Longarm 243: Longarm and the Debt of Honor (6 page)

She had light brown hair piled in a mass of curls the size of a beehive, a complexion so pale she looked near to being ghostly in the glare of the lamplight, and delicate hands.

Her face was, well, damn near stunning. High cheek-bones. Huge dark eyes, the exact color of which he could not make out. Large, soft-looking lips set around a wide mouth. Bold nose. Sharp chin. Large forehead. Now that he was paying attention, Longarm could see that her whole head was slightly oversized, big enough that it would have looked ungainly on a normal-sized woman, except that on this one it was merely in proportion with the rest of her.

She wore a throat-high dress with big, puffy sleeves, and had a cameo brooch pinned up by her neck. Apart from that, she was wearing no jewelry that he could see. No rings anyway. No wedding band, for instance. Her hands were bare of jewelry, but didn't really need any to set off those long, carefully manicured fingers.

She was... shit, she was a stranger found sitting inside a single man's house in pitch dark, that was what she was. Which asked a hell of a lot more questions than it answered.

“Who are you?” Longarm demanded again.

“I'm sorry, I . . . I must have fallen asleep.”

“Yeah, but unless I been misinformed, lady, or somehow lost my way, this ain't your house to fall asleep in.”

She dropped her eyes and glanced into her lap, managing to look sheepish by doing so. “You embarrass me, sir.”

“I'm like to do more than just embarrass you if you don't pretty soon explain yourself, lady.” He wasn't sure just what he was apt to do if she refused to say more. Lock her up on trespass charges? He didn't much think so. But hell, the threat sounded good.

The lady sighed. Loudly. Then did it again, probably to make sure he heard it.

Longarm wasn't buying. “Well?”

“My name . . . you don't have to tell anyone about this, do you? Please?”

“Lady, I don't know anything to tell. But I'm fixing to. Now, do you want to come clean your own self? Or should I haul you outside an' commence asking the neighbors to tell me what I got in custody?”

“Custody? Are you an officer of the law, sir?”

“Never mind who I am, dammit. The point is, who are you and what're you doin' here in Norm's house at night?”

She sighed again. This time not so loudly. Longarm thought that this time the exasperation might well be genuine.

“My name is . . . do we really have to go into all this?”

“Yes, ma'am, I expect we do. Else we go out into the street an' do it that way.”

“Very well. My name is Eleanor Fitzpatrick. Mrs. John J. Fitzpatrick.”

Longarm's eyebrows went up a notch or two.

Mrs. John J. Fitzpatrick gave him a haughty glare. “I am widowed, sir. I am not the sort of lady. . . .” She stopped there. It occurred to Longarm that she was likely realizing she hadn't much room left to travel in that direction, seeing as how he'd just found her sitting in the dark in a single gentleman's house, never mind her protestations about what she was. Or wasn't.

“I am a . . . a very close friend of Marshal Wold.”

“Uh-huh. Is that supposed to tell me anything?”

“Damn you.”

“Getting testy with me will make you feel a whole lot better maybe, but it won't make me quit wanting to know why you're here like this. You got a gun on you maybe? A knife? Am I gonna have to search you to see if you're dangerous?”

“Please, I . . . all right. But please,
please
don't talk about this to anyone.” She paused and gave him a big-eyed pleading look that might have worked under other circumstances, but wasn't going to touch him right here and now.

“You were saying?” he demanded.

She sighed again. This time he thought she sounded more pissed off than anything else. “Damn you,” she repeated.

“We covered that territory already, but go ahead if it makes you feel any better.”

“All right. All right, you win. I am . . . covertly, you understand, the stiff-necked farmers around here would turn me into a pariah if they ever found out . . . Norman and I are . . . what you might call
very good friends
.” She bore down extra hard on those last three words. Boyfriend-girlfriend to one extent or another. Not that Longarm figured that part of it was any of his business.

“An' that's supposed to tell me why you're camping out in his house in the dark when Norm is over there locked up in the jail, lady?”

