by Jo Goodman
Raine shook her head. “No. No, they weren’t.”
The cook’s shoulders had drawn together, tension pulling them taut. Now they relaxed. She began to plate eggs, steak, and fried potatoes. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course I would.”
“Hmm. That’s because you know I’d hear about it.”
“I’d tell you because you deserve to know. The same as I do. And there are others, you know, besides us.”
Mrs. Sterling nodded. “I’m not afraid for myself. They did their worst by me already, taking my husband the way they did, but I can’t help fearing for you and the others.” She picked up Jack Clifton’s plate and gave it a little shake. “I don’t know what makes this man think he needs to stay around when he knows he could end up no better than my Benton.” She raised the plate she’d made for Howard Wheeler and thrust it in Raine’s direction. “And this man has about as much sense as a bag of hair or he would be on the next train to somewhere else.”
“That didn’t work for John Hood,” Raine said quietly. “The Burdicks found him.”
“I think it scares folks to say so out loud,” said Mrs. Sterling. She returned both plates to the tray and looked past Raine to the door. Her voice crackled with her rising agitation. “Where’s that girl gone to? Look in the dining room and see if she’s wiping up something she spilled or flirting with Mr. Weyman.”
Raine opened the door wide enough to catch Emily Ransom’s eye when the girl stopped giggling at something the whiskey drummer from Chicago had said. She crooked her finger and gently closed the door, then moved out of the way until Emily pushed through. Mrs. Sterling gave over the tray and shooed the girl out again.
“I say it out loud,” Raine said, picking up the thread of their conversation. “And Hank Thompson’s been gone almost a year and no one in Bitter Springs has heard from him. He had friends. There should have been a letter by now. One to his mother, at least.”
“That could mean anything. Maybe Agnes got one and isn’t saying. She could be trying to protect him.”
“You’ve known Agnes Thompson all your life. She can’t keep a secret. No one’s heard from him because he’s dead.”
Mrs. Sterling twisted her apron in her hands. “I don’t like this talk.”
“I know.”
The cook hesitated. The question was drawn from her reluctantly. “You really think Hank’s dead?”
Raine briefly closed her eyes. “I’m afraid so, yes.”
“If it’s true, it’s not your fault.”
“I appreciate you saying so, but I know differently.”
“It’s not your fault,” Mrs. Sterling repeated. The steel was back in her voice. “I think I’ve proven I know how to assign blame when it’s warranted. And it’s not, not about this. I don’t hold you responsible for my Benton’s death. He knew what he was about, and he wanted to do the right thing. He was proud to stand up, and I was proud of him for doing it. Still am proud. You diminish his courage by thinking you pressed him to do something against his will.”
Raine nodded, willing to be convinced for now because it was important to Mrs. Sterling. “Maybe that’s what Mr. Clifton and Mr. Wheeler are doing. Standing up.”
“They did that. Now they’re just standing around, and that’s plain foolish. It’s hard to be proud of fools.”
Raine understood that Mrs. Sterling was determined to have the last word. It was wiser to change the subject and hope for the best. She yawned as if she meant it. “I suppose I’ll have that bit of a lie-in after all.”
“There’s a girl.” She added some water to the pitcher of hotcake batter and gave it a stir. “Give me a minute and you can take a couple of these with you.”
Raine waited the requisite minute and a few additional ones so the cook could add an egg and a palm-sized serving of steak. Balancing her plate and a cup of hot coffee in one hand, she lifted her skirt with the other and took the stairs at the back of the hotel to reach her rooms on the third floor.
She had all the space she needed for herself on the uppermost floor of the Pennyroyal. Sometimes it was too much. She could find herself wandering from room to room, recalling that when Adam and Ellen were still with her, she had complained the apartment was too small for the three of them. It was a miserable memory, and she did her best to avoid tripping over it.
