“I didn’t read it, boss.”
“Rhetorical, Graham. That’ll be all.” He slipped his finger under the seal as Graham trundled out the door, tray in hand. The invitation read thusly:
Mister and Mrs Jedediah Bonham
request the pleasure of your company
for a dinner in honor of Miss Annabelle Duniway ...
Tony snorted. Typical gauchery from his stepmother: inappropriately formal, especially for Scryer’s Gulch. Who would she invite? Not the Prakes, surely, and really, there was no one else of note to invite except perhaps Sheriff Runnels. Would that stiff-necked individual sit down at Bonham’s table? Not without a food taster, thought Tony with a sour chuckle.
Rowland Barnes from the Independent Mountaineer? Possibly. L. Luther Lockson would certainly come, if only for the free dinner, but Bonham would never invite that chattering nincompoop, especially if Barnes was there; Bonham had Barnes in his pocket, but Lockson walked his own loquacious way, and the two newspapermen loathed one another.
Tony rasped a hand over his stubbly chin. What on earth prompted his stepmother to throw a dinner for Annabelle Duniway?
To be exact, a length of plum-colored silk she especially wanted had prompted Mrs Bonham, promised to her by Mr Bonham were she to throw the dinner party in honor of Miss Duniway. “We’re remiss in not having her to dinner before now, Cherry,” he’d said.
“I don’t see why,” she’d sulked, plucking at her wrapper.
“It’s what the leading matron of a town does in the event of arrivals of notables such as a schoolteacher, my dear. She arrived two months ago, and we have yet to invite her to dine.”
“If she’s so important, why hasn’t the mayor had her over?”
“You’re going to cede our little social scene to Mary Prake?” He’d chuckled at Charity’s expression of disdain. “Class, Cherry, it’s what classy people do.”
And so she’d written out the invitations: Miss Duniway herself; John Runnels; and Tony. She’d noticed Tony’s approving glances in the Duniway woman’s direction, but Charity fancied her own blazing good looks and charm far surpassed that colorless, insipid blonde; up close Tony was bound to see that.
True, that guest list technically left her a woman short, but Runnels would almost certainly decline, and there were no other unattached women of good character to invite. Not that Charity liked women at parties, anyway; she much preferred being the only hen among the roosters.
If Runnels did come, Charity aimed to turn his head. Runnels was handsome: hard-edged like Jed, but in a way that made Charity think of the old adage, “Still waters run deep”; she’d like to see just how deep for herself. Once she’d secured his interest, perhaps she might even take him as a lover. She couldn’t imagine Runnels refusing her--what man could? Tony did only out of stubbornness and pride, and as soon as he calmed down, he’d be back; he couldn’t resist her, she was sure of it.
Yes, she rather hoped Runnels would come. It would kill three birds with one stone: driving Tony and Jed both wild with jealousy; luring Runnels into her bed; and putting that snip of a schoolteacher’s nose out of joint, for everyone knew she had an eye for the Sheriff.
Charity spread the plum-colored silk out on the bed. Could it be ready in time for the dinner? She thought it might. Now where was Mrs Walters? There was sewing to be done.
Episode 36: Acceptances
"You gonna go?" said Rabbit, examining the ornate invitation to dinner at the Bonham house.
John shrugged and didn't look up from the shotgun he was cleaning, pieces laid out in precise positions on top of his jailhouse desk. "Haven't decided yet." Which wasn't at all true. He had decided the minute he got the invitation to accept it--anything involving Annabelle tugged at him with a power he chose to chalk up to her mission.
His brother squinted at him, and left off leaning against John's desk. "Uh-huh. I'm going home to eat some lunch, even if you're not. I'll tell Minnie to set aside a plate, but if you know what's good for you, you'll light along to the house and eat it hot. You're apt to get a wrathy look from Minnie to wash it down with otherwise." He paused at the jailhouse door. "And I'll tell Minnie to make sure your best suit is aired and brushed." He ducked out before John could protest.
"Hmf," he said to himself.
"If'n I got an invite like that, I'd shorely go," said Aloysius from the corner cell. "Free grub."
"Have to have a body to eat, spook."
"Don't need eyes to look at thet Bonham woman."
