Legends Can Be Murder

by Shelton, Connie

  “I wonder if the state DMV keeps old records,” Mina mused. “If we just knew what kind of car, the year ... something more.” She pulled out a pen and scratched herself a note.

  The group at the bar had disbanded and Berta edged her way through the rest of the crowd, coming toward her daughter. Lillian worked it so that she stepped away from the table with her back toward the other woman. She approached Earl and said something to him, then to Kerby, and the three of them left the bar. Apparently, when Lillian was ready to move on, the family moved on.

  Drake, finding himself abandoned in the middle of the room, walked over to join us. While Mina talked about ways to find out cave-guy’s identity through some kind of media blitz, my husband sent out various secret signals that meant he was hungry. I suggested that we order something here, and soon we had a huge plate of chicken wings and halibut nachos sitting in front of us. Berta, on her third drink now, laughed at my question about the nature of the feud with Lillian.

  “A man. Of course.” She chuckled at the memory.

  Mina looked as if she wanted to stick her fingers in her ears and say la-la-la-la for the next ten minutes.

  Berta leaned toward the center of the table, one forearm planted under her ample bosom. “A little background on Lillian Allen—she’s actually been married a few more times than she lets on, and she was quite the wild little thing in our younger days. Don’t let that prim-and-proper ‘I only shop from the designer catalogs’ attitude fool you. She and Earl come from everyday, common Alaska stock, born and raised here in Skagway, right back to her grandfather. Hell, maybe even farther back than that. The only reason she can put on that east coast, superior attitude is because husband number two came from New York and she lived there the whole three years she was married to him.”

  Mina piped up. “She’s right. Even though I was a kid I remember people talking about her when she came back, saying how different she was.”

  “So ... what’s the part about the feud?” I prompted.

  “Oh, that. Lillian swore up and down that if I hadn’t stolen him away, she would have been the one married to Archie Gengler.”

  “Daddy?” Mina’s eyes were wide.

  Berta started to say more but there was a shuffle next to our table as the police chief slid into the remaining empty chair.

  “Sam?” Berta said, scooting her chair to make a little more space.

  Branson looked at me. “Well, I’ve got a whole new wrinkle in that case you want to investigate. I hadn’t asked them to do it—guess the crime lab guys got my instructions mixed up—but they ran a comparison on the DNA from the two sets of bones in the cave.”

  He paused a moment to be sure he had our attention. He did.

  “Those two men share enough markers ... they’re related.”

  Chapter 15

  Joshua followed the small crowd behind Frank Reid’s stretcher, as they walked slowly through the streets to the doctor’s house. The wounded man was borne inside, while the doctor’s wife insisted that all but the two stretcher bearers remain outside. She shook her finger as she admonished them to stay clear of her flowers.

  “Can you believe it? Soapy Smith, gone for good.”

  “For well and good,” said another man. “I only hope that the rest of his men will leave town too. We’re well rid of all that lot.”

  The two men who had carried the stretcher came back out, their faces grim. One raised his hands and spoke softly to those gathered around.

  “He’s in a lot of pain. Doc’s doing all he can. Says if Frank isn’t better by morning he’ll put him in the hospital.”

  The crowd grew quiet. The situation was serious, then. None but the gravely ill went to a hospital. The men began to disperse and Joshua trailed along. For a brief moment he debated going once again to Smith’s parlor to see if he could retrieve his lost money. But when he passed it, a half-dozen of Soapy’s henchmen were gathered near the door. A couple had foul expressions but most merely seemed stunned.

  At the corner of Holly and Broadway Joshua caught sight of a wagon bearing a man-shaped lump covered with a blanket. It stopped in front of Ed Peoples’ undertaking parlor. An officious-looking man jumped down and Joshua heard him telling the undertaker that he was ordering an autopsy.

  “We’ll know with a certainty which gun the fatal shot came from,” he declared.

  Around him, a murmur arose. “... wasn’t Reid at all ...” “at least three different guns” “ambush, that’s what it was” “Murphy’s the one who got ’im—I saw that clear as day.”

