by Jo Goodman
Raine surprised him by laying her hand over his fingers where they rested on her shoulder. “You should be sleeping,” she whispered.
“How do you know I’m not?”
Her chuckle stayed at the back of her throat. “I can hear you thinking.”
“My thoughts are that loud?”
“When I’m trying to sleep, they are.”
“Do you know what I’m thinking?”
“No. Do you want to tell me?”
“No. Go to sleep.”
“All right.” She snuggled closer, pulled his arm around her, and threaded her fingers with his. “I fed you when I woke you. Remember that.”
Kellen pressed his smile into the soft crown of her hair. In moments she was asleep.
They made slow, sleepy love in the half-light of dawn. Neither one could ever say with certainty who began it, but it was equally true that neither one of them cared.
Sensation was heavy, but not dull. It rested on their skin like honey, made each touch languid, careful. They sought with open hands and closed eyes. The dream was soft and indistinct at the edges, but every touch created a precise center and ripples of clarity.
They spoke, murmured really. The utterances had little structure but communicated everything they should.
“There,” she said when his hand cupped her breast. “Mm. Yes. Just there.”
“And here?”
“Mm.”
Her mouth was damp, her lips faintly swollen. The kisses were drugging, long and slow and deep. Her heart beat with the same resonance in her chest. No frantic fluttering, no stutter. His pounded in precisely the same way.
“God, yes,” he whispered when her flat belly moved against him.
Her hand slipped between their bodies, found him, circled his penis with her fingers. She moved her hand along the length of it.
He clenched his jaw and grunted softly.
Small shudders rocked them to the edge of wakefulness but never pushed them over it. They shifted, cradled again, and found a sweet, unhurried rhythm when he entered her from behind.
The pleasure was in the joining, the closeness, and the shared warmth, and when it was over, they were settled by sleep and dreams that floated like liquid through their minds.
Raine knew she had overslept as soon as she heard the steady knock on the apartment door. Kellen was lying on his stomach, a pillow over his head, not under it. She could not tell if he was hiding from the interruption or had just ended up that way. Half-formed memories of making love to him flooded her, and she was uncharacteristically flustered by the time she reached the door.
“What is it?” she called as she fumbled for the key.
“Mrs. Sterling says you better come down,” Sue called back. She lowered her voice once Raine opened the door a crack. “There’s a problem with the water pressure, and she’s trying to fix breakfast for ten and she says she can’t fool with it. Walt took some letters and packages down to the station for Mr. Petit, so he’s not here to figure it out.”
Raine pressed her forehead against the doorjamb and sighed. “Very well. Tell her I’m on my way. Maybe I can get Mr. Coltrane to help.”
Sue tugged on her braids as she stood on tiptoe and tried to see over Raine’s shoulder into the room.
Raine knew precisely what she was doing. “Is there something you want to ask me, Sue?”
“Is it true what they say? Are you and Mr. Coltrane married?”
“It’s true, but how did you hear it?”
“Oh, Mr. Jones told me. I think everyone in the dining room heard him.”
Raine sighed again. “Thank you, Sue. I appreciate the warning.”
“Warning? I was going to wish you well.”
“Consider it done. Go on. Tell Mrs. Sterling I’m on my way.” She closed the door and leaned against it.
Kellen sat up in bed and called to her. “I meant to tell you last night that there’s something wrong with the water pressure.”
“You don’t say.”
“Give me a few minutes to get dressed, and I’ll poke around and see if I can figure out what the problem is.”
“You know about plumbing?”
“I know you have a tank on the roof, boilers in the cellar, and pipe in between. The toe bone’s connected to the foot bone and so on. I think I can work it out.”
“Nothing about dem bones raises my confidence.”
But as it turned out, the analogy was close to prophetic. When Kellen climbed up to the roof to measure the water level in the tank, he found Mr. Weyman’s swollen body bobbing near the surface and discovered it was one of the two leather satchels strapped to his ankles that was responsible for covering the water release valve.
