Elliott Marston lay back in the big bed and stretched luxuriously. The
morning sun shone through the faded curtains at the window and warmed the
room. Drivers could be heard outside, shouting and cursing as they guided
their wagons along the street. It was a typical town morning. Easy to
forget that someone wanted him dead.
The thought was enough to make him sit up and throw back the blankets. He padded across the worn carpet to the bureau and poured cold water into the basin. His wife was out there meeting with his lawyer while he lay in bed. Time to get moving. He performed his morning ablutions with dispatch and dressed with more haste than usual.
Sam's proscription of the night before - urged in such an enthusiastic and agreeable manner - that he remain hidden in the house chafed his patience. Enforced idleness did not sit well with him. He wanted to take part in the chase, not wait for his wife to come back with information. She wanted to protect him. He snorted. Who would protect her?
Sitting at the small kitchen table, he considered his options while eating breakfast. He'd promised not to leave the house; he wouldn't break his word. It wasn't likely that Lilly had any more knowledge to impart, assuming that Sam hadn't terrified her into actually moving out of the house.
Marston chewed his eggs thoughtfully. It might be helpful to know if Watters had done any socializing when he visited the Palace. Did he drink with the other customers in the front parlor? Was he known to be a friend of anyone in particular? Did he usually arrive or leave with anyone? Lilly probably wouldn't know. Belle probably wouldn't talk if she did. But there might be someone in the house who had paid attention.
He considered. While Belle owned the establishment outright, she was assisted in her management responsibilities by others. There was Len, a former soldier who combined the duties of doorman and security guard; no one entered during business hours without his knowledge. It might be worthwhile to have a chat with Len. His meal completed, Marston picked up his tea and went in search of his quarry.
Len was sitting in the front parlor, smoking a pipe and reading an old newspaper. His military bearing was still apparent, despite the stubble on his chin. Tobacco and ash adorned his shirtfront. He didn't look up when Marston entered the room.
"Mind if I join you?" He tried for a jovial tone, somewhere between friendly and fulsome but falling well short of presumptuous.
"Suit yourself. Plenty of room." The older man was intent on his newspaper.
"Anything interesting?" Marston sipped his tea.
Len grunted without enthusiasm. "The usual."
"You must find it pretty unexciting working here after being a soldier." It seemed a safe bet. In Marston's experience few soldiers would turn down the chance to expound old battle stories.
"Yep." The other's gaze never wavered from his reading.
Silence fell. Marston wracked his brain for another comment. He lifted the cup to his lips to buy time.
Len turned a page. "I kinda wondered when you'd get to me." A puff of smoke from his pipe floated to the ceiling.
Marston choked on his tea. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said I wondered when you'd get around to asking me about Ches Watters." The old man finally looked at him directly for the first time.
"Um, yes, well." Marston cleared his throat and tried again. "I have to explain about -"
"Lilly's a good girl. Not very bright but in her line of work it's not like she's gonna get called on to do surgery, ya know?" Len put the newspaper on the floor and took his pipe out of his mouth. He tapped it against the side of the potted plant beside his chair. "She don't notice much."
"Well, as you say, she really doesn't need to." It was an inane comment; Marston winced inwardly even as he said it. "What, exactly, might she have noticed?"
The doorman pulled a jackknife out of his pocket and scoured the inside of the pipe bowl. "Oh, this and that. Sometimes Ches wasn't any too discreet, ya know? Liked to bigshot around about the people he did stuff for." He put the stem to his lips and blew through it, creating a faint whistling sound. Satisfied, he began to refill his pipe from the tobacco pouch on the chair arm.
"Like who?" Marston sipped his tea.
"Like this guy who owned the feed store down by the harbor. Had a bunch of customers that weren't payin' their bills." Len tamped the tobacco down firmly with his thumb. "Hired Ches to sort of persuade 'em to ante up. That was his line of work. Applied muscle."
"Interesting." Marston lied politely. "Did he have any close friends that you know of? Men who came here with him?"
"Not really. Usually came alone, visited with Lilly or maybe Alice, then left." He scraped a match against the side of his boot and lit his pipe, puffing until the flame caught. "Couple of times, he showed up with some Army guys. Went into the back parlor for talkin'. Ches was pretty flush with cash for a while after those meetings."
Marston nodded slowly. "I see. Do you know who -"
A sudden scream cut off his sentence. Both men leaped to their feet. The sound of running footsteps came from the hall as Marston pulled open the door.
"My lace! You tore my lace! You little brat!!" The voice was shrill with rage.
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do it!" It was a boy's voice, shaky and frightened. As the two men watched from the threshold of the parlor, the speaker ran past and stopped at the front door. His small body shook with panic as he stared wildly around the foyer. The sound of his breathing was harsh in the silence.
