Ghosts in the Gulch: An Evergreen Cemetery Mystery (Evergreen Cemetery Mysteries Book 1)

by S. L. Hawke

  “Any leads on our rebels? I know it’s not been long enough, but thought I’d ask because, you know, Dad is gonna want to know regardless. “

  “You can tell Art that I think I may know who our contact is.”

  “We already know that; it’s John Towne.”

  Now I took a good look at the young man, still pale, but lively and recovering well. Lam’s noxious soups were indeed working. “What do you know about a man named Ian McKenna?”

  Now Andrew got animated. He smiled back at me. “He’s a big name here.”

  “In what way?” My headache had begun, slowly. I tried not to make it worse by letting my blood rise.

  “Well, Henry was telling me that Ian McKenna is one of the senior members of the Knights of the Golden Circle, sort of a fraternity for the Southern lost plantation owners. Though, I can find out if that’s really true. You want me to find out more?”

  “Why is he in charge of policing the land? Shouldn’t the Sheriff be running off transients and hobos squatting on properties?” I rubbed my temples for a moment. “And then there was some incident a few years back on the Schwann beach head. Can you find out about that?”

  “It will take time. You think this guy might be with the thieves? Do you think he might also be the Whore Killer?”

  “I think he may know about it, absolutely. He may even be the one running it, not Poole. He’s definitely a killer, but maybe not THE whore killer.” I closed my eyes again.

  Andrew made a sucking noise with his teeth. “So what’s your plan?”

  “My sister made the inelegant suggestion that I was rich and looking to make even more money.”

  “Well, that is the rich guy’s MO.” Andrew laughed.

  “Excuse me? What the heck is that supposed to mean?” This young man’s need to abbreviate was back. He was healed. I smiled mostly to myself, imagining what I would say in my telegram to his mother. SON SHOT…stop…STILL A SMART ASS…stop…. How was Hiru, I wondered.

  “Modus Operando or Method of Operation, whichever suits the situation.” Andrew touched my shoulder. “I got some powder for those headaches, if you need it. What else do you need?”

  Now I was annoyed. “Find out what McKenna did that day. Go talk to the local Sheriff. Buy him a drink. Do that thing you are so good at.” At this point Lam had come into the room.

  “It’s time for you to visit your sister’s house.” He bowed as he said this. He seemed to have aged since we came here. I nodded, then stood up. That would be my next task, taking on the Chinese worker bullying, if I lived through this one. Lam took a brush to my coat. I held my arms out to assist him and said, “Oh, and I’m going to need to lose a lot of money quickly.”

  Andrew frowned at me. “You get to have all the fun undercover. My job is to look incompetent and then arrest the bad guys.”

  “No, you get to incompetently arrest the bad guys. After I disable them.” I let Lam fix my collar and cravat.

  “Don’t stay out too late, old man.” Andrew handed me a small, heavy packet of what felt like coin. “Don’t spend it all in one place, either. I gotta file paperwork for everything.”

  My fingers felt the square edges of its contents. Gold bullion, at least four thin bars.

  “It might be too soon to make a deal.”

  “Any more time passes and we will look suspicious. My source says that you were expected to be in town and make a deal. Obviously, with the arrival of McKenna, the rally, the bad guys are all here. Worm your way in. We need to stop these guys or we are fucked. Time is running out.”

  I frowned. “You still have my star?” I asked.

  Here Andrew nodded his answer.

  “I’ll hang on to it until the time comes to use it. Safer that way.” Something had happened recently, or Andrew was just being young. I could not tell but the sooner I did this thing, the sooner I could see my son. I wondered how I would ask Juan to put her life in danger but in doing so, perhaps she would be persuaded to reveal her secret.

  We walked along the weedy dirt roads packed by travel, some heavy cart ruts, and some oxen hooves. A few well-made New England wooden houses were in stages of being built. On top of the knoll I could see another church, a Methodist one by the look of it, its small graveyard crowded with too many crosses and headstones.

