“I should never have allowed you to watch those terrible Three Stooges after school. Don’t you think I’m uncomfortable, too, in this getup?”
I grunted, then spotted the deputy striding across the park lawn. “Cheese it!”
The lanky but muscular Dugan was wearing civilian clothes—a yellow polo shirt and blue jeans. Tucked under one arm was the framed poster.
As he approached the bench, Tex drawled, “Mistah Dugan, thank ya’ll for agreein’ to meet me here. Ah do so enjoy a beautiful sunset. Ah hear Mark Twain praised these Serenity sunsets. We have lovely ones ah-selves in Galveston, but this may rival it some. Hope y’all don’t mind me not risin’—lumbago, yuh know.”
She was pushing it, already embroidering the script.
“Not at all,” Daryl said, and leaned the poster against the front of the bench, then sat.
“Ahh,” Tex said, eyeing the framed poster, propped between them, “mind if ah have a look?”
“Go right ahead.”
Tex picked it up and studied it. “Excellent. Excellent. Ah assume there’s a letter of provuh-nance. . . .”
“Inside.”
“Might ah remove the paper for a look?”
“Be my guest.”
Tex removed the paper sealing the back of the frame, and gave the document within a close look. “Fine, fine . . . ’pears in order.”
Dugan now examined his end of the trade, taking the box, extracting the gun, examining it closely, along with its letter. While this probable murderer had the gun in his hand, I could feel something cold running up and down my spine, and it wasn’t discarded soda.
Returning both weapon and paper to the box, the deputy said, “I do have a few questions.”
“Shoot,” Tex replied affably.
But please don’t.
“Why are you giving up this gun for something less valuable?”
“Why, value is in the eye of the beholduh, Mr. Dugan. There is only one Earp O.K. Corral gun, and only one campaign poster for the great man’s failed sheriff run is known to exist. That’s why Judd Pickett never put a monetary figure on any of his treasures. And ah value the poster more than the gun for two reasons.”
“Which are?”
“One, ah don’t trade in firearms anymore—not since mah store got busted into three times, and guns were all the thieves took.” Another pause. “Two, the belief that this gun was used by Earp at the O.K. Corral has been questioned by some experts.”
Dugan nodded. “Those who think he carried a Colt forty-five or a rifle that morning.”
“Exactly.” Tex sighed. “Even though reliable evidence has surfaced that he had this Smith and Wesson Model Three, the recent sale of a Colt forty-five at auction for three-hundred-thousand, claimin’ to be the gun, continues to muddy the waters.”
“I think he carried this gun,” the deputy said.
“As did Judd Pickett.”
Mother, pronouncing the P in Pickett with too much verve, caused half of her mustache to flap loose.
But Dugan had been gazing down at his soon-to-be possession, and Mother quickly pressed the mustache back in place.
“Then do we have a trade, mah friend?” Tex drawled.
“We do,” Dugan replied, offering his hand to shake, which Tex did, perhaps pumping it with a little too much enthusiasm.
One more formality had to be completed, which was for each man to make a notation on the provenance papers that the poster now belonged to Clarence “Tex” Ranger, and the gun to Daryl R. Dugan, with their signatures. Della had taken care of emulating her father’s handwriting on the gun’s letter of provenance transferring ownership to Tex Ranger.
This seemed to take forever as I crouched all sticky and uncomfortable in the garbage can. I just have to get out of the sidekick business, I thought.
Then Tex said, “Reminds me of a trade ah once made with a Pawnee Indian. . . .”
Oh, please, Mother, don’t.
“. . . but ah imagine you’re anxious to take your treasure home. Perhaps we should curtail the palaver.”
Phew.
“Yes, if you don’t mind,” Dugan said, standing. “Can I give you a lift somewhere, or . . . ?”
“No, no. But thank ya kindly. Ah’m stayin’ put till the sun sets, to see just what ol’ Sam Clemens was talkin’ about. If you’re ever in Galveston, do stop by the shop. You might find more treasures.”
