by Dani Amore
Tower mounted his horse and they rode to the sheriff’s office, which was empty, but they saw at least a dozen horses tied up outside the Big River Club across the street. They stood side by side, hitched to the post, switching their tails at industrious flies already starting their workday.
Bird and Tower stopped outside the club and tried to see inside the windows. But all they saw were the backs of a substantial group of men that appeared to be standing around a large, centrally located table in the main room.
“Looks like some serious discussion is going on in there,” Bird said.
“Sure does,” Tower said.
“Want to join them? Rile things up a bit?”
Tower pondered the idea. “Probably quite a discussion going on about Mrs. Parker and your pal Axelrod.”
He shifted in his saddle. They were alone in the street but he spoke quietly.
“Let me talk out loud for a minute,” he said.
“The floor is yours, Mr. Tower.”
“So, Bertram Egans comes to town, to take over the parish of Big River. We know from the letters that he had a troubled childhood, and that his life has taken on new meaning. His church secretary says the young man is a fine, upstanding citizen. The rest of the town, however, claims he was the devil himself. One man even claims that Egans practically killed his daughter.”
Tower paused.
“Then, someone kills him. Brutally. Which usually means it’s personal. However, I can’t possibly think of a motive because no one will admit why, according to them, Egans was such a horrible person.”
“In my experience,” Bird said. “The only reason someone won’t openly discuss something like that is when it’s cause for great shame and embarrassment on their part. So, whatever they feel Egans did, it’s something they, too, feel ashamed of.”
Tower thought back to his time working for the detective agency after the war.
“In your opinion, was the handwritten note you found on Axelrod most likely penned by a man?” he asked.
“It sure looked that way. Then again, anyone can write in block letters, if it was a woman trying to look like a man.”
She raised an eyebrow, thinking back to the letter she found in Axelrod’s pocket, signed simply “P.”
“Are you thinking the P stood for Parker? As in Mrs. Parker?”
Tower shrugged his shoulders. “The thought crossed my mind. Let’s entertain the notion that whoever killed Bertram Egans also killed Verhooven. Which would mean that Verhooven was most likely murdered because of what he either saw or did around the time he came upon Egans’ body. Because if he had some kind of information, he could testify about it in a court of law and perhaps name names or provide clues as to the killer’s identity.”
“Logical,” Bird said.
“And now, we’ve got the man who killed Verhooven—Axelrod—dead. And on his body, a note ostensibly from the person who hired him to kill Verhooven, signed with a P. His body is found next to a woman whose last name starts with a P.”
“Where are you going with this?” Bird asked.
“The big question in my mind is what is the connection between Bertram Egans and Mrs. Parker? It would be too big of an anomaly if she was completely unconnected, other than the location of both crimes.”
Bird pulled a whiskey bottle from her saddlebag and took a drink. She gestured toward Tower with the bottle. “Unless Verhooven was killed for some other reason. The guy was a hermit miner. The perfect kind of person to rob. And we know that I killed Axelrod, not whoever may or may not have hired him to do anything, which also makes the pairing of the two dead bodies all the stranger.”
Tower shook his head.
“Know what else I find mighty peculiar?” he asked.
“What’s that?”
“How come there’s no search party? No posse? No mad scramble to look for the killers? The bodies were brought into town in the middle of the night.” He lifted his chin toward the Big River Club. “And now they’re in there, talking away. It’s almost like they know the killer isn’t out there.”
“They think he’s right here in Big River,” Bird said.
“It would appear that way.”
“You know what?” he asked. “I think you had the right idea. Let’s go in there and see what kind of trouble we can get ourselves into.”
“Let’s hope the bar is open,” Bird said.
Thirty-Two
A thick haze of cigar smoke filled the great room of the Big River Club. Tower also caught the strong smell of coffee and liquor, as well as that of the men who’d been up all night consuming both.
A majority of heads turned upon their entrance. Bird broke off and strode toward the bar where the bartender was plying his trade.
Tower headed straight for the knot of men surrounding an expansive round table. He counted six men seated in a semicircle, all dressed as if they were at an important business meeting. The rest of the group was assembled before them, as if they were awaiting instructions.
Tower instantly recognized two of the six seated men as the Conway brothers, the attorneys who’d questioned him along with Sheriff Chesser. The man seated in the middle was a huge figure, nearly as wide as two full-grown men. Tower figured he weighed at least four hundred pounds, all of which strained against his dark gray suit, and spilled out of the top of his shirt collar. He had enormous, thick hands and a square head. His complexion was a shade of red, as if his heart was overworked just pumping blood through the giant expanse that was his body.
Tower noticed the older Conway brother register his appearance. He nodded toward someone in the group, and soon Chesser, as well as Bird’s old friends from the hotel, Henry Jones and Mr. Seven, stood before him.
“This is a private meeting,” the little one, Jones, said. “Reserved only for members of the club. Do you belong to the club, Mr. Tower?”
“No, I don’t,” Tower said. “Do you?”
Jones chuckled. “I am very much a member of this club, as is my associate here.”
