Fatal Elixir Page 4

  “You say this trip was announced to you last night?”

  “Yes, Daddy got a wire. Apparently, he wanted to surprise us.”

  “I’ll bet he did. When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Short notice.”

  “That’s why we’re packing so frantically.”

  It occurred to me that I would like to see the wire their father got. Suppose Mr. Muller, on his escape from the territorial prison, was intent on something other than revenge on Blacke or a reunion with his family. Suppose he had a bone to pick with Lucius Jenkins. That might help explain why Jenkins, who was known to hate letting his womenfolk out of his sight, was suddenly willing to let them out of the West altogether.

  “I take it your father’s not going along?”

  “No, of course not. Who’d watch this place? Stick Witherspoon could do it if he were healthy, but he’s still not fully recovered from being shot last winter.”

  “I see. Well, don’t talk to strangers on the way east. You never know.”

  She ran a finger along my chin. “I talked to you when you were a stranger.”

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Jenkins. We were formally introduced. By your mother.”

  “I wish I had time to make our good-byes more memorable,” she said. “But if I’m not done packing in time, Mother will be struck down by apoplexy.”

  “Don’t pack,” I said. “Just tell her you’ll buy everything new in New York. So you’ll be in fashion. I came here to talk to you about clothes.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “To talk about them? Usually you just want to tear—”

  “Enough of that, if you please. I’m working now, and you distract me with that kind of talk.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Booker,” she said in mock reverence. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Booker.” She sat in her father’s chair and folded her hands in her lap like a schoolgirl, but the effect was marred by her wicked laughter. “What would you like to know?”

  “Tell me about the dressmaker,” I said. “Mrs. Murdo.”

  “Quinn! I’m not even out of town yet, and already you’re gathering information on another woman. And to ask me about it. The cheek!”

  I raised my right hand and said, “This is strictly business. I shall be as a monk until I see you again.”

  She squinted at me. “I think I was seven years old. Yes, that was the last time you could have said that to me and had me believe it.”

  I smiled. “I am going to miss you,” I said. “But your mother may come looking for you any minute, and there are some things I have to find out, so let’s be serious now.”

  “All right, Quinn,” she said quietly. Another thing I liked about her was the fact that she knew when to drop the badinage. So many people, men and women, just don’t. “What do you want to know?”

  “The basics. First, what is she like?”

  Abigail cocked her head, thinking about it. “Quiet, serious. Absolutely devoted to her son, though how a woman can get so wrapped up in a messy little child is beyond me.”

  When I had been about the age of the child known as “Buck Murdo,” my mother pushed me out the window of a burning building at the cost of her own life. I said nothing.

  “Yet she’s got to have a little devilment in her,” Abigail went on.

  “Why do you say that?”

  There was a little grin. “Because she makes my clothes. The ones that have such an effect on you.”

  “Don’t you tell her what you want?”

  “Yes, I do. You do that with every dressmaker. You can even show them pictures. Not all of them can give you what you want, or they don’t care to, if what you want is the slightest bit daring. But Jennie Murdo has always given me what I want, and more. I don’t even know how she does it, but when I put on one of her dresses, I feel even more... attractive... than I imagined. No one could indulge the devilish side of me so well if she didn’t have some of the devil in herself, somewhere down deep.”

  “She makes your mother’s dresses, too, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that mean she’s got a bit of the Great Lady in her somewhere?”

  “Now that you mention it, yes. Perhaps a good deal more of a genuine Great Lady than mother has. She’s very dignified and respectful, but she never for a second gives the impression that she thinks we’re any better than she is simply because we have money and she doesn’t.”

  “That’s what America is supposed to be all about.”

  “Well, I know, but most people don’t act that way.”

  I had seen people scurrying to get out of my grandfather’s way on the street; heard their voices asking for favors.

  “No,” I said, “they don’t.”

  “Jennie Murdo does. It vexes mother terribly. She’d probably drop Jennie altogether, except for her being so good at what she does.”

  “Does Jennie Murdo ever talk about her husband?”

  “She says her husband died about six years ago, but you know how that is. I think he may have run off.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because all she ever says about him is that he died. I’ve known a lot of widows, and they almost always tell you what their late husbands thought about practically everything. ‘Oh, my Fred, he loved primroses,’ ‘My Sam said you couldn’t trust an Indian who wears white man’s clothes,’ ‘My Quinn, he was the best—’ ”

  “All right. Did she ever mention how she came to settle in Le Four?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I think most people who come here from somewhere else wind up here because this is where the railroad tracks stop, don’t you?”

  “How is she going to manage now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she’s losing her two best customers for at least six months. That will probably seriously reduce her income.”

  Abigail looked genuinely surprised. “I never thought of that.”

  “You’ve been busy packing.”

  “Don’t make excuses for me, Quinn Booker. You think I’m shallow and spoiled, and of course I am, spoiled at least. But what can I do? I can’t be expected to stay in this tedious place because a woman makes dresses for me. Mother and I have recommended her to everyone in the area who can afford to have dresses made outside.”

