Old Murders Never Die

by Marja McGraw

  “We,” I said.

  “We what?”

  “We. As in you and me. We’ll follow the smoke trail together.”

  “I’m not even going to try to argue with you this time. You can keep a lookout while I search.”

  “I’d better go check on the beans. They’re probably burned to a crisp by now.”

  Pete turned back to the fish just in time to see Bubba trying to sneak a piece. “You’ll burn your nose, pal. Stay away.”

  If a dog can look embarrassed, then Bubba did. He’d been caught in the act.

  The beans were beginning to boil, but they were okay. I took them off the stove and set the pot on the table. I knew it might leave a burn mark, but there wasn’t anything I could do. I retrieved the loaf of bread from the cabinet and set that on the table, too, along with the tub of butter.

  Pete brought the fish in and cut off a couple of pieces to mix in with Bubba’s dry food. The dog was beside himself with joy and bolted down his dinner.

  “I really need to clean up,” I said.

  “Okay.”

  “Can you help me bring back some water so I can take another bath and wash my hair? And, by the way, how come your hair looks so fresh and clean?” I hadn’t thought about it, but he didn’t seem to be suffering from oily hair.

  “When I went fishing I washed up in the creek.”

  “Oh. Wasn’t it cold?”

  “You bet. But I can handle it.”

  I rolled my eyes instead of sighing. “You’re quite the country pioneer, aren’t you?”

  He smiled at me and took a bite of his fish. “Say, this isn’t half bad.”

  I forked a piece and tried it. I hated to admit it, but it was pretty good. I took another bite.

  “Admit it, Sandi. You like it, too, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I like it, too – sort of.”

  After eating, we took the buckets and headed to the creek for more water. My hair had never felt so oily and dirty. I didn’t like it.

  “Isn’t this more of a stream than a creek?” I asked.

  “It’s probably somewhere in between.”

  We made a couple of trips to the creek. I didn’t have the strength to carry too much back. By the time I put the water on the cook stove to heat, my arms felt like they’d stretched a good three inches.

  After heating the water, I bathed and washed my hair while Pete took a walk. He told me he’d left some car magazines in the Jeep and he thought he’d bring those back to read. Bubba stayed with me, just in case the cowboy decided to put in an appearance. He didn’t, thankfully. I don’t think a bath had ever felt so good. After I washed my hair I combed the snarls out and put it in a ponytail. There was no sense in trying to style it.

  Pete returned and told me he hadn’t seen the cowboy lurking around the house. Then he gave me a hug. “You really do smell nice, sweetie.”

  I grinned. “Thank you. I feel better, too. I can’t imagine how people got by with one bath a week in the old days. I guess it’s just what they were used to. Of course, they didn’t have the gels and hair spray in their hair. I guess that helped.”

  “I suppose.” He sat down at the table with his magazines.

  Sitting across from him, I pulled out the pages to Ambrose’s story. “I think I’ll see what this little mystery is all about.”

  “Good idea.” He was already lost in the world of automobiles, so I picked up the pages and began to read.

  Ambrose may have been a wealthy man, or at least that was the impression we had of him, but he sure didn’t know how to write a story. His spelling was better than the sheriff’s, and his use of the English language was better, but his handwriting added an extra degree of difficulty as I tried to read his work.

  The story started out with a woman walking through the streets of San Francisco. A man “leaped out of an alley” and dragged her back into it with him. In the next scene, she’d been murdered. Someone found her the next morning, people came running, and there was a lot of screaming among the women. Someone fainted and someone else stood at the end of the alley calling for the police and a doctor. It was very contrived, although maybe it would have been exciting in its day. I didn’t think too many mysteries had been written at that time, but I didn’t know for sure. I started to laugh when I read that the woman who’d fainted had lain in the alley with her dress above her knees. He made quite a big deal about that, and I imagined that seeing her knees would have been scandalous in those days.

