by C. A. Asbrey
“Well, you found—” Abigail stood, her words were cut off by the sound of a gunshot ringing through the air.
Jake’s hand dropped to his gun quicker than anyone could have thought possible, and followed the sound of the scream ripping through the building. Abigail sprinted after him.
The desk clerk stood riveted in a near-catatonic state of voice-robbing shock at the open door to the private quarters, holding back anxious guests and staff. Jake’s keen blue eyes scanned the lobby for danger. “What happened?”
The desk clerk shook his head ineffectually but his open lips remained mute. The sound of woman screaming lacerated the background noise, gradually changing cadence as it dissolved into deep, heaving sobs against an echoing silence.
“Speak, man! Where did the shot come from?” Jake grunted dismissively at the man’s inaction and pushed him aside. He walked into the family quarters, gun raised, followed by Abigail.
Constance had dissolved into hysterics and dropped to her knees in the center of the room. She wept into her hands as her father stood by the door off to the right, a gun hanging from his right hand.
Jake raised his weapon. “Drop the gun, Mr. Williams.”
The man turned vacant, glittering eyes to the room, looking at everyone and no one. “I didn’t do it. She went into the bedroom after you left and then we heard a gun go off. I’ve killed her.”
“You’ve killed who?” Jake’s brows met in consternation. “She? Mrs. Williams?” He approached cautiously and quietly, like a hunter stalking his prey. He eventually stood off to the side and reached out. “The gun, Mr. Williams. Give me the gun.”
He clumsily dumped the gun in Jake’s hand, his fingers still hooked around it. “She’d never kill herself. It’s an accident.” Williams glanced at the heap of humanity on the floor. “Oh, my love! This is my fault. You told me you hated the thing, but I refused to get rid of it.”
Jake’s hand curled around the weapon until he pulled it away from the rictus fingers. He glanced over the man’s shoulder at the blood-splattered wall and the crumpled body lying on the floor of the bedroom. He turned his head away as his stomach rolled over, and gestured with his head. “Abi—”
She nodded. “Sure—”
She entered the room, gazing at the gouts of brain matter and spots of blood splattered from floor to ceiling. There was no urgency to rush to Mrs. Williams, it was clear the wound to her head wasn’t survivable. One side blossomed in a grotesque set of gory, meaty, petals and the woman lay face down in a pool of dark red blood. She approached tentatively, crouching to peer at the entry wound. It was circled by dark spots of black powder, displaying a tattoo of evidence the barrel of the gun had been close to the head when discharged. The further away the weapon was, the more scattered the pattern. This was tight and dark, so it was either against her head, or extremely close. She narrowed her eyes, fighting the deep sense of regret engulfing her heart. She had seen so many fight for every scrap of life. It hurt like hell to see people throw it away.
The bloodstained arm stretched out beside the body, and footprints in the pooling blood showed someone had walked through it after the act, and then tracked imprints over to where Mr. Williams now stood. It fitted with a distressed husband hurrying over to grab the gun. Why? It was pointless, but instinct told people to grab a weapon from a loved one. She’d seen it too many times. Her eyes fell on a blood splattered note on the nightstand. She leaned over and picked it up, glancing at the words, ‘I killed Lymen Cussen. I can’t live with the guilt any longer. May God have mercy on my soul. K.W.”
She frowned and placed it in the breast pocket of her jacket and turned to the distraught husband at the door. “What happened?”
“The deputy left and she came in here. I heard a shot and rushed in.” Williams clutched his head in both hands. “I grabbed the gun. She always told me she hated me having one. I never thought she’d use it. I never thought she’d even touch it.” The catch in his voice dragged at her heartstrings. “Why? Why would she do this?”
“We’ll find out, Mr. Williams.” She laid a comforting hand on his forearm. “You need to tell us what she said and how she’s been acting.” She turned back to Jake. “Can you send someone for the sheriff?”
He gestured toward the sobbing girl. “Sure, you need to deal with her.”
