Mild West Mysteries: 13 Idaho Tales of Murder and Mayhem

by Conda Douglas

  ‘Course we had high rollers in the old days, too. They thought they were above the law, least for a while. After I’d strung ’em up they were above the law, at least in body. Simpler in those days, none of this silly “forensic” stuff confusing the issue, and, God take me, computers.

  There was just me in the old days, Starke’s law and order all rolled up in one man. A portrait of me hangs behind Mallard’s head. Since it wasn’t taken from life, it doesn’t look like me. Still it’s an honor.

  I like to think it’s because of my hundred percent conviction record that I’m remembered. In my career of six months, I caught horse thieves, claim jumpers, and rowdy drunks, and hung two murderers. Found out later neither of ’em were guilty. I got to catch a real murderer before I can quit haunting.

  And here one sauntered out after leaving a missing person’s report. He figures he’s taking the suspicion off himself. I expect that’s for when the body shows up later, so’s he can inherit her money. Hang the husband, I always say.

  The phone rings. Mallard answers and listens, a big frown on his hairless face. Never did figure out why any lawman would be clean shaven and baby smooth—just gives the wrong impression. Mallard hangs up, grabs his coat and runs out the door.

  I don’t think he’s headed for our friend’s house. Probably another cocaine bust. Meanwhile our murderer is home free. Or is he?

  I stare up at the portrait of me on the wall. Always bothered me that it’s of the town’s undertaker and he looked a great deal more like a sheriff than I ever did. I sure didn’t have that full head of hair. Though after a hundred years I find it’s hard remembering my looks. Yep, it’s my centennial. It’s getting old, being an old ghost.

  I decide to do something about ending my haunting.

  I’m not supposed to catch this guy my own self, just lead the living sheriff to it. But what harm would what they call a “stakeout” do? Besides, I’m the best person I know for a stakeout. I can’t be spotted unless I materialize.

  So I head over to the address I seen on the file form. I sorta think myself over there, sure beats walking. I used to be able to catch rides on carriages, but I’ve never gotten used to riding around in those automobile death boxes.

  The address is an ugly mansion that looks like it’s been thrown together out of discarded mining shafts. It must have cost the wife plenty. In front of the house are parked a couple of those sport car monsters, one red and one black. From the girl mess in the red one, it’s hers. So where’d she run off to, without her car? There’s no taxi service in little old Starke. I wish Mallard was here to wonder the same thing.

  As he’s not, I float up the walk and in through the front door. The inside foyer is as ugly and expensive as the outside. Money makes murder.

  I see a shovel propped up against the wall next to the door. Sloppy. I wonder where he buried her. In the cellar?

  That’s where we found old Mrs. Murgutroud buried. Hung her widower, Mr. Murgutroud, the same day. Some said I shouldn’t have been so fast to hang a man over eighty. Quick justice, I called it. I found out later that he’d buried her there to avoid paying for a funeral. Too cheap to live, I figure, served the old boy right.

  The husband comes down the stairs, forcing me back into this crazy present. He sure don’t look like the worried sick fellow what left the office. He’s changed into designer jeans and a pink silk shirt. That shirt alone might get him hung in my time.

  I remember the guy’s name as being Jody Farragut. What kind of a sissy name is Jody? No wonder he’s turned out bad.

  He’s whistling. If Mallard could hear that! In his arms he carries one of those fancy leather suitcases and it’s heavy by the way he’s using both arms. Wonder what’s in it? Where’s he headed with it?

  The doorbell interrupts him, one foot hanging out over the stairs. He frowns and I think he’s not going to answer. Then it rings again like somebody’s froze their finger to the button. Quick, he puts the case out of sight, and shovel, too, before he answers the door.

  He opens the door to another reason for murder.

  She’s young and got a great figure, almost all of which I can see as she’s only wearing a skimpy handkerchief of a top and shorts so short they might as well not exist at all. Some things have improved in this century, although I find it real difficult to concentrate now. When alive, I used to get excited at a glimpse of ankle.

  “Hey, baby,” she says, slipping inside like a water snake racing down the creek.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Seeing you.” She gives him a syrup smile. He don’t smile back.

