The Vicar of St. James

by J. R. Roberts

  “It’s not you,” Clint said. “It’s me.”

  “Or me,” Father Joe said.

  “I don’t care which one of you it is as long as it ain’t me.”

  They all ordered steak and eggs from Mrs. Colton, who left them with a pot of coffee and three mugs.

  “You hear about the fire?” Bricker asked Father Joe.

  “I heard,” Father Joe said. “And the shooting.”

  “I wonder if it’s the same shooter, or if Clint here has two people after him. Of course, it could just be somebody’s after your rep.”

  “I thought of that,” Clint said, “but that’s too much coincidence for my liking.”

  “So you feel sure it has somethin’ to do with these other killin’s?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well then,” Bricker said, “I guess after breakfast we’ll walk over and see the mayor.”

  “Suits me,” Clint said.

  “You fellas mind if I come along?” Father Joe asked.

  “I don’t mind,” Clint said.

  “Whatever you want, Father,” Bricker said. “You’re the vicar, and I’m only the sheriff.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Mayor Howard Tilton watched the three men file into his office. He sat back in his chair, a well-dressed man in his late fifties.

  “Sheriff,” he said, “Vicar… and this must be Clint Adams, who I’ve been hearing so much about.”

  “Yeah, this is Clint Adams, Mayor,” Bricker said. “Clint, this is Mayor Howard Tilton. Mr. Mayor, Clint had been helping me try to find out who killed Ben Whittington and Dan Carter and hung them from a tree outside of town. And he has some questions for you.”

  “Well, anything I can do to help find out who killed two of our citizens, I’ll be happy to do. What’s on your mind, Mr. Adams?”

  “It’s Dan Carter, Mayor,” Clint said. “As a businessman in town, was he ever a member of the town council?”

  “Never.”

  “Did he want to be?”

  “He and I had discussed it, yes. But the other members of the council did not see him being fit,” Tilton said. “Not yet anyway.”

  “What kept him from being fit?”

  “Well, for one thing, he wasn’t married.”

  “And are all the members of the council married?” Clint asked.

  “They are,” the mayor said, “and they are God-fearing, churchgoing men, as the vicar can attest to.”

  Clint looked at Father Joe, who shrugged and nodded.

  “Dan Carter just didn’t fit in,” the mayor said.

  “Could that be why he was getting married?” Clint asked.

  “Could be,” the mayor said.

  “He didn’t discuss with you if getting married would get him on the council?”

  “As I said, we talked about it, but there was no guarantee.”

  “And what about Ben Whittington?”

  “Whittington lived outside of town,” the Mayor said. “There was never any question of him being on the town council.”

  “So maybe he just wanted to have a son-in-law on the council, then.”

  “Maybe,” the mayor agreed.

  “So killing both of them kept that from happening.”

  “I don’t know of anyone,” the mayor said, “who would kill just to keep Carter off the council. This is a small town, Mr. Adams. It’s just not that important.”

  In Clint’s experience, the size of the town didn’t matter when it came to politics. Everything was a stepping-stone.

  “Mayor, you don’t have a problem with me talking to the other council members, do you?”

  “I can’t see any reason why I would,” the mayor said. “The sheriff can take you to see each of them. But I can’t believe that one of them may have killed these two men.”

  “In my experience, Mayor,” Clint said, “anybody is capable of murder.”

  “I believe that,” Tilton said, “but there still has to be a reason, and I just can’t see one here. But I do have one thing to tell you, sir.

  “What’s that?” Clint asked.

  “I appreciate the fact that you’re staying in town to help the sheriff with this investigation.”

  “I happened to be here when the murders took place, Mayor,” Clint said, “and I found the bodies. I feel I should see it through.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll both solve this thing soon,” the mayor said. “People in town just don’t feel safe.”

  As they left, the mayor said good-bye, then actually came out from behind his desk to shake hands with Father Joe.

  “Good to see you, Father.”

  “I expect to see you in church, Mayor.”

  “Definitely, Father. My wife and I will be there.”

  Father Joe followed Clint and the sheriff out.

  “You want to come with us to see the others, Father Joe?” Clint asked.

  “No,” Father Joe said. “I have some of my own duties to perform. But I wish you luck, and hope you find out something that will help.”

  “So do I,” Clint assured him.

  Clint and Bricker watched Father Joe walk away, and then Clint said. “Looks like the mayor has a lot of respect for Father Joe.”

  “His wife likes the vicar,” Bricker said. “In fact, most of the women in town do. They approve of the changes he’s made. I’m sure you’ve heard that.”

  “Yeah, but I also see how much the people fear him,” Clint said.

  “Well,” Bricker said, “you know his background.”

  “I wasn’t aware the people in town did.”

  “Everybody knows he used to be a gunfighter named Joe Holloway,” the sheriff said. “Everybody knows he can probably still use a gun. In fact, he probably still has his.”

  He did, Clint knew, because he had seen it, but he didn’t say anything.

  “It’s not like he’s been seen wearing it,” Clint said.

