The Lady Doctor's Alibi (10 page)

“All right,” Clint said. “Deputy Boone will be here all night. I’m going back to my hotel, but I’ll check here in the morning. Meanwhile, here.”

He took out the Colt New Line and handed it to her.

“Just hold it like this, cock it, hold it steady, and pull the trigger. Aim for the largest part of your target, which would be the upper part of the body. And if it’s Rufus Holmes, it’ll be a large target.”

“How many times do I pull the trigger?”

“Until the gun is empty, and the hammer is falling on empty chambers.”

“A-All right.”

She was wearing a smocklike dress that had large pockets on the sides.

“Keep the gun in your pocket,” he said. “Don’t put it down anywhere.”

“I have to admit y-you’re frightening me.”

“Good,” Clint said, “you should be frightened. But also remember you can leave anytime you want. You’re basically a volunteer here. Nobody will stop you from walking out.”

“No,” she said, “these people need me. I have to stay.”

“I admire you for that,” he said. “And I’ll do my best to make sure you and Marietta are safe.”

“I’m afraid our little nurse may have a crush on you, Clint,” Lissa said.

“Really? And how about our doctor?”

“Well . . .” She blushed. “I think I better check on my patients.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

“Yes,” she said, still uncomfortable. “Good night.”

“Good night, Lissa.”

 

Clint went over to Deputy Boone, who had taken up a position in a wooden chair by the front door.

“I’ll be back in the morning. You need anything?” Clint asked.

“Yeah,” Boone said. “This chair is real uncomfortable.”

“You want me to get you a pillow?”

“No,” Boone said, “I want you to get whatever you’re doin’ done . . . quick.”

“I’ll do my best, Deputy.”

“And what’s the sheriff gonna be doin’ all this time?” Boone asked.

“Same as me,” Clint said. “Trying to find the evidence on whoever killed Dr. Graham.”

It was too early to turn in, and Clint knew that Josephina kept her cantina open later for people with late appetites. “Drunk hombres are hungry hombres,” she had told him.

It seemed to be the truth, for as he approached the front door of her place, three drunken Mexicans were leaving—although they were probably less drunk than they had been when they entered, since they had now eaten.

As he entered, he saw that the place was empty. Josephina came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Well, well,” she said, “there you are. Have you found another place to eat?”

“There is no other place to eat in this town,” he assured her.

“What about another bed to sleep in?”

“I’ve been sleeping in my own bed, Josephina,” he said. “Honest.”

“Sí, but with who?”

“Now, now,” Clint said, “here I’ve been busy trying to solve a murder, and you accuse me of sleeping with someone else?”

“Well, I have not heard from you since I came to your room,” she said. “Don’t tell me you have still been waitin’ for me to come to you again?”

“No,” he said, “I’ve just been very busy, and now I’m very hungry.”

“Hmph,” she said, crossing her arms beneath her big breasts, almost pushing them up and out of her peasant blouse. “So now you want me to feed you.”

“Yes,” he said, “please.”

She sighed and said, “Very well. Sit down. I think I still have some food left.”

She had plenty of food left and brought him platters full. She sat with him while he ate.

“So who has been murdered—oh wait, you are talkin’ about the gringo doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Madre de Dios,” she said. “That was terrible. Who would beat to death el médico?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

While he ate, he explained to her how Dr. Sugarman and the nurse, Marietta, had been caring for Dr. Graham’s patients since his death.

“The doctora, she is beautiful, no?” Josephina asked.

“Have you seen her?” Clint asked, wondering if he could get away with a lie.

“Oh, sí,” Josephina said, “I went to her one day when I burned my hand.”

“Then yes,” he said, “she is very beautiful.”

“More beautiful than I am?” she asked, sitting up straight.

“Different,” Clint said. “You are both very beautiful.”

She punched him on the arm.

“You wanted me to tell the truth, didn’t you?” he asked.

“No,” she said, “I wanted you to tell me I am the most beautiful.”

