by Jo Goodman
Phoebe’s eyes dropped to her hands.
“Am I close?” asked Remington.
Phoebe thought she might know what it felt like to be kicked by a two-hundred-pound calf. “Dead center,” she whispered.
“Then I’m sorry. For your sake, I wish I’d been wrong.”
She nodded because she believed him. “So what did she do?”
“Do you really want to know? Here? Now? That doesn’t sound like a good idea to me.”
Behind them someone hollered as if he were the one losing his balls to a Bowie knife. They both turned to make certain no one was dead on the ground, but it was only one of the greenhorns being dragged by a calf he was too stubborn to release.
“That’s one way to do it,” said Remington, unconcerned. He renewed his interest in his food.
“Maybe now isn’t the right time,” said Phoebe. “But I still want to know. And I still want to—” She stopped because she saw a familiar figure approaching. “Isn’t that Blue Armstrong?”
Remington looked up. “Sure is.”
“Is he here to help?”
“Unlikely. Maybe he’s come for the food.” He passed his plate to Phoebe and hopped off the buckboard. “I’ll be right back after I see what he wants. Hey, Blue!” He waved once and hurried away to head him off.
Blue veered sideways, following Remington’s diagonal path until they met. “I saw her,” Blue said, pulling up his horse. “I wasn’t going to say anything in front of her.”
“Didn’t think you would, Blue, but business first. All right? Then you can socialize and eat your fill. I hope you’ll do that.”
“Sure. I had to arm-wrestle Jackson for the right to come out here. He likes Ellie’s apple pie.”
“Whereas you like Ellie.”
Blue scratched behind a red-tipped ear. “Now, ‘whereas.’ That’d be a smart-ass lawyer word, wouldn’t it?”
“Damn right. Tell me what you know.”
“Miss Carolina finally has a day to herself. That’d be this Sunday. Two days from now. We are going to take the train to Liberty Junction and talk to Junior about what I’m pretty sure is going to turn out to be his mama’s ring. Like I told you when you came ’round the office, I don’t know if his mama is still visiting or if she’s gone back to Saint Louis, but Liberty Junction is a mite easier place to start.”
“I don’t disagree. So why are telling me now?”
“Besides coming out for the food and the company, the sheriff and I figured you might want to tag along. Miss Apple, too, if she’s of a like mind and you think there’s no harm in it. If Mrs. Tyler’s still there, we thought she’d like to reacquaint herself.”
“And she’s also familiar with the ring,” Remington said flatly. “I’m sure you and the sheriff thought of that, too.”
“Crossed our minds. Doesn’t hurt to get a second confirmation, and I can’t exactly bring Miss Carolina out here to show off the ring. She trusts me, but I can see that she runs to suspicion when she thinks too hard or too long.”
“I’ll go, but I want to think about Phoebe.”
“Fine. Now about that tagging along . . . it’s better if you get there ahead of us. Miss Carolina is in Collier, so that’s where we will be boarding the train. If you’re already in Liberty Junction, there’s no chance she’ll spy you getting on at Frost Falls and wonder why you’re going to a gaming establishment in the Junction. You know folks from here don’t do that.”
“I understand, and I appreciate your caution and the invitation. I’ll be there.” He gestured toward the table. “Looks like Ellie’s free at the moment.”
“I see her.” He dismounted, gave Remington the reins, and headed for Ellie Madison, the feast laid out on the table, and a slice of cinnamon apple pie the size of his hand.
Remington tethered Blue’s horse with the other animals and then returned to Phoebe. She gave him back his plate, but she looked as if she wanted to stab him with the fork. She laid it down carefully, deliberately, in his open palm, which merely felt as if she’d stabbed him. “Business,” he said, sitting hipshot on the wagon bed.
“Hmm.”
“May I eat first? I’m going to tell you.” When she nodded, he tucked in before she changed her mind and made him reverse the order. He set the plate and fork aside when he was done and repeated what Blue had told him.
“Mrs. Tyler’s ring?” she said, puzzled. “I thought it was a seed pearl collar that had been found.”
“You did? Where did you hear that?” But he knew, and he was not happy about it.
“Ben mentioned it. For some reason, he thought you had asked me about the collar. The only conversation I could recall was the one we had about your fiancée’s wedding dress, but I thought I said it was lace, not seed pearls.”
“So what did you tell him?”
“What you’d expect. That a dog collar like that shows off a woman’s neck, but it’s the kind of accessory a woman wears in the evening for a special occasion, not for traveling.”
“That’s what I told him you said.”
“But I hadn’t said it. Not to you.”
“I know.” He didn’t explain. “Can you leave it for now? Trust me?”
“I don’t like leaving it, but I trust you.”
“Thank you.” He raised a questioning eyebrow. “Do you want to go to Liberty Junction?”
“Is that truly a question in your mind?”
He chuckled. “All right. I’ll make the arrangements. You know what you’ll say to Fiona?”
“Yes. I’ll tell her I want to see Mrs. Tyler before she returns to Saint Louis. It’s true. I will be disappointed if I learn that she’s already gone. I suppose you’re acting as my escort.”
“That’s the reason I’m giving for going there. It’s the only one that will stand scrutiny.”
