Darlene Franklin - Dressed for Death 01 - Gunfight at Grace Gulch (16 page)

“Gaynor filed a claim against my grandfather, of course. The courts were overrun with suits about claims for years, but eventually he had his day in court. You can check at the courthouse in Chandler for a record of the trial. All it amounted to was a lot of finger-pointing and name-calling. Gaynor didn’t have a lick of proof.” The mayor wagged his finger at Audie. “And see here, young man, that trial was over a century ago. Nothing can change the court’s decision. The land belongs to the Grace family, fair and square.”

“Of course it does. No one is questioning that.” Audie tapped the letter with his fingers. “But that’s not the problem. Did Penn Hardy come to you about this letter from Bob Grace?”

“Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.” The mayor had regained his balance. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But it does.” I put in my two cents’ worth. “Grace Gulch history is like a sacred text to anyone with the Grace name. No one wants to find out that Bob Grace was a cheat and a scallywag.”

“And this letter”—again, Audie tapped the thin papers—“proves that at the very least, he considered cheating. And once the idea took hold in his mind, he may have given in. Dorian Gray warns us ‘The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.’ ”

“Go peddle your insults elsewhere.” The mayor’s lips twisted in a snarl.

I glanced around the room, seeking something, anything, to divert their attention away from confrontation. A cartoon on the wall caught my eye. Three longhorn cattle lay on the ground. The long ears of one bent over his eyes; the second, over his ears; and the third, over his mouth. In the distance, a rustler took off with the rest of the herd, a cowboy version of “hear no evil.” What the mayor didn’t know could not hurt him.

Or maybe he did know and made a pretense of ignorance. The mayor took great pride in his name. He was a Grace, and nobody could take that from him.

But what if someone threatened to drag the Grace name through the mud?

Would that be enough to kill for?

Reiner arrived with Frances Waller, their boots splattered with mud, and Frances looked wet and miserable. The bogus 911 tip had resulted in nothing more than a cold drenching.

“What’s this I hear about you shooting Mitch?” Reiner asked in his most belligerent tone.

I clenched my teeth. I decided to stay put as long as they let me. The mayor hadn’t convinced me of his innocence, but neither did I believe he planned to shoot Mitch. Reiner sounded ready to convict him without a trial.

“I’m not saying anything to you without my lawyer.”

Reiner sighed and turned his attention to Audie and me. “What are you two doing here this morning? You’d better not interfere with an official police investigation.”

“Now, Reiner, they just had an appointment to see me this morning. Let them go.” It was nice of the mayor to speak up for us, but I couldn’t help wondering if he wanted to keep the police from learning about our conversation.

Or the letter.
As far as I was concerned, the police didn’t need to know about it. I could see the envelope on the table, close to the mayor’s right hand. If I reached for it, would Reiner notice and insist on seeing it?

“We had some questions about the festival, and the mayor was kind enough to give us a few minutes of his time after Mr. Gaynor left for the hospital.” Audie leaned against the table, his hand resting ever so gently on the letter, a perfectly natural pose. “We’ll take our leave now that you are here.” He straightened, tucking the letter into his hand and slipping it into his coat pocket.

“Wait a minute,” Reiner said. “Did you witness the shooting?”

“No.” Both Audie and I spoke at the same time.

“Someone called 911.” Frances spoke up for the first time.

“We heard. . .noises. . .coming from the mayor’s office. And we heard a shot.” I leveled an apologetic look at the mayor. “So Betty called.”

“When we opened the door, Mr. Gaynor was holding his arm and he was bleeding,” Audie offered.

“We’ll need your statements. You two and that secretary, Betty. Officer Waller?”

“Follow me, please,” she said. The dry heat flowing from ceiling vents had dried out Frances’s uniform. Once again, she looked calm and in charge.

We followed her out the door. And left Mayor Ron in the clutches of a police officer who would like to arrest him for murder.

