by Ami Diane
He held the gun aloft in one hand, only loosely pointed in Ella’s direction. With the other, he scooped up the money and stuffed it into his trouser pockets.
“That’s enough,” Lucky said. “Now go.”
Six’s brows lowered, and he let out a low growl. For a moment, Ella feared he’d shoot through her to get to the bartender.
Instead, he backed towards the door. Cold air poured in the moment he kicked it open, and Ella let out a breath as he stepped out into the dark.
Turning, she said, “So, about those questions—“
“You get outta here, too.” Lucky shoved her shoulders, sending her reeling into a table.
“Hey, I just saved your life!”
The baseball bat rose menacingly and bobbed in the air.
Ella backed towards the door, her hands up in surrender. “I just wanted to know about Charles trying to buy your bar—”
Lucky let out a guttural roar and swung. Ella dove for the floor, feeling the wind of the bat in her hair. That was twice now she’d nearly lost her head.
Rolling to her knees, she scampered for the door. “Alright, alright! I can take a hint.”
As her hand reached for the knob, the bar owner charged. His eyes, face, and beard were varying shades of red.
She plunged into the foggy night. The moment she slammed the door shut, a crash from inside shook the exterior wall.
“Holy Babe Ruth.” Her breath came out in a cloud, and she wrapped her arms around her as she put more distance between herself and the bar. “One more person for our softball team.”
“Softball?”
Ella jumped. A silhouette lingered at the corner of the building.
“You mad at me?” She took a hesitant step towards Six.
“Naw.”
“I just didn’t want to see you in jail,” she explained. “Also, I was hoping to win some points with Lucky so he’d answer my questions. Sorry.”
Now that she wasn’t in immediate danger from Six’s revolver, she scooted close to the cowboy, giving a wide berth to his cigarette smoke. It blended with the fog like a veil before his face.
“Wait, why am I apologizing for stopping you from killing a man? What I meant to say was, ‘You’re welcome.’”
Six didn’t respond. The tip of his rolled cigarette burned hot, reminding her of Lucky’s face.
Just then, the Half Penny’s door burst open. Ella whirled, ready to bolt but stopped when a familiar figure stepped out.
“Over here, Wink.”
Her boss hustled over, holding out Ella’s jacket. She did a double take when she spotted Six standing there but said nothing.
“Thanks.” Ella hugged into the sleeves and pulled the zipper to her chin.
“Did you at least get what we came here for?” Wink asked.
“No,” Ella said with disgust. “He refused to even listen to my questions.”
Six flicked the ash off the end of his smoke. “What’d you wanna ask him?”
“I’d hoped to find out why Charles was trying to buy the Half Penny. From what I heard, he wouldn’t come within a block of this place.”
Six leaned against the side of the bar, pulling a long drag. “I know why.”
Ella coughed and waved aside the smoke. “You know those things will kill you, right? Remind me some time to show you what a charred sponge looks like. And how do you know about Charles buying out the bar?”
Six shrugged and stamped out his cigarette. “Heard the other players talking ‘bout it a few times. The man wanted to close down the Half Penny. That’s why he was trying to buy it.”
Ella nodded slowly. The news didn’t surprise her; she’d suspected as much. Still, it was nice to get her theory confirmed from another source—however unreliable he might be.
“Yep,” Six continued, “he said he was going to burn the place to the ground and dance on its ashes.”
“Geez.” Ella glanced sideways at Wink. “That seems a bit melodramatic. Why not just turn it into a store or something?”
Six shrugged.
“That does sound emotionally charged,” Wink agreed. “Especially considering Charles…”
“Had the emotional depth and complexity of a tree trunk?” Ella said. “I concur. It doesn’t really fit with his ambition of owning all of Main Street. I mean, buying the place, yes. But burning it down to dance on its ashes Emperor Nero style, that’s … intense. That’s personal.”
The night air filled with noise as the door to the Half Penny opened again, causing all three of them to swivel. Six’s hand dropped to his holster.
