Old Murders Never Die

by Marja McGraw

  Alvin Smith had been called on the carpet for drinking and causing trouble at the saloon. I had the feeling he might have been the town drunk, because his name was mentioned more than once and always in conjunction with drinking.

  Joshua Temple had been a drifter who stopped in town and tried to sell some possibly stolen items. The sheriff had been very suspicious of him, but he’d left after two days, at the sheriff’s insistence. Where would Temple have stayed during his visit? Maybe the saloon had some rooms they rented out. I certainly hadn’t seen any hotel.

  And, lastly, I added the Ambroses. I didn’t know much about them, except that the sheriff thought they were odd, and they were high falootin’ people.

  I needed to keep reading and look for more names and information about each person.

  I started to cross off the names of the preacher and the doctor, but changed my mind. Everyone was a suspect, as far as I was concerned.

  I remembered the family Bible. There could be information in that, too, although it was probably just births and deaths. I picked it up and saw immediately it had belonged to the doctor. It listed his relatives with dates of birth and death and it ended with Doctor Summers. Apparently he’d never married, or at least there was no indication of a wife being added to the list of relatives. Maybe he just didn’t keep up with the entries.

  I walked outside where I found Pete had finished his work. He was leaning on the scythe and looking up at the sky. He saw me and set the tool down beside the house. “It looks like we might be in for more rain.”

  I glanced up and saw heavy black clouds off in the distance. “Looks like it,” I agreed. “Say, Pete, I’ve started putting that list together. Why don’t we wait to look at the saloon until tomorrow, and for today let’s take a look at the homes of some of the suspects.”

  He held out his hand and I passed him the list. “This isn’t a very long list. I would think everyone in town would be suspect.”

  “I haven’t finished reading yet. I’m sure there are more. Where’d you put that map?”

  “I left it in the house. I’ll go get it.” He handed my list back to me.

  I glanced at Bubba, who’d been watching Pete work. He was lying on top of the weeds Pete had chopped down.

  “You and Pete finally seem to be coming to terms with each other. I guess there’s an upside to this trip after all.”

  Bubba grinned at me before standing. He glanced toward the house as though he knew what I was talking about. Well, he did recognize Pete’s name, and that’s where he’d gone. I patted a very large head before turning toward town. Bubba looked from me to the house before following me down the trail, or road, or whatever it was.

  I didn’t get very far before I heard quick steps coming up behind me. Bubba hadn’t reacted, so I knew it was Pete. “Let me see that list,” he said.

  He studied the list and the map, and headed for one of the houses near town.

  “Whose house are we going to look at?” I asked.

  “Let’s start with the Stanton house. It’s not too far away.”

  We approached a house about the size of the sheriff’s place, and we could see the remains of what must have been a picket fence. There were just a few fence posts left, and they were ready to fall over. The windows hadn’t been boarded over like some of the places, so we peeked through the open frames, which were now devoid of glass. The house had been cleaned out, except for a few things. There were a couple of rickety chairs we could see from the window.

  “Let’s go in,” I suggested.

  Pete pushed on the door, but it wouldn’t open. He pushed harder, but it still wouldn’t open.

  “I’m going to climb through the window,” I said.

  He shrugged and returned to the window to give me a leg up. “I’ll wait out here. If you find anything, let me know.”

  The house was similar to the sheriff’s, except there were two bedrooms. The first room was empty, but the second room contained a small wardrobe. I opened it and found the remains of a very old doll. Apparently the Stantons had a little girl. I left it where I found it and walked through the rest of the house. Other than the chairs and the wardrobe, nothing else had been left behind.

  I returned to the window and climbed out. Pete took hold of my arm and helped me down.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “A child’s wardrobe and those two chairs, but that’s it. They took everything else. Who’s next on the list?”

  Pete studied the list and the map again, and led me down the street to what might have been a nice house at one time. It seemed larger than the rest of them, too. “Let’s take a look in there.”

  “Whose house is it?”

  “It belonged to some people named Ambrose.”

  “Oh, the snooty ones.”

  “The what?”

  “According to the sheriff’s wife, these people seemed to think they were a cut above everyone else.”

  The windows were boarded over, but Pete had brought the tire iron and he pried the front door open easily. We were in for a surprise.

  “Wow! Will you look at this,” I said. “They must have been the town’s rich folks. No wonder they seemed to think they were above everyone else.”

  The house was intact, and it was filled with furniture. There was even a cracked mirror on the wall. Another wall held a very dusty, dirty painting. The couch had been carefully covered with a heavy cloth. There were other pieces of furniture that had also been covered.

  “I can’t believe they left all of these things behind. By the standards of their time, this stuff would have been worth a lot of money.” I stooped down and picked up a figurine that had fallen off a table and broken. “I guess when you consider the antique value, these things are probably still worth some bucks. I wonder if they planned on coming back for their things. Look at the way they covered the furniture.”

  Pete pulled the cover off the formal couch and sat. The fabric ripped under his weight. He didn’t care and continued to sit. “Why don’t you look through the rest of the house and I’ll wait here?”