Abigail approached her, laying a soft hand on her arm. “Miss Williams? My name is Abigail MacKay. I’m a Pinkerton detective. I’m not a boy.” The young woman’s glistening eyes turned to her in confusion. “I’m sorry about misleading you. We simply thought we’d save you from worrying about a woman working with Clancy. We’ve been helping the sheriff investigate the murder of the man found in the church hall.”
“You?” Constance spluttered.
“I’m sorry. Now I need you to tell me what happened.”
“Mother went into the bedroom. I never paid any attention. I was reading my book. She wasn’t in there for long before we heard a shot. Father rushed over to the door and we found—” She dropped her head into her hands and sobbed once more, her shoulders heaving against the rasping breaths catching in her throat. “Is she—”
Abigail helped her to her feet and seated her on the sofa. “Yes, she’s gone. I’m so sorry.”
Constance wailed once more.
“Did she seem down about anything? Upset at all over the last few weeks?”
“No.” Constance pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and blasted her nose. “She’s been fine. She’d never kill herself, not ever. It’s all a horrible accident.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“She’s a devout Christian. It’s a mortal sin.” Constance shook her head in bewilderment. “She could never be buried in consecrated ground. She couldn’t go to heaven, so she would never commit suicide. Absolutely not.”
Abigail nodded and glanced at Mrs. Chatsworth who wrung her apron in anxious hands. “She’s in shock. So is Mr. Williams. Can you make them hot sweet tea? I’m sure Dr. Fox will come up with the sheriff.”
♦◊♦
Sheriff Gibson turned the note in his thick fingers. “Never. She was protectin’ someone. Kathleen Williams wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“You think?” Abigail shrugged. “You knew her better than me. Who would that be? Her daughter or her husband? I can’t think of anyone else.”
“You can’t suspect Constance.” Clancy scowled. “She’s harmless.”
“Self-defense? Most women can do more damage than men think they can. Trust me. I found that out the hard way.”
Clancy shook his head. “She’d have told me if anything happened to her. She’s an open book. She’s not good at hiding her emotions.”
Abigail sat. “How well did you know your prospective mother-in-law, Clancy?”
He pondered, his pale face betraying his stress in the thin lips and stiff jaw. “Socially, but nothing too intimate.”
“Have you seen any changes in her over the last six weeks or so?”
“She was always a bit frigid and formal at the best of times.” Clancy shrugged. “I didn’t notice anything.”
“What about friends?” Jake leaned back on a chair, “or other relatives?”
“Nope. Percy Williams has a brother somewhere, but he’s back east. They keep in touch by letter. He was going to come to the wedding, but I’ve never even met him. Kathleen’s parents died decades ago. So did her only sister, many years ago. That always seemed to be a deep tragedy to Kathleen. I believe her sister had been ill for years. There’s nobody I can think of.”
Abigail sighed. “How are they doing, Clancy? Constance and her father? They both looked devastated.”
“Yeah, they are. I gave them something to make them sleep. The Morgans are going to take them to their house to look after them until their quarters are cleaned up. You know, the bank manager and his wife.” Clancy turned weary eyes on the group. “I expect you’ve seen all this before. It’s another day in the office for you.”
> Her brows met in a frown. “Not exactly,” she answered. “It’s shocking for us, too. Very shocking.”
Jake silently stared at her, noting the muscle flex in her neck and reading the tension in her shoulders. “We’ll go easy on your fiancée’s family, doc. We know this is painful for everyone, but I guess the case is solved if she admitted to it, and she’s dead.”
Clancy shook his head. “I’ll never believe she killed anyone. There’s more to this.”
“I agree. A great deal more to it. She was a committed Christian, too. Suicide was a mortal sin to her.” Abigail rubbed the weariness from her face with both hands. “I think it’s best not to tell anyone about the note yet. Let them think it was a tragic accident for now. It’s kindest, and if she did kill him, she must have had a good reason. I’m going to look into it, but in the meantime, I suggest we protect the family from as much pain as we can.”