I waited until the deputy had driven off and was out of sight, before extricating my sticky self from the can. I don’t know whether I was more relieved to see that Mother had safely gotten away with it or just happy not to be one great big piece of garbage anymore.
“What now?” I asked.
Mother said, “Now you return to the shop, dear, but don’t come back for me until you’ve heard from Della that our deputy friend is back home. I’ll sit here and enjoy the sunset. He could always double back to check up on me, you know.”
“And if he does? If he saw through your performance?”
She replied in character: “That’s why ol’ Tex never goes anywhere without his trusty can of mace, sugah.”
I nodded and clomped off, soles of my shoes sticking to the pavement.
Reaching Trash ’n’ Treasures, I went inside where Sushi seemed extra happy to see me—or maybe it was just the sugary syrup.
I was debating going upstairs to the working bathroom to clean up, and exchange my nasty clothes for some vintage ones from our stock, when my cell sounded.
“He’s back,” Della said, then asked, “You’ll call me after you compare the letters?”
“Yes. But give us some time. We’ll be going back to our house to examine them.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
I scooped Sushi up, locked the shop’s front door, and went to the car to go pick up Mother.
Once home, I headed straight for the shower, while Mother got out of her disguise, shedding the male clothes and using spirit gum to remove her fairly elaborate makeup. We reconvened fifteen minutes later in the dining room at the Duncan Phyfe table, where she put the letter of provenance from the Gabby Hayes photo next to the one from the Earp poster.
We stood, leaning over them, eyes going from one to the other and back again. We were not forensic experts in handwriting comparison, obviously, but we really didn’t have to be.
The first part of the photo’s letter, written in the 1950s by Judd when he first got the eight-by-ten, was in a strong hand, as was the signature. The added sentence saying Daryl Dugan was now the owner, along with Judd’s signature, was similarly strong, written before his handwriting had gotten shaky.
The first part of the poster’s letter, written by Judd when he got it just before his death, was with a shaky hand. Yet the added sentence saying Daryl Dugan was now the owner, and signed by Judd, was strong.
But it, too, should have been shaky.
Mother arrived at the same conclusion as me. She said, “Daryl traced the ownership sentence from the photo’s letter of provenance onto the poster’s letter.”
I placed one letter on top of the other and held them both up to the ceiling light.
“Yup,” I said. “That’s exactly what he did.” I returned the papers to the table. “We need to take this to Rudder, or Tony.”
Mother frowned. She didn’t like relinquishing the reins of any investigation, let alone one so close to its conclusion. But she didn’t disagree, at least not out loud.
“Anyway,” I said, “I better call Della.”
I did, sharing with Pickett’s daughter the conclusion we’d reached, but adding that the documents would have to be examined by a police handwriting expert, who could substantiate our theory in court.
“But that’ll take time,” she pointed out.
“Yes, but it’s not like Dugan’s going anywhere. And he doesn’t know what we put over on him tonight. Do you have a better idea?”
Nothing.
“Hello?” I said to the phone. “. . . Della?”
<
br /> We’d been cut off. I redialed her number, but it went to voice mail.
Turning to Mother, I said, “I don’t have a good feeling about this. Daryl lives down the street from Della, you know.”
“Why does that concern you, dear?”
“Think about it. I essentially just told her Dugan was responsible for her father’s death.”
Mother frowned. “Surely you’re not implying she might . . . take matters into her own hands?”
“I have no idea. I don’t know her that well. But I do know she loved her father. What if she’s going over to Dugan’s house, to confront Daryl? Or what if he suspects her of working against him? That could be why I got cut off from Della.”
We stared at each other.
Then Mother said, “If she confronts him, or he her, the worst that could happen is that he’d become aware he was hoodwinked tonight. We still have the proof in hand that he’s our killer.”
“But Della could be in real danger. Like you say, he’s a killer.”
