by Jo Goodman
“New York.”
“Something for the New York World? I didn’t figure you went out to the Burdick place yet. That’s what everyone says you’re writing about.”
“Word does get around, doesn’t it?”
“You probably noticed right off that we don’t have a paper. I suppose no one sees the need any longer for reading about what goes on right under our noses. Talkin’ is good enough for that.”
“It seems to work for Bitter Springs.”
Collins removed his spectacles and rubbed the lenses on his shirtsleeve. “So. Have you been out to the Burdick spread?”
“Not yet. Soon, I hope.”
“Then what kind of story are you sending to the World?”
Kellen was starting to wish he hadn’t been so quick to shut out the boys. He could still hear them bickering on the other side of the door. It was tempting to let them in. “I never said I was sending anything to the paper. You did.”
The station agent stopped cleaning his glasses, grunted softly, and then resumed the activity. “So I did. I suppose I’m a mite prickly these days. It seems like you might be pokin’ around, stirrin’ the pot. I’m not sure I like it. Maybe it’s because you were with Nat Church on the train, and he’s dead, and the U.P. still doesn’t know what happened, and while no one else was gutted after you got off, we’re staring at three people dead since you stepped on my platform.”
“Three?” asked Kellen.
“Emily Ransom. Mr. Weyman. And Scott Pennway last night.”
“Dan Sugar hasn’t found Mr. Weyman’s body, so it’s premature to pronounce him dead.” But not wrong, Kellen thought. “Most folks think he murdered Emily.” The station agent made a noise at the back of his throat that Kellen thought hinted at skepticism. “I heard about Mr. Pennway this morning, and what I heard is that it was an accident. Did you hear something different?”
Collins returned his spectacles to his nose and regarded Kellen over the rims. “No. I heard exactly the same as you.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m not saying anything. Just making an observation.”
The pending arrival of the No. 5 train ended their conversation. The shrill whistle blew, signaling the engine’s approach. Rabbit and Finn twisted the doorknob at the same time, and when that didn’t gain them entry, they pounded on the door. Kellen let them in, and they breathlessly announced what the adults already knew.
Collins shooed them back outside as he came around the counter. “You can carry the mailbag,” he told them. “But stay off the train.” He allowed Kellen to go ahead of him. “You might as well take your package now.”
Kellen stopped him. “Do Rabbit and Finn know about Mr. Pennway?”
Collins shook his head. “No. I haven’t said anything to them yet, but I can’t put it off forever. Scott’s boy is a friend of Rabbit’s. They have to be told.”
“If they want to come up to the hotel later, I don’t mind.”
“I don’t know what they’ll want to do, but I suspect you mean it as a kindness.” He faced Kellen squarely. “I know you’re not responsible for any of the things I mentioned earlier. I’m not a bad judge of character, but Rabbit and Finn are better. Still, I can’t shake the notion that you’re not quite what you seem.”
“Do you still think I’m a gambler?”
“Oh, I haven’t really changed my mind about that, Mr. Coltrane.” He smiled faintly. “It goes to the very core of who you are.”
Kellen watched the station agent turn and catch up to his grandsons. It wasn’t often that he was left without a reply, but then it wasn’t often that someone hammered him with such a deft touch.
Rabbit and Finn held out their hands for the mailbag and pretended to collapse under the weight of it when the clerk tossed it at them. They stumbled backward against their grandfather’s legs. He steadied and restrained them at the same time.
“You have anything else for us?” Collins asked. “Mr. Coltrane is expecting a package.”
The clerk nodded. “Got it right here. I’d call it a crate, not a package. It’s about the size and how it’s bundled. This is a crate.”
Kellen watched the clerk push the wooden box forward until it rested at the edge of the mail car’s floor. It was about the size of a carpetbag, not so big that the clerk couldn’t have lifted it, but heavy enough that he didn’t want to.
“I’ll take it,” said Kellen.
