by Jon Sharpe
There was a heavy knock on the door. Who the hell was it? Why hadn’t his deputies stopped them?
He pushed himself up from the bed and walked to the door. Fargo and Serena stood there, gawkers crowded around them.
Tyndale put out a big hand. Fargo and Serena walked under it. Tyndale slammed the door behind them. He knew he had to be careful. He had to play it like he was a responsible lawman trying to find out who the killer was. Right now he couldn’t afford to make any accusations about Lund.
‘‘Oh, Lord. Lord,’’ Serena said. Tyndale noted that she didn’t cry when she said this. Nor did her small, lovely face reflect shock or horror. She was simply noting the dead woman.
‘‘You wouldn’t happen to know where your father is, would you?’’ Tyndale said.
She turned on him. ‘‘What’s that supposed to mean?’’
‘‘It was a question, miss. Nothing more. This is his wife. She’s been killed. Seems reasonable to me that somebody should tell him.’’
Tyndale could see Fargo watching him carefully. Right now Fargo would be wondering if the lawman had donned a clever mask. Where was all the corn-pone bullying? The bragging? The arrogance? This couldn’t be Tyndale, could it?
Serena said, ‘‘I suppose he’s at home.’’
‘‘Any idea what your stepmother was doing here?’’
Serena hesitated, her eyes flicking to Fargo’s. Obviously she wanted to speak carefully. ‘‘They—they had an argument.’’
‘‘I see. When was this?’’
‘‘Early this afternoon.’’
‘‘Any idea what they argued about?’’
‘‘No.’’ But she’d said it too quickly.
‘‘And she left then?’’
She slid her hand in Fargo’s. ‘‘Do I have to talk to him?’’
Fargo shrugged. ‘‘He’s doing his job.’’ He sounded surprised.
‘‘My father was home. He didn’t have anything to do with this, if that’s what you’re thinking, Tyndale.’’
‘‘You’re the one who brought it up, miss. I just asked about your stepmother. Were you there when she left?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Looks like she packed some clothes and things.’’
‘‘Yes. She told my father she was leaving.’’
‘‘Did your father try to stop her?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘They had an argument and she just walked out?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Sort of cooling things off, were they?’’
‘‘If you want to put it that way.’’ Serena was speaking to Tyndale but once again her eyes were fixed on Alexis. The cheeks were paler now, the eyes glassier. Death was taking her completely and finally.
‘‘How’d you find out about this, Miss Lund?’’
‘‘I was in town to meet Mr. Fargo. On my way to the café I saw people standing in the doorway of the hotel. Looking like something was wrong. I thought I heard somebody call my name.’’
It was a lie and the shakiness of her voice betrayed it. But Tyndale went on: ‘‘So you came up to the room?’’
‘‘No. I—I went into the lobby. I heard what had happened. Then I ran to meet Skye—Mr. Fargo. I didn’t want to come up here alone.’’
‘‘Can’t say I blame you for that.’’
‘‘That’s very understanding of you, Tyndale.’’
He smiled. ‘‘I’m sorry if I offended you, miss. Like Fargo here said, I’m just trying to do my job.’’
‘‘I’d like to go.’’
‘‘I can’t blame you there, either.’’
She took Fargo’s hand. ‘‘I’d like to get a drink of whiskey downstairs.’’
He nodded to Tyndale.
Serena half dragged Fargo to the door. The number of gawkers had doubled. They had to push their way through the wall of flesh.
8
Melissa Holmes was reading her copy of Peterson’s Magazine—her favorite among magazines for ladies— when she heard her husband, James, come in the back door of their three-story brick home. The servants were already in their quarters in their cabin and she’d been enjoying the warmth of the fire, the creak of the rocking chair (the same chair her mother used to rock her in back when they’d lived in Maine), and the tart taste of the warm apple cider. James always joked that she was an old woman before her time. ‘‘You’re forty-one but sometimes you act like you’re ninety.’’ But she didn’t care. She wasn’t like the wives of other prominent men, in some sort of competition to see who the fanciest, smartest, and most appealing was.