“You’re not going to tell Thaddeus the truth?”
“No. Not yet. He doesn’t want to know.”
Phoebe smiled a little at that. “Not so different than Fiona, then.”
“Not so different,” he agreed. He might have said more, but someone shouted for him. He picked up his plate and fork and shoved away from the wagon. “Sounds as if the calf wrestling has come back around to me.”
Phoebe watched him go and then went to see if Ellie was in want of rescuing from Blue Armstrong or pleased with the deputy’s attentions.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Did one of you do an inventory of what you collected from the passengers?” Natty Rahway asked. He set three glasses of beer on a corner table near the window in the Sweet Clementine Saloon and pushed two of them toward the Putty brothers.
“Inventory?” asked Willet. “You mean like make a list? Why the hell would we do that?”
“You might if you wanted to split the spoils fairly.” Natty sat. “Listen, I don’t care if you wrote it down, but do you remember what you took and what you pawned, fenced, or buried?”
“Didn’t bury a goddamn thing,” said Doyle. “Squirreled some things away, thank you very much. Why? You need money? Took yours all in cash as I recall.”
“I’m fine.” Natty picked up his beer, sipped, but didn’t return the glass to the table. His eyes darted back and forth between the brothers. “I’m wondering about a choker. Heard it called a dog collar. Something a real lady might wear for a fancy dress occasion. She’d come from money, I expect, since this collar was made of seed pearls.”
Doyle used his forearm to wipe beer foam from his upper lip. “A dog collar, you say. And the bitch is well heeled?” He slapped the table, enjoying his joke. He heard Willet snicker, but Natty did not join in. Doyle dropped his hand to his lap and cleared his throat. “Don’t recollect I saw one of those. Willet? You holding out on me?”
“I wouldn’t, and I ain’t. What’s this about, Natty?”
; Natty wasn’t sure he believed either one of them, but he went on to explain in spite of that. “Seems someone saw a collar like the one I just told you about and thinks it’s connected to the robbery.”
“Where’d they see it?” asked Willet.
“I don’t know. The sheriff, his deputy, and few other folks wrote down what the passengers reported was stolen. Descriptions, amounts, the approximate value if it was known. That Jackson Brewer was thorough.”
“Somebody’s lying.” Doyle took another swallow of his beer and set the glass down hard. “I’m telling you, Natty, one of those passengers is a damn liar. There was nothing like that.”
“Nothing,” Willet said, an echo of his brother.
Doyle was staring at his beer. “Could be something like that turned up missing, but it isn’t because we stole it.”
“Insurance,” said Willet. “If it’s as expensive as you say, then maybe it was reported as missing to collect something for it.”
Doyle turned his bent head, sneered at his brother. “Then how is it that it’s been seen? You sure you didn’t hold something back? You fingered just about everything.”
“I didn’t.”
“Fellas,” said Natty. “All will be revealed. Seems there’s a plan to put it in the owner’s pretty little hands.”
Doyle looked up. “So the deputy has this collar in his possession?”
“It would appear so.”
“Then I think we need to keep an eye on him.”
“One of us should.” Natty picked up his beer. “We don’t need to cluster around him like iron filings on a magnet.”
Willet’s recessed chin made it impossible for him to effectively jut it forward in a challenging manner, but it also never stopped him from trying. He made the reflexive gesture now. “Who, then?”
“Yeah,” said Doyle. “Who’s it going to be?”
Natty sat back in his chair and regarded them from under a hooded glance. “I think you boys know the answer to that.”
• • •
Phoebe and Remington left Saturday afternoon over Fiona’s strenuous objections and Thaddeus’s milder ones. Fiona offered to invite Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler to Twin Star, and that was an alternative for which Phoebe was unprepared. She bald-faced lied and said that Mrs. Tyler was visiting her son and daughter-in-law because the birth of her grandchild was imminent. “She won’t want to be away from the baby until she has to return to Saint Louis. You understand, don’t you?”
Fiona’s mouth had snapped shut, and she kept it that way, although Phoebe would have rather argued with her than have to listen to her thunderous silence. It was tempting to see if she could find a trunk to crawl into.
Thaddeus had wondered about the suddenness of the trip, and this time it was Remington who offered the bald-faced lie. “Blue delivered the invitation when he came out to the branding. Stationmaster asked him to bring it out. It was the only mail he had for the ranch, so Blue obliged him.”
Phoebe sat back on the wooden bench seat as the train pulled away from the Frost Falls station. “Do you think they believed us?”
“About what in particular?” asked Remington. He slung his long legs into the aisle.
“About all of it. I can’t remember what I even told Fiona now. We should have considered what they might say and been better prepared.”
He shrugged. “Fiona cannot dislike me any more than she already does, so I—”
“Don’t be so sure,” she said.
“So I am fine with it. And my father? He’ll forgive me.”
Phoebe lowered her voice. “That’s because he thinks you are planning to compromise me.”
“He’s late to that conclusion.”
She jabbed him in the ribs. “If anyone is thinking about my dress and our cake, it’s your father.”
Remington laughed. “Damn, that’s probably true.”