No-nonsense now, Mother said, “She could be in danger indeed. Let’s go, dear.”
We left Sushi behind, curled up on the carpet, still in her bandana, a tired little cowhand.
The night was dark with no moon, and I was driving too fast, so fast that I nearly missed the entrance to Stoneybrook.
Della’s house was the second one on the right, and I slowed down.
“No car in the drive,” Mother said.
“Could be in the closed garage,” I replied, and continued on.
The development had no streetlamps, only the lights from other houses to help me find the way to Dugan’s home, where I was relieved to see no other vehicles except Daryl’s truck and wife Candy’s car—both parked in the drive.
I pulled over to the curb and powered down my window.
Lights were on in the living room, and an upstairs bedroom, but all seemed perfectly normal.
“Maybe we overreacted,” I said.
“So it would appear,” Mother allowed.
I was about to pull away when two muffled shots came from inside the house. The front door swung open, and Daryl staggered out, hands holding his chest, blood spreading across his T-shirt like an awful blossom.
I watched, stunned, as the deputy stumbled down the steps, lurched a few feet, then fell face down on the grass.
While I remained frozen behind the wheel, Mother was already on her cell, giving the 911 dispatcher information.
Then, ignoring my protests to stay in the car, she got out and strode over toward the fallen man. Like any good sidekick, I followed her.
She got down on her knees beside the deputy, took one of his hands, and felt for a pulse.
“He’s still alive,” she said, adding, “but probably not for long.”
Barely hearing her, I was looking at Candy, who was silhouetted in the doorway, a hand behind her back.
As I edged toward the house, her figure slowly retreated within, as if the home were swallowing her up.
A few moments passed, while I considered my options. One was just staying here with Mother and the fallen Daryl. But somewhat against my judgment, I went up the stoop steps, then inside. I paused in the entryway, greeted by deafening silence. Then slowly, hesitantly, I made my way up the half flight to the living room.
In the middle of the room stood Candy, as usual in tight jeans and a low-cut tee, her long, pretty face even longer than usual. The blond woman stood staring at the coffee table in front of her, where a cell phone rested. Her feet were bare, toenails painted a bright blood red. Her right arm hung loose at her side, but the revolver in her hand was held tight—the Smith and Wesson Model 3.
I stood frozen, wondering if I should back down the stairs—she looked dazed but dangerous.
I said, “Candy—are you all right?”
She blinked, looking at me, clearly noticing my presence for the first time. Then she suddenly seemed to notice the gun, as well, lifting it, the barrel angled my way. Chilled, I took a small, tentative step back, and then she dropped the gun, as if it were molten, and it thudded to the carpet.
Rather numbly she sat on the sofa. As I went to sit next to her, I toe-nudged the weapon under the sofa.
“What happened?” I asked her. “There’s . . . no one else here, is there?”
“No. Just me.”
“So . . . did you do this, Candy?”
Her nod and shrug were oddly unconcerned, but her blue eyes were damp. “Daryl was going to divorce me, Brandy,” she said.
“He told you that?”
Her eyes went to the cell phone on the coffee table; her expression was accusatory. “No, she did. Said they’d been having an affair, and that after he became sheriff they were going to get married.”
I leaned forward, picked up the cell, checked the ID on the last incoming call, then replaced it.
Candy was saying, “Not fair. Not right. Not after what I’d done for him.”
“What . . . what did you do for him?”
“Well, I got rid of Harriet,” she said, “didn’t I?”
“You tampered with the oxygen tank?”
Candy nodded. “I waited till the nurse with the pill cart had gone, then I came in through the patio. Harriet was napping in the chair, and I removed the washer on the valve seal. But I almost got caught when the manager came knocking, and barely made it out of there.”
“Did Daryl ask you to do that?”
She shrugged again. “Well, he had to be somewhere else that morning, didn’t he? So no one would think he was involved.”
“Why did Harriet pose a threat?”