“Not so fast.” The clerk hunkered down and squinted at the stamp on the top of the crate. “Are you Mr. Kellen Coltrane? The Kellen Coltrane that’s staying at the Pennyroyal Hotel?”
“Yes. Yes to both.”
The clerk glanced at Collins. “You vouching for him?”
Kellen waited for the station agent to confirm his identity, but instead, Collins’s attention was pulled to the right. Turning to follow the man’s gaze, Kellen saw Raine approaching. It was immediately apparent that she’d overheard the clerk’s question. “I’m vouching for him, Mr. Spall.” She pulled down her scarf so the mail clerk could clearly see her face. “Mr. Coltrane’s a guest at my hotel.”
“That’s all I need to know. You can take what’s yours, Mr. Coltrane.”
Kellen stepped forward and hefted the crate off the train. He could see Raine’s brow puckering as she stared at what he held in his hands. The crate was not at all congruent with what she was expecting. It served her right. She wasn’t supposed to be here.
“Anything else for us?” Collins asked.
“That’s it.” The clerk stood, gave the boys a salute, and pulled the sliding doors closed.
They all stepped back as the train pulled away.
“Let’s go, boys,” Collins said. “You have my work in your hands.” They bounded off, juggling the mailbag between them. “Good to see you, Mrs. Berry. I would have vouched for Mr. Coltrane, though, so I hope you didn’t come on account of that.”
“No,” Raine said. “Not at all. A mere coincidence. I went to pay my respects to Annie, and afterward, well…” Shrugging, she looked away.
“I understand. Sometimes we all just need to be somewhere else. Do you want to come in for a spell? I have coffee, and the boys will lighten your heart.”
Raine hesitated and avoided looking at Kellen.
“You, too, Mr. Coltrane,” Collins said. “I have a crowbar inside that will help you open that if you like.”
“I’d appreciate it. Thank you.”
Once they were inside, Kellen set the crate on the counter, and Collins sent Rabbit after the crowbar. The station agent confided that sending both boys after it was sure to get one of them clobbered. No one disagreed, not even Finn.
Raine stood by the stove to keep warm while Collins poured coffee. She accepted the tin mug and held it between her gloved hands. She would have been the first to admit that her chill had nothing at all to do with the weather.
Kellen picked up Finn and put him on the counter beside the crate. Finn entertained them by trying to guess what was inside until Rabbit returned with the crowbar. Finn was fairly certain now that it was a telephone because he had seen a picture of one and knew it would fit in the box. He was detailing his plan to speak to President Cleveland about the government surveyor he didn’t much care for when Rabbit appeared hoisting the crowbar.
“I’ll take that,” Kellen said, smoothly lifting it out of Rabbit’s hands.
“Do you really want to open that here?” asked Raine.
“There’s no reason not to. There is something for Mr. Collins inside. You, too, if you want one.”
Finn’s shoulders sagged. “It’s not a telephone?”
Kellen chuckled. “No, it’s not a telephone. Write to Mr. Cleveland. It’s what the rest of us have to do.” He slipped the wedged working end of the crowbar under the crate’s slatted top and pried it up. He repeated this along the other three sides until the lid gave way. Then he handed the crowbar to Mr. Collins and set the lid beside Finn. He brushed aside the excelsio
r and grinned.
He was staring at the cover of Nat Church and the Chinese Box. There were two stacks of the dime novels packed closely together. He thumbed through the first few stacks to make certain they were all the same. There was no point in giving people a gift of something they already had. He took out the novel on top and held it out to Mr. Collins.
“The newest Nat Church adventure.”
The station agent blinked. “This is the one I’ve been trying to get.” He dropped the crowbar and seized the book, gripping it in two hands. “I was told it would be two months before I could get a copy. Maybe longer. How did you—” He stopped, his eyes drawn back to the cover where Nat Church was holding a black enameled box under one arm and a fetching yellow-haired damsel under the other. The caption under Nat Church’s feet read, A True Story of White Slavery.
