by C. A. Asbrey
He turned to face a smiling Dolly, the light from the fire brightening the auburn tints in his brown hair. “I guess I should really think about getting back. I can’t say I look forward to going back out there in the cold. It’s fine and toasty here, and there’s nothing but coldness where I’m going.”
A penciled-in brow arched. “We got rooms, but they come with company.”
His eyes narrowed. “Company?”
“Yeah, twenty dollars for the room, breakfast, and services. Ya got a hankerin’ for a woman? We don’t employ trash here. Only the best, and nobody’ll roll you for your cash. We got a new girl in a few weeks ago. Italian, dark hair, and eyes like a baby deer.”
“No dark ones.” He spat more vehemently than he intended. “You got any blondes?”
“Sure we have. Let me go fetch Lizzie. She’s as pretty as they come, and almost a virgin. You want more drink, too?”
He paused. The idea of indulging in sensual pleasures was becoming increasingly tempting when compared to the frigid welcome he expected. He needed a distraction from that hellion, and the light from the burning bridges might as well light his way. “Sure. If all I gotta do is get upstairs, I guess I can manage another.”
A pudding-faced girl with brittle peroxide hair appeared, her eyes disappearing beneath a mass of paint. The tattered feathers in her hair quivered when she moved. “Hi, I’m Lizzie. I hear you want company.”
He stared at her, his eyes glittering with intensity as he noted her torn stocking and bruised knees, wondering what had caused them before realizing he didn’t really care. She couldn’t be more different to the prim and proper virago who had played with his feelings so lightly. Why the hell not? He stood and tossed back his drink, towering over her by at least a head. He grasped her hand and pulled her to the staircase. “Come on. Show me this room of yours.”
♦◊♦
Jake pulled off his hat at the entrance to the saloon, closing the door behind him. His bright blue eyes narrowed in on his nephew’s back as he disappeared up the staircase with a working girl.
“Can I help you?” A middle-aged painted woman appeared at his shoulder. “A drink? Food? Maybe some company?”
His head titled back at the sight of Nat striding along the open landing and following the girl into a room. “Yeah. I’ll have a beer. I need time to get my story straight.”
♦◊♦
Nat’s hands lingered on her thin shoulders, pushing at the cheap frills to expose her pale skin. Her small breasts crested from her bodice, pale, milky, and enticing. Nat’s fingers tightened into the flesh as his breath rasped in her ear. “Take it off.”
“The dress? Sure, honey.”
“Yeah, but I was talking about the muck on your face. It’s horrible, and makes you look like a clown. Take it off.”
She pouted. “Dolly said the men like it.”
He scrutinized her, his intense dark eyes glittering with hunger. “Dolly’s wrong. Take it off.”
She sniffed prettily and walked over to the washstand, pouring out water into the bowl. He watched as she scrubbed at the paint, the mess splotching the washcloth. She wrung it out and tipped the water away, repeating the process with clean water until her face was fresh and pink. She turned and smiled at him but his brow creased with alarm. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Don’t lie. You’re nowhere near that. What are you? Fourteen, fifteen?”
“I’m nineteen—”
He stood, the feral side coming to the fore in a snarl. “I told you not to lie.”
She stepped back as he advanced on her, cowering with a cry of fear at the sudden change. “I’m sixteen.”
He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her. “The truth!”
She dropped her head, her body folding into submissive acceptance. “I’m fourteen—”
“You’re a child.” He stood back, his jaw set in anger. “And that’s why she told you to put all the paint on your face.”
“I’m old enough to get married. Why’re you here if you don’t like me?”
“How’d you end up here?”
“Pa got me the job.” Her face was alight with tears. “Enid already runs home and tends the little ’uns. They don’t need another girl. They need money.”
Anger made his accent slip. “Doin’ this? What kind of father is he?”
“What else can girls do? It brings in ten times what I could make cleanin’.”
His fists clenched in anger and he swung around. He strode back to the bed. He sat there his chest rising and falling as his breath quickened. “He sold you to be a whore? At fourteen?”
