by Jon Sharpe
Fargo was tired of Norton’s bragging. ‘‘You claim that Alexis was just another woman to you.’’
‘‘That’s right. What of it?’’
Fargo needed something to rattle Norton. He chose a lie. If it didn’t work, then Norton would laugh at him and go back inside. ‘‘If she was just another woman to you, why did you write her letters asking her to go away with you?’’
Norton’s brown eyes flashed with both anger and pain. ‘‘Little Miss Perfect started reading Alexis’ mail, did she?’’
‘‘It’s just as likely that Alexis told her about it.’’
‘‘Well, if she did, then that’s one more reason I’m glad she’s dead.’’ The words came out with such angry ease that Norton himself looked as surprised by them as Fargo did. ‘‘I shouldn’t have said that.’’
‘‘Probably not. Especially since you were one of the last people to see her.’’
But his anger was still hot. ‘‘She ran me around. Two years I put up with her.’’ He was obviously a man who had his way with women. His tone now was not only bitter but baffled. How could any woman not do what he commanded her to? He didn’t seem to notice that he’d lost his swagger and composure. ‘‘I was willing to leave everything I had here and go off with her—anywhere she chose. I could have supported us the rest of our lives.’’
‘‘She wouldn’t go?’’
‘‘That was just it. Three or four times she said she’d go but when it came right down to it—’’
‘‘Is that what you argued about last night?’’
‘‘How do you know we argued?’’ Then the sneer came back and with it his contempt. ‘‘Oh, I see. Little Miss Perfect told you we argued.’’
‘‘If you say so.’’
‘‘Well, I don’t give a damn. Yes, we did argue. I told her either she went away with me now or we could forget the whole thing.’’
‘‘She doesn’t sound like the type of woman who’d put up with threats.’’
Norton laughed. ‘‘Alexis Lund didn’t put up with anything she didn’t want to.’’
‘‘Not even the orders she got from Lund?’’
‘‘Not hardly. She did exactly what she wanted. She just did it in such a way that he never found out.’’
‘‘Well, he found out last night.’’
‘‘Yes, he did. And that’s why he killed her.’’
Fargo saw now that Norton had not only recovered his arrogance but his unwillingness to answer any more questions. He’d just go on accusing Lund of killing his wife. ‘‘Has Tyndale talked to you?’’
‘‘No. And why should he? He knows who killed her. And don’t go threatening me about telling him I went up to see Alexis last night, either. No matter how hard you try, Fargo, Lund killed her and everybody knows it. Except you. And you’re being paid not to know it.’’
Fargo hoped that before he left Reliance he got a chance to land a few good ones on this arrogant face. ‘‘I guess we’re through here.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Norton said, ‘‘I guess we are.’’
He went back inside without another word. When he slammed the immense wooden door, it sounded like thunder.
Deputy Clint Pierce had never tried rabble-rousing before but he found he enjoyed it.
He stood in front of mine shaft number two talking to a group of seven miners who’d just emerged into the sunlight. They were filthy from their work, sweaty even in the cool breeze. They wore caps that allowed for candlesticks to be fitted to them. As a man afraid of tight places, Pierce had no idea how anybody could work in a mine shaft. Even worse than being killed in a cave-in was the prospect of living through the cave-in and dying slowly before anybody could rescue you. The last time there’d been a cave-in Pierce had had nightmares about it for a week.
‘‘You men know how Lund treats you. I don’t have to tell you that. You asked for more money and better conditions and you didn’t get either of them.’’
‘‘Hell, no, we didn’t.’’ The miner who spoke wiped a spot on his cheek with his sleeve.
‘‘Well, those rich friends of his are going to try and protect him. They know he killed his wife and you know it. But he’s going to get away with it unless you help the sheriff and me.’’
‘‘What happens if we help you? What happens if he goes to prison? What the hell we gonna do for a job?’’ The man who spoke was short and wide, and had the eyes of a jungle beast.