  The rumors flew and the discussion traveled toward the bars. Joshua thought about going into one of the lively places to hear the rest of the story, perhaps to be treated to a free beer. But in the end he realized that all he’d wanted was to get his money back and with the new vigilante committee in charge it would be days before the whole situation got sorted out. He felt a heavy cloak of weariness settle over him as he trudged to his rooming house.

  The next morning he awoke, hearing an unusual timbre to the voices out on the street below. Something was going on beyond the normal bustle of horses, wagons and miners. Joshua put his clothes on, ran a comb through his hair and slipped out without stopping at the kitchen to exchange pleasantries with his landlady.

  A newsboy stood near Mrs. McIlhaney’s front stoop, waving a stack of newspapers and calling out the headline: “Soapy Smith’s Last Bluff!”

  Joshua hesitated only a second before handing over his coins. He scanned the front-page article. “Shot Through the Heart by Frank Reid,” read the subheading, and “Armed With a Winchester He Endeavors to Intimidate a Large Meeting of Indignant Citizens on the Juneau Wharf” gave the gist of the encounter last evening. Frank Reid was hailed as a hero, helping to rid the town of the criminal element which had intimidated the population for so long. Joshua felt a stab of jealousy. He could have become the local hero, if only he’d gotten to Soapy Smith first.

  He fumed as he marched toward the Red Onion. Why hadn’t he been more forceful? Why hadn’t he obtained a weapon and rushed the con man, right out on the street? The article said Frank Reid was now in Bishop Rowe Hospital and there was strong hope for his recovery. Joshua pictured the man sitting up in bed, telling all who gathered around that he really hadn’t been afraid as he stared down the barrel of Smith’s gun. Later, there would be celebrations and Joshua himself could have been at the center of them all.

  He took an empty chair and read the rest of the article as he sipped a mug of coffee. Smith had lain dead on the wharf for some hours. Charles Augustus Sehlbrede, the recently appointed U.S. commissioner for the district, appointed a coroner's jury and ordered an autopsy. The local jail was reported nearly full of members of Soapy’s gang and bands of armed citizens were rounding up more. No wonder the atmosphere felt electrified this morning.

  Beside the article on Smith’s death was another, touting the amount of gold coming out of the Klondike, claiming that the bank and various hotel safes were stuffed with the golden dust and yellow nuggets. Another wave of bitterness shot through him.

  “Good morning.”

  The voice, so nearby, startled Joshua and he sloshed his coffee. He looked up to see Harry Weaver standing beside him.

  “You don’t look nearly as happy as everyone else in town this morning,” his friend said, taking a seat at the small table.

  Joshua shrugged. He started to ask whether there was a possibility of getting his money from Smith’s Parlor, now that the boss was dead and the others were being rounded up, but Harry was speaking of another subject.

  “I have a lead on my suspect,” he said. “Rumor says he’s been loitering among that band of reporters who have their camp up the road. I’m heading that direction right after breakfast.”

  Harry tapped the folded newspaper that Joshua had dropped. “Klondike gold, indeed,” he said. “You ever wonder why everyone in this city isn’t dressed in the finest attire and buying rounds for all at the bars?”
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br />   “Some are,” Joshua replied.

  “A few, those who are complete fools with their money.” Harry signaled the one waitress to bring him some food. “You notice, though, that the ones who aren’t showing off their money are heading quietly for the next steamer out of the inlet.”

  He gave Joshua an intent look. “There are no fortunes up there, friend. The big strikes happened, all right, but they happened a year ago, two years ago. It’s been picked clean.”

  Joshua felt as if his chair had been kicked out from under him.

  “If you haven’t found a job or started a business here yet, I’d suggest that you go back to San Francisco and ask for your old job back. You’ll be farther ahead than if you stay around here.”

  “But—”

  “Come with me, Joshua. Come to that journalism camp and I’ll show you. Those men who write these stories—they’re not writing from the gold fields at all. They’re right up the road, making up whatever sounds good enough to sell newspapers. They wire their stories back to the big cities down south and men continue to dream and travel all this way. For nothing.”