“You shouldn’t swear so often. I won’t tolerate it around the children.”
He sat up a little straighter. “What children?”
“Ours. Aren’t they on your list of things we have to discuss?”
“Putting it on there now.”
“Really, Remington, you should find someone to help you.”
He fell silent as he gave it due consideration, then he slid down in the bench seat again and tipped his hat forward. “What do you think about Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler?”
“I think she would be an excellent choice.” Phoebe was smiling to herself as she turned to face the window. Her stomach quieted. Her satisfied smile stayed exactly as it was.
• • •
The Boxwood Hotel was modeled after the Hotel de Paris over in Clear Creek County and prided itself on being able to offer amenities rarely available to the transient populations of mining communities. The hotel’s restaurant boasted fine china for dining, spotless linen tablecloths, and silverware so highly polished one’s reflection was visible in the soupspoons. Guests spending the night slept on thick mattresses in solid cherry wood beds. Sheets were changed daily, and the washstands were topped with granite and boasted hot and cold taps. The Boxwood had three suites, each with a claw-footed tub and a water closet, that were often reserved for the discerning gambler who made his living at the card table and tended to stay in Liberty Junction for weeks at a time.
Phoebe and Remington registered separately. He took a room on the third floor. Phoebe was given one of the available suites on the second. They each had a bag, which they were made to surrender to the boy eagerly waiting to show them to their rooms. It was to this young man—who could have not been more than twelve and introduced himself as Handy “I can get you anything” McKenzie—that they asked for information about Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler.
Not surprisingly, Handy embodied his moniker, and they learned that not only was Mrs. Jacob C. still in residence, but that she was in the dining room at that very minute overseeing the placement of flowers and candlesticks on the tables.
“And really,” said Phoebe in an aside to Remington, “why would she be doing anything else?”
Remington hung outside Phoebe’s door while Handy showed off the room and the amenities, and then he followed the boy up another flight of stairs to his room. Handy, both clever and observant, pointed Remington to a door at the end of the hall and explained there was another, seldom used, stairwell for moving between floors without notice. Remington did not thank Handy for this information or even acknowledge that he’d heard it, but he did share it later with Phoebe, who very prettily feigned shock and alarm.
• • •
Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler was no longer in the elegant dining room when Remington and Phoebe went looking for her. They found her holding court at one of the tables in the large gaming room. She was not only dealing, but she also had more chips in front of her than any of the four men at her table.
“I stand corrected,” said Phoebe. “Why would she be doing anything else?”
Remington’s laughter turned heads, Mrs. Tyler’s among them. She saw them before she recognized them, and when full awareness came to her, she quickly finished the deal and folded, and then she was on her feet hurrying toward them.
She folded Phoebe in a fierce embrace. “Oh, my dear, how lovely it is to see you.” And then, before Phoebe could greet her in turn, Mrs. Tyler took her by the shoulders, held her at arm’s length, and gave her a thorough looking over. Her features softened and her eyes expressed apprehension. “The child?”
“My lumpy child?” Phoebe asked. “You are so good to inquire, but I think you suspected something was not quite right. I did not set out to deceive you. The pregnancy was supposed to offer protection for a woman traveling alone. We all witnessed the failure of that plan.”
Remington reintroduced himself, although it was not necessary according to Mrs. Tyler. She remembered him very well, and how could she not, she asked, when h
e was so kind to little Madeleine Bancroft and so attentive to the child’s mother and herself. And then, she announced in an aside to Phoebe, there was the undeniable fact that he was as tempting as sin.
“Come,” she said, looping an arm under one of Phoebe’s. “We’ll go to the dining room. They are setting it up for dinner, which will not be for another hour or so. We can talk. You must tell me everything that has happened since we parted.”
Phoebe hesitated, pointing to the table that Mrs. Tyler had vacated. “Your game?”
“That?” She waved aside Phoebe’s concern. “They were humoring me. My son denies it, but I think he pays them to play with me and let me win just often enough to keep it interesting for me and not break his bank. His motive is pure. For as long as the game lasts, I don’t have my fingers in his business.”
They took a table in one of the dining room cozy alcoves. Although neither Remington nor Phoebe asked for privacy to be a consideration, they were pleased that their table was set away from others by the nook and the tall potted greenery better suited to a hothouse.
Remington sat back while Phoebe and Mrs. Tyler, who now insisted on being addressed exclusively as Amanda, exchanged pleasantries, finished each other’s sentences, and shared questions in equal number and provided answers in excruciating detail.
Remington knew when it was finally his turn to speak because they swiveled slightly in their chairs and regarded him expectantly. He said, “I believe your ring has been found.”
Mrs. Tyler immediately grasped her ring finger, twisting it as though she could feel phantom pressure of the missing piece. “Oh, my. Can it be true?”
“We won’t know until you identify it for us, and no, we don’t have it here, but you should be able to see it tomorrow.” He explained how the discovery had come to pass and how the ring would be available for her viewing. “We have your description of the ring, and Phoebe is here to provide confirmation.”
She nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course. So this woman, the one who will be wearing it, or at least carrying it, she’s a . . . a . . .” She leaned in and mouthed the words. “A bride of the multitude?”