Arkansas Assault

7

Liz Turner pestered the desk clerk at the Royalton Hotel until he threatened to call Butch, an ex-con who served as both the handyman and a bouncer.

Liz said, “Butch wouldn’t hurt a lady.”

“Who says you’re a lady?”

“Very funny. Where’s the manager?”

“He’s out of town.”

“And he left you in charge?”

“That’s right.”

“I need to talk to that man for sure. He leaves you in charge and somebody gets kidnapped from one of your rooms, in broad daylight, and you say you don’t know anything about it.”

“You’re making this up so you’ll have a good story for your stinking paper.”

“It makes a better story that you don’t even know what’s going on in your own hotel. A kidnapping and you don’t know anything about it. That should make your guests feel real safe. Now take me up to that room.”

Charlie Daly sighed. He was a master sigher. Very dramatic. His sigh told you more than you wanted to know about him—that he was weak, nervous, and easily given to pique, a word Liz had used in a newspaper story once. Only once. Many readers complained that she was “showing off” with words like that. And you know what? Liz decided they were right. It had been a boring story to write and so she’d taken it out on her readers by using a word few of them would know. She’d never used such a word again.

The desk clerk led her up to the room. He sat primly on a straight-backed chair while she prowled the room. She and Charlie got along most of the time. But if Charlie felt that his job was in jeopardy, he’d get his back up and claw at you.

“What exactly are you looking for?” he said, sighing again.

“Don’t go get your cravat in a whirl,” she said. “I want to see if Red told me a whopper.”

“Red? The kid?” He laughed. “My God, Liz, I don’t have much respect for you so-called journalists, but I would’ve thought that you’d be more responsible than to listen to Red.”

“I don’t think Red would lie to me.”

“Oh? Why not?”

She almost said, “Because he’s smitten with me.” Saying it, she’d sound vain and foolish. Was there any reason that Red would fib to her, even though he did have a crush on her? Maybe the fellow who told him was fibbing, just trying to stir up trouble.

She calmed down. “I’m sorry I insulted you.”

“Me, too. For insulting you, I mean.”

“I don’t see much of anything wrong with this room.”

“Nothing broken,” he said.

“No blood,” she said.

“Nothing missing.”

“No notes left behind.”

He sighed again. This time the sigh wasn’t so dramatic. He said, “Believe me, if I heard a story about a kidnapping here, the first person I’d talk to would be you.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed. “You know, this isn’t the first time somebody’s reported a kidnapping during the Fourth of July celebration.”

“It isn’t?”

“I went back through ten years of newspapers. This was way before we got here. Three times somebody came to the paper to report that somebody they knew had gone missing. They were sure it was foul play. You know, that the person hadn’t just wandered away. The paper always ran the items in the ‘Odds’N’Ends’ column.”

“Why not in the ‘Law News’ section?”

“I’m not sure. But it was strange.”

Charlie thought a moment. “You know, before young Tom became sheriff and you folks took over the newspaper, Tillman decided what got in the paper and what didn’t. Fellow that owned the newspaper was scared to death of making old Tillman mad at him.”

“That makes me curious.”

“Yeah? About what?”

“Well,” she said, “if old man Tillman didn’t want the full story in the paper, maybe he had something to do with those disappearances himself.”

Fargo wanted to clean up and put on some fresh clothes. Hauling a dead person around left its traces on a fella.

He was just about to enter his room when he heard a quiet voice behind him say, “I was just about to clean up your room. My name is Maria Veldez.”

The Mexican chambermaid he’d seen earlier. Couldn’t have been more than five foot three, couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred pounds, but her body was full and well-rounded and her face was beautiful.

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” Fargo said.

He used his key, opened the door, and allowed her to enter first.

“I was just going to change clothes,” he said. He’d become almost painfully aware of her charms, couldn’t think of much else, in fact. “You turn around and do your work. And I’ll grab me a fresh shirt and pants.”

She smiled. “This hotel is full of old men. I see them half-naked all the time. Big bellies and breasts like women and chins that nearly touch their chests.” She sent him an openly admiring glance. “I wish I could see men like you walking around half-naked.” She giggled sweetly. “Then I would have a good reason to come to work every day.”

Fargo might not have been a deep thinker or particularly learned man but he sure as hell knew when a lady was expressing interest in his body.