Sheriff Tyndale had coached Deputy Pierce, knowing this question would be asked. ‘‘They don’t shut down going concerns just because somethin’ happens to the top man. Tom Byrnes really runs the place day to day anyway.’’
The men reluctantly mumbled consent.
‘‘And you’d know this better than I would but if Tom Byrnes was to run things’’—he allowed himself a smile—‘‘if, say, the top man was to be in prison or getting himself ready to be hanged—I’m pretty sure you’d get a much better deal from Byrnes, don’t you?’’
He still had some talking to do, that was for sure. Taking to the streets against your employer was a risky thing to do. But justified or not, Lund was hated by the miners. Pierce was going to finish his talk by inviting them to the Gold Nugget where the beer would be free, thanks to an arrangement Sheriff Tyndale had made with the owner there.
One of the miners turned to the others and said, ‘‘He really is a son of a bitch and if people don’t speak up he’ll get clean away with murder.’’
Deputy Clint Pierce said, ‘‘You listen to this man, fellas. You listen to him real good. A rich man like Lund getting away with murder. Now I don’t think you want that, do you?’’
And it was because of their sharp responses— mostly curses—that Pierce was able to relax a little.
They would indeed be in the street tonight, swarming the sheriff’s office and raising sixty kinds of hell. And if things got a little out of hand . . . a lynching maybe . . .
The great lawns of the Lund mansion were empty this morning. Usually groundskeepers could be seen keeping the site clean and proper for show. Fargo had always suspected that this was the work of Alexis, her sort of pride. Lund had pride in other matters but not in displaying his wealth. He would consider that female, weak. He was more interested in money and power.
He was greeted at the front door by Serena. Her vitality and vivaciousness were not as vibrant this morning. She looked tired and drawn, older by several weary years. Even her aqua-colored dress failed to bring any luster to her china blue eyes.
‘‘He’s had a terrible night.’’ She didn’t offer any amenities, not even a hello.
‘‘Yours couldn’t have been much better.’’
‘‘It’s Dad we have to worry about, Skye. I can recover from this. I’m not sure he can.’’
The interior of the enormous home was much like the exterior this morning. Gone were the sights and sounds of servants hurrying about, sweeping, dusting, polishing, keeping the mansion ready to please the most judgmental eye. Echoing silence this morning.
‘‘I saw our friend Norton a while ago.’’
‘‘Oh, Lord. Did he say anything?’’
‘‘I got him to admit that he was in her room last night. And that they argued.’’
‘‘Then he could be—’’
‘‘Yes. He could be. But right now I need more than that to convince Tyndale to leave your father alone.’’ Fargo didn’t tell her why he was here. All he said was, ‘‘I need to talk to your father, by the way.’’
‘‘He’s in the study.’’ Suspicion strained her voice: ‘‘Is everything all right? You still believe he’s innocent, don’t you?’’
Fargo wasn’t sure how to answer that. But the sudden opening of a door down the long, shadowy main hall saved him from saying anything. Andrew Lund stood there and said, ‘‘I’m glad you’re here, Fargo. Let’s talk.’’
Serena took Fargo’s hand and squeezed it. ‘‘This is such a nightmare,’’ she whispered.
In the
morning light, the study had a severe look, the long leather couches and leather chairs, the framed paintings, the built-in bookcases, having the cold formality of a room in a museum, one as much for display as for comfort. Only the desk reflected the state of Andrew Lund’s mind. An ashtray held the butts of at least a dozen cigarettes and a fifth of bourbon held little more than an inch of liquid. Lund didn’t look drunk, simply exhausted.
After they were seated, Lund behind his desk, Fargo in front of it, Lund said, ‘‘I’ve been trying to figure out who was angriest with her yesterday. That’s why I look so bad. Because of our argument. And her walking out. That’s why Tyndale’s going after me. Besides hating me, I mean. Because I’m the easiest one to make a case against. Even though I didn’t have a damned thing to do with it.’’
‘‘You weren’t even at the hotel at any time, were you?’’
