In the twenty-odd years she had run the shop, which had been founded by her grandfather, Celesta had learned to rely on her acumen and instincts, and they had served her well. Her grand tour abroad had been cut short upon the death of her father twenty-one years ago, and she had returned to discover herself the sole heiress of a respectable business. W. Timothy Hollister, her father's lawyer, had pressured her to sell the shop. 'I'm afraid you're just not well enough acquainted with it, Celesta, and being a young woman and all . . .' he'd said with a gentle sadness. 'Anyway, I think I can come up with a buyer. If you sell it, it should fetch a good price and, wisely invested, that'll give you enough to live on nicely for the rest of your life.'
'And do what?' she'd asked him in quiet outrage. 'Needlepoint? Quietly become an old maid? Men don't find me particularly appealing, except those who think I have some money. No, if I'm to be an old maid, I'd rather be one with a business that will keep me busy.'
She'd changed lawyers, found one receptive to her ambitions, and taken over the store. Since then she had single-handedly built Bensey's into St. Louis', perhaps Missouri's, smartest purveyor of luxury goods. And thanks to Giuseppe Fazio, whom she'd discovered in Italy during her grand tour—and had subsequently sent for, along with his wife and child—the store had become the envy of everyone in the trade. For Giuseppe Fazio was an artist, and the tools of his trade— the crucibles, the mallets, the furnace, the wax, the casting platters, and the diamond cutters—all were his brushes. The delicate rings and necklaces, the sterling platters, the finely wrought flatware and bowls, the classic tea services he fashioned—no matter how grand or humble the item, he brought gold and silver and vermeil to magical, beautiful life. There wasn't a single well-to-do family within a radius of a hundred miles that didn't boast some treasure from Bensey's— a child's silver spoon, a cake service, a necklace, or a simple wedding band. In Missouri, even the most inexpensive gift item had cachet if the box in which it came was labeled 'Bensey's.'
Yes, she forged Bensey's into the most fashionable place for luxury shopping. Dowagers, socialites, newly weds, potential brides . . . it was to her that they all flocked. Every year, indeed every day, brought more and more business to her door. And that, she thought, was extremely gratifying . . . not to mention exhausting.
She sighed softly to herself, a sigh half-weary, half-congratulatory. Today had been a good day. No, an exceptional day, even if she thought so herself. In fact, she was certain she had made more sales on this one day than on any other single day during the year, excepting the Christmas season, of course—and all because there were to be three society weddings next month. Bless the brides, she told herself. Then she smiled. Brides appealed to both her sentimentality and her sense of business.
Once again she sighed softly. Her feet hurt and her stomach was growling. There had been so much traffic in and out that she hadn't been able to take a single break, nor had she been able to close for lunch, something which hadn't happened since December. Now she would have a huge billing to do for her regular customers in good standing; the money from her cash-paying customers was in the back room on a desk, stuffed into a cloth bag belonging to the bank. Mentally she guessed what it contained. Probably close to five thousand dollars . . . maybe closer to six. She made it a point never to keep much cash on hand, but today had been so extremely busy, and with Giuseppe gone to Philadelphia, she just hadn't had the time to run to the bank to make the deposit. She would lock it in the safe until tomorrow morning.
She placed her clenched hands on the small of her back and stretched. She was bone-weary. It would be a relief to sit down. No, she simply couldn't walk to the night deposit box now.
For once, she would put something off until tomorrow. She couldn't see what harm that could do.
The room was hot and airless, but he didn't dare open the window lest a breeze part the curtains, making him visible from the street below. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of one hand. The sweat he'd worked up wasn't from the heat. It was sheer nerves.
He felt physically ill. For three hours now he had been sitting behind the curtains with the patience of the hunter, watching the comings and goings of the jewelry emporium's customers with keen interest. Every few minutes, either a well-dressed pedestrian would walk into the shop off the street, or a horse and buggy would pull up alongside the fluttering awning at the curb. A few couples even arrived in noisy, smoke-belching horseless carriages.