“You will refer to me as Mrs. Fitzpatrick if you please. And I happened to overhear someone in my shop this afternoon . . . I operate a millinery establishment, not that it is any of your business, sir . . . I overheard someone mention that there was a man in town to get Norman out of jail. I thought . . . I thought he would be home tonight. I wanted to be here for him when he came back. But I could hardly light the lamps and announce myself, could I? So I sat here in Norman's favorite chair. I slipped in the back door . . . I have my own key, if you must know . . . just after dark so no one would see me. I—it is the usual way for me to come when we meet, do you see. I wanted to be here for him, to surprise him. I . . . guess I just sort of... fell asleep. I didn't even hear you at the door. I heard something. I suppose that roused me from my sleep. Then you struck that match. And . . . you know.”

Longarm grunted. Yeah, he knew. It was his turn to sigh. He explained himself to Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

“You are the officer they call Longarm?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She smiled for the first time. It was a mighty fetching expression too. Made her look extra handsome when she smiled. “Norman has spoken of you. He is very fond of you.”

“Yeah, well, I'm fond of him too. Which is why I'm here. But to try an' help him outa this jam permanently. It's got nothing to do with bail.”

“I should have known that, I suppose. The justice of the peace here . . . he's the man who signed whatever stupid paper it was to charge Norm . . . he claims Norm is a risk to jump bail, so he wouldn't set any. He insisted on holding Norm without bail. Isn't that the awfullest thing you ever heard of?”

It wasn't, but under the circumstances Longarm decided not to say so. Actually, it made sense. Hell, everybody knew that one way or another Norm didn't have any kind of permanent ties to Crow's Point or to Hirt County, Kansas. Facing criminal charges and a possible jail term here, never mind the truth or falsehood of the situation, Norm Wold would hardly hesitate to throw his things onto a horse's hind end and slope on out of town. He could go someplace else without raising a sweat, and obviously the town justice of the peace knew that.

“Yes, ma'am,” was all Longarm contributed in response to Mrs. Fitzpatrick's rhetorical question.

“I suppose . . . well, I'm sorry if I startled you,” the lady said. “Will you be staying here while you're in town? You will stay and help Norman, won't you? Is there anything I can do to help you help him?”

Longarm might have come up with a few suggestions, actually. But they wouldn't have related to helping Norm exactly. Mrs. Fitzpatrick really was a right toothsome-looking female. Big. But mighty tasty-looking. He cleared his throat. And shook his head.

The lady glanced toward the curtains, which were decorously closed. Anyone out in the street would be able to see there was a light burning inside, but could not see in to know who was there or what they might be doing. Longarm understood now why the curtains might be kept that way instead of being open to let light in during the day.

“If you will excuse me, sir?” she said, rising. He could see now how tall she was. This woman was big all over, by damn. She stood there looking him almost eyeball-to-eyeball. And there were not a whole hell of a lot of women who could make such a claim.

It seemed that Norm's woman was a handful and then some. Longarm kind of envied him that.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick smiled again—damn, but she was fine-looking when she did that—and held a hand out to shake. “I do apologize for startling you, sir.”

“Longarm,” he corrected. “You can call me Longarm.”

“Then you must call me Eleanor.”

No, he thought. Ellie or El or any of the other possible diminutives just wouldn't have fit. Not for this one. “Yes, ma'am,” he said, then smiled and quickly changed that to: “I mean, yes, Eleanor. I hope I'll see you again under, shall we say, more normal circumstances?”

He thought he saw a twinkle of amusement in her eyes—they were sort of a gold color, he could see now—and she answered, “More respectable, you mean.”

Longarm grinned. “Whatever.”

Eleanor Fitzpatrick turned to gather up a velvet handbag and a small, paper-wrapped bundle—a homecoming present for Norm, probably—and started toward the back of the house. “You needn't see me out,” she said over her shoulder. “I know the way.”

Yes, he expected that she did at that.