‘‘No. I didn’t go near it. I knew we’d get into an argument and everybody would hear it. I didn’t want to put on a show for the town.’’
‘‘So you made a point of not going near the place?’’
Lund was about to speak, but then he realized that Fargo had, oddly enough, asked him the same question twice. ‘‘I didn’t go near the hotel, Fargo. I don’t know why you’re pressing that.’’
‘‘Somebody told me that you were there last night. That she heard you.’’
Fargo could see that Lund was instinctively ready to mount an angry defense. But before a syllable of bluster left his lips, he grabbed the bottle and poured its remnants into a clear glass. The clink of bottle neck on edge of glass was loud in the spacious room. But the pouring seemed to be enough for him. Once the bourbon was in the glass, he pushed the glass away.
‘‘That damned Delia Powell.’’
‘‘She was in the next room.’’
‘‘Then she told you that we didn’t argue. We didn’t.’’
‘‘You lied to me. I asked you point-blank if you’d been up there and you said no. Now I’m not sure of anything you say.’’
Lund waved a weary hand. ‘‘I shouldn’t have lied.’’
‘‘I’d go along with that.’’
‘‘I wasn’t thinking clearly.’’
‘‘You don’t sound like you’re thinking very clearly now.’’
The eruption that was always moments away in powerful and angry men exploded in the fist that Lund slammed down on his desk. ‘‘You’re damned right I’m not thinking clearly, Fargo! Would you be thinking clearly if your wife had just been murdered and everybody thought you’d done it, including the same bastard of a sheriff you’d helped put into office?’’
Lund wanted sympathy. But Fargo wasn’t ready to offer any yet. ‘‘I want you to admit that you were in the room last night but that you didn’t murder your wife. It’s too late to lie, Lund. Things are moving too fast. The killer can’t hide much longer. And that includes you.’’
Lund snorted. ‘‘I hire you to help me and now you’re interrogating me. This is all crazy. Nothing makes any sense.’’
Fargo didn’t relent. ‘‘I want your word to me that even though you were in her room, you didn’t kill her.’’
‘‘I didn’t kill her, Fargo.’’
‘‘Did you physically hurt her in any way?’’
‘‘No. I never laid a hand on her in our years together. Never once. I was too much in love with her.’’
‘‘What did you talk about last night?’’
‘‘What else? Her coming back to me. Even after I knew how unfaithful she’d been, I wanted her back. And I’m ashamed to say it because when people cross me I either write them off or try to destroy them. But with her—as pathetic as it sounds, Fargo—I still would’ve taken her back.’’
‘‘What did she say?’’
‘‘She surprised me. She was honest. She said that she should never have married me. That she’d been tired of her life back East and thought she could escape everything she’d been through by coming out here. She said that she cared for me a great deal but that she’d never loved me. She said she hadn’t loved any of the men she’d been seeing, either. And she told me who they were—Carstairs, Norton, and—God, I can’t believe this—poor Jim Holmes. My God, I can’t even hate him. For a sad little man like him to chase after Alexis—I feel sorry for his wife, too.’’
‘‘I still need to talk to Carstairs and Holmes.’’
‘‘I want to find out who killed her. I owe her that much.’’
Fargo knew that the next question was going to enrage Lund. He might even be fired for asking it. But he didn’t trust the servants to give him an honest answer so only Lund could help him. ‘‘Do you have any idea where Serena was earlier in the evening last night?’’
Lund’s gaze had drifted away from Fargo but now shot back to him. But he was surprisingly composed when he spoke. ‘‘You’re saying that my daughter killed her?’’
‘‘I’m not ‘saying’ anything. I’m asking a question.’’
‘‘Well, that’s ridiculous.’’
‘‘That’s not an answer.’’
‘‘The answer is no. I don’t know where she was. But I’m positive that she had nothing to do with Alexis’ death.’’ He smiled so fully that Fargo realized Lund saw this as genuinely funny. ‘‘My daughter killing somebody? Do you know how much she weighs?’’
‘‘Probably not much more than a hundred and ten pounds or so. But Alexis wasn’t exactly a giant herself.’’
