by Gina Welborn
“Yes, ma’am.” Mac bent and kissed her cheek. “You’re a remarkable woman.”
“I am.” Her grin was saucy, reminding Mac of how Mr. Hollenbeck used to call her his spitfire. “Now, continue.”
Mac saluted her. “All right, then, I don’t know how Dunfree was killed. The coroner’s report is due tomorrow afternoon. However, if there were no obvious wounds, poison might be the culprit.”
“In which case he wants to know if I’m missing any medicine.” Doc Abernathy drew his bushy white eyebrows together. “I’ve never kept a lock on my supplies, but I do keep very accurate records. I’ll know if anything is missing.”
Faint organ music penetrated the walls.
“Anyone have anything else?” Mac looked around the room.
Jakob, Isaak, and Doc Abernathy shook their heads.
Mrs. Hollenbeck rose from her chair. “You three go on ahead. I need to speak with Sheriff McCall for just a moment.” She waited until the two of them were alone in the pastor’s office. “You realize your declaration to Mrs. Watson and her little club effectively constitutes a second marriage proposal.”
He hadn’t thought of it that way. Hadn’t thought of anything except defending Emilia.
“A few days ago,” Mrs. Hollenbeck continued, “you said Marshal Valentine would either have to come up with some evidence to support holding Roch and Emilia or release them. We both know there is no evidence, so how long before they’re released?”
Not soon enough for Mac.
He leaned against the edge of Reverend Neven’s desk. “If the coroner says the cause of death is poison, and Doc can account for all his medicine, I’d say tomorrow afternoon.”
Mrs. Hollenbeck stepped closer. “Then, my dear boy, you don’t have long to come up with a third marriage proposal.” She reached up and patted his cheek. “I suggest you make it a good one this time.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The next morning
Mac scooped up the WANTED posters and other notices he planned to use as subterfuge to request a meeting the instant the city marshal’s office opened in—he walked out of his office and checked the clock over the door leading into the lobby—four more minutes.
He’d arrived at City Hall almost three hours earlier, stopping at the jail on his way to check on Emilia, both grateful and disappointed to hear she was sleeping. He hadn’t come up with his proposal yet, although planning and discarding eight different scenarios had kept him awake for hours last night. He wasn’t planning on dropping to one knee in front of steel bars in any case, so his first priority was working on her release.
First, the coroner’s report needed to come in. Assuming Dunfree’s cause of death was poison instead of something like a heart attack, Doc Abernathy then needed to confirm his medicines were all accounted for. Finally, his mother needed to corroborate Luci Stanek’s account of her encounter with Dunfree.
Which should happen in—Mac checked the clock again—three minutes, twenty-four seconds.
Knock, knock, knock. “Mac. You in there? We need to talk.”
Hendry. How had he gotten inside City Hall before nine?
Mac swung open the door and stepped into the lobby. A number of people were lining up outside office doors to wait until they were unlocked by the various clerks. Dunfree used to keep everyone out until the stroke of nine. “Not now, Hendry. I’m on my way to a meeting.”
“With Marshal Valentine?”
“That’s none of your business.”
Hendry put a hand on Mac’s arm. “Hold up. I know you’re mad at me, and considering how things worked out, I can’t blame you, but”—he leaned close to Mac’s ear—“I have something you need to see.”
Mac pulled back. “If it doesn’t concern Emilia and Roch, I’m not interested.”
“But it does.” Hendry raised his brows and shifted his gaze to Mac’s office, a clear indication that he wanted to speak in private.
After noting that the city marshal’s door was still closed and there were already five people waiting outside, Mac pivoted around to return to his office. “I can give you five minutes. No more.”
“That’s all I need. What’s the latest in the Dunfree case?”
“Funny. I was about to ask you the same question.” Mac cut a glance at the reporter.
Amusement sparkled in Hendry’s eyes. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll tell you what I know and, if it’s news to you, you tell me what’s in that.” He pointed to the stack of papers in Mac’s hand.
“Fair enough.” Mac stepped to the side to allow Hendry to precede him into the sheriff ’s office.