  Joshua’s ears rang with the implications. So, even if he did manage to get his money back from Smith’s Parlor and buy his supplies, he still wouldn’t find gold when he got to the Klondike?

  Harry’s food arrived but Joshua shook his head at Rosa’s query whether he also wanted something. He could barely afford the coffee. He excused himself, telling Harry he would see him around before he walked out to the street.

  His mind spun. If he sold the few provisions he’d acquired—to some poor rube fresh off the boat—he could get home to Maddie and Isabelle. But he would arrive home destitute. He couldn’t face his wife in that condition.

  How could Harry’s assertion be true? He saw men with big smiles, men who bought rounds of drinks and frequented the gambling tables—he knew big fortunes existed. The news reporters probably talked to these men as they were heading back from the gold fields, their pockets filled. That’s where they picked up the optimistic stories. He turned back toward the Red Onion, reaching the door just as Harry emerged.

  “I’ll go with you,” he said in a rush. “To that place you described with the reporters.”

  “Liarsville,” Harry said. “Sure. I’ve rented a horse and carriage for the day. Let’s go.”

  Joshua had a moment’s uncertainty. They called this place Liarsville? Harry was walking quickly toward the blacksmith’s shop and Joshua dropped his negative thoughts and caught up. Thirty minutes later they were riding up the narrow road that led northeast out of Skagway, Harry’s confident hands on the reins.

  The encampment was nearly a small town in itself. A wooden building housed a small store where food and tobacco were sold, according to the crudely painted sign above the door. A few dozen canvas tents stood around a central open area, and Joshua caught a glimpse inside one, where a man sat on an upturned barrel with a small typewriting machine on his lap. A wooden bunk with a thin mattress and a valise with clothing spilling out of it fairly well filled the space. The man didn’t acknowledge their passage as he chewed the end of a cigar and punched the keys on the machine.

  The open area boasted a large fire pit ringed with stones and men sat around on split logs that they’d pushed near to use as benches. A woman in a shabby ruffled dress ducked out of one tent and went into another. For a fleeting instant Joshua thought of his infant daughter and prayed that she would never know such a life as this.

  “I’m posing as an editor from an east coast newspaper,” Harry murmured as they descended the carriage. “Wander about, if you wish, but don’t talk about what I’m doing. With luck, I’ll catch my quarry and if you help watch him on the way back to the pier I’m authorized to pay you a little something.”

  Without another word he walked toward the wooden building. Joshua edged near the fire. Tall trees blocked nearly all the sunlight, giving the little makeshift village a damp, chilly air. Two men in dusty suits, sitting on the log seats, nodded toward him. Joshua remained standing, holding his hands toward the warmth.

  “Well, that’s this week’s story. Soon as I get to town, I’ll telegraph it to my editor,” said a man who approached, pulling his jacket on over an untidy shirt and suspenders. He was the one who’d been typing away in his tent.

  “What’d you say this time?” asked one of the campfire group, shifting to his left to get out of the drifting smoke.

  “Same as usual,” said the newcomer. “I toned it down a little from last week, when it was supposedly a quarter million in gold. This week it’s only a hundred thousand.”

  He sat down and pulled a fresh cigar from his pocket, sprawling his legs toward the flames and letting his shoulders relax.

  One of the other men let out a hoot. “Surprised those back in the offices don’t question a thing. You know good and well that last stampeder only had about a hundred in dust on him.”

  “Hundred dollars, hundred thousand ... what’s a few extra zeros?” The reporter laughed out loud.

  Joshua eyed the men. So Harry was right—the news stories were completely fabricated. He caught them staring and lowered his gaze to the ground.

  “What’s your story, stranger?” one of them asked.

  He looked up to see that all three had their eyes on him. He shrugged. “No particular story. Haven’t been able to get outfitted yet, is all. A few friends of mine went, though. Two guys named Connell and Gariston. Earlier, there was one called Mick Thespen.”

  One of the reporters’ expression brightened. “Thespen. I’m fairly certain he was the one who came through here couple of days ago.”

