Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] (44 page)

Elizabeth stared as the door closed behind the
New York Times
’s next star reporter, wondering what had just happened. Then she laughed. One thing was certain, Miss Cantrell already had the quality of persistence down to a fine art. Wendell Goldberg had better watch out.

She really didn’t want to wait but decided it would be rude to leave, especially with no one else in the office. She stood for a moment, then pulled out her pocket watch to check the time. Something on Miss Cantrell’s desk caught her eye. An envelope.

She looked more closely, reading upside down.
Brooklyn Land Development.
The envelope was addressed to Drayton Turner. What was he doing getting mail from a land developer in New York City? A thought came. She immediately dismissed it. It wasn’t right.

She stared at the letter, able to think of a hundred different reasons why this was not a good idea. But Miss Cantrell
had
been in the middle of opening the mail anyway. It was next in the stack. Her pulse raced just considering the idea.

She checked the boardwalk to make sure no one was coming. Both directions were clear. She waited for a wagon to pass on the street. Then she looked back at the envelope, leaned over the counter, and picked it up.

Using Miss Cantrell’s letter opener, she slit the envelope across the top, blew into it to separate the papers, and pulled out the stationery. A check fell to the counter. Payee, Drayton Turner. One hundred dollars. No small amount, but not outlandish either. She quickly read the letter.

Please find the enclosed check which provides payment for services rendered. We appreciate your providing the specifications for the land and for keeping us apprised of the standing with the scheduled auction in Denver.

Footsteps sounded on the boardwalk. Elizabeth threw the letter on the desk and turned, schooling an innocent smile. An elderly woman walking with the aid of a cane smiled and waved to her through the front window. Elizabeth waved in return, holding the fake-feeling smile until the woman passed; then she let out her breath.

She checked the boardwalk again, then snatched up the letter and scanned down. . . .

The endeavor appears promising. Please inform as to the status of our acquisition at your earliest convenience. We wish to proceed at the soonest possible date. Per our agreement, the remaining compensation for your services is contingent upon full acquisition of the property by year’s end.

On a personal note, I have procured the interest of a gun collector and should be forwarding those proceeds in the near future.

Most sincerely,
H.C. Brickman
Acquisitions and Mergers
Brooklyn Land Development

Conclusions quickly forming, Elizabeth turned to see Miss Cantrell coming back down the street. She tried to stay calm as she folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope, along with the check. She placed the envelope on Miss Cantrell’s desk exactly where it had been, then thought better of it and moved it to the opposite stack with the mail that was already opened. Her heart raced as if she’d run a mile.

No one had seen her. Everything was fine. And the letter in and of itself didn’t prove anything. All it did was draw a line from Turner to Brooklyn Land Development, a company interested in buying a piece of property in Timber Ridge. A similar line could be drawn between her and Chilton Enterprises for the very same reason.

But where things grew sketchy was in knowing that Travis Coulter—now deceased—had owned a prime piece of property, and that Turner was getting checks from a land development company hoping to acquire land set to go to auction. And that, apparently . . . Turner was selling a gun.

Sheriff McPherson would definitely want to know this information. She just didn’t look forward to explaining how she had “accidentally” opened Turner’s mail. . . .

Hands trembling, she met Miss Cantrell at the door.

“Thank you so much for waiting, Miss Westbrook. This means so much to me. Here’s my portfolio. It contains several articles I’ve written, and—”

“I can’t wait to read them!” Elizabeth took the leather satchel, noticing the woman’s name engraved at the top. “I look forward to having lunch with you soon to discuss everything, when both our schedules allow.” Eager to leave before Turner arrived, Elizabeth put her hand on the knob.

And felt it turn in her grip.

39

D
rayton Turner pushed the door open. “You’re back, Miss Westbrook. How nice to see you again.”

Sensing his genuine surprise, Elizabeth summoned what little decorum she could. “Thank you, Mr. Turner. We returned yesterday.”

“I hope the endeavor achieved the desired outcome.”

“It did. It was a very successful trip.”

He stepped inside and let the door close behind him. “If you’re willing to share your photographs of the cliff dwellings, I’m sure the people of Timber Ridge would appreciate seeing them.”