She didn’t cry prettily. Her eyes were red and her nose ran with snot. “I make good money. Leave me alone.”
“I’ve got news for you, Lizzie. Whores have a short life. Usually brutal and often used every which way. What’re you gonna do twenty years from now when they’ve turned you into a drug addict to make you easier to control and nobody wants you anymore? Your family will reject you because you’re soiled goods.” The dark eyes burned into her. “I’ve seen it time and time again. A few years of good money, then a long, slow death in the gutter.”
“What are you? Some kinda preacher?”
“Me? I’d burst into flames if I went near a church. I know how young ’uns get used. I was orphaned.”
She propped a hand on her skinny hip. “So what do you want, mister? I ain’t got all night.”
“Yes, you have, Lizzie. I paid for this room and I paid for you.” He nodded toward her cut knees. “How’d you get those?”
“A farmer. He wanted me on my knees.” Tears streamed down her face. “He wanted things he didn’t pay for, and when I wouldn’t, he forced me. Dolly threw him out.” She fixed him with eyes full of pain. “What d’ya want, mister? I ain’t never met anyone like you.”
He ran his long fingers through is brown hair in frustration. “I don’t want a thing from you, Lizzie. You’re too young. I want a place to sleep.”
“Ain’t I good enough? You ain’t bein’ fair. They’ll throw me out.”
Nat shook his head. “Lizzie, you’re too good. You’re too young, and they’re using you. Once you’re all used up, they’ll throw you away and find another. I’m not gonna complain, but you’re too young for me, so I’m not…not interested in you that way. I’ve got scruples about using people.”
“You’re a fiddle-headed loony, mister.”
“Yeah, sure I am. When was the last time you got an undisturbed sleep, Lizzie?”
She paused. “We don’t keep regular hours here.”
“So a long time? Lizzie, I’m tired and I’m heart-sick. A woman’s giving me a hard time. I ain’t gonna bother you. When I see Dolly, I’ll tell her you’re the best and all you have to do is sleep for the same money. How does that sound?”
“Strange—”
He rubbed his face. “I’m tired, Lizzie. I’m going to sleep. You can either do the same and get the longest sleep you’ve had in months, or you can go screeching to Dolly and get another John who’ll keep you up all night. Your choice.”
She approached cautiously. “Just sleep?”
“Yeah, sleep. You can sit over there by the wash stand or you can try to get eight hours full sleep. Your call.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.” Nat kicked off his boots and slid out of his pants and hung his gun belt on the bedstead. “You’re too young. I’m sleeping. You do whatever you want.” He rolled on his side. “G’night, Lizzie.”
She paused, unused to this reaction from a man. Eventually, there was a swish of her disrobing and she joined him in bed, stiff as an ice sculpture.
He lay on his side, facing the wall. “Goodnight, Lizzie.”
“Goodnight, John, or whatever they call you.”
♦◊♦
The tinkering of the lock alerted Abigail to Jake’s return. She turned to him expectantly, her eyes widening at the sight of him entering alone.
“You
couldn’t find him?”
“He’s got a room. I didn’t get the chance to speak to him, but he’s safe. He’s gone to bed. I guess he’s still real angry and didn’t want to come back here.”
“Where is he?”
Jake hung his hat on top of jacket. “He found a place doing rooms by the night. He’s fine. We can talk to him tomorrow.”
She stood, closing the book and placing it on the side table. Her glittering eyes betrayed the calmness in her voice. “I’ll ask again. Where is he?”
“He found a place that does rooms.”
“In Pettigo?” She frowned. “The place is full because of the avalanche. There are no rooms.”
He shrugged. “What can I tell you? He’s Nat. He’s resourceful. He found somewhere, but it ain’t permanent. He’ll be back tomorrow and we can straighten out this whole thing then. Go to bed. I’m gonna get my head down. I’ll see you in the mornin’.”
He disappeared off into the kitchen as Abigail watched him intently. She walked over to his jacket and raised it to her nose, sniffing it.