“Coroner suspects Dunfree was poisoned.”
Mac stopped walking. “His report isn’t due out until later today.”
“He owed me a favor.” Hendry tossed the comment over his shoulder as he walked into Mac’s private office.
Shaking his head, Mac followed. Priority number one done, and Doc planned to get to his office early to inventory his medicines. Meaning only the interview with his mother stood between Emilia and freedom. “There are times I want to hate you, and then you do this.”
Hendry grinned. “It’s part of my charm.”
“Here”—Mac dumped the whole stack of papers into Hendry’s lap—“enjoy yourself. The short version is six new WANTED posters and—”
“Any for murder?” Hendry licked his index finger, then lifted the corner of the top page.
“Nope.” Mac sat down and crossed his arms over his chest.
Hendry looked up. “Go on. You said, ‘and . . .’”
“And,” Mac repeated, “counterfeit money in Dawson County.”
“Again?” Hendry flipped through a few more pages. “Boring.”
Mac laughed. “You aren’t happy unless it’s madness and mayhem, are you?”
“Reporter,” he said, in much the same way Mac had said sheriff when asked why he always kept his back to the wall. Hendry set the stack of papers on the corner of Mac’s desk. “All right. Down to business. Remember when I told you I stopped chasing a rumor that Finn Collins was part of a smuggling ring getting girls out of prostitution because I couldn’t verify it? I just got proof.”
“What?” Mac jerked straight, his hands falling to his thighs.
“Told you you’d like it.” Hendry leaned sideways to dig inside his pants pocket. After a brief struggle, he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and tossed it on the desk between them. “Found this while cleaning out my saddlebag this morning. Don’t ask how I missed it or how long it’s been there because I don’t know.”
Mac’s neck tingled as he peeled back the edges.
It aint tru. That man tryd to git girls outta the red lite distrikt.
Mac pressed the back of his hand against his nose and lips. To see his friend and brother vindicated, even in this small way, made his eyes tear up and his nose sting. An unsigned note wasn’t actual proof, but it verified what his heart wanted to believe—what Emilia had never stopped believing—about the goodness of Finn Collins.
Mac pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket to blow his nose. He cleared his throat. “Do you think getting girls out of prostitution is what got Finn killed?”
Hendry nodded. “That’s what I want to find out, but I don’t want to be stupid about it. However, at least I can run a retraction. I think it would go a long way toward clearing the names and reputations of several lovely young ladies around town.” The blush that stained Hendry’s cheeks said the lovely young lady he was most concerned about was Yancey Palmer.
Mac tucked the handkerchief away. While a retraction would restore some peace to Emilia and her family, they were leaving town once this idiotic arrest was dropped. Unless he came up with the perfect proposal. Which, based on past performance, wasn’t guaranteed. And Emilia had never doubted Finn’s character. Seeing him exonerated would be nice but unnecessary. As for Yancey, a few more weeks—maybe less—and she’d be back to her normal, sunny self. “If I were you, I’d let
the hubbub in the red-light district die down. You’ve made enemies over this weekend’s raid. Do something boring for a few months”—Mac directed a look at the WANTED posters and news bulletins sitting on the edge of his desk—“then come back to it.”
“Yeah . . . you’re probably right.” Hendry dug through the stack of notices. “How about I take this one?” He pulled out a bulletin and showed it to Mac.
“Nice and boring.” He reached for the remaining notices. “You might start by checking down at the train station to see if someone in the telegraph office has any information about counterfeiting.”
Hendry stood. “An excellent suggestion, Sheriff.” After a handshake, he jogged out.
Mac tucked the notices under his arm and slipped the scrap of paper into his pocket before he hurried over to the city marshal’s. He was in time to see a burgundy silk ruffle disappear into Quinn’s private office. None of the police officers were at their desks. An oversight on Quinn’s part if he meant to keep Mac out of his mother’s interrogation. He opened the door and stepped inside.
“Thought you might show up” was the only resistance Quinn offered. “Have a seat. We were just getting started.”
