by Mae Berry
The Last Legal Hanging
by Mae Berry
The Last Legal Hanging is a work of historical fiction. All incidents and dialogs are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogs concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Will Bova
Copyright © May, 2019 Deborah Bova
All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
[email protected]
ISBN-13:9781072033974
This book is dedicated to my
wonderful ever-patient husband
who graciously listened to just one more plot
change and whose love and belief in me
made all the difference.
And to my Lord and Savior who put this desire
in my heart years ago
and in His time brought it to fruition.
Truth is stranger than fiction,
but it is because Fiction is
obliged to stick to possibilities.
Truth isn’t.
- Mark Twain
Contents
The Last Legal Hanging
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
End Notes
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
April 14, 1891
West Bottoms, Missouri
Sam gagged as the remains of her meager lunch threatened to reappear. The reek of weeks old refuse, recent urine and brick dust mixed with odors from the nearby slaughterhouses. When coupled with the humidity, it gave the air in the West Bottoms an oily feel and a one of a kind stench. The smell coated her throat, and her stomach roiled. Audibly. She clenched her fist into the protesting organ and reached for her scented hankie. She knew from experience a little splash of lavender oil did wonders for odors. Sam paused around the corner of the alley entrance and pressed her back against the brick wall; the hankie held to her offended nose. A sensitive sniffer and an overactive imagination were not always assets for an investigator.
There is a time we know not when;
A place we know not where:
That marks the destiny of man
To glory or despair.
The mournful tenor drifted from the alley, surprisingly melodious. A niggle of a memory flitted and fled. She shook her head. Her suspect had an excellent singing voice. He apparently had no inkling she was in pursuit. She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt. What was she doing? A streetcar would be easier to take on than that man. She never stopped to consider consequences; never thought things through. She should just slip away and… stop! Her spine snapped upright. Enough. Even absent, Hattie’s predictable tirade pounded at her.
Sam drew an unsteady gulp of air and pressed a hand to her thumping chest. Her physical state resulted from trying to keep up with a man who topped six feet. It had taxed her skirt strangled, corset inhibited frame. She blew back tendrils of dark hair escaping from her once neat bun. Her dark chocolate eyes narrowed. Failure was not an option. She ignored the question of sanity concerning pursuing a suspect who out weighed her several times. Radiant heat soaked her short black jacket and warmed her striped shirtwaist. Time to do this. Pocketing her hankie and kicking her broadcloth skirt out of the way, she reached for the muff pistol hidden in her waistband under the peplum of her jacket, then crept around the corner.
A mix of warped wooden structures and brick construction lined the alley. The buildings were so close together, light only penetrated at noon. Newspapers decrying the recent activities of union organizers and suffragettes crunched under her feet. She skirted around old crates and squashed boxes, her pistol leading the way as she scanned the area for her suspect. Large laborers caked in mud did not disappear in dead-end alleys. Several doors led into different buildings. Which one had he used? She stood still and examined the scene. A huge trash pile blocked the closest door, so not there. The next door sported an enormous padlock, so it was out too. Wait, a soggy cardboard box was kicked out of the way and its recent path through the trash was still wet. As she traced its trajectory, a slightly warped door in one of the newer brick buildings slowly creaked open.
Sam’s grip on her pistol tightened. The pulse points on her wrists throbbed against her cuffs as she crept closer. There was a rustling, and she froze. A huge alley cat bolted out of her path with an indignant yowl. At least the scare from the cat took care of her stomach problem, as it now resided in her throat. She caught the swinging door before it slammed back, waited a breath, then eased it open. A bigger than expected room met her gaze as meager light filtered through a tiny window and the open door. Shadows pooled in the edges and sawdust covered the floor. Against the far wall was a second door, leading to the front business no doubt. A listing table and square shapes filled the corners. Sam sneezed as a sour smell hit her nose. Sweat. What on earth did they do back here? A muffled shout followed by faintly discernible laughter came from the other side of the far door. It must be thick, very thick. She leaned back turning her head from side to side and noted both the dead-end and the open-end of the alley were empty.
Sam returned her attention to the room and placed a foot on the rough plank threshold. The creak of the wood slammed her heart back to her throat, and she paused. Maybe she needed another line of work? Something less stress filled, like planting explosives for the railroad? She held her breath and strained to hear the slightest sound. The meaty thwack of skin on wood exploded behind her. She froze then ducked and spun toward the noise, pistol pointed at the threat.
A booming voice followed a faint chuckle. “Sorry to scare you miss. Are you needin’ help?” A portly police officer rocked on his heels at the alley’s opening. His bulk strained the seams of his uniform as he swung his club into his open palm. His hat sat on the back of his head and fleshy lips split his round face into a wide grin. Small eyes, sunk in beefy folds, twinkled with amusement. Just her luck the dark, creepy alley was apparently not dark enough to hide her. She straightened and lowered her pistol. The officer took a long look at her gun then narrowed his focus on Sam’s face. His helpful expression and open demeanor shifted as his eyes tightened to pinpricks, losing their amusement. He took a step into the alley. “Ah, it’s you, Miss Lawton. A little out of your neighborhood, ain’t ye? Are you lost? Or are you here to aggrieve me?”
