“It was the key that broke the case.”
Key? It didn’t make sense.
“The key to the city.” Ron sounded tired. He pointed to the floor.
I walked around to the back of the desk. A three-foot long copper-plated key marked Welcome to Grace Gulch had fallen to the floor.
“He threatened to throw me out of the town and throw away the key,” Mitch said from his spot across the room. “So I said, ‘you mean this key?’ and I grabbed the thing. We must have knocked into the display case during the tussle. ” He pointed a finger at the mayor. “That’s when he grabbed the gun and shot me.”
Blood seeped through a white linen handkerchief tied around Mitch’s arms. Audie must have taken care of that.
“If the police don’t arrest you, I’ll sue.”
Ron only shook his head, anger drained out of him.
Something rumbled in the outer office, and we turned our attention to the door. The EMTs had arrived.
“Who’s been shot?” A petite brunette paramedic spoke up, her features suggesting the Fox Indian heritage common in our part of Oklahoma. She spotted the blood on the carpet and looked at Mitch. “Let me see.”
Several EMTs trooped in behind her, together with the one officer present. He let the techs do their work. They did the usual things, determining the nature and extent of the wound before they moved the patient. They unwrapped Audie’s makeshift bindings as well as cutting away the sleeve of Mitch’s shirt. Blood soaked the soft cotton. I watched, slightly queasy, unable to look away.
“It looks like this is just a flesh wound, sir. We’ll get you to the hospital and have you home in no time.” She unfolded a wheelchair.
When she tried to assist Mitch, he shook her off. “My legs are fine.” He leaned on the chair with his good arm and pushed up. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.” Mitch sent one last sally to the mayor before he headed out the door. “No Grace is going to get away with it a second time.”
“You can get his statement at the hospital,” the young tech said to the officer. She directed Mitch through the door before he could renew his complaints.
“No way to keep this quiet.” Mayor Ron’s face, pale as Swiss cheese, crumpled into worried lines. “I’m sorry to miss your appointment, folks. I always want to talk with the public.” He inserted a note of political bonhomie into the words.
Betty the secretary poked her head in the door. “Chief Reiner said he would come as soon as he returns to town. He’s out on a 911 call at the old Kirkendall place. It sounds like no one was there.”
The officer opened his mouth to speak. The mayor looked at him. “I’ll wait for the chief.”
The young man hesitated. I felt sorry for him. I could see his police training warring with his respect for the man in charge.
“You may leave.” Mayor Ron turned toward us. “Now give me a few moments to speak with these folks.”
The officer gulped and left the office.
“It looks like we’ll have time for our chat after all. But let’s leave this depressing office.” Mayor Ron stood up, matching actions to his words. “Betty, see if the cleaning crew can come by early, as soon as the police finish their investigation. Cici, Audie, the conference room?”
We sat at one end of a long, polished maple table. So this is what our tax money went for. I confess the ergonomic chairs cushioned me in comfort. I envisioned the movers and shakers of Grace Gulch crowded into the space during a city council meeting. Betty poured us each a cup of coffee and plopped a box of pastries from Gaynor Goodies in the middle of the table.
Ron spoke in generalities, urging us to try the apple fritters. “They’re the best in the county, even if a Gaynor did bake them!” he declared.
I agreed. I ate them at least once a week. “Not today.” I smiled. I chose a bran muffin and bit into the thick bread.
Betty departed, leaving the door slightly ajar.
“Now how can I help you folks?” Away from the disaster of his office, the mayor regained his composure. He smiled in cheerful welcome.
I wanted to ask, What were you and Mitch arguing about? My gut told me it had to be about last weekend’s events, but a practiced politician like the mayor would sidestep that question. I needed a better opening.
Audie found it for me. “Did either Penn or Mitch ever discuss the history of Grace Gulch with you? I thought Penn might have interviewed you when he wrote the play.”
“Of course. You can’t read too much into what happened today. Mitch and I had a friendly bet over your little play. I warned him it was a losing bet; I had history on my side.” His grin increased until I was afraid his lips would crack from stretching so far. “He didn’t like losing.”
