To get by the moment, I asked, “Did you learn anything this morning?”
“Winslow has a decent alibi. He claims he was with Elizabeth Mitchell, the highest priced whore in Prescott. Whores lie for money, but witnesses saw him eatin’ supper with her at the Hassayampa Grill. She demands a high-priced meal as well as compensation for her services. ’Spose that makes it feel more like courtship.” He paused and then added, “His parents reengaged us. Our job is to keep his name out of the trial, if possible. Out of the newspapers for sure.”
I was surprised that he talked about whores so freely in front of his daughter, but in McAllen’s line of work, whores were commonplace, so he probably thought nothing of it.
“Does that mean we drop Winslow as a possibility?” I was not happy with my favorite suspect hiring the chief investigator.
“Hell, no. I like him for the murder. His kind of people think they can get away with anythin’.”
I was glad to hear that McAllen still considered Winslow a suspect, but by “his kind of people,” McAllen meant the rich. Since I fell into that category, the comment irked me. I concentrated on the good news. McAllen had turned me away from looking into Winslow, not because he was protecting a client, but because he personally wanted to investigate him. As I thought about it, keeping me away from Winslow was probably a good idea. I was beginning to dislike the man so much that I might try a Sharp’s style greeting one day, and look where hitting a man had put him.
Chapter 30
After two hours of trampling along the side of the trail, we had made very little progress. Just as I had suspected, the trail was strewn with people’s discards. Every time Maggie or I yelled out that we had found something, McAllen had to come over to investigate, and we were never allowed to proceed further until he was done. The experience gave me an appreciation for what people discarded. Along with whiskey, patent medicine, and soda bottles, we found tobacco butts, tins, pouches, and juice. It seemed that when men went riding, they liked to drink and use tobacco. The only item we found from a female rider was a sweat-stained lace hankie. We found something else that I thought was interesting. Someone who frequented this trail liked to read a newspaper as he rode. After I found the third newspaper with a relatively current date, McAllen told me I could ignore any others I ran across.
I was beginning to wonder if we could finish our search in a single afternoon, when I heard Maggie yell with more enthusiasm than previously. Because McAllen was leading the three horses down the trail, one of us would usually walk over and hold the reins while he checked the other’s find. This time, Maggie seemed so excited that I looped the reins around a bush and crashed through the chaparral to see what she had discovered. When I reached the two of them, McAllen was staring at the ground, while Maggie stared at her father with an expression of pride. I approached carefully and saw a jumble of leather straps.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A halter,” McAllen said. He looked back to the trail, and I could see him mentally measuring the distance. Then he looked up at a tree above us. “Someone flung it from the trail, but it hit this tree and didn’t go as far as intended.” He picked it up and stretched it open with his hands. “This halter is too big for a ridin’ horse.” He turned it in different directions. “It’s for a Shire, one of the big horses used to haul logs or lumber.”
He took the halter out from under the shade of the tree and examined it inch by inch in the sunlight. He stopped, rubbed a part with his thumb, and even brought it to his nose.
He held it out for me to examine. “Steve, does that look like dried blood to you?”
I saw a dark blotch on dark leather. “Could be, but I’m not sure.”
“Can I see it?” Maggie asked. I handed it over, and she almost immediately handed it back. “That’s blood.”
“How can you be sure?” I asked.
“When I geld sheep at my aunt’s ranch, I wear a leather apron. That’s what dried blood looks like on dark leather.”
“Steve, hold up your arms.”
I did as McAllen ordered, and he slipped the halter over my head and down to my chest. When he nodded, I dropped my arms, and McAllen raised the harness to show how it had been adjusted to fit a man.
“The murderer used this halter and a rope to drag the body out to where we found it. Then he flung it out here so nobody would see him with it.”
“Suppose you’re right, how does that help us?”
“Not sure.” McAllen wandered slowly back to the trail, so we followed him.
