by Carol Cox
When he spoke next, it wasn’t to her but to the inebriated man. “Take it easy, Lester. It’s just one more hole. A little dab of paint, and she’ll be fine.”
Ellie backed away. Reminding herself to stay in character, she put her hand to her lips when what she really wanted to do was grab his shirtfront with both hands and shake the stuffing out of Steven Pierce . . . and everyone else in the store. Not a soul was paying the least bit of attention to the tragedy. What is wrong with these people?
The cowboy took a two-bit piece from his vest pocket and tossed it to the sobbing man. “Here. Why don’t you head on over to the Last Chance and drown your sorrows?”
Ellie pushed her glasses up on her nose and gave the handsome miner beside her a severe look. “How can you possibly dismiss an injured woman with nothing more than a wave of the hand?”
His beguiling smile dissolved. “I apologize. I realize how that must sound to a newcomer. It’s just that Fatima isn’t . . . well, she isn’t really . . .”
Ellie drew herself up. “Please don’t tell me it’s because she’s a foreigner.”
His eyes widened. Then, to her astonishment, he chuckled.
Ellie narrowed her eyes. “I fail to find anything funny about this, Mr. Pierce.”
The smile faded from his lips, and he glanced around the store. “I’ll try to explain it to you, but it might be best if we step outside. May I escort you to wherever you’re going next?”
Ellie nodded, too stunned to say anything more. Her first afternoon in Arizona was starting to take on the character of a dream, and a bad one at that. Mr. Pierce set the keg of nails next to the counter and called to the store owner, “I’ll be back for these later, Walter.” He tucked Ellie’s hand into the crook of his arm and led her to the door.
Once outside, he asked, “Where exactly are we heading?”
Ellie pointed to the right. “The corner of Charles and Second. The old—”
“Oh, the Cooper place.”
Ellie fought the impulse to roll her eyes. “I believe you were going to explain everyone’s inexplicable reaction to the shooting of an unfortunate woman.”
“She isn’t a woman. Not exactly, I mean . . .” Pierce’s voice trailed off, and his face colored.
Ellie lifted her eyebrows and spoke in a crisp tone. “Mr. Pierce, she may or may not be a lady, but surely there can’t be any question about her status as a woman.”
Her companion rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, looking as though he would rather be anywhere else. “Well, she is a woman, but she’s only a painting.”
Ellie stopped dead in the middle of the boardwalk. “Are you trying to tell me that man was sobbing his heart out about damage to a painting?” As the words sunk in, she added, “And what connection does he have to this Fatima, anyway? He hardly seems the type to own a piece of artwork.”
Mr. Pierce’s color deepened. “He doesn’t own her . . . it. She hangs on the wall in a local establishment.”
The pieces fell into place. “By establishment, I assume you mean a saloon?”
He nodded. “The Palace. Some of the boys have become somewhat infatuated with her. She’s rather, ah . . . Rubenesque.” His face was now the color of a dark red brick.
“I see. But why would anyone shoot a painting?”
“It probably wasn’t intentional. Sometimes things get a little lively at the Palace, and one of the fellows lets loose with his pistol. When they did this time . . .”
“Poor Fatima was a casualty?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Does this happen often?”
One corner of Pierce’s lips twitched. “I believe this latest bullet hole brings the count up to nine.”
“Oh my.” She decided to take pity on him and changed the subject. “I was visiting with Mrs. Baldwin in the mercantile. She said you’re a miner?”
“A mine owner, actually.” He squared his shoulders and stood straighter. “I staked the claim for the Redemption two years ago.”
Ellie leaped straight at the opening he’d given her. “Then it’s quite fortuitous, the two of us meeting like this. Providential, you might say.”
“Oh? How so?”
She squeezed his arm, noting again the firmness of his biceps. “Meeting someone like you is the very reason I came out west.”
His step faltered, and he shot her a sidelong glance. “Really?”
