In Close Pursuit

by Colleen French

  Jacob's face contorted oddly. "Murder? There's been a girl murdered? What girl?"

  "Didn't you hear?" Lansing leaned across the table, a genuine smile lighting up his face. Heaven but he loved to be the first to tell a tale! "It was a grizzly thing! She worked right here in this dance hall. They say there were pools of blood on the floor. I didn't see it myself, but my sources are dependable. A serial murder the newspapers are calling it. She's the second girl, you know."

  "The second in Pocatello?"

  "No, of course not, the first was in a little town southwest of here called Blades. The girl's name was Sue Ellen Caine but that's confidential."

  Jacob shook his head. "What's the world coming to? What kind of madmen stalk our innocent girls?"

  Lansing chuckled nervously. "Well, I would hardly say she was an innocent. She was a whore, you know."

  "Poor child."

  "They say he cut a lock of her hair."

  Jacob gasped.

  "There's more on the hair but I couldn't get the information, not for love nor money, and believe me, I tried the money." Lansing licked the lead of his pencil. "So you sent word to my hotel that you had a story for me. What have you got?"

  Jacob swished the bourbon in his glass, watching the brown liquid swirl round and round. "I'm looking for my wife, Mr. Lansing."

  "Missing person. Good, good." He scribbled a note. "Always a good story."

  "You said you spoke to her."

  Lansing looked up. "Spoke to her? Who?"

  "My wife."

  "Well, who is your wife, sir?"

  Jacob sipped his bourbon, taking his time in responding. "My wife is Jessica, Jessica Dorchester. She is apparently traveling under her maiden name, Jessica Landon."

  Lansing dropped his pencil. "My God!" was all he could manage.

  "You have spoken to her, here in Pocatello, have you not?"

  "She's your wife?" Lansing scrambled to find his pencil, afraid he would miss a word.

  "She is. I want to take her home. You must tell me where she is."

  "W—well, I— Your wife?" Lansing shook his head in disbelief. "She's traveling with a man, you know. A half-breed deputy marshal."

  Jacob's face froze in anguish for a moment, but the expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "I don't care. I just want my wife." He leaned forward and struck his fist on the table. "It is imperative that I find her. We have some legal matters to deal with. My lawyers are getting anxious."

  "Why did she leave you, if I might ask?"

  "She's an ill woman. She needs my care."

  Lansing's eyes narrowed. "She seemed well enough when I talked to her. We nearly slugged it out over a difference of opinion. She's quite a woman."

  Jacob was losing patience. His face was growing red; his manicured hands were beginning to tremble. "Where is she, Mr. Lansing?"

  The dime novelist scratched his chin. "Well, sir, I . . . I believe she's on her way to the train station."

  "The train station!" Jacob leaped out of his seat and hurried for the door.

  "Mr. Dorchester, wait," Lansing cried, running in pursuit. "I have more questions for you! Is your wife in legal trouble? Exactly what type of illness does she have?"

  Jacob pushed out the saloon door and ran across the potholed street, heading straight for the train depot.

  In the distance was the sound of a steam locomotive heating its engines. The train gave a high-pitched whistle.

  "Wait!" Jacob shouted, turning the corner. He could see the station ahead. He could see the train moving slowly, car after car passing the platform as the train picked up speed. "Stop that train! I must get aboard!" he cried in desperation.

  The train moved faster, the whistle sounded again in a final screeching whine as it pulled out of the station.

  By the time Jacob reached the depot platform, the caboose was five hundred feet down the track. "Please! Stop the train!" he called to a uniformed man.

  "Stop the train?" The attendant gave a laugh. "Ain't nobody stoppin' that train. You'll have to catch tomorrow's."

  Jacob swept off his hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief, clearly winded. "Where's the train bound?" he called as the uniformed man walked away.

  "Washington territory," was the response. "That train's headed for Seattle, mister."

