by Deborah Camp
“She? She who?” Orrie asked.
“He killed her!” Lily’s spine straightened as the certainty of the heinous deed slammed into her. “He murdered her!”
“Oh, dearie me!” Orrie wailed and covered her face with trembling hands as she rocked back and forth. “Poor Cecille. Not our Cecille! How I’ve prayed she still drew breath. That man … some horrible man throttled our lovely Cecille.”
“There, there,” Griffon comforted, rising from the chair to help Orrie into it. He examined Lily’s calm demeanor and knew something was amiss. “Lily? Is she right? Was it Cecille you felt at the creek bank?”
She shook her head as the memory stepped into full light. “No, it wasn’t Cecille. A woman, but no one I know.”
“Wh-what?” Orrie uncovered her face and wiped glistening tears from her chubby cheeks. “Not Cecille?”
“I knew the man.” Lily closed her eyes, seeing that face, feeling his brute strength, cringing from his madness. Blindly, she reached out and clutched Griffon’s shirtsleeve as an anchor. “It was the same one, Griffon. The man I saw in the barn, remember?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“That’s who strangled the woman at the creek. He murmurdered her!”
“And you sensed nothing of Cecille?” Griffon asked, hope rushing his words.
“No … wait.” She paused, the fingertips of her mind exploring the edges of the ghastly trance she’d been caught up in. She knew she was staring straight ahead, lost to the others in the room, but she also knew she needed every shred of her concentration to be sure. Cecille. Hadn’t she felt Cecille? For a few moments before she’d blacked out, hadn’t Cecille been near? “Yes, yes! She was there!” Her mind hooked the flash of recognition and reeled it in for her. “Cecille was watching. Cecille was standing nearby. Cecille …” Her voice faded, diluted by shock. She had to swallow hard. Her throat ached again.
“Go on,” Griffon urged, “Tell, tell!”
Turning wide eyes on Griffon, Lily made herself say the words. “Cecille stood and watched him murder that woman. She witnessed that horror and she did nothing—she did nothing to prevent it.” A shudder rattled through her. “How could she, Griffon? How could Cecille do such a thing?”
“Glory be,” Orrie cried, sobbing once again. “What are you saying? How could you say such a thing about Cecille? She wouldn’t just stand by and let something like that happen!”
Lily shook her head. “Of course she wouldn’t. Don’t listen to me. I’m mad. I’m going insane!” She clutched her head and squeezed her eyes shut, rejecting the visions as she had so many times before. “I fainted. That’s all. I … I must be ill or something.”
“Lily, you’re not ill and you bloody well know it,” Griffon said between clenched teeth. “What you experienced is real. Maybe it’s not clear—maybe the motives are hazy—but what happened is real. You relived an act of murder. Red welts marked your neck as if fingers had closed around your throat. Maybe you can try to deny reality, but I know what I saw. I know that you couldn’t breathe. That’s why you lost consciousness.”
“Please, no more.” Lily slid lower into the bed and brought the covers to her chin. “Leave me be. I’m tired. So tired.”
Orrie flicked her hands in a shooing motion. “Mr. Griffon, if you’d be so kind? She needs rest. Please, Mr. Griffon?”
“Very well.” Doubt and derision rode on his glance at Lily. “We’ll sort all of this out when you’ve regained your strength.” He closed the door softly behind him and felt Lily’s relief flow through it. She thinks she’s off the hook, he thought, shaking his head. But she’s not. He refused to let her wriggle from the truth.
Griffon stood at the bar, sipping a whiskey that tasted faintly of sawdust and staring at his reflection in the mirror behind an array of bottles and shot glasses. Behind him a serious game of poker continued among five players. A saloon girl, squeezed into an indecent black corset, filmy skirt, fishnet hose and garters, flitted from one man to the next in a guileless search for stray coins.
Sheriff Mac entered through louvered half-doors and sauntered toward Griffon, his gait pitched as if he walked on a slant board. Observing him in the mirror, Griffon realized the man had a peg leg. His left one. The sheriff swept off his hat and whacked it against his pants’ leg, releasing clouds of trail dust.
“Gimme a shot of whiskey, Curly,” he told the boyish barkeep with the mop of orange hair. “I’m dry as a desert bone. Hotter out there than you think.”