The aroma of tobacco, stale beer, and wood smoke still clung to the sheepskin, and she instantly knew where Jake had been. By association, she could guess where Nat was and what he was probably doing. There was only one way a man could spend the night in the town bars.
She closed her eyes and gulped back a knot of pain as she dropped the sleeve. Distress whirled in her chest until her the caustic tears burned at the back of her throat. She steeled herself to stay in control, bracing her shoulders and raising her chin with a defiance she didn’t really feel as she walked over to the bedroom and quietly closed the door behind her.
Jake stood at the kitchen door, concealed in the darkness as he observed the whole scene unfold. He cursed under his breath at the knowledge he’d set of this whole chain of events in motion. She knew. How could he put this right?
Chapter Twenty One
“Bacon, eggs and lots of coffee.” The plate clattered with a sonorous clang on the table in front of Nat, causing him to drop his head into his hands.
“Headache?” the cook chuckled over a well-upholstered bosom. “We see a lot of them. You want some willow bark tea? We put fever few in it, too. That’ll fix you right up.” A stubby finger pointed to the breakfast. “That, and food to soak it all up.”
Nat rubbed his weary face and fixed the cook with bloodshot eyes. “Yeah. That’d be good, thanks. Oh, and maybe ice? An ice pack on the temples might help.”
“Ice.” The cook sniggered. “Yeah, how many tons d’you want?”
“About four I reckon.” Nat played idly with his eggs. “Does that tea really help?”
“It sure does. That’s why I brew one every mornin’. I’ll go get it.”
Nat sat back, nursing his head and shoveling in food to help soak up the booze. Somehow the saltiness of the bacon and the blandness of the eggs cut through the alcohol, and dampened the worst of the stale bourbon repeating on him. Fresh baked bread also served to soak up the remains of last night’s excesses. An hour later, he was sitting with an icepack on his forehead, a packed belly, and starting to feel considerably better.
His mind wandered to yesterday’s turn of events as he turned them over in his head. It looked like Schuster couldn’t be guilty unless Cussen was killed on Sunday morning, but if he was killed then, almost anyone could have done it.
He carefully sorted through the substances found on the suit; brick dust, sawdust, and potassium nitrate. The fertilizer he’d taken from the Morgan place didn’t fit the bill. The pharmacist had told him it was bone meal. MacGilfoyle used a compost pile where he rotted down horse manure and vegetable peel. Where did the grains come from? Maybe that was the link?
“You look more human.” The cook removed his dirty plate. “That tea did the trick, huh?”
“Sure did. What was in it again?”
“Willow bark and fever few. The pharmacist here makes it.” She grinned, her plump cheeks forming into joyous balls. “If you make a habit of this you might want to buy a packet.”
“I might do that. It sure evens out the aches without addling the mind.”
“The ice helps, too,” she said. “We’re lucky here. The hotel makes it in the summer and sells it to us. It gets real warm here in the summer months and it’s real welcome, I can tell you.”
“So how do you make ice?”
“Dunno. I wish I knew how to make it. It’d save this place a fortune in the summer. MacGilfoyle keeps that secret real close. It’s the one thing only he can do. As long as he can make ice, we all need him.”
Nat stroked his chin. “Yeah, well, I’m gonna get myself along to the pharmacist to get some of the tea. Thanks for the tip. I’ve got a feeling it’ll make a big difference.”
♦◊♦
“Are you all right, Abi?”
Her smile was bright, a little too bright for it to be credible. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
His breath hung in the cold air as he spoke. “Because you sniffed my jacket last night and knew I was in a bar.”
“You’re entitled to go for a drink, Jake. I have no call on you, and you’ve been working hard on this case.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You know, Abi. Drop the act.”
“Know? Know what?”
“Where Nat went last night.”
She stared straight ahead as they trudged across the frozen earth, avoiding his eyes. “I have no call on him, either. He can do as he pleases. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what he has been doing.”
His mouth firmed into a line, unsure what else to say without making things worse. The air was filled by the crunch of their feet through the harsh frost laid down in last night’s freezing fog which formed a shell over the soft snow underneath.