  The part that attracted my attention was where he said the dead woman had been stabbed, in addition to being strangled. No slice and dice, but she’d been stabbed. I didn’t think it was a coincidence.

  I skimmed the rest of the story, watching for key words and phrases. It was drivel, but I figured it might hold a key to Wolf Creek’s deaths. He hadn’t gone too far with his story and it didn’t take long. Maybe he’d hidden more pages in a different location.

  As I skimmed, I discovered Ambrose had included a police detective named Sgt. Kroft in his story, like changing one letter of Sheriff Croft’s name would make a difference. He portrayed the detective as somewhat of a dolt.

  I was deciding it might be worth a trip back to the Ambrose house to search for more of the story when I found on the last page that Ambrose had written of a second stabbing death. Was it truly fiction? Or could he be writing from personal experience?

  “Wait until I tell you about Ambrose’s story, Pete.”

  Leaving his magazine open, he turned it upside down and set it aside.

  I told him the story, and suggested that maybe Ambrose was writing about his own crimes.

  “You could be right, but don’t forget there was a knife missing from the cutlery at the Mueller house. So now you’ve got two suspects.”

  I tapped my finger against my chin. “Here’s another question. Why did the reverend’s wife, Anna, feel she had to hide her jewelry in the floor? Was it only because she was afraid her husband would make her sell it? Or was there more to it? Who knows? Maybe it wasn’t really her jewelry. Maybe she stole it.”

  “I think that’s kind of a stretch,” he replied, “but you could be right. We may never know the truth. Have you seen anything in the sheriff’s records about stolen jewelry?”

  “No, but – ”

  “Well, maybe she was telling the truth. I can see a preacher wanting to sell something valuable to help out the poor.”

  “So can I, but – ”

  “Don’t create suspicion where this isn’t a good reason. There’s been nothing to indicate this woman stole any jewelry.”

  “You’re right. I’m getting carried away with trying to find more suspects.” If these people were still alive, I could have done untold damage with my suspicions if I’d voiced them out loud to the town. “The reverend and his wife probably wouldn’t be suspects. But who else is there?”

  “There’s a whole town full of people. Everyone should have been a suspect.”

  “But you’re contradicting yourself,” I said. “A minute ago you said I was jumping to conclusions.

  “No, I didn’t. Just because I said there was nothing to indicate that Anna stole the jewelry doesn’t mean she or her husband couldn’t be suspects in the murders.”

  “You can be so frustrating sometimes.” He was right, and that’s what frustrated me. I couldn’t cross anyone off the suspect list except those who’d left town before the last killing. “Go back to your reading.”

  He picked up the magazine after giving me a triumphant smile.

  “I want to go back to the Ambrose house to see if there’s more of his story hidden behind the books.”

  “Uh huh.” I’d lost him to some kind of car article.

  Picking up the sheriff’s record book, I started reading again. I was almost to the end of the second book.

  The Sutters sold off a hundred head of cattle, shook the dust off their boots an moved on yesterday. Samuel Sutter tole me they did not want to stay in a place where the lady
folk was being kilt off, one by one. An he is right. I should take my Annie away from this evil place. There aint been no more killins since the school teacher, but I still worry about her. A lot of good I am doin.

  Spring is comin an things is warmin up. Mebbe things will be back to normal now. I have hope, and dont hope count for somethin?

  Annie is truly enjoyin teachin those childrun. She says it makes her feel good about herself, an I guess that is important to her. She says that by and by we will be havin young ones of our own. Wont that be the day! I can not imagine myself as a pappy.

  I’d really grown to like the sheriff after reading his notes. He seemed to feel inept as a sheriff, but he kept plugging along, trying to figure things out. And he obviously adored his wife, Annie. He put a lot of stock into the things she said to him and the thoughts she shared with him. I think I would have liked her, too. He’d mentioned she was quite a bit younger than he was. For such a young woman, she seemed to be smart and wise beyond her years.

