Murder at Thumb Butte (13 page)

I watched her face. It was firm and resolute. I had seen that expression on her father. My guess was that her
I do
conceded only understanding, not obedience.

Carl Schmidt spoke for the first time. “Captain, I came with Mary because questions are being raised about this entire engagement.”

“
Who’s raisin’ questions?”

Carl Schmidt nodded in my direction. That got me a stern glance from McAllen.

“
Jonathon Winslow is the one questioning this engagement,” I said in defense. “I believe he fired your team. Mr. Schmidt wants to wire Boston and beg Winslow’s father to keep working on a case that no longer exists.”

Carl Schmidt became indignant. “
Begging
is a highly inaccurate term. And we weren’t fired. We were engaged by Jonathon’s father. Only he can terminate our agreement. I’m sure he’ll want us to remain on the case to protect the family name.”

Harvard men generally weren’t smarter or better educated, but they were successful because they helped each other, and if the situation warranted, they would protect each other from impolite assaults from lesser beings. In truth, the same was somewhat true of Columbia, but moving up the rungs of society by using family connections was one of the reasons I had left the city for the frontier. Out here, a man made it on his own—or he didn’t make it.

McAllen’s next words surprised me. “Carl, send Mr. Winslow a telegram to inform him that it is likely that their son’s business dealin’s with Campbell will come out at trial. If he authorizes another retainer, we’ll try to keep the worst of it out of the newspapers.”

“
Yes, sir.”

Without a further word, Carl Schmidt walked over to his horse, mounted up, and rode away.

“
Captain, I won’t pull back on Jeff’s defense to protect that doltish assistant to the governor. Continuing this engagement puts Jeff in jeopardy.”

“
No it doesn’t. We can do both. More important, protectin’ Winslow allows me to stay in Prescott so I can help Jeff.”

“
I can hire you and your team.”

McAllen gave me one of his stares that brooked no further discussion. “Steve, I would consider it an insult for you to offer me money. Jeff’s my friend, and someone made it look like he committed murder. We’ll work together to get to the bottom of this, but I can do my job at the same time.”

Carl Schmidt seemed to know the right thing to say when McAllen gave an order, so I followed his example. “Yes, sir.”

McAllen’s eyes flamed briefly, but he let my impertinence go. “Have you found any evidence that helps Jeff?”

“
No, but it didn’t take long to find several people who might want Campbell dead.”

“
Who’s on your list?”

“
Lew Davis, Jonathon Winslow, and Herb Locklear were all victims of Campbell’s scam. Blanchet and even the governor may also have been victims, but I think it more likely that Blanchet was a partner.”

Mary Schmidt spoke up, “The governor, his assistant, the leader of the Republicans in the Council, a highly connected lawyer, and the day manager of the Palace. That’s a list of most of the important people in Prescott. We can’t shove aside the obvious suspect, Jeff Sharp.”

“
Jeff didn’t kill Campbell,” I responded a bit too sharply.

“
Take it easy, Steve. Pinkertons are trained to never discard a suspect until hard evidence proves them innocent. Mary is right to keep him on her list.” He turned his eyes from me to Mary Schmidt. “Did you suspect any other victims of this fraud?”

Her eyes twinkled with humor, and I guessed she could play coy better than a barroom hussy. “I presume you mean beyond Carl and me. Actually, we hadn’t closed the deal yet, or we would have put Campbell in jail.” She dropped her coy act. “Captain, in answer to your question, we haven’t run across anyone else in town. There was a rancher down south, but we haven’t seen him in Prescott. That doesn’t mean there aren’t others who have hidden their involvement due to embarrassment.”

“
What about Bob Brow?” I asked.

“
Why would you suspect him?” She looked puzzled.

“
Brow told me he was being sued by Campbell. He also mentioned that there were several women that he romanced out of money … and other valuables.”

She hesitated, then shook her head no. “Brow’s unlikely, but I want to learn about these women.”

“
Why are you dismissing Brow?” I asked.

“
He can spot a cheat from twenty paces, and Castle would’ve handled any legal issues for Brow. I think he’s doubtful.”

“
Is there any chance Mac Castle should be on the list?” McAllen asked. “It wouldn’t be good if Jeff’s lawyer was the murderer.”

That hadn’t occurred to me, and I looked at Mary Schmidt to hear her answer. “Not a chance. Castle would never buy stock without telegramming New York.” Again, the twinkling eyes. “That man has checked every term and condition in the Bible.”

I chuckled to make light of my next comment. “I might as well mention that Castle has me on his list. Campbell and I were both New Yorkers. He says I knew that Jeff’s door was unlocked and that his name was carved in the stock of his Winchester. He also accused me of being a man who solves problems with a gun.”

“
I think I’ll like Mr. Castle,” McAllen said, with his closed-mouth smile. “I’ll put you on my list as well.”

His expression turned serious again. “Mary, talk to Winslow. See where he was last night. Ask him if he told anyone you were Pinkertons. If not, caution him to keep it quiet. Check Locklear’s whereabouts too, but be discreet. Steve, go see Jeff and let him know I’m here. See if he remembers anything more.”

“
I need to see Castle as well.”

“
Fine, but meet me at Earp’s for dinner at seven.”

I looked McAllen up and down. “Should I dress as a Mexican bandit?”

No smile. “Steve, come however you damn please.” He snuggled the sombrero on his head. “A jorongo is warm and allows access to my gun. Great for ridin’. And a sombrero shades the harsh Arizona sun. Now, if we’re done, may I spend some time with my daughter?”

McAllen and Maggie swung easily into their saddles and were gone. I guessed that last sentence wasn’t really a question.

