by Alice Duncan
Licking her lips again, Sally said, “She hid me in a wagon. Then she got me onto the train.”
“Do you know if anyone came looking for you? Did you go straight from Mister Grant’s establishment to the wagon and then directly to the train?”
“Uh…no. I mean, Li took me to a hotel and made me change clothes. She gave me a dark dress and made me wear a hat with a veil so nobody would recognize me.” She paused to think for a heartbeat. “And a big coat.”
Wow. Those constituted a whole lot of words from this source. And they were coherent. All at once I wondered if she still took whatever drugs she’d been addicted to at the parlor house. Perhaps Angie and Li were trying to wean her gradually from her bad habit. Because I valued my head and wanted it to stay on my neck, I didn’t ask. I did, however, lift a hand to touch my juju. A couple of months prior, it had heated up when I was in the presence of an evil person. I didn’t truly suspect Sally of being evil. Exactly. She had begun to annoy me, though. I think that’s because my lack of patience was making its presence known.
“I see. So you were made up to look like someone else.” Sam nodded. “Makes sense.”
“Yes. I guess,” said Sally as if she personally wasn’t altogether sure if anything made sense.
“So, by the time you got to Pasadena, you had severed all ties with anyone you’d known in Tombstone?”
“Um…Yes. Sure.”
After she spoke the words Sally’s gaze wandered around the room, and all at once I didn’t believe her. And I possess no spiritualistic gifts. But I got the distinct impression she’d just told Sam a big, fat lie. Again I felt my juju. Again nothing happened. Stupid juju. If it would work all the time or not work all the time, it might actually be useful—or unquestionably un-useful, if you know what I mean.
“Are you certain about that?” Sam asked.
“Yes. Yes. Of course,” said Sally.
I didn’t believe her again.
“I see.”
Sam turned a couple of pages in the notebook he held. I think he only did it to make Sally nervous. If such was his intention, it worked. She squirmed in her chair and clenched her hands together so tightly, they looked as if they were attempting to strangle each other. Li placed a hand tenderly on Sally’s shoulder, and the wispy woman stopped fidgeting.
I had genuinely begun to take a dislike to Sally, however weak, weedy, willowy and wispy she was. I know. I’m mean. I’m also pretty darned good at alliteration, by golly!
After a few fraught seconds of silence, Sam continued his interrogation, if such it could be called. I thought he was being astoundingly gentle to the woman. In fact, I thought he was being too blasted nice.
“Very well, Miss Peters, do you recall three days ago, on Tuesday, when Mister Prophet, Missus Majesty, Missus Mainwaring and Mister and Missus Potts visited Orange Acres?”
Sally nodded.
“Good. So you probably remember when you and Miss Li heard a couple of gunshots. Miss Li said they startled you.”
“Yes. I was scared. I thought—” She stopped speaking abruptly.
“You thought what?” asked Sam, smiling compassionately—I didn’t even know he could do such a thing until then—at Sally.
“Um…I…I guess I thought maybe somebody had come to take me back.”
“Back? You mean back to Tombstone?”
Another nod from Sally.
“Why did you think that?”
After licking her lips again, Sally said, “I…I thought maybe someone might have come after me.”
“Do you know who might do such a thing? Come after you to Pasadena and then take you back to Tombstone?”
“Um…Well…I…No.”
“You don’t sound too sure of yourself, Miss Peters. Are you sure you don’t know anyone who might want you to return to Arizona?”
“Well…I…”
“May I ask a question, Detective Rotondo?” Li didn’t sound as if she aimed to force Sam into acquiescence, but she sure looked like she wanted to. Small wonder she’d decided to stand behind Sally so Sally couldn’t see her expression, which was…vehement, I suppose is the correct word.
With a hesitation so small I’m not even sure it occurred, Sam nodded and said, “Yes, if it will help.”
“I think it will,” Li said to Sam. To Sally she said, “Weren’t you close to a fellow named Frank Tucker, Sally? When you lived in Tombstone?”
“F-Frank?”
All at once Sally looked scared. How odd. Or maybe it wasn’t. I suppose it depends on how she’d been treated by the dastardly Mr. Tucker. This wasn’t an assumption on my part—Mr. Tucker’s dastardliness, I mean—because he’d darned near killed Angie and/or me, and the attempt had constituted a dastardly act.
