Katherine

by S. A. Glenn

  Samuel pulled up at the restaurant. Katherine dashed down the steps and Samuel pulled her up next to him.

  “Mother’s not here. Please, Samuel, take me to Louis Pierre’s mansion. Hurry! Hurry!”

  He quickly turned the carriage around. “Yaaawww!” he ordered the steed, whipping the reins harshly over its back. The horse darted off as fast as lightening, but to Katherine it seemed as slow as cold molasses.

  Riding up Louis Pierre’s driveway, they pulled up under the roofed structure. Before the ride stopped, Katherine leapt off, running for the door. Samuel brought the carriage to a rough stop, then joined his wife at the front entrance.

  “Khhh, Khhh, Khhh!” sounded the knocker as Katherine slammed it against the door, harsh echoes booming inside the mansion.

  They stood silently waiting. Nothing!

  Samuel grabbed the knocker and crashed it against the door. “Khhh, Khhh, Khhh, Khhh, Khhh!”

  The door’s rusty hinges creaked open. Fréderic stood there with his customary staid stare. “Monsieur and Madame Simms. What a pleasant surprise,” he stated with an unvaried pitch.

  “I need to speak to my mother. Is she here?” Katherine peered around Fréderic with her nail between her teeth and a hopeful look on her concerned face.

  “She is not here, Madame Simms.”

  “Oh. Is she with Monsieur Pierre?”

  “She is not. He is here.”

  “Have you seen her? Was she here last night?” asked Katherine in a desperate voice.

  “She was here. But she left around 10:00 p.m. I was bathing. When I finished, she was gone.”

  “I see. May I speak with Monsieur Pierre?”

  “He is not feeling well. He does not wish to see anyone.”

  “It is very important, Fréderic. Please! Tell him I am here.”

  He let out a deep breath and wagged his head. “Very well. Enter.” His voice was tinged with unwillingness.

  “Thank you, Fréderic.” She and Samuel walked in.

  “Wait here in the foyer. It shant be but a moment.” He hobbled away.

  She and Samuel held each other. Standing still and quiet, they heard a shuffling with grumbling voices upstairs. Moments later it ceased.

  Louis came into view from around the corner. His hand was wrapped in cloth. He placed a smile upon his face. “Ah! Monsieur and Madame Simms. Lovely to see you. How may I help you?”

  “Sorry to bother you,” Katherine apologized with a quick curtsy, “but I do not know where my mother is. Fréderic said that she was here last night, but left around ten. Did you give her a ride home?”

  His mouth gaped, panic covered his face as he rubbed his wounded hand; he gazed down at it then at her. “We had a bit of a tiff last night, nothing serious,” he assured her, wearing a forced smile. “She left before I could offer her a ride. I put on my coat and chased after her, but she was nowhere in sight. I believed that she had caught a ride home.”

  “And I took the cabriolet out after her,” intervened Fréderic. “I drove halfway to town, but like Monsieur Pierre stated: ‘She was nowhere in sight.’ The two men glanced fast at each other, confirming the other’s loyalty, seeming to cover up any negligence.

  Katherine looked away from Fréderic, down at Louis Pierre’s bandaged hand, then up at Samuel. “I’m worried about Mother, Samuel. Whaddawe, do?”

  “I’m sure she’s okay, Kat. She’s probably at home serving customers as I speak. Let’s go back to town, look for her there.”

  “Okay,” she replied with a tender smile.

  “Fréderic and I will follow you into town, to see that everything is as it should be. Please, give us a few minutes to prepare.” The two gents fit their coats on then hooked up the horse to the coupe, all voyaging toward town.

  On the way there, a man driving a wagon from the other direction pulled on the reins and slowed to a stop. “Whoa!” he bellowed, bringing all to a halt next to him. “Something terrible’s happened in Wrangler—there’s been a murder!” he shouted, spitting out a load of chew juice. “A woman’s been shot! The body was spotted in Lake Carter, north of town. Two boys fishin’ found her.”