Surprised and a little annoyed that he didn’t have to put up a fight, Mac sat down. He placed the notices on the floor beside his chair. After greeting his mother, he remained silent while Quinn asked the questions. Every colorless answer confirmed Luci Stanek’s account of what happened between her and Edgar Dunfree.
After a few minutes, Officer Jerow interrupted. “Sir, coroner’s report just came in. Thought you might want to see it.”
Quinn excused himself. “Mac, don’t ask your mother any questions while I’m gone.”
“I won’t.” But the moment the door closed, Mac retrieved the scrap of paper Hendry had found and handed it to his mother.
Her eyes widened for the merest instant before the bland expression she’d worn during the entire interview slipped back into place. She rolled the dingy note between her fingers until it was the size of a pea, then she popped it into her mouth.
What did that mean? Had she found the note offensive? Ridiculous? Incriminatory?
While Mac struggled to make sense of her gesture, Quinn returned.
Madame Lestraude rose from her chair with the grace of a princess. “I demand to speak with Emilia Collins.”
* * *
Emilia sat across from Madame Lestraude and mimicked her clasped hands in her lap, their knees almost touching. Had the woman killed Mr. Dunfree? She didn’t look like a murderer. Nor had Mac looked like the son of a prostitute. The similarity was in their eyes—a soft almond shape, thick lashes, chocolate brown. Except Mac’s eyes were kind.
“Why?” Emilia asked before the haughty woman could speak.
Madame’s arched brows rose. Her eyes shifted to the closed door, behind which they knew both Mac and Marshal Valentine were standing. And listening. Her gaze resettled on Emilia. “Your question could have a million different answers. Which one would you like first?” She spoke at a soft level no one, even with a glass cupped to the door, could hear.
Emilia matched the volume. “Why did you ask to speak to me?”
Madame crossed her legs, then laid one hand on her knee, the other bejeweled hand atop it. “My son is in love with you. Yet you rejected his proposal.”
“I’ve spent the last four days in jail and you wish to give me a motherly lecture?” Emilia stood. “Good day, Miss Lester.”
“Sit!”
She’d been gracious in agreeing to meet with Mac’s mother. She’d always been respectful to those older than she. No matter how unkind, cruel, or rude the elder was. Proper etiquette dictated it. Etiquette did not dictate she divulge her reasons for refusing Mac’s proposal to a woman she had met only minutes earlier. Nor did it dictate she obey like a trained pet.
Emilia lifted her chin.
Madame motioned to the chair. She stared up at Emilia for an excruciatingly long moment before speaking in a kind tone, oddly suited to her. “Please, Emilia. Sit.”
She needs me. The realization hit Emilia like a slap in the face. She settled back onto the chair and nodded at Madame to continue.
Madame frowned. No, she looked somber, tired, and—was it possible?—afraid. “I wish to ask a simple favor.”
“Which is?”
“I forgive the loan, and you”—she waved at nothing in particular—“publicly acknowledge that Finn and I were working together to smuggle girls into prostitution.”
Emilia pondered this with a slow nod. “And then we’re even?” she asked with a touch of cynicism, because who in their right mind would believe this simple favor was all Madame Lestraude wanted?
“Even. Such an interesting word.” She studied Emilia, and Emilia studied her. “I believe we will be . . . even.”
“Lies come as easily to you as the truth.” Emilia smiled placidly. “You are not that kind.”
Madame’s painted lips twitched.
Emilia leaned forward. “On this we would be even, but I would still owe you.”
“For?”
“Rescuing Luci from Mr. Dunfree.”
Madame cleared her throat. “You don’t believe in kindness?”
Not from you. The words stalled on Emilia’s tongue at the flicker of hurt in Madame’s eyes. Luci had been adamant about how furious Madame had been at the city clerk. Maybe her actions had been sincere. Kind even. Maybe she had rescued Luci without expecting anything in return. Maybe, in this, Madame had not measured her kindness.
I’ve never known Mrs. Palmer to measure her kindness.
