Truth Be Told (12 page)

Ben asked whether Homer had any enemies, but she couldn't imagine anyone disliking the gentle man. She closed her eyes, trying to think. Had he said or done anything to antagonize a member of the community? Could someone be upset about something Homer wrote while her father was ill?

She shook her head. The men of Granite Springs wouldn't hesitate to settle a disagreement with a fistfight—in dire cases, even gunplay might be involved—but not this kind of anonymous sneak attack.

Could it have been some sort of misguided childish prank gone wrong? She thought about Jimmy and his friends, and the other youngsters in town. No, it simply didn't add up. None of the boys she knew were capable of anything like that.

She hadn't been back in Granite Springs all that long. Maybe there was someone new in town, someone she didn't know yet.

A new thought struck her. If Ben was right, and the falling brick had been a deliberate attack on Homer, was he in danger even now?

She started toward the back door, ready to run to Homer's cabin and check up on him. Then she halted and forced herself to relax. When Ben dropped her off, he assured her he would go over to check on Homer once more before returning to his boardinghouse for the night. If he found anything amiss, she was sure he would let her know.

She turned back to her work. If Ben said he would do it, she knew she could rely on him. In the short time she'd known him, he'd never hesitated to step in and help when needed. When she was stranded, he'd fixed her buggy and escorted her back to town, treating her in the most chivalrous manner possible.

And look at the way he treated Homer tonight, despite the older man's obvious dislike. The fact that he'd come seeking her company later on wasn't lost on her, either. A shiver of pleasure rippled through her, helping to dispel her unease. Ben was a nice man, a good man. Her fingers stilled.

And he worked for Great Western.

She sagged against the type cabinet, remembering the strong reactions the very mention of the company's name brought about in both her father and Homer. Then there were those articles her father had written, and Owen Merrick's insistence that he print a retraction.

Just being around Owen Merrick made her skin crawl, but according to Ben, the man had been a hero, once saving his father's life. Maybe that abrasive behavior was just part of
his personality. Being obnoxious didn't necessarily make him a villain.

Ben was a man of integrity. Everything she saw of him convinced her of that. Despite Homer's oft-voiced misgivings, she had seen nothing to indicate otherwise. A man as honest as she believed Ben to be wouldn't work for a company involved in skullduggery.

But her father was a man of strong integrity, as well. How could two men on the side of truth have such divergent opinions about the same issue?

Walking into her father's office, she stood facing the file cabinets lined up against the far wall. She searched through the drawers until she found a thick file labeled
Great
Western
. Pulling the file from the drawer, she tucked it under her arm and started upstairs. Perhaps his notes would yield the answers she sought.

T
he next morning, Amelia came down the stairs with a light step, refreshed after a good night's sleep. More sleep than she planned on, she reminded herself, with a rueful glance at the stack of papers she carried under her arm.

Her intention the night before had been to go through every document, every scrap of information on Great Western in the thick file, but she had fallen asleep before she got through the first few pages. She set them down on the desk in her father's office, promising herself she would take time to go through them more thoroughly at the first opportunity.

Homer stood next to the Peerless press, setting up Pete Nichols's new menu for the Bon-Ton. Amelia smiled when she noticed he had abandoned the swath of bandages Clara applied the night before.

“How are you feeling this morning?”

“Not bad, except for a whale of a headache.”

She stepped closer and examined his head. “The swelling seems to have gone down on your forehead. That's good.”

He gave a quick nod, then grimaced. “I put some arnica
ointment on it before I turned in last night. It's still sore, but nothing that'll keep me from doing my job.”

“I'm grateful the brick didn't do any more damage.” She watched him work a moment, then asked, “Can you think of anyone who is angry at you? Angry enough to try to hurt you?”

He drew back his head and winced again. “What are you getting at?”

“Ben doesn't think it was an accident.” She went on to explain what he had found up on the rooftop.

Homer's eyes narrowed, and his bushy, white brows drew together. “You mean somebody waited up there for me to come along, and then dropped that brick down on me?”

“That's what it looked like to him, and from the way he described things, I think he may be right. It may have just been some misguided prank, but even so, the results could have been a lot worse. I can't imagine anyone wanting to do you harm, but just in case, promise me you'll be careful.”

Homer nodded. “I'll keep an eye out for trouble.” When he turned back to his work, Amelia heard him mutter, “If someone is out to get me, they're the ones who'd better watch out.”

She cast a worried glance at her friend. Homer's spindly frame didn't inspire confidence in his ability to take on an assailant, but at least he would be on his guard. With no pressing duties at the moment, she walked back to the office and settled herself at the desk.