  Despite the beauty of the ocean, the temperate weather, this place still killed many. By what, or whom, was yet to be seen. As we walked towards the open fields, we passed the rail depot and a saloon. They were all quiet now, as an evening on a Sunday was wont to be. One woman in only her corset and bloomers was outside smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. She had sores on her cheeks.

  Juan suddenly went over to her. She grinned. They knew one another. Juan handed the whore a small bag. The whore hugged her and reached into her bosom to give her something I could not see in the dimming light of twilight. Juan came back to me and kept walking.

  “A little young for whores, aren’t you?”

  “You’re never too young, sir. I’m surprised you haven’t taken the time. I could send you to the clean places, where they use sheepskin. Unless it’s….well…if your tastes are…special.”

  Holy Trinity… Juan said this too easily, too understated. I was right about her. Now asking her to put her life at risk to save others might be the exact move to get this lovely creature to reveal the reasons behind her role. But I hesitated. Did I really cultivate some sort of fantasy here, of rescue perhaps? Another part of me refused to believe that she was a fallen woman, hiding out, filled with disdain for men because of the vileness of their needs. How could this have been all she had ever known? You could run from trouble, which I believe she was doing, but what kinds of trouble all seemed to point in one direction. I found myself not believing anything. I decided to push her a bit.

  “I met someone who killed drunken ruffians on the beachhead a few years ago. What have you heard about that?” I asked, trying to sound conversational but failing miserably.

  “There are always ruffians dying on the beach,” Juan answered, too quickly. She picked up her pace and headed into a carved stairwell. The question had unsettled her. She knew something about this.

  I was not letting this go. My mind began to think about how until I tripped on a stone curb. It was bituminous sandstone that stuck on itself and could be pressed like clay into the street. The surface it made was utterly smooth and unyielding to much wear.

  “Did you know any of the victims buried outside the fence at Evergreen?” That seemed a better, more diplomatic way to ask about the prostitutes. I needed her trust.

  “I know no one cares of their fate. Why do you?”

  “Your…employer…asked me to look into this problem.”

  “I don’t know if I can help you.” She turned suddenly, moving so exquisitely, I could not help but admire her. Tomiko moved like she did, and my late wife was a student of a Master. “Why do you really want to know?” Juan asked, very regally, then caught herself and looked down at the ground. I came back from my reverie, delighted that she spoke at me, rather than away from me.

  “I think the murders are part of a bigger crime. Can you help me?” Her face was covered but by the way the handkerchief across her face was being sucked in and blown out, I could tell she was upset.

  “What makes you think I could help you any more than Cynthia?”

  Interesting. Juan said my sister’s first name. No matter what life changes occur to a person, the rank or station of someone in the employment of another always comes forth. Juan should have used the term Mrs. Guild, and never Cynthia’s first name. The ease at which she said my sister’s first name implied much more intimate contact of equal status than either woman let on. No, little Juan, you are no whore, I thought to myself.

  We looked at one another for a long time. Honesty was best in matters that involved risking one’s life. It was important to me that she know my true reasons for needing her to work for me. “I need your help to catch the murderer. Your speci
fic help.” She gasped. I was ready to catch her if she should run. She started to back away.

  I grabbed her small arm but she slipped from the grip in a way only a few people I knew could do. I grabbed again, and when she tried to twist free of my grip, I followed her and continued to hold on. What happened next was more play than fight. She broke the hold, I reattached, and she broke it again and caught the elbow.

  “I’ll not be your whore,” Juan said with anger. Then she froze. Her secret was revealed. I tried not to smile, but it was difficult.

  “You did not fool me, you understand. But I also don’t know what my sister has done for you, but it would seem your past might be helpful here. I’m not asking you to be my whore but to lure the killer out by playing the whore.”

  Juan suddenly straightened. She tilted her head to one side then pulled down the kerchief. She looked from side to side as the thought took hold. Then she looked up at me with the beautiful eyes of a woman on fire with a sense of purpose.

  “Bait! Yes, I can help you. But that is assuming you have an idea who it might be.”