He walked over to her and slid his arms over her shoulders and brought her to him. “I’ll take my shirt off if you’ll do the same.”

She made a cute little face. Put a finger to her chin as if she were pondering philosophical problems. “Let me see. I’ll have to think about that.” Then she slid her arms around his waist and said, “OK, you talked me into it.”

They were on the bed less than a minute later, as he teased the both of them by rubbing his rod against the soft sweet entrance to her sex. In moments they were both jerking and bucking, eager to get past this first stage. She eased him over on his back and licked her lips to the tip of his rigid manhood, flicking the head with her tongue, and then seeming to take the enormity of it completely inside her mouth.

He wondered if he could hold out. She was bringing him the sort of pleasure that blinded a man, made him one big erection, his entire body, his entire mind. Her tongue wrapped itself around his rod until—just at the moment he thought he could hold out no longer—she rolled over and guided him inside her.

The passion was reckless, two people flinging themselves at each other in a kind of carnal madness, him thrusting faster and deeper, faster and deeper, his hands clenching on her buttocks making her cry out each time he did so. Her breasts were wonderfully swollen with his tongue and her own desire.

“Now, Fargo! Now!” she whispered.

And he was glad to comply, sending his searing semen rich and deep into her.

Spent, they lay in each other’s arms in the drifting ecstasy that always follows a good round of sex. Finally, he said, “Now, that’s what I call getting my room cleaned.”

“Yes,” she smiled, “I’ll have to remember your room number next time I’m in the mood to do a little cleaning myself.”

Fargo was in need of a drink so he pushed through the bat-wings of a place called Curly’s.

He wasn’t surprised to find Deputy Sheriff Larson sitting at a table by himself with a fifth of whiskey in front of him. Fargo ordered a beer at the bar, and when he turned to look for somewhere to sit—not hard since the place was empty except for three old guys playing a card game Fargo had never heard of—Larson waved him over.

What the hell, Fargo thought.

The old farts gave him the once-over. One of them apparently knew who he was because he whispered through a set of store-boughts the word “Fargo.” Notoriety, he thought. All he wanted was a fishing pole, a fishing hole, and some sleep.

“I thought we might as well be friendly,” Larson said when Fargo reached his table.

“Now why would you think a thing like that?”

Larson shrugged bony shoulders. Fargo had the impression that Larson was probably one of those bony gents who could be pretty tough when he needed to be.

“We’re both working for the same thing, Mr. Fargo.”

“Oh? What would that be?” Fargo had yet to sit down. He glanced around the saloon. It was new enough that the long pine bar still smelled of sawn lumber. The floor was dirt. But at least Curly’s didn’t smell of the usual vomit, blood, beer, and urine. But give it a year. It would have a scent like an old latrine.

Larson smiled. “Why, law and order, Mr. Fargo, law and order.”

“Would that be law and order or Noah Tillman’s law and order?”

This time, Larson laughed. “They couldn’t be the same thing?”

“Probably not.”

He flipped a chair around and sat with its back facing Larson.

“Tell me about Skeleton Key.”

Larson shook his head as if he’d just heard a very sad tale. “So they’ve already gotten to you, huh, Mr. Fargo?”

“Who’s ‘they?’ ”

“ ‘They’ are the ones who practice granny medicine and believe that half the women in town are secret witches.”

“So there’s nothing to it?”

“Is there anything to a witch on a broomstick flying across the moon?”

Fargo sipped his beer. On a boiling day like this one, beer was equal to the elixir of the gods. “Then why all this interest?”

“Because it’s another way to get at Noah Tillman. Another rumor to ruin his reputation with.”

“Then people don’t really believe anything’s going on out at Skeleton Key?”

“Some do. The ones I talked about. The ones who believe—as my mother did—that if you wrapped a rattlesnake around your throat, it’d heal your swollen tonsils. Fortunately, Papa would never let her try that particular medicine out on us kids.”

“How about the other people?”

“Businessmen, mostly,” Larson said. “There’s no doubt that Noah runs this town. Hell, he should. He built it. If he hadn’t been successful, nobody would ever have come here. You realize that?”

“I suppose that’s right.”

“But people get tired of being grateful. And they get tired of always having to kowtow to the most powerful man in the area. It’s like the dukes and earls in England. Eventually, the serfs revolted.”

“Anybody around here revolting yet?”