Flo stepped through the doorway, her hand touching her hair as if to be sure it was intact. “Well, that was fun,” she said, spotting them.
His hand falling away from his revolver, Six resumed propping his shoulder against the side of the building.
Ella blinked at the crazy woman, and a headache built at the base of her skull as the day began to catch up to her. “You know what? I think I need a drink.”
Chapter 20
ELLA SCRUBBED A washcloth over a stain in her waitress uniform. The gingham pattern was dappled with grease and sauce from standing too close to Horatio and the fryer. She’d rotated through her attire as best she could, but the time had come for her to brave the basement again so she could wash her clothes.
At least the blood stain was gone from the concrete. A crew had come through some time the day before and cleaned the place. Now, it was back to its old dusty, creepy atmosphere, with the pungent odor of chemicals added as a bonus.
As she slipped out of the diner bathroom, she nearly bowled Wink over.
“Morning, dear.” Her boss squinted at Ella’s attire, homing in on the large, unsightly stain, now made larger with water and Ella’s scrubbing. “Would you mind restocking the cookie display, please? And put more out than in her stomach this time.”
“I make no promises.”
Ella gathered an assortment of freshly baked treats that littered the island and collected them onto a plate. Once there was a good mountain piled up, she backed through the swinging door and into the diner, a lemon cookie in her mouth.
She made quick work of placing the various flavors in their respective cases. As she placed the last snickerdoodle beneath the glass and brushed cinnamon and sugar from her mouth, the bell above the front door chimed. Patience stepped in from the bitter cold, her wool shift, layers of petticoats, and apron swaying like a bell.
Her eyes snagged on Ella before darting away. With her nose held high, she made her way over the linoleum and joined another patron already seated in the corner booth.
The corners of Ella’s mouth turned down. As long as she’d worked in Grandma’s Kitchen, she’d never seen the pious councilwoman in the railcar. She lifted the coffee pot and carefully carried it over to their table.
Patience sat hunched forward, a hard line between her brows. She’d been speaking in harsh undertones that came to an abrupt stop when Ella reached the booth.
“Morning. I mean—” Ella cleared her throat “—good morrow. Mud?” She held up the carafe.
Patience’s mouth puckered. “No.”
The councilwoman’s companion was more obliging. While Ella poured, she stole a quick glance at the man. Like most of the townspeople, he seemed vaguely familiar. He sported tattered dungarees with a patchwork of holes and stains. From the annals of her memory, she recalled seeing him at a town hall meeting, standing up and complaining about part of his corn crop dying with the sudden snow. Others at the meeting had chided him for planting such a finicky crop outdoors in the first place.
After she’d set his cup down, she pulled out her ticket pad. “Know what you want yet?”
The farmer smiled kindly and ordered a Bloodhound in the Hay (a hot dog with sauerkraut). When Ella looked questioningly at Patience, the Puritan’s nostrils flared. “Thee shall see none of mine wages in such a place.”
“You against carbs? Let me guess, you’re on the Atkins diet.”
Ella tore the paper from her pad and whirled around before the candidate could respond.
Shoving the paper across the pass through, Ella hollered at Horatio. “Bloodhound in the Hay.”
While she slid the coffee pot back into its spot, she caught Patience’s shrill voice saying, “…pray pardon me, what more doth thee want?”
“We’re too short this week. I don’t got enough to feed my family, let alone my cattle. The others are in just as bad a shape. Only, they don’t say nothing ‘bout it ‘cause they’re too proud. Well, I ain’t too proud to beg.”
It was a long moment before Patience responded, and when she did, her tone was like acid. “Rogue I am not, you arsworm. Nevertheless, I shall see what I can do. Now, what are thou going to do for me?”
Ella swallowed and pretended to be scrubbing out a spot on the soda fountain, her ears straining so she didn’t miss a single word.