  “I told you not to come around here, yet,” he says. He looks past her, out the door.

  “Don’t be silly, nobody’s seen me.” She thinks maybe the smile isn’t enough, so she slips her arms around him and snuggles all that glorious flesh up against him. It’s enough to make me wish I had a body again.

  “You know what this podunk place is like,” he says, not embracing her back. “Blink at another woman when you’re married and it’s all over town.”

  “Ah, lover, I just couldn’t stay away,” she says, and punctuates her protest with a kiss.

  He doesn’t kiss back. Cold blooded murderer, sure enough, He pushes her away.

  She pouts. “You got the money?” she says now, all business.

  “No, not yet,” he says.

  “The tickets?” she says, her eyes shining with greed.

  “Of course not. When would I have time to get those?” He’s angry now, and she cringes away from him. I’ll bet he’s a woman hitter. Didn’t use to hang men for that. Should have.

  “But what if they find her?” she asks, real soft and quiet.

  I listen close. I’d sure like to know where he put the body.

  “They won’t find her,” he says. He looks toward where he hid the shovel.

  “Why not?” she says. “Where’d you hide her?”

  “Shut up,” he yells. He grabs her arm, lifting her up onto her toes. She gives a little scream and I think maybe I’m about to witness another murder.

  He half pushes, half carries her to the door saying, “I’ll call you when I’m ready, until then, don’t come here.” He ends this with a hard shove out the door.

  She stumbles and falls on the steps and before he slams the door I see her face. If there was any love between these two it’s gone now.

  He smirks at the door. Then he goes and fetches the suitcase. He opens it and I see an airplane ticket on top of stacks of money. Only one ticket, he’s ditching the girlfriend.

  I sure know I have got the measure of my man, now. Sleeping around, wife catches him out, wants a divorce so he kills her. Now he’s lost what little nerve he had and he’s bolting. If I was still sheriff he’d be kicking air by now.

  He glances at his watch, frowns, and races up the stairs. Got to catch his way out of town. I follow him up to the top of the stairs and hover there.

  I don’t know where Mallard is, and this fool’s escaping. I’m going to be haunting for another hundred years, if I don’t do something quick. I get an idea.

  Everything happens real quick. I wait till he comes out of the bedroom, dressed in a suit. As he reaches the first stair, I materialize right in front of him.

  “You’re under arrest,” I shout.

  I forget he can’t hear me. Just after I shout, I hear the front door open. It must be the girlfriend, back for another round.

  He’s startled, and his foot misses the first step and down he tumbles. Good, a couple of broken bones will keep him occupied until Mallard arrives.

  Only it’s not the girlfriend screaming at the bottom of the stairs, it’s his wife, and Mallard is with her. My murder suspect’s broken a bone all right, a neck bone, from the way he’s laying all twisted.

  After a couple of minutes, his ghost joins me, and we both stare at his corpse. Mallard’s called the ambulance and then gone to get the wife a drink. I sure could use one, too. Been way too
many years and now this, my whistle’s more than dry. Besides it’s nonexistent.

  “I thought you killed her,” I say to him. I’m real disappointed.

  He keeps staring at his body, stunned, or like he’s figuring a way to get back inside.

  “Forget it, you’re as dead as I am,” I say, to snap him out of it. “How come your wife ain’t dead, too?”

  He looks at me, then back to his wife, who, now that Mallard’s gone out of the room, is smiling.

  “I was going to kill her, you old fool,” he says.

  “Going to?” Now I’m feeling real confused. Same feeling I used to get often when I was alive. Sheriffing ain’t easy work.

  “Sure, she was coming into Boise this afternoon on a flight from San Francisco. Went shopping, you know? I was going to pick her up at the airport, kill her, bury her, and then head to Mexico. She must have caught the puddle jumper to Starke to surprise me.”

  “Surprise,” I said. “You wanted a divorce?” Usual reason for killing a spouse, back in my day.

  “No. Had a prenup, I wouldn’t get a dime. I couldn’t stand another day being married to the old bat.”