Marston closed his eyes and groaned. He counted to ten, then opened them again. No, it hadn't been an illusion. Niall Flanagan, supposedly on his way to Marston Ranch, was indeed in the house.
The thought was enough to make him sit up and throw back the blankets. He padded across the worn carpet to the bureau and poured cold water into the basin. His wife was out there meeting with his lawyer while he lay in bed. Time to get moving. He performed his morning ablutions with dispatch and dressed with more haste than usual.
Sam's proscription of the night before - urged in such an enthusiastic and agreeable manner - that he remain hidden in the house chafed his patience. Enforced idleness did not sit well with him. He wanted to take part in the chase, not wait for his wife to come back with information. She wanted to protect him. He snorted. Who would protect her?
Sitting at the small kitchen table, he considered his options while eating breakfast. He'd promised not to leave the house; he wouldn't break his word. It wasn't likely that Lilly had any more knowledge to impart, assuming that Sam hadn't terrified her into actually moving out of the house.
Marston chewed his eggs thoughtfully. It might be helpful to know if Watters had done any socializing when he visited the Palace. Did he drink with the other customers in the front parlor? Was he known to be a friend of anyone in particular? Did he usually arrive or leave with anyone? Lilly probably wouldn't know. Belle probably wouldn't talk if she did. But there might be someone in the house who had paid attention.
He considered. While Belle owned the establishment outright, she was assisted in her management responsibilities by others. There was Len, a former soldier who combined the duties of doorman and security guard; no one entered during business hours without his knowledge. It might be worthwhile to have a chat with Len. His meal completed, Marston picked up his tea and went in search of his quarry.
Len was sitting in the front parlor, smoking a pipe and reading an old newspaper. His military bearing was still apparent, despite the stubble on his chin. Tobacco and ash adorned his shirtfront. He didn't look up when Marston entered the room.
"Mind if I join you?" He tried for a jovial tone, somewhere between friendly and fulsome but falling well short of presumptuous.
"Suit yourself. Plenty of room." The older man was intent on his newspaper.
"Anything interesting?" Marston sipped his tea.
Len grunted without enthusiasm. "The usual."
"You must find it pretty unexciting working here after being a soldier." It seemed a safe bet. In Marston's experience few soldiers would turn down the chance to expound old battle stories.
"Yep." The other's gaze never wavered from his reading.
Silence fell. Marston wracked his brain for another comment. He lifted the cup to his lips to buy time.
Len turned a page. "I kinda wondered when you'd get to me." A puff of smoke from his pipe floated to the ceiling.
Marston choked on his tea. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said I wondered when you'd get around to asking me about Ches Watters." The old man finally looked at him directly for the first time.
"Um, yes, well." Marston cleared his throat and tried again. "I have to explain about -"
"Lilly's a good girl. Not very bright but in her line of work it's not like she's gonna get called on to do surgery, ya know?" Len put the newspaper on the floor and took his pipe out of his mouth. He tapped it against the side of the potted plant beside his chair. "She don't notice much."
"Well, as you say, she really doesn't need to." It was an inane comment; Marston winced inwardly even as he said it. "What, exactly, might she have noticed?"
The doorman pulled a jackknife out of his pocket and scoured the inside of the pipe bowl. "Oh, this and that. Sometimes Ches wasn't any too discreet, ya know? Liked to bigshot around about the people he did stuff for." He put the stem to his lips and blew through it, creating a faint whistling sound. Satisfied, he began to refill his pipe from the tobacco pouch on the chair arm.
"Like who?" Marston sipped his tea.
"Like this guy who owned the feed store down by the harbor. Had a bunch of customers that weren't payin' their bills." Len tamped the tobacco down firmly with his thumb. "Hired Ches to sort of persuade 'em to ante up. That was his line of work. Applied muscle."
"Interesting." Marston lied politely. "Did he have any close friends that you know of? Men who came here with him?"
"Not really. Usually came alone, visited with Lilly or maybe Alice, then left." He scraped a match against the side of his boot and lit his pipe, puffing until the flame caught. "Couple of times, he showed up with some Army guys. Went into the back parlor for talkin'. Ches was pretty flush with cash for a while after those meetings."
Marston nodded slowly. "I see. Do you know who -"
A sudden scream cut off his sentence. Both men leaped to their feet. The sound of running footsteps came from the hall as Marston pulled open the door.
"My lace! You tore my lace! You little brat!!" The voice was shrill with rage.
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do it!" It was a boy's voice, shaky and frightened. As the two men watched from the threshold of the parlor, the speaker ran past and stopped at the front door. His small body shook with panic as he stared wildly around the foyer. The sound of his breathing was harsh in the silence.
Marston closed his eyes and groaned. He counted to ten, then opened them again. No, it hadn't been an illusion. Niall Flanagan, supposedly on his way to Marston Ranch, was indeed in the house.