‘‘But she’d gotten what she wanted, Fargo. Alexis had left me.’’
‘‘Alexis had left you before and come back. Maybe she thought the same thing would happen this time.’’
Lund frowned. ‘‘Maybe we’ve come to the end of our little arrangement. Maybe it’d be better if I find somebody else.’’
‘‘It’s too late for me, Lund. Even if you fire me I’m going to keep on asking questions. Now I need to know for my own sake who killed her.’’
Lund’s gaze narrowed. ‘‘This isn’t an attempt to get more money out of me for your work, is it?’’
‘‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’’
‘‘Well, I can assure you that neither I nor my daughter had anything to do with Alexis’ death. And the thing I hate most about all of this is that I don’t even have a chance to mourn. Whatever suspicions you have, Fargo, I loved Alexis. This is something I’d never say to Serena because she’d never forgive me for it—but I loved Alexis far more than I loved her mother.’’
And maybe Serena knew that without you needing to tell her, Fargo thought.
‘‘In other words, Fargo, I still want you to find her killer even though you’re wasting your time thinking that either Serena or I had anything to do with it.’’
Fargo stood up. ‘‘I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t consider all the possibilities.’’
‘‘I suppose you’re right.’’ Lund sighed. ‘‘But I still think it’s damned insulting.’’
Fargo was a quarter mile from the Lund mansion when a pair of rifle bullets burned the air within two inches of his head. He was on a heavily wooded stretch of road that wound back to town.
Grabbing his Henry, he dropped to the ground and crouch-walked to the woods on his left. Shock needed a few seconds to be dispelled. Then, calmer, he began scanning the opposite side of the road. The shots had come from there. He quickly estimated the range of various rifles. The maximum would put the shooter somewhere near the small indentation where several trees had been cut down.
Fading back deeper into the woods, Fargo worked his way through the underbrush and the sweet-scented mixture of lodgepole pine and Douglas firs. Broken rays of sunlight lighted his way through the woods. Raccoons noted his passage with their usual merry disdain for human beings.
He moved as quietly as possible. He was sure the shooter would want another crack at him and maybe in so doing would show himself.
When he reached the point where he felt he was directly across from where the shooter was, h
e crouched down again and settled into watching and waiting.
Somewhere behind him he heard underbrush being trampled and crushed. On the wind, snaking its way through the dense woods, came the unmistakable smell of black bear. A hefty fellow no doubt looking for his breakfast. The bear sounded far enough away that he should be no problem.
Then everything happened quickly.
He didn’t see the shooter but he certainly heard him. The man made nearly as much noise as the black bear. He was retreating.
Fargo stood up and broke into a run, smashing through the woods and breaking free to the road. By now he could hear the shooter rushing through his side of the woods. He’d no doubt have his horse nearby for a quick escape.
Fargo rushed into the timber, not caring that branches cut one of his cheeks or that he tripped into a diseased pine with enough force to damn near knock him out.
Ahead he could hear and smell a mountain stream. And then he could hear a horse neighing.
He hurried even faster.
But when he reached a narrow clearing that sloped down to the creek, he saw a man on a pinto jumping to the other side of the water and riding fast away. He was already out of the Henry’s range.
But the shooter had made a bad mistake. He never should have worn the khaki uniform of the Reliance sheriff’s office. Tyndale had only three deputies. The shooter wouldn’t be hard to track down.
11
Banks always made Fargo nervous. Money inspired the worst in too many people. If it wasn’t the rich robbing the poor, it was holdup men robbing and frequently killing innocent bank tellers.
James Holmes’ bank tried very hard to resemble one of those fancy temples of money found in big cities back East. Flocked wallpaper, delicately shaped sconces, shiny linoleum floors, real mahogany wainscoting—the elements were there but the craftsmanship wasn’t. Even the casual eye could see that the carpentry hadn’t been equal to the materials. Fargo wondered if it bothered Holmes every time he saw it. It would have bothered Fargo.