  “Not that I know of,” the sheriff said, “but I wouldn’t want to be the reason he put it back on. Come on, let’s start seeing the council. Adam Weaving will be first.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He owns the saloon.”

  “I thought Eddie owned the saloon.”

  “No, Eddie’s just the bartender.”

  They started walking.

  “Tell me something?”

  “Sure,” Clint said, “what?”

  “Father Joe,” Bricker said, “how good was he with a gun?”

  “Damned good,” Clint said. “One of the fastest I’ve ever seen.”

  “Really? That good? One of the best?”

  “I didn’t say one of the best,” Clint told him. “I said one of the fastest.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Weaving had an office in the back of the saloon.

  “Is he in?” the sheriff asked Eddie.

  “Yeah, he’s there.”

  “Why have I never seen this man?” Clint asked.

  “He never comes out while the saloon is open,” Eddie said.

  “Why not?”

  Eddie shrugged.

  “He’s never told me,” he said. “Maybe if you ask him, he’ll tell you.”

  “Come on,” Bricker said to Clint. “I’ll introduce you.”

  They walked to the back of the empty saloon. They had to knock to be admitted by Eddie, who had offered them a beer.

  “Too early,” the sheriff said.

  “Later,” Clint said.

  Bricker knocked on a door and opened it.

  “Come in, Sheriff,” Adam Weaving said. “I’ve been expecting you—the both of you.”

  “Did somebody tell you we were comin’?” Sheriff Bricker asked.

  “No,” Weaving said, “but I was expecting both of you anyway.”

  Clint entered behind Bricker and pulled the door closed. Weaving stood, but remained behind his desk. He was wearing a gambler’s black suit and boiled white shirt, looked to be about forty.

  “Clint Adams, the Gunsmith, I presume?”


  “That’s right.”

  Now he came out from behind his desk and extended his hand.

  “Adam Weaving,” he said, and they shook hands. “I was expecting that you would have some questions for me. Am I right?”

  “You are.”

  “Then have a seat,” Weaving said, “and ask away.”

  He walked back around behind his desk and sat down. Clint also sat, while the sheriff remained standing.

  “You knew both Ben Whittington and Dan Carter,” Clint started.

  “Of course I did. Carter was a businessman in town, and Whittington came in here from time to time.”

  “How did you get along with Carter?”

  “Fine, as far as I know.”

  “Did he hold it against you that you and the others kept him off the town council?”

  “Oh, I suppose he was angry for a while,” Weaving said, “but he knew what he had to do.”

  “Get married?”

  “Well… that was one thing,” Weaving said. “Certainly getting married would not have assured him of a place.”

  “But it would have helped.”

  “Yes.”

  “So he never made any threats against anyone you knew of?”

  “No.”

  “And nobody on the council had any reason to want either man dead?”

  “My God, no!” Weaving said. “Is that what you’re doing now? Looking for a council member to pin these murders on?”

  “We’re not lookin’ to pin these killin’s on anybody, Mr. Weaving,” Bricker said. “We’re just tryin’ to solve them.”

  “Well, I can tell you, you’re looking in the wrong place now. Did you speak with the mayor?”

  “We did,” Clint said.

  “And he sent you here?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I asked the sheriff to help me question the mayor, and the council. I still have to talk to the others.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll hear the same thing from them that you’re hearing from me,” Weaving said.

  “I have to talk to them anyway,” Clint said, standing. “I appreciate your time.”

  “Of course,” Weaving said, also standing. “Anything I can do.”

  He remained behind his desk while Clint and Bricker left the room.

  They waved to Eddie the bartender on the way out, then stopped just outside the batwing doors.

  “Where to now?” Clint asked.

  “Three more,” Bricker said. “Cecil Jones owns the hotel you’re stayin’ in. He’s the closest one to here.”

  “Okay, then,” Clint said. “Cecil Jones.”

  Bricker nodded. They stepped down into the street and headed for the hotel.

  In his office Adam Weaving was sitting behind his desk, going over the exchange in his head. He wondered if it was time for the town council to meet again and discuss this new development.

  THIRTY-SIX

  In the hotel the desk clerk told them that Mr. Jones was on the top floor, supervising some work that was being done. Clint and Bricker thanked him and took the stairs to the third floor.

  “There are no rooms for rent up here yet,” Bricker said. “They’re tryin’ to get it ready to open.”

  “Why would they need another floor in a town this size?” Clint asked.

  “I guess they’re hopin’ the town will grow some,” the sheriff said.

  At the end of the hall Clint saw a tall, gangly man with sandy hair, a hawk nose, and a bow tie. As they got closer, he saw that the man was in his forties. He was talking to another man, who was holding a hammer.

  “Mr. Jones,” the sheriff called.

  The man looked, recognized Bricker, and said, “Oh, Sheriff. What can I do for you?”

  “This is Clint Adams,” Bricker said. “He’s helping me investigate the killin’s of Bed Whittington and Dan Carter. He has some questions for you.”

  “For me? Why? I don’t know anything about any killings,” Jones said.