  I straightened at her sudden change in tone and bearing. She was not ignorant nor was she a fallen woman. This was not a good idea.

  “Forgive me. I was wrong to think you—”

  “I will help you.” The voice held a power of command in it. I wanted to embrace her. She looked beautiful in her bravery and conviction.

  “I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe.” My words did not sound convincing.

  “Both Helen and May were murdered on their way to visit their babes in the cemetery. Neither had men in common. But they did serve the Knights. The girls are allowed to visit their children one Sunday in the early evening every three months. That Sunday is next week. I will make that journey as a whore. Let’s hope I am enough of a bait to lure him into your trap.” The confidence of her plan astounded me. It was as if she and Cynthia had long planned this scheme together. I let out a sigh of disagreement but nodded my head in assuagement.

  “Thank you,” was all I could say.

  We continued on in silence when I could stand it no longer. But we had arrived at the destination of Towne Street.

  “Met a man today that claimed to have rescued some royals that had been waylaid.” I began to walk forward again. I could hear laughter, a fiddle, and see folk spilling out into the road ahead. I had found the Towne home. I turned towards Juan. “If you know the story, I’d appreciate hearing more.” A few drunken people, a man and a woman who did not look wifely with her unbuttoned shirt and rouged face, passed us back towards the brothel. Here she smiled at me.

  “Lam will bring back the mare in four hours,” she told me. I nodded, feeling sad and a bit worried for her.

  “Until tomorrow,” I said firmly, with a half-smile and pulled my hat down. She straightened and looked less afraid, which made me feel much better about this whole business.

  “Yes, sir. If I do not come, it will be because Mrs. Guild wishes me to stay away.” Her emphasis on this last part was for me, to let me know that yes, I was right. She was no whore.

  It was sad to leave her behind. My feelings for her were growing, much to my discomfort and unease. Miles’ lessons did not seem to take this into account. I felt lost.

  Cigar smoke, cheap whiskey, and human body odor hit me like a boulder. I pushed into the house and saw many men smoking in the half constructed den area. Bits of the house were still unfinished, but so many folk were crowding the structure, its openness kept the stench of unwashed bodies bearable. I was about to go upstairs when someone, a female, touched my arm. I looked down at the touch.

  It was Sally Towne.

  Her smile, unlike her brother’s, was warm but with an edge to it. The memory of that mouth holding the General’s private parts made me slightly ill and yet fascinated me. Guilt ran through my body as I tried not to feel warm in her presence.

  Loud male laughter came at us and drove a wedge between us. I tipped my hat and went into the hallway only to be greeted by a servant, dressed as they would have been in the South, and just as dispirited. Towne seemed to enjoy breaking spirits. He was a true English, as my father would have said. Here I was trying to do a deal with the Devil. Father, please forgive me.

  7

  “Are you telling me that my brother-in-law is our new source for funds?”

  “Well, this is certainly news.” Captain Ingram, as short as John, with brown hair and equally pale brown eyes, crossed his legs. Ian disliked this well-dressed, moneyed ship’s captain. He smelled of too much brothel, and was, as he admitted to the Knights last night, a buggerer of children. Ian decided Ingram, when his uses were finished, could be culled from the herd. “Can he be trusted?”

  Ian wondered that as well. But from what Sally Towne had spoken of, last they had met, and from what one of his posse men had seen on the road, Sloan had braved the crossing of the ridge, with a shot up Marshal in tow. This man had more guts and gumption than the two in front of him.

  “Relax, John. He speaks the old language. And there is Southern manners in the way carries himself.” Ian took a swig of his whiskey, swirled it in his mouth, and then swallowed it, enjoying the heat, salt, and smoke of the fine Scottish aged drink. No buggered sherry cask, just peat and heather. Ian ignored Ingram, especially after he witnessed that business with the twelve-year-old girl and her brother. Thoughts of Emma intruded. He took another drink.

  “You—” John Towne pointed his finger at Ian, “have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Enlighten me.” Ian took yet another swig of the whiskey, dismayed now that it was finished in his glass.

