He gave me the eye. “You saw the scene. Don’t talk about it.”
Sheesh—give me some credit.
He turned back to Mina. “The second body most likely dates back to the gold rush. Carbon dating loses accuracy on something less than a hundred-fifty years old, so we can’t rely on that. But the clothing is of the period, both the heavy coat and the boots. And the deterioration is consistent.” He bit down on a carrot stick in what was probably a small effort to include vegetables in his dinner. “That much can be on the record.”
Mina had pulled a notebook out of her purse and was jotting down the gist of what he had said.
“Off the record, we’re not really going to look into solving the older case. I mean, if someone wants to come along and identify the remains by the clothing or something I suppose we can let them have a go at it. But it’s a real longshot at this point.”
“But the man was murdered,” I said, careful to keep my voice low. “I thought there was no statute of limitations on murder.”
“There’s not. But what would be the point? If this man died around nineteen-hundred, his killer would have to be, at a guess, at least a hundred twenty-five years old. I suppose I can’t rule out some kind of deathbed confession in the nursing home, but I can’t spend law enforcement time working on that one.”
He had a valid point.
“The lab will save some bone material and preserve a DNA sample in the evidence archives, just in case a long-lost relative should come along and want verification. Frankly, I don’t see it happening. We will give the man a proper burial in one of the old gold rush cemeteries, though. It’s the least we can do.”
“But your department is actively looking into the death of the younger man, you know, the one from the 1970s?” Mina asked.
“Off the record: When we get time, we will try for answers on that one. But I just had another case come in today and it’s taking all our resources, not to mention the perpetual summer-visitor calls concerning lost purses and hiking-trail mishaps.”
“Oh? What’s the other case?” Mina was off on a tear and I edged toward the salmon again, justifying the indulgence with the feeble excuse that I don’t get this yummy stuff at home.
“Did you hear that, Charlie?” Mina whispered as Branson’s phone rang and he moved to the edge of the room to take it. “He gave us the go-ahead to work the case of ’70s Caveman. I’m going to call it that.”
I swallowed a cracker crumb and choked for a minute or two. “What?”
“See, I figure we’re sort of the dynamic duo. You’ve got the investigation experience and I’m the reporter with sources.” Her eyes lit with a newfound sparkle. “We could break this thing wide open and it could be my ticket to a Pulitzer.”
I eyed her skeptically. “You’re sure he wants us to solve the murder?”
“His exact words were ‘knock yourselves out.’ Okay, it’s probably not going to be award-winning material, but let’s give it a try. Please?”
She looked like the girl who used to play Nancy Drew’s sidekick on the TV series, staring at me with a look that was both gung-ho and wistful. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that real-life murders don’t get solved in an hour. If they get solved at all.
Chuey walked over and touched Mina’s elbow. Apparently they had dinner plans. A second date. Hmm. I smiled and said good night, but not before Mina had leaned forward to tell me that she would call me about this tomorrow.
Across the room I could see that the crowd was thinning. Donna had apparently made a few sales; she was happily writing out a receipt at her desk. Lillian Allen had glad-handed long enough; she plucked at Kerby’s sleeve and he became the puppy on the leash. Alone, Drake looked around and spotted me. I tilted my head toward the diminishing supply of food and he walked over.
“I forgot to tell you earlier that I ate a hefty burger for lunch, sort of on the late side,” he said, declining my offer to fill a plate for him.
So I wouldn’t have had to make dinner after all. He took my smile as flirtatious and suggested that we could go home any time. I dropped my empty paper plate into a waste basket and drained the last of my wine.
By nine o’clock he was into the pleasant sleep of the satiated and I was still awake. I padded in stocking feet to the living room and pulled out the box of letters.
Chapter 9
June first. Joshua watched daily as the flood of men heading north increased. Two men he’d met last week left this morning, shaking their fists in the air with triumphant whoops as they bade goodbye to the crowd in the Red Onion. If Joshua had to guess, he’d bet that more than a few rounds of drinks had been shared before he arrived in time to see the departure. For himself, he’d still not found anyone willing to partner with him; those with more money and provisions felt no obligation to take on a man who could not contribute an equal share.
Despite Harry’s warning about exaggerated claims, Joshua felt certain that great fortunes were being made. He was eager, ready and willing—all he needed was a chance to get there. With a pang of envy, he walked away from the Red Onion and the scores of smiling men who hung around its doors. Ahead, next to the fire station, he spotted Jeff Smith’s Parlor. It wasn’t as lavish as the Red Onion and some of the others, but he’d heard tales of the games of chance played there. Maddie disapproved of such pastimes and Joshua had little experience with them; still, he felt himself being tugged toward the small wooden structure.
“Joshua Farmer?” Peter Gariston, one of the men he’d met in Harry’s company, had stepped out of the Holly Street Market. “How are you, sir?”
Joshua hesitated. How to answer? It was unseemly to describe one’s lack of funds. Gariston didn’t appear to expect a reply. He kept talking.
“Alistair and myself have now purchased the last of our food supply,” he said. “We plan to hit the White Pass Trail in the morning. For a hundred dollars you could join us.”