“So the club has no standards, is that what you’re saying?” Tower asked. He smiled up at the big man. Behind them, Tower noticed that everyone had stopped talking in order to listen to the exchange.
“You!” a voice boomed from behind them.
The crowd parted as the huge man from the table was now standing.
“Bring him up here,” he said.
The crowd parted even more, opening up a direct path from Tower to the big circular table.
Tower approached the corpulent man.
“How dare you barge in here and try to cause trouble,” he growled. His voice was as thick and bloated as his body. “I just lost my wife, for God’s sake!”
“I apologize, sir, I had no intention of—”
“You certainly did! Now I could have you tarred and feathered and run out of here like a dog. You, and your whore over there at the bar.”
All heads turned toward Bird. She raised her beer mug to the group.
“Good morning, gents!” she said with a big smile. “Cheers!”
The group turned back toward the man whom Tower now understood to be Joseph Parker.
“Get them both out of here,” Parker said. “And you,” he pointed a finger the size of a sausage at Tower. “If you stick your nose in this town’s business again, it’ll be the last thing you do. Are we clear?”
Silence hung over the room.
“What are all of you trying to hide?” Tower asked.
The crowd erupted, and Tower allowed himself to be pushed across the room and out the front door. Bird followed him out, still holding her beer.
“Dammit,” she said. “I forgot to ask if I could join.”
Thirty-Three
“Well, I was going to try to have a talk with Mr. Parker, but it appears that he wouldn’t be very open to that,” Tower said.
“Yeah, he’s still in mourning, obviously,” Bird responded. She had walked out of the Big River Club with her mug of beer,
and now drank from it as they sat on their horses in the street.
“Something’s been bothering me,” Tower said.
“They probably sell ointment for that at the general store.”
Bird finished her beer and threw her mug back toward the Big River Club. It landed at the base of the front steps and shattered into pieces. Someone peeked their head out of the front door of the club, then went back inside deeming it not worthy of closer investigation.
“If Ronald Hale doesn’t have a daughter,” Tower continued. “Why did he make up the story and take a swing at you? Seems to me, there could be only one reason: someone put him up to it. And if that’s the case, why don’t we track him down and confront him? Maybe we can get him to cough up a name.”
“We’ve got to find that damn reporter, too,” Bird said. “Where the hell did he go?”
“This town has a way of making people disappear,” Tower said. “They should have named it Big Mystery instead of Big River.”
They rode back to the center of town, asked around about Ronald Hale, and finally got directions to his house. When they arrived at the ramshackle little building on the outskirts of town, a spotted dog barked at them from a safe distance away.
Tower knocked on the door.
It opened quickly and a small, wizened man peered out at them. His face was drawn and pinched with eyes that were probably once a brilliant blue but now were dim and red rimmed. Though he was dressed tidily, Bird noticed the man’s clothes were filthy and that the house emitted a strange smell.
“We’re looking for Ronald Hale,” Tower said.
“What do you want?” the man practically shouted at them. He turned his head and cupped his ear with a gnarled hand.
“We want Ronald Hale, do you know where he is?” Tower said in a louder voice.
“This some kind of joke?” The man looked from Tower to Bird, his eyes lingering on Bird. He licked his lips.
“No, it’s not a joke, sir,” Tower said. “Do you know where he is?”
The old man cackled.
“I’m Ronald Hale for golly’s sake!” he said. “What the hell do you want? I’m a busy man!”
Tower looked over at Bird.
“Is there more than one Ronald Hale in this town?” Tower asked.
“Of course not, you damned fool!” the man said. “I’ve lived here all my life and everyone knows me. And they all know I’m one of a kind!”
“Our mistake,” Tower said. “I apologize for the intrusion.”
Hale stepped back and slammed the door shut. The dog started barking at them again.
Thirty-Four
Since their pursuit of the so-called Ronald Hale who had confronted Bird had hit a dead end, they decided to focus their efforts on Roger Jeffire. They quickly learned that not only did the newspaperman live in town but he was also married.
Tower didn’t know why he was so surprised to find out that Roger Jeffire had a wife. Maybe it was the man’s intensity during their initial meeting at the club, or Tower’s own impression that the man was married to his newspaper, or simply the fact that he hadn’t mentioned a wife in their short conversation.
Regardless, they learned that the Jeffires lived on Third Street, just a few blocks from the Big River Bugle office.
They knocked on the door, which was immediately opened by a woman in her fifties, with gray hair pulled back into a tight bun and an anxious expression on her face.
“Oh,” was all she said.
Tower knew from her reaction that Jeffire was still missing. “My name is Tower and this is Bird Hitchcock,” he said. “We were hoping to have a word with Mr. Jeffire.”
The woman stepped back and held the door open for them.
“You may as well come inside. I was hoping to have a word with him, too.”
She led them to a sitting area off of the kitchen. The simple room held a wooden table with four chairs, though it was oddly dominated by a bookshelf that ran the length of the room.
The woman saw Tower studying the books. “It’s Roger’s collection,” she said. “He always says that you can’t spend too much money on books.” She shook her head. “My name’s Martha, by the way. Can I get you something to drink? Some coffee? I have a fresh pot.”
