John tensed, the cords in his jaw forming again. "Oh?"
"Yes. I think Simon Prake is our man."
Episode 42: A Reproachful Chat with a Cat
John and Annabelle reached the Hopewell Hotel's front door, both aware they might be overheard now that they stood somewhat out of the bustle of the road. "I think we should leave the topic of...our man until a more private moment," said John.
"I completely agree," said Annabelle. "Well, then, Mr Runnels. Until tomorrow, dinner? Good night." She shook his hand. He kept it in his just a hair longer than necessary, their eyes met just a hair longer than was proper, and they parted just a hair before more might be revealed one to the other.
At the foot of the stairs, Ralph Johnson stood in the doorway to the dining room lazily polishing a copper pot and keeping an eye on the front desk; where Julian Hopewell might be was anyone's guess. "Evening, Miss Duniway!" he said. "Tomorrow dinner's chicken and dumplings. I jest mention it on account of I know how much you like it. And dried peach pie! Got the peaches on to stew right now, back of the stovetop."
"Oh, Ralph, I'll be eating dinner at the Runnels's tomorrow. I will eat a little something before church, but not a full breakfast--I'm told Mrs Smith sets a groaning board," she smiled.
"Yeah, Mrs Smith is some cook," said Ralph, his face falling.
Annabelle chose a candlestick from the ranks set out at the bottom of the stairs. "I do love your pie, though. May I request you save me a piece for a late supper tomorrow night?"
"Waal, sure!" said Ralph, brightening. "Say, how was yer dinner over to the Bonham place?"
"It was quite the grand occasion. Sheriff Runnels particularly liked the duchess soup."
"Duchess soup," said Ralph, impressed. "I think I gotta a receipt fer that. Goodnight, now," he added as she lit her candle from the tinder box on the table.
She said a friendly goodnight and climbed the stairs to her apartment. The little parlor stove had been stoked. The tiny cracks of light emanating from it were the only illumination. Annabelle lit the lamp on the workstand from her candle and blew the candle out.
"So," said Misi, stretching on the hearth rug before the stove, "how was it, kiddo?"
"Hello, kitty! I'd've brought you back the scraps, but I didn't want to stain my best reticule." Annabelle untied her bonnet and put it on the tea table by the window, drawing the curtains closed while she was at it. She sank down in the rocking chair beside the workstand.
Misi jumped into her lap and butted her forehead with his own. "That's okay. Chen saved me a piece of raw pig liver. Boy, was that good."
"How's every little thing with Mamzelle?"
"She was busy tonight, thank the Dark One. I don't like the way she's acting."
"Do you think our number's up?" said Annabelle, scratching his ears.
"Mmmm...I don't think so, but watchful's the watchword. So! Tell me all the news. How grandly did the Bonhams do it up? How'd the Sheriff clean up? Did Bonham Senior and Junior get into a fistfight over the missus? Do tell!"
Annabelle skipped over how well the Sheriff had "cleaned up"--very well indeed--and recounted the party in all its absurdity. "No fistfights, I'm happy to report."
"I'm not happy. Those two could do with a fistfight. It'd be damn entertaining."
"If it's a fistfight you want, step outside," she said, jerking her head toward the window; the usual nighttime chorus of shouts, vendors, catcalls and screams was well under way.
"Only if I get to fight."
"Which you don't."
"Hmf." The black cat settled himself into a furry lump on her lap. "Any of that disgustingly foul-tasting hermetauxite lying around at the Bonham place?"
She told him about Tony Bonham's watch. "All the tainted ore so far seems to trace back to Simon Prake."
"Yeah, but who knows how he came by it?"
"True. I'm contacting Chief Howman about how he wants me to proceed. In the meantime, young Mr Prake bears close watching. I want you to keep an eye on him as much as possible."
"You mean, stop hanging around the Palace? Yes, ma'am, with pleasure! Er, what am I watching for?"
"For any signs he's being controlled by this stuff--oh, Anthony Bonham, too, what with that watch battery in his pocket."
"What kind of signs? I mean, frothing at the mouth? Running down the street naked? What?" Annabelle stopped stroking his back and lightly smacked him on the head. "Ow."