  “But the money?” I’m trying to take all this crazy fool nonsense into my old ghost brain.

  “We got a joint account that I emptied this morning. What do you think I was going to live on in Mexico—dust?”

  Reminds me of the second murderer I hanged. Found a fellow with a satchel full of money in a seedy hotel one day. This fellow was so poor you could see his poverty in the sorrowful droop of his ancient shiny suit.

  His lady friend, the only clerk at our bank, is gone missing.

  So I figured I had me a murderer with embezzled funds and since it was the weekend we had a Sunday hanging. Turned out on Monday he’d come into quick money by gambling on Friday night and sent his lady friend on a trip shopping for her wedding dress down at the state capital Boise.

  When she got back, she was none too pleased, seeing as how she’d never see thirty again and he’d been her only way out of spinsterhood. Fact is, the whole prospect of spending her life as a schoolmarm so depressed her that she used her lover’s gun to shoot me. Hope it cheered her up some.

  They didn’t hang her for her crime; the jury seemed to believe she had just cause. Put her in jail, where she married the matron’s brother. It turned out all right for her.

  But I’m still dead, and a ghost to boot.

  Jody tells me he’s a ghost because he had every intention of killing his wife and to stop being one he’s got to save somebody from being a murderer.

  Seems to me we’re in competition one with another, seeing as how I got to catch somebody after they do murder, not before. My fault for always jumping the gun, I guess. Jody’s plenty upset about being dead.

  But at least now I’ve got me some company.

  Conda’s note:

  Making It Last takes place on Harrison Boulevard, the iconic street in Boise’s historic North End neighborhood. The North End was briefly my very first home. It then became my home again as an adult for fifteen fun years in the funky neighborhood, living in a 630 square foot house. Though I no longer live in that part of Boise, I’ll always adore the North End.

  This is one of two “holiday themed” stories. Well, sort of. Making It Last brings new meaning to “heartwarming.” And the family Thanksgiving portrayed here is a lot more dysfunctional than any family Thanksgiving I’ve ever attended. Hopefully you either!

  Making It Last

  Ellen took the last sip of her traditional after Thanksgiving tea, made with a tea bag for the single cup, instead of the pot. It was still almost warm. A frisson of pride worked its way up her spine. She’d made it last. She could make it all last. She would.

  Across from her, her nephew Albert sat slouched in her husband’s old armchair, legs stretched out in front of him. In this posture, his small pouch of a belly protruded.

  For a moment, Ellen worried that she’d served too much Thanksgiving dinner. Then she dismissed the worry. The Cornish game hen and potato they’d split, along with a couple of pumpkin cookies was less food than last year. Besides, she prayed it was the last year she’d have the expense of feeding Albert. And, most important, the emptier his stomach when the brandy hit it, the better.

  “So what do you say, Aunt Ellen?” Albert asked, pointing at the brochures on the table of different nursing homes.

  They resided in miles-away Nampa and Caldwell. Ellen’s lip curled at the cheaper places, knowing her nephew picked them as the nearer to Boise, the more expensive. There was not even a single brochure from nearby Meridian. Staring at the garish, cheaply printed brochures spilling out of their plastic bag, her mouth tightened further. The filthy horrors lay, an obscenity on her antique rosewood tea table.

  She’d nagged her dear late husband Henry about the expense, when he’d bought the table, thirty years ago. But being great quality, the table provided decades of beauty and service. Bless Henry. Ellen sometimes forgot that every so once in a while expense cost less, in the long run.

  But not now. Not in this case. Now Ellen needed to act. She congratulated herself on having made the decision before Albert came for Thanksgiving dinner. He’d arrived with these horrible brochures, more nails in his coffin.

  The brochures and bag left trails in the heavy dust from where Albert had tossed them next to his tea set. He’d set the cup and saucer down with no care for the rosewood finish.

  Another, if minor, reason she’d decided on repeating what had worked before. Now, after she’d been so content for the years following Henry’s death.

