Seasons of Death Page 15

  Again, Conan was silenced by the brute intensity of emotion, and again, he regarded it as genuine. He also found it frightening. If this were the tip of the iceberg—that part of her feelings she would expose to him—what was the submerged part of this iceberg like?

  She apparently remembered her cigarette then and took a puff. “Well, I seem to be doing a lot of feeling sorry for myself. But you asked for it, Diogenes.”

  He laughed. “Yes, and I’m grateful for it.”

  “Are you? But skeptical?” Her smile was cool and ironic.

  “I’m always skeptical. I still don’t understand why you repossessed that note. Reub didn’t bring it up during the inquest. What made you think he would later?”

  “Because he’s a dotty old man, and I don’t trust him. And because it’s mine. He had no right to even touch it.”

  “And you wanted no loose ends, nothing to tie you—or rather, Amanda Count—to Silver or the murder.”

  Something flickered in the dark shadows of her eyes, then she laughed. “I suppose so.”

  Conan hesitated, then, “Is there anything else you can—or will—tell me about the murder?”

  “No. I’ve told you all I know about it.”

  He didn’t voice his skepticism about that. “Did you see Lettie Burbage that night?”

  Her eyes widened, then she broke out in a laugh. “What’s that old biddy been telling you?”

  “Oh, she’s been quite informative,” Conan replied evasively.

  “I’ll just bet she has. What an old maid. Yes, I know she was married. I always figured her husband probably died of sheer frustration.”

  “What did he die of?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, it was a mining accident.”

  “Did you see her that night?”

  “I didn’t see Lettie any more than was absolutely necessary at any time. Why?”

  Conan didn’t try to answer that. Amanda’s lack of concern was revealing enough. If she’d seen anyone other than Reub at the scene of the murder, it wasn’t Lettie Burbage. He asked, “Did you happen to see Dex Adler?”

  “What are you doing—checking off suspects? Look, I told you everything I know about the murder.”

  “Yes, so you said. All right, do you know anything about a gun that belonged to Lee: a thirty-eight revolver.” Then, seeing her eyes narrow slightly, he added, “Yes, the gun that was in Reub’s box with the note.”

  “I didn’t know it was Lee’s.”

  “Did he have it with him the night he was killed?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see it, if he did.”

  “Did you ever see him with it?”

  She said irritably, “The first time I ever saw that gun was in Reub’s box. I don’t know anything about it.”

  Conan dropped that subject, but not because he was convinced of the truth of her answers; he simply recognized the futility of pursuing it further. And he was thinking of the third object in Reub’s box.

  “What about the cameo brooch?”

  “I don’t know anything about that, either. Maybe you should ask Reub.” There was nothing subtle about the barb attached to that.

  But he ignored it. “What does the word ‘hitch’ mean?”

  He didn’t succeed in catching her off guard. “I really don’t have the foggiest idea.” Then she tossed the cigarette away and rose. “And that’s all the questions I’m going to answer. I’ve answered more than I should, anyway, considering who you’re working for.”

  Conan came to his feet, too, startled by that apparent allusion to Delia. “What do you mean—who I’m working for?”

  She said coldly, “I told you, I’m not answering any more questions, but I have one for you: What are you going to do with that note?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose I should give it to Andy Newbolt, but after so many years, and after going through so many hands, I’m not sure it has any value as evidence now.”

  She was silent for a moment, looking up at him with a calculating eye. Then: “So, why not give it to the one person who has a real right to it?”

  “You? I can’t do that, and you know it.”

  “Why the hell not?” she demanded angrily. “Who are you to decide what should be done with it?”

  He sighed. “Amanda, I’m not—”

  “Don’t call me that! What do you want? Am I supposed to beg for it?”

  “No! That’s not the point. If anyone has a right to decide its disposal, it’s the sheriff.”

  Her face went red, and at first she seemed too enraged to speak, then she burst out, “Give it to him, then! Go ahead! I’m not afraid any more, and if he has any questions, by God, I’ll tell him more than he or anybody in this town wants to know! I’ve lived with this thing too long to give a damn now!”

  “Ama—Mrs. Bonnet!” But she had picked up her camera and bag, and was stalking out of the cemetery.

  Conan watched her until she was out of sight in the willows, feeling as if his ears were a little singed with that outburst. He didn’t like the threat underlying it because he didn’t understand it. But the volatile emotion behind it was clear enough.

  Finally, he turned and walked slowly toward Lee Langtry’s grave. He was looking at the terse words encompassing a man’s life between two dates, when a conchoidal pockmark suddenly appeared in the polished granite. The sharp crack of the gun reverberated from one mountain to the next.

  Conan hit the ground. Reflex. He wasn’t even sure what had happened. Not until a second shot sent up a spurt of dirt only a foot from his head.

  Rifle shots. Some part of his mind made that assessment, but it was only a peripheral awareness at the moment. Another fountain of dirt exploded near his head as he crawled across brittle sagebrush to a looming headstone and made himself as flat and small as possible against the north face of the stone. A singing crack—a bullet ricocheting off the south face. He spat out dust and weed fragments, wondering how long he would—or could—remain pinned down here until help arrived.