Joshua felt his heartbeat quicken. It was double what he had in funds, even if he spent the money for his steamship ticket home, but maybe there was a way. He glanced at Jeff Smith’s sign.
Gariston didn’t notice. “All the major provisions are in place—three-man tent, cook-stove, pots and pans. Buy your share of the food …” he cocked his head toward the Market “… and have it delivered. We leave at six in the morning. What do you say?”
Joshua felt a grin spread across his face. “I’ll do it!”
Gariston patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t forget your mackinaw and boots and plenty of warm socks and underwear, too. There’s a lot of snowy country to cross up there.” With another slap on the back, the man was gone.
He tugged at the door of Jeff Smith’s Parlor but the place wasn’t open. No matter. He could get organized first. He raced back to Mrs. McIlhaney’s and took the stairs two at a time to his tiny attic room.
Sorting his clothing, he counted fewer pairs of socks than the list called for, but he figured he could wash them more often. He helped himself to the bar of soap Mrs. McIlhaney had provided, stashing it under other items in his valise. He left the bag on the bed and went downstairs to give notice.
“I’ll be leaving in the morning,” he told the landlady.
She looked up from the cook stove where a pot of soup simmered. “You’ve found a partner, have you?”
“Two men. They’ve already been to the Klondike once, so they know the way and I think they have a claim awaiting their return. They have all the equipment, so I only have to provide my food and personal gear.”
She nodded. “That’s good. Have you known them long?”
“A few weeks,” he hedged. “Peter Gariston and Alastair Connell.”
She sent him a wary look. “I’ve heard of them. Joshua, they’ve not been up the trail yet. They only arrived in Skagway a week or two before you came. They came to me for lodgings. I distinctly remember it because your room was available at the time, but it was too small for two. My friend Sally rented one of her rooms to t
hem.”
“They have a lot of money, and they talk about the ruggedness of the trail. Perhaps they went last year, found their fortune, and came back to Skagway for another run at it now.”
“That may be.” She turned back to the soup but he caught the look of skepticism on her face.
“I have to go out now,” Joshua said, “but I will return tonight for supper and to say goodbye.”
I cannot listen to doubters, he told himself as he hurried toward Holly Street. Running through my money while staying here in town is no good. If I don’t take Peter up on his offer I will be here in Skagway a month from now, with even less money to get by. His mood brightened when he saw two men in bowler hats enter Smith’s place. He quickened his pace and followed them inside.
The small bar had only a couple of rooms, the largest neatly wallpapered and a painted design dressed up the wooden floor. A short bar ran along the length of it, with a white-jacketed bartender standing behind it. The two men he’d followed were talking to a man in a tweed three-piece suit with a gold watch chain draped across the vest. He had gentle, dark eyes and his beard had been trimmed in recent days. His tan felt hat rested far enough back on his head to reveal a slightly receding hairline. In his left hand he held a fat cigar, which he puffed occasionally as the other men talked.
Joshua reckoned this was Jeff Smith. He glanced into the small adjacent room where several men in dungarees were watching a card game in progress. On the table was a layout with thirteen cards, one of each number in the suit of spades. A player set a coin on one of the cards, hoping for a match. As he watched, the dealer dealt two cards from a wooden box and paid some money. Two more, another win. As the final three cards were drawn the player shouted with joy. The dealer pushed two gold coins toward the winner. The man’s face glowed with excitement as he stood.
“There’s my stake, boys! I’m on my way to Dawson City!” He practically danced a jig as he headed toward the door.
The card dealer looked around, his gaze settling on Joshua. “Play?”
He glanced toward the others who had been there first, but both of them shook their heads. Well, Joshua wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass him by. He quickly took the recently vacated chair.
“Okay, son, ready for your chance to buck the tiger?” the dealer said with a friendly smile.
It seemed simple enough. Clearly, the final draw of the round paid a much higher rate so he would bet cautiously at the beginning. Joshua swallowed hard and nodded. He started with a bet of ten cents and within two hands had doubled it. Next time he put down fifty cents. Doubled again. He began placing bets of a dollar—lost one but won two more. By the end of the round, Joshua had increased his cash by twenty percent. He took a deep breath as they started a new round.
This time two of the other men decided to join in and place bets along with Joshua. Clearly, they knew a winner when they met one. His confidence grew with each draw of the cards and he soon had increased his holdings from a bit over fifty dollars to well over seventy. His mind worked out the mathematics as the dealer shuffled the cards and placed them back into the shoe. He needed only thirty dollars more, then he would walk away just as the previous player had done.
He boldly bet twenty dollars on the next draw. By this time the man in the tweed suit and two of his friends were standing by, watching Joshua’s growing skill at the game. The twenty dollar bet would turn into forty. So close now. He could see the money coming his way. He would purchase an ample supply of food and some extra clothing, then be ready to join Gariston and Connell in the morning. Why stop at twenty? He bet it all.