Raine used a forearm to clear a space for her breakfast on the writing table in her office. A couple of sheets of paper fluttered to the floor and she let them lie. Sitting down, she pulled out the fork she had squirreled away under her sleeve and cut into the hotcakes. Her stomach rumbled as she lifted two thick slices of molasses-soaked cakes. Just in time, she thought, and stuffed the double helping into her mouth.
She couldn’t eat everything Mrs. Sterling gave her, but she had a taste of all of it, and when she pushed out her belly, her stays pushed back. She turned her chair away from the desk and inched it toward the window. The Pennyroyal was the tallest building in Bitter Springs, taller even than the spire on Grace Church, and the view from Raine’s office took in the storefronts of half a dozen businesses on the opposite side of the street. Beyond that she could make out the rooftop of the parsonage, where Pastor Robbins and his family lived, Mrs. Garvin’s attic window, and if she tilted her head at just the right angle, she could see between the false fronts of the mercantile and the drugstore all the way to the privy in Mr. Webb’s backyard. It always made her smile to think that a self-important man like Mr. Webb traipsed to an outhouse when her hotel had all the latest amenities including hot and cold running water and porcelain pots in every bathing room, which meant her guests did not have to visit the privy. After Adam had installed the water tank and boiler, the hotel was booked for eight weeks with townspeople who paid to spend a night just to open a faucet and wash their hands and face with hot water. Some even took a bath. Mr. Webb was not among the guests. The Burdicks surely would have insisted that the banker stay away. They controlled the bank; therefore, the banker.
Raine felt herself begin to nod off. She would have a crick in her neck for days if she slept in the chair. That prompted her to leave its relative comfort for her bed. She didn’t disturb the coverlet but lay on top of it and plumped the pillows. When the coil at the back of her head pressed uncomfortably, she tore at the pins and unwound it. The combs followed.
There were so many things she still wanted to do before Nat Church arrived, and all of them would have to wait. She could have told Mrs. Sterling the truth: She didn’t deserve to sleep, and the shadows under her eyes were there because she knew it.
It was one of the consequences of hiring a killer.
Curiosity gave Kellen the only excuse he needed to decide against going to Salt Lake City and get off the train at Bitter Springs. At least he preferred to think it was curiosity. The alternative explanation was that he had been moved by impulse, and that would have been worrisome. It was his experience that giving in to impulse meant the odds were better than even that he would be face-to-face with trouble at the end of the day, maybe before supper.
He set his valise at his feet and unclenched his fingers while he waited for the porters to bring his trunks. The bag was heavier than he recalled, and it occurred to him that he should have stowed it in the baggage car or accepted Mr. Berg’s offer to carry it for him. It would have provided a moment’s welcome comedy to watch the diminutive conductor strain to lift the bag, let alone haul it off the train. Every mile traveled since Nat Church surrendered his last breath had been fraught with more tension than the mile before, and Mr. Berg’s desire to make sure no fault was attached to the railroad prompted him to take on the role of investigator, asking as many questions as came to him, and often asking them several different ways.
One thing Bitter Springs had to recommend it was that Mr. Berg wouldn’t be there.
The station platform was only as long as the building that housed the ticket office, baggage area, and restaurant. Kellen walked the length of it s
everal times just to shake off the confinement of travel. Passengers who’d left the train with Kellen had either already gone with their waiting party or were being herded back to their coaches after a frenzied meal in the station eatery. The stop at Bitter Springs, like so many others along the route, was not made for the convenience of hungry travelers. They merely benefited every fifty miles or so because the massive iron engines had requirements of their own. Passengers had exactly as much time to eat as it took the railroad tenders to load the coal and fill the water tanks, which usually necessitated a stop just on either side of twenty minutes. Kellen had participated more than a few times in the ensuing rush to order, pay, and consume a meal in the allotted time. The station restaurants made certain their waitresses could take an order quickly and collect the money even faster than they took the order, but getting the meal to the table, if it made it at all, took upwards of twelve minutes, leaving precious little time for consumption. On those occasions that his food arrived promptly, albeit somewhat less than hot, Kellen suspected he profited from a passenger on an earlier train who’d ordered, paid, and then had to leave before his meal arrived. He was philosophical about it, figuring that when he went hungry because the biscuit shooter took her sweet time bringing his meal, someone else would have the good fortune to receive the plate he hadn’t.