“Well,” Clint said, “while you’re both beautiful, you are the one who can cook.”

She folded her arms and glared at him, still not happy.

“And you’re the one,” he added, “who will be coming to my room tonight.”

“Because you are inviting me?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said with a smile, “I’m inviting you.”

Rufus Holmes had moved out of his hotel and into the big house with Lillian Graham. He woke up that morning with weak legs. That woman was insatiable, had kept him up most of the night having sex, and that meant that she took a lot of punishment. He’d never seen a woman who liked punishment so much.

She came into the room now, wearing a dressing gown, and he said, “Again?”

“No, not again,” she said. “My ass is sore enough . . . for a while. Come downstairs. Breakfast is ready, and we have to talk.”

“I’ll be right there.”

She left the room and he got dressed. Maybe he’d finally worn her out, for a change. As he went downstairs, he could smell the bacon and coffee. Maybe this wouldn’t be a bad life, for a while.

As he entered the dining room, she was putting breakfast on the table.

“No servants?”

“I don’t want to make it obvious yet that you’re here,” she told him. “Sit.”

He sat, piled his plate with eggs, bacon, biscuits. By God, the woman could cook?

“Enjoying it?” she asked, seated across from him.

“Oh, yeah.”

“And the sex?”

“Well . . . yeah, you know that.”

“And the money,” she said, “you’re going to enjoy the money.”

With his mouth full, he asked, “What’s your point?”

“If we want to keep living this life, certain things have to be done,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Like murder,” she said.

He stared at her.

“I thought that was how we got here?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, “but if we want to stay here—if you want to stay here—then more people have to die.”

He took a big mouthful of coffee and swallowed thoughtfully.

“Who?” he asked finally.

 

Clint woke with Josephine’s head on his chest, her breasts pressed to him. He put his arms around her, held her that way for a few moments, his face in her hair. It smelled like her cooking. Then he ran his hands down her bare back, enjoying the feel of her smooth skin. One hand came to rest at the small of her back and she stirred. She lifted her head, looked at him, then kissed him. He kissed her back. She slid one leg over him and straddled him. His penis swelled between them. She rubbed her hairy thatch up and down him, wetting him with her juices before actually taking him inside her.

She leaned over him so her big breasts dangled in his face. He reached for them, held them, squeezed them, sucked on those amazing nipples while she rode him, her hair a wild black cloud around her head.

She rode him that way for a while, her hips never stopping. He let her have her way for a long time, but finally flipped her onto her back so abruptly that she yelled—but didn’t object.

He hooked his elbows underneath her knees, spread her wide, and pounded into her without stopping until they both finished with a long groan from him and a loud shout from her . . .

 

“Breakfast?” he asked.

“Soon,” she said, her head on his shoulder. “First I need to rest.”

“No,” he said, “I don’t mean I want you to cook it. There must be someplace else in this town that has decent food. I’ll take you out for breakfast.”

She lifted her head and stared at him.

“Really?”

“Why not?”

“I have not been to a restaurant in Veracruz in . . . well, a very long time.”

“Well, let’s make today the day.”

“But . . . I need some clean clothes.”

“You’ll look fine—”

“Cabrón!” she snapped, slapping him on the chest. “I cannot go somewhere to eat wearin’ the same clothes I wore yesterday!”

“Okay, okay,” he said. “We’ll stop by your rooms and you can get some fresh clothes.”

She sat up in bed, pulling the sheet up to her neck, and said, “And now I must decide where to eat.”

Clint expected Josephina to take him to some fancy restaurant in a better part of town, maybe one that she’d been wanting to eat in for a long time. Instead, they only went a few blocks from her place, where most of the customers seemed to be dockworkers and sailors, with a few other citizens sprinkled among them.

Fish was never a favorite meal of Clint’s. He usually only ate it when it was all he could get, when he was on the trail and camped near a stream. Since Veracruz was right on the water, fish was popular, and Josephina said she was taking him for some of the best fish she’d ever tasted.