Chapter Thirteen
The discovery of the whiskey drummer’s body was general knowledge in Bitter Springs by the time the Pennyroyal served its midday meal. Folks who did not normally take their luncheon at the hotel crowded the dining room along with the guests and regulars. Only the couple with the young children was absent from the room. The family had decided to end their respite in Bitter Springs when they heard about the tragedy and were now waiting at the station to board the next train out of town.
Sue Hage told Mrs. Sterling that she envied them, and in a rare moment of harmony, the cook did not find fault with her for saying so.
Eventually there were too many people for the dining room, and Raine opened the saloon for eating as well as drinking. Renee and Cecilia arrived to help, and Mrs. Sterling, after wondering aloud if she was expected to feed the multitude with five loaves and two fish, managed to stretch her chicken potpie and spicy chili with cornbread so that everyone was satisfied.
Deputy Dan Sugar was among the diners. He sat with Ted Rush and Mr. Webb from the bank. For once Ted did not have his own story to insert into the conversation, but he hung on every word the deputy exchanged with the bank manager and anyone who stopped by their table to ask what Sugar planned to do next.
Mr. Weyman had suffered a blow to the side of his head, hard enough to crack his skull. Dr. Kent had been able to tell Sugar that much, but whether or not the man had still been alive when he was dropped into the tank was a matter of conjecture. The baggage tied to the drummer’s ankles suggested that Weyman may only have been unconscious and left to drown, but it also suggested that the killer merely wanted to get rid of all of the drummer’s belongings at once. People wondered aloud how many times the killer climbed the outside stairs to the roof to dispose of George Weyman and his bags.
The question that no one could answer was where had Emily Ransom been while this was happening. Already dead? Unconscious and soon to be dead? Some folks speculated that the murders were not related. Others had no patience with that thinking. Emily and Weyman disappeared on the same evening. To the gamblers among them, the odds seemed incalculable that the murders, while separate and distinct, were done by two different people.
Walt and Kellen arrived in the dining room after the crowd dwindled and only a few stragglers remained. They were as wet, disheveled, and tired as two bird dogs that had spent the morning retrieving dead ducks from a marsh pond. What they had been doing, though, was flushing the waterlines and scrubbing the tank.
Raine pointed them to one of the tables that had been cleared in the dining room. “Just sit down. Mrs. Sterling will make you both a hot meal; she is that glad to have water restored without going to the pump for it.” On her way to the kitchen, she passed Renee talking up Dick Faber and one of the Davis boys and gave her a look that said she should show the men the door and get back to work.
She expected the dining room to be cleared of every guest except Kellen and Walt when she returned, but they had been joined at their table by the young masters Cabot Theodore and Carpenter Addison.
Raine set her hands on her hips. “Rabbit. Finn. Does your granny know you’re here?”
They wriggled around in their chairs to face her. “Sure she does,” said Rabbit. “She heard about what happened fro
m that family leaving town. They could hardly wait for the train to get here. Pap thought they might start walking to Rawlins. Anyway, Granny says we should find out what happened from the horse’s mouth. Not that you’re a horse, Mrs. Berry, but if you were, you’d be a real pretty filly.”
Finn nodded, excitement bringing him to his knees on the chair’s saddle seat. He rested his chin on the back rail. “And there’s a new guest for you at the desk. Miss Sue is seein’ to him. Name’s Mr. Mark Irvin of Cincinnati, Ohio. He’s an undertaker, so he didn’t mind at all when he heard about Mr. Weyman.”
“He’s thinking about undertaking right here in Bitter Springs,” said Rabbit.
Kellen gave Raine a dry look. “There is a business opportunity.”
“I don’t believe this,” Raine muttered. Her hands fell to her sides as she swung around and marched off toward the lobby.
Rabbit turned around in his chair and sat and encouraged Finn to do the same. “She don’t seem at all pleased about another guest.”
Kellen reached under the table and put a hand on Rabbit’s knee to still his swinging feet. “She’s a little out of sorts right now.”
Finn sighed heavily. “So was I until Mr. Irvin told us he was an undertaker. Rabbit and me had it all suspicioned that he was the new headmaster.”