Idiot! Ellie felt the heat of a flush on her cheeks. What better way to send the poor man running than to make him think an older woman had set her cap for him? She couldn’t afford to lose the chance to strike up an acquaintance with a key player in her little drama.
“I am looking for an opportunity to invest in a profitable venture,” she explained. “When I heard about Arizona’s silver mines, the possibilities seemed worthy of investigation.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Steven’s mouth. “Do you always research potential investments in person?”
Ellie nodded, improvising according to the background she had created for Lavinia. “My late husband was a great believer in the personal touch. Besides, it’s time for me to make a fresh start. I’ve been widowed for nearly three years, and I need a change. Making a trip out west seemed just the thing to pull me out of my doldrums.”
She lifted her eyes to the horizon, where fingers of gold and crimson had begun to weave their way across the sky. “I look at it as a grand adventure. I might even decide to stay on permanently.”
Steven smothered a grin. Despite her age, Lavinia Stewart showed spunk aplenty. How seriously should he take her talk of making a fresh start in Pickford? Was she in earnest about investing in his mine? He decided to probe a little. “So you’re interested in mining?”
“I’m interested in making money, Mr. Pierce. My husband was both a shrewd investor and a good teacher. I believe I learned his lessons well.”
Steven’s step faltered. “You don’t mean to say you ventured out here on your own?”
“I’m afraid so.” A look of frustration crossed her face. “I intended to travel out here with my niece. We left Chicago together, but she was delayed along the way.”
Steven looked with new respect at the diminutive woman walking beside him. She might remind him of one of the faded roses his mother used to press between the pages of her Bible, but apparently she possessed more grit than met the eye.
He had heard stories of intrepid women like Tombstone’s Nellie Cashman, who once carried loads of potatoes and limes by dogsled to save a group of miners in British Columbia suffering from scurvy. Tales like that never failed to inspire his admiration, but he never expected to come across the same spirit of adventure in a woman of advancing years.
A new thought struck him. He had been asking God to show him a way to keep his business going. Maybe his prayers were being answered. And wouldn’t it be just like God to send the answer in such an unusual package?
The heaven-sent response to his prayer was looking up at him with unconcealed interest. “I don’t believe in buying a pig in a poke, Mr. Pierce. If I am going to sink my money into this venture, I want to know all about it.”
“That’s good business practice. I’ll be happy to tell you whatever you’d like to know.”
Mrs. Stewart’s smile shone like a beacon. “Wonderful. Now, tell me all about silver mining. Don’t leave anything out.”
She couldn’t have picked a topic he’d rather hold forth on. From Fourth Street to Second, he talked about ore and veins and the assayed value per ton, watching Mrs. Stewart’s face to see if she seemed to be following. She nodded intelligently, throwing in probing questions from time to time.
He bit back a grin and tried not to let his elation show. This was it—he could feel it. He was going to be given the chance to infuse much-needed capital into the Redemption and keep it going after all. Thank you, Lord.
As they neared the north end of Second Street, her steps slowed a bit. “What about the actual shipments of the silve
r to wherever it is you send it? How do you manage to keep it secure?”
Steven felt like he’d just stepped off a cliff. She’d asked the one question he’d hoped wouldn’t arise. He opened his mouth, then clamped his lips together, knowing his words could impact her decision. He needed to choose them carefully.
With all his heart, he wanted to gloss over the recent losses and focus on the mine’s potential. All he had to do was describe his alliance with the other mine owners and the security precautions they had taken, conveniently omitting the losses they had incurred and the fact that they had been forced to call in the Pinkertons. He could do that easily enough. She had no reason to doubt his word, and he already sensed a rapport between them. All it would take was a few well-chosen half-truths, and she’d be ready to hand over the money that would ensure the Redemption’s future.
He looked down at her softly weathered face, and the words froze on his lips. Regardless of what it might cost him, he couldn’t violate the woman’s trust—or his own standards of integrity.