“About two hundred yards further up this trail is an abandoned livery,” he said. “When the lumber business was boomin’, that’s where they kept the wagons, draft horses, and all the gear. It was a separate company back then. Now, the few remainin’ Shires are kept in a barn next to the Earp house.” McAllen pointed down the trail. “Campbell met his murderer late at night at that old livery.” McAllen handed the halter to his daughter like it was a prize. “Let’s go take a look.”
He mounted up and we followed suit. The livery was only about a hundred yards beyond a slight bend in the trail. We all dismounted and loosely tied the horses to low tree limbs.
The place was dilapidated, with a collapsed corral, broken windows, and gaping holes where people had ripped off siding boards. McAllen threw open the big doors of the barn to chase away the dark inside. All three of us entered to find mostly nothing. The building had been ransacked of anything valuable a long time ago. I walked immediately to the back of the barn where I had spotted pieces of tattered tack hanging off wood rods.
“Joseph, this is the same type of tack. Thick and large. All the good pieces look to have been scavenged.”
Without joining me, McAllen said, “That rifle shot passed right through Campbell’s head. Let’s look for blood and a bullet hole.”
“Captain, two shots were fired from Sharp’s rifle. Are you thinking Campbell was killed here, and then the second shot into the air was meant to draw Earp out to where you found the body?”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinkin’. You might make a Pinkerton yet.”
I took satisfaction in McAllen’s compliment, but I could see from Maggie’s face that he had made more trouble for me with his daughter.
After a twenty-minute search, we had found nothing. McAllen stood in the center of the barn and looked around.
“Steve, step outside, close the door, and then reenter. Let’s playact Campbell enterin’ the barn.”
When I swung the door open, McAllen was nowhere to be seen. I walked into the barn and then heard McAllen say bang from behind me. When I looked back at him, he was pointing his finger at my head.
“As the door swung open, the killer hid behind this big barn door. The bullet should be on a diagonal, in the back wall.”
All three of us approached the wall and examined the weathered wood. It was dark, this far back in the barn, but sure enough, McAllen soon said, “Here it is.”
He used his knife tip to dig out a shallow-buried bullet and then held it between his thumb and forefinger. “Looks like this could be a .44-40,” McAllen said.
“Does this help us solve the murder?” I asked.
McAllen flipped the bullet to Maggie, who looked startled but still managed to catch it. I guessed Maggie was the repository for our evidence.
McAllen walked to the barn door and looked out for a long moment before responding to my question. “Steve, if we can put together the sequence of events, then we might figure out why the events went the way they did. From that, we can probably guess the murderer.”
“But we also need evidence.”
“One step at a time.” His voice was distant.
“Okay, first step?”
McAllen stepped outside the barn and rolled a cigarette. I followed and packed my pipe with a fresh load of tobacco. Maggie joined us and pulled something wrapped in wax paper out of her coat pocket. As she pulled the paper back to expose the end of a peppermint stick, the thou
ght struck me that Thomas Edison had invented waxed paper. Before I could let that thought take me back to the missing stock certificate, McAllen started talking.
“I think we know the final steps. The murderer waited in the barn until Campbell closed the door and then shot him in the head before he even turned around. Then he used the halter to drag the body away from here. Once he got him to the base of Thumb Butte, he fired a shot into the air so the constable would find the body. The killer wanted the body found while Sharp was still drunk, and the memory of his threat fresh. On the ride back into town, he flung the halter off into the bushes.”
McAllen paused, so I said, “And we know the first steps. Someone saw or heard about Jeff’s encounter with Campbell at the Palace, then snuck up to his room to steal his rifle.”
“Don’t forget that after the murder, he went back into Mr. Sharp’s room and stuck pine needles to the bottom of his boots,” Maggie added. “That took nerve.”
I swung around to look at Maggie. “Unless you know he’s passed out drunk. Could there have been more than one?”