Larson poured himself a clean shot of whiskey—good bonded whiskey—and knocked it back without hesitation. “That’s enough. The wife tells me two drinks a day and by God you don’t want to go up against my wife. Ninety-seven pounds of pure hellishness when she wants to be.” He said this with obvious affection.

“You didn’t answer my question. Is anybody around here revolting against Noah Tillman?”

“Well, in quiet ways. Rumors, really. That’s about all. That’s their weapon of choice. They wouldn’t dare go up against him directly. So they gossip. And gossip eventually takes its toll in small ways.”

“So there’s nothing going on at Skeleton Key?”

“You want an honest answer?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

For the first time, Larson’s face showed both strain and weariness. “I’ve got a very sick daughter, Mr. Fargo. A bad heart. I’m always taking her to Little Rock to see doctors. And I’m not rich. When Noah came to me and said that I was to report back to him on anything ‘interesting’ that went on in the sheriff’s office, I said no. I said I like Tom too much. Tom’s the best sheriff this town’s ever had.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“Then Noah offered me money. I always thought I was an honest man. I took the money. Because of my daughter. Every penny goes to her. You can believe that or not but it’s the truth.”

Fargo surprised himself. He believed Larson.

“I did one more thing, too.”

“What’s that?”

“I told Tom what was going on. I told him that if there was anything he didn’t want his old man to find out, not to tell me. I didn’t want to cheat either of my bosses. I tell Noah everything I hear. But I don’t hear much because I warned Tom ahead of time. He plays everything close to the vest. That leaves only one other person who could be supplying Noah with the information I don’t have, Queeg.”

“Queeg’s a spy for Noah?”

He laughed and not without a certain respect. “That’s Noah. He knew how much I liked Tom and he knew I’d tell him some things but not everything. So he put Queeg on the payroll, too. Queeg needs money like everybody else.”

“Why doesn’t he fire you?”

“Because anybody who worked for him, Noah would get to one way or the other. Tom’d end up firing everybody who ever pinned on a badge. If it’s something real secret, Tom keeps it strictly to himself. Queeg learns some things I don’t and vice versa. But there are things that only Tom knows about, too.” This time his smile was tainted with embarrassment. “I guess I’m not the honest fella I always thought I was.”

This was all supposed to work out so simple, Karl Ekert thought, as he looked down at the grave site that had briefly held Daisy’s body.

Me and the Mex go into town, find the girl, take her, bring her back.

Easy as pie.

Except they hadn’t counted on finding her in the room of some gunny called the Trailsman. And they sure hadn’t thought the girl, after being knocked out with the drug splashed on the handkerchief, would suddenly wake up, jump down from the Mex’s horse, and start running.

The Mex had caught her, wrestled with her and then, with rage, shot her in the forehead.

Somebody had returned the favor, Ekert thought as he looked down at the Mex.

Ekert looked at the ruins of their plan. The grave they’d dug had been dug up again, small piles of red clay everywhere. Plus the muddied shovel. And the body of Lopez itself.

The last time Ekert had seen Lopez alive was after they’d dug the grave. Ekert wanted to get back to the ranch so he told Lopez to finish up and then head back.

Then something happened. But what? How had anybody figured out that Lopez was here? Maybe Lopez, a man with a treacherous temper, had opened fire on somebody and started the whole thing that way? But who would unearth the girl and then steal her corpse? Whatever was going on here was very confusing.

He’d throw Lopez over his own horse and take him back and talk to the boss. Maybe the boss could help clear up the mystery.

Stupid damned Mex, he thought as he went over and dug his hands beneath the corpse. The flies were already feasting on the dead and bloody flesh.

He was beginning to think that maybe that damned gunny the girl had been with—he had something to do with this. Taking the corpse. Shooting the Mex.

Ekert frowned to himself. This was all supposed to work out so simple.

Fargo was on his way to the newspaper office when he saw a crippled man approach him. The man wore town clothes, a boiled white shirt, and trousers held up by suspenders. He wore a rakish hat at an angle. His gray mustache matched the gray hair beneath the hat.

“I’m Jefferson Tolan,” the man said with a heavy drawl. “I’m the teacher at the school up the road.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Tolan. But I’m in a hurry, I’m afraid.”

Tolan surprised him by producing money. A lot of it. Green money. Laid in the palm of his hand. “This is for you.”

“Well, that’s very nice. But I didn’t do anything to earn it.”