Pulling the file toward her, she spent the next thirty minutes sorting its contents into neat stacks. She found handwritten drafts of the articles she'd already read, along with notes on hydraulic mining and a few scribbled sheets containing little except hastily jotted notes that bore little meaning to her. At
the bottom of the file, she found an assortment of clippings from eastern newspapers.

Intrigued, she went through the clippings one by one. Each of them contained some mention of Owen Merrick. In one, he was named as the recipient of an award for public service. In another, he had been appointed to the board of directors of a shipping company in Virginia. Others mentioned his name briefly as an attendee at some party or political function. None of them gave indication of him being involved with any underhanded activity.

Amelia frowned and went over each clipping again, looking for any incriminating detail, but she found nothing.

Propping her elbows on the desk, she rested her forehead in her hands. There had to be some reason for her father's antipathy toward Merrick, but the clippings gave no clue about what that might be.

She slid the clippings back into the folder, then sorted through the scribbled notes once more. Ten minutes later, she pushed away from the desk with a frustrated groan. The scattered words must have had some meaning for her father, but try as she might, she couldn't make sense of them.

Her stomach clenched, and a sinking feeling swept over her. Did her father's dislike for Great Western stem from nothing more than a clash of personalities between him and its vice president? If Owen Merrick's grating manner affected her father the same way it did her, she could understand his distrust. But it would be totally unlike her father to voice his dislike in print for no other reason.

He had been ill, she reminded herself—grievously ill. Could the sickness that claimed his life have altered his thinking somehow, making him see wrongdoing where it didn't exist?

She glanced out into the printing office, where Homer moved around the Peerless press, performing his weekly maintenance. He wouldn't need her help any time soon. Rolling her neck from side to side to loosen the tight muscles, she scooted forward again and turned back to her father's notes.

One of the scraps of paper bore a list of names, although there was nothing to indicate their significance. She went over them again, her attention quickening when one notation caught her eye:
V
. Sparks.

Did that refer to Virgil Sparks, the same man who sold his property to her father rather than let it go to Great Western?

Excitement stirred within her. If that was the case, perhaps the other people on this list also held grievances against Great Western. And if so, they were people she should talk to. Once she learned their stories, perhaps she could finally start putting the pieces of this puzzle together.

More than anything, she needed to learn the truth. She owed that to her father, to herself, and to the readers of the
Gazette.

Scooping the rest of the papers back into the folder, she replaced it in the file cabinet and marched out to the printing office with the list of names in her hand. Walking up to Homer, she said, “I need to ask you something.”

He set down the oilcan he held and looked at the paper she held out to him.

“Do you have any idea why my father kept this list of names? I found it in the file he had on Great Western.”

He took the list from her and studied it, his lips moving as he scanned the handwriting. His brow puckered, and he stared across the room as if deep in thought. Finally he spoke. “It's
an odd list, if you ask me.” He frowned. “None of those folks live here anymore.”

Amelia's newfound excitement at having a lead to follow plummeted like a bird falling out of the sky. “They've moved away? All of them?”

Homer nodded. “All within the last six months or so.” His gaze sharpened, and he focused on the list again. “That's interesting.”

Hope fluttered feeble wings, and Amelia caught her breath. “What is?”

“As you know, Virgil Sparks sold that piece of land to your daddy. But the rest of them—the Seavers, Gabe Rogers, old man Smith—all sold out to Great Western before they left town.”

He jabbed an ink-stained finger at the top name on the list. “The Seaver family was one of the first to leave. There was talk of a new gold strike up in Idaho, and Ephraim couldn't wait to pack his family up and light out. Now that I think about it, your father tried to contact him, sent a letter to wherever it was they went, but it was returned.”

“What about the others? Did he try to contact them, too?”

Homer handed the paper back with a regretful shrug. “He didn't always fill me in on everything he did. I honestly don't know.”

“Where did the Seavers live? Do they have any neighbors who might still be in contact with them?”

He shook his head. “Sparks's place was on one side of them. Rogers and Smith were out past them. Seavers had youngsters at the school, though. Maybe the teacher knows something.”

It was a slim lead, but it was all she had to go on. Checking to make sure her pencil and notebook were tucked inside
her reticule, Amelia went on her way and soon reached the schoolhouse.

She waited at the back of the room until the students were busy with their slate work and Rose Thompson, the young schoolteacher, was free to talk with her.

“I'm afraid I can't be of much help,” the slender blonde said in response to Amelia's question. “I haven't heard a word from the family since they left last winter. If you do find a way to contact them, would you please send them my regards? They were sweet children, and I miss them.”

Amelia thanked her and left, wondering where she should turn next. As if in answer, she spotted Owen Merrick's stocky figure striding in her direction on the opposite side of the street.

