The Lost Mine Murders

by Sharon Rowse

  “Does it surprise you we found the cache where it was?”

  Trent shook his head. “His trap line ran near there. Course, it ran past a lot of other likely places, too. Could’ve spent a whole life looking and never found it. Pa decided the mine was just rumor. Others didn’t, though.”

  “And it seems the rumors haven’t diminished over time.”

  “They’ve got wilder. Some say a couple of people found the mine, but died before they could tell anyone. But, Granville, I’m thinking…”

  “Yes?”

  “Pa said Slumach was half Nanaimo Indian—that’s still Salish, but they live on Vancouver Island—and also half Katzie. If he turned himself in to his nephew, I’ll bet the nephew was on the Katzie side, cause they’re local.”

  “Katzie? As in the village where we left Scott?”

  Trent nodded.

  “I wonder if the medicine man that treated Scott knows Pierre.”

  “The Katzie tribe isn’t that big. I’m guessing they’d know each other.”

  “Good thinking, Trent. We’ll talk to him when we go back for Scott.”

  “I thought we were heading for Denver?”

  He thought about the sense of being watched he’d had all day, decided not to mention it. “We still have to deal with the law over Cole’s murder, so we’ll going back to Katzie first.”

  Clearly this pragmatic approach didn’t appeal to Trent. “And what about Mary?”

  “The mine’s not going anywhere. We’ll find her after we rescue Scott’s niece.”

  “But if Mary’s in need, how can we just ignore her?”

  He’d been trying not to think about that. “We aren’t ignoring her, but sometimes it’s necessary to prioritize.

  Little Sarah’s life may be in danger, Mary’s is not. And we’re Mary’s only hope of seeing a penny from that mine. If we’re killed, do you think whoever gets the map next will care about who the rightful owner might be?”

  “Oh.”

  “Indeed.”

  SIXTEEN

  Inside the World newsroom, pandemonium raged. Granville ran his eyes across a row of heads until he spotted the flash of red. Cutting between battered desks stacked with paper, he headed for Tim O’Hearn’s corner.

  O’Hearn looked up, his expression changing from irritation to relief when he saw who it was. “You’re alive. Good.” His eyes moved past him. “And Trent, too.”

  “I can tell you’ve been talking to Emily,” Granville said with a grin. “She seems to have been somewhat concerned.”

  “Concerned is an understatement, but she had reason. I don’t like what I’ve been hearing.”

  “I can’t say I cared for it either. Especially when she brought in Gipson. Did you know Emily and Clara confronted the man?”

  “Confronted Gipson? Just the two of them? If I’d known, I’d have…” O’Hearn seemed at a loss for words. “I’d have tried to talk them out of it, I guess.”

  “I suspect tried is the operative word. Emily can be very determined.”

  “At least I could have gone with them.”

  “Hmmm. In any case, I’ve come to trade information and ask a favor.”

  A particularly loud demand for more typewriter ribbon from somewhere behind them had Granville looking around the crowded, noisy room. “But not here. This lacks both privacy and ambience.”

  O’Hearn laughed. “Nice choice of words. Sure you don’t want a job as a reporter?”

  “Thanks, but no. Can I buy you a drink somewhere quieter?”

  “Softening me up for your request, whatever it is?”

  “Absolutely. Can you take the time?”

  “It depends. Is there a story in it for me?”

  “Eventually, yes.” He glanced around him at what he suspected were several pairs of listening ears, despite their industry and the general hubbub. “Once I’ve completed what I need to do.”

  “Then lead on.”

  Once they were comfortably ensconced in a nearby tavern, shots of whiskey in front of them, Granville filled O’Hearn in.

  With every sentence, the reporter grew more excited. Finally he whipped out his notepad and pencil, as if unable to restrain himself any longer.

  “A missing heir?” he asked. “And the rightful owner was murdered by your client?”

  “So it appears. You know you can’t write a word of this until the heir is found and the mine secured?”

  O’Hearn waved off his concerns. “I know, I know. Didn’t I do you right over the Jackson affair? And what a story that made! It would’ve been even better if I’d done a half dozen articles building up to that trial, but I didn’t breathe a word to anyone.”

  Granville nodded. “Which is why I’m trusting you again.”

  “So what can I do?”

  “I need to know exactly who is trying to kill us. Can you find out who received a telegram from Port Hammond, and what it said?”

  “I can try.”

  “If you don’t want us dead before you get your story, you’ll need to do better than try,” Trent cut in.

  He grinned. “The boy has a point, though he may be a tad heavy handed about it. We need to know who’s after us if we’re going to stop them.”

  “Then why don’t you talk to Benton? There isn’t much goes on in this town that he doesn’t know about, and he should still be feeling a little grateful to you after what you did for his Franny.”

  At the mention of the fan dancer, Trent’s face lit up. “Good idea,” he said. “And we should probably go to see Miss Frances first.”

  “Oh, so that photo of Mary hasn’t lessened your appreciation for her. I was beginning to think you counted the world well lost for love,” Granville said.

  “I consider Miss Frances a friend,” said Trent with a grave dignity that went oddly with his thin features and gangly frame. “And I’m not in love with a picture, I just appreciate her beauty.”