"We have to learn their usual routines and behavior. We've already got a fair understanding of Simon's, so I want you to concentrate on him. I'll be working on Anthony Bonham."
"Do tell!" said Misi. "He's interested in you, you know."
"He thinks he's subtle but the Bonham men do subtle like a freight train does subtle. They're both after me. I don't know what makes them think I'm available."
"You're a woman, that's what. Town like this, that's all it takes. I'm surprised Simon Prake's not on the doorstep along with 'em."
Annabelle sighed. "John Runnels is."
"Rreeaally," drawled the demon cat. "And he's the one I'm worried about."
"Why's that?" Misi swiveled his head around to stare her in the eye; if a cat had eyebrows, his would have been lifted high. "Oh, all right. I confess."
"Put him back, Annie. We're not sticking around, you know."
"I know." But I can't just "put him back." Or won't. She paused, toying with the soft fur heavily ruffing his neck like a black lion's mane. "I, uh, I'm going over to the Runnels place for dinner tomorrow after church. Well, he invited me!" she added at his reproachful gaze.
"You could have said no!"
"It seemed so impolite," she said. "Besides, if the Bonhams think Runnels and I are sweet on each other, maybe it'll draw off some of their steam."
"Oh, that's a miscalculation. Those two thrive on competition."
"Maybe you're right. I don't know," she muttered.
"Your head is somewhere near the moon, missy!" chided the cat. "Get yourself right!"
Annabelle ignored him. "Anyway, I'm to give Lily Bonham piano lessons at the Hotel LeFay. I can keep an eye on her brother that way."
"Isn't that convenient."
"Sure it is. And it'll be good to play! It's been months and months."
She said no more, rocking in the chair with the cat in her lap, both of them drowsing. She tried to turn her thoughts toward the case, but instead kept coming back to John as he asked her to dinner. His brown eyes, so soft and vulnerable it had almost hurt to look at him. How could she have said no to those eyes?
Episode 43: A Prognostification
Annabelle had a hard time concentrating on Brother Fattipickel's sermon that morning, though the jovial priest kept it light and loud as usual. She'd eaten sparsely at the Hopewell in anticipation of Mrs Smith's legendary groaning board later that day, and she was not used to sitting through church hungry. She wondered how on earth the Methodics did it every week; she supposed they were used to it if that's what they'd done since childhood.
Her stomach growled. She snuck a look around at the well-fed ranks in the pews and hoped no one heard it. There was Minnie Smith. She must cook a good deal of her dinner before church, and put the rest on just before services. The Runnels family was Methodic, at least Rabbit and Jamie were; she wondered how Mrs Smith had ended up with them in the first place.
When services ended and she'd gotten past Brother Fattipickel's earnest entreaties to start adding to the ranks by marrying and having as many little Enthusiasts as possible, she hurried back to the Hopewell to drop off her prayer book. She dashed up the stairs to her room, kicked Misi out the window onto the roof with orders to "do something productive, you furry menace," put the book on her nightstand and rushed back down again. The smells coming from the dining room were almost nauseating they were so good, and her stomach gave an affronted gurgle.
She was in such a hurry that she almost ran straight into John, waiting for her in the lobby. "Hello, Sheriff Runnels," she laughed.
"Miss Duniway," he smiled, touching his hat. "Shall we?" She looped her arm through his and strolled off in anticipation of a happier dinner than she'd had the night before.
Emmy Parsons stood in the Hopewell kitchen doorway, pulling bristles out of the scrub brush in her hand as she stared after the couple going through the front door. She did not like the schoolmarm's visiting over to the Runnels house one bit. But what could she do about it? She knew only one thing. She had that letter the Duniway woman wrote to that other man. John Runnels needed to see it before he did something stupid, "stupid" in Emmy's mind being anything that didn't end up with his loving her.
