Special Delivery

by Gini Rifkin

  ****

  Virgil drummed the fingers of his right hand on the desktop.

  There had been no choice but to bury Mr. Underhill. They’d thought about transporting him up the mountain and packing him in snow until Wentworth could get here, but then it had started to rain, a real gully-washer. Now, with mud up to the wheel axles, they didn’t have a prayer of getting a wagon up Red Creek Canyon. This fancy detective from Scotland Yard would have to be satisfied with the copious notes he’d taken regarding the scene of the murder, and the report Doc McAllister had been good enough to write up regarding the man’s wounds.

  He stopped drumming and grazed his hand across the back of his neck, recalling how Miss McAllister had helped her father perform the “examination.” Cripes, the woman never ceased to amaze him. But she should take more care and not be out and about at all hours. It seemed obvious she had interrupted the killer that night on the road, or at least had been right behind him. Luckily she hadn’t gotten herself hurt or worse.

  A smile creased his face. She was the most determined woman with whom he’d ever crossed trails. Until lately, he’d pretty much tried to avoid her. She was from the respectable side of the tracks, and he’d always figured she was looking for a man with a known lineage rather than a drifter with a history of not backing down from a fight and occasionally starting one. But after being alone with her in the hotel room, maybe he was wrong. She seemed interested enough by the way she was eying him when she thought he wasn’t looking. And he’d been eying her ever since he hit town.

  Focusing back to matters at hand, he reached for and reread Wentworth’s week-old cable reply. It stated the man had left London immediately. Counting eight days on a transatlantic steamer and four on a train out of New York, the man should reach Denver’s Union Station three days from now. He supposed courtesy and protocol dictated he ride down and meet the gent rather than relying on him to find his own way here.

  Usually tranquil to the point of sleepiness, Clover City was abuzz with speculation and fear. Both were well earned. Nothing he’d had to contend with since becoming marshal came close to a murder wrapped around some dad-blamed mystifying letter written partly in French.

  Ever since the night Mariah had come knocking on his door, he’d been poking around, hoping to stumble across some rock-solid evidence, but progress had been slow. Maybe the mystery would be solved when this Englishman arrived. The connection to England was curious. And while not exactly a country considered an exotic location, it did bring his thoughts back around full circle to Morgan Blackwell.

  It was common knowledge the man liked the unusual, and he flaunted what he had every chance he got. He’d also been lying low ever since the body had been discovered near his property. Virgil had ridden out to Morgan’s ranch for a little chat. Blackwell had been suspiciously polite. But these interesting bits and pieces were pure supposition, and not enough to bring charges against him.

  He tossed Wentworth’s communiqué aside and eyed the letter Mariah had found in Underhill’s boot. Having lived two years in New Orleans, he knew a little French, but was better at speaking it rather than reading or writing it. He strangled a sigh as Juliet came to mind. For him, Juliet and New Orleans would always be synonymous. He’d been so young back then, barely knew hay from straw. And Juliet had been waiting for a mark just like him—naïve, trusting, and looking for adventure. She’d been his downfall in more ways than one.

  Although unintentional, he’d broken the law for her, and she’d broken his heart. There was really no one to blame but himself. Three years in prison, which had seemed like thirty, had given him time to grow up and grow smart. That’s when he’d decided never to fall in love again.

  Forcing the painful recollections from his mind, he gained his feet and peered out the window onto Main Street. The rain had quit. It was sunny and bright now. The weather in Colorado was as unpredictable as a woman. In the winter, you could wake up to snow, and by noon be too damn hot to shovel it.

  Shrugging into his long black duster, he settled his well-worn hat into place and stepped out onto the boardwalk. He might as well take a spin around town. Showing up unannounced, in various places and at various times, kept folks on the straight and narrow. And it helped to pass the time.