Kellen’s trunks arrived at the same time the last stragglers were boarding the train. Once the porters stepped back on board, Kellen was alone on the sheltered platform. He stood there for several minutes after the engine’s sharp whistle signaled her intention to leave. Even as the great wheels began to slowly roll forward, he remained where he was, observing the passengers at the windows observing him. He recognized Dr. Hitchens, who acknowledged him with gravely set features and a nod, the travelers in his coach who all went to the platform side to get a last glimpse of him but would not meet his eyes, and finally, the woman who had emerged victorious in the bonnet war. She cast him a glance that seemed excessively triumphant given the fact that the hat she was wearing no longer sported the black-tipped ostrich feather.
Kellen touched the brim of his hat as she passed, his smile narrow and cool. It had the effect of turning her head, this time away from him and in a manner that was not complimentary.
It wasn’t until the last car cleared the station that Kellen finally turned to face the station. There were no late departures from the train. It was what he wanted to know.
Kellen ignored the entrance to the restaurant and chose the door for tickets, schedules, and posting mail. The station agent was sitting on a stool behind the counter while he sorted letters from a mailbag that had been left in his possession. He didn’t pause or look up from his work when Kellen walked into the office.
“Someone expecting you, son?” the agent asked. “Seemed like you were waiting for someone.”
“Not waiting,” said Kellen. “Saying good-bye.”
“That so? Looked like you were waiting for someone.”
Kellen looked over his shoulder to take in the same view the station agent had. The window afforded the agent an unrestricted view of the platform depending on how far he was willing to stray from his stool. Kellen had the impression the man strayed plenty. He wasn’t aware of a station agent from Chicago to Sacramento who didn’t divert himself by watching his passengers when they weren’t looking.
Kellen turned back in time to catch the agent’s eyes darting to the mail. Clearly the man was interested in him. “Is there something else you want to ask me…” He looked around, saw the nameplate affixed to the wall above the agent’s head, and added, “Mr. Collins?” Kellen saw that the direct question gave Mr. Jefferson Collins all of a moment’s hesitation, long enough for the agent’s considerably sized Adam’s apple to bob once in his throat.
“Wonderin’ if you was witness to the murder, that’s what I was fixin’ to ask. Probably would have gotten around to it by and by. Never seen much sense in rushin’ a conversation about dead folk.”
“What do you know about it?”
Mr. Collins gave up the pretense of sorting mail, pushed it aside, and folded his arms across his chest. He regarded Kellen frankly. “Only what came in over the wire. Precious little, but then the railroad plays its cards close. Probably same as you.”
“Me? What makes you think I play my cards close?”
“Nature of a gambler.”
One corner of Kellen’s mouth lifted slightly, the hallmark of a thin smile offered most grudgingly. “So it is.” He watched Mr. Collins nod once, faintly, and concluded the agent was satisfied with his answer. “I suppose they told you the man’s name.”
“Sure. There was a thought that maybe he lived in these parts, but there aren’t any Churches in town, nor any close outside of it. Strange that. Common enough name. You’d think we’d have one or two go by it. Got none.”
“That does seem odd.”
Mr. Collins nodded again. “Odd, too, that he’d be Nat Church. I guess just about everyone knows that name. Leastways I know it like it’s my own. Nat Church and the Best Gang. That’s a good one, maybe my favorite, though I sure did like Nat Church and the Shooting Contest. You read the novels?”
“I’m familiar.”
“He’s probably not the real Nat Church.”
“No,” Kellen said dryly. “Probably not.”
The station agent scratched the underside of his bearded chin thoughtfully. “Good thing. Hate to think of the real Nat Church comin’ to such an ignominious end. Doesn’t set right with me.”