  “Samuel!” Katherine said with stress. She grabbed his arm and squeezed it tight.

  He peered into her terrified eyes, not a word leaving his opened mouth. Tipping his hat for the gentleman, he moved the horse onward, with Fréderic and Louis Pierre following behind.

  The carriages stopped in front of the restaurant. The groups of townspeople standing about gazed upon Samuel and his wife. Katherine barreled inside the restaurant. Seconds later she returned to Samuel and stood by the carriage, her face expressionless. A crowd with blank faces made its way toward Katherine. It gave her zero comfort, fearing that she would hear the most dreadful news to ever hit her. Her heart pounded. Her palms were sweaty.

  A close friend of Sara’s reached out to Katherine, took hold of her hands and gave her a compassionate smile. “I’m so sorry,” she told Katherine, squeezing her hands.

  Katherine’s knees buckled, her stomach was queasy. She gazed into the lady’s eyes, holding back tears. Her expression turned to incomprehensible anguish, ready to deny the words that she felt were coming next.

  “It’s your mother. It was she discovered in the lake.”

  Memories of when Katherine was young flashed through her mind. She recalled when her mother used to brush her hair, being gentle because sometimes the brush would pull her hair; and that made her feel special; like her mother truly loved her more than anyone else in the world.

  The time when she fell out of the tree swing and skinned her knee rushed through her sanity like an arrow through the heart. But the part of the incident when her mother carried her into the house and carefully washed the dirt-infested wound; that was the part that pierced her blood-pumping organ the most. Her mother had placed something on the gash that stung at first, but then the pain dissipated as though the injury suddenly healed. It made Katherine smile as her mother kissed her knee—that was love.

  Another incident that flowed through her mind was the time when Katherine took her mother’s only picture of her brother, Katherine’s Uncle Charlie, and drew a mustache on it; Katherine thought that it was hilarious, but her mother didn’t see the humor in it. She became furious with Katherine since her brother Charlie was dead, had been for a year. It seemed like her mother hated her for what she did. Katherine cried. But her mother picked her up, hugged her and told her that she forgave her.

  Katherine came back to the present, remembering the argument that she and her mother had just had last night about what Samuel saw Louis Pierre do to her. “He saw Louis grab my buttock and squeeze it,” she had told her mother. That’s ridiculous! Her mother had offensively responded, her smile washing off her Mother’s face, Katherine recalled.

  Then she recalled when her mother said, “Well, you don’t have to be here!” her mother had said as she turned her back on her. Then she had told her mother, “Fine!” and then left in anger. Oh, my God, I didn’t forgive her like she forgave me, entered Katherine’s mind; but this time it was like a harpoon in the heart.

  Katherine’s hands slipped away from the woman’s grip as she fell to her knees with cries so deep that no sound escaped her lips. She peered up at Samuel through tears that blurred her vision. She took hold of his legs and hugged them for mercy—none was found.

  “Kat!” Samuel cried. He pulled up her limp body and held her tight, feeling her unapproachable sorrow as he recalled how he had felt when his father had died, knowing that nothing could ease her suffering for the moment. He heard her heart break with a burst of unrestricted wailing. All he could do for her now was cradle her as he picked her up into his arms and carried her into the restaurant. Lying her down onto her childhood bed she curled into a ball. He rested his head on her side, letting h
er know that he was there.

  The marshal rounded up everyone and asked them if anyone had heard, saw, or knew of any reason why someone would want to kill Sara. Everybody stood in shock, gazing at each other, shrugging shoulders and shaking heads “no” to his questions. He pled for anything that came to their minds, for them to contact him immediately, no matter how insignificant he or she had thought it to be. All agreed with smiles to do as requested.