_{Chapter 19}

I was in a hurry to get back, so I left it to Mary Schmidt to escort Maggie back to town. I had learned from Carl Schmidt that Campbell had a room at a boardinghouse on Goodwin Street. I wanted to search for the genuine stock certificate before anyone else rummaged through the room. I scolded myself for being concerned about personal affairs when Sharp was in trouble—but not for long. After all, this was a short detour, and Sharp would be my partner in this enterprise. As I rode, I tried to figure out how I would get access to Campbell’s room.

By the time I tied up Liberty outside the light-green clapboard house, I still hadn’t come up with a good answer. As I trudged up the three steps, I decided to claim I was a distant relative and come for his effects. The woman who answered my knock was younger than I expected. She was trim, neatly dressed in a polka-dot blouse and a pale yellow skirt. Her brown hair pulled back in a tight bun showed off an attractive face unadorned with makeup.

“
Yes?”

“
Hello. I’m Steve Dancy, here to collect a few things from your deceased boarder, Elisha Campbell.”

“
No. You may not take a few things. Take it all or nothing. I need to rent that room. Anything in that room tomorrow morning will be donated to my church.ated to ⚀

“
Yes, ma’am.”

She gave me an appraising look. “My name is Mrs. Cunningham. Follow me.”

She led me upstairs without requiring further explanation. At the landing, she said, “You’ll need help. My son’s available for two bits an hour, plus tip.”

Was this a request for a small sweetener? I couldn’t imagine that I’d need help emptying a single room. Then she opened the door. I had never seen such clutter. Stuff was strewn everywhere, even across the bed. It would be difficult to find enough space to even lie on the bed.

“
Did someone make this mess searching the room?” I asked.

She gave me a quizzical look. “Did you know Mr. Campbell?”

“
Only through correspondence,” I lied.

She held her arm out, palm up. “Well, this is how he lived. Can you get all this stuff out of here?”

“
Yes, ma’am.”

“
Today?”

“
With the help of your son. Would it be okay if I put some of this stuff in boxes for your church?”

“
Of course. My son’s name is John. I’ll send him right up. He’ll know where to stack the boxes out back.” She gave me another stern look. “I need this room rented immediately.”

“
I understand.”

She started out of the room but stopped. “What’s your relationship to Mr. Campbell?”

“
I’m also from New York, and we have common friends. I promised to ship his personal effects.”

She looked disappointed. “Should have guessed. Mr. Campbell was three weeks behind in his rent. I was hoping you were family and would make good on his chalk.”

“
No, ma’am. But if I run across anything of value that’s not personal, I’ll set it aside. Perhaps you can sell it to settle the account.”

“
Good luck.” She flicked her head at the room. “I looked through this mess and found only stuff that even my church will probably throw away.”

“
Did you find any legal papers? I’m been requested to look for a will.”

She pointed to the corner. “There’s a satchel over there. If Mr. Campbell has any assets, he owes me twenty-one dollars. City statutes say I get paid first.” She gave me yet another stern look to make sure I understood. “I’ll send John right up. Pay him four bits in advance.”

I nodded, and she disappeared into the hall. I suppressed irritation that she was asking me to pay her son—in advance—for work he would have had to do for free if I hadn’t shown up. I reminded myself that for a few coins, I would get to rummage through Campbell’s room. This was a stroke of luck.

I investigated the satchel first, but it contained only receipts, telegrams, letters, a pocketknife, and ink. I was about to set the satchel aside when I noticed a narrow inside pocket that contained two black tubes. I recognized the tubes. One was a Cross stylographic pen and the other, a Cross propel-repel mechanical pencil. I recognized them because I owned two sets of these writing instruments. I had bought the A. T. Cross sets thinking they would help me write a great novel. That reminded me that my book would be published in a few months. For some reason, that thought made me more excited than the potential of a license for Edison’s inventions. I rolled the pen in my hand. It felt good and familiar, but I had other things to do. I shoved both instruments into my pocket.

Not finding what I was looking for in the satchel, I threw everything off the bed and lifted the mattress. Nothing. Next, I peeked behind the headboard. Again nothing.

“
What are you looking for?”

The boy looked to be about fifteen, maybe older. It surprised me, because his mother looked to be well under thirty.

“
John?”

“
Yep. What are you looking for?”

“
A will.”

“
What’s that?”

“
A written statement that tells people what to do with a person’s belongings after they die.”

“
If Mr. Campbell has any valuable belongings, my ma gets paid first. She says it doesn’t matter what any piece of paper says.”

Evidently Mrs. Cunningham had given her son clear instructions before she sent him upstairs.

“
Understood,” I answered. “Do you know where to get boxes?”

“
Yep. At any one of the forty saloons along Whiskey Row, but they charge a nickel for each wood box. You got money?”

John was definitely Mrs. Cunningham’s son. I reached into my pocket and handed him a silver dollar. He flipped it in the air with his thumb and deftly caught it. As he slipped it into his pocket, he said, “Four bits for me and ten boxes. Right?”

“
Right.”

“
It’ll take five trips, so I better get at it.” He disappeared before he finished the sentence.

While he was gone, I searched the room. There was no stock certificate, either for the genuine Edison company or the fake. Mrs. Cunningham had been right: except for a few items of expensive, but threadbare, clothing, the room was filled with worthless odds and ends. It looked as if Campbell had been too lazy to throw anything away, or perhaps he took comfort in being surrounded by stuff he had accumulated.

By the time John had completed his five trips, I had separated the true trash from the things a church might sell at a bazaar. As we worked together to clear the room, two questions nagged me: Where were the stock certificates, and what had Campbell done with his ill-gotten gains?

After the last box had been carried downstairs, I realized that this room was large and had good furnishings. A dollar a day for room and board seemed a bargain, and there was enough space for Jeff’s things until he got released. Maybe I would talk to Mrs. Cunningham.

I trotted down the staircase just as John came bursting back into the house.