He saw her back in the day twice--never saw another girl as far as she knew--and was almost the kindest a man had ever been to her in that way, treated her like a real girl and not a girl for hire. Only one nicer was his brother Rabbit, but she didn't want any of that buck-toothed gawk. She wished he'd stop hanging around, and John would start. Why shouldn't he? Emmy wasn't so hard on the eye. Had most of her teeth, was a real hard worker--harder than that Duniway ever worked, she reckoned--and she liked kids enough not to pester them about history and such. She'd make the Sheriff a real good wife. She'd even settle for being his woman if he didn't want to marry again. He'd taken the death of Missus Runnels awful hard. Emmy wondered again what she'd been like; she died before Emmy'd come to the Gulch.
What was the best way to approach him? How should she give him that letter?
A great crash jerked Emmy around. Ralph stood in the middle of the kitchen, slack-jawed; at his feet lay the pot he'd been about to put by the wash sink. He stared off at nothing with eyes as white and cloudy as milk.
"Emmy Parsons," said Ralph, "I have a warnin fer you:
What you're fixin to do'll leave you haunted
T'won't turn out the way you wanted
"What on earth do you mean? Thet's turrble rhymin, Ralph!" she snapped, her free hand clutching her apron front.
"Ralph ain't here!" said Ralph.
The hair on Emmy's forearms stiffened like the bristles on the scrub brush. "T'ain't funny, Ralph Johnson, you jist stop it right this instant!" She tiptoed up to him and gave him a weak slap on the shoulder with the brush. "Now, quit that right now!"
He made no reply, not even the swat she would normally get in return. Should she call for Julian? Or Doc Horridge? Or maybe--she gulped--Pastor Billson? It was Sunday, and Pastor Bill wasn't likely to pay her any mind, what with her history, but maybe, if something was in Ralph that oughtn't be there--
Ralph came to with a snort; he shook himself hard. "Did I go off agin?"
"Go off agin?" echoed Emmy. "You mean, did you stand there feeble-minded with your mouth all open and your eyes all milky?"
"Yep, that'd be it."
"You shorely did! You done that before?"
"Not afore I come here," said Ralph. "Reckon it's the hermetauxite. Don't happen too terrible often, but often enough I'm surprised you ain't seen it. Say, did I say anythin interesting?"
Emmy shifted sullenly on her feet. "Nothin of intrest, jist a lotta bosh."
"Huh," said Ralph, scratching his chin. "Usually I say somethin of interest."
"Like what?" said Emmy, picking at the brush again.
"Oh, like a prognostification of some sort. You know--seein into the future--scryin, like the name of the town, 'cept I don't seem to need a shiny thing nor a candle flame."
"You didn't do no scryin, Ralph Johnson, you jist stood there droolin!" Emmy swayed out of reach of Ralph's half-hearted back hand, picked up the pot he'd dropped, and went to work on it and the other dishes from the first morning rush laid out on the drainboard. Ralph yelped; he'd burnt his biscuits and didn't he deserve it, scaring her like that. She put his no-account prophecy to the back of her mind and returned to planning out her capture of John Runnels's affections.
She could do it. She knew she could.
Episode 44: Friendship
Mrs Smith was some cook all right. Annabelle had tried to be ladylike, but sitting through services on an unusually empty tummy had taken the restraint right out of her; she'd eaten herself to within a pinch of her stays.
After dinner Mrs Smith retired to the washing-up, Jamie was sent in to help her, and Rabbit excused himself to the jail: "My, uh, my monthly troubles are coming due. Time I got ready for 'em."
"Going up into the mountains, brother?" said John.
"No," said Rabbit reluctantly. "No, I'm stayin in town. Maybe next month."
His departure left Annabelle and John alone before the front parlor stove. "He goes up into the mountains when he changes? Is that safe?" she whispered.
"No need to whisper, everyone here already knows. Yes. Uh, sometimes he goes hunting then."
Annabelle crinkled her nose. "I am uncertain as to how that might work, I fear. A werewolf, or a mountain lion, yes, but a hare?"
John sighed. "It's neither straightforward nor mine to tell. Now, what's yours to tell about Simon Prake?" Annabelle recounted all she knew about the young ethergraph operator, and showed him her still-healing wrist. He took her by the arm and turned her wrist this way and that, examining the wounds. He grazed them with gentle fingers for such hard hands; his touch came close to intimate. Annabelle knew she shouldn't allow it, but did. He looked up, the raw concern on his face taking her by surprise. "Has Doc Horridge seen this? Oughtn't you have it tended to? It must pain you."