“Yes,” said Sam, taking over from Li. “Miss Li and Missus Mainwaring both said you were close to a man named Frank Tucker when you lived in Tombstone.”
Sally swallowed and said, “Y-yes. Yes, I was. He…” Her feeble voice trickled out.
“He what?” Sam encouraged. Soothingly.
He was being so gentle with the idiotic woman, I suddenly wondered if he’d be as gentle with a baby. Our baby. Stupid time to get sentimental, but I can’t seem to help myself sometimes.
“He…Um…He loved me,” whispered Sally.
Li erupted. “He beat the hell out of you! He didn’t love you!”
Tears trickled down Sally’s ashen cheeks. “He said he did.”
“Please, Miss Li,” said Sam, any whit of gentleness gone. “If you want to remain in the room while I question Miss Peters, you’ll have to refrain from talking.”
Li’s lips writhed with fury, but she eventually nodded.
Sam resumed. “So, Mister Tucker loved you?”
“Y-yes.” Sally sniffled and lifted a hand to wipe tears from her face. Li hauled a clean handkerchief from a pocket and reached over Sally’s shoulder to hand it to her. Sam didn’t object. Sally dabbed at her tears with Li’s hankie.
“Very well. So Mister Tucker loved you. And did you love him?”
Lifting her clenched hands to her nonexistent bosom, Sally said, “Yes,” in a voice that might have been the flitting of a bee. Or a butterfly. Bees had stingers. Sally didn’t strike me as having much of anything at all.
There I go, being mean again. I’m sorry.
I saw Li swelling up as if she were about to erupt all over Sally again, but Sam stopped any words she’d aimed to spill with a pointed look. It was kind of dagger-like, actually.
After quelling Li, Sam said, “According to Miss Li, Mister Tucker treated you unkindly. Do you remember him hitting you?”
“Well…He didn’t…I mean…” Sally sniffled loudly. It was the loudest noise she’d made since entering the room. “He didn’t mean to.”
“He didn’t mean to beat you?” Sam sounded noncommittal, which I considered a sterling achievement under the circumstances. He was a professional, my Sam.
“No. He…I mean…He loved me.”
“But he beat you?”
“Well, but he didn’t mean to.”
Oh, brother.
Sally added, “Afterwards, he always said he was sorry and he loved me.”
“I see,” said Sam, his attention on his notebook—probably to keep from snorting in disgust, although I might be wrong about that. “When was the last time you saw Mister Tucker, Miss Peters?”
Blinking and looking as if she hadn’t understood the question, Sally eventually said, “When?”
“Yes. When was the last time you saw Mister Tucker?”
“Um…I’m…I’m not sure.”
“But you haven’t seen him since you moved to Pasadena?”
She didn’t hesitate, but said, “No,” in a voice that, while not firm, wasn’t as gelatin-like or feathery as it had been up until then.
“I see.”
Silence filled the room. I felt my juju again. Nothing. Nertz.
Sally began to fidget. Except for my hand and Sally�
��s bottom, nothing else moved. Mr. Prophet looked as if he’d been carved from especially old wood. Li looked angry. Sam wore the most unrevealing expression I’d ever seen on a human face.
After long enough to make me want to smack Sally out of her chair—where do I get these violent impulses, anyhow?—Sam said, “So no one had told you it was Mister Frank Tucker who was killed in Missus Mainwaring’s orange grove on Tuesday?”
Sally’s pale blue eyes widened. “F-Frank? D-dead?”
“Yes. He tried to kill Missus Mainwaring, and Mister Prophet shot him.”
Sally folded up like a concertina and fell out of her chair.
“Damnation!” Li bellowed. “Now look what you’ve done!”
“She’s the one,” I said to Sam.
Glancing at me mildly, Sam said, “The one what?”
“The one who told Tucker where to find Angie.”
Kneeling beside Sally and briskly rubbing one of her skinny hands—I don’t know what the rubbing of hands is supposed to do to a fainting maiden, but I’ve read in books about people doing it—Li shot me a glance meant to murder. “Don’t be ridiculous! How could Sally tell Tucker anything?”
“I have no idea, but I’ll bet you she did.”
