Deep in the Heart of Trouble

by Deeanne Gist

  “Bogart’s gonna take care of it for him.”

  Tony stared at him.

  “Bogart was our preacher before Ewing,” Dunn said. “He retired a few years back.”

  Shaking his head, Tony made another effort to pass the sheriff. “I still need to get to my family.”

  Dunn increased the pressure on his shoulder. “In a minute. I think it would be best if you got all the details now. No need to upset the women with this kind of talk.”

  Desire to comfort his mother and sister pulled at Tony, but he saw the wisdom of the sheriff’s words. He looked at Essie.

  Nodding, she patted the spot beside her. He sat back down, trying to make sense of what the sheriff had told him. Stabbed? Darius had been stabbed? To death? But how? Why? By whom?

  He knew Darius had enemies. Knew his brother could be underhanded. Still, he couldn’t imagine Darius doing something so nefarious it would motivate someone to kill him in cold blood.

  But someone had. And whoever it was would have to be mighty strong. His brother might not have fought back yesterday when Tony was going after him, but he’d most assuredly have fought back if someone was trying to kill him.

  “Do you have any suspects at all?” Tony asked.

  Dunn slowly nodded. “One.”

  “Who?”

  The sheriff swiped his thick gray moustache with a leathery hand. “You.”

  Essie gasped a second time.

  “Me?” The idea was so preposterous, he couldn’t even process it. “Why? Because of that stupid race?” His anger started to build. “You think I’d kill somebody—my own flesh and blood—over some stupid bicycle race?”

  “No. I don’t think it had anything to do with that race.”

  “Then what possible reason can you have for suspecting me?”

  “You mean besides the fact that you have now inherited the entire Morgan fortune and the oil company that goes along with it?”

  All powers of speech fled from Tony.

  “Besides the fact,” the sheriff continued, “that you can save your sister from a marriage you’ve been very vocal about opposing but had no way of stopping—before now, that is?”

  None of what the sheriff was saying had even occurred to Tony. But, of course, Dunn was right. Tony was next in line to inherit. And with that inheritance came all the power, resources, and privileges he needed to take proper care of his loved ones. And Essie, too.

  Dunn leaned back in his chair. His blue eyes sharp. Perceptive. Intelligent. Deep grooves surrounded them from years of squinting into the bright Texas sunlight.

  “I’m not gonna pretend like I don’t want it,” Tony said. “I do. I’d always assumed part of it would be mine.” He drew down his eyebrows. “But I don’t want it so badly that I’d kill a man for it. Especially not my own brother. We had our differences, but I never wished him dead. Never.”

  “Uncle Melvin,” Essie said, her voice soft, calm, “I do not for one minute believe that you think Tony did this awful thing. And even if you did, there is no crime in inheriting the Morgan fortune. Granted, it doesn’t look good, particularly on the heels of the scuffle the two of them had yesterday. But it isn’t enough to accuse him of murder, and I’m devastated to think you would stoop to doing so.”

  Her voice cracked on the last few words. Tony slipped his hand back into hers.

  Dunn moved his attention to her, his distress evident. “You know I would move a mountain for you if I needed to, but this is not something I have total control over. I have rules to abide by.

  Procedures to follow.”

  “You have no proof that he did it,” she said, anger and hurt edging her voice.

  Dunn and Spreckelmeyer exchanged a glance.

  “Essie,” Spreckelmeyer said, “Darius was stabbed with a staghandled knife shaped like a dog bone.”

  chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

  ESSIE’S BREATH caught.

  Tony fell back onto the cushions of the settee. “My knife? Darius was stabbed with my knife? The one my father gave me?”

  Uncle Melvin’s cheeks sagged, weighing his frown down even farther. “I’m afraid so.”

  “But I haven’t seen my knife since I showed it to that Alamo fellow, Mudge, at the reception Friday night.” He sat up. “You were there. Harley had just borrowed it and given it back, when Mudge asked to take a look at it.”

  Uncle Melvin gave no indication as to whether he recalled the incident or not.