“Ignominious?”
“Embarrassing. Means embarrassing.”
“I’ll be darned.”
Mr. Collins stopped scratching and placed his hand flat on the countertop. “What can I do for you?”
“Recommend clean, comfortable lodgings.”
“That’s easy enough. You’ll want to see the Widder Berry. She operates a fine hotel.”
“I was wondering about private lodgings. A rooming house. I heard someone on the train mention Penny Royal. Does Mrs. Royal have rooms to let?”
Mr. Collins chuckled. “There’s no Mrs. Royal. No Miss Royal for that matter. You misunderstood what you heard…or overheard. It’s the Pennyroyal Saloon and Hotel. Widder Berry owns the place. You can’t do better.”
“I see. It’s a hotel and saloon?”
“It is.”
Kellen felt himself come under renewed scrutiny as the agent’s stare narrowed and several deep creases appeared between his eyebrows when he drew them together. “All right,” Kellen said. “That will be fine.”
“Didn’t think taking a room above a saloon would much trouble a gambling man.”
“Would you like to live where you work, Mr. Collins?”
The agent surveyed the small office, his attention lingering on those parts that adjoined the front of the restaurant. The clatter and chatter from next door were hardly muted by the wooden walls. “Point taken. You can try the Sedgwick place. George and Amelia take on boarders, but they’re partial to folks plannin’ on staying a while. You aimin’ to do that?”
Kellen ignored the question. “You said I couldn’t do better than the Pennyroyal. I’ll take you at your word. What about my trunks and bag?”
Mr. Collins used his index finger to motion Kellen aside, and then he leaned a little to the right to look past him. “That’s better. Could not recall if you had one bag or two.”
“One bag. Two trunks.”
“You must be travelin’ for a spell.”
“About my trunks,” said Kellen.
“Oh, my grandsons will help you with those.” Mr. Collins reached for a brass bell that had been pushed out of the way by the mailbag. He gave it a hearty shake, grinning widely enough to show a gold eyetooth when his visitor winced. “Once your ears stop ringing, you’ll realize it was all for the best.”
It took Kellen a moment to understand, but when he did, he had to agree with Mr. Collins. The bell’s harsh resonance had the effect of quietin
g the clamor in the restaurant. The silence did not last long, but neither did the noise return to the level of a cacophony.
“It’s worse when the passengers are in there. Next train’s not due…” He consulted his timepiece. “Not due for another three hours. Mostly freight and the immigrant cars.” He looked Kellen over again. “A man like you, well, you probably never rode with the immigrant cars.”
Kellen had. Not merely with them, but in them. He’d done it to satisfy his need to know firsthand. And once done, it was not something he would forget or, given a choice, repeat. “A man like me, Mr. Collins?”
“Two trunks and a bag. There are entire families in those cars that make do with less than you stowed under your seat. They wear most of what they own on their backs and smell like they never been properly introduced to lye soap.”
“Then you’re correct. I have better than a passing acquaintance with soap.” And one sharp memory of having his mouth washed out with it. Kellen let that memory slip away as his attention was drawn to the door by swift, multiple footsteps approaching. The door shuddered in response to the runners’ barreling into it. There was a brief scuffle, an angry exchange of words, and then the brass bell brought it all to a halt.
Kellen was still grimacing and tugging on his right earlobe when the door finally opened, and Mr. Collins’s errant grandsons simultaneously squeezed past the threshold. They all but spilled into the room and, far from making an apology for it, continued to jab each other with pointed elbows, each nudge a little harder than the last. The boys, both of them towheads with matching cowlicks, were far younger than Kellen had supposed them to be when the agent informed him they would be taking care of his baggage. The boys didn’t appear to be twins, but that was only because one of them was half a head taller than the other. Except for the disparity in their stature, there was little enough difference to distinguish them.
“These are my grandsons,” Collins said. It was almost a sigh. “Stand up straight, boys. Mind your manners. Stop jabbing.”