  It was some time before he realized the fusillade had ceased. He lay panting, listening to the mountain silence over the pounding of his pulse in his ears; his head ached miserably. At length, he decided the moment of truth had come and cautiously looked around the stone.

  He didn’t end up with a bullet between his eyes, and with a heartfelt sigh of relief, he rested on his elbows while the tension sagged out of him, leaving him briefly spent.

  It was young Lewis Leonard’s memorial that had provided him protection. He stared at the words incised in the stone.

  Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

  Chapter 16

  By the time Conan got to his feet and dusted himself off, anger had overwhelmed relief, and the shallow cut across his right hand—undoubtedly caused by a flying fragment of marble—only fed the anger. He scanned the thick growth of aspen bordering the cemetery on the south. The sniper had probably been hidden there, but a search would be futile. He’d be long gone by now.

  Conan stormed out of the cemetery and up the willow-lined road into town, his jaw clenched painfully. This, he muttered to himself, was going too damned far. Those shots had been too close, and in that setting, with so many polished stone slabs to deflect the bullets, too potentially fatal to be shrugged off. When he reached the Idaho Hotel, Jake and John Kulik and Laurie Franklin were outside in the street, along with a few curious sightseers. Jake began asking anxious questions about the shots, but Conan didn’t answer them. Reub Sickle was coming out of the hotel door, the ringing of its bells incongruously sweet.

  Conan demanded, “Where the hell have you been?”

  Reub only scowled at him, head lowered, and it was Jake Kulik who said, “He’s been here. We were having a beer in the dining room.”

  Conan nodded and strode past them, ignoring the renewed spate of questions. Mimi Bonnet was standing on the porch by her car, and perhaps he imagined a faint, cold smile curling her lips. He didn’t stop to explore the sm
ile, but headed down the slope between the hotel and store, then across the clearing to Jordan Creek. He was breathing hard by the time he reached the schoolhouse but he didn’t pause, and he totally ignored Lettie Burbage’s shouted inquiry. Neither his pace nor his anger slackened as he climbed the road past the Starbuck house all the way to Dex Adler’s. His footfalls thudded across the porch, and his fist went up to pound on the door.

  “Adler!” More pounding; he didn’t even feel the impacts. “Adler!”

  The door flew open, and Adler stood staring at him. “What in God’s name—”

  “I’ve had enough of your games! I’m not leaving Silver until I’ve finished my job here, and I will finish it. That’s a warning!”

  Adler’s face went red as he glowered from under his heavy brows. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Flagg.”

  “I’m talking about getting shot at, getting knocked out, and finding rattlers in my car! And I’m talking about Lee Langtry’s murder—”

  “Get out of here! Just get out, damn it!”

  “Adler, I won’t—” But whatever he wouldn’t was cut off abruptly. Adler slammed the door in his face, and Conan heard the snap of a bolt sliding home.

  “Damn.” That was as much for himself as for Adler. His anger dissipated with a long exhalation, and he turned, shoulders sagging. That, he thought bitterly, was not the most intelligent move he’d made in this case.

  But hadn’t Adler seemed a little breathless, as if he’d just finished an uphill run? And his shoelaces had been untied. Was that because Conan had caught him in process of changing from another pair of shoes soaked during a hasty crossing of Jordan Creek near the cemetery?

  Perhaps. It would be more pertinent to have a look at the rifles hung near Adler’s fireplace, but obviously that was out of the question, unless Conan opted to break down the door. Then he would probably find himself staring down the barrel of one of those guns, while Adler called the sheriff and virtuously claimed he was defending his house and person from attack.

  Conan sighed, noting as he crossed the road that Delia and Clare were looking out the north window of the parlor. When he went inside the house, they were in the hall, Delia only faintly bewildered, but Clare, to his surprise, trembling with anger, tears shining in her eyes.

  “All you ever do is make trouble!” she declared accusingly. “Why don’t you go away! I don’t want you here, I don’t want you—oh, just go away!” And with that, she burst into noisy sobs and stumbled up the stairs.

  Delia took a deep breath, then followed her. “I’ll be back, Conan.”

  Feeling much the worse for wear, he retreated to the bathroom at the end of the kitchen hall and washed his face and arms, ending with a dousing of cold water, then went to the kitchen. It was permeated with the heady scent of strawberries, and a row of rubescent pints was cooling on the counter. On the stove, more jam bubbled over the rim of a kettle. He found a potholder and shifted the kettle to the back of the stove, then seeing the coffee pot still warming there, he poured himself a mug and took it with him out on the front porch. There was still some shade and a fitful breeze to temper the noonday heat that heightened the perfume of lilacs. Thunderheads were massing behind Florida Mountain and Potosi Peak, but they seemed to be holding themselves in abeyance, as if awaiting some cosmic order to advance.