  Boys will be boys, Ellen scolded herself, trying to shift her anger. Who grow up to be men who do exactly the same as they did when they were boys, exactly like her husband, exactly like Albert. Like uncle, like nephew. Ellen smiled at Albert, affection warming, filling and easing her damaged heart. Silly boys. Silly men. They never learned.

  “I know it’s difficult to choose from so many great retirement communities …” Albert said, trailing off at his fib and then rallying. “But if you choose today, you can be in your new place before Christmas.”

  Stupid boys. Stupid men. She should have never listened to that too-young new investment counselor. He’d promised to reduce her fees by fifty percent and he had. Sometimes she got what she paid for. Now, with her investments crashing, it was up to her to ensure the money lasted.

  “Thanksgiving really isn’t the time to discuss such things, Albert,” she chided her nephew. If he was too upset, he might leave without drinking the brandy.

  Ellen leaned forward in her chair to reach and move the tea cup and saucer away from the edge. The small shift in position caused a stitch in her heart side and she settled back with a grunt. She coughed to cover and hoped Albert hadn’t heard such an unladylike noise.

  He seemed not to notice. Instead he appeared to be staring at the bone china cup and saucer she perched delicately on the tiny side table. Or perhaps he saw the horrid tarnish on the antique silver teaspoon lying in the saucer, a wedding gift from Henry’s side of the family. Her side would have never spent so much on a gift, no matter the occasion.

  Albert looked at her. “Of course, it’s the perfect time to talk about it, when else do we see each other, except the holidays?”

  She wanted to say, “When you want money,” but refrained.

  He pointed at the tarnished spoon. “Even more so now when you’re struggling with keeping up everything.”

  Ellen regretted having to let faithful Molly the Maid go, after all those years of excellent service. (Although, Ellen recalled, Molly left with a bang of the door when Ellen had refused to pay for the last cleaning. Why should she pay for slipshod work?) She regretted she could no longer accomplish the simplest, easiest, littlest task of housework. Her mouth crimped into a wavy line. Most of all, she regretted ever having given Albert the loan for his real estate license.

  He’d failed the license test. Three times. He’d never repaid
a penny of the loan, much less the tiny bit of interest she’d charged. Only eight percent, compounded daily, where could he have gotten a better deal, or with his lack of credit, any deal?

  Now, she needed to stretch her remaining funds even further.

  Albert took a sip of his tea. He wrinkled his nose. “This slop—swill—stuff’s gone cold,” he said. “I’ll take it into the kitchen and nuke it.”

  Oh good, they were that much closer to when he’d ask for the brandy. Since Henry’s death, she’d refused to serve the brandy after Thanksgiving dinner, even though it had been a tradition while Henry was alive. No refusal tonight, tonight Alfred could drink all the brandy he could hold.

  She sat up straighter in her plastic-covered-antique-she-found-at-a-yard-sale-a-steal-who-cares-if-it’s-miserable-to-sit-in armchair. She ignored the sharp painful stab under her heart.

  “Dear Bertie Boy,” she put every ounce of syrup she could muster into her despised childhood name for him and was rewarded with his flinch, “I don’t have a microwave, remember? I possess a perfectly good stove that does the same thing.”

  Albert compressed his lips in his usual reply to the familiar argument. “Yes, yes, Aunt Ellen,” he said, “‘Why spend money for the sake of convenience?’” he quoted her in a high, mocking tone.

  Her face crumpled. She tried to force the smile back on. Although she knew how her wrinkles showed when she smiled.

  When her beloved Henry mentioned plastic surgery, she’d demurred. Why mess with nature, she’d asked? When Henry turned to his younger assistant she breathed a sigh of relief and gave her used makeup and girdles to Molly, a generous tip, in her opinion. Not in Molly’s. When Henry paid for the assistant’s workshops in bookkeeping, well, then—with a jolt of hot agony Ellen jerked back to the present.

  She shifted, hoping she wouldn’t have to take one of her nitroglycerin pills. Though they didn’t cost much, she didn’t want to get in the habit of taking one at every little twinge. That would be foolish and spendthrift. Henry took all sorts of drugs for all sorts of conditions (including a suspicious blue pill). What good did it do him, in the end?