  “I’m questioning everyone on the town council, Mr. Jones,” Clint said. “There’s no reason for you to take this personally.”

  Jones looked at the man with the hammer and said, “Give me a minute.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  The man with the hammer went through the open door of a room and Jones turned to face Clint and Bricker.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  Clint asked pretty much the same questions he’d asked Weaving, and got the same answers. Jones didn’t know any reason why anyone would want to kill either of the dead men.

  “I didn’t particularly care if Carter was put on the council or not,” Jones said. “In fact, he could’ve replaced me, for all I care.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “I’ve got a hotel to run,” Jones said. “I can’t be running to meetings every time one of those bastards has a problem. And if you’re talking to all of them, you can tell them I said so.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that,” Clint said.

  “Fine. Can I get back to work now?”

  “Sure,” Clint said. “Thanks for your, uh, help.”

  “Whatever.”

  He went into the same room the man with the hammer had gone into and they started talking again. Clint and Bricker went back down to the lobby.

  “Funny,” Clint said.

  “What is?”

  “Well, if they’re working so hard to get that extra floor ready to be occupied,” Clint said, “I sure haven’t heard any hammering when I’m in my room.”

  “They probably ain’t hammerin’ at night.”

  “Probably not.”

  They went outside.

  After Clint and Bricker left the hallway, Cecil Jones came back out and stared down the hall. Goddamn it, he thought, now he was going to have to meet with all those bastards again. God, but he hated town council meetings, especially since the mayor was always there.

  “Mr. Jones?” the man with the hammer called. “What about this ceiling?”

  “Just make sure it doesn’t fall on anyone,” Jones said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Clint had basically the same conversation with the other two members of the council, Wade Philips, owner of the Feed & Grain, and Ted Swisher, owner of the livery stable. Neither of them was as well spoken or seemed as educated as Weaving and Jones.

  “So, now what?” Bricker asked. “You talked to the mayor and all four members of the council. What did that tell you?”

  “I get the feeling these last two just follow the votes of the first two.”

  “I think you’re right,” Clint said. “The mayor, Weaving, and Cecil Jones pretty much run the town.”

  “So if the deaths of those two men somehow benefited the town, we’d have to suspect one, two, or all three of them.”

  “I guess that’s right.”

  They started walking back toward Sheriff Bricker’s office.

  “What about that idea of yours about federal help?” Bricker asked.

  “What bothers me is that someone tailed me when I left town and I never saw them,” Clint said.

  “Well, this time you could be watchin’ for them.”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “I think I’m close to something.”

  “You think you can solve this without any help?” Bricker asked.

  “I think so,” Clint said.

  “I just hope there’s no more killin’s,” the lawman said.

  “So far the only other person who’s been shot at is me,” Clint pointed out. “It doesn’t seem that anyone else in town is in danger.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  They reached the office and stopped in front.

  “Coffee?” Bricker asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Clint said. “I’ve got to go and do some thinking.”

  “Well,” Bricker said, “I’ll be here. Somethin’ occurs to you, let me know.”

  “Same goes for you, Sheriff,” Clint said.

 
“I don’t think anythin’s gonna occur to me,” the sheriff admitted. “I’m just a sheriff, not a detective. I’m countin’ on you, and so’s the rest of the town.”

  Well, Clint thought, as long as there’s no pressure.

  Instead of going back to his hotel, or to the saloon, Clint decided to once again stop at St. James Church. If it wasn’t for Father Joe, he wouldn’t be in this predicament, with everyone counting on him to solve two murders.

  When he walked into the church, he saw Father Joe sitting in one of the pews, talking to a man. As he got closer, he realized the man was Adam Weaving, the owner of the saloon.

  “Am I interrupting anything?” he asked.

  Both men looked up at him. Father Joe was calm, but Weaving looked surprised. He also looked like a man who had been caught with his hand in the till.

  “No, no interruption,” Father Joe said. “Mr. Weaving and I were just discussing future plans for the church. Have the two of you met?”

  “We have,” Clint said.

  “Yes,” Weaving said, standing up, “Mr. Adams came to my office and questioned me about the two murders.”

  “Ah, that’s right,” Father Joe said to Clint. “You told me you were going to question the members of the council.”

  “And I did.”

  “Did you get anything more out of the rest of them than you did from me?” Weaving asked.

  “No, as a matter of fact,” Clint said. “I got the same answers.”

  “That’s what I thought,” the saloon owner said.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Weaving,” Father Joe said.

  “My pleasure, Father,” Weaving said. “We’ll talk further about the things you, uh, need.”

  Weaving nodded to Clint, and left.

  “The things you need?” Clint asked.

  “Money,” Father Joe said, running his thumb together with his index and middle fingers.

  “It’s always about money, isn’t it?”

  “It is for this church,” Father Joe said. “Was that true?”

  “Was what true?”

  “You got all the same answers from the members of the council?”

  “And the mayor,” Clint said, “yes.”

  “Like they planned it?”

  “Like somebody planned it,” Clint said. “Apparently, the town is run by the mayor with two of the council members, Weaving and Jones.”