“What happened? Exactly?” Since the mayor brought up the subject, I felt I could ask. “When did you grab the gun? Did Mitch threaten you?”
“Why should I answer you?” Ron cleared his throat. “You’re not the police.”
“But we’ll listen with an open mind.”
I saw Audie’s mouth open to interrupt and frowned him into silence.
“We’re not Gaynors or Graces. Neutral, so to speak.”
“And you’re Cord’s friends.” A smile twitched at the corners of the mayor’s mouth. “To tell the truth, I don’t know exactly what happened. Mitch picked up the key and swung it at the gun case. We both went for the gun at the same time—I wanted to prevent a shooting, you understand—and the next thing I knew, the gun had been fired and Mitch was clutching his arm. I don’t remember pulling the trigger.”
What was he saying? That Mitch shot himself? Why would he do that? Or was this mayor-talk to cover his tracks?
“Were the two of you arguing about the true history of the land run, Mayor?” Audie leaned forward, elbows folded on the table, calm as a man holding the winning cards.
“What do you mean, the true history of the land run?” Ron’s lips snapped into a thin line, and he sank back in his chair. “Everybody knows what happened. You just produced the reenactment.”
“Gwen Hardy let us read the Grace letters. The ones Penn used to write the script. We ran across this.” Audie reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the letter we had found.
“It doesn’t matter.” Ron waved a pudgy hand in the direction of the envelope. “Whatever it says, it’s ancient history.” His pallor gave lie to his easy denial, and his protest rang hollow.
“If it doesn’t matter—then what were the two of you arguing about?” Audie asked.
I held my breath, waiting for his answer.
Pink returned to Ron’s cheeks. “Who do you think you are, barging in here and asking me questions?”
He knew more than he was telling. His indignation confirmed our suspicions more strongly than a signed confession would have.
“Tell me what you want, young man, before I have you thrown out on your ear.”
Audie remained unruffled. I wondered what went on beneath the surface—was he really calm, or was he acting? He pushed the envelope in Ron’s direction with one slender finger. Earnest sincerity marked his face. “Don’t you want to know the truth, sir? No matter what you decide to do about it? Before someone else is hurt by this so-called ancient history?”
“Very well.” Ron’s hand engulfed the envelope and extracted two thin sheets of paper. A faint scent of violets reached my nose.
I could see his lips mouthing the words. “Ready to cheat. . .found a cave. . .ahead of anyone else. . .whatever I must.” He looked at the date. “He wrote this on September 19. Three days before the land run. He must have changed his mind.” His political mind already put the right spin on the evidence.
The mayor picked up his coffee cup—a tourist cup from Idaho, Grace City painted in black letters on green clay—and paced the conference room. He walked from his seat, to the windows that overlooked the gulch, green hills that sloped toward our main street never far away from the center of town. “He chose well,” he murmured. “The story pass
ed down in our family is that he wanted the town to be a place where God’s grace would reign. I can’t talk about it much publicly, of course—state and religion and all that—but that’s what we believe.”
“ ‘He who has been forgiven much loves much.’ ” Audie quoted. “Even if he was a Sooner, maybe because he was a Sooner, he knew about God’s grace first hand.” It was a nice gesture, paying tribute to Grace Gulch’s founder without making him a saint. And make no mistake about it, Bob Grace did found the town of Grace Gulch, whether by legal or illegal means.
The mayor faced northwest, to where the Circle G Ranch stood, and didn’t say anything for a few minutes. When he resumed his place at the table, both the blustering fighter and the grinning homeboy had disappeared, replaced by a wily politician.
“The ranch belongs to Cord, fair and square. Gaynor didn’t go down without a fight. He used every means, legal and illegal, to get my grandfather off his claim.”
I thought about that. Ancient history, maybe, but to Cord and any other Grace in town the history was as fresh as this morning’s coffee. For starters, Gaynor had tried barn burnings. Tampering with the water supply. Cattle rustling. None of it was proven, but suspicions ran strong.