  “Of course,” he said, holding back a strong desire to laugh, but not wanting to hurt the lad’s feelings.

  He really shouldn’t have teased him; he remembered all too well the pangs of calf love, and how real they had felt. What had been her name, anyway? Mabel? She had been the gardener’s daughter and most unsuitable, but very fair. He smiled at the memory.

  “And you needn’t laugh,” Trent said. “It only makes sense to find out as much as possible before confronting Mr. Benton.”

  “Not that any amount of information will make dealing with Benton a safe enterprise,” Granville said. The man had too much power for that. And too much to lose. But unless it was Benton himself who ordered their death, talking with him should be safe enough.

  Trent looked rather shocked. “But Mr. Benton likes you,” he said. “He wouldn’t order you killed.”

  “He’d do exactly that, if for some reason it benefited him to do so. We respect each other’s strengths, but that means nothing at all if I should happen to stand in the way of something he wants or needs.”

  “But Miss Frances—you saved her brother.”

  “Hmmm. And Benton was suitably grateful, which is why he might assist us now. Assuming it doesn’t cost him anything.”

  He looked from Trent’s flattened expression to O’Hearn’s interested one, and raised his glass in a toast.

  “Here’s to dealing with underworld kingpins,” he said. “It keeps life interesting.”

  It was late afternoon by the time they reached the Carlton, where Frances Scott performed. The evening performances wouldn’t begin for several hours, so with a nod to the bartender, they climbed the sturdy pine steps to the second floor and the dressing rooms.

  With a glance at Trent’s eager face, Granville rapped once.

  Frances had clearly been rehearsing for the evening show. Despite the fact that she wore only a thin robe over her glittery, revealing costume, she opened the door wide. “Granville. Trent. Come in.”

  It was very different from her first chilly reception of him, Granville thought as
he followed her into the scented dressing room. And she was much happier to see them than he expected Benton would be.

  Frances gestured them to a pair of dainty chairs and Granville sat down gingerly.

  “Have you news of little Sarah?” she asked.

  He couldn’t face raising her hopes, then disappointing her again. “I’m sorry, no.”

  The eager light faded from her eyes.

  “How is Lizzie doing?”

  “She’s eating some, and she hasn’t smoked opium in nearly two weeks. But her eyes…” She drew in a shaky breath. “If only there were word of the child.”

  “I’ll be returning to Denver in a few days. I’m hopeful we might uncover a lead.”

  It was the most he could bring himself to say, and perhaps would be enough to help Lizzie, at least a little. Through the ravages of the drug, the spark of who she had once been still flickered. He hoped she could continue to resist the drug’s lure, but without strong incentive, he knew it unlikely. “How is she resisting the opium?”

  “When the craving gets too bad, she takes a little laudanum. It helps her sleep.”

  “It’s still opium.” He knew several society ladies who were quietly addicted to their laudanum. It might be more socially acceptable than smoking opium, but he wasn’t sure the effect was much different on someone as far gone as Lizzie.

  “I know. But she’s sunk so deep, without laudanum to take the edge off the craving, I don’t know that she’d survive. And she’s so frail, Granville. It frightens me how frail she is.”

  She shook her head and looked intently at him. “But that’s not why you’re here. And you look awful. What has happened?”

  Granville gave her a quick summary, assuring her that her brother was recovering well.

  Every trace of softness vanished from Frances’ lovely face “What can I do?”

  “Nothing at the moment. Scott’s being cared for and recovering well.”

  She pushed back a lock of bright hair. “No, what can I do to help you? You’re here to track those villains, aren’t you? The ones that shot at both of you?”

  “Yes, in part. I gather there are rumors we have the map. I wondered if you’ve heard anything here?”

  She bit the tip of one finger as she thought. “Nothing that points towards you and Scott, but let me ask around. You’re staying in town?”

  “For the moment.”

  “Don’t leave without coming to see me again, then. I might have news.”

  “Be careful, and don’t put yourself in danger. These men are killers.”

  “They tried to kill my brother,” she said fiercely.

  For a moment she reminded him of a falcon, hooded and jessed, but still a wild creature. “I’ll stop back before I leave town, then.”

  “Make sure you do,” Frances said.

  An hour later, on the other side of town, Robert Benton leaned back in his chair, and regarded Granville. “So why come to me?” he asked.

  “Anything happening in this town, I figure you know about it.”

  “And why would I tell you?”

  He wouldn’t be the one to mention Frances. Granville shrugged, letting the reason lie unspoken between them.

  Benton’s eyes narrowed and his face took on a hard cast. He sipped the brandy Granville had declined, then placed the snifter back on his desk. “I’ve heard rumors,” he said at last.

  “About?”

  “Lost mines. Your name has been mentioned.”

  “Oh?”

  “Hmmm. I gather you have ownership of a certain map. And you’ve made some enemies in this town.”

  “Not bad for someone who’s been here less than two months.”

  Benton returned his smile. “You have a certain—impact. You could do very well working for me, you know.”

  “Is that an offer?”

  “Would you consider one?”

