by Kari Bovee
“People are claiming that Mr. Butler intentionally tried to wound Miss Oakley, so it’s only logical that Detective Jonas should wish to speak with her. Don’t you agree that it is in Miss Oakley’s—and the show’s—best interest to determine the facts regarding what happened? You’ve already had one person murdered on the grounds—and the Colonel himself hired the Theil Detective Agency to help sort out this mess, of which I fear Annie is but the next victim of foul play.”
LeFleur’s face clouded over with annoyance.
“Very well, but be quick about it.”
Chief Sitting Bull stood up and leaned over Annie. He pressed his palm against her forehead.
“Rest well, daughter.” He left the room, the small metal diamonds sewn into his buckskin coat tinkling like the sound of running water.
Detective Jonas and Emma trained their eyes on LeFleur, issuing a silent command that he leave the room. He focused his eyes on Annie.
“You don’t have to say anything, Annie. We still don’t know the particulars, and no one should expect you to remember the details when you suffered so much pain and obviously experienced a shock to your system.”
Emma made a clucking noise, intended to dismiss his blathering.
“I’ll be right outside the door,” he said, before striding out of the room, glaring at the intruders as he passed.
“Annie, darling, how are you?” Emma perched on the bed, taking care not to jiggle Annie’s wounded arm.
“Fine, for getting shot in the hand.” She tried to lift her hand but winced in pain and lowered it again.
“Do you believe that Frank Butler had any desire to intentionally harm you?”
Annie shook her head, and then used her good hand to beckon Emma to draw closer, away from the detective’s ears.
“I feel so confused. Frank had been having trouble with his aim, which began before I joined the show. The Colonel hoped I’d inspire him to improve his performance, and he did better, for a little while . . .” she stopped, glanced at Detective Jonas.
“I will be questioning Mr. Butler.” The detective pulled on the brim of his hat. “But that doesn’t mean we will automatically assume he wounded your hand on purpose.”
“Annie, I brought Detective Jonas along because I wanted you to tell him about Buck.”
“Oh, certainly. I’ve discovered, with Emma’s help, that someone has been poisoning my horse’s water.”
“With what?” Detective Jonas got out his pad of paper.
“Oleander.”
“Why do you think someone would do that?”
“To sabotage my act. To sabotage me.”
“Is there anyone you know who would want to do what you’ve alleged?”
Annie told him about Vernon McCrimmon and about Twila. He busily jotted their names and their stories on his pad of paper.
“There’s more,” Annie said, and then waited for him to finish. He looked up from his pad of paper, his glasses halfway down his beak-like nose.
“I believe that the person who tainted Buck’s water also meant to poison me.”
Emma gasped. “Whatever do you mean, Annie?”
“Kimi and I shared a tea tin. I had just purchased some tea and filled the tin. We kept the tin in or on my trunk. When I came home from the saloon that night and found Kimi sprawled on the floor, I had seen a half-drunk cup of tea near the fire, partially tipped over. I think she drank poisoned tea. When I went to make myself a cup later, the tea tin was empty.”
Emma and the detective shared a glance.
“This Kimi, is she the one you mentioned the other day when I was questioning you about Mr. Carver?” The detective licked the end of his pencil and scribbled something on his notepad.
“Yes.”
When he was done writing, the detective folded his pad and placed it in his pocket.
“With this information, we may have reason to exhume the body of this young Indian woman. The coroner may be forced to conduct a new autopsy, as I am beginning to suspect, as you have, that she did not die of natural causes.”
Emma grabbed Annie’s good hand. Annie grinned at her and at the gawky detective. Finally, someone was taking Kimi’s death seriously.
The throbbing in Annie’s hand woke her. Glad to be rid of the hazy cloud of morphine that shrouded her thoughts, she sat up in bed and looked down at the nightgown someone had gotten her into. She didn’t remember getting undressed.