“Gaynor filed a claim against my grandfather, of course. The courts were overrun with suits about claims for years, but eventually he had his day in court. You can check at the courthouse in Chandler for a record of the trial. All it amounted to was a lot of finger-pointing and name-calling. Gaynor didn’t have a lick of proof.” The mayor wagged his finger at Audie. “And see here, young man, that trial was over a century ago. Nothing can change the court’s decision. The land belongs to the Grace family, fair and square.”
“Of course it does. No one is questioning that.” Audie tapped the letter with his fingers. “But that’s not the problem. Did Penn Hardy come to you about this letter from Bob Grace?”
“Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.” The mayor had regained his balance. “It doesn’t matter.”
“But it does.” I put in my two cents’ worth. “Grace Gulch history is like a sacred text to anyone with the Grace name. No one wants to find out that Bob Grace was a cheat and a scallywag.”
“And this letter”—again, Audie tapped the thin papers—“proves that at the very least, he considered cheating. And once the idea took hold in his mind, he may have given in. Dorian Gray warns us ‘The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.’ ”
“Go peddle your insults elsewhere.” The mayor’s lips twisted in a snarl.
I glanced around the room, seeking something, anything, to divert their attention away from confrontation. A cartoon on the wall caught my eye. Three longhorn cattle lay on the ground. The long ears of one bent over his eyes; the second, over his ears; and the third, over his mouth. In the distance, a rustler took off with the rest of the herd, a cowboy version of “hear no evil.” What the mayor didn’t know could not hurt him.
Or maybe he did know and made a pretense of ignorance. The mayor took great pride in his name. He was a Grace, and nobody could take that from him.
But what if someone threatened to drag the Grace name through the mud?
Would that be enough to kill for?
Reiner arrived with Frances Waller, their boots splattered with mud, and Frances looked wet and miserable. The bogus 911 tip had resulted in nothing more than a cold drenching.
“What’s this I hear about you shooting Mitch?” Reiner asked in his most belligerent tone.
I clenched my teeth. I decided to stay put as long as they let me. The mayor hadn’t convinced me of his innocence, but neither did I believe he planned to shoot Mitch. Reiner sounded ready to convict him without a trial.
“I’m not saying anything to you without my lawyer.”
Reiner sighed and turned his attention to Audie and me. “What are you two doing here this morning? You’d better not interfere with an official police investigation.”
“Now, Reiner, they just had an appointment to see me this morning. Let them go.” It was nice of the mayor to speak up for us, but I couldn’t help wondering if he wanted to keep the police from learning about our conversation.
Or the letter. As far as I was concerned, the police didn’t need to know about it. I could see the envelope on the table, close to the mayor’s right hand. If I reached for it, would Reiner notice and insist on seeing it?
“We had some questions about the festival, and the mayor was kind enough to give us a few minutes of his time after Mr. Gaynor left for the hospital.” Audie leaned against the table, his hand resting ever so gently on the letter, a perfectly natural pose. “We’ll take our leave now that you are here.” He straightened, tucking the letter into his hand and slipping it into his coat pocket.
“Wait a minute,” Reiner said. “Did you witness the shooting?”
“No.” Both Audie and I spoke at the same time.
“Someone called 911.” Frances spoke up for the first time.
“We heard. . .noises. . .coming from the mayor’s office. And we heard a shot.” I leveled an apologetic look at the mayor. “So Betty called.”
“When we opened the door, Mr. Gaynor was holding his arm and he was bleeding,” Audie offered.
“We’ll need your statements. You two and that secretary, Betty. Officer Waller?”
“Follow me, please,” she said. The dry heat flowing from ceiling vents had dried out Frances’s uniform. Once again, she looked calm and in charge.
We followed her out the door. And left Mayor Ron in the clutches of a police officer who would like to arrest him for murder.