John sighted down his shotgun barrel. "Looking is all you want to do with that one."
"Thet's all I can do anyhow. But you, Sheriff John...wager you could do more'n look."
John loaded the newly-cleaned shotgun and snapped the boxlock shut. "I'll grant you she's fair to look upon--from a fair, fair distance."
"Distance ain't what she got in mind, the couple times I seen her in here."
"Man shouldn't take Charity Bonham seriously. She wants everyone dancing to her tune," said John as he hung the gun on its rack. He stopped, resting his hand against the shotgun's stock. "Let me revise that: every man."
"I kin dance," sniggered Aloysius.
"You're not a man."
"Hard to git used to," the ghost answered, subsiding into a gloomy silence.
John pulled on his hat and coat. "Hold down the fort, spook. I'm off to eat my lunch and avoid a skinning."
In reality, no one had anything so fierce as a skinning to fear from the gentle Mrs Smith, least of all him and Rabbit, but John knew she'd be disappointed if he didn't show. Her disappointment was worse than a skinning to the Runnels men, all three of them. She was old enough to still call lunch "dinner," and dinner "supper"; it was her big meal of the day, and she put all her considerable energy into it. He didn't fancy eating cold dinner for supper in any event. He had an appetite, too. He sat down to his ham steak, potatoes, boiled greens and thick slice of winter squash pie, and plenty of her good coffee, with a gusto that left Minnie smiling.
Thus sated, he strolled back to the jail in a happy mood. He would accept the invitation, surely, and spend an evening watching the candlelight shine off Annabelle's golden hair.
Misi licked his paw apprehensively. “But why the Palace?”
“I want to know what this dinner party’s about, kitty,” said Annabelle.
“Why do you think Mamzelle’d know?”
“I’d wager she knows more about Bonham than anyone else in the world.”
“Mmrr,” he growled reluctantly. “That’s probably true. But still... She’s not right in the head, even for a demon. I think Bonham broke something in there. It’s not safe for me to be around her. She’s going to track me back to you sooner than later, and I shudder to think what’ll happen then.”
She scratched him at the base of his tail. “You don’t think I can handle a demon?”
Maybe me, he thought as he arched his back in bliss, but not her. “What’s got you so suspicious, anyway?”
“Charity Bonham cannot stand the sight of me, and here I’m invited to dinner.” She rose from her perch on the side of the bed, opened the wardrobe, and stared pensively. “With nothing to wear.”
“You’ve got a dozen dresses you could wear! What about the French-gray silk? Or the lilac--you always looked a treat in that one.”
“Back in my closet in Washington, with all the rest of my good dresses. I’ve been on undercover assignment for nearly two years, the Mother knows if they’ll still be in fashion when I get home. What if hoops come back? I’ll have to buy new everything.” She brightened. “Then again, I’ll have to buy new everything! Oh, well. My black faille must do. Pretty enough, I suppose,” she said, pinching its skirt and lifting it towards her, “but a bit dowdy. As it should be for a schoolteacher." She opened the window and shooed at him. "Now, off to see Mamzelle--skedaddle, puss.”
Misi struggled briefly with yet another objection, then sighed in defeat. He stepped across the sill onto the roof, an
d walked as slowly and circuitously toward the Palace as it was possible to walk and still claim forward motion.
Episode 37: A Little Song
Mamzelle was just waking up, ready to face another long night catering to the foolish men who came through the doors of the Palace. In a way, she felt sorry for them. They were lonely, as she was, and in need of excitement and solace. The full moon was in a few days. She'd give them excitement a-plenty then, but the only solace would be hers.
And Misi's. On the first night of the full, she would kill the Duniway woman, he'd be free to kill Jedediah Bonham, and Mamzelle would take her revenge. The town would be cinders by the next morning. She could see the flames rising against the night sky, perhaps silhouetted against the full moon. Oh, that would be beautiful.
She'd never killed an entire town before. During her long life pre-Bonham, killing humans was sometimes necessary, but rarely did she do it for the pure sport of it. Usually those were the ones who'd tried to trap her; she'd always caught them out before they'd even started their incantations. If they were young and stupid, she'd rip their throats out and be done with it, but the clever, dangerous, older ones she'd drive before her, sometimes for months, making them think they were escaping only to have her turn up just where they'd run to. One time, she'd killed everyone around the mage again and again wherever he'd run to, until he begged her to kill him and she'd obliged.
