By Any Means

by Cindy Nord

  Brennen released a deep breath and reached for the bottle. He sloshed in a generous portion and took a drink. So far…so good. Now, to get her to talk. A rustle, then Celeste emerged from behind the screen. Candlelight illuminated her spectacular form. His fingers tightened on the glass.

  He could have every inch of this woman, if he so desired. And in the past he would have taken her to bed without a moment’s hesitation. Yet now, her beauty paled in comparison to Annabelle’s; his life now fully centered on the minx. She made him happy, made him content, and loving her made him that much more focused on proving her innocence, no matter what it took to do so.

  “Join me,” he said, indicating the empty chair. She obeyed, sitting across from him. “I trust you like whiskey, too?” He didn’t wait for her reply, but filled the empty glass. Smiling, he slid the liquor her way.

  “I do, thank you.” A soft tink reached his ears when they tapped the rims of their glasses.

  Tonight, Annabelle needed him to be efficient, precise…this whore her only chance at freedom. Brennen hissed as the bourbon seared a path down his throat.

  Nerves on edge, he leaned back in his chair and stared at Celeste. “I understand we have a mutual friend in common.”

  “We do?” She blinked in surprise, obviously expecting sexual innuendos rather than this kind of direct conversation.

  “Yes. Congressmen Sullivan.”

  Her eyes widened and a flash of confusion sparkled in their striking green depths. Her fingers tightened on the glass. “Yes…I know him.”

  Brennen arched a brow, adding, “And something about a murder, I believe.”

  “Now that you’ve mentioned that, I do remember Edward suffered a tragic loss several months ago.” She clasped her hands together in her lap, then lifted her chin. “As I told the constable, his stepsister-in-law is the one who killed Bernice.”

  “Bernice? So that’s the victim’s name?” he asked with forced calm, smoothing the anger of her false collaboration that had left Annabelle’s life in jeopardy.

  She gave a shaky nod.

  Her eyes flared as he reached inside his breast pocket and withdrew his leather tri-fold. He settled a crisp one-hundred dollar bill on the table beside the fruit tray. The image on the left of President Lincoln and on the right, an allegorical figure of a woman with a child playing at her feet peered back at him beneath the candlelight

  Her gaze rose to his.

  Smiling, he popped an orange slice into his mouth. The citrusy sweetness blended with the bourbon on his tongue. “I’m not here to hurt you, bed you, or play games with you, Celeste. Instead, I’m here to offer you a deal.”

  With a skeptical look, she glanced at the money, then back to him.

  A perfectly plucked brow arched.

  This woman was a high-priced whore. As he’d intended, the money he’d laid before her was to whet her interest. Brennen withdrew three more one-hundred dollar bills, splaying the treasury notes atop the other.

  A small fortune now rested between them.

  “Who are you?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

  “Who I am is unimportant. The only thing I want from you is the truth. I know you’re protecting Sullivan. What I don’t know is why?” Another hundred dollar bill joined the stack. “If you’d like to start talking, I’m willing to listen.”

  The porcelain clock on the nearby mantle issued a steady tick-tick-tick as she stared down at the money.

  One minute.

  Two.

  Tick-tick-tick.

  Her lips compressed, then trembled.

  Two more bills joined the stack.

  Tears glistened in her eyes. “I h-have nothing more to say. Please,” she whispered, “just go and leave me alone.”

  Not bloody likely. Brennen frowned. Had he been wrong about this woman’s greed? And why was she crying? Was she in love with Sullivan? The probability of that seemed ludicrous even to him.

  Something else motivated her silence then…something he’d overlooked. But what? Furious, he stared at the whore wanting to shake her, demand the truth. And if he did, he’d lose what little hope remained of helping Annabelle.

  Impatience rolled through him. He again scanned the room. He’d visited his share of high-priced courtesan brothels, and nothing here appeared out-of-the-ordinary. No personal belongings other than those pertaining to her craft.

  Brennen studied the bed. Luxurious jacquard woven Faconne satin sheets waited to envelope her next customer. One day he’d wrap Annabelle inside costly ones like these. Hell, he’d take her to France so she could purchase them where they were created. But first, he had to expose the truth.