She blinked, staring. The audacity! She wasn’t naïve enough to have expected Turner to apologize for what he’d written in the paper about her and Josiah, but she had expected at least
some
form of admittance. A hint of discomfort, maybe. Instead, he offered cordial banter and a request for more photographs. She evened her tone. “I’ve just left an envelope with Miss Cantrell. There are several photographs inside. You can choose whichever ones you like. There’s also a brief article summarizing our trip and highlighting the Ute people’s contribution to this area. Now”—she didn’t wait for his response—“if you’ll excuse me, I need to be going. Miss Cantrell, it was a pleasure speaking with you.”

“You as well, Miss Westbrook. And”—the woman glanced at the portfolio—“I look forward to hearing what you think.” Behind Turner’s back, she mouthed,
“Thank you for watching the office.”

Elizabeth managed a smile and closed the door.

A few steps down the boardwalk she spotted a sign posted in the window of the telegraph office—TELEGRAPH DOWN.
Infuriating!
Recent rains must have caused more problems. She sighed. So much for thinking of Timber Ridge as civilized. Apparently
civilized
was a relative term.

She was returning to the store for the wagon when she saw Dr. Brookston waving her down.

“You’re back from your trip, Miss Westbrook! I trust things went well?”

Realizing that would be a common question, she encapsulated their experiences in a brief answer, seeing the interest spark in Rand Brookston’s eyes. “I believe Mr. Turner will be publishing some pictures in the
Reporter
. If not, I’ll get some to you. The cliff dwellings are magnificent.”

“Very good. How’s your health? And your hand?”

Carefully, Elizabeth broached the subject of her addiction, feeling safe with him. Sure enough, he’d seen it happen many times in cases such as hers. They spoke for a while longer and he examined her hand, complimentary of Daniel’s removal of the sutures. Then Elizabeth excused herself, eager to see Daniel and tell him what she’d learned in the letter to Turner.

She drove to the boardinghouse, but Daniel wasn’t there yet. Josiah had offered to come and carry her equipment back to her room, but James had discouraged it, feeling his presence in town wouldn’t be welcome quite yet. The fervor over Travis Coulter’s death had settled down after they’d departed for the cliff dwellings, and no new evidence had surfaced. A similar murder had occurred in Denver, where a man’s body had been found behind a saloon, and once people read about that in the
Timber Ridge Reporter,
their attention shifted. Still, James was home for the morning repairing the barn, and he didn’t want Josiah returning when he wasn’t in town, which she appreciated.

She grabbed a lighter box of journals and records from the back of the wagon and made the two-flight trek to the third story. The
Chronicle
was paying for her lodgings while she was in Timber Ridge, so she’d kept her personal items in her room while she was on the expedition. By the time she reached her door, she had a renewed appreciation for all that Josiah had done for her.

She set down the crate and fished for the room key in her reticule. Her hand brushed against the compass, and she pulled it out along with the room key.

Fighting a reluctance to be inside this room again, she drew strength from her recent experiences. If she could survive what they’d been through on the way to Mesa Verde and back, she could do this.

She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The curtains were closed. The room was dark. It had a musty scent and smelled of disuse, but wasn’t as bad as she had imagined. She thought she could still detect a faint chemical odor. She walked to the window to see if she could see Daniel coming down the—

Someone grabbed her from behind and lifted her off the floor. Hands fisted below her rib cage delivered four hard thrusts, one after the other, and expelled the air from her lungs. She clawed and scratched, struggling to breathe.

A moist cloth came over her mouth and nose. The smell was bitter and overpowering. Her eyes teared, and she shut them tight. She tried to cough but couldn’t. The fumes burned her nostrils and singed the back of her throat. She was spinning, spinning—yet how could she be when her feet were still on the floor?

She cried out, or thought she did, to the One who could save her.

A fleeting thought surfaced before darkness pulled her under—if God saw to it that she got out of this room alive, she was never coming back in here again.