  I walked through the three bedrooms. The beds were still there, minus mattresses, and there were wardrobes. I opened the wardrobe in the largest bedroom and the clothing was gone. I could see something on a shelf in the ornate cabinet and reached up to see what it was. I found an old-fashioned purse with a parasol resting next to it. I opened the purse and found a handkerchief and a card. The card said Mrs. Antoinette Ambrose on it, and nothing else.

  Closing the wardrobe, I turned around and saw an old-fashioned and very fancy commode sitting in the corner, so not everyone used an outhouse. The chamber pot and wash basin were still nestled inside.

  A random thought crossed my mind. We’d never looked to see if there was an outhouse behind the sheriff’s place. It could be hidden among the many trees. I added that to my mental list of things to check on.

  I was able to open a drawer of the dresser that remained, but it was empty.

  The second bedroom appeared to be a guest room. I hadn’t found anything that indicated the Ambroses had children. The third room turned out to be an office of sorts with an old desk and a bookcase. There were no books and the desk drawers had been emptied.

  Returning to the living room, I found Pete standing in front of a bookcase with his head tipped. He was reading the titles of the books.

  “Anything interesting?” I asked.

  I saw him jump and knew I’d startled him. He turned, with a book in his hand. “Apparently this Ambrose character was also a doctor. At least, he’s got a few medical books here.”

  “Two doctors in a town of this size would have been one doctor too many. Maybe he was retired?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or maybe he was hiding out here. Why would an obviously wealthy doctor choose Wolf Creek as his home?”

  “You have a suspicious mind.” He dropped the book when he tried to push it back into its space on the shelf. A piece of paper fell out.
r />   Chapter Twelve

  Pete picked up the piece of paper and read it. “This is a letter from Thelma Colter. She’s written to the doctor telling him that his practice is a sham and she says she’s sending her husband to take care of him.”

  “A sham? That doesn’t sound like a doctor who’s being accused of malpractice. That sounds more like dishonesty.”

  He held his hand up to silence me while he read the rest of the letter. He smiled as he handed it to me. “It turns out he wasn’t a medical doctor, but a doctor ‘of the mind.’ It sounds like this lady went to him because she was depressed. She calls it the doldrums in one place, and melancholia in another. He didn’t help her and she believed his methods were shady.”

  “I’ve heard of both of those.”

  “Read the letter.”

  I did. Apparently this doctor used some interesting techniques and medications and charged a lot of money, with no result that Mrs. Colter could see. However, reading the letter showed she was so angry that her depression had taken a backseat to everything else. She also mentioned what a brute her husband was, big and mean. I guess she wanted to scare the doctor. Quite possibly she had.

  “Maybe this is why the Ambroses moved to Wolf Creek. It looks like they really were hiding out. Maybe this woman wasn’t the only unhappy patient with a brute for a husband.”

  “We might never know the answer to that one, but I have to admit it does make sense.”

  Pete turned again to put the book back, but as he started slide it in, he stopped. “There’s something behind the books,” he said. He pulled out a few more and leaned in to see what was hidden. Reaching in, he pulled out some pieces of paper.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Well, I’ll be darned. It looks like the doctor was a closet author.”

  “What?”

  “It looks like he was trying to write a story. Here, take a look,” he said, handing me the papers.

  There were about ten pages, and I only read part of the first one. “Oh,” I said, laughing, “this is really bad. It sounds like he was trying to write some kind of mystery. We’ll take these with us and I’ll read them at the house.” I folded then in half and tucked them under my arm.

  “Now what?” Pete asked.

  “What about the house over by the sheriff’s place that looked like it had burned down? Who does the map say that one belonged to?”

  We walked outside so he’d have better light to study the fading map. The wind was blowing again and it was difficult for him to hold it still. He finally set in on the ground, asking me to help hold down the corners.

  I’d temporarily forgotten the cowboy and did a quick sweep of the area, watching for him. Either he wasn’t there or he was well-hidden. There were a lot of trees that made for good cover, and I was squatting on the ground, so it was even more difficult to look around. Since we were so close to desert terrain, I wondered if the trees were natural to the area or if mankind had brought them in.

  Pete started walking back toward the sheriff’s house, and turning off, he stopped by the burned out home. “This would have belonged to the Lippons.”

  “I haven’t run across their name yet. I’ll watch for it in the Sheriff Croft’s records. There must be a story to go with these ruins.”

  He glanced at his watch. Old habits die hard. Here we were in the middle of nowhere, and he was checking the time. “We were in the Ambrose house longer than we realized. That new storm is moving in. We’d better head back to the house and look for more wood for the fireplace.”

  I looked up at the sky. It was turning darker even as I watched. A big gust nearly knocked me over. Pete was getting no argument from me. I stood up and turned toward the house. He picked up the map and followed me.

  “Where’s Bubba?” I asked, suddenly realizing I hadn’t seen the big galoot for some time.

  “Bubba,” Pete called. “Come!”

  Woof!

  I turned toward the sound and found him standing in front of the sheriff’s house. “I guess he’s calling that home now, at least temporarily.”

  “He knows where his food is kept,” Pete said. “Anywhere there’s food can be called home.”