“That’s the thing. I’m hoping you’ll take the money now and then go about earning it later.”

Fargo sighed. He wanted to get on and see the newspaper woman.

“I have a room right there in the hotel, Mr. Fargo. I want to show you some photographs of my little girls and see if you can help find them for me.”

Fargo figured that it would take longer to talk his way out of this than to just go up, see the photographs of the little girls, and then say, no, he was sorry, he didn’t have time for the job. Whatever it might be.

“All right, Mr. Tolan. But I’ve only got a few minutes.”

“I appreciate this.” He started to walk toward the hotel and then stopped. “Oh, I wasn’t always gimped up like this, Mr. Fargo. I went looking for my little girls last year. One of the places I wanted to check out was Skeleton Key. But it seems Mr. Burgade had other ideas. Old Noah’s had some pretty low characters working for him over the years, but they don’t come any lower than Burgade. Anyway, I tried three or four times. The last time, Burgade put a bullet in my knee.”

“You try and charge him with anything?”

“Wouldn’t have done any good, Mr. Fargo. There’re NO TRESPASSING signs posted all over. I was in violation of the law. He had every right to shoot me. I suppose he could’ve killed me and gotten away with it.”

The hotel wasn’t as well-appointed as the one Fargo was staying in, but the interior was constructed of good mahogany and the dining room they passed was scented with the aroma of good food well prepared.

Tolan had a room on the ground floor near the back. There was a monkish quality to it. The furnishings were dark wood, severe. Every wall had a bookcase. And no dime novels were to be found. Fargo wasn’t sure who either Aristophanes or Cicero were but they both had leather-bound volumes on one of Tolan’s shelves. All the other authors looked to be just as imposing. A globe sat on an end table while two walls were covered with historical time-lines for America and Europe. A cut-glass decanter held some fair to middling grape wine that Tolan eagerly shared with Fargo.

Tolan went to a small rolltop desk and took two photographs from it. He walked over to Fargo and showed him the first one.

“They look like twins, those two girls in the pictures.”

“That’s what most people think. But they’re not. Nancy’s the eldest. This one. The other is Stephanie.”

The “little” girls appeared to be in their midteens and gave every evidence of not having been “little” for several years. They were lovely but healthy girls with sunshine in their eyes and mischief on their smiling mouths.

“And here’s what they looked like a year-and-a-half ago when they disappeared.”

Fargo broke into a boyish grin as his eyes scanned the second photograph. “They sure aren’t little any more.”

“They turned out to be just as beautiful as their mother. She died when Nancy was seven. Cholera. I raised the girls myself. I damned near had to hire an army to keep the boys away.”

They wore summer dresses that couldn’t hide their strong, exhilarating bodies.

“I see what you mean.”

Tolan limped over and sat down in a chair. “What I need, Mr. Fargo, is for somebody to get on that island and tell me if my girls are dead or alive.”

“What makes you so sure they’re there?”

“A woman from my church saw them talking to Burgade the evening they disappeared. That’s all the evidence I need.”

“Could they have run away?”

“No.”

“You sound awful sure of that.”

“I am, Mr. Fargo. The girls and I—we have a special bond. With their mother dead, I had to be both father and mother to them. They know what kind of heartbreak their running away would cause me. They’d never do that to me.”

Fargo set the photos on the arm of the chair. “What makes you think I’d have any more luck getting on the island than you?”

“C’mon, Mr. Fargo. Don’t be overly modest. I know who you are and what you’ve done with your life. If anybody could get on that island, it’s you.”

Fargo thought a moment. “Is there much river traffic in that area?”

“Some. Not what you’d call a lot.”

“But people who know that part of the river?”

“Sure. Cap’n Billy is one of them. His real name is Harold Perkins. But he prefers Cap’n Billy.”’

Fargo smiled. “I can see why. And he does what?”

“Hauls things up and down the river for anybody who’ll pay him. He even runs a kind of taxi service. There’s a boat that comes three times a week. But if you’re in a hurry and can’t wait for the boat, you see Cap’n Billy. He’s got an old tug boat. He works on it and lives on it. If you wanted to talk to him, you head two miles northeast of here. There’s a long curve in the river and that’s where you’ll find Cap’n Billy.”

“Well, since I’m beginning to get a feeling that I’m headed for Skeleton Key myself, I might as well look for your daughters while I’m there.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Fargo. Now you take this money.”