  Midway across the street, he glanced up and stopped dead in his tracks. On one side came Molly Malloy, high-stepping along on those crazy high-heeled shoes. She flashed him a smile that meant more than hello, and with a toss of her head, she set her unbound red hair to swaying. Pausing outside the mercantile, she seemed to be waiting for him to turn and head in her direction. He felt himself grow hard remembering the last time they’d been together. That woman had an extensive familiarity with men, and she wasn’t afraid to practice what she knew.

  On the other side of Main came Mariah, arms full of books and medical supplies for her father. She appeared to be headed for Doc’s office. Spotting him, a grin born of innocent charm brightened her face. She tried to wave, dropped today’s mail, and yelped in distress as the letters caught a breeze and headed for a nearby mud-puddle. Without thinking, he hurried to rescue the errant envelopes. When he glanced over his shoulder, he flinched at the expression of jealous anger searing across Molly’s face. In a full-blown tizzy, she stamped her foot and flounced into the store.

  Virgil scooped up the mail. “Here, let me help you with those,” he offered.

  Trying to trade the retrieved letters for the jumble of supplies Mariah held against her chest, he fought to get a grasp on the packages and one hand grazed the front of her dress. Her eyes grew wide, and her mouth opened in a little mew of surprise. But she didn’t shy away, or reprimand him for the unintentional act. They were standing close together, the parcels the only thing separating their bodies.

  “Thank you,” she breathed. Then as if coming to her senses, she took a step back, and a rose-pink blush infused her cheeks.

  “Have you discovered anything new regarding the curious case of Mr. Underhill?” she blurted.

  He shook his head. “The man from Scotland Yard is due to arrive in a few days. I’m pinning my hopes on him.”

  As she mulled over his answer, she pursed her lips—lips that begged to be kissed. He couldn’t stop staring at her. Under his scrutiny, her blush deepened and she glanced away. He had the urge to make other parts of her flush with excitement.

  What was going on?

  The way he felt about her was unnerving. It was also exciting, making him feel more alive than he’d felt in a good long while.

  “I guess we’d best get these supplies to Doc’s office,” he finally said.

  “Supplies?”

  He shifted the packages in his arms.

  “Oh, mercy, yes. Dad’s been waiting all morning for those glass stopper bottles.”

  She took off down the boardwalk like a woman on a mission. He followed behind, close enough to catch a hint of her perfume. It drifted along two steps behind her as if it couldn’t keep up with her reckless pace. It was honeysuckle again, like the fragrance infused on the letter she’d hidden in the bodice of her dress. She stopped short, and he plowed into her backside. Not seeming to notice, she turned around, her brows knitted in deep thought.

  “Do you suppose Morgan Blackwell is somehow involved? Those weird black and white cattle of his are from England. But how could that be worth dying over? Unless of course they’re stolen.” Mariah asked and answered her own questions in such a flurry, he didn’t have a chance to get a word in edgewise, so he just let her ramble on. It was a comfort to know she was wandering down the same thought-path he’d been on.

  She spun around and took off again. The woman seemed an endless well of energy. Would she be as enthusiastic making love? Damn, why couldn’t he keep from thinking of her in his bed—her arms and legs entangled with his, her hair loose and fanned out across the pillow. He took a deep breath and followed her into her father’s front office.

  Placing the supplies on the countertop, he took
up a position as far away from her as possible. He’d been considering asking her to the upcoming ice cream social, but now he didn’t know what he feared most, her rejection or her acceptance. And Molly would be cross as a wet cat and probably never forgive him. Although their relationship was purely physical, he wasn’t sure he was ready to give her up. A man had needs.

  “Howdy, Marshal,” Doc said as he labored across the room and took to the nearest chair.

  “You’re still ailing from that cold,” Virgil noted. “Seeing as you have the best nurse in town, I thought you’d be right as rain by now.”

  Mariah shook her head and slid her arm across her father’s shoulders. “He works too hard and keeps too many long hours,” she fussed. “Even Florence Nightingale doesn’t have a cure for that.”