  Tony looked over at Papa. “Before I had time to get it back, Jeremy came in with news of Crackshot and I left without it.” He scooted forward, sitting on the edge of the couch. “I missed it almost immediately because I needed it out at the rig when we were tending Crackshot.”

  “You never asked Mudge to return it to you?” Melvin asked.

  “Of course I did. The very next morning when I saw him at the parade. But he said he’d left it at the Commercial, thinking I’d go back there to retrieve it.”

  “And did you go back to the hotel?”

  “Yes, but no one there had seen or heard a thing about it.”

  Essie had held her peace for as long as she was going to. She knew her father and uncle didn’t really suspect Tony killed his brother. She also knew they were elected officials and had to follow the due course of the law.

  So she had sat there and let them accuse Tony, interrogate him and scare him half to death. Enough was enough.

  “What are we going to do, Papa?” she said. “Both of you know he didn’t do it. Anyone could have picked up his knife.”

  Papa rubbed his forehead. “It’s not that simple.”

  “It is.”

  “No, it’s not. Besides, the decision isn’t mine to make.”

  “You’re the Thirty-fifth Judicial District Judge. If you say there’s not enough evidence, then that’s an end to it.”

  He lowered his hand. “Not this time. Not when the accused is my future son-in-law. Maybe if the two of you weren’t already betrothed, I could do something. But now, if we don’t make this arrest, no one will believe in Tony’s innocence. They’ll think Melvin and I manipulated the facts to suit ourselves. And that’s just the type of thing that incites lynch mobs.”

  Her heart jumped into her throat. “You’re going to arrest him?” She swerved her gaze to Melvin. “You are thinking to actually take him to the jailhouse and put him in a cell?!”

  “Where were you in the wee hours of last night?” Uncle Melvin asked Tony.

  A tick began to hammer in Tony’s jaw. “Sitting on the front porch there.”

  “This front porch?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For how long?”

  “From about midnight to dawn.”

  Melvin shot Essie a quick glance before returning it to Tony.

  “Alone?”

  Essie stiffened.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did anyone see you there?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The whole night long? Not one single person happened by?”

  “A straggler or two happened by. But it was dark and I was sitting in the shadows. I wasn’t about to holler out a greeting. It would have ruined Essie’s reputation.”

  Her uncle stood and approached the fireplace. His back to them, he propped his hand on the mantel. “Where were you before that?”

  “I walked down to Two Bit Creek to cool down after my fight with Darius. Then I came here.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “Threw rocks at her window.”

  He whirled around. “What?”

  “I was trying to wake her up. I hadn’t seen her since my fight with Darius and I knew I’d never get to sleep unless I talked to her first.”

  “So you snuck around back and threw rocks at her window?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Melvin took a step forward, pointing his finger. “Don’t you ever do that again!”

  Papa heaved a sigh. “Melvin, you are digressing.”

  “Ar
e you forgetting what happened last time, Sullivan?”

  “Melvin—” Papa growled.

  Essie jumped to her feet. “Can we please just stick to the issue at hand?”

  Her uncle looked at her. “Did you go out there and meet him?”

  “I wasn’t even home!”

  “Has he done that before?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, if’n he ever does it again, I assume you will not dignify him with a response?”

  She stormed around the chairs. “I most certainly will respond. Nothing short of desperation could motivate Tony to wake me up in the middle of the night, and I’d answer his call like that,” she said, snapping her fingers.

  “Desperation? Desperation for what?” her uncle barked.

  Papa surged to his feet. Tony jumped clear over an ottoman and shoved her behind him, placing himself between her and her uncle.

  “Listen here, Sheriff. You got something to say, then you say it to me, but you leave Essie alone. I don’t care if you’re the sheriff, her uncle, or her last living relative. Nobody talks to my woman like that. Nobody. You understand?”

  “And just what’re ya gonna do about it, Morgan? Stab me with your knife?”

  Essie gasped.

  “That is enough!” Papa roared.

  Her uncle and Tony stood chest to chest.