Fargo shook his head. “A young woman got killed earlier today. I owe it to her to find out what’s going on here. This isn’t for money.”

“Will you at least have one more glass of wine?”

“I need a clear head. I’m going to pass.” He stood up. “When and if I find anything, I’ll let you know.”

“You want to take one of those photos of my daughters?”

“I’m not likely to forget two gals who look like that, Mr. Tolan.”

When he got downstairs, he found Queeg sitting in a chair under the overhang of a hotel. Old Noah sure kept Larson and Queeg busy, following people. He could see Queeg’s eyes peering at him over the top of the newspaper he was pretending to read.

“Hot sitting on that porch, isn’t it, Queeg?”

Queeg put down his paper, studied Fargo’s face. “Larson told you, huh?” His cheeks gleamed with sweat. Fargo knew the feeling. His back, armpits, crotch, and feet were drenched in sweat, too.

“About you being on Noah’s payroll just like him?” Fargo said.

“Yeah.”

“You take turns, do you? He follows me a while and then you follow me a while?”

“I haven’t given Noah anything for two days. Larson agreed to let me take it from here so I could have something for Noah. He likes you to tell him at least two things a day about the town. He always sends Manuel, his personal servant in, to get the information. Sometimes I have to make things up just to satisfy him.”

“Well, how about this? I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do at the sheriff’s office, so I’ll just give you my plans for the next few hours. I plan to talk to Liz Turner over at the newspaper. And then I plan to go visit somebody named Cap’n Billy.”

“If you go any place other than those two, will you tell me?”

“Does that include like buying myself a beer or taking a piss?”

“C’mon, Fargo, you know what I mean. I’m tryin’ to set aside enough money so I can buy me and my family a little farm and get out of this business. It’s just a matter of time before somebody shoots me. My wife has terrible dreams about it. Some gunny comes to town and I have to try and arrest him and he kills me. She always has the same dream. That’s why I’m tryin’ to set aside money. Noah’s the only hope I’ve got.”

Fargo laughed. “You tell Tom everything, too, the way Larson does?”

“Yeah.”

“What’ll Noah do if he ever finds out that you and Larson are playin’ him like this?”

Queeg put a finger like a gun barrel to his head. His thumb was the trigger. “Then my wife won’t have to worry about some gunny coming to town and killing me. I’ll do it myself before Noah does it for me.”

“Well, I hate to tell you this, Queeg, but I’m not sure yet where I’m going past this Cap’n Billy’s place and even if I knew, I’m not sure I’d tell you.”

“You wanna see a photograph of my sweet little kids, Fargo? That might change your mind.”

“Seen enough pictures for one day.”

“I could tell you about the farm I’m hopin’ to buy.”

“No, thanks. I already gave you your two things for the day. That’s my part of the bargain. Now I want you to keep your end of it.”

“I didn’t know I had a part of this bargain.”

“You sure do,” Fargo said, his face showing sudden anger, his body suddenly taut. “You quit followin’ me here and now or I push your face in for you. You understand me, Queeg?”

The anger was not for show. Fargo was sick of being tailed everywhere.

“Yeah, sure, Fargo,” Queeg said, licking his lips, nervous now. The easy-going, amiable Fargo had been replaced by the Trailsman of legend. And the Trailsman, to be sure, was nobody to get riled up. “I won’t be followin’ you anymore, I promise.”

The main street was so packed with day-before revelers that Fargo decided to get to the newspaper by walking the alleys.

He was halfway down the first alley, a friendly brown mutt bouncing along next to him, when the rifle shot came.

Fargo pitched himself away from the trajectory of the bullet, rolling quickly behind a line of small metal containers that held garbage. On this hot day, the stench was many times worse than it would normally be. Fargo didn’t have any choice, though. There was somebody on the roof two doors down. The building sat between smaller buildings with lower roofs. Somebody who’d been keeping a close watch on Fargo. This was one hell of a town for people tailing you. He must have been near Fargo, seen that Fargo was going to turn into the alley, and quickly made his way to the store roof he was using.

Two more shots.

Fargo returned fire but realized that shooting back was useless. A man with a rifle on a roof had the clear advantage.

Fargo decided that the best thing he could do was work his way back to the head of the alley, get on the boardwalk, run through the building the shooter was using, and confront him on the roof. Find out who the hell he was and what the hell he wanted.