As they entered, an older black woman came rushing up to them, took Josephina’s hands in her worked-hardened ones.

“Josephina, my girl,” she said. “This is unexpected. Why, child, you haven’t eaten with us in so long.”

“I cannot afford your prices, Auntie,” Josephina said.

“Well, you know you can eat here anytime you want,” the woman said.

“I know that, but I would hate for people to come to my cantina for free food.”

“The truth is,” Auntie said, looking at Clint, “I would feed her for free, me, and she would feed me for free, and that is why we do not feed each other.”

“This is my new amigo, Clint Adams,” Josephina said. “He wanted to take me out to eat, and I told him there was only one place in town I wanted to go.”

“I’m honored to have you both. Please, come.” There was only the merest flicker on Auntie’s face, but Clint knew she had recognized his name.

She showed them to a table, promised to return with coffee.

“She’s not Mexican, and she’s your aunt?” he asked.

“She’s everybody’s aunt,” Josephina said.

“There’s no name outside,” he said. “What is it—oh, wait.”

Josephina smiled and said, “Yes, she calls her restaurant ‘Auntie’s.’ ”

The woman returned with coffee and asked them what they wanted to eat.

“Well,” Clint said, “I’m not used to having fish for breakfast.”

“I can cook you what you want, me,” the woman said. “But if you would permit me, I’ll prepare something special that I think you will like.”

Clint sipped the coffee, found it just the way he liked it, which was encouragement enough.

“All right,” he said. “I’m in your hands.”

“Josephina?”

“I, too, am in your hands, Auntie.”

Auntie clapped her hands happily and went to her kitchen. There were two waitresses working the floor, as Auntie’s was roughly three times the size of Josephina’s place. But it was Auntie, herself, who would wait on them, and the other waitresses stayed away.

When Auntie returned with two plates, she set them down in front of the two younger people proudly. Josephina clapped her hands.

“Auntie’s poached eggs and salmon,” she said happily.

“With bacon,” Auntie said. “Please, enjoy. I will bring some biscuits.”

There was already bread beneath the eggs and salmon, but Clint did not refuse the biscuits.

“Try it,” Josephina said anxiously.

Clint cut into his breakfast and took a forkful into his mouth.

“Wow,” he said truthfully, “that’s great. But the bread . . .”

“It’s corn bread,” Josephina said. “Auntie’s own recipe.”

They were both eating avidly by the time Auntie returned with a basket of biscuits, which made her very happy.

“I’ll bring more coffee.”

As she went back to the kitchen, Clint asked, “Where’s she from?”

“New Orleans.”

“I knew I heard a Cajun accent there. How did she come to be here?”

“I do not know,” Josephina said. “I believe she came here to escape a bad affair of the heart.”

“How long has she been here?”

“As long as I can remember,” Josephina said.

“This is wonderful,” Clint said. “This is . . . almost as good as your cooking.”

“You are very sweet,” she said, “but if I could cook as wonderfully as Auntie, I would leave here and open a restaurant in . . . San Francisco.”

Auntie returned with more coffee, poured their mugs full, and then gazed at them happily.

“This one,” she said to Clint, touching Josephina’s head, “is my favorite. If you hurt her, I will poison you, me.”

“If you poisoned me with food this good,” Clint said, “I’d probably still eat it.”

Auntie looked at Josephina.

“This one knows how to talk, eh?”

“Yes, Auntie,” she said, “he does.”

“I will leave you to enjoy your breakfast,” the older woman said. She looked at Clint. “If you want more, you just say so.”

“Yes, Auntie.”

Clint stared at the woman’s face and suddenly became aware that she was much older than she seemed. As she hurried back to her kitchen, she moved with no sign of age.

“How old is she?” Clint asked.

“I have never asked.”

“She could be . . . sixty, or eighty.”

“Eighty, I think,” Josephina said.

“But she moves so young.”