  Frustration built as he continued his search across a dressing table strewn with perfumes, jewelry, a hairbrush and comb. On the mantle a candle seated in a brass holder flickered, its golden glow lending to the aura of seduction within the chamber.

  He stopped, cutting his attention back to the dressing table.

  His gaze halted on a scrap of paper tucked into the edge near the bottom of a large oval mirror.

  What the hell?

  He made out the wobbly lines of a sticklike drawing of an animal. A cat? A dog? From this distance he couldn’t tell. Yet, the likelihood that this educated woman had drawn such a crude design didn’t match up.

  Then who?

  He stilled. A child, perhaps? His heart slammed against his chest. Sonofabitch. Of course…hers!

  She’s hiding the truth of the murder to protect her own child.

  Brennen inhaled to steady his pulse. Focus. Redirect. Confirm. He took another slow sip. Then, glass in hand, he pointed toward the mirror.

  She turned in the direction he indicated.

  “Looks like you’ve got a burgeoning Rembrandt on your hands over there.” Relief poured through him when he saw her shoulders slowly slump. He’d uncovered her Achilles heel. “From here I’d say that looks like a kitty, but I could be wrong. Might even be a dog, or a horse.”

  She shifted back, her face pale. “T-That’s a dog we used to have.”

  He swallowed, steadying his voice. Stay calm. “We?”

  She gripped the table, her knuckles turning white.

  Brennen smiled. He held all the cards…now push her ‘til she folds. “So who’s Sullivan threatenin’ to kill in order to buy your silence, Celeste?” The pop and sputter of the candle melded with the ticking clock as he waited, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Lying will not offer protection for long,” he said with soft warning. “Eventually, he’ll kill your child. And then, because you know too much, he’ll kill you.”

  Nervous eyes held his, but he pressed, aware that if he couldn’t convince her to disclose what she knew now, the moment would be lost forever. Nor was he lying. The bastard most likely did have eventual plans to kill them. “You must be aware of the fact that nobody’s going to miss a whore, or even a whore’s bastard who, I’m guessing, is tucked away somewhere at school.”

  Her hand rose to cover her mouth as her slender shoulders shook beneath the gossamer wrap.

  Brennen flipped open the leather and tossed out two more hundred-dollar bills.

  Another sob racked her shoulders.

  “There’s more than enough money here to take you and your child—”

  “M-Maggie,” she rasped.

  Hope ignited, and he leaned forward, his gaze burning into hers. “Maggie? Is that her name? Your daughter?”

  She nodded, red curls gleaming in the candlelight. “S-She’s seven.”

  “Seven’s a good age, doll,” he said on a soft chuckle. “No longer a baby, but not yet old enough to understand what you actually do here for a living.” He tapped the table and drew her attention down to the money. “I’ll double this pot if you’re willing to tell the police the truth. Think long and hard about my offer, Celeste. You and Maggie can go someplace safe, start over, build a new life away from all this shit.”

  Tears rolled down her face, streaking chalky li
nes through her painted makeup and reddish-pink rouge, yet relief also illumined her face. “Edward w-was drunk that night,” she stammered, the words now flowing free. “I-I don’t know why he killed that poor b-bed-ridden woman. I begged him not to, but he did…I-I saw him. He threatened me. Told me he’d k-kill Maggie if I said a word to anyone. Then his sister-in-law w-walked in. She screamed and ran. Oh, Mister Benedict, h-he frightens me. I’m so sorry I hurt Annabelle, but I believed him and had to lie to save my daughter.”

  “I understand,” Brennen said, suppressing his anger at the bastard. Edward would hang, but right now Celeste needed to know that she and her daughter would be safe. “Tell the truth and you will no longer need to be afraid.”

  “Y-Yes,” she said, nodding. Red curls danced against her shoulder. “I will. And t-thank you…thank you so much.”

  “You can thank me by setting things straight.”

  She sniffed, wiping the tears from her eyes. “W-Why do you care what happens to me?”

  “Because I care about what happens to Annabelle.” He paused and handed her a handkerchief which she gratefully accepted. “Life is good, Celeste. Begin again, you and your daughter.”

  On an unsteady breath, she nodded and then scraped the pile of money toward her. “I-I’ll get dressed and then we can go to the police.”