“Nonsense.” Li turned to Mr. Prophet. “Lou, will you come here and help me get Sally upstairs. We’ll have to carry her.” Facing Sam again, she spat out, “Damn you, Detective Rotondo! Do you see what you’ve done? We’re trying to help Sally, not kill her!”
“You think telling her about Frank Tucker’s death might kill her?”
“Hell, I don’t know!” said Li. Irrationally, I thought. “The woman thought she loved him! She’s weak! She needs care, not verbal abuse!”
Verbal abuse? I was about to say something in Sam’s defense, but Mr. Prophet spoke before I could.
“Hellkatoot. If tellin’ the stupid woman that curly wolf’s dead was gonna kill her, she’s probably better off dead.” He eyed Sally, who gracefully reclined on the floor. His eyebrows were furrowed and his brow wrinkled. “Don’t rightly know as I can help you carry her upstairs. I don’t bend so good anymore.”
With a sigh, I said, “I’ll help carry her, Li.” What the heck. I didn’t want Mr. Prophet to stumble on a stair with his peg leg, fall down and kill himself. Even though I got mad at him a lot, I didn’t want him to die yet. He was quaint.
All at once, a gravelly, growly voice I’d never heard before spoke. It said, “Everybody just stay where you’re at. I’ve got business with that woman.” When I looked up, startled, I saw Angie stagger into the room, having been pushed by a tall man wearing what looked like an expensive business suit and holding a gun.
Li cried, “Adolph Grant!” and let go of Sally’s shoulders. Sally weighed so little, her body made only a teensy whispering sound as it slipped to the floor again.
And my stupid juju started burning my chest.
Twenty-Five
Standing up abruptly, Li said, “Angie! I thought that bastard was dead!”
The man I presumed to be Adolph Grant shoved Angie once more, she staggered farther into the room and fetched up against a wall. I saw she’d sustained a black eye and a bruised cheek, and I wanted to murder Mr. Adolph Grant. And while we were at it, Mr. Frank Tucker could come back to life, and I’d kill him again, too. Unfortunately, I possessed no magical powers.
With a leer, Mr. Grant said, “Sorry, Li. I ain’t dead.”
“Damn,” said Li.
Sam slowly rose from the chair he’d occupied. “You’re Mister Adolph Grant? From Tombstone?”
“I am,” said Grant. “And I’m here to get my damned money back.”
Sam tossed Angie a frown. Leaning against the parlor wall, she looked shaky; as if she’d been knocked around vigorously. I noticed blood on her chin and realized it oozed from a split lower lip. What a horrid man!
“I suspect you can get your money back without threatening anyone with a gun,” Sam said drily.
“To hell with that. I not only want my money. I want this damned bitch to suffer. She’s my wife, dammit!”
“Actually,” said Sam in a more-than-reasonable voice, considering he was talking to a man holding a deadly weapon, “she probably isn’t. She married a few men before she got to you and never legally rid herself of any of them.”
Grant stood mute for a second, appearing a trifle stunned. Then he took a giant step toward Angie, yanked on her arm—which elicited a cry of pain from her—and slapped her head with the butt of his gun. Another pained wail issued from Angie’s mouth, and she started sliding down the wall. “I-I’ll pay you whatever you want, Adolph.” Her words sounded mushy.
“Did you beat Angie?” I demanded of Grant. “A big man like you beat up a woman? You don’t deserve to be called a man!”
Lou Prophet had softly clumped up behind me, and he poked me in the back. “Shut up,” he rasped in my ear. “Ain’t you got no sense at all?”
Clearly, I did. Have no sense at all, I mean, since two negatives make a positive and they were what Mr. Prophet had uttered in his sentence. Oh, dear. Babbling again. Sorry.
“Well, aren’t you a feisty little thing,” said Grant, giving me a truly superlative sneer. “And you’re smart, too. I heard this feller talking to Sally there for some time, and you’re the only one who got it.”
“Got what? That Sally was the weak link? Anyone with half a brain could figure that out!” I cast a scornful glare at Sally, who was unconscious and couldn’t appreciate it.
“Shut up, Daisy,” Sam ground out between his teeth.
“Don’t aggravate the man, fer cripe’s sakes,” Mr. Prophet growled at me.