But as always when she got smug about herself, she realized that James would never have become so infatuated with Alexis Lund if he’d had a sparkling wife to come home to.
She put down her magazine and listened as James made his way through the kitchen and into the small room off the hallway where he liked to wash up before coming into the living room. But usually he called out hello. And usually he made a bit more noise than he did tonight.
When he did appear, coming through the archway, he looked strangely tense. Not even a forced smile could conceal his mood, or the fact that he’d been drinking.
James Holmes, an icon of probity, a master of self-control, a symbol of all that was moderate, moral, and desirable in life, had actually overimbibed. In eighteen years of marriage—childless years, alas—she could never remember seeing him overimbibe.
‘‘Quit looking at me that way.’’
‘‘I’m just surprised is all, James.’’
‘‘Surprised that your husband is a little drunk?’’
She smiled. ‘‘You’re more than a little drunk, honey. Did you and some of the tellers have one of those poker games?’’ A few times a year, to show his bank employees that he appreciated their labors, he’d stay after work and play poker for a few hours. He always came home with beer on his breath, but never drunk.
He carefully crossed the room and set himself with great precision on the couch that had been imported from New York. ‘‘Would you mind not squeaking?’’ he said. His words were slurred.
‘‘The chair squeaking, you mean?’’
‘‘The chair squeaking. Of course. I didn’t mean you squeaking, did I?’’
At any other time they both would have had a laugh over the idiocy of this.
‘‘It’s a restful sound. You said so yourself.’’
‘‘Well, I’m not saying it tonight. Tonight it’s an irritating sound.’’
She stopped rocking and set the magazine on her lap. She was suddenly afraid. She wasn’t sure why. All she knew was that something was wrong here. This man on the couch was an imposter, rude and angry. Where was her husband, the real James? Something terrible must have happened.
‘‘Did the poker game go well?’’
He sat like a penitent little boy, his stubby hands folded together on his lap, his eyes downcast. He spoke softly now. ‘‘There wasn’t any game.’’
‘‘Did you stop off at your club?’’
‘‘No.’’
He still didn’t look up at her.
Alexis, she knew. For the past two years she’d known of his obsession with the woman. She’d found a foolish letter he’d written Alexis, never mailed. She never mentioned it. They’d go for weeks without making love. He’d be distracted. Moody. But never like this. She wondered now if her silent plan to simply wait until his obsession ended had been a good idea after all.
Even more, she wondered what had happened to put him in a mood like this tonight.
‘‘Would you like some supper?’’
‘‘No.’’ Then, more like James instead of the imposter: ‘‘No, thanks.’’
‘‘Food would probably make you feel better.’’ She wished he’d raise those gray eyes of his to hers. She’d always loved the tender way he’d looked at her in the early years of their marriage.
She stood up. Maybe if she fixed him some food, the smells of it would entic
e him to eat. The food and some coffee would help bring him around. She was sure of it.
‘‘You just sit here and relax. I’ll set a place for you at the table.’’
If he heard, he didn’t let on.
She was halfway to the kitchen when she heard the most extraordinary sound she’d ever heard James make. Sitting all alone in their comfortable living room before a warming fire and with the prospect of a good meal before him, James Albert Holmes let out something very much like a sob.
It was close to midnight before Lund appeared in his town office where Serena and Fargo waited for him. He wore a duster, a dark Stetson, and a pair of red-rimmed eyes. He smelled of the cold night and of whiskey.
Serena had told the sheriff that they’d wait here for her father to be summoned from the mansion and brought to town.
Lund took his hat and duster off and walked straight to a mahogany bookcase in the corner of the office. He took down a fat volume that appeared to be a law book, opened it, and withdrew a pint of whiskey from inside. In other circumstances this would have been funny, the boss hiding the liquor. But not now, not tonight.
Serena had started to say something but stopped herself. She sat perched nervously on the edge of a chair. Her eyes followed her father from the bookcase to where he finally seated himself behind his desk. She looked terrified. Fargo wondered if this was because she was upset in general or because she suspected that her father had snuck into town and killed his wife.
