway Express pulled into the Nevis train station right before 8:30 a.m. Shoe alighted from his coach a much different man from the naïve green reporter who had arrived in town two years earlier. Back then, he had nothing but a pedigree, a snout for news, and an abundance of ambition. To that he could now add experience and investigative skills that could make things happen. He was tired of living paycheck-to-paycheck. Douglas Emerson could fix that. Then he would be choosy about the cases he took.
He looked around, taken aback at the number of people pouring out of the train. He checked his watch. Even in this fine December weather, it was odd to have patrons rushing the gates to Bayland Amusement Park. He flagged a railway porter with the name tag PARNELL and requested their luggage.
Jack immediately disappeared into the crowd. By the time Shoe saw him again, he suspected Jack would have more leads than a barnful of thoroughbreds. He turned and offered Fannie a hand. She’d kept her nose in The Sheik—her most recent escape into romance novels—until they had rounded the great curve on the outskirts of town. She was either truly enjoying it or giving him the silent treatment. He wasn’t sure on that one. She kept him off balance all the time. Currently, she was smiling and her eyes were bright, almost sparkling. She inhaled deeply as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
The Dame on the Dock Page 3
