Christie And The Hellcat Part 29

The sound of distant gunfire from the north made Zee look up.

Knew it was too good to last.

She threw aside the Police Gazette, grabbed her Stetson from the hat stand, and left the jail at a run. Seconds later, she was in the saddle.

Outside the Golden Slipper, Jack the barkeep flagged her down.

"In here, Deputy," he called. "Millain's gone and killed Polly."

Zee's lips thinned. She dismounted and handed him the reins. As she pushed open the swinging doors, faces turned toward her, and a nervous silence greeted her. The crowd drew back as she elbowed her way through. Then she saw the body sprawled on the floor, blood pooling around its head. Apollinar Juarez's disreputable, striped trousers and shabby leather vest were instantly recognizable.

d.a.m.n you, Polly! What were you thinking?

She squatted on her heels, reached for his skinny wrist, and confirmed what she already knewthe amiable little Mexican was dead as a doornail. She uncurled his fingers from the Smith and Wesson Schofield and sniffed the muzzle. It had been fired recently.

Zee pushed back her hat and scanned the faces peering down at her, seeking one in particular. Americus Millain's expression was unapologetic.

"It was self-defense. He drew on me." He gestured with his half-smoked cigar. "Ask anyone."

She straightened and looked him in the eye. "I will."

Bob Lewis was standing next to Millain. She raised an eyebrow at him. "Bob?"

He scratched his balding pate before answering. "Polly shot first.

He called Millain a cheat and then he drew."

190.

She caught sight of a familiar pair of whiskers. "That tally with your recollection, Silas?"

"Reckon so."

Millain's smile was smug. "See."

She chewed the inside of her cheek. She saw only too well. Polly had been no great shakes with a gun; he carried it mostly for show and wouldn't have drawn unless provoked. Millain probably feinted with his left hand, then drew with his right. But there was no way she could prove it. "I see all right . . . anyone sent for McGillivray?"

"He's on his way, Deputy," called out Kitty Lee.

"Better pa.s.s the hat then." Zee looked at Millain. "You first." She took off her Stetson, upturned it, and held it out.

The gambler's jaw dropped. "d.a.m.ned if I'm going to contribute!

I killed him fair and square."

She gave him a cold glare and was pleased when something uncertainty, fear?flickered in the depths of his brown eyes. "You took Polly's money and his life. Least you can do is give him a decent burial."

A murmur of approval greeted her words and he glanced uneasily at those standing nearby before meeting her gaze again. "Well," he said. "When you put it that way . . ."

He tossed a couple of silver dollars into the hat. Several of the onlookers gave money too. Zee reached a gloved hand in her pocket and pulled out a dollar; it jingled as it joined the others. Already there was a tidy sumenough for the undertaker to give Polly one of his better quality coffins.

She emptied the contents of the hat into Bob Lewis's hands and put the Stetson back on. "Give that to McGillivray when he gets here." Bob nodded.

Satisfied she'd done the best she could, for now at least, she gave Millain a last considering look then spun on her heel and headed for the door.

As she pa.s.sed the bar, a flash of jade green caught her eye. She turned and saw it was the pretty octoroon wearing yet another fashionable dress. As Millain settled down to another card game, Zee headed for his ward.

"Julie Fontenot?"

The girl looked startled at being addressed. She glanced to where her guardian was sitting, then ducked her head, eyes refusing to meet 191.

Zee's. "Yes." Her voice was barely audible above the rising hubbub.

"I'm Cochise County's Deputy Sheriff," said Zee. "You need any help, you come to me. Understand?" Julie fiddled with her gloves.

"Understand?"

The girl smoothed her dress before replying. "Yes."

Zee sighed. If she was any judge of character, Julie was so scared she would have to be in mortal danger before she asked for help.

Well. At least she'd tried.

Feeling in need of some fresh air, she pushed her way through the swinging doors and out onto the street.

GIF.

Zee had just looped her mare's reins over the jail's. .h.i.tching post when a terrible clattering, clanging noise hurt her ears. She turned.