  “Guess I could use a little relaxation,” Doc admitted. “Like the ice cream social coming up. Course I’ll still be too weak to do any real dancing with you, Mariah. Too bad someone younger isn’t available to help me out of the situation.”

  Virgil didn’t miss the raised brow and look of expectation thrown his way. Was it possible the old man was actually encouraging him to take up with his daughter? Over the past few years, their professions had allowed their paths to cross fairly regular, and he and Doc had formed a mutual respect for one another. Even so, this was unexpected. It was also not an opportunity to be ignored. He mulled the idea over, and when the image of Mariah dancing in someone else’s arms trampled through his mind, the decision was made.

  “I’d be glad to take her off your hands, Doc.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,” Mariah huffed.

  He supposed the offer had sounded more like a favor to her father rather than a proper invitation. It wasn’t what he’d planned to say, but at the moment his tongue felt hogtied and his brain liquored up with bad brew. It’d been years since he’d plied his charms and worried over sweet-talking a female.

  He snatched the hat from his head and stared her straight in the eyes. “Would you do me the honor, Miss McAllister, of allowing me to escort you to the social come Saturday?”

  She glanced up at the ceiling as if carefully considering his offer, but the little smile she couldn’t suppress already gave him her answer.

  Chapter Four

  Virgil brought along a gentle mare for Mr. Wentworth to ride from Denver to Clover City, but the way the man was hangin’ onto the saddle horn with both hands, you’d a thought he was mounted on a mustang stallion fresh off the range.

  “You are quite sure my luggage will be sent along directly?” the man asked for the third time.

  “Absolutely,” Virgil reassured. “And we’ve a fine mercantile in town should you need anything in the interim.”

  “A mercantile?”

  “Yes, a store that sells everything in general.”

  “And nothing specific one would assume?”

  Virgil let out a sigh of annoyance and tried to cut the man some slack, attributing his irritating attitude to travel weariness.

  “Here,” he said, fishing Mr. Underhill’s letter from his shirt pocket. Maybe reading it would take the man’s mind off of his travel woes. “Can you decipher French?” he asked.

  Wentworth pried one hand free from the saddle and grabbed the paper. “Without a doubt, fluently, I might add.”

  Of course—how stupid of him to even ask. Virgil rolled his eyes skyward and prayed for strength. At least they would finally know what was in the note, and why the man was murdered.

  Wentworth very carefully perused the correspondence. Then without a word, he folded the parchment and tucked it away in his vest pocket.

  “Well what does it say?”

  “Nothing that concerns you.”

  Virgil fought back some choice words heading for freedom in the back of his throat. Not concern him? He reached out and grabbed the bridle of the horse at his side, bringing both animals to a halt.

  “I got a dead man in the cemetery and a murderer running loose in my town. That makes it my concern. I thought you came here so we could work together on this.”

  “You thought incorrectly, sir,” Wentworth shot back. “This is my case now. I’ll take over from here, without your help or interference.”

  Well didn’t that beat all? The little English peacock wanted all the glory for himself and jolly old Scotland Yard. Virgil couldn’t care less who got the credit for clearing up this mess. He just wanted to make sure no one else wound up dead.

  “You got it, mister. Keep heading due west and I’ll see you back in Clover City.”

  Laying spurs to his gelding, he took off across the prairie. He thought he heard “what the bloody hell” but with the wind in his ears, he wasn’t sure.

  Clearing the next rise, he angled down a shallow wash and reined his horse in amongst a stand of cottonwood trees. A few minutes later, the peacock came bouncing along, bowler hat askew and elbows flapping. Once the ingrate went past, he decided he’d better trail him and make sure he reached town without mishap. He was heading almost in the right direction, but if he didn’t swing south he was bound to run into Bear Creek Canyon. A man without any help or interference could spend a lifetime wandering around in there. With a grin, he left the trees and ambled along far enough back not to be heard or eat dust.