16
September 21, 1891 Excerpt A
Dearest Mary,
After posting my last letter, I decided that I must go to the cave I found. While the marshals were occupied with quieting a riotous drinking crowd, and while Gaynor spoke at length with the preacher, I slipped out of the camp and rode fast for the cave.
I struggled all night. During the fading daylight, I bettered the concealment to the entrance and hid Patches behind the brush. Then I backed myself into a narrow fissure in the rocks, barely big enough for a man to sit. I cleared my mind as I often do on a cattle drive, emptying my mind of everything except danger signs.
I was as twitchy as a greenhorn. Every time a coyote howled, I jumped as though hearing the preacher’s words of warning. Every time a cloud passed in front of the moon, I felt cut off from God’s light.
~
Thursday, September 26
“That’s the second time the police have needed statements from us within the past week.” Audie guided me by my arm out to my car, dulled by the morning’s drizzle to olive green. At least the trench coat I had chosen to wear kept me dry from shoulders to toe, and I had a rain hood to minimize damage to my hair.
“And I hope we don’t have to do it again for a long time.” I blamed the shiver that passed through me on the cool weather, not on the scene we had just witnessed.
“Everything will be okay,” Audie said, his voice as warm as a pleasant spring breeze, and some of the chill lifted.
Still, I was glad to get into the car and turn on the heater. The defroster on the back window of my car made driving on mornings like this a little easier. I waited without speaking until the air turned hot and steamy and a delightful warm stupor enveloped me. If only I could ease the shivering in my mind by such a simple method. I started the windshield wipers and backed out of the parking space.
“Nothing like a bout of fisticuffs to start my morning off right.” Audie spoke in a lighthearted tone. “If I want to escape violence, maybe I should move back to Chicago. After all, Solomon warns us, ‘My son, do not go along with them. . . . For their feet rush into sin, they are swift to shed blood.’ ”
Move back to Chicago? The warmth fled in an instant.
Audie must have sensed my distress. He turned his cobalt blue eyes on me. “I hope you know I’m kidding. Are you doing okay?”
“I’m more co
nfused than ever. What do you think happened? Was it really an accident?” That’s the finding I wanted: an unintentional accident that no one could be blamed for. Except, of course, for people who thought any gun threatened humanity and therefore blamed the mayor for keeping weapons in his office. The antigun lobby had few proponents in Grace Gulch.
“Or did the mayor shoot Gaynor on purpose? Or”—he hurried on before I could protest—“did Gaynor somehow shoot himself?” He shook his head. “That doesn’t seem possible.”
I stopped by Gaynor’s Goodies and picked up a dozen cinnamon pecan muffins and another half dozen apple raisin, then parked behind my store as usual. The minute hand landed straight up on the ten o’clock hour when I opened for business. No customers arrived while I readied my cash drawer and brewed a pot of coffee. Audie grabbed one of the muffins and settled into a folding chair by the changing rooms. Did he intend to stay all day? That might be nice. Pressing his fingers into the napkin, he ate the last of the crumbs, then threw away the remains and washed his hands.
“Maybe if we act it out, we can figure out what happened. Like we did at the Gulch.”
“Good idea.” I poured myself a cup of coffee. My hand slipped and a bit spilled onto the carpet. Fortunately, the dark beige absorbed spills without ruining the color. I bent over to do a quick wipe-up job and made a mental note to get the carpets cleaned next month, before the Christmas shopping season started.
“Let me do that.” Audie knelt on the floor. “No need to muss up that pretty outfit and get those bell-bottoms dirty. I can scrub carpets with the best of them.” He knelt a moment longer than necessary, staring at the floor. I wondered if he was thinking about the other carpet stains we had seen that morning, as I was. He looked up at me and smiled.
“As far as I can see, there are only three possibilities about what happened this morning.” He stood and brushed off the cuffs of his pants. “Accident. Or the mayor shot Gaynor on purpose. Or Gaynor shot himself. Which is the most likely?”
Darlene Franklin - Dressed for Death 01 - Gunfight at Grace Gulch Page 15