  “Stop it, Melvin,” Papa said. “I mean it.”

  Melvin took a step back but didn’t relax his stance.

  “You too, Tony.”

  Tony fished around for her hand. She slipped it inside his. He took a step back, keeping her partially behind him.

  “Say what you have to say, Sheriff,” Tony said. “But I’m done chitchattin’. ”

  Uncle Melvin hardened his features. “You wanna know what I have to say? I say you’re under arrest, Anthony Bryant Morgan. For the murder of your brother, Darius Morgan.”

  Essie lay curled up on her bed, crying to the Lord for help. Her first instinct had been to go out and do something. Anything. But what could she do?

  Melvin had forbidden her to go to the hotel until they’d removed the body. He wouldn’t even let her go and offer condolences to Anna and her mother.

  Tony didn’t want to make any more of a spectacle than necessary as he went to the jailhouse and asked her to stay behind.

  Papa had gone to send a telegram to a judge from another district. It would be unethical for Papa to sit in judgment on a case that involved his future son-in-law.

  And Mother was gone, of course. Out of reach.

  Essie pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. Oh, Lord. I need my mother.

  Aunt Verdie had tried to be there for Essie since Mother’s death, but Essie was closer to Uncle Melvin. She ran her finger over the Florentine stitches on her pillow slip. Going to her uncle now, though, was out of the question—particularly when she was so disappointed in him.

  She had many women friends from church and the bicycle club, but what could they do? Nothing. Not one blessed thing.

  And then, she realized, Christ was still her groom. He hadn’t left her simply because she and Tony had decided to get married.

  But as she lay on her bed, no words of prayer came to her. No Scriptures. No memorized verses. No nothing. So she’d simply cried, beseeching the Lord and repeating the only prayer she could think of.

  Help. Please, Lord. Help.

  She was so tired. So empty. When had she last been to bed? At some point she must have dozed off, for the sound of someone knocking on the front door downstairs jolted her awake.

  Too tired to move and not up for visitors, she stayed in her bed.

  The door opened. “Essie?”

  It was a woman’s voice.

  “Are you home, honey?”

  She heard the creak of the stairs, but she still didn’t answer. The footsteps came down the hall and stopped at her bedroom door.

  She rolled over and tears engulfed her eyes. “Mrs. Lockhart.”

  The elderly lady came in, sat on the edge of the mattress and opened her arms. Essie moved into them and sobbed. The slightest hint of camphor rose from Mrs. Lockhart’s clothing.

  “There, there, dear,” she said, patting Essie on the back. “That’s it. You have a good cry, then I’ll tell you what we have planned.”

  Essie took a trembling breath and leaned back. “We have a plan?”

  “Well, of course. But finish your cry first. You’ll feel much better for it.”

  Essie dragged the hanky across her eyes. “I want to hear our plan.”

  Mrs. Lockhart stood up and held out her hand. “Come, let me do your hair first.”

  “For what?” Essie swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  “For the emergency meeting of the Velocipede Club.”

  “But I didn’t call an emergency meeting.” Essie sat down on her vanity stool and began to remove the pins from her hair.

  Mrs. Lockhart picked up the brush. “Shirley called it. We are due to convene in thirty minutes.”

  Wearing a white shirtwaist, brown skirt, and simple straw hat, Essie entered the Velocipede Club with Mrs. Lockhart. Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the windows lining the upper edge of the building. It appeared as if the entire female membership was present and every single one of them was talking at once.

  Mrs. McCabe and Mrs. Zimpelman caught sight of her first.

  One by one the women quit speaking until the earsplitting noise trickled into total quiet. Essie looked over the sea of faces regarding her with concern and affection.

  When she’d asked the Lord for help, she never imagined He’d send angels disguised as bloomer-girls. Tears piled up in her throat, making it almost impossible to swallow.

  Shirley strode to her and clasped her tight. “Oh, honey. Don’t you worry about a thing. We’ll figure something out.”

  And in a rush, the entire group crowded about her, reassuring her and pulling her to the chairs that had been set up.