That was fun. But this--this was pure bloodlust. They would all pay. No more would she be Mamzelle. She would once again be Mamzellarrainatta Daughter of Zelliniasipatiri, her wings, claws and teeth no longer hidden in this soft human body, and the cat demon would once again be Misiriplinapos Son of Misorianatus and a cat no more. Oh, we will be so happy, Misiriplinapos. A little song ran through her head: Soon, so soon, my friend...
Just as this lovely, bloody future unfolded before her, Misi himself peeked through the window, as if wishing not to be seen. Mamzelle gave him one of her long, slow grins and let him in. "'Allo, cheri, I was just thinking of you."
"Oh. Hi," winced the cat.
"Don' worry, Bonham's not 'ere, but you are cutting eet close, mon ami. A short visit, I fear."
"Ah, Bonham," said Misi, dropping lightly to the floor from the sill. "What do you know about that guy's doings, anyway?"
She closed the window and turned toward him, her white negligee swirling around her ankles. "Doings?"
"What he's up to."
Mamzelle suppressed a hard look. The Duniway woman had apparently ordered her pet to snoop, and he was never very good at it.
Bonham had in fact told her all about his interest in the schoolteacher, and the dinner party that would begin his assault on her dubious virtue. "Bedding that gal pokes both Tony and Runnels in the snooter, and puts Charity's nose out of joint to boot," he'd chortled. "I bet she's a spitfire, too. I aim to have her, Mamzelle, and that's a promise."
What should she tell Misi? That Bonham intended to take Annabelle under his protection one way or another? She certainly had no interest in protecting Miss Duniway from Bonham. In fact, on reflection it might make her life easier. She'd worried that perhaps Bonham's interest might lead to an order to leave the woman alone. Maybe if Charity Bonham got jealous enough, she'd shoot her rival. Maybe Tony Bonham or John Runnels would shoot Jedediah to protect Miss Duniway. It'd rob her of her full revenge against her captor, but that was merely a fantasy anyway; someone else had to kill Bonham for her. All manner of back-up schemes unfolded like paper flowers.
"What Bonham's up to," she mused aloud as she reclined on her red velvet chaise. "Well, I rub 'is feet most nights." The cat's nose wrinkled. "Mm," she agreed. "Sometimes 'e...dallies...with me, sometimes with one of ze girls, sometimes 'e mingles downstairs. Every morning 'e always does one thing: 'e counts 'is monies in ze storeroom. Does that satisfy your curiosity, mon petit chaton?"
Misi began to groom his whiskers somewhat nervously. "What does he do when he's not here?"
"Why ze sudden interest?"
"Oh, I like to keep an eye out," he said, tapping his cheekbone with a paw. "I keep an eye out on everybody, not just Bonham in particular."
"Your master, 'e likes to stay well-informed, ehn?"
"Yeah, you could say that. He doesn't like surprises."
"He" won't like the one Bonham's got in mind, and "he" won't like mine, either. Time for a little redirection. "Still not telling me 'oo 'e is?"
The cat shook his fur-ruffed head. "Can't. Under orders."
"In which direction do you live, at least?"
"Can't tell you that, either," said Misi, shifting his front paws uneasily.
"'Ave you told him about me?" The cat shook his head again, firmly enough for veracity. "Ah, it is not to worry, mon ami, I weel find him in time and win your liberté. So grateful you weel be, non?"
"I told you, I'm the one who kills him," growled the cat.
Mamzelle waved her red-nailed hand. "You cannot, and so I weel. Thank me later, when you are free. But now, since your master is curious, I weel tell you so much: Madame Bonham, she plans a soirée for ze good schoolteacher this Saturday."
"Really? Why? I didn't think Miz Bonham was the hospitable type."
"Ah, non. She is a woman most agreeable. She loves to entertain."
"She doesn't like you," Misi pointed out.
Mamzelle shrugged. "Humans don't like demons."