“Of course,” she said. “While someone met Campbell out here, someone else bought Mr. Sharp enough whiskey to get him stumbling-down drunk. The whiskey drinking kept him away from his room so they could steal his rifle, and allowed them to return later to plant the pine needles. We’re looking for a pair of murderers.”
McAllen flicked his cigarette away. “Good thinkin’, Maggie.”
She beamed, so I hoped we were evened up in the compliment category.
“Winslow and Locklear?” I asked.
“Don’t jump to conclusions. One step at a time.”
“Then what’s the next step?” I asked.
“It doesn’t seem obvious to you?” McAllen asked.
“No.”
“Nor to me,” Maggie added.
“We’re standin’ next to the key to this case,” McAllen said. “The murderer moved the body away from here. The only reason to take that kind of risk is because the murderer believed that if the body was found here, it could lead back to him.” McAllen walked over and untied his horse. Just before swinging into the saddle, he said, “My bet is that Campbell met regularly with the murderer … and they met right here.”
Chapter 31
When we arrived at the livery on Gurley Street, it was already approaching dusk. “What are we going to do?” I asked.
McAllen dismounted and led his horse by the reins into the barn. This barn was in good repair, and a couple of livery boys rushed over to assist us. After we had unsaddled the horses, groomed, and fed them, we all three wandered out to the street. It didn’t surprise me that McAllen hadn’t answered. I was used to his ignoring me. It meant he thought my question was too silly to deserve an answer, or he was figuring out the answer, or he just didn’t feel like talking. The latter was not a rare event.
“I’m taking my daughter to supper,” McAllen said. “Alone.” Out of the corner of my eye, I felt, more than saw, Maggie smile. “Steve, how about a beer while Maggie changes clothes?”
“I could use a cold beer and chatty company,” I answered.
McAllen gave me a puzzled look but turned and walked toward Prescott House. We ordered beers at the hotel’s tiny stand-up bar and drank them in the feminine parlor. Before we exchanged a word, Maggie came bounding down the stairs in a yellow floral dress that made her look grown up. She handed me the box of chocolates and toiletries. I had forgotten I had left the things in her room. Maggie then stood on her tiptoes and gave her father a kiss on the cheek. I was no longer a part of this party, so I gulped the rest of my beer and got up to leave.
“Sir?”
I looked over at the innkeeper, who plopped about four inches of newspapers on the counter. “You forgot these.”
I seemed to be forgetting a lot lately. I had promised Sharp toiletries and reading material. Good thing someone reminded me. After dinner, I would take them to his cell. Maybe I could even get away with bringing him a bottle.
As I picked the newspapers off the counter, McAllen said, “We’ll meet at eight in the morning at Jeff’s cell.”
I tipped my hat to Maggie and her father, and, without a word, started walking to Mrs. Cunningham’s. I was glad the day was over and looked forward to a good supper and an early evening. Maybe Mrs. Cunningham had another orange.
As I stepped across her threshold, Mrs. Cunningham yelled from the dining room, “Mr. Dancy, so glad you could join us. You have just enough time to rush up to your room and wash up.” She was distributing large bowls on the table and didn’t sound particularly glad.
After I washed and changed into a fresh shirt, I picked up the box of chocolates. Maybe they would improve her mood. The dining room was crowded, all seats but one taken. I glanced around, but everyone was a stranger to me, so I introduced myself and shook hands all around. When I finally sat down, Mrs. Cunningham looked impatient.
“If the greetings are over, Reverend Miles will say grace.”
“Of course. Sorry for the delay.”
As the minister said an overly long prayer, I pondered why Mrs. Cunningham was acting so annoyed. Perhaps she thought I had rejected her, but this was the first time I had seen her since Maggie told me she was interested in me.
After an excellent meal, the other guests left the house, probably for an establishment on Whiskey Row. I assumed the reverend was heading someplace else. When we were alone, I handed Mrs. Cunningham the box of chocolates.
“These are for you.”