He had watched the afternoon shadows lengthen steadily, a deep tide of purple creeping slowly first across the sidewalk, and then the street, until it reached the sidewalk on his side and began to climb the red brick walls of the hotel, seeping into his room. He was filled with an immense sadness, as if he knew that what he was about to do would change his life, would forever govern his thoughts and actions, would change the very way he felt about himself. He wished there was some other way he could raise the money for his mother's stay at the clinic. But wishes were for dreamers. And he was a dreamer no more.
He parted the curtain with one finger, careful to stay hidden behind it, and glanced at the tall white church steeple in the distance. The big black Roman numerals on the round white face showed it was nearly five- thirty. He glanced down at Bensey's Jewelers. The shop closed at six.
Suddenly he sprang to his feet. He could see two tiny, disembodied hands reaching down into one of the display cases next to the door. The jewelry was already being taken away to be locked up for the night.
It was time he went downstairs. He had but half an hour to finish what he had set out to do. As if to reinforce this thought, the church bell tolled once, deep and resonant.
He scraped back his chair, dumped the contents of the suitcase out on the bed, and sorted quickly through them. He grabbed the length of rope, the revolver, the rags, and the burlap hood. For a moment he looked down at the things he had sneaked out of the Howe cabin.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his soul in turmoil. He was no thief, just as he was no beggar. But then a vision sprang up in front of his eyes. He pictured his mother, pale and weak, her body racked with painful coughs; he heard the ugly retching sounds as she spat up the thick, bloody, poisonous phlegm. He knew that he had to finish what he had started.
It was now or never.
Carefully Celesta removed a tray of wristwatches from a display. She was grateful that Deputy Sheriff Hank Yarby had stopped by on his morning rounds to invite her out to dinner. At first she'd made excuses, but then he'd insisted and she'd said very well, if you won't take no for an answer, we'll meet here at six. Yarby was sweet, really, even if he was six years younger than she. He'd been with the sheriff's office for eight years now, and rumor had it he would run for sheriff once old Sheriff Caldwell retired. Yes, tonight was one night that a restaurant dinner would be more than welcome. She simply didn't have the energy to go home and cook. Still, she wished her date was someone other than Yarby.
Not that she didn't like him. It was just that she didn't like him enough. He was strong and fearless, and handsome in a crude kind of way, but his manners left something to be desired, as did his family's background. He was rather like a diamond in the rough, she thought, but one which would never be cut and polished.
She knew that Yarby was infatuated with her, and she knew full well, too, that his hopes were useless. She had gently rebuffed him countless times, but that had only seemed to make him that much more ardent. Still, common courtesies and a few harmless dinners didn't hurt, she told herself. Bensey's Jewelers had been robbed only twice in its hundred-year history, and that had been long, long ago. Still, one never knew.
It didn't hurt to have friends in the sheriff's office.
Cling-cling-cling!
Not another customer! Slowly she rubbed her eyes with her fingertips. Well, this would be the last one of the day. As she turned around gracefully, Celesta played her little guessing game. For which of the three weddings, she mused, would this client buy—
The gas
p froze somewhere in her throat and her eyes dilated dramatically. For the first time in her life, she found herself staring into the barrel of a revolver. She laughed nervously and tried to clear her throat. 'Now, Yarby,' she said tremulously, 'that's not a very funny joke, you know.'
The only reply from behind the hideous burlap hood was heavy, rasping breaths.
Zaccheus' breath was coming hard with excitement. He couldn't seem to get enough oxygen into his lungs. He tried to swallow, but the sick icy chill of fear, combined with the sudden heady thrill of a perverse power, emotions totally alien to him, radiated from the pit of his stomach and burned down into his loins. He felt he had to urinate badly. And throw up.
He could feel the nausea rising and fought to keep it down.
With a quick backward thrust of his revolver arm, he elbowed the door behind him shut. The soft cling- cling-cling! seemed suddenly loud and shrill, and the woman jumped. He glanced swiftly behind him. The door was shut. They were alone.
He came slowly forward.
The woman gazed at him in horror and shrank back, the taut cords of her neck working madly. 'What . . . do you want?'