16

September 21, 1891 Excerpt A

Dearest Mary,

After posting my last letter, I decided that I must go to the cave I found. While the marshals were occupied with quieting a riotous drinking crowd, and while Gaynor spoke at length with the preacher, I slipped out of the camp and rode fast for the cave.

I struggled all night. During the fading daylight, I bettered the concealment to the entrance and hid Patches behind the brush. Then I backed myself into a narrow fissure in the rocks, barely big enough for a man to sit. I cleared my mind as I often do on a cattle drive, emptying my mind of everything except danger signs.

I was as twitchy as a greenhorn. Every time a coyote howled, I jumped as though hearing the preacher’s words of warning. Every time a cloud passed in front of the moon, I felt cut off from God’s light.

~

Thursday, September 26

“That’s the second time the police have needed statements from us within the past week.” Audie guided me by my arm out to my car, dulled by the morning’s drizzle to olive green. At least the trench coat I had chosen to wear kept me dry from shoulders to toe, and I had a rain hood to minimize damage to my hair.

“And I hope we don’t have to do it again for a long time.” I blamed the shiver that passed through me on the cool weather, not on the scene we had just witnessed.

“Everything will be okay,” Audie said, his voice as warm as a pleasant spring breeze, and some of the chill lifted.

Still, I was glad to get into the car and turn on the heater. The defroster on the back window of my car made driving on mornings like this a little easier. I waited without speaking until the air turned hot and steamy and a delightful warm stupor enveloped me. If only I could ease the shivering in my mind by such a simple method. I started the windshield wipers and backed out of the parking space.

“Nothing like a bout of fisticuffs to start my morning off right.” Audie spoke in a lighthearted tone. “If I want to escape violence, maybe I should move back to Chicago. After all, Solomon warns us, ‘My son, do not go along with them. . . . For their feet rush into sin, they are swift to shed blood.’ ”

Move back to Chicago? The warmth fled in an instant.

Audie must have sensed my distress. He turned his cobalt blue eyes on me. “I hope you know I’m kidding. Are you doing okay?”

“I’m more confused than ever. What do you think happened? Was it really an accident?” That’s the finding I wanted: an unintentional accident that no one could be blamed for. Except, of course, for people who thought any gun threatened humanity and therefore blamed the mayor for keeping weapons in his office. The antigun lobby had few proponents in Grace Gulch.

“Or did the mayor shoot Gaynor on purpose? Or”—he hurried on before I could protest—“did Gaynor somehow shoot himself?” He shook his head. “That doesn’t seem possible.”

I stopped by Gaynor’s Goodies and picked up a dozen cinnamon pecan muffins and another half dozen apple raisin, then parked behind my store as usual. The minute hand landed straight up on the ten o’clock hour when I opened for business. No customers arrived while I readied my cash drawer and brewed a pot of coffee. Audie grabbed one of the muffins and settled into a folding chair by the changing rooms. Did he intend to stay all day? That might be nice. Pressing his fingers into the napkin, he ate the last of the crumbs, then threw away the remains and washed his hands.

“Maybe if we act it out, we can figure out what happened. Like we did at the Gulch.”

“Good idea.” I poured myself a cup of coffee. My hand slipped and a bit spilled onto the carpet. Fortunately, the dark beige absorbed spills without ruining the color. I bent over to do a quick wipe-up job and made a mental note to get the carpets cleaned next month, before the Christmas shopping season started.

“Let me do that.” Audie knelt on the floor. “No need to muss up that pretty outfit and get those bell-bottoms dirty. I can scrub carpets with the best of them.” He knelt a moment longer than necessary, staring at the floor. I wondered if he was thinking about the other carpet stains we had seen that morning, as I was. He looked up at me and smiled.

“As far as I can see, there are only three possibilities about what happened this morning.” He stood and brushed off the cuffs of his pants. “Accident. Or the mayor shot Gaynor on purpose. Or Gaynor shot himself. Which is the most likely?”

“Accident,” I answered without hesitation.