  “Wait.” He flipped open his tri-fold, pulled out a dozen more bills, and handed them to her.

  Awe on her face, she looked up.

  He smiled. “Heard they’re looking for teachers in the Oregon Territory. This should easily get you and Maggie out there.”

  “Yes, I do believe you’re right.” Lips trembling, hope flickered in her eyes, replacing her earlier fear. “And I-I’ve h-heard Willamette Valley is beautiful this time of year.”

  “Time to go see.” Brennen laughed and squeezed her hand.

  * * * *

  The following afternoon a paddy wagon rolled up Oak Street and halted before the home of Congressman Edward T. Sullivan. Sunlight streaked through the low-hanging limbs of the sugar maples that shaded the mansion. A soft September breeze lifted reddish-gold leaves and they shimmied in a fluttering pageantry of fall. Squirrels darted across the yard just as St. Claire Mulholland, the most determined Chief of Police of the oldest established municipal police agency in the country, stepped to the curb.

  Three constables trudged up the bricked walkway in his wake. At the stately entrance, an officer banged on the front door.

  After a moment, the panel opened and a butler stepped into view. Words were exchanged, and the white-haired servant’s eyes widened with shock. Seconds later, the door swung wide and Sullivan appeared.

  From where Brennen and Bryant Parker stood across the cobblestone street, they couldn’t hear the arrest warrant being read by Muholland, but smiled when the officers hauled the congressman down the front walk toward the wagon.

  The closer they came with the bastard, the clearer Sullivan’s protest. “This is purely preposterous. My sister-in-law killed my wife. Celeste DuBois will verify this fact!”

  The officers stuffed Sullivan into the back of the wagon, slammed the door, and turned the key locking him inside.

  “Celeste is the one who told us the truth,” Mulholland stated, “including how you’ve been blackmailing her to stay silent by threatening to kill her daughter.”

  A ruddy hue mottled Sullivan’s face from behind the barred window. “She wouldn’t dare, I paid her good money to keep her damned mouth shut!”

  Mullholland bit back a smile. “Oh, but she did, so you better make peace with your maker ‘cause you’ll be swingin’ from the end of a rope ‘fore too long.”

  The chief-of-police turned and shook Brennen’s hand. A moment later, he handed him an envelope. “Things’ll take a few days to work through the court, but this letter should suffice ‘til the official paperwork comes through.”

  “Let’s just hope Sheriff Gruden agrees,” Brennen said.

  Turning, Mulholland stepped up into the wagon. “Good luck.”

  Anger widened Sullivan’s eyes as he turned to glare at Brennen. “Who the hell are you?”

  Feigning innocence, Brennen raised both hands. “Just a brick maker from Kentucky.”

  The murderer’s eyes narrowed in confusion as the wagon jerked forward, his demands to be released echoing as the vehicle rolled down the street.

  “’Preciate your help,” Brennen said as he shook Parker’s hand.

  The agent offered back a grin. “I swear, Benedict, I don’t know how you accomplished this, but you’re a damned miracle worker.”

  Laughing, Brennen swung up into the saddle. “Money talks, my friend.” He gathered the reins. “Yes, indeed, money always talks.”

  Relieved by the legal guarantee that the murder charges against Annabelle would be dropped, he guided his horse toward the railroad station. He couldn’t wait to get home to his minx.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Owensborough, Kentucky

  Early evening, four days later…

  The sound of breaking china in the outer office had Annabelle rising to her feet. Two weeks of confinement had increased her awareness of the everyday routines in the mostly mundane life of a sheriff. People came and went. Paperwork shuffled. A grumbling curse here and there between Gruden and his deputy.

  She peered past the open door and caught site of Mable balancing a dinner tray on her hip as she shoved closed the front entry.

  “Well sonofabitch,” the woman mumbled, pushing aside the shattered coffee cup with the toe of a well-worn boot. “I’ll fetch y’all another one in a minute, Sam. Let me take Miss Annabelle her dinner first.”

  “Don’t worry ‘bout it, love,” Gruden replied. The scrape of a desk drawer opening sounded. “I’ll just reuse this old one. What’s Cleo serving for dinner over yonder?”