She kept edging slowly backward, the fingertips of one hand trying to feel the way. Nevertheless, she gasped and let out a startled yelp when her hand touched the cool smooth glass of the counter behind her. She drew up as close to it as she could, trying to flatten the lower portion of her body against it.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and her lips moved hysterically as she uttered a silent prayer.
She wasn't alone in her fear. Zaccheus' heart was beating so fiercely that he felt certain it would burst. He tried to take deep, even breaths, but that only seemed to make it worse. He let the suitcase he had been carrying drop to the floor. It landed with a bang and the woman's eyes popped open as she let out a scream. When she realized the gun hadn't gone off, she looked relieved, tried to get control of herself, took a deep breath.
Zaccheus was sweating so badly that he could feel the revolver slipping in his hand. He wiped his left hand dry on his poncho, changed the revolver to that hand, wiped his right hand dry, and switched the revolver again. The woman didn't move, but her eyes followed the weapon.
He waved it threateningly. 'Where's the money?' he demanded in a trembling voice.
Celesta Bensey had one attribute which had made her admired and respected throughout the community: she was possessed of a will of iron. Now, despite the fear which clenched her in its ice-cold vise, the quick, well-oiled business gears in her mind clicked and turned and she thought of the money she would lose. Her fighting spirit was instantly roused.
'There . . . there isn't much cash here,' she lied in a quivering whisper. 'It's . . . it's taken to the bank. Twice a day.' She swallowed, her neck cords bulging with the effort.
He brought the barrel of the revolver slowly forward to within inches of her face, and lined her up in the sights. 'How much have you got?'
She began to scutttle sideways, like a spider. 'I'll have to go check—'
'Don't!' he yelled sharply, and then his voice dropped, 'move. Not until I tell you to.' She froze in terror, one hand on her breast. ' 'Just tell me where you keep it.'' 'In the top drawer . . . over there . . . under that display case.' She gestured with her chin. His eyes followed the movement. A built-in ceiling-high display case with glass doors, behind which several shelves of silver trays were propped, ran the length of the wall. Beneath one set of the tall doors was a vertical series of drawers built flush with the case. That was where, first thing at the end of each business day, even before she tallied the sales, she put aside the forty dollars—five singles, one five, one ten, and one twenty-dollar bill—which she traditionally kept on hand for making change in the morning.
She watched him as he backed cautiously over to the drawers, keeping the revolver pointed at her as he reached behind him and pulled the top drawer open. He stuck a hand inside, felt around, and came up with a few assorted bills. He held them in front of his eyes, grunted something indistinguishable, reached under the poncho, and stuffed them into a pocket. Then he hopped sprightly back from the display case and landed softy in front of her. 'I don't believe this is all there is,' he said heavily.
He paused, leering at her threateningly. 'You want to live?'
Her head bobbed and a cry tried to work its way up from the depths of her throat, but it became a strangled gurgle.
'If you can't come up with any more, you're dead,' he whispered hoarsely. He placed both hands on the grip of the revolver, raised it to her face, and drew even closer, until the barrel pressed closely against her forehead. There was a sharp click! as he cocked the firing mechanism.
Celesta squeezed her eyes shut and began to chatter an urgent Lord's Prayer. 'Ourfatherwhoartinheavenhallowedbethy—'
'Stop praying!' he screamed in high-pitched hysteria. 'Stop it! Do you hear me? Stop it!' Her eyes flew open, and her dark pupils danced with fright. He was mad! Stark raving mad!
'Don't pray!' he screamed. He thrust his hooded face forward so suddenly that she shrank back. 'Do you hear me! I said, don't pray!'
She trembled more than nodded.
His voice was shaky. 'I came here to steal money. Since there isn't any more money, I'm going to take some jewels. Tell me when I have eight hundred dollars' worth.'
Careful to keep her covered with the revolver, he skirted her slowly and went behind the counter. She half-turned, watching him in horror. This can't be happening, she told herself. I'm dreaming a bad dream . . . a nightmare . . . that's all. I'm going to wake up at any moment and it's going to be all over. . . .