“No thank you, ma’am,” Tower said.
“I’ll take some coffee and if you’ve got a little something to add some kick to it, that would be great,” Bird said.
“I believe we do have something like that,” Martha Jeffire said. “I’ve been known to enjoy a tipple now and then, as well.”
She went to the kitchen.
Tower turned to Bird and whispered. “Why do I get the feeling that she’s looking for her husband, too?”
Bird shrugged her shoulders as Martha Jeffire returned.
“Here we go,” she said, armed with three cups of coffee on a tray.
“I brought you a cup even though said you didn’t want one,” she said to Tower. “I don’t want you feeling left out.”
“Thank you,” Tower said, accepting his cup, noting the delicate white porcelain with its light blue pattern. He thought it looked like an Oriental design.
“It’s from China,” she said, again seeming to read Tower’s thoughts. “Not sure which dynasty, but I love Chinese porcelain. It’s probably good we live out here in Big River, and not back east or in San Francisco. I’d burn through our money faster than Roger could make it.”
“Do you know where Roger is?” Tower asked. “He was supposed to meet us last night at the paper’s office, but he was nowhere to be found.”
Martha Jeffire shook her head. “When he gets something between his teeth, he’s unstoppable. Doesn’t matter how many people he’s agreed to meet at a certain time. So don’t feel bad. He must have gotten wind of something and took off after it. He’s like a mad dog that way. Stories come first, people second.” Her voice took on a heavy quality and Tower wondered if she was including herself in that statement.
“Probably the sign of a good newspaperman,” Tower said.
“Any idea what story he might have gotten wind of?” Bird asked. “There was a pretty big one last night out at Killer’s Draw.”
“I heard about that. Mrs. Parker, right?”
“That’s what they’re saying,” Tower said.
Martha Jeffire shook her head. “Never met her, but I’d heard good things about her. When will all this killing stop?”
Tower tried the coffee. It was excellent and he was glad Martha had brought him a cup. “Did Roger say anything the last time you saw him, or give any indication of where he might be headed?”
Martha Jeffire leaned back her chair and folded her arms across her chest. “Before I met and fell in love with my little bulldog reporter, I was going to be a lawyer. Instead, I developed a hobby. I would try to judge the character of people I just met. Funny thing was, the more I practiced, the better I got. And I can tell you from over thirty years’ experience, you two seem like good folks.”
She turned to Bird. “You seem a little on the wild side, but in a good way.”
“That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, ma’am,” Bird answered.
“So, I’m going to be honest with you, even though Roger would probably not be happy with me. He doesn’t like to give any information out about a story before he’s had a chance to publish it.”
She poured herself another cup of coffee, went into the kitchen, and added a shot of whiskey to it, and did the same to Bird’s.
“Roger went over to Harlan’s Crossing, about a half day’s ride north of here.”
“Do you know why?”
Martha Jeffire nodded.
“He wanted to talk to your dead preacher’s girlfriend.”
Thirty-Five
“Let’s talk about this at the saloon,” Bird said. She led Tower over to the Silver Bucket Saloon and took a seat at a table in the corner with her back to the wall. This was the kind of saloon she spent the most time in—a noth
ing-fancy kind of place with only one kind of whiskey for sale: cheap.
Tower got a bottle of whiskey and a glass from the bartender, brought it to the table, and put it in front of Bird.
“This one’s on me,” he said.
“Just one glass?” Bird asked. “I thought I was making some progress turning you into a hell-raiser.”
“No, I can’t keep up with you, Bird.” He took a seat and leaned back, stretching his legs out. “I’m not even sure you can keep up with you.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, splashing whiskey into her glass.
“You look kind of pale,” Tower said. His eyes were steady, and Bird momentarily felt unnerved by the compassion she saw. “Are you all right?”
“Jesus Christ, when did you turn into my nanny?” she asked. “I’m just fine, thank you very much.”
Tower held his hands up. “Just thought I’d ask.” He looked around the saloon, then back at Bird. “For some reason, I think Roger Jeffire may have been headed in the right direction.”
“I’ve heard plenty of stories about preachers and some more-than-willing ladies.” Bird said. “I believe they refer to it as tending to the flock?”
“Most preachers are human, too, Bird,” Tower said.
“A man of the cloth is still of the flesh, right?” she asked. She drank the whiskey, felt its raw burn in her throat. She felt the need to cough but swallowed it, not wanting to spray blood in front of Tower.
“I don’t say that because I have any theories on Bertram Egans,” he said. “It’s more that I was impressed with Jeffire. If he felt there was enough evidence to pursue this lead, then there must have been more to it.”
“No one said anything about Egans having a girlfriend, and Mrs. Jeffire didn’t know even know her name,” Bird said. She tossed down her whiskey and refilled her glass. “Then again, they haven’t really said anything about him except how happy they are he’s dead.”
“I’m skeptical he had a girlfriend. But there was some reason Jeffire went over there.”
“So, why aren’t we on our way to Harlan’s Crossing?”