Griffon slid a coin across the wooden bar. “On me. How did it go out at the Jeffers place?” He knew before he asked that the answer would be as disappointing as the sheriff’s trip.
Downing the drink, the sheriff motioned for another and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He shook his head and grinned like a possum. “Them Jefferses are about as accommodating as a bale of barbed wire. ’Course, they said you had no business on their property and they fired a warning shot that must have ricocheted and hit you.” He leaned on one elbow and fished a tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket. “I asked them about Cecille Meeker, but they gave me the same story as before. They don’t know nothin’ ’bout nothin’.” He tucked a pinch of tobacco behind his lower lip. “Sorry, partner. I did what I could.”
“Did they let you look around?”
“Sure they did.” He finished off the second drink. “Didn’t find anything. Didn’t ’spect to. If that gal is around there, they got her well hid. ’Course, I figure she’s gone off with Anson or she’s met with her demise. Either way, wasn’t much chance in me finding out anything. I tell you, Goforth, them Jefferses stick together like an old maid’s thighs.”
“Well, thanks for trying.” Griffon drained his own glass and shook off Curly’s offer to refill it.
“You figuring on goin’ back there or are you heading for Fort Smith?”
“I’m not ready to return to Fort Smith.” He rested one boot on the footrail. “If I go to Devil’s Den again, I’ll go on cat’s feet.”
“What you got to remember is that them Jefferses know that area better than anybody. You go snooping around, they’ll find out and they won’t be firing any warning shots. Next time, you’ll be a hunting accident.” He turned and nodded to the poker players. “How y’all? Hey there, hon.” He grinned at the saloon girl, then heaved a sigh. “Well, I guess I’ll be gettin’ home. The missus will be waitin’ supper for me.”
“What do you know about Jeffers’s wife? She’s Gypsy, isn’t she?”
“Yep, sure ’nuff.” He fit his grimy hat back on his mostly bald head. “Eva’s his second missus. The first one died some time back—before I come to town. I hear tell she was an Indian squaw. Them older boys is hers. Jeffers come to town and tried to get him a gal to help raise his brood, but nobody was interested.” He paused to direct a stream of brown juice at the spittoon. “The way I heard it, he went to a livestock auction somewheres up by Poplar Bluff and there was a band of Gypsies milling around. Jeffers spotted a pretty one—Eva, and she couldn’ta been more’n thirteen or fourteen at that time—and he just snatched her.” Sheriff Mac lifted a beefy hand and grabbed a pocket of air. “Tied her up and blindfolded her, threw her in the back of his wagon, and made for home. Just like that. Like he had a right.”
If that’s true, Griffon thought, then Butch’s sons might want to imitate their old man.
“You think you might know her people?” Sheriff Mac asked.
“I doubt it. Why?”
The sheriff shrugged. “Thought maybe you could tell them what went with her all them years ago. They’ve been wondering, I reckon.”
Griffon started to tell the sheriff that Eva’s people wouldn’t be interested or want her back, because it was too late. Eva had wed a gadjo and bore his child. She was tainted. Marimay. Outcast forever. Just like him, but for different reasons. Griffon held his tongue, sensing that the sheriff was anxious to take his leave, having wet his whistle and done his duty.
“Say now, I really
gotta be goin’. My old lady will pitch a fit if’n I don’t.” He held out a hand and pumped Griffon’s. “Sorry, young fella. Maybe somethin’ will turn up for ya.” Then he swaggered across the floor, and Griffon saw that the peg leg was stuck into an old boot.
Griffon turned back to the mirror to watch the half-doors flap like wooden wings. His thoughts lingered on Eva. Did she like her place with Butch? He had sensed sadness in her. She seemed to him a caged bird. She knows more than she’s willing to tell, he thought. Butch Jeffers had kidnapped himself a wife after his first one had died. Had his son done the same?
“Pssst!”
Griffon shifted his gaze to the saloon entrance and saw half a face. Wide, moonish eyes stared at him above the scrolled, latticed doors. He glanced over his shoulder. The boy motioned for him to come outside. Cautiously, Griffon answered the summons. He didn’t recognize Jasper Jeffers until he faced him on the boardwalk fronting the saloon.