  Chapter Twenty

  Jessica sat in a velvet upholstered chair, her feet propped on a cushioned footstool. She and Adam were riding in a private Pullman car decorated in gilt and furnished with expensive velvet chairs and drapes. The floor was covered with a Turkish carpet, floral in design and color-coordinated with the drapes and furnishings. "The entire car all to ourselves? You're kidding!"

  Adam sat across from her watching the scenery pass. They had just pulled out of Pocatello and were westward bound. It felt good to be aboard the Union Pacific again. It had become a home of sorts to Adam in the last two years. "I told you there were advantages to working for the railroad. I thought we'd just sleep here. The berthing cars are a nightmare."

  Jessica rolled her eyes. "Mark and I hated them. Every time the train went around the corner one of us would fall out of our bed. There was no privacy even with the curtains. We gave up after the third night and started sleeping in the day coach. Some of the cars had hinged upper berths that folded down out of the ceiling above the seat. That wasn't too bad."

  Adam's gaze settled on her. "I can't believe you came all the way across the country alone like that."

  "I wasn't alone." She stroked the red velvet arm of the chair. "I had Mark."

  "You know what I mean."

  Solemnly, her eyes met his. "If you have a good enough reason, you'll do just about anything."

  "What was your reason?" he asked softly, leaning forward in his chair. "Tell me why you ran, Jess."

  "I don't want to talk about this."

  "Can't you trust me? Whatever you've done, I don't care. If you're in trouble, I'll help you."

  She got up out of her chair and walked to a small table where there was a pitcher of cold lemonade. She poured herself a glass. "I didn't do anything wrong." Her voice sounded foreign in her ears.

  Why couldn't she tell Adam? He said he loved her; he said he didn't care about her past. But Jessica cared. She took a sip of the icy lemonade, letting it slide down her throat. She felt so utterly foolish being taken in by Jacob, being manipulated by him and her father. It had all happened so quickly; Papa's illness, the engagement, Papa moving all of his accounts into Jacob's name. Then Papa had died and Jacob had become insistent that she marry him immediately. But he was going to send Mark away. That's when she'd stolen the money from the sale of her father's farm and she and Mark had run away.

  Jessica looked up to see Adam standing an arm's length from her. He was watching her with those big, dark, hooded eyes of his. "You don't have to tell me."

  "Good, because I wasn't going to," she said, covering her pain with sarcasm.

  "You don't have to tell me now." He took the glass from her hand and sipped it. "But later, tonight, tomorrow, two weeks from now, you have to tell me. I have to know what I'm dealing with if you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives together."

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him who had said anything about spending the rest of their lives together, but she didn't. She was so confused inside, confused about Jacob, about Adam and the part he'd played in Mark's death, about her love for Adam. How could she love a man whose job it had been to protect her brother? But she did love Adam. Did that mean she loved Mark less?

  Adam handed her the glass of lemonade. "Come and sit down and I'll play you a game of backgammon."

  She looked up at him sullenly. "I don't know how to play backgammon."

  "Then I guess I'll have to teach you." He slid a small table across the carpet and wedged it between the two high-backed velvet chairs.

  "You said you talked to the sheriff?" She took her seat, relieved he wasn't going to pressure her into talking about anything s
he didn't want to talk about.

  "I did, but he didn't have much to tell me. At least three girls have been murdered by this man."

  "Three? No one said anything about three murders."

  "They're trying to keep it quiet until the evidence has been studied. The third murder actually took place between the murder in Blades and the one in Pocatello. The sheriff wouldn't say where."

  "That's scary. How does the sheriff know it's the same man?"

  Adam opened the leather-bound backgammon case and began to set up the marble pieces. "Apparently the girls look very much alike. Young, dark brown hair, pretty, and all three were whores. All of the murders took place in the girls' rooms. No one ever saw a man come or go." He paused a moment. "I knew one of the girls, Jess. It was Sue Ellen Caine, Toby's wife. I apparently talked to her the night she was murdered."

  "I don't want to talk about this anymore." Jessica rubbed her forearms, feeling goosebumps beneath her fingertips. "Just teach me how to play so I can beat you."

  Adam looked up. "You certainly are particular today about what we talk about."