“Go to the
source.”
Amelia jumped and clutched her reticule to her side. It was almost as if her father's voice had spoken in her ear. One of his main precepts had been the importance of getting information directly from the subject of a story, rather than relying on hearsay.

Heat scalded her face at the memory. How could she have forgotten such a basic principle? She hadn't forgotten, she admitted to herself. Based on her father's attitude and her first impression of Merrick, she had chosen to ignore it completely. Owen Merrick was the last person she wanted to talk to.

But her personal feelings didn't matter. Was she a journalist or wasn't she? Squaring her shoulders, she stepped down off the boardwalk and crossed the street to intercept him.

Steeling herself, she forced a polite smile to her lips. “Good day, Mr. Merrick. Might I have a moment of your time?”

A look of astonishment crossed his face, quickly replaced by a triumphant grin. “Why, Miss Wagner! How lovely to see you
on this fine morning. May I hope this means you've decided to accept my offer to purchase the
Gazette
?”

Caught completely off guard, Amelia could only gape at him. It took a moment to find her voice. “I'm afraid you're mistaken. I merely wanted to ask you some questions.”

The genial look vanished, and he lifted one eyebrow slightly. “Oh?”

Now that the moment had arrived, Amelia found herself scrambling for the right question. Depending on Merrick's reaction, she might only have one chance to get the information she sought. What did she want to know most?

“What was the problem between you and my father? Why were the two of you so at odds?”

A glimmer lit Merrick's eyes for a moment, then his expression smoothed. “You don't know? I'm surprised he didn't tell you.”

“I was always taught to get both sides of a disagreement,” she said, hoping he wouldn't press her for details she didn't possess.

“I've never been one to speak ill of the dead . . . or to malign someone who didn't have a chance to answer back.” He fixed her with a meaningful glance that brought a flush to her cheeks. “And now if you'll excuse me, I—”

“Just a minute.” Amelia pulled out her pencil and notebook and took a quick step to one side, planting herself squarely in his path. “There's one more thing I'd like to know. I'm aware that Great Western has plans to engage in hydraulic mining, but does the company intend to stay in Granite Springs long enough to repair the damage that process is sure to create? Or are you merely here to plunder the area and then move on?
You'd be within your legal rights to do so—as deplorable as that might be—but my readers would like to know what they can expect.”

He'd stared at her throughout her inquiry, and for a moment silence hung in the air when she ended. Then he smiled, looked around as if checking to see if anyone else was within hearing distance, and began. “Our goal is for the betterment of the area. We want to improve the economy of the entire region. As for specific plans, I can't discuss them with you right now. We're at a critical stage in our operations, and I don't want to jeopardize them by speaking too soon. Suffice it to say that the end results will be good for Granite Springs, for Arizona, and the whole West.”

Amelia tapped her pencil against the notebook. “I'm afraid my readers will want more than vague assurances.”

Merrick's smile faded, and his lips tightened into a thin line. “And I'm afraid that's all you're going to get from me.”

She met his gaze straight on, hoping he didn't notice the way her fingers trembled. “In that case, I'll have to keep digging. My readers need to know the whole truth, and I mean to find it.”

He fixed her with a steely gaze and spoke in a tone to match. “Just remember, Miss Wagner, if you keep on digging, you may not like what you turn up.” Pivoting on his heel, he strode away in the opposite direction.

Amelia stared after him. What did he mean? His parting comment sounded like a thinly veiled threat, though she couldn't imagine what he meant by it. Could it have anything to do with the property her father bought from Virgil Sparks?

She took a moment to pull herself together. Their brief altercation had shaken her more than she cared to admit, but
confrontations like that were part and parcel of a reporter's life. She couldn't let that deter her from her pursuit of news.

Speaking of which . . . She walked along First Street, looking for anything newsworthy.

Spying a large poster in the front window of the Odd Fellows Hall, she walked over to inspect it. The hand-lettered sign announced an upcoming concert by the military band from Fort Whipple. Amelia wrinkled her nose. The uneven writing conveyed the information clearly enough, but she and Homer could have done a much more professional job on the Peerless. Nevertheless, it was news. She jotted the information in her notebook and glanced down the street, alert for further inspiration.

Farther down the block, she spotted a familiar figure. She broke into a smile at the sight of Ben Stone, remembering the pleasant meal they shared the evening before. At the same moment, he caught sight of her and raised his hand in greeting.

She watched him hurry toward her, trying to quell the sensation that a swarm of butterflies had taken up residence in her stomach. Ducking her head to tuck her notebook and pencil back inside her reticule, she used the opportunity to gather her thoughts before he joined her.

“I was hoping I might see you this morning,” he said.