Showdown (8 page)

"You could have hired it to be done."

"Could have, but didn't. Sorry to say it. For both you and Woodward's sake." Then he leaned forward and said, "Good Lord, it
is you
. When you walked in here last night, I thought you looked sort of familiar. You were with Cassie."

"Yes."

"Lord, if I wasn't married . . ." He didn't have to complete the thought. Prine felt an idiotic jealousy. He'd spent a brief evening with Cassie and now no one was permitted to talk about her in his presence?

"Well, I certainly wish you luck." He nodded to a clock on the wall. "Unfortunately, I'll have to cut this short. Rotary meets over lunch. We've got a speaker from Cheyenne today, talking about a Wild West show he's putting together. He's trying to raise capital, of course. He claims that this one is different. It's all Indian. Not a white man in it. Takes Indian history all the way back." He winked. It was meant to be an intimate wink—one shared by members of the masculinity club—but it came off as juvenile. "I'll tell him you get a few scantily dressed Indian girls in that show and I'll invest in a minute." He was more than happy to smile at his own wit.

He walked Prine to the door, a friendly hand on Prine's shoulder. Prine wanted to give him a quick elbow shot. Break a rib or two. He hadn't learned a damned thing, and that was just the way Duncan here wanted it.

Prine still wondered what Duncan's wife had been so upset about.

I
n the daylight, Stone Lake was a placid blue oval of water. The beach area was covered with small stones and two massive boulders. Hence the name. Prine spent twenty minutes walking around, looking for anything that remotely suggested Woodward's presence. He'd undoubtedly come here to meet somebody. But who? And what had that person done to him?

Print stared at the water for some time. The center of the lake. Out where you'd dump a body you never wanted anybody to see. Sometimes these small lakes ran deep.

After the lake, he walked up to the timber. These woods would require a day's work to walk through. If Woodward had been murdered, he could well be in a shallow grave.

Prine assumed now that Woodward was dead.

From what he'd learned of the man, Woodward was too reliable a person to just disappear.

But whom had he met? And why?

It was reasonable to assume that the arson investigation was involved. It was also, therefore, logical to assume that somebody had lured Woodward here with supposed information about the arson.

And then murdered him.

Prine walked around the lake a final time. He didn't find much this time, either. Not that he had any idea what he was looking for. The killer probably hadn't left him a personal letter:
Here's where I threw the body in, Prine
.

But the lapping waters of the past few days had washed the sand clean of footprints. Plenty of evidence of animal tracks, none of human.

Not a button, not a piece of fabric, not a bullet casing.

Nada, nada, nada.

"I'
d like you to tell me about the Pentacle fire."

"The Pentacle fire?" Sheriff Daly said. "What the hell's that got to do with anything?"

"You wanted me to find this Woodward. And that's what I've spent the day doing."

It was that lazy hour in the office right before suppertime. The business of the day was trailing off—official meetings, informal meetings, spontaneous meetings, meetings-you-ran-from-but-that-ensnaredyou-anyway—and now was the lull before all the saloon woes of the evenings. If this town was ever voted dry—as some communities had been leaning to lately—it wouldn't have needed a nighttime deputy. Everybody'd be home snug in their beds and minding their own business.

"So you found him, Tom?" Carlyle said.

"I think I found him."

"Now, that don't make a lot of sense, Tom," Daly said. "You either found him or you didn't."

"Stone Lake. I've just got this strong sense he's at the bottom of it."

"Why would he be at the bottom of Stone Lake?" Daly said.

So Prine went through what he'd learned. The suspected arson. The letter Woodward received. The inquiry he'd made about Stone Lake.

"So maybe Woodward was onto something?" Carlyle said.

"At least the killer thought he was."

"The fire chief," Daly said, "didn't see any trouble with the fire."

"I found Woodward's notes, Sheriff. He was sure it was arson."

"So if he's dead, where does that leave us, Tom?" Carlyle said.

"I suppose we could let the insurance company know what I know."

"But we don't know anything for sure," Daly said.

"All we need to say at this point is that I checked it out and that Woodward seems to be missing and that we hope he'll turn up. They'll figure the rest out for themselves."

"They'll figure out that he's dead?" Daly asked.

"The reputation he's got, they'll know he's not off somewhere with a jug and a whore. They'll know that he would have wired them if he'd been able to."

"You know," Daly said in the slow, cautious way he had when he questioned a deputy's theory, not wanting to hurt the man's feelings. "Natural causes are always a part of this. He was thrown by a horse and is lying unconscious somewhere. Or he had a heart attack and there isn't much left of him once the coyotes got hold of him. Or he decided to have one last big fling before he got his gold retirement watch and his wife picked out their burial plot."

"Natural causes, that I could see. A fling? Sheriff, you have to hear people talk about him. The guy's practically a saint—in their eyes, anyway."

"So will you telegram the insurance company for me?"

"Sure, Sheriff. I'll go and do it now, before supper."

All this time he'd been talking, he'd been sitting on the edge of Carlyle's desk. He hadn't made it over to his own desk yet.

When he got there, the first thing he saw was the letter. A soft blue envelope. His name written on the front in a round feminine style.

"Lucy left that for you," Carlyle said.

"I figured," Prine said.

"She's a fine gal," Daly said.

Prine scowled at him. "She got to you, too, huh, Sheriff? I knew she had Bob there in her rooting section. But now it's you, too, huh?"