Her eyes flickered down to the mahogany-framed clear-glass case in which some of the most expensive, most exquisite rings in the shop glittered richly. Each time his hand plucked a ring up off the maroon velvet, she flinched as though mortally wounded.
Once he had a handful, he held them close to one of the eyeholes of his hood. She watched as he unclenched his hand, tilted his head, and inspected them closely, like a bird.
That hood doesn't allow him any peripheral vision! she thought. Her heart soared hopefully. As long as he s not looking straight at me, I've got a chance to escape! Five quick normal steps, or a one-and-a-half- second dash, and I'll be out the door—
Cling-cling-cling!
They both jerked around, and then Zaccheus' world collapsed.
'I wouldn't move if I was you,' a voice said gruffly. ' 'Round here, we don't take kindly to nice upright folks like Miz Bensey gettin' robbed.'
Zaccheus rolled his eyes slowly sideways. Hank Yarby had his shotgun aimed right at his head.
It was all over. Just like that.
14
Demps Johnson, the large, powerfully built black man, slowly glanced up when he heard footsteps echoing through the jail corridor. His eyes were big and soulful, so heavily lidded that it looked as if he were perpetually half-asleep.
He watched with deceptive casualness as Yarby unlocked his cell door and rolled it open. The loud, clanging roar was amplified by the stone walls and floors and echoed back and forth, back and forth.
Yarby grinned. 'Got a buddy for you, Demps.'
Demps looked at him expressionlessly. Then the big deputy turned to the young prisoner he'd been escorting. He grabbed him unceremoniously by the scruff of his collar and the seat of his pants and threw him into the cell.
Zaccheus was propelled forward so fast, and with such force, that he slammed against the stone wall headfirst. His forehead cracked noisily, the breath wooshed out of him, and he saw a huge white aureole coming at him.
Then everything went dark. He didn't see the big deputy spit a wad of chewing tobacco at him. He didn't hear the reverberating clang of the cell door as Yarby slammed it shut with a bang of finality and locked it with one of the big keys on the big ring. 'What you lookin' at, boy?' The big deputy grinned at Demps, chewing the remainder of his tobacco wad with deliberation.
Demps didn't even flinch when the wad went fly
ing and smacked against his face. He had suffered this indignity all too often.
Yarby chuckled, shook his head, turned, and walked off, his keys jingling. Only when he was gone did Demps wipe his face with his shirt sleeve. He wasn't about to give Yarby the pleasure of seeing how being spat at burned his very soul.
It took about three minutes for Zaccheus to come to. He seemed surprised to find himself lying on the floor, and shook his head like a wet dog shaking itself dry, trying to clear it of the cobwebs fuzzing his mind. He stopped the shaking as soon as he'd begun it. He had a splitting headache, and the slightest movement sent sharp white arrows of pain shooting through his skull.
He moaned softly, probing his forehead gingerly with the fingertips of both hands.
Demps laughed. 'You okay, boy,' he said in his deep, rich bass voice. 'You just had yourself a li'l confrontation with an inanimate object, is all. A two- foot-thick stone wall, to be precise.'
Zaccheus turned his head slowly. 'Where am I?'
'You in a free hotel, boy, courtesy of the fine city of St. Louis, Missouri. Room and board provided.' His voice softened. 'You in a holdin' cell in the town jail.'
Zaccheus closed his eyes as everything that had transpired came painfully back to him. I must have been crazy, he decided. Why else would I have done a damn-fool thing like trying to rob Bensey's Jewelers?
Because I wasn't crazy, he answered himself. I was desperate.
A little smile hovered on Demps's lips. 'That floor pretty hard, boy. Best set on a bunk. Ain't much softer, but it shore better'n the floor. Even got a blanket. See?' Demps lifted up a corner of threadbare gray cloth.
Zaccheus tightened his lips, rested his back against the cold corner, and remained on the floor. He drew his knees up to his chin.
'You want to talk, boy?' Demps asked softly.
Texas Born Page 18