Lund poured whiskey into a coffee cup.
‘‘According to Tyndale I killed Alexis.’’
‘‘Oh, Dad, he can’t really believe that.’’
‘‘He does. Obviously. And he was kind enough to tell me about all the men he suspects she was sleeping with.’’
She went to him, stood over him, kissed him on top of his head, and then kept her face next to his momentarily. He patted her hand. She went back and sat down in the chair next to Fargo.
‘‘He hates me because he knows I want him gone,’’ Lund said. ‘‘That’s why I put up a better man in this election. Tyndale got too brutal. Everybody was complaining about him.’’
‘‘You let him run,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘You could have reined him in.’’
Serena and her father turned on Fargo instantly. ‘‘You don’t have any right to speak to my father that way.’’
‘‘I was occupied with running my businesses. I wasn’t aware of everything he was doing.’’ Then, sadly: ‘‘Just as I didn’t know everything my wife was doing.’’ His gaze was somber. ‘‘I guess you were right, honey. I never should have trusted her.’’
‘‘You should fire him right now, Dad.’’
‘‘No,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘If you’re innocent, that’s the worst thing you could do. Tyndale’s dropped his bullyboy mask. He’s a lot smarter than most people give him credit for. If you fire him, he’ll tell everybody that he knew you were guilty and that’s why he had to be pushed out.’’
Lund nodded. ‘‘When we interviewed him several years back, he came across as a very sharp operator. But as soon as he put on the badge, out came the hard-assed side of him. We didn’t care. He made a lot of headway cleaning up this town. You might think it’s still wild, Fargo, but you should have seen it back then.’’
‘‘Nobody will believe you killed Alexis, Dad. You loved her too much.’’
Lund grimaced. ‘‘Honey, nobody has more enemies than a rich man. Just about everybody in town will think I’m guilty, especially if Tyndale starts saying so to everybody who owns a pair of ears.’’
‘‘Then what can we do?’’
Lund raised his eyes to meet Fargo’s. ‘‘You told me that you worked with the Pinkertons a few times.’’
Fargo shook his head. ‘‘It’s not even worth talking about. I wouldn’t be any help to you at all.’’
The demons came then. Lund raised a powerful fist over his head and brought it smashing down against the top of his desk. ‘‘How could she have lied to me that way? I loved her so damned much!’’ he shouted.
Fargo had been wondering about Lund’s strange emotionless appearance in the office. Now he realized that the man had simply been restraining his true feelings.
Serena started to leave her chair, go to him once again, but Fargo stopped her.
‘‘Did you sneak into town and see her?’’ Fargo said to the man who sat there staring down at his desk and shaking his head.
‘‘Of course he didn’t, Skye. Don’t even think such a thing.’’
Lund nodded to his daughter. ‘‘She’s right, Skye. I didn’t go to town.’’
‘‘Where’s Delia, her maid?’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Did she leave with Alexis?’’
‘‘She went everywhere Alexis did,’’ Lund said.
‘‘I looked for her in the room next to us, but she was gone,’’ Serena said.
‘‘We need to find her. She may be able to save you. She may have seen the killer.’’
A stout knock on the front door. The three of them glanced at each other. Fargo stood up. ‘‘I’ll go see who it is.’’
He moved quickly through the darkened front office, banging a thigh on a desk edge and muttering all the appropriate curses for doing so. The front door had no peephole so he had to open it without knowing who would be waiting. He turned the knob with his left hand, dropped his right to his Colt.
He recognized the face right away but took a few seconds to put a name and occupation to it. A hefty bald man named Stanley Weaver in a greatcoat and red scarf. He was Lund’s personal lawyer.
‘‘What a hell of a thing,’’ he said, crossing the threshold. He brought in the scents of cold midnight and warm whiskey. Apparently he’d been in the office often enough that he had no problem maneuvering it even without light to guide him.
‘‘How’s he doing?’’ he said over his shoulder.
‘‘How would you be doing?’’