  “My brother-in-law lived in the Orient and in the Sandwich Islands. He married one of those whores you seem to like the taste of.” Towne’s wheezy laugh annoyed Ian enough to contemplate killing him. As if this thought fed John, he continued his taunt: “But I see that this brings you two together, this need for Asian ass.”

  “At least he is a fellow Scot, and not some half breed savage horse thief.”

  “Here, here!” Ingram raised his glass. “One of those ungrateful urchins stole my wallet.”

  John began to laugh. “I heard that little slave of Guild’s had you running between your own legs!”

  “I was drunk,” Ingram whined. “Besides, they are crafty, those Californios, or we’d be able to catch them.”

  “For once you and I are in agreement.” Ian didn’t know that the Guilds had Spanish servants. This complicated matters greatly. Jonathan Guild had access to road supplies that they desperately needed. Without an engineer, they would not be able to get their supplies to the harbor. Ian had wanted Jonathan in on their enterprise from the beginning, until he found out Jonathan was fiercely Union. Jonathan had currently finished a good solid road out towards Davenport. Ian had helped him.

  “Well, no disrespect to my other brother-in-law, but Jonathan had his balls clipped long ago by that wild filly of a wife of his.” John grabbed his short whip and fingered it. “But I suppose that is what makes these Sloan women such a good ride, once they are tamed.”

  Ingram snickered, but Ian turned away from this talk. Pain hit him in the left flank again. He went to the window and saw that the fog was coming in. He reached inside his vest pocket, fingered the tincture bottle, and then decided to remain with his wits about him.

  “We should bring our traders here. Herd those wild beasts up and create a slave market, just like the Spanish did in the beginning,” Ingram volunteered.

  “Well, now that would be quite a problem.” Ian turned in disgust. Ingram was positively the stupidest man in this room; except for his knowledge of sailing, Ian would not have done business with him at all. Ingram’s boat, his knowledge of the sea and the routes between here and the isthmus, as well as the Gulf waters, made him necessary to their supply efforts. Despite the Marshals confiscating another shipment running out of San Francisco, Ingram managed to get his through the blockade.

  “Yes, it
would. Remember, not all of them are mixed.” John tapped the sharp end of his whip against the toe of his boot. “They were European, and many from the royal court.” John got up and refilled his glass, but with brandy. “They still legally hold the land around here. Working with them, using their knowledge of the land, will help us achieve our goal of, eventually, owning it.” Towne slurped loudly to get the liquid in his glass even with the rim. He began to play with his whip. Sounds from the hangers-on from the hotel party began to drift away. “Sally arrived today, asking after you.”

  Ingram looked into the bottom of his empty glass and got up to refill it with brandy as well.

  “Did she have any good news from Tom?” Ingram asked.

  Ian got up from his chair and went to the window. “Can she get me an audience? That is all I care about.”

  “My sweet sister can get you more than an audience. Maybe change your tastes back to your own kind.”

  “Don’t be a prick.” Ian again thought about Emma. It had been at least six months since he had last seen her. Last night, Uriah Sloan, a new young member of the Knights, told a strange story about how perhaps some of the stable boys might be young women. Ian wondered why this young man would bring such a piece of news to them. It would have meant nothing if the youth had not been Sloan the younger.

  There was a soft knock on the door.

  “Please enter and save us from this dour mood!” John exclaimed, then downed his drink in a single gulp.

  “A Mr. Sloan, sir,” The black servant said as he held the door ajar.

  “Younger or older?” Ian spoke before John could joke. Ingram stood and put his glass on the end table and his hand inside his vest.

  “A Mr. Andrew Jackson Sloan,” the servant said. Ian turned at the name.

  “Jack! My agile brother-in-law! Now there is where your tales of women dressed as men come from!” John announced loudly.

  A tall, dark-haired man Ian had spoken the Old Speech with, down by the hotel, strode into the room without a sound. He bore a slight resemblance to Sloan the younger, but so slight you would never guess them to be kin.