“Rabbit and I,” said Kellen.
“What?”
“Rabbit and I. Not Rabbit and me. And I don’t know what to say about ‘suspicioned’ except to note that the sooner the school has a headmaster, the better it will be for my ears.” He heard himself, grimaced. “And I am not thanking you for causing me to draw upon my father’s voice or one of his lectures.”
Rabbit frowned. “I never said you should draw on your father. Didn’t even know you could. Seems like the kind of thing that Finn might do.”
“Sure would get me in trouble,” said Finn.
Kellen surrendered, casting a glance to the heavens.
Enjoying himself, Walt just chuckled. He put out a hand to restrain Finn’s legs the same way Kellen had done to discourage Rabbit. “Did you boys bring in all of Mr. Irvin’s belongings or is there something for me to do?”
“He only had two leather satchels,” said Rabbit. “Nothing that Finn and me…Finn and I couldn’t carry.”
Finn nodded. “We told him about the place next to the feed store where Mr. Hood used to have his print shop. It’s been empty since Mr. Hood came back to town in a box. Mr. Irvin was interested in that. The place, I mean, not about Mr. Hood. I suppose he figured he missed his chance to be a help there.”
Cecilia arrived with hot coffee for Kellen and Walt and glasses of root beer for the boys. “Mrs. Sterling’s got the chili back on the stove, and she’s warming what’s left of the cornbread in the oven. She says I should tell you that it won’t be long. Boys, she says she has a big slice of apple ginger cake that she’ll split for you if you like.”
“They like,” said Kellen as the brothers nodded eagerly in unison. When Cecilia was gone, he asked them, “What’s this about John Hood owning a print shop?”
Rabbit sipped his root beer and licked the sweetness off his tongue before he answered. “He printed flyers and posters, mostly for the merchants.”
“A newspaper?”
“Not like the Rocky or the Prairie Farmer.”
“A newssheet?”
“Sure. Charged two pennies for it. Mr. Hood liked to say folks were always getting their two cents’ worth from him.”
“I think I misunderstood your grandfather,” said Kellen. “I didn’t realize Bitter Springs ever had a paper. No one tried to take it over after John Hood?” The answer was obvious to him when the boys looked at him as if he’d grown a third eye. “I guess not.”
Walt said, “Someone destroyed the press after Mr. Hood left town.”
“Suspects?”
“The usual ones, but no one saw anything, leastways not so they’re talking about it.”
“Did Mr. Hood report on the trial?”
“He couldn’t. Not while it was going on, what with him being a member of the jury, but when it was over, he had some opinions, especially after Isaac Burdick escaped the marshals. Some folks warned he should temper himself, but like the boys said, he had two cents to give.”
Kellen understood more clearly why John Hood was one of the first to be killed. Fleeing town couldn’t save him, not a man with his talent for writing and stirring opinion. Kellen remembered clearly what he’d told Uriah yesterday about the pen being mightier than the sword. That sentiment rang hollow now. Uriah Burdick had used the sword to better effect.
Finn fiddled with his glass, turning it round and round to keep from drinking all of his root beer before the apple ginger cake arrived. “I miss Mr. Hood. He let Rabbit and me take the newssheets around sometimes.”
“He didn’t pay us,” Rabbit reminded him.
“No, but sometimes people gave us a penny for bringing it to them. It was a fine thing to buy candy at Johnson’s Mercantile.”
Rabbit agreed. He lifted his bony chin in Kellen’s direction. “Granny says I’m supposed to ask if it’s true that you and the Widder Berry are hitched.”
Kellen managed not to sputter before he swallowed his mouthful of coffee. “Bitter Springs really does not need a newssheet.” He returned his cup to its saucer. “Yes, Widder Berry and I are hitched.”
“Ain’t that somethin’?” said Rabbit. “That means you lost your chance, Finn.”
The tips of Finn’s ears turned red, but he shrugged his narrow shoulders manfully. “I didn’t think it was proper to ask until I was in the sixth grade anyway, and Mr. Coltrane could be dead by then.”