  Shirley moved to the podium and hammered on the gavel.

  “Order, please.”

  The women settled and gave their attention to Shirley.

  “As you know, our beloved member and Essie’s much-anticipated fiancé has been placed in the jailhouse for something we all know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, our Mr. Morgan would never do.”

  “He certainly wouldn’t.”

  “Don’t know what the sheriff was thinking.”

  “Inexcusable is what it is.”

  Shirley rapped the gavel again. “Because of Mr. Morgan’s relationship with Essie, the sheriff and judge don’t have the legroom they usually do under these circumstances.”

  “Such a mess.”

  “Poor Mr. Morgan.”

  “We’ve got to get him out of there.”

  “Verdie, can’t you do something about the sheriff?”

  Aunt Verdie was here? Essie twisted around but was unable to find her in the crowd.

  “Ladies!” Shirley said, shushing them. “Please. We are wasting time.”

  The women quieted.

  “Now,” Shirley continued, “leaving Mr. Morgan’s fate to some strange judge or, worse, Deputy Howard, simply will not do.” She lifted her chin. “Therefore, I move that we, the women of the Corsicana Velocipede Club, take on the task of rescuing our Mr. Morgan.”

  A beat of concern broke through Essie’s daze. Rescue? They were going to break Tony out of jail?

  “I second the motion,” said Mrs. Gulick.

  “All those in favor say ‘Aye.’ ”

  “Aye.”

  “Opposed?”

  Essie opened her mouth, but before she could interject a bit of caution, the door opened. Anna, Mrs. Morgan, and Ewing stepped inside.

  Shirley smiled. “Mrs. Pickens, as Membership Chair, would you please go and welcome the Morgans and Preacher Wortham?”

  The proprietress of the Flour, Feed and Liquor Store jumped to her feet and escorted Anna and her mother—both in black—to some vacant
chairs, Ewing close behind them.

  “We appreciate your coming,” Shirley said, “and we offer our condolences. However, I feel compelled to warn you, our conversation today will be open and frank and perhaps upsetting to you as we discuss the circumstances surrounding Mr. Morgan’s death. Are you sure you’re up to staying?”

  Anna looked at her mother, who dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, then nodded.

  “Very well. Then, as there was no opposition to our motion, the floor is open for discussion. Before we start, however, I respectfully suggest that the most effective and upright way to accomplish our goal is to find out who really did kill Darius Morgan. So we must first try to ascertain who would profit from his death.” She scanned the audience. “The floor recognizes Mrs. McCabe.”

  The coroner’s wife stood, her usual jolly expression nowhere in sight. “Mr. McCabe has laid out many a man in his day. Those who died in a similar fashion to Mr. Morgan were most often the victims of,” she held up her fingers, ticking off the reasons, “explosive anger—due to cheating at cards and such. Or accidents—cleaning out guns and that sort of thing. Reckless behavior while under the influence of intoxicants. Sometimes jealousy—usually involving a woman. And occasionally, premeditated, cold-blooded murder.”

  “Have you spoken to Mr. McCabe since he’s seen the body?” Shirley asked.

  “I have.”

  “And what is his opinion?”

  “Premeditated, cold-blooded murder.”

  Fans fluttered and whispers ricocheted throughout the room.

  “The floor recognizes Miss Davis.”

  Young Victoria stood, casting a quick glance at Ewing, then blushing prettily. “Mr. Morgan was quite wealthy. Isn’t it possible that someone who worked for him or who had unsatisfactory business dealings with him might have held a grudge of some sort?”

  “Excellent point. Are you recording all this, Mrs. Blanchard?”

  The club secretary nodded, busily scribbling in her record book.

  “The floor recognizes Mrs. Lockhart.”

  “In The Shadow of Sin,” she began, using her cane to push to her feet while those in attendance suppressed a groan, “Mr. Goodenough found his young wife in the arms of Mr. Huffstutter and planned an elaborate scheme to murder them both in their sleep. Of course, he ran into difficulty when—”