  The marshal peered over his shoulder and saw Louis Pierre and Fréderic huddling. He noticed them keeping to themselves. With his black mustache just trimmed, he walked toward them, his silver spurs jingling with each of his steps. At their presence, he tipped a new, black felt ten-gallon hat with no bullet hole. “Monsieur Pierre and…” Marshal Epp stopped his speech with his finger to his lips, trying to recall Louis’ butlers’ name—” . . . oh, yes, and Monsieur Ampere, Fréderic, the matitre d’. Howdy!”

  “Bonsoir, Marshal Epp,” replied Louis Pierre. With a concerned smile he tilted his favorite silk hat.

  “Marshal Epp,” nodded Fréderic.

  “Another murder we’ve got! You gentlemen know of anything that might help my investigation?”

  Louis Pierre stepped up and cleared his throat. “Ahem! Marshal Epp. Please know that Sara and I were quite close. And the reality of her being gone has not sunk in. I cannot believe…”—he shouted with clenched fists, stopping in mid-sentence. Calming himself, he continued. “That someone would commit such an atrocious deed! Oh, my dear, dear Sara…” he declared with grief, gazing up into the sky. “I am so sorry, my angle. It is my fault!” He dropped to his knees with his face in his hands, crying.

  Fréderic rested his hand on his master’s shoulder. “Monsieur Pierre. It is not your fault—it is mine.”

  Marshal Epp arched his brow. “What’re you two talking about?”

  The glum Frenchman peered up at the marshal, tears running. “She and I had a petty quarrel. She left my home alone late last night, and now she is gone forever.” He bowed his head in silence.

  “No, Monsieur Pierre, it is my fault!” insisted Fréderic, gazing down at him.

  “How is it your fault, Monsieur Ampere?” questioned the marshal.

  “I went out after her, but I did not look hard enough to find her and give her a ride home to assure her safety.”

  Louis Pierre rested his hand upon Fréderic’s hand that lay on his shoulder.

  “What was the ‘petty quarrel’ about?” asked the marshal with his focus on Louis Pierre.

  Louis stood and gathered himself. “It was about…” he hesitated, searching his cleaver mind for a credible story. “. . . us getting married, then changing the name of her restaurant; changing it to ‘Flambeaux.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It is French for flaming torches.”

  “And why would you want to change the name of her restaurant?”

  “For marketing purposes.”

  “I see. And that upset her, you say?”

  “Yes. She had her heart set on keeping the establishment quaint, but I was looking for helping her business grow; perhaps even opening additional restaurants. Maybe it was selfish of me. I am much lost!” he pronounced as he pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose like a trumpet.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Monsieur Pierre. God be with you.”

  “Thank you kindly, Marshal Epp.” He shook the marshal’s hand with a half-smile.

  Katherine sat up in bed, puffy-eyed, nose red, her throat sore from bawling all day. Samuel was in the kitchen preparing warm, mint tea with honey. Ready to head up the stairs with her beverage, he heard a knock at the back door and opened it.

  It was the marshal. He stood there, peering at Samuel. Taking off his hat, he broke out with a heartfelt smile. “Mr. Simms,” he said, “sorry to bother you, but I need to speak with you and your wife. May I enter?”

  “Yes, Marshal. Please, come in.” Samuel invited him in with the show of his hand, seemingly nervous about the law’s presence. “I just made tea. Would you like some?”

  “Sounds tasty.”

  “Have a seat.” Samuel pulled out a chair. “Honey?” he asked, holding out a jar.

  “Please. And Mr. Simms… please, sit. I need to ask you a question.”

  “Yes, sir.” Samuel pulled out a chair.

  “I’m a bit confused, Mr. Simms. I thought your name was ‘Lee’?”

  Samuel gulped hard. “That’s my middle name, sir. My ma always called me that: ‘Samuel Lee’. That’s what I go by.”

  “Understood. And where are you from?”

  Samuel’s leg quivered. “From back east.”

  “Really? What part?”

  The marshal’s persistence was annoying him. “The Carolinas,” he forced out.

  “Saaamuuueeel!” Katherine hoarsely called out.