“He’s already aggravated,” I told him. I just hate bullies, and Mr. Grant was clearly a big one. “Any man who would beat up a woman doesn’t deserve to be called a man!”
Grant lifted his gun and aimed it at me. I decided not to speak anymore. It was then I discovered I’d been wise too late—I think one of Angie’s many husbands had said the same thing of her, but I can’t remember which one—because suddenly Lou Prophet shoved me out of the way. A shot rang out, and Mr. Prophet said, “God damn!”
I guess this was too much for Sam to bear with affability—not that he’d been affable to begin with—because the instant Mr. Grant turned his attention to me, Sam bent over at the waist and charged straight at Grant’s stomach. Bless his heart, he hit the man with all of his considerable weight, and Grant went down with a thud, hitting his head on a table before he landed on the floor.
“Adolph!” screamed Sally.
Still on the floor and wondering how many bruises I’d have after this latest episode, I turned to see Sally struggle to her feet—she had to balance herself on the chair she’d sat on, I presume because she was such a puling weakling—and, after picking up a lamp, reeled an erratic path toward Sam and the fallen Adolph Grant.
“Grab her!” I shouted at anyone who might be standing and mobile. “She’s got a lamp, and she’s going to brain—” I winced as Sally whacked Sam—who had begun ridding Mr. Grant of weapons—over the head. “—Sam with it,” I finished too late.
“Stop it!” hollered Sam.
“No! No! No! No!” The lamp was evidently too heavy for the fragile Sally to handle, because she dropped it, thereby breaking it. It had been a darned pretty lamp, too. Then she took off stumbling toward to the staircase. Sam made a grab for her, but just missed grabbing one of her legs.
“Daisy!” Sam glanced at me and jerked his head in Sally’s direction, so I got up from the floor, aiming to dash after Sally.
Only then did I realize I had blood on my sleeve. I looked up to see Mr. Prophet holding his left arm with his right hand. Blood seeped from between his fingers. “Oh, my heavens, did that man shoot you?”
“No,” Prophet said with heavy sarcasm, “I pushed you out of the way of a wasp.”
“There’s no need to be mean about it. Do you need me to get you a…I don’t know. A bandage or something?�
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“Daisy!” Sam hollered again. “Get that damned woman!”
“I’ll get her!” Li rushed across room and headed after Sally.
“No!” bellowed Sam. “Daisy! Lou’s all right. Stop Li, and get Sally.”
Thus directed, although I’m not sure precisely why Sam wanted me to get Sally rather than have Li get her, I raced after Li. Li raced after Sally. By that time, Sally had made it to the staircase and had begun climbing, holding on to the banister rail as if to keep herself upright. I had no idea what she wanted to do upstairs, but I trusted Sam to have had a good reason when he’d told me to fetch her.
“Li!” I hollered, grabbing Li’s arm as it reached for the newel post. “Go take care of Mister Prophet. He’s been shot. Sam wants me to fetch Sally.”
“But—”
“Go” I shrieked, thereby both alarming and delighting myself. Didn’t know I could sound so fierce until then.
After jumping as if she’d been jolted by an electrical current, Li stopped and stared at me.
I hollered, “Go!” once more, and she went.
Even though my right thigh and hip hurt from having connected so hard with the floor in Angie’s parlor, I galloped up those stairs as if I were running from a demon out of hell. Or a graceful antelope prancing across a prairie.
Turned out, what I was running was a race. I reached the top of the staircase just as Sally grabbed a door jamb and hauled herself into a room. I thundered after her. Quicker and stronger than she, I managed to get into the same room just as Sally lifted a bottle to her lips. I whacked the bottle out of her hand and shoved her onto a nearby bed.
“No!” she whimpered. “No. No. No.”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “What’s in the bottle?”
Sally folded up on the bed, hugging her middle, crying and saying, “No, no, no.” I wanted to smack her mouth shut.
“Never mind,” I said and bent to reach the bottle myself. I looked at the label as I picked it up. Chloral hydrate. A fairly large bottle of the stuff. Probably enough to make all the citizens in the city of Pasadena sleep for at least a week or two. Turning to Sally, still shivering on the bed, I said, “Were you going to drink this whole bottle?” From the looks of the rug next to the bed, the bottle had been either full or almost full.