“Women stayin’ at the school have offered to come and clean the room,” Ben Gibson murmured. “I was thinkin’ of askin the men to do some repaintin’, too. That mess goes way deeper than soap and water. We can’t leave it to the family.”
“Good idea.” Jake stood. “I guess we need to speak to MacGilfoyle next, but it can wait until tomorrow. It’s been a long day, and I need a drink.” He hooked Sheriff Gibson with a questioning glint. “Surely, Nat ain’t still goin’ over those bank books. The place’ll be shut.”
“He’s kinda single-minded when he’s got work to do.” the sheriff replied. “He doesn’t strike me as a man who bothers about closin’ time.”
“Single-minded?” Jake’s drained face lit with a wry smile. “Ben, you don’t know the half of it.”
♦◊♦
A shadowy figure ghosted into the shadows at the rear of the Morgan house, stealthily and silently checking each of the windows. The wraith paused where the edges of the drapes fluttered in the bone-chilling wind and quickly drew back, seeking the cover of the shrubbery. This had to be the place. It was too cold to leave windows open intentionally. It was time to wait and watch in the glittering white wasteland lit only by the silvery shafts of watery moonlight. That window was surely going to be the exit. The argent light from the clouded moon glistened on the pitted footprints testifying to this being a nefarious entry point for the underhanded. The burglar was bound to come out the way he went in.
The creeping cold stultified the bones until it reached right into the knees, but it was time to stay quiet and still. Immobility in the darkness was the best way to trick the eye into blending the outline with the surroundings, and this quarry was tricky.
It was the longest time before a gloved hand grasped the window sill. It was followed by a long leg which emerged from the house by inches. The silhouette slid out like a cat, the booted foot landing on the soft snow with an almost imperceptible crunch. Another followed, and within seconds, the interloper stood outside and slid the sash window closed, his cloud of breath hanging in the air in tiny condensing crystals.
The head turned from side to side, checking out potential dangers and pitfalls before stepping away from the house and making for the alley at the side.
“Drop the bag, Mr. Quinn.” She emerged from the gloom. “Put your hands up.”
He stopped dead, doing as he bid, before turning and fixing her with a beaming smile. “Abi? Why didn’t you come in and join me like last time? You must be freezing out here.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“Come and see.” The smile broadened. “Search me. I dare you.”
“I knew it. This is what you did last time, when you stole those jewels in Paris. When you didn’t come back after closing time at the bank I knew you were up to no good. That’s the bank manager’s house, and he’s up at the hotel helping the Williamses.”
“Put the gun away. You might hurt someone, and I’m not stealing anything. I’m investigating. I’m helping you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I heard all those excuses before. You almost made off with a bag of jewels from Paris. You’ve been checking to see if the bank manager had duplicate books at home. Haven’t you?”
“That’s what I’ve been doing, but they haven’t. I’ve searched the bank and his safe. I went right through his study, too. It seems Gabe Morgan is that mythical creature we’ve all heard about but never met; an honest man. The books are straight. Cussen wasn’t killed to cover any embezzlement.” He snorted and dropped his arms, stooping to snatch the bag and toss it at her. “Enough of this. It’s too cold. Catch.”
It hit her with weighty thump, making her step back with the momentum and drop her arm. “You did that deliberately.”
“That’s pretty rich coming from a woman who held a gun on me.” He strode forward and picked up the bag. He stood, his hot breath hitting her in the face. “If you want to treat me like a criminal, I’ll behave like one.” He leaned in and prized the Derringer from her gloved fingers. “Are you trying to provoke me, Abi?”
She turned and faced him. “I’m trying to stop you from stealing. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to do this?”
“You want to know why I broke in?”
“Money?” she snorted.
“I didn’t tell you because I was breaking and entering.” He stared at her, his willful presence maintaining an intimidating closeness. “I was protecting you from the news. Now, if you’re going to force me to choose between looking after you or myself, you might want to reconsider.” He stepped closer. “Want to test me?”