“I’d like to tell you everything is going well in that department, but the truth is, we’ve been having problems lately. Not just me, but all the mine owners in the area.” They reached the front porch, with Steven knowing his chances of rescue were slipping away with every step he took.
Mrs. Stewart stopped abruptly at the top of the porch steps and aimed a stern look at a lilac bush. “I see you in there, young man. You’d best be getting home now.”
Steven eyed his companion with concern until he saw Billy Taylor climb out of the bush, looking more disgruntled than abashed.
“There now.” Mrs. Stewart gestured to a pair of wooden rocking chairs. “I believe we’ll be able to continue our conversation without fear of being overheard.”
Smothering a grin, Steven settled her in one of the chairs, then took the other himself and began outlining his troubles.
She watched him closely but didn’t speak again until he had finished. Steven braced himself, waiting for her to thank him for escorting her home and send him on his way. Instead, she tilted her head to one side like a curious wren. “In my experience, nothing worthwhile ever comes without a struggle. I’m sure if we put our heads together, we can come up with some way to thwart these villains.”
Her calm statement rocked him. Had he really heard her use the word we, as though she was already a partner?
An inspiration popped into his mind, one he felt sure would please the Lord far more than his earlier inclination to compromise the truth. “Would you like to attend church with me on Sunday morning? We could talk more about the mine—and your part in it—afterward. Perhaps over lunch?”
Mrs. Stewart looked up at him with every evidence of delight. “What a lovely idea. I shall look forward to Sunday.”
With that arranged, he walked back to his office with a lighter heart than he’d had in days. He managed to keep to a sedate pace, although what he really wanted to do was kick up his heels and shout loud hosannas.
Maybe he hadn’t muffed his opportunity after all.
After a light dinner of cheese, crackers, and canned peaches found in her partially stocked kitchen cupboard—the Pinkertons had overlooked no detail in smoothing the transition into her new dwelling—Ellie craved nothing more than to crawl into her cozy bed and surrender her head to the inviting pillow. But she had one more duty to fulfill before she succumbed to her need for sleep.
As part of her brief training, both Pinkerton men had stressed the necessity of making thorough notes on a daily basis.
“During an investigation,” Fleming had intoned, “it’s easy to forget details. Even though you won’t be leading this operation, you need to keep track of everything you see and hear. It could be that some snippet of conversation, some small particle of information will be just the thing that’s needed to tie all the pieces together.”
Ellie eyed the bed with longing. Assuring herself that a few hours’ sleep wouldn’t erase important details from her mind, she undressed and shed herself of the tiresome cheek plumpers and leg wrappings, then pulled her flannel nightgown over her head. Getting some much-needed rest might be just the thing to help focus her memory so she could remember even more. Pulling off Lavinia’s gray wig, she settled the hairpiece on its stand, then reached for her hairbrush and ran it through her drab brown tresses in long, even strokes, freeing the strands that had been held captive under the wig all day.
Ellie closed her eyes and counted the strokes up to a hundred, longing for the moment she could sink into the mattress. Surely her memory was good enough to remember a few details overnight. . . . Just as it was good enough to remind her she’d never gone to bed without fulfilling all her duties for Magdalena. And wasn’t her job in Pickford of even greater importance?
She set the brush back on the dressing table with a weary sigh and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Much as she longed to climb into bed and let the cares of the day roll away, she couldn’t afford the luxury of resting—not while she still had work to do.
Time was against her. She had to figure out the particulars of the investigation before the Pinkertons sent somebody else along who would boot her off the case and likewise off their payroll. The realization stiffened her spine. This was no time to give in to the weakness of the flesh. She had to press on.
Not bothering to stifle an enormous yawn, she shuffled out into the parlor and checked to be sure the drapes were drawn tight. It wouldn’t do to have some nosy passerby notice a strange young woman wandering around in Lavinia Stewart’s house.
