Slocum 420 (4 page)

The first thing Slocum did when he left Eliza at her table was check with the manager at the front desk about arrangements that had been made to pay for damages done to the room. The manager wasn't happy about it, but he'd reached an agreement with Lester involving several small payments as well as Lester coming in to repair the damages himself to work off some of the debt. When the manager asked if Slocum had enough money to settle the account outright, Slocum leveled with him.

“Lester took all the pay I was supposed to get for my work at the mill,” he told the man behind the front desk. “To be honest, he gouged me even more than he gouged you.”

If the manager had been unhappy before, he was doubly so after hearing that.

Of the concerns he had at the moment, making that manager happy wasn't one of them, so Slocum stepped outside and put the town's fanciest hotel behind him. As he walked down the street, he felt every bit of work he'd put in over the last few days sink in at once. Not only had he been working extra duties at the mill, but he'd been tracking down Lester Quint. Even though confronting the thief was deeply satisfying, it was yet another thing to wear him down to a nub.

When he'd first arrived in Bennsonn, Slocum had been sleeping in one of the spare rooms in the back of the mill reserved for workers who needed a place to lay their heads in between paydays. After he'd scraped some money together, he treated himself to breakfast at a place called the Morrison House, which he'd passed whenever going to the stable to check on his horse. The scent of baking biscuits and frying bacon had been almost more than he could bear. Finally indulging in a meal there was one of the best experiences he'd had in recent memory. Since the Morrison House was also a boardinghouse with reasonable rates, Slocum had been staying there ever since.

At this time of night, all but one of the windows was dark. Slocum stepped onto the front porch, being careful not to put too much weight on the creaky boards, and tested the door handle. It was locked. He winced, thinking about the hell he would get after waking up the lady who ran the place so he could be let in. As he was considering how quietly he could knock out one of the windows near the door, one of the curtains parted and a cautious eye surrounded by wrinkled skin peeked out at him. Slocum waved at the sliver of a face, knowing he might still be in for some hell.

The lady who opened the door was several inches shorter than Slocum and skinnier than a scarecrow. Her black hair was drawn back into a bun, and beady little eyes scrutinized him as her mouth drew into a tight, unhappy line. “It is late,” she said in a dry voice colored by a Hungarian accent.

“Sorry about that, ma'am. Couldn't be helped.”

Helga Morrison was the owner of the boardinghouse and ran the place by a strict set of rules. Staying out past ten was on the long list of forbidden activities. If not for her skill in the kitchen and the softness of her mattresses, Slocum would have rented a room from a less oppressive innkeeper. “You were at a saloon?” she asked.

“Actually, I was having a drink at the Tall Pine.”

Her eyebrows lifted somewhat as she opened the door a bit farther. “Really?” she asked while stepping aside so he could come in. “It is as nice as everyone says?”

“Nicer. Perhaps I could take you there sometime to make up for my rudeness.”

Helga laughed and shut the door once Slocum was inside. “Oh, you do not have to do that. You were not so rude. Just late. I start to wonder about my guests when they do not show. Especially when their bill is not paid.”

“I do apologize for that, ma'am,” he said. “You see, my pay from the mill was stolen.”

“But you have enough to eat a fancy meal at the Tall Pine?”

“That was on the house, and it was just a drink. I found the thief who took my money and tossed him out. The drink was a thank-you for cleaning up the place. If you doubt me, you can ask the manager.”

She waved that aside with a little sneer, which suited her much better than the earlier smile. “I just want my money for rent.”

“And I'll get it for you, I swear. In the meantime, is there anything I can do to make up for what I owe? Perhaps some chores that need to be done or work you need help with?”

Staring at him as if assessing his very soul, Helga nodded. “I can maybe think of some things. Right now, I am tired. We will talk over breakfast. You like potato cakes?”

“It's been a while since I've had those,” Slocum said. “I'll see you bright and early.”

Once again, she waved him off and took a candle from a nearby table so she could light her way back to her room. Since that was the single source of light in the immediate vicinity, Slocum was left in almost complete darkness. He sighed and let his eyes adjust to the scant bit of illumination provided by the moon's rays seeping in through the windows. Fortunately, he'd been staying there long enough to have a good feel for the place. He avoided most of the furniture as he made his way to the staircase. Once he was at the top of the stairs, however, he knocked his shin against a narrow umbrella stand that the old woman insisted go there instead of by the front door, where it belonged. Slocum choked back a curse while rubbing his shin and went to his room.

He wasn't there for more than a few seconds before he heard a light knock on his door. “Yeah?” he grunted.

The door was pushed open by a tall woman in her early twenties. She had long, golden hair that was kept in a single thick braid currently pulled forward to rest over her shoulder. She looked at Slocum with bright blue eyes and whispered, “Not so loud. My mother will hear.”

It had been difficult for Slocum to wrap his head around the fact that Greta Morrison was Helga's daughter. With a bit of imagination, he could see something of a resemblance in both of their narrow faces, but Greta's hair and bright complexion made a comparison between the two seem more like night and day. Greta did have the same slender build, but hers was accented by firm, rounded breasts.

“Your mother is already mad at me,” Slocum said. “Adding one more thing to her list won't hurt my case any.”

“Then you do not know my mother.” Greta stepped inside and shut the door behind her. “I was hoping to see you tonight.”

“And here I am.”

“I meant . . . see you when the house was empty. Everyone went away to a town meeting and I waited for you.”

Allowing his eyes to wander along the smooth curves of Greta's body and the milky slope of her neck, Slocum said, “Maybe we could make up for some lost time right now?”

As he stepped forward and placed his hands upon her hips, Greta moved back and gently pushed his hands away. “Now is not the time for lost time,” she said. Even though that didn't make perfect sense, the way she said it still held plenty of promise for times to come.