‘‘I suppose that was sort of a stupid question.’’
Then they were in Lund’s office. Weaver nodded to Serena and walked over to the side of Lund’s desk. ‘‘You want me to be your friend or your lawyer?’’
‘‘My lawyer.’’
‘‘Good. Then you know you’re in trouble.’’
‘‘And what does my friend say?’’
‘‘Your friend says that I’m sorry about Alexis being dead. Though I’ve always agreed with Serena, as you know. I never trusted her. Now I need to be your lawyer again.’’
‘‘What a night,’’ Lund said, suddenly overwhelmed by it all again. He’d be overwhelmed several times a day for a long time.
‘‘I’m sure they’ve both asked if you killed her.’’
‘‘Fargo did.’’
‘‘I didn’t have to ask him, Stan,’’ Serena said. ‘‘I knew the answer already.’’
‘‘I didn’t kill her, Stan.’’ He stared hard at the man as he spoke.
Weaver sighed. ‘‘Good. I was afraid you might have found out something that the rest of us knew a long time ago. And then killed her for it.’’
‘‘I want Fargo here to help me.’’
Weaver looked at Fargo. ‘‘No offense, Fargo. I know you did a good job with the stage routes but I don’t know that you’d be much help with this.’’
‘‘I agree. That’s what I was telling him.’’
‘‘We need the Pinkertons. They can be here and in place within forty-eight hours.’’
‘‘I don’t have forty-eight hours, Stan. Tyndale has already put me on notice that he thinks I killed her. He’s got it in for me because he knows I’m going to get him defeated in the next election. He’s going to end his run in Reliance by getting me hanged. And don’t tell me I can fire him because if you’re thinking straight, you’ll realize that will just make me look guilty for sure.’’ Then: ‘‘Fargo worked with the Pinkertons a few times. He can at least start asking the questions that Tyndale won’t.’’
Weaver still didn’t look happy about it.
‘‘You know he’s going to rope you into this, don’t you?’’
‘‘If Dad doesn’t, I will,’’ Serena said.
‘‘You think you can do any good, Mr. Fargo?’’
Fargo noted that he’d been moved up a notch on the social scale. He was now ‘‘Mr. Fargo.’’ ‘‘I suppose I can try. But I’m going to run into Tyndale. He isn’t going to like me running my own investigation.’’
‘‘You afraid of him?’’
‘‘No. But he’s wearing a badge, which is more than I can say for myself.’’
Weaver spoke to Lund: ‘‘I ran into our esteemed sheriff on the way over here. He’d like you and me to be in his office in ten minutes.’’
‘‘He can’t do that!’’ Serena said. ‘‘Dad needs a good night’s sleep.’’
‘‘Unless your dad fires him, Serena, then he has to play by the rules. The people elected Tyndale and so he’s the law in Reliance.’’
‘‘But he hates Dad.’’
Lund said, ‘‘He’s right, Serena. If I’m innocent, then I shouldn’t be afraid to talk to him.’’
‘‘But you’re exhausted, Dad. I’ve never seen you look like this before.’’
‘‘I’ll keep it as brief as possible,’’ Weaver said. ‘‘I’ll get him home as early as I can.’’
Lund stood up. He walked to the coat tree, lifted his duster from it, shrugged himself into it. ‘‘I’ll see you at home, honey. I’ll need to explain everything to the servants, anyway. They’ll be worried.’’
He came around the desk. ‘‘I appreciate this, Fargo. I have a lot more faith in you than you do.’’
‘‘I sure can’t make any promises.’’
‘‘I know. But you have one thing I need right now. Faith in me. You know I didn’t kill my wife.’’
That was the trouble, Fargo thought. Right now he didn’t know enough about it all to make any judgments. As far as he knew, Lund could well have murdered his wife.
Fargo nodded at the man. That was the most support he could summon.
In the street a drunken cowboy was trying to put his boot in his stirrup and mount up. This would have been funny except for the fact that the cowboy got frustrated and hit his horse on the nose and was about to do it again when Fargo reached him.