Death in the Family

by J. R. Roberts

  “Then it had to be him.”

  “Is he part of the mayor’s security?”

  “No,” Murphy said.

  “Then he works for Perryman?”

  “No.”

  “Then . . . who does he work for?”

  “Anybody who’ll pay him, like Willie.”

  “So then somebody hired him to kill Willie.”

  “Probably.”

  “But who?”

  “We’re in the same situation as we were with Willie,” Murphy said. “We’ll need to find Jess to ask him.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “No,” Murphy said. “Nobody does. I think he just lies down wherever he is when he gets tired.”

  “What about eating?”

  “He manages.”

  “So when you see him around town, what’s he doing?”

  “Usually,” Murphy said, “he’s ridin’ in or ridin’ out. For a big man, he moves real quietly.”

  “So I just have to go out and see if I spot him.”

  “I guess.”

  “Does he have a friend?”

  Murphy thought a moment, then brightened and said, “Maybe just one.”

  “Who?”

  “His name’s Caleb Stone.”

  “And what’s Caleb do?”

  “Well,” Murphy said, “I guess you’d call him the town drunk.”

  * * *

  When trying to find the town drunk, you at least had some idea of where to look.

  “Where’s he drink?” Clint asked.

  “Everywhere,” Murphy said. “Every saloon.”

  “The Crystal Chandelier?”

  “No, not there,” Murphy said. “They don’t let him in. But everywhere else. So I guess if anyone knows where Jess lives, it’ll be Caleb.”

  “Then we’ve got to find Caleb.”

  “Let’s just hope we find him alive.”

  “Who would want to kill him?”

  Murphy shrugged. “Nobody,” he said. “Unless somebody else figures out he’s our only way to find Jess Bowen.”

  “Then we’d better find him before that happens.”

  * * *

  They left the office and split up to check the saloons, or anyplace else Caleb could get a drink. That made Clint think of Maddy’s. He decided to check there first, and look in on the boy at the same time. And Lily.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Cardwell said when he opened the door. “I suppose you want to see Lily?”

  “I want to see the boy,” Clint said, “and talk to Lily, yes.”

  “Yeah, well, you better come in.”

  Clint wondered what was between Lily and Cardwell, and if the man knew about what was now between Lily and Clint.

  “Cardwell,” Clint said inside, “do know Caleb Stone?”

  “The drunk? Sure. Why?”

  “Does he ever come here?”

  “No,” Cardwell said. “Lily doesn’t allow him in here. He’s always drunk, and he smells. None of the girls wanna touch him.”

  “I can’t blame them, if that’s the case,” Clint said.

  “You wanna see Lily? Or the boy?”

  “The boy.”

  “Come on.”

  Clint followed Cardwell up the stairs to a different room than last time. The boy was on the bed, playing with two of the girls.

  “I’ll get Lily,” Cardwell said.

  Clint nodded and the man left the room.

  “How’s he doing, girls?” he asked.

  “He’s great,” one girl, a small brunette, said. “He’s such a happy boy.”

  “What about you, handsome?” the other girl, a redhead, asked. “Are you a happy boy?” She got up, approached him, and put her hands on his arm. “Or do you wanna be?”

  “I’ll have to pass, I’m afraid,” Clint said. “I’m just here to check on him.”

  “He’s good,” she said, “but I should go and get him something to drink.”

  She left, leaving Clint alone with the brunette and the boy. Clint moved to the bed and got down on one knee.

  “How you doing, buddy?” he asked, reaching his hand out. The boy grabbed his thumb and held on tight. “Yeah, you’re doing good. Whatever they’re feeding you is doing you good.”

  “He’s doing great,” Lily said as she entered the room. “But he’s really happy to see you.”

  She knelt down next to him, pressed her hip to his.

  “What brings you here?” she asked. “Just checking on your boy?”

  “I had some questions about Caleb Stone.”

  “Stone. He’s not allowed in here.”

  “That’s what Cardwell told me.”

  “Yeah, well, he smells. Why are you looking for him?”

  “There are just some questions I have for him,” Clint said. He eased his thumb out of the boy’s grip and stood up. “I’ve got to go.”

  “You want Caleb Stone, you better check the saloons.”

  “I intend to,” he said. “I just thought I’d start here and check on the boy.”

  They went out into the hall.

  “Just on the boy?” she asked him.

  Clint looked up and down the empty hallway, then kissed Lily quickly.

  “I’ll see you later?” she asked.

  As they went down the stairs, he asked, “What’s going on with you and your man, Cardwell?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “He works for me, that’s all.”

  “Does he know that’s all?”

  She smiled and said, “He knows.”

  “Okay then,” he said at the door. “I’ll see you later on tonight.”