Abigail tilted her head back to look at the vast sky, bright and azure since the wind had blown away the mist and clouds. The light diffused and glinted off the snow, making icicles gleam and frost glisten. It all looked new and enticing after such a long period of low heavy clouds. It was a brand new day and a brand new start, darkened only by the heaviness of a grave error of judgment deep inside her heart.
Jake stepped forward and held the door open to the telegraph office in a show of chivalry, smiling at the clerk behind the desk as he followed Abigail to the desk.
“Good morning. Have you a reply for me from Chicago? The name’s Abigail MacKay.”
The clerk nodded. “Do I ever! I ain’t never had a longer one.” He rifled through a drawer handed over the missive he picked out. He picked up a book and entered the reference number. “Sign here, please.”
She dipped the nib in the ink and scrawled a signature with a scratchy nib and took the proffered document. Her head inclined as she tore open the envelope to read the contents.
Jake peered at the lashes forming crescents against her skin, waiting for her to share the contents, his impatience growing as the seconds felt like minutes.
“What? What do they say?”
Her eyes darted to him. “The Endellion riots took place near Boston in 1843. Cussen’s mentor, Chivington Miller, was active in the Native American movement and used his pulpit for political ends.”
“Native Americans? You mean, like Cherokee and Sioux?”
“I mean Protestants like the Know Nothings. I mean politics and religion, mixing into a toxic blend to stir up hatred and violence. Miller is known as ‘The Chiv’ in criminal circles due to his ready use of a knife to help settle scores. He also runs a gang who extorts money from businesses.”
Jake stared at her in silence as she continued.
“Lymen Cussen preached at one of the meetings which inflamed the mob. He repeated allegations of young women being forced into Catholicism in order to receive aid. That was a lie used to provoke hate. It was a boarding school and they were already Catholics.”
“So? What happened then?”
“There was a riot and the building set on fire. Teachers and pupils fle
eing the building were pelted with bricks until a mob of Irishmen arrived to see them off. Nobody was killed, but one young woman was left with brain damage and died three years later after being terribly injured. It couldn’t be considered as murder legally as she’d have to have died within a year and a day of the actual injury taking place.”
The blue eyes burned into hers. “Does it give you her name?”
“Margaret Mary Foyle.”
Jake’s brow creased. “You mean—” He paused, shaking his head in confusion as he pronounced the name carefully, “is that like MacGilfoyle?”
She nodded. “Yes. The names have the same root. Sloinneadh. Us Gaels have names in Gaelic. When we translate our names, there can be many versions and spellings. We understand that better than the English, because we know the translations. Son of Guilfoyle is Mac Giolla Phóil. It means son of a follower of Paul. Foyle is another version. I suspect MacGilfoyle was related to the poor woman.”
Jake gestured with his head toward the door. “Aw, jees. Do we need to get the sheriff to bring him in? Any man’d want to kill for that.”
“Not everyone would actually follow through on those feelings. We can’t have people taking the law into their own hands. Look at McCully. We need to speak to him, Jake. You go and get the sheriff and bring him in. I need to get my bag from Clancy’s. Don’t forget to bring in the boy, too. Two people carried the body in and one was much smaller than the other.”
“Nobody could blame them,” Jake answered.
“Indeed.” She paused. “But it’s not over yet. If they say what I think they’re going to say, it may change everything. Especially when we can get the real killer identified.”
♦◊♦
Nat strode to the edge of the hotel grounds where two structures had been cut into the steep hillside. One was the root cellar for the hotel, the other was the ice house. He scanned the snow near both doors. One was well trodden-down, the other deep and soft. It was fairly obvious which was which. The root cellar was more in demand for stock than the ice house because the cold stuff was readily available all over the damned place, so he strode over to the least-used door confident he’d accurately picked the correct door. Cussen had been dead for weeks, frozen solid, yet not as much as a mouse had nibbled on him. Where better to stick a body than somewhere it would be preserved and private? Nobody needed to go into the ice house until at least spring.