  We started picking up pieces of wood on our way back to the house. Bubba joined us and thought it was quite a good game. He picked up sticks and tried to play keep-away with us. We ignored him, so he started dropping his finds on our feet, almost tripping us.

  “Bubba, will you stop that?” I said, sighing. “You’re getting in the way.”

  He looked hurt and dropped his stick. How could I let my sweet dog walk away feeling dejected? I picked up his stick and threw it for him. Of course, he retrieved it and brought it right back, and I had to throw it again. By this time, my arms were almost full of wood. He retrieved it again and dropped it at my feet.

  “Take it up to the house,” I said.

  Bubba knew the term take it. He knew that meant he should pick it up, and he did, but then he looked around in confusion. What was he supposed to do with it?

  “Come,” I ordered, walking toward the house.

  He seemed to understand and followed me.

  “You two are quite a pair,” Pete said, catching up to me.

  “Yeah, probably like Abbott and Costello.” I smiled.

  “The problem is I can’t figure out which of you is which because you’re both kind of funny and dopey.”

  “Dopey?” My mouth dropped open.

  “Close your mouth. I was joking and meant that in a loving way.”

  I smiled again. “I know. I was just trying to make you feel guilty. I have my own loving ways.”

  We returned to the house and stacked the wood in a corner before returning to find more. By the time we were finished gathering firewood, we had quite a pile. The house was cold again and Pete began building a fire.

  “Do you think we’ll be able to figure out who the killer was?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I guess it depends on how much information the sheriff was able to put together, and whether we find anything in the houses.”

  I tipped my head in agreement. At least we weren’t in danger while we worked on this case, unless you counted the cowboy. And we didn’t have a clue about his agenda. I couldn’t believe he’d have anything to do with the old murders. I guess him showing up was just a matter of bad timing.

  Pete lit the fire.

  “It’s getting late,” I said. “I know we have a can of beef stew. How about that and bread and butter for dinner?”

  “That sounds good. Let me start a fire in the cook stove for you.”

  While he built a fire, I found the handheld can opener and opened the stew. I glanced out the window and decided I had time to run down to the creek for the margarine before the storm would hit us.

  “Bubba, come,” I said. I didn’t want to go alone.

  Pete glanced at me, asking a nonverbal question.

  “I’m going to the creek to get the butter.”

  “Margarine,” he corrected.

  “Don’t nitpick,” I said. “It sounds more normal to say bread and butter than bread and margarine.”

  He didn’t respond, so Bubba and I headed for the creek. On the way back, I remembered something I’d thought of when we were at the Ambrose house. I took a little side trip through the trees and behind Sheriff Croft’s house. Other than visiting the shed, we hadn’t searched the rear of the property.

  “Aha!” I said, startling Bubba. “Just what I thought. An outhouse. It looks like I won’t have to use bushes anymore.” I pulled on the old door and it fell off, almost hitting me on the head. I peeked inside but between the stormy sky and the lateness of the day, I couldn’t see much.

  Bubba and I hurried back to the front of the house. Pete was learning to build a good fire, and the house felt warmer than it had since we first arrived.

  “I found an outhouse out back. Any chance you could take the flashlight and check it out to see if it’s useable?”
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br />   “Where is it?”

  I told him where to look and he headed out with his flashlight.

  While he was gone, I started the stew warming. The stove had heated up nicely so I knew it wouldn’t take long. I retrieved the loaf of bread from where I’d left it in the kitchen cabinet and set paper plates out on the table along with plastic silverware and the battery-operated lantern. I sat down and fingered the sheriff’s records while I waited. I was anxious to get back to them.

  Walking to the stove, I stirred the stew and waited for Pete. It seemed like he was taking an awfully long time. My thoughts conjured up the cowboy, and I hoped maybe the coming storm was holding him off.

  Just about the time I thought of going outside to look for him, he walked in the front door.

  “I think I can make it useable,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get rid of a few splinters, and I’ll have to figure out what to do to get rid of the spiders, and – ”

  “Spiders? I hate spiders! I’d rather face a snake than a spider. You know that, Pete.”

  “Yes, I know how you feel about spiders. And I’ll take care of them, one way or another. The main thing is, you’ll have a place to answer nature’s call.”

  Spiders versus Mother Nature. That was a hard one, but I knew I couldn’t keep hiding in the bushes. It turns out camping isn’t all it’s hyped up to be. And it also brings out the things you’d rather not have to talk about. I couldn’t wait to get back to a real bathroom. I sighed one of my bigger sighs and accepted the reality of camping.

  “Okay, do whatever it takes. We need some semblance of normalcy, even if it happens to be an outhouse.”

  He grinned before walking over to stand in front of the fire.

  Checking the stew one more time, I decided it was ready to serve. I wished I had the makings for a salad, but I didn’t. Canned stew with bread and butter, or margarine, would have to work.

  “It’s not like homemade,” Pete said, taking a bite, “but it sure will fill that empty spot in my stomach.”

  “Well, that’s what counts.” I took a bite and smiled. “It’s not half bad for canned food.” I buttered my bread and dipped it in the gravy. “I wouldn’t want to eat this way all the time, but in a way it’s fun to be here, in the sheriff’s house, eating dinner.”