Her memory of the visitors who came to her room the day before also remained fractured and unclear. She recalled Bobby and Chief Sitting Bull most vividly, and then Emma and Detective Jonas. She faintly remembered talking to Detective Jonas about her suspicions of Twila Midnight. She may even had told him that she thought Twila had poisoned Buck and possibly killed Kimi, and maybe Carver. Would he have taken her seriously about that, or assumed it was the morphine talking?
Someone tapped on the door and, seconds later, a young girl entered bearing a tray of food. The aroma of bacon and freshly baked bread made Annie’s stomach growl with hunger. Given the uselessness of her left hand, it took Annie several minutes to push herself to a sitting position.
“Would ya like your breakfast in bed, miss?” The girl asked. She had red hair, freckles, and a thick Irish brogue.
“No. At the table, please.”
The girl smiled sweetly and placed the wooden tray on the table.
“Would ya like a hand, miss?”
“No, thank you. I need to figure out how to get up and eat with one hand all by myself.” Annie almost laughed at the irony of the maid’s statement.
“Would ya like anythin’ else, miss?”
Annie shook her head.
The girl backed out of the room, pausing at the threshold, offering Annie a slight bow before quietly closing the door.
Annie grasped the silk coverlet with her good hand and tossed it and the blankets to the side. She then slipped her legs off the bed and stepped onto the carpet, noticing an annoying prickle in the arch of her foot. She lifted it and discovered dried leaves and twigs of some kind. She vaguely remembered seeing something fall when Bobby pulled his hands from his pockets. She picked up the fragile fragments and laid them on the table, near her breakfast tray.
While she chewed the most delicious bacon she’d ever tasted, she stared at the leaves. They definitely weren’t tea leaves. A number of people had visited the day before. The fragments could have traveled in on anyone shoes, or they could have been here before she was placed in this room. One sweep of the room with her eyes nixed that idea. The room was spotless, not even a speck of dust in the corners or coating the molding. No lint or stray fibers of any kind.
Her injured hand tingled as if a thousand nettles had worked their way inside the bandage. Frank had shot her. Fractured memories of his worried face above her swam in her head. She remembered the unbearably sad tone of his voice as he apologized, over and over.
After Annie had eaten every slice of bacon and every crumb of bread, she walked carefully to the small writing desk and retrieved a piece of the ivory stationary with the words “Southern Hotel” embossed on the top and returned to the table. She wanted to sweep the leaves onto the paper, but with only one good hand, that didn’t work, so she set the paper down and very carefully set each fragile fragment of leaf and twig on top of it, wincing as they crumbled even more under her touch. After much effort with the dried plant, she folded the paper around the leaves, opened the wardrobe, and stashed the folded paper in her dress pocket.
With all the focused activity, Annie’s hand ached and she suddenly felt very tired, so slipped back under the covers. She wanted to get back to camp to be close to Buck and rest in familiar surroundings. She missed the show, the camp, everything. Even Lillie. The thought caused her to snort in amusement. Clearly, the morphine hadn’t worn off entirely.
When the maid returned for her breakfast tray, Annie noticed LeFleur standing in the hallway. He was clean-shaven and refreshed, and when he entered the roo
m Annie noted genuine kindness in the way he looked at her. It seemed they’d been at odds for a while now, and she welcomed a truce.
“Good morning, Annie. How’s the hand feeling?” He removed his beaverskin top hat.
“It hurts, but I feel much better. When can I go back to the show?” Annie pulled the bedcovers a little higher with her good hand.
“My dear, you won’t be able to perform until your hand heals.”
“But it’s my left hand that’s wounded. I can still ride and shoot a pistol with my right hand. The mounted course will be no problem. Buck is finally feeling himself again. I assure you I can do it.” She offered her prettiest smile—though God knows what she looked like at the moment.
LeFleur pulled up a chair next to her bed.
“You are an amazing woman, Annie, and I—all of us really—so admire your spunk.”
“When can I go back to the camp?”