But Fargo would have to move fast. Once the shooter saw that Fargo meant to come at him, he was likely to take off.

Fargo had to duck half a dozen more bullets, a couple of which came whistlingly close to hitting him, before he reached the head of the alley.

The shots had attracted a crowd and when he jumped to his feet, several men in Fourth of July duds said, “You all right, mister?”

But there was no time for reassurances.

Fargo worked his way to the haberdashery whose roof was being used. It wasn’t easy going in the packed walls of humanity lining boardwalk and street alike. A dozen different perfumes and a dozen different tobaccos tinted the air with their scents.

Purty, purty clothes for purty, purty men, Fargo thought as he moved between the aisles of shirts, cravats, hats, and suits. Not his type of attire at all.

He was looking for the owner or a clerk to show him the door to the stairs. Even with all the noise outside, the store was unnaturally quiet.

He soon found the reason why.

A man in a very expensive shirt, cravat, and trousers lay face down near a door in the back room. Fargo’s first impression was that the man was dead.

Fargo dropped to a knee, felt the man’s throat and wrist for a pulse. A strong one. Then he saw the bloody gash in the back of the man’s head where the shooter must have hit him. No wonder the man was still unconscious. He probably would be for some time.

Fargo nearly ripped the door at the top of the steps leading to the roof off its hinges. He was greeted by three quick shots.

Once again, Fargo had to dive for the ground—in this case, one hell of a hot roof—and roll away from the bullets. The roof was being repaired so there were stacks of construction materials here and there for both men to hide behind. The shooter was hidden behind a stack of two-by-fours very near the far edge of the roof.

Fargo chose a huge wooden barrel for shelter. He needed a moment to let his breath work its frantic way back to normal. He was breathing in gasps. That had been one hell of a run, from alley to roof.

He also took the time to peek around the barrel at exactly the same time the shooter was doing the same thing.

Fargo caught enough of a glimpse to know that his adversary was of Latin descent, either from Spain or South America. Not a Mexican. Fargo wasn’t sure why this was his impression but it was. Even from this distance, Fargo could see that the man was middle-aged, handsome, and arrogant.

The man squeezed off two more quick shots.

As Fargo reloaded his Colt, he heard the shooter make his escape. He had jumped from this roof to a lower one next door.

Fargo, still cramming bullets into his gun, jerked up and ran across the boiling rooftop, knowing already that he was too late. The shooter had had the advantage of the rifle. He’d also had the advantage of knowing the town and its best escape routes.

Fargo peered over the edge of the roof.

He didn’t see the shooter anywhere.

“Would you be Liz Turner?” Fargo asked.

“Why, yes,” she said from behind the counter of her newspaper office. “How may I help you?”

Liz Turner turned out to be a fetching woman who had not quite reached her middle age. She was lovely of face, sumptuous of body, and blessed with the grace and poise of the true lady. True ladies didn’t need money, expensive clothes, or a fancy family to possess all these gifts. Poise and grace were innate gifts and a simple woman could possess them just as readily as a princess. Liz Turner possessed them in ample measure.

“My name’s Fargo, ma’am.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Fargo.”

“I wondered if I could ask you a few questions. If that would be possible.”

Her smile was radiant. “Why, it certainly would be possible.”

“What I’m looking for is some background on this sheriff of yours.”

“Tom?” The way she blushed when she said his name surprised the Trailsman. He wondered instantly what her relationship with Tom Tillman was. “He’s a good man. Decent. And very hardworking.”

“Then he’s nothing like his father?”

“Stepfather, you mean. And no, he’s not. In fact—” She hesitated. “In fact, he and his father don’t get along very well. His father got Tom the sheriff’s job and expected him to do whatever Noah wanted him to. But Tom’s too honest. He did what was right, instead.”

“So Tom Tillman wouldn’t cover up a murder?”

“He certainly wouldn’t.”

“Your husband was murdered, ma’am. And I’m sorry about that. Has Tom Tillman been trying to find the killer?”

She leaned her elbows on the counter—a striking, sensual woman—and said, “You know a lot about me all of a sudden. Now I want to know a lot about you. Who you are and why all this interests you so much.”

“I guess that sounds fair,” the Trailsman said, and began to bring her up-to-date on some of his personal background. And on what had happened to Daisy and her brother.