Kellen was very glad he had put down the coffee. “You’re a deep thinker, Finn, to contemplate the future like that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Kellen could only shake his head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Walt was doing the same. The boys quieted when Cecilia came to the table bearing steaming bowls of chili, cornbread, and two plates of apple ginger cake. Rabbit and Finn tucked into their dessert as though they were starving, while Kellen and Walt were only marginally more restrained.
After a few bites, the brothers returned to form. Finn wanted to know about the body. “Was it shriveled like my granny’s hands after she’s had them in the wash all day or swelled up like a cow’s belly that’s been too long dead in the sun?”
Walt choked, and Kellen had to clap him on the back. “I don’t think your granny or your pap asked you to come home with that much detail.”
“No,” said Rabbit, “but it’s something we should know. Finn and me are just about sure that we’re going to be detectives someday. That book you gave my pap—Nat Church and the Chinese Box—well, that got us thinkin’ that it might suit us. I would like to figure out what’s in the Chinese box, and Finn, he’d like to have the girl.”
Kellen saw Walt’s puzzled expression. “I’ll explain later, Walt. In fact, I’ll give you one of the books.”
“I’m not much for reading, but I know all about Nat Church. Adam Berry, then Ellen, used to tell me about him.”
“Then I’ll read it to you.” Kellen intercepted the brightening expressions on the boys and crushed them. “Not to you two. Maybe when Finn’s in the sixth grade as long as I’m not dead.”
“Won’t matter,” Finn grumbled. “I’ll be able to read it for myself by then.”
Two things happened simultaneously that saved Kellen from coming up with a better retort. The first was that Walt lightly smacked Finn on the back of his head, causing the boy to lose the bite of cake teetering on his fork, and the second was Raine’s timely return from the lobby.
She waved Kellen and Walt back in their seats as they started to rise and pulled a chair from another table to sit with them. “I just need a moment,” she said. “Walt. I told Mr. Irvin that you would take his bags up as soon as you were finished eating. He could have easily carried them himself, but he liked the idea o
f someone else doing it. I hope he gives you something for your trouble.” She glanced at the door to the kitchen. She could hear the occasional rattle of pots and pans, but no raised voices. “Mrs. Sterling’s in there with all three of the girls?”
Everyone at the table nodded at once.
Impressed, Raine’s eyebrows lifted. “They must be too tired to bicker. It’s unfortunate that it takes such a sad series of circumstances to bring it about.”
“You mean finding Mr. Weyman’s body,” Rabbit said.
“Yes. And the questions. And the speculation.”
“What’s speculation?” asked Finn.
Kellen explained, “That’s when people who don’t know very much talk as if they do.”
“Huh.” Finn stabbed another piece of cake. “That happens a powerful lot around here. A powerful lot.”
Raine chuckled. “It does, doesn’t it?”
“Folks don’t know what we know, do they, Rabbit?” Rabbit gave his brother a warning glance, but Finn was undeterred. The boy asked Kellen, “What do you call folks who talk speculation?”
“Speculators.”
“Well, then, me and Rabbit aren’t—”
Raine interrupted, correcting him. “Rabbit and I.” She looked at Kellen and Walt, bewildered when they both laughed under their breath.
Frustrated, Finn blew a puff of air that scattered cake crumbs across his lower lip. He licked them up and went on. “I and Rabbit ain’t speculators, and that’s a fact. We saw what we saw and we know what we’re talking about.”
“Only one of us is talking,” Rabbit said out of the side of his mouth. “And he’s not supposed to. We agreed.”
Kellen pushed his empty bowl out of the way and leaned forward to rest his forearms on the table. He looked from one boy to the other. “Is there something you want to tell us?”
“No,” Rabbit said.
Finn didn’t answer.
Raine’s approach was gentler. “Boys? Is there something you should tell us?”
“Pap wouldn’t like it,” said Rabbit.
“Do you mean you already told him, and he wouldn’t want you to repeat it?” she asked.