“What in the world for?” She held them away from her, as if they would bite.
“Just a small token.” Her hard expression didn’t soften, so I added, “I guess I felt guilty for bargaining hard for the first week’s rent.”
“I would have preferred the four dollars—that’s a fair price for room and board.” She said this with an edge that told me she did not welcome a box of chocolates.
What was Maggie trying to get me into? I was experienced enough with women to recognize when a woman was interested. Mrs. Cunningham was not. She was a money-grubber, and she was too irritated with me for bartering down the first week’s rent to find me attractive. I also doubted that she had confided to a fifteen-year-old girl that she was attracted to me. Maggie had another game afoot.
I reached into my pocket and held out four silver dollars. “I meant to give these to you first. I apologize. I told you I would pay the full load if we were happy with each other. You’re a great cook, and you serve excellent meals.”
She looked at me askance for only the briefest moment before grabbing the coins. “Remember, rent is due the first day of the week.” With that she whirled and marched off to the kitchen.
I stood rooted to the spot but soon followed her. When I entered, she didn’t even turn around before saying, “Guests are not allowed in the kitchen.”
“Then come out so I can talk to you.”
“I have chores.”
“It won’t take long. I need a few answers. It’s important.”
“If you’re looking for a woman, you can find one along Whiskey Row. A few cost no more than a box of chocolates.”
“That was not my intent, and I’m insulted that you imply as much.”
That caught her off guard. She was playing the role of the offended one. By claiming I took offense at her comments, I had stripped her of her defenses. She turned away from the sink and put a fist on her hip. “Ask quickly. I haven’t got all night.”
“What did you and Maggie discuss this morning?”
“Mostly she argued with me because I do not allow women to go upstairs. She was very anxious to wake you up.”
“But you eventually let her.”
“I did not. She was talking to my son in the parlor when I called him to carry in wood. When he finally complied, she snuck up on her own. She’s a very headstrong girl.”
I laughed, which puzzled Mrs. Cunningham. “That’s for sure. I think she gets it from her father.”
>
“You know her father?”
I had almost blundered. We needed to keep up the pretense that she was my niece. “Of course, he’s my brother-in-law. Maggie’s my niece.”
“Oh … I misunderstood her eagerness to visit your room.”
“You did. If you remember, we came down immediately and left right after breakfast.”
“Together.” She lifted her chin as a form of punctuation.
“Yes. I’m here to visit my sister and her. The Schmidts are staying at Prescott House. But this explains everything. Maggie was the one that insisted on the candy. She said it was an apology for an offense. I assumed she meant shorting the rent, but now I see that she was referring to her violating house rules and sneaking upstairs. Anyway, we both apologize, and we won’t be any further trouble.”
“Very well.” She turned back to the sink and made busy washing dishes.
“Have I done anything else to anger you?”
She half-turned back toward me. “No, I don’t mean to be rude. It’s very difficult to run a boardinghouse of this size all by myself. John is easily distracted. I just get tired.”
“Then I’ll get out of your hair so you can finish your chores.” I stopped just before leaving the kitchen. “By the way, did John and Maggie talk long?”
“Nearly an hour. I had to yell three times before he would leave the parlor and restock the wood bin.” She actually laughed pleasantly. “I guess that set me off this morning. Been in a sour mood all day. I apologize.”
“No need—you made up for it with exceptional meals. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Just before I walked out of the kitchen, Mrs. Cunningham said, “Mr. Dancy, I hesitate to tell you this, but John is smitten with your niece. I think it would be a good idea to keep those two young people away from each other.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I left. I was dead tired. As I climbed the stairs, I realized that I was also apprehensive. I had seen the way Mrs. Cunningham clucked around her son like a mother hen. Perhaps Maggie wanted me to get her out of the way. I had a good idea why, but I was not going to be the one to tell her father.
Murder at Thumb Butte (A Steve Dancy Tale) Page 15