“Jasper cain’t go in thar.” Jasper rolled his big eyes toward the whiskey palace. “Maw-Maw would whup Jasper if’n he did.” He tugged at Griffon’s cuff. “Is that purty gal all right? That flower gal?”
“Lily?”
“Uh-uh.” Jasper smiled, showing ivory rows. “Lily, that’s her name. She didn’t get shots by Paw-Paw, too, did she?” He tipped his head and studied Griffon’s bandaged head. “You mending?”
Griffon nodded. “I’m okay. Lily is resting. I’ll tell her you asked about her.”
“Tell her not to come to Jasper’s place again. Paw-Paw don’t like it. Paw-Paw don’t like that star man comin’ ’round neither.”
Griffon had to think a moment before he understood that Sheriff Mac was probably the star man, since he wore a silver star on his chest. “Lily and I are looking for another pretty girl, Jasper. Have you seen her? Have you seen Cecille?”
Jasper glanced around nervously. “Jasper likes Lily,” he murmured.
“Anson likes Cecille. Do you remember Anson bringing home a pretty girl?”
“Anson is bad sometimes.” Jasper ran the heel of his hand across his runny nose. “Him don’t want nobody around neither.”
“What about the girl, Jasper? Where’d he put her?”
“In the ground.”
Griffon’s heart lurched. “Cecille?”
Jasper whimpered and started to turn aside, but Griffon caught his shoulder.
“Who? Anson’s wife?”
Jasper bobbed his big head. “Doralee! That’s right! She’s gone to heaven.”
“Doralee? Is she Anson’s wife?”
“Maw-Maw says Doralee rode up in a gold chariot pulled by six white horses. It’s a long way to heaven.” He started to turn away again. “Gettin’ dark. Gotta go.”
Griffon blocked him. “After Doralee left for heaven, did Anson bring home another wife?”
“Maw-Maw says you and her gots the same blood. You her brudder? Jasper’s got lots of brudders. But no sisters. In-laws and girl cousins, but no sisters. Jasper’s the baby. Jasper will always be Maw-Maw’s baby.” He threw out his chest, proud as a peacock with his rung on the family ladder.
Griffon couldn’t help but smile. The boy/man nurtured a pure spirit. Several inches shorter than Griffon, he looked up with shining eyes, his thin hair blowing in the breeze. He wore pants that were too short and patched at the knees, frayed suspenders, and a faded red shirt with no sleeves. His arms were big, but going to fat. However, he was probably as stout as a young bull. Griffon sensed in him a tame soul that wouldn’t put up much fight, if any at all. Having a soft spot for the lost lambs in the world, Griffon knew a moment of yearning to wrap his arms around Jasper in a protective hug. His was a simple heart that loved the beauty in all things. What a pity he had been born into such a dark, mean pocket of the world.
Laying a hand on Jasper’s shoulder, Griffon tried to probe his thoughts, but found them too unfocused and jumbled to make sense of them. “Jasper, Lily misses her cousin very much. She’s unhappy because her cousin has disappeared. If you help Lily find Cecille, Lily would love you forever and ever.”
Jasper stared solemnly at Griffon for long moments. “And if Jasper don’t, will Lily hate him?”
The mercenary in him told Griffon to say yes, but his decency won out. “No. She won’t hate you.”
Jasper released a long, sighing whistle. “Good, ’cause Jasper don’t got time to look fer nobody. Jasper gots to get home and do his chores come mornin’ or he’ll get whupped.”
Griffon squeezed the side of Jasper’s neck affectionately. “Go then, and take care.”
“You, too.” Jasper pulled his pale brows together in a fierce frown. “You keep Lily away. Away from Paw-Paw and Anson and all of Jasper’s brudders. They don’t love her like Jasper does.” Then he shuffled to a chunky white horse and hauled himself onto its bare back. He grabbed the length of thick rope that had been fashioned into a halter and kicked the horse into a jarring trot down the middle of the street.
Griffon waited until Jasper was a smudge against the twilight before he turned to stroll back to the hotel. As was his custom, he reviewed the conversations with both the sheriff and Jasper, investigating each for anything he might have missed. One thing became clear to him: Eva and her baby Jasper were the weak links in the Jeffers chain.