“Perhaps. But let’s act it out anyhow. Your stapler can be the gun. I’ll be Gaynor; you be Grace.” His face transformed into an angry mask. “You mean this key?” He knocked a pen against the counter, scattering papers like the broken glass must have rained on the floor.

What did the mayor say happened next? He reached for the gun to
prevent
an accident. I grabbed the stapler. Audie’s hands came down on top of mine. The pressure released a staple.

“That was an accident,” I said.

“Let’s try it again,” Audie suggested. He reached for the stapler without warning and pointed it toward his left forearm before my hands made contact.

“Suggestive,” Audie murmured. “Even if the mayor’s finger pulled the trigger—”

“Mitch could have directed the gun at himself. But why would he do that?” We looked at each other. “And does this have anything to do with Penn’s murder?”

“We know the mayor had a motive. A couple of motives.”

I shook my head a single time.

“Yes, he did,” Audie insisted. “I agree that the issue about the last election seems a trifle slim. But preserving the Grace family honor—the mayor takes that
very
seriously.”

“But if we’re suspecting the mayor of the murder, why would Mitch shoot himself?”

“Can you help me?” A soft voice interrupted our conversation. Absorbed by our discussion, I hadn’t heard the customer enter. How much had the lady overheard? My ears burned.

“Why don’t we sleep on it and discuss it in the morning,” Audie said. “Good day, Mrs. Beresford.” With a nod, he left my store.

I turned my attention to my customer. Patti Beresford was a sweet, grandmotherly type, hard of hearing, but sharp as a tack. She glanced at the stapler still in my hands, but didn’t ask. She wouldn’t spread gossip, either, a rarity in the town’s rumor mill.

“My granddaughter is getting married in December,” she said.

“Congratulations!” I scrambled through my mental files. I had met the young woman when Patti brought her to church events over the years. “That must be Terry. Who is the lucky man?”

“An accountant, over Arcadia way.”

I drove to Arcadia, home of a round barn and Hillbillies, a fun little café on Old Route 66, fairly often.

“So how can I help you today?”

She plunged into a description of Terry’s plan for a costume wedding and her need for an outfit. “Something from the ’50s, but not too expensive, dear.” We made arrangements for Terry to come in with her grandmother and discuss her plans.

The remainder of the morning passed quickly. I was ready to close the store for lunch when the doorbell jangled. For a second time, I set aside the tuna salad sandwich I had brought from home. Would this be one of those days when I could only eat in small bites?

Suzanne peeked out from beneath an umbrella. Her face looked pinched, her hair, flat. Not a good day.

Oh, no, I never mended her dress.
She needed to return it to Audie, and he would understand the delay. Still, it wasn’t smart business to forget a client. I swallowed my bite of salad and brushed a napkin across my mouth.

“Don’t let me interrupt your lunch.” Suzanne started to back out the door.

“I’m fine.” I rewrapped my sandwich and stood up. “How can I help you today? I’m afraid that I haven’t finished the repairs to your dress yet.”

“Oh, that.” She waved ringed fingers in dismissal. “I’m not worried about that. In fact, I’m not here about business at all. I wanted to talk, that’s all. Or should I come back another time?”

“Now is fine.” My heart skipped a beat. I turned my store sign to
Closed
. “Do you mind if I finish eating while we talk?”

Suzanne shook her head.

“Would you like some coffee? A muffin?” I handed her the open box of muffins.

“I’ll take a cup of coffee. Black.” She reached for a muffin. That was a surprise. I had never seen Suzanne eat anything at rehearsal or elsewhere. She took as good care of her figure as a Hollywood starlet.

I poured her coffee in a disposable cup. She picked pecans off the top of her muffin and chewed each one. She broke off tiny pieces of bread and ate them with evident pleasure.

I finished my sandwich, watching Suzanne carefully. Something was wrong with my guest. On Monday, when we first learned about her affair with Penn, she had been upset. Time had not improved her spirits. If anything, she seemed worse.