“This is really for me?” asked Collins.
Kellen nodded. “You said you enjoyed the Nat Church adventures, and I’ve heard the same from others. I thought you might like it.” He looked at the cover again. “You might not want to read this one to the boys.”
“But how did you get them?”
“A friend sent them to me.”
Finn peered into the box, his eyes widening as he looked over the cover. “You know Nat Church?”
“No,” Kellen said firmly. He returned the lid to the crate. “My friend knows the author.”
Mr. Collins jabbed at the caption on the book with his forefinger. “Here. Right here. It says a true story. That proves what I’ve been saying all along. Nat Church is as real as you are.”
Chapter Eleven
Kellen carried the crate on his shoulder all the way up to the apartment. Raine cleared a space on the table in the sitting room. As soon as he set it down, she walked away.
“Raine?”
She put up a hand, declining to talk, and continued in the direction of her bedroom.
Kellen observed that Raine’s back went up the moment he revealed the contents of the crate. She returned with him to the hotel, but she only exchanged a few curt words to him along the way. In contrast, she was determinedly polite to passersby.
“All right. You’re angry.” He took a step in her direction, but she crossed the threshold to the bedroom and firmly closed the door. “You probably think I know why. I don’t. I rarely do.” She didn’t answer or crack the door. Was she listening on the other side? How loud did he have to talk to be heard without being overheard? He approached the door, grasped the knob, and twisted it. It opened without any resistance.
Raine sat on the edge of the bed, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She stared straight ahead. “There’s no lock,” she said. “I never needed one. Most people respect a closed door.”
“I usually do. It seemed as though I should make an exception. Did you hear me say I don’t know why you’re angry?”
“I heard you.”
He waited. “You have to say something,” he said finally. “There are rules.” That prompted her to look at him, although her green glance was crackling. If his back hadn’t been to the wall, he thought he might have retreated a few steps.
“I don’t know what kind of fight we’re having,” he said. “It feels, if you’ll pardon the expression, married. At the risk of patronizing you, I am obliged to point out again that we are not married. If your dissatisfaction is with me as your hired gun, I encourage you to find another way of expressing it because walking away does not support my confidence in you.” Kellen pushed away from the wall and turned to go.
“Wait. You’re right. Don’t leave.”
He came around slowly and shed his duster, hat, and gloves. He held on to them until Raine pointed to the chest at the foot of the bed where she had thrown her things. He considered sitting, but she had advantages she didn’t know she had, and he decided he would do better to keep his feet under him.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the books?” she asked.
“This is what you’re upset about? They were a surprise.”
“What about the proof of our marriage? What about that? You told me we would have something to show for all the lying I’ve done, and what I have to show for it is a crate of dime novels. I don’t care about Nat Church or the white slavers or what’s in the Chinese box. I don’t want Dan Sugar to demand proof we don’t have.”
“I should be more concerned about that than you, don’t you think? I’m the one who needs the alibi. Dan Sugar doesn’t suspect you of murder.”
“Not until he finds your body.”
“Amusing.”
“You wouldn’t think so if you knew how well I’ve planned it.” Raine impatiently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “What do we do now? Scott Pennway’s dead. What if Dan Sugar looks to you for the cause of it?”
“Walt knows I was with you last night.”
“Walt knows you were with me when he got here. He doesn’t know how long you were with me before that. Walt’s thinking is straightforward.”
Kellen put up a hand. “Forget about Walt for the moment. No one is saying that Pennway’s death was anything but an accident. Deputy Sugar did not hear about it until this morning, just like most everyone else.”
“Walt told me you asked for directions to Dr. Kent’s. Did you go there?”
“Yes. What happened to Pennway forced my hand. I had to know beyond any doubt that it wasn’t the fall that killed him. I asked Dr. Kent to go over to the Pennway home, judge for himself.”
Raine frowned deeply. “What possible reason did you give him for your involvement?”