"It's not a matter of her 'getting to me,' Tom. I just happen to think she's a very pretty, very intelligent gal who'd make you a damned good wife. Sensible and down-to-earth. Worked hard for every pittance she's ever made."

"As opposed to Cassie Neville and all her evil money and her snotty friends."

"Cassie's a very nice gal, too. For her own kind."

"Men who can afford her, in other words," Carlyle said.

"We're only saying this with your best interests in mind, Tom," Daly said.

Prine smirked. "What'd she do, promise you each a piece of free pie if you agreed to tree me for her?"

Carlyle laughed in such a way that Prine knew that's exactly what happened. Lucy's mom made the best pie in the whole state. And Lucy was quite willing to use it as bribery.

"What kind of pie are you going to get?" he asked Bob Carlyle.

"Aw, Tom."

"C'mon, now. You ragged me a little about her. Just the way she bribed you to. So I just want to know what kind of pie you get."

"Well, I guess it don't make any difference if I tell you. Apple."

"With ice cream," Daly said. "Two scoops."

"Same for you, I imagine, Sheriff."

"Blueberry for me. And I ain't ashamed of bein' bribed, because I believe in what I'm sayin'. She'd make you a damned good wife. A much better one than Cassie Neville ever would. And I'm speakin' for Bob when I say that, right, Bob?"

"Right, Sheriff. I wouldn't agree to do it if I didn't believe in what I was sayin'."

"Not even for two pieces of apple pie?"

"Don't forget the ice cream," Daly said.

"Not even for two pieces of apple pie with ice cream, Bob?" Prine said.

"Hell, Tom," Daly said, "if you was nicer to her, you'd get free pie, too."

Prine couldn't take any more matchmaking. He left.

L
ucy Killane was having one of her bad days, days that were even more damaging to body and soul than her monthly visitor.

She had walked past the sheriff's office five times today, in hopes of glimpsing Tom Prine. Five times. Today the pain was as fresh as if they'd just broken up last night. Panic—fury—self-pity—confusion—panic again. This was the course of her day. She waited on people at the café, she sat out back and ate lunch with three other café workers, she even went to the hospital just now to get her instructions. But it was as if somebody else had done all these things.

Now she was walking past the sheriff's office for the sixth time and—

—there he was. Coming out of the door. A letter—her letter, she was sure—in his hand.

He saw her and nodded hello.

Her instinct was to run away, flee. It would be humiliating to see him after writing him such a mushy and forlorn letter, a letter that basically begged him to ask her to stay in town. Not leave.

He didn't wait for her to walk up to him. He walked up to her.

"Haven't had time to read it," he said, holding the letter up.

She could be pretty damned bold sometimes. And right now was a good example. She tore the letter from his fingers.

"Hey," he said, "that's mine."

"No, it isn't," she said. "It's just a silly, stupid letter that belongs to the silly, stupid girl who wrote it."

She froze in place. All street sounds faded—clatter of wagons; shouts of day's end children; corner conversations of loafers and idlers and riffraff; neigh of horse, cry of infant, laughter of flirty young girls. All of it faded and there she stood on some plane of her own making—some plane that displayed her to all as the fool she was.

Prine must have sensed this, because he took her arm and said, "Where you headed?"

"Madame Missy's," she managed to say.

"I'll walk with you."

She didn't object. Couldn't. Needed his strength now. Had none of her own.

Oh my God Tom why did you quit loving me?

Walking. Him saying, "You're doing the whole town a favor. Checking those prostitutes the way you do."

One of the jobs she had as a hospital volunteer was to visit the two cribs each week and see if any of the girls had rashes, discharges, pain, runny noses and eyes that were bothering them. Syphilis flourished in many—too many—western towns. Her girls liked Lucy and her high spirits and her sympathetic eyes even if the madams didn't. The madams found her an imposition. The only reason they allowed her in was that Sheriff Daly demanded weekly talks with somebody from the hospital. At first doctors and nurses came. But there was something so cold and official and disapproving about them that neither the madams nor the girls would cooperate with them.

Lucy was a compromise. She didn't examine the girls physically, and that helped. And she certainly didn't make moral judgments about the girls. She liked many of them and felt sorry for all of them.

She was gradually beginning to breathe normally, becoming aware again of her surroundings, feeling less embarrassed about having been so open with Tom.

"I think I'll try Denver."

"Denver's a good place for a young woman, Lucy. No doubt about that."

"Or maybe Cheyenne."

"That'd be good, too."

"One of the girls at the café thinks I should try California."

"Heard lots of interesting things about California."

"Then there's always the East."

"There sure is, Lucy. I'd like to see New York myself someday. Stand down on the street and look up at all those tall buildings."

"Another girl said I could get a lot of New York things in Chicago and I wouldn't have to travel as far."

"That's true. And they're planning to have the world's fair there in a few years."

"The world's fair," Lucy said, "imagine that." Then: "Of course, you don't have to even leave the town limits here to see mansions and things. The Nevilles' place—"

"Well, technically that isn't in the town limits, but I see your point." He pressed her arm gently, and they stopped walking for a moment. "So you heard."

"Heard?" All innocence.

"That Cassie Neville invited me out to her place last night."

"Oh, yes—I guess I do sort of remember hearing about that. But it skipped my mind."

"Uh-huh." He smiled and then did the thing she least wanted him to do and the thing she most wanted him to do. Kissed her. Only briefly. Only briefly. But kissed her nonetheless.

"I take it that's what your letter was all about. Me going to the Neville place."