“She was going to tell Sheriff Rudder how Daryl got the poster.”
“How did she know how he got it?”
“She overheard Blake telling Wanda. She was a real busybody out at that Sunny Meadow place, you know.”
Sirens could be heard in the distance, whines growing to screams.
Candy’s eyes turned frightened. “Brandy, what should I do? This all got so . . . so out of hand.”
Yeah. Didn’t it though. Yet somehow I felt just a little sorry for this awful woman.
“Get a good criminal lawyer,” I advised.
I don’t know why I felt any pity for her. She killed Harriet, and could have killed me. But there was something sad, even pathetic, about how she’d set her sights on her idea of the good life, climbing one pitiful rung up the status ladder at a time, falling off before she’d achieved it.
Two uniformed officers with whom I was well-acquainted—Scott Munson, tall and bony with a squashed oval face, and Mia Cordona, a black-haired beauty who’d once been my close friend—came up into the living room, sidearms drawn.
I stood, and told them, “The gun’s under the couch. The murder weapon. Careful with it. It’s old, and a valuable antique.”
Mia frowned. “What kind of antique?”
“A loaded one. I’ll be outside.”
And left.
In the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles, paramedics were placing Daryl’s sheet-covered body on a gurney. Mother had been correct—he hadn’t lived long after being shot.
A small crowd of neighbors had gathered in the street, moths drawn to the light.
Among them was Della.
I walked over to her.
The faintest bitter smile edged her lips. “Looks like he got what was coming to him,” she said.
“With your help, he did.”
Her laugh was a nasty snort. “How did I help?”
“By calling that woman and pretending to be her husband’s lover.”
“Who says I did?”
“She does. And I recognized your number on her cell.”
Della raised her chin defiantly. “I’m not sorry I did it.”
“I don’t suppose you are,” I said, “right now.”
But she might be, later—her rash act of revenge could very well come back to haunt her.
I walked away to find Mother. For a change the
sidekick had a story to tell.
A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip
Expect large crowds at popular white elephant sales, so bring along patience, a sense of humor, and tenacity. Mother also brings a hat pin to move the crowd along.
Chapter Twelve
Destiny Rides Again
A few days later, Sheriff Rudder and Chief Cassato came to our house at Candidate-for-Sheriff Borne’s request for an early morning get-together. Snagging both men before either of their workdays began was quite a feat, but Mother managed to lure them with an offer of homemade chocolate babka, from the recipe from Mrs. Goldstein.
Mother sat at the head of the table, Rudder and Tony on the left, me on the right across from them. Sushi was positioned beneath the table waiting for any crumbs that might drop. Mother, of course, was looking for whatever factual tidbits she could shake loose from her guests.
After the babka had been served and the coffee poured, Mother said, “Thank you, gentlemen, for taking time away from your busy schedules to clear up a few things.”
As a huge fan of the Perry Mason television show, Mother said her favorite part of each episode came in the closing few minutes, with what she called the “loose ends” gathering. Perry and Della and Paul Drake would come together in the office or some favorite restaurant, post-trial, and either Paul or Della would say, “There’s still one thing I don’t understand. . . .”
Mother, of course, had more than just one question, and directed the first to the sheriff.
“Has the investigation into pharmaceutical abuse at Sunny Meadow been completed?” she asked.
Rudder returned his fork to the plate where a large chunk of babka was already half-eaten. “It has. Blake Ferrell, Wanda Mercer, and Joan Lindle were all involved in selling controlled drugs, mostly painkillers. Joan cooked the books, Wanda either substituted the pills or stole them, and Blake sold the contraband through former jailhouse contacts.”
Just as Mother had speculated.
She asked, “I assume Miss Lindle is under lock and key?”
Tony nodded. “And so far has been cooperative.”
“Perhaps she’ll make a good prisoner,” Mother said cheerfully, “when she’s transferred to one of our state penitentiaries. I’m sure the prison hospital is always in need of trained staff.”
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