“I thought since you came to my room and all . . .”

“I came to make sure you were all right. I heard about how you were hunting down Lester Quint.”

“You did?” Slocum asked. “So you know that thieving son of a bitch?”

“He rented a room here when he first came to work at the mill. My mother did not like the look of him and told him she had to rent his room to someone else. When he came back to see there was no one else, Lester got very upset.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing,” Greta said with a smirk. “Especially when my mother pointed her shotgun at him and told him to leave.”

“I always knew there was something about that old gal I liked.” Slocum placed his hands upon her hips again and pulled her close. “Something other than her daughter, that is.”

She smiled and tried to pull away. Since she wasn't trying very hard, Greta's movements simply made her hips shift in Slocum's hands and her body writhe against his chest. “I told you,” she whispered. “Now is not the time. My mother might even know I am out of my room already.”

“You're not a child, Greta. You can do what you please.”

“I know that, but this is my mother's house. If you think the rules she has for her boarders are something, you should see the rules she has for me.”

Slocum put his face close to hers and whispered into Greta's ear while reaching around to massage her tight, rounded buttocks through her skirts. “Then why don't you buck against the rules? Wouldn't that feel good?”

“God, yes,” she purred.

And as if responding to every hushed word that passed between them, a set of methodical footsteps pounded against the stairs in the hall. Greta turned around so quickly that her braid slapped Slocum across the face. “That's her,” she said in a hurried whisper. “I'll see you later.”

Before Slocum could do or say anything, Greta was out of his room and shutting the door behind her. She padded down the hall as footsteps from the opposite end reached the top of the stairs. Feeling like a boy who'd been caught with his knickers down, Slocum remained perfectly still. Greta hadn't shut the door all the way, so he held it in place.

The footsteps stopped directly in front of his room, and Slocum felt a chill run down his spine. Suddenly, the notion of misbehaving with Greta wasn't so appealing. Not only did Helga have access to a shotgun, but he knew the old woman well enough to be certain she'd use it.

“Mother, what are you doing there?” Greta asked.

Slocum could hear a grating breath, followed by footsteps that traveled a bit farther down the hall. “I should ask that to you,” the old woman whispered in a way that made her voice carry almost as much as if she'd talked normally.

“I am going to my room.”

“From where?”

“Honestly, Mother,” Greta said. She groused a bit more, but Slocum couldn't make out much of what was being said. He was ready to write off the rest of the conversation as a scuffle between mother and daughter before he heard the latter portion of Helga's response to her.

“. . . know what sort of man he is.”

Slocum scowled, wondering what sort of mud was being slung at him while his back was turned. In order to find out, he eased the door open just enough for him to lean out and hear a bit more without being seen in the darkened hallway.

The only other guest in the boardinghouse was a gambler named Robert McCoy. Slocum had played cards with him once or twice and used to think that the older man from Mississippi was putting on an act when he claimed to be partially deaf. Getting others to believe something like that could be an advantage at a poker table, but McCoy didn't win nearly enough to warrant much suspicion. Helga must have believed it well enough because she didn't seem to be worried about waking him as she stood in front of the door to his room with her hands upon her hips to scold her daughter.

“I have heard some things about that man,” Helga said while jabbing a finger back toward Slocum's room. “You would do well to stay away from him.”

“You gossip too much,” Greta said. “And those old hens you have tea with gossip even more.”

“It was not from them that I hear these things. Well,” Helga amended, “not all of these things. Some I have heard from Sheriff Krueger.”

That sparked Slocum's interest. In fact, it took every bit of restraint he had to keep himself from throwing open his door and charging out to demand the entire story be told to his face. Fortunately, it seemed he was going to hear plenty more without having to be so forward about it.

“What did you hear that was so bad?” Greta demanded to know.

Helga dropped her voice, prompting Slocum to ease his door open and lean out.

“. . . sheriff told me when he came around asking about him earlier this evening,” Helga said. “He was out to kill another man in town. Did you know that?”

“Did he kill that man?” Greta asked.

“No, but there was some trouble.”

“I'm sure there was a good reason for John to be upset.”

“But the sheriff also told me that someone has been to town looking for Mr. Slocum,” Helga continued. When she twisted around to take a quick look down the hall behind her, Slocum thought for certain he'd be spotted. The old woman held her candle, which cast a flickering light upon her wrinkled face while also making the shadows even harder to pierce from a distance. Even though she looked almost directly at him, she turned back around as if she hadn't spotted anything worth her concern.

“Those men at the mill fight and argue all the time,” Greta said dismissively. “That is what men do. If John and someone else had words or perhaps fought, then the sheriff is doing his job by checking on him.”

“It is more than that,” Helga insisted. “The man who came to town looking for Mr. Slocum is a killer. A
paid
killer.”

Now Greta looked toward Slocum's room. Whether or not she could distinguish any details past the light being cast by her mother's candle, Slocum couldn't be certain. She did appear to be somewhat concerned, however. When her mother whispered in a voice that Slocum wouldn't have been able to hear if he was two feet away from them, Greta allowed her to enter her room. The door shut and all Slocum could see after that was the dim flicker of candlelight seeping beneath the closed door.

Slocum eased his door shut and stood in the dark for a few seconds. Being in the quiet room without much of anything to occupy his senses allowed him to think clearly. One name sprang to mind upon hearing the two women talking in the hall. It was the name of a man who wanted to see him dead and had a fairly good reason for it. Until now, he'd thought Bennsonn was plenty quiet enough to remain hidden away from prying eyes. So far, the only trouble Slocum had experienced was with Lester Quint and he'd already handled that. But now this matter rose up from the recent past to try and sink its teeth into him. He'd ridden all the way to Bennsonn to wait for that storm to pass. From what he'd just heard, it seemed that very storm had found him instead.