“How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” Annie said, groaning, “I can’t sit in this bed all day. I feel fine, really. When is the next performance?”
“It won’t be until Saturday, and it’s only Tuesday.”
“If you let me return to camp this afternoon, I promise I will rest in my tent until Saturday.”
“No, Annie. You must stay here at least one more day. You need to be monitored by the doctor, and we need to get Frank safely on his way. No one wants the two of you to come within a mile of each other.”
“Has he asked to see me?”
“Yes, of course, he asked multiple times, but I refused to tell him where you are. He’ll not hurt you again, I promise.”
Annie knew better than to push LeFleur on this topic. Perhaps it was best for she and Frank to go their separate ways. She didn’t want him to feel guilty about wounding her, and she’d already decided not to continue their relationship. Still, she longed to see him one last time.
“Alright, Mr. LeFleur, I will agree to stay here one more night, but you must promise to move me back to camp tomorrow afternoon. I need to make sure Buck’s still doing well, and I want to check in on the Chief. He’s just lost another of his people, and I’ll bring him comfort. Please.” She reached over and grasped his hand.
“I can’t find the strength to deny you. I still long to make you happy.” LeFleur smiled, placing his hand over hers.
Annie released his hand and leaned back against the pillows. She felt faint, but didn’t want him to know.
“Have your affections changed?”
Annie knew it would be prudent to be cautious with LeFleur—until she’d sorted out everything that had happened.
“Annie, you haven’t answered my question. Do you have feelings for me?”
Annie thought it best not to reject him entirely.
“I am not in a position to love anyone. I’ve just ended things with Frank. It will take some time—”
“So, there is a chance?”
“You must permit me time to heal.” Annie offered a shy smile.
“Well then, you must rest if you are to return to camp tomorrow.”
LeFleur snapped his hat on his head, ran his fingers along its brim, and prepared to leave, looking very much like a cat that had just captured a mouse.
Watching his hands run over the brim, Annie suddenly remembered seeing black stains on his hands the day of the shooting.
“Mr. LeFleur.”
“Yes, my dear.” He took off his hat, turning his attention back to her.
“I never properly apologized for looking into your trunk. I wasn’t rummaging, I promise.”
“Think nothing of it, Annie.”
“I appreciate your gallantry. I keep thinking about a pistol I saw in your trunk.”
“A pistol?”
“Yes, I remember it because it was so unusual, like nothing I’d ever seen before.”
“What makes you mention it?”
Annie could hear skepticism in his tone.
“I’m not sure. I just keep seeing it in my mind. It reminded me of one of my father’s pistols,” she lied.
“Well, it is a very unusual weapon. It belonged to my father, who gave it to me when I was a lad. I haven’t used it in years. It is a sentimental keepsake.”
Annie smiled. “Of course, that makes complete sense.”
“Is there anything else?” LeFleur’s smile faded and coldness crept into his eyes.
“No, I was merely curious.”
“I hope your curiosity is satisfied.” He placed his hat back on his head.
“It is. Thank you.”
LeFleur nodded and then silently left the room.
Annie tried to still the pounding in her chest. She’d touched a nerve.
CHAPTER 21
“Frank Butler Shoots Fellow Performer Annie Oakley. Authorities Investigating Intent or Accident.”
Missouri Chronicle – April 23, 1885
Annie didn’t see LeFleur for the rest of that day, which seemed to last forever. The doctor visited twice to check her hand for swelling or infection and to change the bandages. Luckily, the bullet had gone clean through her palm, between her thumb and forefinger.
“No broken bones.” The doctor put his medical tools back in his bag. “I’m calling it a miracle. Might be some nerve damage though, should heal over time. You’re lucky it wasn’t your shooting hand.”
That evening, when one of the hotel staff brought her supper, Annie insisted on eating at the table again. Her back and legs felt stiff from immobility, and, although her hand pained her, she could not stay in the bed one moment longer. The meal—a hearty steak, mashed potatoes, and sweet carrots, cooked to a delicate crunch—tasted delicious. Someone had carefully carved her meat into tiny, bite-sized pieces. A moist pound cake with raspberry sauce and a cup of tea for dessert delighted her taste buds.