  Granville shook his head, glad he was in a position to refuse. “I’d be honored, but no. Scott would never forgive me if I gave up on our business now.”

  “You won’t reconsider? You might find it less hazardous working for me.”

  He’d take his chances. “I’m content with my current occupation, thanks. Besides, I don’t think Emily’s father would be too pleased with such a change.”

  Benton smiled at that, then watched Granville in silence for a moment. “I know nothing more about the troubles you’re having with your lost mine. I may have news of the child, however, though it’s only unfounded rumors at the moment.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’ve heard of a ring that traffics in babies, stretching from Chicago to Denver and perhaps as far west as San Francisco, though I’ve not been able to confirm any of it.”

  “What? How?”

  “Adoption laws are getting tighter in some states, so there’s money to be made in providing would-be parents with desirable infants.”

  Granville scowled, everything in him revolted at the idea of money made in such a way. “You have a contact?”

  “I have a name, a lawyer by the name of Baxter, Darren Baxter, in Denver. But tread carefully, he has a reputation for deviousness.”

  “So do I.”

  Benton nodded, his expression unreadable. “You and Scott are headed for Denver?”

  “Scott isn’t well enough to travel, but as soon as I’m sure he and Emily are safe, I’ll be on the first train south.” He eyed Benton. “Anything else I should know about who might be trying to kill us?”

  “I’d go carefully, if I were you.”

  Granville heard the warning, but decided to push anyway. “You’ve heard no details at all? No names of who might be involved?”

  “No. I can’t help you, I’m afraid.”

  Can’t or won’t? “I see.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Clara put a hand to her bonnet as a brisk wind tilted it forward. “I think this was a mistake, Emily.”

  “Yes,” Emily said, giving her friend a quick smile. She waved a hand at the imposing stone building that housed the Province newspaper. “Looking at still more newspaper stories does seem pointless. We should be looking for the photographer who took that picture.”

  “No, I meant buying this bonnet was a mistake,” Clara said. “It matches my coat perfectly, but every time the wind blows it twists around. It’s very frustrating.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Clara, there are more important things than fashion.”

  “Not to me,” Clara said with a serious face but a glint of laughter in her eye. “And you promised we’d look at the new dress fabrics.”

  “Yes, but only after you help me find the photographer.”

  “You mean after I help you look for the photographer.”

  “You don’t expect us to succeed?”

  “Emily, we know already that he doesn’t work in Vancouver. No telephone listing, remember? And I want to see those fabrics today, before they sell out.”

  “I know the studio isn’t in Vancouver now, but I don’t know how old that photo is.”

  “I thought you said it was recent.”

  “Oh, that was because Trent looked so upset.”

  “When he thought an older photo meant the girl would be too old for him? He did look smitten, didn’t he? I thought it rather cute.”

  “Don’t let him hear you say that,” Emily said with a smile. “I think we need to visit the library.”

  “But that could take hours! Emily, if we look at fabric first, I won’t need to hurry you away from the library. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

  Nearly an hour later, they stood outside the new brick YMCA building, peering up at the heavy doors. A beaming Clara clutched a large brown parcel. Emily couldn’t blame her; the maroon silk she had chosen set off her pale skin and dark hair dramatically.

  “I’m sure Mr. O’Hearn will appreciate you in that color,” she said. “I just hope we’ll have long enough here—I hadn’t realized they were only open until four.”

  “Are you sure
this is the right place?” Clara asked. “It doesn’t look like a library.”

  “The article I read said the Free Library had just moved here.”

  “As long as you’re not expecting too much from a library housed in a gymnasium.”

  Emily laughed. “The library is in a separate room, and I understand it’s very complete. Why, already they need more space. They’ve approached Mr. Carnegie, the American philanthropist, about funding an entire new building for it.”

  “Are you sure they allow entry to women?”

  “It’s called the Free Library, after all. Press the buzzer again, please Clara. Perhaps they just didn’t hear us.”

  “Perhaps they have gone for the day,” Clara said, but she reached out a gloved finger and did as Emily asked. Then she regarded the end of her gloved finger. “Soot,” she said in a disdainful voice. “If they have a cleaning woman, she’s not doing her job.”

  Emily was about to say that a little soot was to be expected in a city heated by coal when the door creaked open.

  “Well, now we know why there was no listing for A.J. Morgan,” Clara said as they strolled back along Hastings Street, raising their voices slightly to be heard over the clip-clop of hooves on cobblestone.

  “Hush Clara, I’m trying to think.” How exactly did one go about finding a photographer who was no longer in business? Emily wondered.

  She gave a little shiver and drew her coat more closely around her. It was getting late, and the wind was rising, damp and cold. The streetlamps would light soon, and her mother would start to worry. They couldn’t do anything further tonight.

  “Thinking isn’t going to get you to New Westminster to find out what happened to that shop. Nor is going to your typewriting class.”

  Clara sounded rather smug about that last, Emily thought. And what was she going to do about her typewriting class?

  She had fought so hard to be allowed to take it, but now helping Granville seemed more important. Yet she did still want to be a typewriter, or at least she thought she did, she amended, remembering with a shudder that harassed looking young man in Mr. Gipson’s office.