Sam flushed and drew in a deep breath. She fixed a polite smile on her face and stood to her full four foot ten and one-half inches. She squared her shoulders as
tension clenched her back muscles. “No, thank you. I’m fine, Officer Gallagher, I’m working.”
He snorted and flapped sausage shaped fingers in her general direction. “Come along now miss. Out of there. I’ll be gettin’ you home.” He tapped his foot and waved her forward with an impatient gesture.
“I do not require your assistance, sir. Thank you. I’m on a case and pursuing a suspect.” She clenched her teeth. Did that sound as ridiculous to him as it had to her? Gallagher looked at the empty alley behind her and raised his eyebrows.
“Yes. Well,” she continued, a flush creeping from collarbone to hairline, “I am investigating. Your help isn’t necessary, nor likely to assist.” She flinched. Had she said the last part out loud? Another bout of mouth engaged before brain. Antagonizing the man was not wise; but it had been getting harder to conceal her contempt for the men who dismissed her. She dealt with Hattie’s dreadful condescension day in and day out; but engaging with men who believe she belonged at home, married, and pregnant galled her.
Gallagher’s face went an impossible shade darker. “Aye, but you’ll be gettin’ it all the same.” His eyebrows crashed together as he took a step toward her. “I don’t need none of your work bein’ done on my watch. Nor any of your sass. Appears I was just in time. You were about to commit a crime.” He pointed at the door behind her that chose that moment to swing on its hinges. “Trespassing.”
“I never… I…” Sam stiffened.
“Come along quiet and I’ll not be takin’ you in, this time.” His mouth sneered as he nodded his head toward her gun. “An’ be putting that puff piece away, or I’ll be takin’ it off of you.”
Sam’s free hand fisted at her side as her gaze narrowed. She didn’t deserve his threats and innuendos. Maybe she should decline. What would the imbecile do then? She slumped. What was the point? The man she’d followed was long gone. Sam returned her pistol to her waistband and stepped around a puddle, it’s oily sheen reflecting a vivid purple and green. As she reached the entrance to the alley, Gallagher’s beefy fingers seized her elbow. He half led, half dragged her around the corner and down the street.
“Please stop hauling me about, I am neither a draft animal, nor a common criminal.” She pulled back from his iron grip but it was no contest. Her feeble efforts did little to deter him. His face darkened, and he lengthened his stride leaving her slipping and trotting to keep her feet. She had to think. Brains were better than brawn and she had so much more to work with than he did.
As Gallagher approached the corner to the cross streets, Sam looked over her shoulder to the front of the brick buildings that backed the alley. She counted doors and located the one with the open back door. The name etched on the windows in bold frosted letters was “Climax Saloon” and on the green awning over them: “Pendergast’s Place”. Interesting. James Pendergast’s saloon. Coincidence? Not likely. She widened her eyes and put an air of innocent query in her tone. “Pendergast’s Place? This is his business? Is Mr. Pendergast around? Is that why you’re patrolling here? Are you looking out for him?” Officer Gallagher froze. His face drained to white then rose to a vivid plum. A sour smell assaulted her nose as sweat rolled off him. His eyes flickered for a moment with… was it fear?
“Pendergast?” His attempt to look surprised didn’t quite reach his eyes. His gaze slid up and down the street. The few folks in sight were hurrying, intent on getting home before the sun set. No one paid attention to them. His eyes snapped back to Sam as he growled, “You are nothin’ but a pain in my…” He dropped her arm and pointed a menacing finger at her nose. “Look, take yourself on home, lassie. Stay off my beat. My beat!” He thumped his chest. “I take care of all the businesses. I am workin’ my beat!” He turned his bulk around and marched down St. Louis Avenue taking a vicious swipe at the brick wall with his club.
Sam’s gaze trailed him. What to make of that? She rubbed at a mounting headache in her temples. A thunderstorm must be coming. As if in confirmation, the wind gusted swirling bits of paper and brown leaves along the boardwalk. She sighed. She needed to hurry, the afternoon sun had almost touched the horizon. It was late. Hattie would be in an uproar. Again.
She headed toward the streetcar stop. The newspaper article from this morning ran through her head. The whole messed up day went back to that article. Well, that and her inability to ignore the story. A missing child, a distraught mother, a father unaccounted for. It was her Achilles heel. Memories from a long past case fought to surface. She shivered as scenes popped into her mind in full vivid color. Red. The predominant color of them was red. Red was also the color of the nightmares she was sure would follow. A deep blood red. She crammed the thoughts down and mentally slammed the lid on that time. As the faint sound of thunder rolled, she quickened her pace to outdistance the coming storm.