Benson's fire wagon, its bell clanging, its mangy mule braying in protest, was heading along Main Street toward her. Straggling along behind the rusty old water tank and pump came a motley group of townsfolk, some still doing up their shoelaces or pulling on their coats.

"Hey, Marvin," she called to the fire chief, as the wagon pa.s.sed.

His usual job was distributing the water he hauled up from the nearby San Pedro River each day. "Where's the fire?"

"Angie's Palace."

No wonder there are so many volunteers. The madam had a long-standing arrangement with the fire servicea week's worth of free pa.s.ses to the brothel for those who helped put out a fire.

Now Zee knew where to look, she could see the dark plume of smoke curling up into the sky. Hope none of the girls are hurt. She ran back inside the jail, grabbed a shovel, and set off after the fire wagon.

The wh.o.r.es were pacing up and down in front of Angie's Palace in varying states of soot-stained undress. Some of the townsfolk had gathered to watch the fun, and were whistling and calling out commentsthe men appreciative, the women disparagingearning themselves obscene gestures and replies for their pains. When Zee arrived, the onlookers rapidly developed interests elsewhere.

The fire was out back by the kitchen, so Zee made her way round there in time to see the fire crew (Marvin and three men pumping the 192 lever, two more pointing the hose nozzle, the rest getting in the way) damping down the flames. It hadn't been a big blaze, just a very dirty one. Zee frowned. A strange scent underlay the overpowering smell of soot and wet wood. It reminded her of something.

She used her shovel to beat out some still glowing embers then became aware that Angie had joined her. "Anyone hurt?"

"Only their pride." The brothel owner surveyed the damage and sighed.

Marvin came over to join them; his shirt was soaked through, and his face was streaked with soot. "It's out, Angie. Looks like it started over there." He pointed to some singed timbers lying next to the kitchen.

"That's odd. I thought it must have started inside, a spark from Hattie's stove maybe." She shrugged. "Thanks, Marvin. Usual arrangement?"

He grinned and went to tell his men. Zee chuckled then became aware Angie was studying her, a small smile on her face.

"You're ent.i.tled to a free pa.s.s too, Deputy."

"Thanks, but no thanks. Christie's more'n enough for me."

Angie laughed. "I thought you'd say that." She frowned at the singed timbers again. "Whatever can have caused it?"

"Or who ever," said Zee. She had placed the scent at last.

"Someone used kerosene."

Angie blinked. "Arson?"

"It's a good bet."

"But who would do such a thing?"

"There's plenty as has a motive. The Temperance Union biddies, the Benson Society for Improvement of Public Morals, not to mention a member of the fire crew eager to receive a week's free pa.s.s to bliss . . . Hey!" Zee sucked the knuckles that Angie had rapped with her pipe and gave her a reproachful glance. "But I'd say," she continued, "the likeliest is the person who set fire to the Golden Slipper and the Last Chance Saloon while I was in Phoenix."

Angie frowned. "And just who would that be?"

"Don't know yet." Zee grabbed her shovel and prepared to head back to the jail. "But I will."

Chapter 8.

Zee smiled as she rode past her front door. The neglected garden had been dug and wateredit looked as though Christie had planted the flower bulbs.

Christie herself wasn't home, though, she discovered as she dismounted and gave her horse a drink. The gelding and buckboard were missing from the barn, which meant Christie had either gone to visit the schoolteacher or gone shopping.

As she unstrapped the new pane of gla.s.s she had collected from the gla.s.scutter's and carried it inside, Zee tried not to feel ill-used. It wasn't as if Christie was expecting her for dinner; earlier she had packed Zee's saddlebags with some fresh-baked bread, a slab of boiled ham, and, for a treat, some gingersnaps. But after such a fre-netic morninga killing and a fire was going some, even for Zee things had quieted to such a degree that she'd been twiddling her thumbs. And since there was work to be done around the house . . .

Grumbling to herself, she sat in the kitchen, eating her bread and ham and listening to the loud ticking of the clock. For the first time in her life, she realized, she felt . . . Lonely, d.a.m.n it.