  “Stew, and it’s damn good, too. Already had me a bowlful.”

  For all the horrors of being incarcerated, Annabelle had also gained a much-needed pound or two from the marvelous meals she’d been served. She smoothed down the wrinkled front of the two-sizes-too-big work dress just as Mabel poked her head around the opening.

  “You decent in there, ma’am?”

  “Qui. I’m fine,” she replied, looking forward to the woman’s visit. “Come in.”

  Mabel sauntered into the small room with the sheriff in her wake.

  “Step back, Miss Swan,” he said, the keyring rattling in his hand. A quick turn of the lock and he swung open the cell door.

  Mabel squeezed past her, then clunked the tray upon a weathered table the sheriff had provided earlier in the week.

  “Here, let me move this out of the way.” Annabelle tugged down the threadbare woolen blanket from a rope strung across the cell. She smiled remembering when the sheriff had also provided the makeshift curtain stating a lady should have her privacy. She’d been grateful at his kind gesture, especially when using the necessary.

  Mabel carried the chamber pot from the cell, and then departed. The sheriff promptly provided a clean bucket, sliding the covered tin beneath the cot. Housekeeping chores finished, after pulling the door shut behind him, the thunk of the lock echoed once more.

  “Thank you, Sam,” she said as she patted his hand.

  He tucked the key in his pocket, then smoothed his hand over his red mutton-chopped sideburns as he smiled at her. “You bet, ma’am. I aim to make you as comfortable as possible.”

  Mabel reappeared and settled onto a chair that Gruden had scooted before the cell on his way out.

  “You doin’ all right, honey?” she asked.

  Annabelle nodded, then pointed to the novel on the table beside her meal. Wuthering Heights…Emily Brontë’s headstrong Catherine and her handsome brooding devil, Heathcliff. A teeth-clenchingly tense story of love and loss which she’d shared many times before with Bernice. “I’m grateful for the loan of the book, mon amie.”

  “Never did get the knack of readin’,” Mabel said.
“But, Cleo insisted I give that to you. Said you’d enjoy the writer.”

  “I did, please thank her for me.” Annabelle pulled her cot over to the table and sat. The first bite of stew. “Umm, delicious.”

  Mabel laughed. “You say that ‘bout every meal I bring, Miss Annabelle.”

  “I guess I do.” She swallowed another spoonful. “I’m just thankful Sheriff Gruden allows us more time than five minutes to visit.”

  “Oh, Sam ain’t bad, he’s just cantankerous, that’s all. Once you get to know him, though, he’s a pup. Spent many a night beneath ‘im, so I guess I’m somewhat of an expert on the ol’ cuss.”

  As she ate Annabelle half-heartedly listened to Mabel’s ramblings about her new job with the sheriff and Cleo and what her responsibilities involved. With each bite of stew, her worry over Brennen multiplied.

  Had she lost him forever?

  Had he changed his mind about selling? She wouldn’t blame him if he had. Almost two weeks had passed since he’d left. Her appetite fled and she pushed back the half-eaten meal.

  “Okay, Mabel,” Gruden said, poppin’ around the door to open the cell. “Time’s up.”

  The servant reached inside and removed the tray. “Sleep well, sweetie. See you again in the morning.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the sheriff urged. “Get a move on it, hon. I’m starvin’.”

  “Quit yer rushin’ me, you ol’ goon,” the woman snapped, elbowing him in his midsection as she moved past. “I’m going.”

  “Night, Miss Swan,” he said over his shoulder as he lifted the lantern from the floor. “I’m headin’ over to supper. I’ll check back with you in about an hour.”

  Annabelle nodded. “Thank you, Sheriff.” The lantern light threw wobbly shadows up the walls when he turned. With a soft click, the door closed shut behind him and darkness enveloped her once again.

  The worst part of the day.

  Alone with my thoughts.

  On an unsteady sigh, she shoved the cot against the wall, the narrow bed squeaking when she sat. Oppressive sadness consumed her, and a lone tear slipped down her check. She squeezed her eyes tight in an effort to blot out the memories.

  Failing, she shifted her thoughts to her time spent with Brennen, longed to fall into his arms and once again be sheltered from the madness of her world.