Chapter 2
Out the streetcar window, muffled shouts, swirling colors, and unknown smells rolled by as warehouses and storefronts with upstairs flats gave way to homes that steadily grew larger. A decade before a new century and Kansas City was in upheaval; a hodge-podge of rustic and modern, functional and ornate, northern and southern. Everywhere the old was being cleared out for the sturdier, more elaborate. Down 10th, she could just see the elegant, soon to reopen Coates House Hotel. The new edifice dwarfed the splendor of the original building which had been the center of the city’s new gentry class. Crossing 13th street, the lavish Exposition Building came into view. Nicknamed the Crystal Palace, its 80,000 square-foot glass ceiling drew fairs, exhibits and crowds from across the country. President Grover Cleveland had visited the grand opening just three years ago. Kansas City was bent on doing things louder, bigger and faster than its mid-western rivals St. Louis and Chicago.
Chicago, the city where she was born. Sam didn’t remember much from before the great fire. She remembered folks joining afterward to rebuild. Chicago, home of Pinkerton’s Detective Agency. She couldn’t remember a time when the agency wasn’t her life until, well, it wasn’t. When Pinkerton’s had opened the small office in Kansas City five years ago, Hattie had jumped at the chance. Why, Sam wasn’t sure. They hadn’t discussed the change. Hattie had packed them up and moved them. As usual, Sam’s feelings were not a consideration. Sam stretched, her mouth gaping into an unladylike yawn. The woman across the aisle glared at her poor manners, but Sam was too tired to care. She exited the streetcar and trudged through the creeping dusk, the wind whipping her skirt; her mind on ways to avoid, at least for tonight, Hattie’s ire.
As she turned the corner onto Washington Street, a bone weary exhaustion hit. Their home was in the fashionable Quality Hill area atop a bluff overlooking the West Bottoms. Two rows of Victorian brownstones sat facing each other across a common green space. The three story homes were ornate to the point of fussiness. Typical for the newly rich. It was a mystery where Hattie found the money. The two of them never lacked for anything and Hattie maintained it was important to “keep up appearances.” Why appearances included satin dancing slippers and sumptuous velvets was beyond Sam.
A deceptive warm glow spilled from the parlor windows. Hattie was up. Maybe even entertaining. Sam decided her best course was to slip in the back. She drifted into the shadows, cicadas buzzed in the trees until a crash silenced them. Sam’s heart thudded. She turned and saw her front door swinging as an impeccably dressed gentleman stormed across the porch, Hattie hovering behind him. His long legs in tailored trousers pounded down the steps, fury on his face.
“Mr. Arnold, please, I am sure she was unavoidably detained. She will be here soon, I promise.” Hattie’s hands fluttered. Unlike her normal intonation, tonight her tone held the slow drawl of the Deep South. Her voice quavered, amber colored eyes peered from lowered eyelashes, and lush lips trembled. Sam shook her head. Hattie was a stage worthy actress. Mr. Arnold, whoever he was, didn’t stand a chance. He’d soon be bent to her will.
“I am certain we can come to a beneficial arrangement.” One hand floated to rest on her
bosom drawing the eye to the endowed feature. Hattie was a beautiful woman despite her age and the fine lines around her eyes. Her allure was irresistible, and she knew it. Sam rolled her eyes.
“Madam, I have wasted enough time on this lunacy,” said Mr. Arnold through clenched teeth. “Women detectives indeed.” He was dressed at the height of gentrified fashion. It was the end of the day but his cravat was still impeccably tied and his suit appeared freshly pressed. “I should never have listened to Sanders prattle about your ‘services’.” Mr. Arnold’s right hand gave a dismissive wave while his left slammed on his shortened top hat. He was a handsome man with graying mutton-chop whiskers framing a strong jaw. His slicked back hair was dark black, a color at odds with his facial hair. Sam wondered if he used coal blacking.
“Mr. Sanders was pleased with our…” Hattie fluttered two steps closer and swayed. She reached out in a helpless gesture. He swept his eyes down the lush curves of her petite frame, hesitated, then firmed his jaw.
“Madam, no businessman of my acquaintance will ever make the mistake of retaining your services after I am through.” He turned and stalked past Sam who moved deeper into the shadows. She replayed the conversation. Had she missed something? A meeting with the man? When? Why hadn’t Hattie told her? Or had she? Sam didn’t always listen when Hattie spoke. In recent weeks it had occurred with appalling frequency. A “yes, ma’am” among Hattie’s rants was enough to carry the conversation. Had Sam agreed to something? This would be unacceptable, to Hattie. She gazed after the retreating figure.
“Samantha!” She had been spotted. Hattie’s voice carried like a general’s across a battlefield. Her tone lost its drawl, her demeanor lost its flutter. She now resembled a sparking stick of dynamite. Avoiding Hattie’s glare, Sam hesitantly climbed the stone stairs, and entered the two story front hall. She turned into the formal parlor decked out in stuffed Victorian splendor. Every square inch exhibited bric-à-brac calculated to awe. The furniture was dark and dramatic with overstuffed upholstery and intricate wood carvings. It was overwhelming. It was overdone. It was Hattie.