  As he went out the door, she called out, “Don’t get yourself killed before then.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  * * *

  Cardwell watched from a window as Clint left the house, then turned and said to one of the girls, “If Lily’s lookin’ for me, tell her I had somethin’ personal to take care of.”

  “Well, okay,” the girl said as he headed for the back door, “but you’re gonna get yourself fired!”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Clint checked a few of the saloons, and the hotels that had saloons. Of course they knew Caleb Stone, but none of them had seen him recently.

  Before he returned to the sheriff’s office, he got an idea, changed direction, and stopped in at the mercantile store, which he figured sold whiskey by the bottle.

  As he entered, two women were off to one side, looking at a bolt of cloth, and there was a man picking out a cigar.

  “Be right with you, sir,” the middle-aged man behind the counter said.

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “These ladies are before me.”

  The two women—one young, one middle-aged—looked over at him and smiled. He touched the brim of his hat.

  “Come on, Randy,” the clerk said, “pick out a cigar already. I got other customers.”

  “I can’t rush my decision, George,” the customer said. “A man’s cigar is a serious thing.”

  “Well, these ladies are waiting to buy some cloth,” the clerk said. “That’s as serious to them as your cigar is to you.”

  The customer, Randy, turned to the women and said, “I’m sorry, ladies. I just ain’t ready to make a decision.”

  “That’s all right, sir,” the older women said. “We’re not quite ready either.” She looked at the clerk. “George, perhaps you can take care of this young man until we’re ready.”

  The clerk looked at Clint.

  “Are you better at makin’ decisions than these people are, mister?”

  “I don’t have a decision to make,” Clint said. “Just some questions to ask.”

  “Well, that oughtta be easy, then,” George said. �
�What’s your questions?”

  “Do you know Caleb Stone?”

  “I see him around,” George said.

  “Has he been in here recently? Maybe to buy a bottle of whiskey?” Clint asked.

  “Mister,” the other man, Randy, said, “if you knew Caleb, you’d know he ain’t never bought a bottle of whiskey in his life.”

  “Randy’s right,” George said. “Caleb don’t buy his whiskey. At least, not here.”

  “Then you haven’t seen him lately?”

  “Nope.”

  “You?” Clint asked Randy.

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Then I guess I wasted your time, and mine,” Clint said. “Sorry.”

  As he was leaving, Clint heard George saying, “Now, Randy, goddamnit, pick out a cigar.”

  * * *

  He had walked only about half a block when he heard someone behind him.

  “Mister?”

  He turned, saw the young girl trotting toward him.

  “Can I help you?”

  “No,” she said, “but maybe I can help you. My mama told me not to say nothin’, but . . .”

  “Say nothing about what?”

  “Well, Caleb Stone.”

  “What about him?” he asked.

  “Why do you want him?”

  “I just have to ask him a few questions.”

  “About what?”

  “Why does that concern you?” he asked.

  “Because if I’m gonna help you, I have to know why.”

  “A man was killed,” Clint said. “I’m trying to help the sheriff find out who did it.”

  “He’s just a harmless drunk,” she said. “He wouldn’t kill anybody.”

  “We think Caleb might know something about it, that’s all,” Clint said.

  “Well, I’ve seen him recently.”

  “Where?”

  “Around my house,” she said. “I mean, me and Ma’s house.”

  “Now, why would he be around your house?”

  “That’s easy,” she said. “He’s my pa.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  “Ma kicked him out when his drinkin’ got too bad,” the girl said as she led Clint to her house. She said her name was Tina Stone, and she was seventeen years old. “He’s an embarrassment to her, but he sneaks back sometimes to see me.”

  “He’s not an embarrassment to you?”

  “He’s my pa,” she said. “I love him.”

  “Then why are you showing me where he is?”

  “I’m thinking maybe if he helps you find a killer, he might feel worth something and stop drinking.” She touched his arm. “Do you think I’m bein’ silly?”

  He did, but he said, “No, you’re not being silly. You just love your pa and want him to get better.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I think,” she said. “That he’s sick, and he needs to get better.”

  Clint knew that wasn’t the case with drunks. It wasn’t a sickness; it was a weakness. But in that case, maybe her plan would work after all.

  Their house was one of a cluster of similar two-story homes that were fairly well kept.

  “We have a small barn—actually, more of a lean-to—behind our house,” she said. “Sometimes he sleeps there—or sleeps it off.”

  When they reached the house, Clint said, “Maybe you should stay here—”

  “I think it would be better if I went with you,” she said. “He might run from you.”

  His first instinct was to argue, but then he had second thoughts.

  “All right,” he said. “Lead the way.”

  They went around the house to the back, where Clint saw what she meant. It could hardly be called a barn. While it was well cared for, it was still small, more—as she said—a lean-to than anything else. From what he could tell, there were no animals in it at the moment.