"No, no, it doesn't hurt," she lied as she extricated herself from his grasp. "Besides, I have no ready explanation as to what caused such an injury. It's healing. It was much worse than this, I assure you." She grimaced, gingerly massaging her wrist. "In any event, I'm ethergramming Chief Howman tomorrow as to how I should proceed. I don't even know what I'm looking for at this point--I need more information from DC. Prake hasn't done anything wrong, at least anything I might arrest him for. Without knowing what the hermetauxite is capable of..." She shook herself, her awareness of John as confusing as Chief Howman's behavior.
"It would be imprudent to arrest him, I agree," said John. "Though it looks very bad." He leaned forward. "What puzzles me is what Prake aims to do with this ore. If we take Jamie as our example, all it does is make people do things they might want to do deep down, things they know they oughtn't. It gives them more than average strength. But I don't see how someone might turn a random impulse to advantage, nor what that advantage might be. Is there a way, do you suppose, of forcing his hand?"
Annabelle kept her mien calm but inwardly she cringed, thinking of that love letter to Daniel Howman. Thank the Mother she'd destroyed it in time. "We've seen how very dangerous this ore is, Sheriff. I'm not sure how we can force his hand without someone getting hurt."
"Well, then, we fall back on basics. What comes in, what goes out, what happens next."
Annabelle shook her head. "This is where my choice of cover--or lack thereof--has hindered me. Few choices were available to me, and this was the only palatable one. But a schoolteacher can only do so much without attracting suspicion."
"Well then, this is where your choice of friends may help you," he grinned.
Friends. She supposed they were friends at that. Perhaps more? Be quiet, you, she scolded herself. "What do you have in mind, friend Runnels?"
A tiny, unprofessional flush crossed his face before he said, "I can keep an eye on Prake for you."
"I have an eye on Prake, actually. A confederate, if you will." Not time yet to tell him everything.
John leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "And just who might that confederate be, friend Duniway?"
"No one you know. Listen, what I need to know now is where the ore is getting contaminated. I've noted traces at the assayer's office, but nothing like the deposit at the ethergraph office--Prake's office has far and away the greatest amount of contamination in town. I need to know if the ore is coming from the assayer already contaminated and is just ending up in a large concentration with Prake, or if he's doing the contaminating and
some of it's just found its way back to the assayer. Or if he's getting it somewhere else entirely."
John nodded. "I can handle the assayer. If you want to go back further than that, to the mines--Rabbit's your man for that. He has a nose for hermetauxite now, you know. Especially close to...to his time. He's never said anything about any contamination. Maybe he can't sense it."
"My feeling is that he might. So with the full arriving soon, now would be a good time."
"He's got another couple of days. I'll send him out poking 'round the mines."
"You'll need this." She slipped the detector bracelet off her wrist.
"I'm not sure I want to have something on me that left marks like that on you," he said, fingering the jewelry. "Besides, I'm not altogether sure it's the fashion for sheriffs this year."
"Carry it in your pocket or something," she chuckled. "Just touch it when you need to. You'll feel it, like pinpricks. The stronger the pricks, the bigger the source. I'm not sure about bringing Rabbit in on this. How discreet is he?"
"He's a werecritter. Discretion is their middle name if they live past their first moon. I didn't know about Rab for months--he hid up in the mountains to change every moon until I caught him at it. Sneaky fellow, my brother, for such a tall gawk especially."
"All right, then, tell him what he needs to know. I trust you on that. And tell him not to worry about the Big Blavatsky. I think I can arrange a personal tour."
"How will you know if there's contamination without your pretty bauble here?"
"My confederate will know. I'll take him with me. I should've sent him out that way a while ago, but we were narrowing things down."
"I surely would appreciate knowing who your confederate is. I'd hate to arrest someone for something not knowing he was performing federal duties."
Misi in tiny cat handcuffs glowered in her imagination; she stifled a giggle. "I don't think that will be an issue, Sheriff."
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