  “Yeeesss, Kat. I’m coming! Excuse me, Marshal, Katherine needs me.”

  “Of course, Mr. Simms.”

  “If you want, Marshal, you can follow me up.”

  “Right behind you.”

  “Kaaat! Marshal Epp is coming up with me. Are you decent?”

  “Yes!”

  Samuel opened the door and sat next to Katherine, handing her the tea. “Are you okay to talk to him?”

  “I believe so,” she answered as she wiped her eyes and nose.

  “Evening, ma’am.”

  “Hello, Marshal. Sorry about the way I look.” Katherine fixed her hair once. “Please, have a seat.”

  He sat. “Oh, no, ma’am—no apologies—it is completely understandable. Sorry to barge in and ask such untimely questions, but I want to find the one or ones responsible for this. The longer I wait, the colder the trail.”

  “I agree, Marshal. Please, ask what you must,” she said, putting on a courageous smile.

  “Thank you. First off… I believe the murder took place between 10:00 p.m. and midnight; so I need to ask: where were you between those hours?”

  “I was at home.”

  “And what about you, sir? Where were you? At home with your wife?”

  “No! I worked late, didn’t get home till 12:00.”

  “Either one of you have someone to vouch for your whereabouts?”

  “I was alone till Samuel got home?” Then Katherine became very upset. “Are you suggesting that I—?”

  “No, ma’am! I just need to ask these questions: it’s routine.”

  Samuel cut in. “I was alone at work. The only alibi I have is for the time I was with my client around 11:30.”

  “Who’s the client? Where does he live?”

  “His name’s Jasper Blackwell. He lives out on road three. 152 is his address.”

  “That’s west of town, out by the Pierre mansion, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Katherine’s face showed a mysterious look upon it.

  “And you didn’t see any sign of Sara Jones.”

  “No, sir.”

  “I see. Do you know a Mr. Dryhurst?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s another customer of mine.” Samuel grew wary.

  “He says he saw Sara Jones at the sawmill. She was upset with you, called you a peeping-Tom. Are you a peeping-Tom?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Did she call you that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why would she say that?”

  Samuel explained the ordeal at the Pierre mansion with Katherine’s assistance.

  The marshal continued questioning Samuel. “How did it make you feel when she called you that name in front of your client?”

  “I was embarrassed.”

  “Did it make you angry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Angry enough to
want to hurt Sara Jones?”

  “No sir… never!” Samuel exploded, seeking Katherine’s help. But she said nothing.

  “Do you own a gun?”

  “We both do,” admitted Katherine.

  “May I see them?”

  “Yes,” said Samuel. He headed over to the chest of drawers and opened the top, right drawer. The marshal stood next to him and reached for the guns. “Nice looking pieces,” he commented, handling them like a pro. He opened the chambers and saw that one bullet was missing from one of them. “Whose gun is this?”

  “It’s mine, sir,” admitted Samuel.

  “What were you shooting at?”

  “A rat. But I didn’t hit it. I was only trying to scare it.”

  “This is the same caliber used on Sara Jones,” the marshal explained with a calm voice, snapping the chambers back into place with swift motions of his wrists. He placed the firearms back into the drawer and shut it.

  “Do you think it is the same person who killed Emily Cromwell?” Katherine asked.

  “I don’t really know at this point,” he claimed, scratching his head at the brainteaser then giving Katherine a heartfelt smile. “Sorry for your mother. I know this is very hard.”

  “Thank you, Marshal.”

  “If I find out anything, you’ll be the first to know,” he said as he concentrated on Samuel. “No need to show me out, I know the way. Good day, Katherine, Samuel.” He put on his hat and walked through the doorway.

  Two months went by; Emily Cromwell’s and Sara Jones’ murders remained a riddle. The marshal couldn’t bring together any evidence that would point to any one person or persons. He had a couple of suspects in mind, but he could only hope that either a witness would emerge or that the accountable one or ones would slip up or confess.