Ellie lit the stove under the kettle and heated water for a pot of tea. No telling how long she might be up, and she would need every bit of help she could get to keep going. While waiting for the tea to steep, she gathered pen, ink, and paper from the drop-front desk tucked into the corner between the coatrack and the door to the second bedroom.
The fragrant aroma swirled under her nose as she took a sip of tea and prepared to write down the names of the people she’d met that day, along with her impressions of them. That much would be easy, although she wasn’t sure how it would help her solve the crime. Growing up in the theater, observing people had become a lifelong habit. To become skilled at acting—as her parents had been—one had to watch people and try to understand what made them act the way they did.
Dipping her pen in the inkwell, she started her list, making notes of everyone she had come in contact with—from the stage driver to the station agent to Amos Crawford, the telegraph operator, to Althea Baldwin, the garrulous widow who seemed to know everything about everybody in town.
Then there was Steven Pierce. A slow smile curved Ellie’s lips as she remembered his warm brown eyes, the strength of his arm under her fingers, and the attentive way he had treated her.
Because he’d seen her as Lavinia, and not Ellie. Maybe it was just as well he’d met her as an older woman with money to invest, or he never would have noticed her.
The reminder brought her back to the task at hand, and she tried to picture Steven in a villain’s role. He, along with the other miners, knew when and how the silver shipments would be made. His spark of interest when she talked of investing made it obvious he would welcome an infusion of cash. Did he need the money enough to acquire it by underhanded means?
Ellie tossed the pen down, sending ink splatters over several sheets of paper. Try as she might, she couldn’t picture him in the villain role. She remembered the play of emotions on his face when she asked him about the silver shipments. The obvious struggle when he’d decided to go ahead and tell her the truth about the losses had been real; she felt sure of it. Growing up in the theater, she knew what it was like to exist in a world of constant playacting and make-believe, where people portrayed feigned reactions as a matter of course. But Steven Pierce wasn’t a skilled actor . . . was he?
She shoved her chair back and walked to the window. Pushing the drapes aside, she wrapped her arms around herself and peered out into the ni
ght. She couldn’t allow her emotions to overshadow clear thinking. She was in Pickford to do a job, and part of that job was to suspect everyone, not to play the role of the wide-eyed ingenue. Hadn’t that been the reason Fleming and Gates specifically told her not to reveal her identity to any of the miners who had contacted them?
Yanking the drapes shut again, she marched to the table and added Steven’s name to her list.
9
A mockingbird’s cheery trill warbled through the air as Ellie strolled along Grant Street the next morning, doing her best to look like a woman exploring a new community, her mind on making new acquaintances and shopping and not the least bit interested in any criminal activities that might be going on.
She passed McQueen’s Cigar Emporium and slowed in front of the Pickford Bakery as if eyeing the confections displayed in the window. Instead of looking at trays of donuts and éclairs, she focused on the reflection in the glass and studied the comings and goings on the street behind her—several matrons with shopping baskets on their arms, a buckboard bound for the livery on Second Street, but nothing that struck her as sinister in any way. On the other hand, how likely was it that dark deeds would be carried out openly on the street in broad daylight?
She blew out an exasperated puff of air and resisted the urge to stomp her foot. Whatever had possessed her to think she was capable of carrying out a criminal investigation on her own?
“Miz Stewart!”
Wrenched from her musing, Ellie turned to see Amos Crawford waving at her from the doorway of the telegraph office.
“A telegram came in for you a few minutes ago. I was just about to send my boy over to your house with it.” The telegrapher brandished the half-sheet of paper over his head like someone holding up a trophy.
It had to be from the home office. Bracing herself for whatever grim message it might hold, Ellie angled across the intersection of Fourth and Grant. As she crossed, she saw Althea Baldwin farther along the street, heading her way. Ellie raised her hand and smiled a greeting, whereupon Althea pivoted, marching off in the opposite direction without missing a beat. With no time to ponder the woman’s odd behavior, Ellie bore down on Amos Crawford, arm outstretched to receive the missive from Chicago.