Lucky for Jasper that he’d not been born in a Gypsy clan. More often than not, disabled children were either abandoned or put to death. In his own clan when it was determined that something wasn’t right about a child, the babe was left on the steps of the nearest orphanage, church, or convent. If a child was disabled after birth, he stayed in the clan. Only those born with defects were shunned or abandoned. They were a blight on any marriage and could curse the union forever if allowed to grow. Cast him out! That was always what the elders ordained when asked for counsel after the birth of such a babe.
Griffon guessed that, since evil and insanity seemed to run rampant among the Jefferses, Jasper’s deficiencies had most likely seemed insignificant. So Eva had been allowed to raise her simple son. Her simple, honest son. That honesty lent Griffon hope. He won’t lie, Griffon thought. Not even to a stranger.
Another thought brought him to a standstill. He stared across the street at the hotel while he went over his conversation with Jasper once more. Yes, yes! Jasper hadn’t talked as if Anson was gone. He spoke as if Anson was still around, which confirmed Griffon’s own belief. Anson’s there, he thought. He’s there and hiding—or hiding someone. If Griffon could get Eva and Jasper alone, he felt certain he could charm, coax, or rattle the truth out of them. At the very least, he could steal through their thoughts and find something useful.
Suddenly, he heard his name. Clearly, distinctly, but in his head. The voice was husky, musical. He looked up to a window of light on the second floor of the hotel. A silhouette wavered within the light—slender, full of grace. Griffon felt Lily reaching out to him, urging him to cross the street and come upstairs to her.
So, now you want to talk, do you? he asked her silently, but she sent no reply. Just that static sense of urgency. Hurry. Hurry. He felt fingers poking his back, so real he stumbled into a walk and crossed the street. God, she had no earthly idea of the extent of her power! And she didn’t want to, he added. That, however, deterred him not a jot. For he was bound and determined to make her accept herself—her whole self—or be damned for trying.
Griffon entered the hotel parlor, nodded at the bespectacled man behind the registration desk, and stopped at the bottom of the staircase. Lily’s eager anticipation poured over him like warm honey. His heart hammered and sent a tide of blood to his groin. A grim smile rode his mouth. Blimey, he had a bad case for her.
He’d had his share of women—good women, wild women, hookers, and virgins—and he’d lusted for a few, but never as he lusted for Lily. Just the thought of her aroused him. Lily Meeker. What a misnomer! Lily was no delicate posy, although sometimes she gave that appearance. No, this Lily, his Lily, was tempered with fire an
d brimstone. Again, her voice wove through his mind, calling his name in an urgent, pleading way. His Lily.
“You want me?” he whispered, grinning like a predator with prey in sight. “You got me.”
He took the stairs two at a time.
Chapter 11
Peeking out into the corridor, Lily waited impatiently for Griffon. What was keeping him? She’d seen him cross the street and enter the hotel a minute ago, so where was he? A shadow fell on the landing a second before he filled the corridor.
“Griffon!” Lily motioned him forward, and when he was close enough whispered, “I was hoping to catch you before you retired this evening. Orrie told me that you’d gone to the sheriff. What’s happened while I’ve been asleep?”
He glanced past her into her room. “Orrie isn’t in there?” He already knew she wasn’t, sensing no other presence.
“No. She and Balthazar went out to some church wing-ding. An ice cream social, I believe.” She flopped a hand. “I didn’t pay much attention. So, tell me what—” She swallowed a yelp when he shouldered past her into the room. Recovering, she sent him a cross frown. “Come right in, why don’t you? I’ll just leave this open,” she said, moving away from the door and pulling the sides of her wrapper tightly together at her throat. “Wh-what are you doing?” By the time she voiced the question it was pointless, since he’d already shut the door. She looked at him—really looked at him. It seemed she’d stepped into the middle of Act Two of an unfamiliar drama. Griffon’s skin harbored a slight flush and his eyes glittered strangely. If she had a role in this play of emotions, she didn’t know which or why.
“I’d like some privacy.” His gaze flickered over her like twin blue flames, then he occupied the chair set against the window. “Sheriff Mac performed his duty. He went out and spoke with the Jefferses.”