  “Do you have a horse?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “We did, but Pa sold it for . . .”

  “Whiskey money?”

  She lowered her head and said, “Yes.”

  “Okay,” he said, “why don’t you approach first and see if he’s in there?”

  “A-All right.”

  He hung back while she approached the structure.

  “Pa? You in there, Pa?” she called.

  There was no answer, but she kept calling out as she got closer. Clint suddenly realized that he might have sent her in there to find her father dead.

  He started forward.

  “Pa?” she called, and stuck her head inside.

  Clint was almost there when she came back out and looked at him. He couldn’t read the look on her face.

  “Tina—”

  “He’s there,” she said.

  “Is he—”

  “He’s dead drunk,” she said.

  He hoped that she was right, and that her father was only dead drunk, and not dead.

  * * *

  When Bowen entered the Crystal again, he attracted more attention only because there were more people there as it got later in the day.

  “It’s done,” Bowen said, taking the seat across from Perryman.

  “I heard,” Perryman said. “The word had already gotten around that he was found. His body’s at the undertaker’s. Where have you been? Why did I have to hear it as gossip?”

  “I had somethin’ else to do.”

  “What?”

  “There was just somebody else I had to see.”

  “I’m paying you,” Perryman reminded him.

  “I know that,” Bowen said. “The job is done. What do you want now?”

  “I want you to stay in town,” Perryman said. “I have some other men, and I may need you to take the lead with them.”

  “Take the lead on what?”

  “You know a man named Clint Adams?”

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  Bowen smiled.

  “I think I need another beer.”

  * * *

  Clint leaned over the prone man and touched his shoulder.

  “Caleb.”

  Nothing.

  He shook him. If he didn’t move, then he’d have to feel for a pulse.

  “Caleb!”

  “Pa?” Tina said.

  After a moment the man groaned, and rolled over.

  “Papa!” Tina said again, this time with relief.

  “Tina?” he said, squinting. “Wha—what happened?”

  “You were sleeping one off,” Clint said.

  Caleb looked at Clint.

  “Who are you?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  “What are you—what do you want?”

  “Just to talk to you,” Clint said. He looked at Tina. “Can we go inside?”

  Before she could answer, Caleb sat up and said, “Better not. Her mother would skin me alive.”

  “Any water around?” Clint asked.

  “Inside,” Tina said, “and there’s a well in the back.”

  “I’ll get a bucket of water,” Clint said. He looked at Caleb. “Don’t run.”

  “Why would I run?” Caleb asked.

  “I’ll make sure he stays,” Tina said.

  Clint nodded, then left the lean-to to find the well. As he left, he heard Caleb ask again, “Why would I run?”

  THIRTY

  Clint brought back a bucket of water and promptly dunked Caleb’s head into it.

  “Ooh-wee,” Caleb said, shaking water off his head. He rubbed his hands over his face.

  “Can you concentrate?” Clint asked.

  “On what?”

  “I need your help.”

  “Okay, with what?”

  “Jess Bowen.”

&nb
sp; Caleb suddenly looked scared. Maybe he and Bowen weren’t exactly friends.

  “Whataya want with Jess?”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “You ain’t told me who you are.”

  “My name’s Clint Adams.”

  Caleb was still sitting on the floor. At the sound of the name he skittered back until he was against one wall.

  “Pa, what is it?” Tina asked.

  “He’s the Gunsmith.”

  Tina looked at Clint.

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t kill me,” Caleb said.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Ain’t that what you do?”

  “No.”

  “He ain’t no killer, Pa,” Tina said. “I can tell. He’s tryin’ to find a killer.”

  “Who got killed?” Caleb asked.

  “Willie Delvin.”

  “Willie’s dead? When?”

  “Earlier today.”

  Clint looked outside the lean-to. It was starting to get dark.

  “Why are you looking for Jess?”

  “We think he might know something about it.”

  “Or maybe he did it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why you askin’ me about him?”

  “We heard you were friends.”

  Caleb snorted. “We ain’t friends.”

  “But you know him. People have seen you together.”

  “He makes me run errands for him.”

  “Do you know where to find him?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Can you take me to someplace he might be?”

  Suddenly, instead of looking frightened, Caleb had a cunning look in his eyes.

  “What’s in it for me?”

  * * *

  “We’re gonna what?” Murphy asked.

  “Pay him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s easier than taking him into your cell block and beating it out of him.”

  Caleb was sitting in a chair in front of the sheriff’s desk. Clint and Murphy were in the cell block, keeping their voices down.

  “He claims he and Bowen aren’t friends.”

  “Then why doesn’t he just help us find him?”

  “Because he wants to get something back for his trouble.”

  “So buy him a drink,” Murphy said. “He’ll usually do anythin’ for a drink.”