  "Let's just play." She creased her brow. "Are you sure Hera and Zeus are all right?"

  "Safe and sound. I saw to their loading myself while you were at the hotel picking up our things. Now roll to see who goes first and I'll play you through a game."

  Jessica picked up the ivory dice and shook them in her hand. "Get ready to lose, Mr. Deputy Marshal!"

  The two played backgammon for hours. At first, Adam won, game after game, but then as Jessica caught on and formed her own strategy, she began to beat him. They laughed and talked as they played, discussing their childhoods and the happiness they had known.

  Finally when the shadows began to lengthen and Jessica had to get up to light several gas lamps in their private car, Adam packed away the backgammon board. "I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Shall we retire to the first-class dining car to sample a little boiled salmon? Perhaps some baked red snapper in piquant sauce? Or we could just call the porter and have him bring a meal in."

  "Snapping turtle?" She wrinkled her nose. "My grandma loved turtle, but I don't care for it."

  Adam laughed. "Red snapper, it's a kind of fish, sweetheart."

  Jessica dropped her hand to her hip. "Well, how am I supposed to know?" she said, refusing to be embarrassed. "I'm not as worldly as you are! I've never been in a fancy restaurant, or a first-class dining car!"

  "Then by all means, let's dine in style." He offered her his arm.

  She accepted, and together they walked through another first-class car and into the dining car, meant only for first-class passengers.

  The car was as elaborately decorated in velvets and rosewood as their own car had been. Polished wooden tables were laid out with fine linen and china. Crystal glasses caught the lamplight and shone brilliantly in the faces of the exquisitely dressed passengers.

  Adam led Jessica to an empty table set for the evening meal. He slid onto one bench; she sat across from him. "How much money does it cost to travel across the country like this?"

  "Don't ask." He pulled his linen napkin from a crystal water goblet and spread it across his lap.

  "Good God, Chester, it's a redskin!" Jessica heard from across the aisle.

  She looked up in surprise to see a middle-aged woman with blue-white hair seated at the table across from them.

  Jessica looked at Adam. She knew he couldn't have helped but hear. The entire car had heard the rude woman.

  "What do you think you're doing here eating with decent people?" the woman demanded, addressing Adam.

  Her little husband reached across the table with a wrinkled hand. "Now, Katrina, love, don't get yourself in a fury."

  "Waiter! Waiter!" the woman cried, waving her napkin.

  Jessica could see Adam's handsome face growing taut with anger. "We can go," she whispered. "I don't really want to eat here, anyway. Supper in our car would be better."

  "Waiter!"

  A tall Pullman waiter dressed in a black coat and white shirt came running up the aisle, a tray balanced on one hand. "Yes, ma'am?"

  "Waiter, I want that heathen removed from this dining car immediately!"

  The waiter turned to look at Adam. He raised a mocking eyebrow. "You have a ticket, sir?" he said haughtily.

  "I do. I'm a detective for the Union Pacific."

  "I'm quite certain you are, sir, but I must see your ticket," he said, obviously not believing that Adam could possibly be holding a first-class ticket.

  "Ticket or no, he should be in the third-class cars with the other filth!" the woman went on.

  "Now, Katrina . . ."

  "Your ticket, sir," the waiter spat.

  Adam whipped out two folded pieces of paper and the waiter examined them thoroughly. Then, without a word to Adam he turned his back on him. "My apologies, ma'am, but it appears this man holds a ticket the same as yours. He has a right to be seated in this dining car."

  "A right!" The woman screeched. "He has no right, the red nigger! How dare he think he can come and go among decent society? I demand that you toss him out."

  "I wish I could ma'am, but I cannot. It's railroad business."

  "He ought to be riding with the cattle!"

  "My apologies, ma'am, but I must repeat, there's nothing I can do," the waiter said.

  The woman threw down her napkin and got out of her seat, dragging a fur stole. "Well, if he's not leaving, I am! God knows I wouldn't take supper with a redskin!" She flounced down the aisle. "Baxter!"

  The little man leaped out of his seat and hurried after his wife. "Coming, Katrina! Coming, dear!"