  “Relax,” I said. “I wasn’t here soliciting charity for the woman. I just wondered if you knew whether she had some other source of income, a pension or something.”

  “No, Quinn. I’m sorry I haven’t been of much help. And I wish I knew what this was all about.”

  “So do I,” I said. “I’ll write you in New York when I can tell you.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “And don’t worry, you’ve been a lot of help. I’ll come to the station Saturday morning and see you off.”

  6

  IT WAS A SWEET little cottage, clapboard siding, shingled roof, a white picket fence, and flowers in window boxes. I’d noticed it before, up at the end of Railroad Street, but I never dreamed it was the home of Abigail’s favorite dressmaker.

  The day had become positively warm, and after I returned to the Witness to stable Posy out back and have a few words with Merton Mayhew, I doffed my jacket for the walk back through town.

  It would never do, of course, for me to appear at the door incompletely dressed, so as I pushed the little gate aside, I began to slip my arms through the sleeves.

  That’s when the attack came.

  The first wave was the dog. At least, I think it was a dog. It made noises like a dog, and the black nose and one bright brown visible eye looked like the corresponding parts of a dog. After that, it got confusing, because there wasn’t much to see but a mop of straggly white hair.

  Whatever it was, the creature ran yapping at me. There seemed to be movement in the fur of the more distant end of the thing that might have indicated the wagging of the stump of a tail, but I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t want to take any chances, especially
now that I could see the sharp white teeth in its mouth.

  It didn’t slow down as if to spring, or anything like that, it just kept running. It was on a perfect course to wrap its teeth around my shin, and I didn’t know whether to try to kick it or flee.

  I wound up jumping aside at the last second, at the same moment getting the cursed jacket all the way on, and thereby vastly improving my balance.

  And the dog ignored me completely, scooted through the open gate, and headed for the railroad yards.

  The next wave of the attack came from a small, sandy-haired boy in knickers, carrying a stick and a hoop. In this case, fortunately, the attack was verbal.

  “Ah, mister, what did you go and let him out for?”

  “I didn’t mean to,” I said. “I just wanted to talk to your mother for a few moments. You’re Buck?”

  “That’s right. Who are you?”

  “My name’s Quinn Booker. I work for the newspaper.”

  His eyes got wide. “You’re the one who shot Frank Hastings last year. Wow, I wish I’d seen that.”

  “I wish I didn’t,” I said.

  The boy eyed me with interest. “Yeah. I heard Merton Mayhew talking about you at school. He said you were a little squeamish about it.” Buck Murdo’s shrug said it took all kinds.

  “Anyway,” he went on. “I’m sorry I hollered at you about Buster. I like to get him calmed down first before I let him out of the yard. Now I’ve got to go get him before he gets himself run over by a train.”

  “Don’t get yourself run over by a train while you’re at it.”

  “Don’t worry about me, mister. I do this all the time. Mom’s inside. You won’t find a better present for your girl than one of Mom’s dresses,” he said, and with that he was off.

  I got my jacket seated better on my shoulders, adjusted my tie and hat, and went to knock on the door.

  It opened quickly, as if she had been watching out the window.

  I introduced myself, showed her my card, and asked if I might come in.

  “Is this about business, Mr. Booker?” she asked. The top of her head came up to the top of my shoulders. She had blond hair drawn back into a tight bun at the base of her neck, and nice blue eyes. She had managed to keep any devilment that was in her out of her own clothing, which consisted of a no-nonsense blue dress and a white apron.

  On a table by a window where the light was good, I could see pieces of fabric and various arcane tools. There was a treadle-operated sewing machine next to it.

  “About my business, rather than yours,” I told her.

  “I could not possibly advertise in your newspaper, Mr. Quinn. I have more custom than I can handle now.”

  That was nice to know. At least she wouldn’t starve.

  “No, Mrs. Murdo. It’s not that. You see—this will take a few minutes. Might we sit down?”

  A very pleasant smile broke the stern politeness of her face.

  “Of course. Forgive me. Would you like some tea? Or perhaps some lemonade?”

  “Lemonade would be wonderful, thank you.”

  “I’ve made my first batch of it this year for Buck. In the summer, he practically lives on it.”

  “I haven’t experienced a Le Four summer yet. Thank you.” I took a sip. It was cool, tart, and sweet.

  When Mrs. Murdo had seated herself, I got down to business.

  “Mrs. Murdo, for reasons that have to do with our own safety, the sheriff has told my employer and me something in confidence. Something, I assure you right now as we assured him, that will be neither printed nor whispered by either of us.”

  She swallowed, but when she spoke her voice was the same smooth soprano it had been before. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to betray a confidence.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “It concerns Paul Muller. Your husband. The boy’s father.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. She was a good liar, or she’d had a lot of practice telling this particular one. “My husband died six years ago.”

  “Then the sheriff is mistaken?”

  “Very much so. I must see him and get this matter straightened out.”