Before Misi could get in another question, loud footsteps and a louder voice sounded far down the hall. Misi jumped to the sill, Mamzelle let him out, and Jed Bonham came in looking for coffee and a foot rub. "Bientôt, bientôt, bientôt, mon ami, vous serez mort très bientôt, mon ami," she sang to herself.
"That's pretty, Mamzelle, what is it?" grunted Bonham.
"Oh, just a leetle song I made up." I'll sing it all to you some day...
Episode 38: Escort Service
Tony Bonham walked into the Hopewell Hotel like a man walking into a garbage dump. He looked around the stolid building, built for utility not gentility, and didn't bother to repress a sneer in the direction of the front desk.
Julian Hopewell caught the sneer and its meaning, and came around the desk in a hurry. "What do you want, Bonham? What are you doin' here?"
"I am only here to escort Miss Duniway to dinner at my father's house." He sniffed at Ralph, hovering in the door of the dining room. "I hope to escort her soon to better company and lodgings at the LeFay to boot. Rest assured I will leave this...place as soon as possible." Hopewell gave him the evil eye, but stomped upstairs to get the schoolteacher.
Tony's pocket watch chimed daintily; he took it out automatically and consulted the time. Fifteen minutes until his stepmother's little soirée began. He wondered if she'd bring in some hapless employee of his father's to serve as impromptu butler. Usually educated middle class greenhorns unused to hard labor ended up in the biggest pickles trying to work their own claims; working for his father to raise the money to go home taught them hard labor quick enough, and one of them might do for a butler in a pinch. If not, it'd be Mrs Walters shuttling food in and out of the kitchen, and a worse inducement to appetite he didn't know. Where on earth had Charity found her, and why did she keep such a sour, pinched woman around? He supposed her temperament matched her mistress's--almost as much as if they were related.
He felt eyes on him and looked up; Ralph was still in the doorway, absently wiping his hands on his dirty apron. "Nice watch," said Ralph.
"Don't you have something to do--a possum to skin, perhaps?"
"Naw, Julian said keep an eye on you," said Ralph, unruffled; Tony thought perhaps the man did have a possum to skin. Ralph jerked his greasy head toward the Bonham mansion. "Figured you might steal the silverware, I reckon, seein' as how you're his son."
Tony straightened in icy outrage, but turned toward the stairs at the sound of footsteps. Hopewell was leading Miss Duniway into the lobby. "But I'm not expecting anyone," he heard her musical voice saying.
"Miss Duniway," he sai
d, and stopped. She wore a simple black dress and coat with little in the way of furbelows: tasteful, appropriate to the occasion and her station, and entirely becoming; rather than drabbing down her fair complexion, the black played it up, making her skin even more like a peach and her eyes an almost impossible blue. Her golden hair wreathed her head in gentle curls beneath a black silk bonnet trimmed in gray. A jewel displayed against black satin. Charity will be beside herself.
"Mr Bonham, to what do I owe the pleasure?" she said, and he imagined he heard actual pleasure in her voice.
"This town is none too safe in the evenings. A lady like you should have an escort to my father's dinner," he smiled, just as the door jingled open.
"This town is safe as houses in the evenings for a lady like Miss Duniway, I assure you," came a familiar voice. Tony turned. Damn it: Runnels. "Nevertheless," said the Sheriff over the top of Tony's head, "I thought stepping over to the hotel to escort you to dinner was the polite thing to do. Seems I wasn't the only one with that thought."
Annabelle looked from Runnels to Tony. I was here first! Pick me, pick me!... I sound like one of her schoolchildren, he chided himself. She smiled politely and said, "I am lucky indeed, to have two escorts when I expected none. Shall we, gentlemen?" Tony began to offer his arm, but she pretended not to notice and walked out the door.
A brief frustrated glance his way from Runnels was satisfying, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Ralph stick his tongue out at him; he scowled. "Shall we?" said Runnels, gesturing toward the door.
"Not a moment too soon," muttered Tony, hurrying after Annabelle.
They walked toward the mansion in silence, Annabelle staying slightly ahead of her two suitors--when had Tony started thinking of himself as a suitor? When Runnels came through the door; that man had no hanky-panky in mind, he was dead serious. Ah, the Bonham competitive streak rears its ugly head.
Scryer's Gulch Page 17