Just as Annie stood up to ring the bell for someone to retrieve her tray, someone knocked at the door. She adjusted her dressing gown and ran a hand over her hair, which the maid had kindly brushed and pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck.
“Yes?” she called.
Bobby opened the door and stepped into the room.
“Bobby, so good to see you. Do come in and visit with me.”
“I can’t, Annie. Mr. LeFleur has forbidden anyone to bother you, but you received a letter today, and I thought you’d want it at once.” He laid an envelope and a newspaper on the table. Annie noted that it was not the St. Louis Times but another paper, a much smaller one, one she hadn’t heard of—the Missouri Chronicle.
“There’s a story in there about your accident. I thought you’d want to see it.”
“Thank you, Bobby. I am not surprised the press reported the story. The incident happened in front of a full house. There was bound to be talk.”
“It didn’t hit the Times,” Bobby said, his voice hopeful.
Annie smiled. “My friend, Miss Wilson, most likely had something to do with that good fortune.”
“We all miss you at camp.” Bobby raised his eyes, full of admiration and sincerity, to meet hers.
She couldn’t imagine this boy causing harm to anyone. But she’d also seen menace in that innocent face, knew he’d exchanged angry words with Kimi and LeFleur. Still, he’d been nothing but kind to her.
“I miss you, too. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
Bobby tipped his hat and turned to leave.
“Say Bobby, how is Michante?”
Bobby wagged his head from side to side.
“Aw, he’s real broke up about Nakota. He lost his sister, and now his brother. I feel right sorry for him.”
“Has he recovered from the illness?”
“Oh yes, he’s doing much better in that way, he’s just as sad as I’ve ever seen a man.”
“I can imagine.”
“Some of the other Indians came down sick, too, but doc says they’ll all be okay in a week or two. The Colonel had the sick ones isolated from the rest, and Chief Sitting Bull is nursing them.�
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“Thank you for the news.”
“Tomorrow then,” Bobby said and rushed out the door.
Annie watched him hurry down the hall and then closed the door.
Unable to handle the throb in her hand any longer, she poured some of the powder the doctor had given her into a glass of water and drank it down, grimacing at the bitter taste. She then climbed into bed and settled under the welcoming comforter. My, how far she had come from the two-room cabin and straw-tick mattresses she’d shared with her mother and siblings.
Annie quickly read the article in the paper. The story didn’t cover much more than what Bobby had already told her, and it focused on Frank, dissecting his slow decline into mediocrity as a sharpshooter. The article confirmed that he had been forcefully dismissed from Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show.
She worried about Frank, who must be feeling so downhearted. Even if Mr. LeFleur and others were convinced that Frank had aimed for her hand and used that claim to dismiss him—and bar him from seeing her—Annie didn’t believe it. Still, why hadn’t he at least written her a note?
Her supper didn’t settle well. She folded the paper, set it on her nightstand, and braced for the letter from home, fearful of what it might reveal.
Her fears not unfounded, the letter informed her that a riding accident had rendered Friend Mick Easton, her childhood sweetheart, unconscious for more than two weeks, his head wound so severe his doctors didn’t know if he would ever wake. Plus, Joshua had broken in to Mr. Shaw’s store to steal the money Annie had sent. This time, he’d used some of it to leave North Star. The bank had reclaimed the farm, and Mr. Shaw was allowing her family to stay in the back room of his store.
Annie leaned back against the headboard. Despite the pain-relief powder, her entire body ached, and she wanted more than ever to curl into a tight ball and sleep away her problems. In a few short weeks, she’d left her home, become a famous sharpshooter in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, fallen in love with a legend, witnessed two murders, been shot, and dealt with the possible loss of her beloved horse. Even worse, fate had now spoken.
Annie had no choice. She had to go home.