  The rest of the second journal was taken up with the spring thaw, a sudden freeze they hadn’t expected, and then warmer weather again. Sheriff Croft had begun to write down more than simple statements about the town and the crimes.

  Annie says the preacher’s wife jawed with her about some stuff that did not have to do with her Olga’s schoolin yesterday when she came to pick the girl up at school. If memory serves, Anna Wright is Russian. Truth be told, she was born here, but her mama was from Russia. She told Annie her mama brought some valuble stuff with her from her homeland, an she wanted to know if it was wrong to keep a secret of that stuff from her husband. Annie told her if it was her stuff, then it was her right to keep her mouth closed about it. The preacher is a good man, but he can be strait laced. Annie said the missus was afraid her husband would make her sell stuff, an she did not feel very Christian about her feelins. I guess she jist wanted someone to take her side so she would feel okay about her secret.

  The childruns parents are still walkin them to and fro from school. It feels like people are all settled down now, but there is still some suspishon. It did not help that the cowboy who was passin through got kilt, accident or no accident. An Doc still swears it was an accident.

  This entry gave me more insight into a few different issues. Anna Wright really had kept the jewels from her husband. They were her secret, and now Annie’s, too. I believed from reading this that Olga was probably the only child of the reverend and his wife. I also got the impression that Reverend Wright might be more interested in helping those with less than helping his wife retain her inheritance, thus he was kept in the dark.

  The people of Wolf Creek were still worried, but as time passed, so did their fear, to some extent. Assuming the cowboy’s death had nothing to do with the deaths of the women in town, it wasn’t an issue to the townspeople. I had a feeling it was to the sheriff, though. He didn’t seem to quite buy the accident theory.

  So a cowboy had died while camping by the town. And we had a cowboy who was dogging our steps, so to speak. Could there be any connection?

  I glanced at Pete and reality reared its head.

  Of course there was no connection. How could there be?

  I reached for my chocolate. There was no more chocolate. I searched through my backpack, but it was all gone. My heart thumped a couple of extra beats and I wondered if this was the way a smoker might feel if they ran out of cigarettes and there were no more. Anywhere. Well, I’m a bigger person than that. I could live without chocolate. Piece of cake.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When I awoke early the next morning, I rolled over in the sleeping bag to watch Pete. He looked so peaceful, and he was smiling, hopefully having a good dream.

  “What?” he asked, opening his eyes.

  “I thought you were asleep and dreaming.”

  “I was, about five minutes ago. We need to get up and get moving so we can try to find the cowboy’s place.” He climbed out of the sleeping bag and quickly pulled on some warm clothes. It had cooled off during the night.

  After stacking some wood, he started to light a new fire in the fireplace. Having second thoughts, he blew out the match in his hand. “No point in letting the cowboy know that we’re up and starting our day.”

  “True. He can see our smoke just like we can see his.”

  I dragged my sorry self out of the sleeping bag and put on a pair of jeans and a shirt, and pulled on a sweatshirt over the top. We’d found a bowl and pitcher at one of the old houses and confiscated it to use in the morning.

  Pete brushed his teeth, splashed some cold water on his face and grabbed one of the towels I’d brought along to dry it. It appeared he was going for the scruffy, bearded look again. I watched him and thought that now I was getting used to the stubble, and it was actually kind of sexy looking.

  Shaking my head, I followed suit and brushed my teeth, washed my face and combed my hair, putting it in a French braid.

  The sun was barely up, so I knew it was pretty early.

  Pete had walked outside to check for the cowboy’s smoke, with Bubba right behind him. After putting some dog food in Bubba’s bowl, I followed them.

  “Anything?” I asked, looking in the direction of the Newton farm. I could see a plume of smoke over the trees.

  “Yeah,” he replied, staring off into the distance. “Let’s get moving.”

  “What about breakfast?”

  “It can wait. We need to follow the smoke.”