  All of a sudden, the little mare up ahead snorted, sidestepped, and reared. Wentworth hit the ground with a thud and a curse. Virgil raced forward, spotting the cause of the ruckus. A rattler, big as they come, was several feet away, angry, coiled up, and ready to strike. Pistol in hand he galloped past, shot the head clean off the snake then skidded to a halt and slid from the saddle. Wentworth was still on the ground, wide-eyed and pale as winter wheat.

  He reached out to give the man a hand up, but as the Englishman accepted his assistance, he pulled his hand back. “Oh sorry, I forgot you don’t want any help or interference.”

  Shooting him a glare that could have curdled milk still in the cow, the Peacock struggled to his feet. Then with a shudder, he gave the dead snake a wide berth and went to collect the mare.

  Virgil swung back into the saddle. “Toss him on up,” he called.

  “What?”

  “The snake. Hand him up. He’ll make good eatin’ and a dandy belt.”

  “Surely you jest. The blasted thing nearly killed me.”

  “It wasn’t the snake’s fault you came riding by. Besides, it’s kind of a rule in these parts; you don’t kill something for no good reason. And if there is a good reason, you still put it to good use.”

  To his surprise, Wentworth, picked up the headless snake and flung it with great accuracy at his head.

  Virgil snagged it midair and curled it into the saddlebag. “Nice throw,” he noted.

  “Derbyshire County Cricket Club, ’85 and ’86.”

  “We’re on the same side, you know.”

  “Yes, quite.” Wentworth halted and his shoulders sagged a bit. “Thank you for your assistance, Marshal. I owe you an apology, and I dare say probably my life. Solving this case means a great deal to me—a way of proving myself, so to speak, to the Yard and all. And although my acquaintance with Underhill was brief, he was a good man, one of the best, and I’m honor-bound to bring to justice whoever caused his demise.”

  “Apology accepted. And while I do appreciate your ‘one for all and all for one’ spirit, D’Artagnan, that attitude usually works best when you actually have a partner.”

  “I get the point, Marshal.”

  “Then how about enlightening me as to what’s in the letter?” he urged, taking advantage of the man’s co-operative mood.

  Wentworth gave a little nod of agreement and mounted up.

  “Approximately four months ago,” he began, “there was an attempt on the Queen’s life. The assassination was averted, but the perpetrator escaped. A reward for information yielded evidence the man hired to do the job had left the country and headed here.”

  “To Clover City?”
r />   “Not specifically. At first we only knew he was in these United States, most likely New York City as he was reported to have kinfolk there. Needle in a haystack we all thought. But Underhill, that glorious bastard, actually found the relative. The person was surprisingly cooperative, and the information extracted indicated our man is named Benny Maguire and he was most likely headed to your town.”

  “The name doesn’t strike a chord, and it seems odd he’d be connected with anyone in Clover City. Is that what was in the letter?”

  “No. We obtained all those details in Mortimer’s prior communications. The letter you found stated he now had the man under surveillance. He intended to confront him the very night he was killed.”

  “So why was it written in French?”

  “Nothing earthshaking there, just an added precaution. It’s a language with which most of us at the Yard are familiar. Official secret coding can be cumbersome and changed so frequently it’s the devil to stay current, so this is simpler.”

  “And most of us commoners don’t know French,” Virgil filled in the blanks.

  “Something like that.” Wentworth had the decency to appear a bit sheepish.

  “You’re lucky your hombre didn’t head for New Orleans. Folks there speak French on a regular basis.”

  “I’ll remember that. So you’ve no one in town who claims ancestry to England or Ireland?”

  “Not that I can think of offhand. Most folks who immigrate to this country do so because of hard times. They generally want to forget the past and start the future with a clean slate.”

  “Then we are back to square one. If only Underhill had given us the name of the would-be assassin’s contact. We don’t even know if the reprobate has had time to reach his relative yet.”

  Virgil thought for a moment. “There’s a dance tomorrow night. Most of the town will turn out for it. Seems like a good place for you to socialize and get a bead on people up close and personal.”