“Like I promised ya. You’ll get the coalition’s endorsement. We still got a lot of sway. But I want the good stuff this time. Them last crates of lettuce spoiled before we could use ‘em up.”
“That is not mine burden.”
Patience scooted out of the booth, smoothing out her petticoat before she marched towards the door. She ripped it open, letting in a burst of cold air as the bell trilled angrily above. Then, the woman swept out into the fog like a ghoul and was gone.
Ella fought the urge to sprint to the kitchen, and instead, walked nonchalantly as best she could. In the kitchen, Wink glanced up from the island, her eyebrows climbing at the expression on Ella’s face.
Once the door settled behind her, Ella grabbed Wink by the shoulders. “Guess what I just overheard?”
“Do you think this is connected to Charles’s murder somehow?” Wink asked when Ella had finished paraphrasing the conversation she’d overheard.
“What do you want to bet that’s what the two were arguing about that night at the party? He’d said, ‘If they only knew what you were doing’. It fits.”
“So,” Wink said, “Patience is siphoning off goods to buy her election?”
“It appears so. The Puritan isn’t so pure.”
Wink side-eyed Ella.
“She’s not so egg-cellent. Her plan is going to amount to a hill of beans.”
“Funny.” Wink’s expression was blank. “Except, she stole neither eggs nor beans.”
“Don’t ruin my puns. They’re funny.”
“If you say so.” Wink grabbed a ball of dough from the fridge and dropped it onto the island with a splat. She spread flour onto the wooden surface, covering it like snow and bringing back recent memories of the charity pie bake during Christmas.
As she watched the diner owner roll out the gooey mass, Ella’s smile faded. Could Patience have really shot Charles? In order for her to be the killer, the councilwoman would have to know several things.
First, she’d have to know how to operate the weapon used—a gun made a couple of centuries after her own era. Second, she would have to have worn gloves to avoid gun residue and leaving fingerprints, which, Ella figured, could be accomplished easily enough. Third, and probably most importantly, she would have to have known about the hidden room.
The latter left the biggest question mark. The woman came to town about two and a half decades after the speakeasy closed down. So, either Patience learned how to use a revolver, had worn gloves, and somehow managed to learn about the hidden door, she most likely wasn’t the killer. However, Ella wasn’t ruling her out entirely.
With trepidation, she pulled out her phone and made notes of the recent developments, moving Patience down the list. She stopped. It was possible the Puritan had convinced someone to do the deed for her. A hungry, desperate person wanting to provide for their family, perhaps?
With this thought, Ella swung into the diner, offered the farmer more mud, then left him his check. He was the only patron at the moment. The drizzle of steady fog was really putting a damper on the number of customers coming in.
A few minutes later, he approached the cash register. As he pulled out a few crumpled bills, he squinted at her. “You look familiar. You were at that party, the one where that man bit the dust, weren’t ya?”
“I was. Wait, you were there?”
He thrust the bills out, his thick, calloused fingers doing their best to smooth them out. His hands were stained with dirt, especially under the nails, but free of black ink. It was probable that the stain had worn off at this point. Her own had faded to a ghost of color.
“I don’t remember talking to you afterward,” she said, keeping her voice casual as she took the money. “You must’ve spoken with Will.”
“Naw. Left early. The wife wanted to get home to the kids.”
He’d left early, a common theme that night, she was finding. “You missed all the commotion, then, I guess. What time did you leave?”
He scratched his hair, making it stand on end. “Don’t recall. A little after seven, I reckon.”
Ella’s breath quickened. “You keep quite the company.”
“Ms. Chilton? Ain’t friendly company. Sometimes, you gotta make a deal with the devil, you know?”
She nodded, doing her best to sport a supportive smile that said, Don’t I know it?
The man turned to leave.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Ella said in a rush of words.
“Tom Horton. But everyone just calls me Hort.”
After they exchanged a clammy handshake, Hort walked out of the diner, leaving Ella alone in the railcar. As soon as he was out of sight from the windows, she sprinted into the kitchen and tore the phone off the wall.