His card was a seven—his lucky number. The dealer’s card was a queen. Both of the other men sided with Joshua and placed their bets. The dealer drew from the wooden shoe. The queen of hearts showed her loathsome face. The dealer quickly gathered all the bets from the table.
“Sorry, son,” he said. “Here—we have a few more rounds to go. You’ll catch up.”
But Joshua had nothing left to bet. He rose from his chair, the world closing in around him as if he had suddenly stepped into a fog bank and couldn’t see or hear a thing. He stumbled toward the door and as his feet hit the sidewalk outside he could hear the men laughing.
He jammed his hands into his coat pockets, feeling numb, and his fingers encountered one lone silver dollar. How could he have been so reckless? Inexperienced at gambling, he’d lost all sense of perspective. He lectured himself all the way back to Mrs. McIlhaney’s. At the door he couldn’t bring himself to go inside. The landlady had shown skepticism toward Joshua’s two traveling partners; to admit now that he’d lost all his money in a gambling parlor—he couldn’t face her.
He needed to walk around and get his wits together. He continued up the street, a thousand thoughts jumbling his mind. What would he tell Gariston and Connell? God above, what would he tell Maddie? His stomach lurched and he ducked between two buildings just in time to vomit on the muddy ground.
At the far corner of the whitewashed building a woman, barely clad in her chemise, stared at him in pity. Just another drunk, she must have assumed. He hung his head and turned to avoid her critical gaze. While he wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, she opened the door to one of the cheap cribs and went inside. For one flash of a second, Joshua debated following, spending his last dollar for an hour of her time. The thought sickened him and he retched again.
He leaned his back against the whitewashed wall, breathing hard, working not to scream or to beat his head against the building and punish himself. He gave in to the urge and cried out in pain as the back of his skull contacted the board-and-batten siding.
“Joshua? What on earth?” Harry Weaver was at his side. “Man, what is the matter?”
Harry gripped both of Joshua’s shoulders. Joshua felt himself redden. First the humiliation of losing at cards, now he’d been seen in compromising situations by two people.
“I—” He couldn’t say it.
“Come on, son.”
Another embarrassment. Harry treating him as a boy. But Joshua had no will to argue. He allowed his friend to lead the way. They walked into a respectable tea house where Harry considerately found a table in an empty corner and took charge of ordering tea and sandwiches. Now, topping off the humiliation, he would have to admit to his friend that he couldn’t afford lunch.
No lunch, no rent, no ticket home. He felt his eyelids prickle. Blinking quickly he swiped the tear away with a fingertip, pretending to have a speck in his eye.
Harry returned to the table and spoke in a low voice. “All right now. What’s happened?”
Joshua tried to come up with a story but his thoughts were still in a tangle. He glanced around the room, saw only three other customers—ladies who were laughing among themselves at something one had said. He took a breath and the whole story tumbled out. The invitation from Peter Gariston, the deadline to come up with a hundred dollars in time to purchase his food and go with them, the foolish decision to acquire the money by gambling. Once he began talking the words came easier. It was true what they said about unburdening your soul.
“This was Jeff Smith’s place you went to?” Harry demanded through clenched teeth as soon as Joshua paused in the narrative.
He nodded.
“That crook!”
“I was so foolish,” Joshua said. “I didn’t understand the game and I bet too lavishly.”
“And they cheated you out of every cent.”
Joshua stared at his companion.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if every man in the place was in on it,” Harry said. “Was there a man in a tweed suit? And several others, nicely dressed? Fancy tie pins and such?”
Joshua remembered admiring the pearl pin in the owner’s tie.
“That was Soapy Smith. Jefferson Randolph Smith. He’s notorious. You hadn’t heard of him?”
“Well, yes, but I never realized Soapy was this Jeff who owned the bar.”
“You’re not alone, Joshua.
Don’t be embarrassed.”
Which was like saying ‘don’t be tall.’ There was no way around the humiliation he was feeling right now.
“Soapy Smith runs every possible confidence game there is. No doubt the man dealing the faro game was cheating. The other players could have been in on it, raising bets, cheering you on, making you think they were losing or winning every bit as much as you did.”
The sandwiches arrived but Joshua could not contemplate putting food into his roiling stomach.
“The man acquired the nickname ‘Soapy’ by selling bars of soap which supposedly had bank notes between five dollars and fifty dollars enclosed in the wrapping. His own men would buy a bar, reveal a big prize, convince others to purchase them too. They worked a crowd and then vanished before people figured out that most won no prize at all and no one ever won a prize larger than the price he’d paid for the bar of soap.”
“But he seemed so nice.”
“Confidence men always do,” Harry advised. “And this one is a pro. He’s even got the newspapers on his side. A reporter in New York called him most gracious and kind-hearted. One in Seattle swore that most of the stories about Smith were untrue, were only vile rumors. Smith owns politicians and has taken advantage of successful businessmen. No offense intended, Joshua, but he has scammed men far more sophisticated than you.”
Harry bit into his sandwich. Joshua could barely look at his. Despite the reassurances, nothing in what Harry said had changed his circumstances.
“I shall report this. The police will arrest him.”
Legends Can Be Murder Page 7