Suzanne set aside the bottom half of her muffin. “I heard about what happened at the mayor’s office this morning.”

That didn’t surprise me. There might be a few people left in Lincoln County who hadn’t heard about the shooting, but I doubted it. But why did that bring her to my store this afternoon?

“You were there?” A slight rise in her voice made it a question.

“In the outer office, yes. We didn’t actually witness. . .anything.”

“So you don’t know what they were arguing about?”

I shook my head.

“I was hoping you could tell me what made them angry enough to start shooting.”

My hackles rose in defense of the mayor. “We don’t know what happened. It sounds like it was an accident.”

She dismissed that with another wave of red fingernails. “There was an argument. A gun was fired. I don’t care who shot whom.” In spite of the casual words, her face betrayed the gravity of her emotions. “That could have been me with the gun. I don’t mean that I had a disagreement with either the mayor or Mr. Gaynor. I mean. . .” She buried her nose in her cup of coffee, as if gathering courage to continue. “I mean with Penn. I was
so
angry that if I’d had a gun, I would have shot him.”

I sat back in my chair. Was I listening to a murder confession? Why had I locked the door? Could I reach my phone and dial 911?

Suzanne’s hand trembled and she dropped the cup, coffee spreading in a small black puddle in the same spot as my previous spill. At least the plastic cup couldn’t shatter.

“I’m so sorry.” She fell to her knees and began sopping up the liquid with a napkin. I considered taking advantage of the distraction to call the police, but I didn’t think she was dangerous. I grabbed a towel and bent next to her. Warm liquid splashed on my hand. Tears.

My last doubts fled. This woman could not have committed murder. Her heart was broken. I helped her back into her chair and handed her a box of tissues.

“I’m a mess.” She sniffed. “I’ve been thinking about it all week. First, I let myself get involved with a married man. When he refused to leave his family for me and tried to end things, I was so angry. I hated him.”

What did people say? The opposite of love wasn’t hate; it was indifference. She wouldn’t have hated Penn if she hadn’t loved him.

She cried, but it was different than her tears on Monday. In retrospect, that day seemed more like a stage performance of grief. Today, sobs like a child’s racked her body, heartbroken gulps. When she spoke, I couldn’t understand her words. “Shh.” I patted her back. I didn’t know what else to do for a woman in turmoil, unless it was my little sister. “Go ahead and cry it out.”

It felt like an hour before Suzanne’s sobs slowed down, but in reality the clock indicated only five minutes had passed. She used half the box of tissues to blow her nose and wipe the tears from her face.

“I feel so dirty and guilty. I didn’t pull the trigger on Penn, but I was so mad that I could have. You must hate me. I know I hate myself.”

I thought back to my judgmental attitude on Monday. No wonder she thought I hated her. Of course she turned to Audie for comfort. How little like Jesus I had acted. I felt a degree of the shame I saw etched on Suzanne’s face. Thank God that He had given me a second chance to help. This time, I would try to make a difference.

“Oh, Suzanne.” I sighed. “I’m ashamed of myself. I was so busy blaming you that I didn’t stop to think how you must feel.”

She smiled weakly, tears dimming the deep sea green of her eyes. “You had every right.”

Lord, help me
.
I sent up a prayer and opened my mouth to explain. “Yes, what you did was wrong. Sin, to use that old-fashioned word. But we all sin, every day. And God loves us anyway, and He wants His children to love others the way He loves us. That’s why I’m ashamed of myself. I judged you instead of showing you God’s love.”

“I don’t deserve God’s love. You don’t know everything I’ve done.”

“I don’t deserve God’s love either. Nobody does. The Bible says that we are separated from God—His enemies. But even though we are God’s enemies, He sent His Son Jesus to die for us. I can’t imagine that. But God—God sent His Son to take my place. Jesus took the punishment that I deserved. He loves me that much. And He loves you that much.” I took Suzanne’s trembling fingers between my own. “He’s wrapped up that love like a birthday present, in His Son Jesus. All you have to do is accept His gift.”