  "I'll have my meal served in the parlor car," Jessica could hear the woman telling the waiter as she disappeared into the next car.

  Slowly Jessica turned her gaze to Adam. His face was red with anger, his napkin bunched in one fist. She didn't know what to say. "Adam—"

  "Why don't we just order," he said, his rage barely in check.

  Jessica opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. What could she say that would comfort him? Nothing. He'd told her he'd lived his entire adult life battling prejudice. He'd said it was a fact of life he had to learn to accept. He had told her it would never go away, at least not in his lifetime.

  She picked up the menu. "What shall we have? Roasted partridge, goose and applesauce?" She looked over the handwritten menu at him, trying to be cheery. "I don't know what to choose. I've never tasted any of this! You order for me and surprise me!"

  "All right. Now what about wine, will you drink some if I order a bottle?"

  "Sure."

  Adam scanned the wine list. "I'll be damned!"

  "What?"

  "They've got a Chateau-du-pape!"

  "A what?" She laughed, glad to see that his anger was subsiding.

  "A Chateau-du-pape. It's wonderful wine, created by a pope in the seventeenth century. Actually he was a retired pope."

  "Retired?" She laid her hand on his. "I don't know much about the Catholic religion, but I thought you were the pope until you died."

  "Well, I know plenty about the Catholics. My grandmother had me baptized Catholic when I was thirteen. She was petrified I was going to die and burn in hell before she could get it done." He laughed, shaking his head, thinking of his dear grandmother. Though she hadn't always said or done the right things for him, her heart had always been in the right place. "Anyway," he went on, "this particular pope retired and started a vineyard. It was the first time a wine was made with seventeen different kinds of grapes. Even after all of these years, Chateau-du-pape is still one of the most renowned wines in the world."

  Jessica turned his hand in hers, studying his bronze, callused palm. "How do you know so much about wine, Mr. Deputy Marshal?"

  "My grandfather was a collector. He had a wonderful cellar in Philadelphia. In his younger days he apparently traveled all over the world collecting rare wines."

  "He sounds like he was a wonderful m
an," she said softly. She liked the shine she saw in Adam's eyes when he spoke of his family. What a tragedy they were dead now. She smiled bittersweetly. They were both orphans now, weren't they?

  Adam kissed her palm. "Where is that waiter? He's passed us three times."

  "He just must be busy."

  When the waiter passed again, Adam touched his sleeve. It was the same waiter who had escorted the rude woman from the dining car earlier.

  "Sir?" he said in an arrogant voice.

  "You seemed to have missed us," Adam said, trying to remain polite. "Would you mind taking our order?"

  "Just a moment or two more. I have other guests you know." The waiter strutted away.

  Adam looked at Jessica, twisting his mouth in indecision. He didn't want to make a fuss, not in front of Jessica, not when this was her first fancy dinner. He decided to bide his time.

  The two talked for another twenty minutes, and still the waiter didn't return for their order. Tables that had arrived after them were being served their main courses.

  Adam leaned across the table. "Are we being ignored here, or is this just my imagination?"

  Jessica squirmed in her seat. "Let's just go. I'm really not hungry."

  He caught a soft curl that had escaped from her coiffure. "No. I told you we'd have supper in the first-class dining car, and supper we'll have."

  When the waiter passed by again, Adam grabbed his arm. "My order."

  The waiter lifted his nose. "Your order?"

  "I want you to take my order." Adam's dark eyes narrowed dangerously. "That is what you do here, isn't it?"

  The waiter sighed, adjusting a white linen towel draped over his arm. "What will it be then?" he snapped.

  Adam picked up the menu and glanced at it. "We'll have the boiled California salmon with the French peas, the chicory and lobster salad—"

  "Out of the salmon," the waiter interrupted.

  Adam took a deep breath. "Then we'll have the capon with egg sauce—"

  "No egg sauce."

  "How about the duck with currant sauce?"

  The waiter kept his gaze fixed on the oil lamp swinging over the table. "Fresh out of duck."