“Goodness.” Wink clasped her chest, leaving a flour print on her uniform. “What’s gotten into you?”
Ella bit her lip. “Nothing. I just forgot to ask Rose something is all.”
She dialed the inn, her finger missing the numbers on the rotary dial a couple of times in her excitement. While the line rang, she glanced behind her. Wink was busy rolling out another ball of dough, and Horatio chopped a head of lettuce.
Taking the receiver into the diner, she stretched the phone cord through the doorway and settled into the corner booth. She dropped her voice when Jimmy picked up.
“Keystone Inn.” His breath came heavy over the line.
“It’s Ella. You alright?”
“Oh, hello. Yes, just been moving furniture around in the parlor. Rose said someone taught her fooshoo, and the energy in there’s all off or some such nonsense.”
“Fengshui?”
“Bless you.”
Ella suppressed a snort, then she asked for Flo. It took far too long for her geriatric friend to pick up. She could’ve run next door, had her conversation, returned to the diner, and had time to eat a plate of muffins in the time it took Flo’s gruff voice to come over the line.
“Who’s this and what do you want?”
“Sugar cookies, what kept you?”
“Oh, it’s you. I was busy.” By Flo’s tone, Ella decoded “busy” to mean “I was neck-deep in gun powder making a weapon that will one day kill us all.”
“Right. I just have a quick question. Do you know a man named Hort?”
“‘Course I do. I bought Wendy off him.”
The line went silent.
“Wendy’s a gun, right?”
“‘Course it is.”
Ella’s breath came out between clenched teeth, and she counted to five in her head before continuing. “Anyway, did Hort ever come into the speakeasy? Think really hard before answering, Flo. It’s important.”
A silence stretched so long Ella wasn’t sure Flo was still on the line.
“Hmm, yeah. I think so.”
“You think so? Sorry, but I need you to be certain. Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure. I gotta run. My Death Raiser’s glowing, and if I don’t dispel the energy—”
“Yeah, yeah. The town will explode.”
The line clicked.
Ella slipp
ed back into the kitchen and replaced the receiver, avoiding curious glances from the other two. Grabbing a glass, she stuck it under the faucet, her mind working overtime. Cool water sloshed inside then ran over the brim for several seconds before she realized and turned the faucet off.
Out the window above the sink, fog obscured the swollen lake from view, but she knew it was there, just as sure as she knew the sun still hung in the cold, gray sky above even if she couldn’t see it.
An inward struggle waged between telling Wink her plan and keeping her friend safe. She and Flo were as much a part of this investigation as Ella was. However, if past experience was any indication, confronting the killer always put them in danger. She couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to them—including Flo.
“Hey, Wink,” Ella said, keeping her gaze outside and her back to her boss, “it’s pretty dead out there. Do you mind if I run an errand before lunch?”
“Sure, dear.”
A couple of minutes later, Ella lifted her coat from the back hook and left by way of the front door. Hugging her body against a moist, chilly onslaught, she marched up the sidewalk, rehearsing the impending conversation. As she passed the inn, she spared a glare in Flo’s direction.
Before she knew it, her feet were in front of the door to the sheriff’s office. Inside, the heat from the wood stove in the corner warmed her skin and beckoned her forth.
Chapman stood in front of one of the jail cells. The door clanged shut, and he turned the lock with a skeleton key.
“Miss Barton,” he greeted her. His eyes widened a fraction, a glimpse of surprise and emotion in his stoic features. “Come here to plead Six’s case?”
“No—what?” Ella moved deeper into the station.
Six stood in the middle of the cell. He winked at her before dropping to the lopsided cot and sprawling his legs out, boots and all. Then, he tipped his Stetson hat over his eyes like a sleep mask.
“What did you do this time?” Ella asked.
“Nothing much,” Six drawled out.
Chapman shook his head and escorted her to his desk. “Not much except put a few holes in Arty’s boat.”