That was confirmed later, after he'd naturally gone to see her out, when he went into Norm's bedroom to turn in for the night. The bed there was turned down. On both sides.

Longarm considered it something of a pity that the preparation wasn't being put to use.

But Eleanor—Mrs. Fitzpatrick, he told himself somewhat sternly—was Norm's woman. She might be a large and lusty chunk of female, but she was Norm's, and that meant she was not up for grabs.

After all, dammit, a man had to draw the line somewhere.

Didn't he?

Longarm yawned. He wasn't tired. Hell, he was bored half into a stupor. He dragged the Ingersoll out of his vest pocket. It was 4:48 in the afternoon. Close enough to quitting time for his purposes, thank you. He bit back another attempted yawn, his teeth chattering lightly as he did so, and laid a sheet of paper into the pages of the musty, soot-stained ledger he'd been prowling through. That would mark his place for tomorrow's labors.

Not that he expected to learn anything really. He certainly hadn't found anything of interest to this point. Nothing that would tell him why anyone, Norm Wold or any other human soul, should take any interest whatsoever in the continued existence of the records of Hirt County, Kansas.

It probably would have helped a great deal, Longarm conceded, if he'd had any tiny notion of what it was he hoped to find.

Unfortunately, he did not. Not the least lick of an idea existed at this point.

But surely there had to be
some
reason why a party or parties unknown tried to do away with the damn records.

Longarm could buy Norm's theory that there was no deliberate attempt to frame the town marshal for the crime, that indeed it was only very bad luck that led the arsonist to hide the evidence of his crime in Norm's unused carriage shed. Longarm could accept that. But that did not negate the fact that to prove Norm innocent would likely require proof that someone else was guilty. And the undisputed best way to get that, considering that all the evidence was aimed at Norm Wold, would be for Longarm to collar the genuine miscreant and toss the son of a bitch to the wolves of the court.

And the only problem with that was that now Longarm was obligated to find answers for all the usual questions. Like who, what, why, where, and when.

What, where, and when were no problem. But who remained a mystery. And with nothing else to go on, Longarm figured his best chance right now was to concentrate on why. Hence this mind-numbing stint in the county offices—to say nothing about the butt-numbing abilities of the desk chair Schooner had so generously loaned him.

Longarm yawned again, didn't bother trying to stop it this time, and shoved back away from the desk. “Mind if I leave the book here overnight?” he asked.

“It won't bother me any.”

“Thanks. Schooner?”

“Mmm?”

“That invitation to join me for a drink or whatever is still open.”

“Thank you, Longarm, but I still better say no.” The fat man grinned. “My wife promised pot roast and new potatoes for supper, and she makes the best.” He patted his own more than ample belly as evidence of his mate's excellence in the kitchen.

“I expect I'll be playing cards tonight at the place,” Longarm said. “I don't know the name of it, but there's a piano player who knows what he's doing and the bar-tender's name is Jake.”

Schooner nodded. “I know where you mean.”

“Join me there for a beer if you're of a mind to.”

“I just may do that later.”

Longarm retrieved his hat, waved good-bye to Schooner, who was busy tidying up and locking things away, and went outside. Supper at Dottie's, he figured, then over to the saloon for a friendly game and a nightcap before heading back to the lonely silence of Norm's little house.

He was halfway to Dottie's cafe when the fellow with the gun stepped out in front of him.

“Howdy,” Longarm said.

The man—he was more boy than man, actually—responded with a wild-eyed look.

Longarm tried again. “Something I can do for you, son?” Smiling, he reached inside his coat—with his left hand; the right remained unencumbered as a precaution, not that he saw any particular need for worry—and pulled out a cheroot. Keeping his eyes on the boy in front of him, Longarm bit off the twisted tip of the cigar, clamped it between his teeth, and then dipped two fingers of his left hand into a vest pocket for a match. He lowered his chin, but not his eyes, when it came time to light the smoke.

Through all this the boy was standing there so tight and nervous, it was a wonder he didn't vibrate and thrum like a damned violin string.