  He had finished the coffee and two cigarettes when Delia joined him on the porch step. She brushed at the front of her apron; the ruffled bodice was spotted with red. “I never seem to be able to put up a batch of jam without getting it all over me. Well, what was that all about? With Dex, I mean.”

  Conan could laugh at it now. “Just a little flare of temper on my part.”

  “Looked like a pretty good flare. We…we heard gunshots earlier.”

  “They were aimed at me. That’s what ignited my temper.”

  “Oh, dear.” She frowned, then, “You think it was Dex who shot at you?”

  “Did you see him around his house in the last half hour?”

  She shrugged uncomfortably. “No, but Clare and I were back in the kitchen. At least, till we heard you shouting for Dex. But, Conan, why would he want to shoot at you?”

  “Yes, why would he? Delia, I must have the truth—and I think you know it—about Dex’s opportune financial windfall. The one that occurred right after the murder and robbery.”

  She folded her hands in her lap, frowning down at them. “Conan, it doesn’t have anything to do with Lee or the robbery.”

  “Good. But I still want to know about it.”

  And she still hesitated. Then, with a sigh of resignation, she said, “I gave my word I’d never tell anybody. I’ll have to have your word on that, too.”

  He was beginning to feel another flare of temper approaching ignition point, but only nodded and said, “Delia, if it doesn’t have anything to do with Lee or the robbery, you have my word I won’t discuss it with anyone.”

  That satisfied her. “Well, Dex was in a lot of trouble financially just before the robbery. He was about to lose all the property he’d invested in for want of a few thousand dollars to keep up the payments. But he’s a proud man. I’d never have known about it if Irene hadn’t come to me. Well, I had some money of my own. It was willed to me by my grandfather, and Tom always insisted I keep it in a separate account. It was to be my own nest egg. Even when the mill went bankrupt, Tom wouldn’t touch that money. Anyway, when Irene told me about Dex’s problems, I offered to loan him the money he needed out of that account. He agreed to it, but I don’t think he would have if Irene hadn’t begged him to, and he’d only accept it if I promised never to tell anybody about it. And I didn’t until now; not even Tom.”

  Conan rested his elbows on his knees, and he had a feeling that what she was about to tell him would not contribute to the solution of this case. “When was the loan made?”

  “Well, we made the arrangements about a week before the murder, but it was that night when the actual transaction took place. I’d gotten the money out of the bank in Homedale in cash, and Dex came over that night to pick it up. Tom was in the parlor working, like I told you, so Dex came around the back to the kitchen.”

  Conan nodded. “What time?”

  “About eight thirty-five. He was telling the truth when he said he saw Lee drive up to the office at eight-thirty. He just didn’t explain that he was on his way over to our house then. That’s why he happened to be out on his porch.”

  “When did he leave your house?”

  “It wasn’t until nine-thirty at least. Dex needed somebody to talk to once in a while, and—well, I guess he always felt he could depend on me.”

  “Yes, I can understand that. I wish I could verify that eight-thirty departure time for Lee.”

  “Well, Clare says that’s when he left, too. I mean, she said that right after the robbery when the sheriff questioned her, and she didn’t know then what Dex had said about the time.”

  “They were questioned separately?”

  “Yes. Dex stayed up at the office with Tom until Sheriff Kenny got there. Lathe went there first, then he came to Clare’s house to talk to her. I was with her. In fact, I remember after she told Lathe what time Lee left, he said something about Dex seeing him go, too, at the same time.”

  Conan’s breath came out in a long sigh. “Dex is a fortunate man. You’ve not only deprived him of a motive but given him an alibi.”

  “I told you not to worry about Dex. I’m sorry I didn’t feel like I should tell you why before.”

  “That’s all right, Delia.” Then his hands clenched and opened. “But, damn it, why is he so averse to an investigation? Why is he making life so difficult—not to speak of dangerous—for me?”

  Delia caught her breath. “You don’t really think he had anything to do with what’s happened to you? Conan, he was over at his house yesterday when you got that bump on your head.”

  “I think he had a great deal to do with what’s happened to me—especia
lly today—but he hasn’t been working alone.”

  “Who’s he working with? Reub?”

  Conan looked at her sharply. “What makes you say that?”

  “Just the questions you’ve been asking lately.”

  “Oh. Well, yes, I think Reub is his partner.”

  “But, why? What do either one of them have to hide?”

  “Rhetorical questions seem to be my department lately. Don’t you start with them.”

  She took a handkerchief from her apron pocket and pressed it to her brow. “Oh, it’s hot. If it’s going to rain, I wish it’d get on with it. All right, Conan, I’ll leave the questions to you. I just hope…” She didn’t finish that.

  After a moment, Conan asked, “You hope what?”

  “I don’t know.” Then she rose, and she seemed uncharacteristically stiff and slow about it. “It’s about time for lunch. Maybe a sandwich and some iced tea. Does that sound good to you?”

  Conan rose, too, but shook his head absently. “Thanks, but I’m not really hungry. I think I’ll take a walk.”

  She nodded and watched him as he wandered off westward, hands thrust in his pockets, head bowed.