  I ran back inside and grabbed a piece of bread to eat on the way. I needed something in my stomach or I wouldn’t last long. I pulled another piece out of the wrapper for Pete, and stuffed some dog treats in my pocket for Bubba.

  It only took a few minutes to reach the town. It looked different to me in what little there was of the early morning light. Somehow the buildings didn’t look quite as old or faded as they did during bright daylight. I could imagine the farmers and townspeople starting out their day. The wife probably would have been in her kitchen preparing a big, unhealthy breakfast, my favorite kind. The husband was more than likely already outside taking care of some task until the missus called him in to eat.

  I pictured the younger children putting on their school clothes, and the older ones outside helping their Pa.

  I could almost hear the woman yelling, “Come and git it, Chester, and bring the young ‘uns with you.”

  “What?” Pete asked.

  Had I said that out loud? “Nothing. I was just thinking back to what it must have been like in this town when people lived here.”

  We headed toward the Newton farm, losing Bubba when a rabbit made the mistake of crossing his path. The race was on, but I didn’t stop to watch.

  Glancing up, I could still see the smoke above the trees. The cowboy might not want us to find him, but he had to cook and have heat. He probably hoped we wouldn’t notice it.

  There was a fairly steep grade once we passed the Newton farm. Pete tromped ahead, but the incline slowed me down. About half way up, I found myself a little out of breath. By the time our vacation was over, I might find myself in pretty good shape from all the forced exercise that had become part of my days. In the meantime, I squatted down under a tree to catch my breath. Pete stopped and glanced back, finally turning to come join me.

  “The smoke is beginning to disappear. We need to hurry. Can you make it?”

  “You bet I can,” I said, forcing myself up and moving forward. “The woman you love and admire is no mere wimp.”

  “I do love and admire you, but you are kind of a wimp.”

  That’s all it took. I half ran, half walked up the grade. While we sparred from time to time, but more often than not we weren’t serious. I knew, and he knew, that his wimp crack was made to spur me on, and he didn’t mean it. I hoped.

  I heard some noises ahead of me and stopped in my tracks. He heard them, too, and stopped beside me. Focusing on the trees off to our right where the sounds were coming from, we tried to see if it was the
cowboy. We could just barely see him riding on his big black horse.

  Pete grabbed my arm and pulled me behind a tree.

  Woof!

  Oh, no! Bubba had caught up to us and he was in front of the horse, barking. The rider stopped the horse and watched the dog. His head began a slow rotation as he studied the area to see if we were in sight. His hand slowly moved to his gunbelt and settled on the gun.

  The horse whinnied, pawing the ground.

  I willed myself to be smaller and quietly moved behind another tree so we’d be spread out. Neither of us said a word.

  Bubba’s big head swung around in our direction, but instead of giving us away he ran after another rabbit. I’d never been so glad to see a furry little critter in all my life. The cowboy relaxed and let his hand drop to his side. He patted the horse’s neck and rode away from the cabin.

  “That was close,” I said, joining my partner-in-crime behind his tree. “Do you have your gun with you?”

  “Sure. But this wasn’t the time or the place for a gunfight. All I want to do is find the ignition relay and get out of here. We should have done this a couple of days ago, but I’ve kind of enjoyed our time in this old ghost town. And even though the cowboy has been annoying, I don’t feel like he’s really been a threat.” His disgusted and slightly angry expression belied his words.

  “Except for trapping us in Wolf Creek and waving a gun in the air,” I said.

  “Except for that.”

  We continued our climb up the incline and smelled, more than saw, the smoke. There was just a wisp left in the air, and it wasn’t too far ahead. Coming out of the stand of trees, we saw what we were looking for. It was more of a cabin than a house. It was almost like someone had just thrown some boards up and hoped for the best, although they’d added mud or something between the boards to keep cold air out. I was surprised it was still standing. It had to be sturdier than it looked.

  Although we’d seen the cowboy leaving, we still approached the cabin with care. The leaves on the ground were damp from the recent rain and our footsteps couldn’t be heard.