She held his gaze. “What’s in the bag? It didn’t feel like books.”
“Fertilizer from their barn. I thought we could compare the samples.”
Her brow creased. “Oh, that’s a good idea.”
His dark eyes twinkled through the shadows. “Careful, now. That was almost a compliment.”
“What do you expect when you can’t be trusted to be left alone?”
His voice danced with mischief. “I’m fine when I’m on my own, it’s when I’m around you I need to be watched. There’s something enticing in a woman who stares life in the eye and dares it to give her more. I’ll give you as much as you want, honey.”
“I thought you were using Mrs. Williams’s suicide as cover to get up to no good.”
He stopped dead, his jaw dropping. “She killed herself? I had no idea.”
“Yes, shot herself in the head. She left a note confessing to Cussen’s murder, too.”
A frown flickered across his brow. “Did she say why?”
Abigail shook her head. “No. We’re keeping it from the family and letting them think it was an accident while we dig deeper. The commonest theory is she was protecting someone.”
“The daughter?”
“That’s my favorite right now, but we’ll see where the evidence goes.” They walked a little more. “Mr. Quinn, it seems I owe you an apology.”
“Oh, you owe me more than that, Abi. You pulled a gun on me. I know that peashooter you carry could hardly mark warm butter from that distance, but there’s a principle at stake.” He hooked an arm through hers and led her into the alley leading to the main street. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
“I’m well aware of your reputation. That’s why I was there waiting for you.”
“I’m not talking about that one. I’m talking about my credibility as a criminal. A leader of men.” He walked her out into the main street where lights from the windows illuminated the scene. “It’s a ruthless world, and they’ll eat me alive if I let you off scot-free with something like that.”
She pulled away, striding ahead through the fresh snow with a laugh. “As if you’ll tell them. Do your worst.”
“You mean that?” he chuckled.
Abigail turned, walking backward as she taunted him, the moonlight catching her beaming smile. “Oh, yes!”
“You asked for it.” He stooped and scooped a handful of snow, pounding it into a ball.
“A snowball?” she laughed. “That’s all you’ve got?”
<
br /> “Throw one back, if you can reach me.”
She bent and armed herself with a tight icy ball. Nat raised his arm, pulling it back and tossed high into the air. It spun off into the darkness, disappearing above the illumination at street level. She pulled her head back until she heard it land on the sloped stable roof above her with a muffled ‘thunk’.
“Is that it? You couldn’t hit a barn door.” She chortled. “Quite literally. I’m right in front of one.”
She pulled back her own arm and threw as hard as she could. The missile whipped through the air and caught Nat square on the chest. “Got you!”
She paused, turning her head to the sound grumbling above her. Flakes of snow of dropped on her face, causing her to blink in confusion. It grew in intensity until it developed to a rush as an avalanche of snow cascaded from the pitched roof above her. She dropped to her knees as it enveloped her in a swirling maelstrom of crashing ice and snow. It resounded in her ears, blinding her under a freezing, damp heap. She lay there catching her breath, shaking her head free of the blinding chill as Nat’s booted feet crunched in the snow beside her.
“Do your worst, you said.” He held out a hand to help her. “I wasn’t going to do that, but you deserved more than a snowball.”
She grimaced at the irritating grin dimpling over his face. “Bod ceann!”
“There you go with the Scottish stuff again. It doesn’t intimidate me. I’m Irish. The women there are so scary the weak men got in a boat and went somewhere else. We call that place Scotland.”
She struggled out of the snow pile, shaking off the flakes. “Mhac na galla. How did you do that?”
“I noticed how the snow was sliding off the roof when I passed earlier and thought it wouldn’t take much to bring it down. It’s called strategy. You note what’s around you and remember it. You never know when you might need an advantage.” His irritating grin got wider. “You should try it.”
She kicked out and swung her legs around, kicking his feet out from under him. He tumbled to the ground with a thump. “Like that?”