  I shrugged. “It won’t be the first mistake Asa Harlan’s made, even in the short time I’ve been in Le Four. But there are a couple of things that confuse me.”

  “I don’t know how I can help you with that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Booker—”

  “You know, I never said Paul Muller wasn’t dead.”

  I could almost hear her mouth snap shut. She took a deep breath through her nose and said, “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said I’d been told that Paul Muller was your husband, and you said it couldn’t be, because your husband died six years ago. How did you know Paul Muller wasn’t dead? Do you know who Paul Muller is?”

  “Why, no,” she said. “I’ve never heard of anyone by that name.”

  “Then it’s just a coincidence that you and your son are using the name a writer used for a fictionalized version of the man?”

  She took a long time to speak, but she met my eyes for the whole interval. Things had changed now—she knew that I knew she was lying.

  “If that’s so,” she said slowly, “then yes. Yes, a total coincidence. And I regret your insinuation that I am ‘using’ a name. It is my name by law and by right.”

  I smiled, finished my lemonade, and stood up.

  “That’s good,” I said. “Very good, ma’am. Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing to trouble yourself about, really. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  I could see a spark in her eyes, whether of anger or fear, I couldn’t say.

  “Really, Mr. Booker. You come here with a bunch of veiled accusations, upsetting my entire afternoon... I believe I have a right to know what you think you’re doing.”

  I pretended to think it over.

  “Well,” I said after a few seconds, “I can’t see what harm it will do, since it’s all a mistake anyway. You see, Paul Muller is a bank robber, and probably worse, but bank robbery’s what he got convicted of. He was the last man Lobo Blacke arrested before he had to stop being a marshal.”

  “And the sheriff thinks I was married to him?”

  “He thinks you still are. That’s the point. He thinks that with the presence of the man who put him in jail, and of his wife and son, Le Four is the first place he’ll head for now that he’s killed a guard and broken out of jail. Of course—”

  I stopped talking because she wasn’t listening. Her face went white and her eyes lost focus. She swayed a little in place. I was ready to catch her if she fainted, but she never did, she just stood there, swaying.

  Finally, the suspense got to me. I put my arm around her shoulders and guided her gently to a chair. I don’t know if she was even aware of moving.

  I went to get her a glass of lemonade. She could have used something a lot stronger, but there didn’t seem to be anything of a stimulating nature in the house except a half-full bottle of Old Chief Wakkasee’s Magic Indian Elixir. I took a whiff of it, and beyond the smell of turpentine, I caught a good strong scent of alcohol.

  I was tempted to give her some, but my talk with Dr. Mayhew came back to me, and I stuffed the cork back in and put the bottle away. I wasn’t about to take the chance of turning this woman blue on top of all her other troubles.

  So lemonade it was. I put one hand behind her head and brought the glass to her lips with the other. She sipped, sputtered, and sipped again. Then she sat blinking for a few moments.

  Finally, she turned to me and said, “Thank you. Thank you very much, Mr. Booker. I—I am subject to spells on occasion, and you have been quite... helpful.”

  I had to smile. She was game. She’d had a blow that rocked her on her heels, but she was still trying to cover up.

  “Spells,” I said. “You mean this happens frequently?”

  “Oh, yes.” She pulled at the lemonade as if she needed
it. “Several times a day.”

  “It won’t do, Mrs. Murdo.”

  “You are being offensive, Mr. Booker.”

  “I know I am. I’ll apologize once I stop, but I’m going to go on for a while. You don’t have ‘spells,’ especially not several times a day. Considering the work you do, you would have sewn all your fingers together on that machine over there, or at least poked yourself, and your hands are flawless. You would have dropped or spilled things, made stains, and the place is spotless.

  “It wasn’t a spell, it was a shock. Paul Muller is out of jail and very probably headed this way. That news was enough to drain the blood from your face and send your brain somewhere very far away.

  “Now,” I said, “it could be that this was the shock of joy. Women love all sorts of men, and it could be you were transported with delight to think you’d be seeing him again. If that’s the case—”

  “You shut your filthy mouth!” she spat. Her face was as red now as it had been white before, contorted and unrecognizable. She threw the lemonade in my face. It stung my eyes. I went back to the kitchen, found a cloth, and blotted myself. I sat back down, trying not to let my clothing drip on her furniture.

  “All right,” I said amiably. “That’s not the case. That means the shock was caused by fear. But that’s why I’m here, Mrs. Murdo. This isn’t a time for fear, not yet. This is a time for prudence. If we know enough about the man, we can take precautions. I’ll match Lobo Blacke’s brain against anyone’s.”

  “Is Lobo Blacke genius enough to prevent my son from learning his father is a thief and liar and a murderer?”

  “Ah,” I said.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of, Mr. Booker. My son is a good boy. From way down inside, he’s kind and thoughtful and loving. He loved his father so much, it broke my heart to tell him the man was dead, even after I found out what he was.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “No, as God is my judge, I did not know. I realize that makes me seem a fool, but I never knew. I never knew until they caught him.”