40

D
aniel saw the box sitting in the hallway. “All right, now . . .” He picked it up and knocked on the door. A portfolio was balanced on the top, one he didn’t remember packing. A name was printed on the upper edge—Miss Laura Cantrell,
Timber Ridge Reporter.

No answer on the door.

The knob turned easily in his grip. “If you can carry this box all the way up here, then you can—” The room was dark. “Elizabeth?” He stepped inside.

A chemical smell still lingered. He would’ve thought Miss Ruby would have had things aired out better, but in the woman’s defense, she hadn’t known when they were returning. Crossing the room to open the window, he kicked something with the tip of his boot. It hit the wall opposite him with a crack.

Thinking that a rug had been in this room before, he rested the box on the bed and walked over to see what he’d kicked. He bent down to pick it up, and alarm shot through him.

He ran back to the hallway. “Elizabeth!” He strode to the window and flung back the curtain to allow in some light. Nothing else seemed out of the ordinary, except that she wouldn’t have left her compass behind. And certainly not on the floor.

He grabbed the portfolio and took the stairs down by threes, shoving the compass in his pocket. He found the proprietor’s quarters on the first floor and pounded the door. “Miss Ruby!” He jiggled the knob. Locked.

He ran out front. The wagon wasn’t there. Another wagon, almost identical to it, with supplies in the back, was parked nearby. But it wasn’t the one they’d borrowed from Rachel. How had he not noticed that on his way in?

He covered the short distance to the general store.

When questioned, Mullins shook his head. “No, she left here a good forty-five minutes ago. Maybe longer.”

“Did you see her head to the boardinghouse?”

“I didn’t follow which way she went, but I did give her some letters. From Washington, if that helps.”

It didn’t. He left instructions for Mullins to keep Elizabeth there if she showed up. He checked the telegraph office, but it was closed.

He spotted a young woman seated at the front desk in the newspaper’s office. “Sorry to bother you, Miss”—he recognized the name on her nameplate and found his first question needless—“Cantrell. Can you tell me how long ago Miss Elizabeth Westbrook left here?”

“A half hour perhaps.” Her attention went to the portfolio in his grip. “How did you get that? I gave that to Miss Westbrook.”

“I found it outside of her room at the boardinghouse. I was supposed to meet her there. Did she say where she was going after she left here?” He scanned the office for any sign of Turner.

“No, but she seemed in a hurry when she left.”

“May I ask what’s in here?” He held up the portfolio.

“Miss Westbrook agreed to read some of the articles I’ve written. She’s going to tell me whether they’re any good or not.” Something in the woman’s eyes said she already thought they were.

Daniel set the leather case on her desk. “Is Turner here?”

She shook her head. “You just missed him. A member of the town council called a special meeting this morning. Mr. Turner had to leave and said he wouldn’t be back for quite a while.”

Daniel glanced out the front window. That didn’t make sense. Ben Mullins was on the town council, and he was at the store. James was part of the council too, and he wasn’t coming into town until around noon. If a special meeting had been called, they would be there. He thanked the woman and returned to the boardinghouse.

He and James had discussed Elizabeth coming back into town and decided it would be fine. James assured him things had blown over, that people had moved on in their concerns. But now he wondered.

He knocked on Miss Ruby’s door again.

Muffled footsteps sounded before the door opened. “Good morning, Mr. Ranslett—”

“Morning, Miss Ruby. Have you seen Miss Westbrook?”

The proprietor shook her head. “No, I haven’t. I’m sorry.”

“Would you know if anyone’s been in her room?”

A frown shadowed the older woman’s face. “I was out for a while this morning, but I haven’t given anyone a key, if that’s what you mean. I would never do that with her renting the room.”

“No, ma’am, of course not. I didn’t mean to insinuate—” He nodded. “Thank you.” He walked down the hallway, trying to think of where to look next.

“If you’d like for me to tell her you came by, Mr. Ranslett, I’ll be happy to. I’m thinking she’ll be here sometime soon.”

Daniel stopped and retraced his steps. “What makes you think that?”

She smiled. “Well, I saw a wagon with her camera and all her things parked out front of the general store. It sure is nice to have her back in town. Mr. Turner said the very same thing when I met him out front. I—”