She carried her cookies out back and leaned against the trough while she crunched them, glad of her horse's company. The mare nosed her shoulder; Zee patted the animal's neck.

"Think yourself lucky you ain't romantically involved, girl," she mumbled round a gingersnap. "It ain't all sunshine." The mare nickered and Zee could have sworn the animal was laughing at her.

"Pathetic, ain't I? Let's keep this our little secret, huh?"

When she'd finished eating, she brushed the crumbs off her shirt, swallowed a mouthful of water from her canteen, and headed back indoors, grabbing a hammer and some nails as she went. In the 194 bedroom, she rolled up her shirtsleeves and set about removing the damaged pane of gla.s.s and fitting its replacement.

As she worked, she glanced out at the Rikers' house, which was only a stone's throw away. A boy was playing with a ball in the yard, but when he saw her glaring at him, he disappeared.

Stone's throw is right. She wondered whether she should have told Christie about the fist-sized rock she had found lying on the floorboards instead of just shoving it back out the way it had come.

No. It had been the right decision. Christie had been tipsy and tired and would only have been upset. She didn't need to know it hadn't been a bird crashing into their window but a rock thrown by the Riker kid. One thing was for sure, if Zee caught the varmint sneaking around their house again, she'd tan his hide so he couldn't sit down for a month.

She hammered in the last nail, stood back, and admired her handiwork. Then she swept up the gla.s.s and other debris and went downstairs.

The basket of wood beside the stove was running low, so while her mare tossed her head in annoyance at the noise, she split some logs in the yard, brought the pieces inside, and added them to the basket.

That job done, she set about putting up the extra hooks and shelves Christie had hinted she would like added to the kitchen as soon as possible.

When she had finished, a glance at the clock showed it was time to head back to the jail. She stripped off her shirt and undershirt, dunked her head in a pail of cool water (more water had been delivered, she was glad to see), and sponged herself down, glad to be free of the acc.u.mulated grime and sweat at last.

Dressed in a clean shirt, hair slicked down, and the dust banged off her hat, she felt almost presentable as she mounted up and headed back into town. As she rode, she wondered whether things would be as quiet as they had been when she left. Knowing her luck, the Four Hors.e.m.e.n of the Apocalypse would be waiting for her.

GIF.

Christie reined in the gelding outside Taylor's General Mercantile Store and put on the brake. She reached for her bag, then jumped down from the buckboard and went inside.

195.

Ned Taylor was standing behind his counter, serving a woman with a huge bustle. As the ap.r.o.n-clad storekeeper smiled at Christie, his customer turned to see who had come in, sniffed her disapproval, and turned away again.

Christie sighed. It would have to be Madame Clemence.

Ever since the aborted appointment for a trousseau, the seamstress had kept her distance from Christie, even crossing the street to avoid her on one occasion. Christie couldn't blame her. When she'd eloped with Zee, her ex-fiance had cancelled the trousseau. The seamstress had already spent time and effort on the measurements, but Fred flatly refused to pay her for it.

He always was tight-fisted, thought Christie, wandering round the store. Hard to imagine I ever considered marrying him.

When she had learned Madame Clemence was out of pocket, Christie got Zee to compensate her, but relations between her and the seamstress would always be frosty.

She picked up a skillet, hefted it, decided it was too heavy, and put it back on the shelf. A murmur of voices and faint footsteps signaled the presence of other customers. She rounded the shelf and came face to face with a woman in a black broadcloth dress and a fat man whose high collar looked as though it was cutting off his circulation.

Christie froze. Oh dear! "Good afternoon, Mrs. Riker. Mr. Riker."

Adah Riker remained mute and her husband frowned. "What's wrong, my dear?"

"This woman is the h.e.l.lcat's wh.o.r.e. How she has the nerve to show her face in here" Her cheeks were now an angry red.

Christie pressed her lips together, trying to contain her anger.

Making a scene will only make things worse.