Mr. Adams fervently believed Mrs. Palmer to be that kind. That gracious. That giving.
Emilia moistened her dry lips. “My mother taught that when someone gives us a gift, from a simple favor to a pie to saving a life from a sick man, we must give something back in return.”
“I didn’t rescue Luci so you would owe me.”
“You don’t seem the type of woman who does simple favors for anyone without it being a benefit to you.”
That seemed to impress her.
Madame rested against the back of her chair and smiled. “Indeed, I’m not.”
Emilia took a breath. This conversation was growing tedious. “Have I proven my merit? That I am worthy of your son? This conversation is really about that, isn’t it?” She didn’t give Madame a chance to respond. “Please leave. Finn was too honorable a man to have worked for you.”
Madame leaned forward with a malicious glare. “When all the banks rejected Finn, he came to me asking for a loan. Some would say I was being kind. Others”—her look conveyed like you—“would say I did it out of obligation.”
Finn asked her for a loan?
Emilia touched her chest, but the action did nothing to slow the pounding. Something in Madame’s expression, in her tone, in the fervency of her words had Emilia convinced. Madame wasn’t lying. Not about this. How Emilia knew, she wasn’t sure, but she knew—knew—Madame had given the loan out of obligation.
Glancing at the light slipping through the space under the door, Emilia could see two shadows. Mac and Marshal Valentine couldn’t have heard anything.
She turned back to Madame and kept her voice low. “Why did you feel obligated to help Finn? The truth, please.”
Madame dipped her head in acknowledgment. “He was helping me smuggle young girls out of prostitution.”
Emilia blinked. Swallowed. Stopped breathing.
Not in but out.
One little word validated all she believed of Finn. If Madame was honest. This woman wore lies as easily as the paint on her face. But were they as easy to take off?
She drew in a breath, then released it.
Madame sat there, looking as one would after saying, Excellent dinner. Please pass the salt.
Emilia gathered her whirlwind of whys and hows and whens into one question: “Then why smear his good name?”
“He was already dead and I needed a
scapegoat.” Madame spoke as though slander was as commonplace as laundry. “I’ve been helping young girls out of prostitution for as long as I’ve lived in Helena. It’s one of the benefits of being a madam. No one suspects me. The names and faces of those helping me change, but my financier and I have remained constant. And hidden.”
She had a financier?
“But then,” she continued, “Joseph Hendry arrived in town and stirred up trouble. He caught wind of my scheme. His poking around caused people to wonder aloud if, instead of the girls being runaways, someone was helping them escape. I whispered here and there that Finn was helping me smuggle women into the sisterhood to throw Hendry off the scent. It worked until my righteous son . . .” She shook her head.
“Mac wanted to defend his friend’s honor.”
“He did it because he loves you.” Madame made it sound like a condemnation. “He didn’t want your name in the newspaper, so he and his little deputies started shouting their suspicions about girls being smuggled out of prostitution at the top of their lungs.”
“So you went to Mr. Hendry and gave him a different story.”
“I had no other option.”
Emilia stared at Madame. She looked astonishingly casual at admitting her deception. No other option. Lie upon lie. Which could only mean—
“Did you forge the deed of trust you showed Hendry?”
“I did what was necessary.”
Several seconds went by.
Madame said nothing, nor did she look as if she felt obliged to break the silence.
Emilia shifted on her chair to ease the numbness in her left thigh. The woman had no shame, no remorse.
“You dragged Luci literally and me into the middle of a lie,” she said, incredulous.
“Which wouldn’t have mattered if you’d said yes when my son asked you to marry him.” Her tone of voice adding that Emilia was somewhere in the range of a tree slug for rejecting the offer.
Emilia coughed a breath. “I believe Finn was helping you rescue girls. I can see him doing that. But for all you’ve done for those rescued girls, your do-what-is-necessary lie hurt my sister. She’s twelve years old. Twelve. The kids at school were bullying her. She has bruises on her back from where they pelted her with rocks and called her horrible names. Because of your”—she spoke in a haughty voice—“I-have-no-other-option lie.”