“You.” When that didn’t ease Raine’s frown, he went on. “I explained that Walt told you what happened to Scott Pennway and that you needed to know more. He understood why you asked someone other than Walt to carry the information back. He figured you chose me because he heard I was a reporter and more likely to keep the facts in order. Keep in mind that Dr. Kent has good reason to learn the truth for himself. He’s as likely to be a target of the Burdicks’ vigilante justice as any of the jury. He stood up for Ellen the same as that lawyer from Rawlins. In his place I’d be hoping that being the only doctor around would give me more time than the lawyer.”
Raine closed her eyes while she briefly rubbed the bridge of her nose. Her sigh was long and heartfelt. “He shrugs off worry when I ask him about it, but I know he thinks there’s something to worry about. He won’t leave town, and after John Hood arrived home in a box and no one’s heard from Hank Thompson, it’s hard to fault him or anyone else for not wanting to pull up roots.”
“If it helps, he thanked me for alerting him. I waited at Kent’s house until he returned. He confirmed your suspicions and mine. It wasn’t the fall that broke Pennway’s neck. There was no evidence that Pennway ever hit his head. No lumps. No bruising. The ground was hard, but we both believe it would have required a longer fall to snap Pennway’s neck.” Kellen described his observations of the porch and backyard and repeated the information Walt had given him. “Mrs. Pennway doesn’t know any of this. Neither does Howard Wheeler or Mrs. Stillwell. They were both with Mrs. Pennway when Kent arrived. He quieted Mrs. Pennway with some laudanum so Mrs. Stillwell could help her to bed. When they went upstairs, he and Wheeler took care of the body.”
“Do you think Howard knew that Dr. Kent was doing an examination?”
“I asked Kent the same thing. He said Wheeler never asked any questions.”
“Perhaps because he doesn’t want to know the answers.”
“Or perhaps because he already does. You knew from the first that it wasn’t an accident.”
She blew out a small breath. “What now?”
He held up an index finger. “Give me a moment.”
Kellen went out to the sitting room to retrieve the crate. He set it on the floor in front of her.
She stared into the open box. “I am not opposed to giving my customers a copy of that book, and perhaps I’ll read it myself sometime, but on the other hand, I’d just as
soon set them all on fire.” She pointed to the stove to indicate that she had the means to do so close at hand.
Kellen knelt and began to unpack the books, shaking off the curled wood shavings that clung to the covers before he dropped them on the floor. He took out two dozen copies before he sat back, grinning.
“Go ahead,” he told her, pointing to the crate. “You take it out.”
Raine’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Is it alive?”
“No.”
“Is it a telephone?”
He chuckled. “No telephone. Go on. Reach inside and take it.”
She leaned forward for a better view. A large folder covered most of the remaining books. Her heart thudded, and she abandoned the bed. She pretended that she couldn’t see Kellen’s amusement as she lifted the folder. The excelsior scattered everywhere as she opened it.
The certificate of marriage lay inside. All the information was there, including the name of the judge who married them in absentia. The only requirement remaining was for them to sign it. “How well do you know this judge?”
Kellen tipped the folder so he could see the certificate. He recognized the bold hand. “Macaulay Packard? I don’t know him at all. That’s my brother’s writing. The M is familiar. He cannot resist the flourishing detail. He would have preferred to have been born John Hancock.”
“It’s impressive.”
“I’ll tell him you thought so.”
Raine ran her fingertips over the certificate. “There’s something under it.” She lifted the document and saw the envelope with Kellen’s name scrawled on top. She handed it to him.
Kellen opened it and smiled wryly as he read. When his brother was not writing a closing argument, he was a man of few words.
“May I know what he’s written?” she asked.
“He says there better be a good story to answer for this.” He handed it to her.
Raine looked it over. “Does your family think you’re a reporter?”
“No. They know what I do.”
“Is it difficult for them to accept?”
He shrugged. “Some more than others, my father most of all.”