  “Yeah, the fellow with a hundred that he wished was a hundred thousand!” All three men laughed raucously.

  Joshua forced a faint smile, nodding, feeling embarrassed that the men he’d wanted to travel with were now the brunt of this crude humor. He let his gaze travel through the camp. Harry had come out of the store and was heading toward the fire. Joshua remembered what he’d said, averted his eyes.

  “Afternoon,” Harry said to the three reporters. He edged in close and took one of the benches. “Harry Weaver, Fairfax News-Gazette.”

  The others offered introductions; when it came Joshua’s turn he merely gave his name.

  “My publisher knows a man who said he was coming out to the Klondike. Wants me to write up his personal story,” Harry said. “A Jessie Durant. Any of you seen him come through here?”

  “Name doesn’t ring a bell,” the man at Joshua’s left said.

  Harry gave a description but Joshua noticed he didn’t pull out the Wanted sheet he’d been carrying.

  One of the reporters spoke up. “I did see that one. A limp and a scar on his left cheek, you said?”

  Harry nodded.

  “And a western hat. He came through, maybe two, three days ago.”

  “Is he still around?”

  The man pursed his lips. “I don’t think so. Lots of stampeders come and go through here, very few stay around. They all want to get to the city and spend that money.”

  Another laugh rippled through the gathering.

  “You’re sure he left?” Harry asked.

  “As much as you’re ever sure of anything around here,” the man answered.

  Harry stood. “Mr. Farmer, I can offer you a lift back to Skagway if you want it.”

  Joshua pretended to consider. “Thank you, sir. I will accept it.”

  The reporter in the suspenders stood as well. “Might I trouble you to drop this at the telegraph office when you get there?” He pulled two sheets of paper from his jacket, the story about the false gold claims.

  Harry took the pages and the two of them walked back to the rented carriage. During the ride back, Harry seemed preoccupied, probably wondering which direction his quarry had taken now.

  Joshua didn’t mind the lack of conversation. His mind replayed the talk back there at the campfire. Was nothing in this territory real? Was everything he’d
ever heard about the gold rush and the vast fortunes a falsehood?

  He thought about the man who had left a few weeks ago. If he had come back already, even with just a hundred dollars, it was likely more than Joshua would find on his own, especially if he had to lay out the money for food and supplies first. His brow pulled into a knot as he contemplated the unfairness of it all.

  Aside from Harry Weaver, he hadn’t met an honest man here yet; from the miners to the reporters to the gangsters and con men, everyone was out to cheat. His anger flared again; he was tired of being the one who repeatedly got swindled.

  Then the idea struck. What if he simply took what he needed?

  Maddie’s face appeared in his mind. She would be mortified to know he was thinking this way. He edged his eyes toward Harry, another who would be ashamed of him. But Harry had other concerns right now. And what Maddie didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

  Chapter 16

  There was a good two minutes of silence at the table as Branson’s words settled upon us. I finally remembered to chew the rest of my chicken. Mina sat with a wing-bone clasped in her fingers. Then the questions began.

  “Related.” I said. “But how—?”

  “You said the two deaths must have happened more than seventy years apart,” Mina said to the chief. “What could possibly be the relationship?”

  It was pretty close to the same question I’d been trying to formulate.

  Chief Branson shrugged. “The lab guy told me it wasn’t a direct line, say, father to son, or two siblings. That’s obvious anyway. But it’s a connection, nevertheless.”

  “So, now you have a new angle,” I told him.

  “Let’s say that you have a new angle.” He glanced back and forth between Mina and me.

  “But—”

  “The case is still impossibly old,” he said, “and I don’t have any more manpower than I did last week. Minutes after we left the burial this afternoon, I had to send one guy out to a traffic accident and another to check out some lady who tried to steal a puppy from the sled-dog excursion guy. Guess she thought she could sneak it into her suitcase on the cruise ship. Eventually, I might get to these two sets of bones, but this is June and things won’t slow down here until at least October when those ships quit for the season.”