Читать книгу Ellen Hart Presents Malice Domestic 15: Mystery Most Theatrical - Karen Cantwell - Страница 12

The Wild West comes to life at the Stagecoach Guest Ranch, but when reality intrudes and takes center stage, the show becomes anything but make-believe.

Cassidy Bailey had shot eight men during the past two weeks. The first one had been fun; after that, it just got monotonous.

She locked the washroom door behind her and balanced the small leather satchel on the pedestal sink. No sense hurrying. No matter how early she was, when they divvied out the weapons, she always got the pearl-handled revolver with the jammed cylinder. Maybe they figured as the sole woman surrounded by a crew of outlaws, she’d know enough to make her single shot count. So far, they’d been right.

She opened her traveling valise. It was a bit of authenticity she brought to a production that sadly lacked much in the way of realism, but she loved being part of the cast of the frontier show, and the guests of the Stagecoach Guest Ranch lapped it up. But Cassidy was a stickler for details. That’s what majoring in history will get you—a lifelong dissatisfaction with anything anachronistic. Combined with her minor in theater, she was doomed.

She swapped her skinny jeans and t-shirt for a corset and flouncy skirt. Every time she leaned over, the boning of the corset caught on her naval ring, but her posture had never been straighter.

Beyond the door, cowboy boots clomped across the oak floorboards of the bunkhouse. The steps slowed as they neared. She hoped they’d continue but knew they wouldn’t.

“Get a move on, Nellie. You’re slower than molasses in January.”

She didn’t know which she hated more. That the name they slapped onto her character sounded like a horse, or the stupid Ah-shucks drawl Shane adopted even when there was no one to hear. This is how we talk round these parts, he’d say. Never know when there might be young’uns underfoot.

She yanked the top of the corset higher. It wasn’t the kids that worried her.

“I’d be happy to help the little lady out with her laces.”

“Not in this lifetime, Shane.” The laces weren’t even functional. The corset fastened with a series of tiny hook-and-eyes up the front. More steampunk than frontier.

“I told you to call me Sheriff. And as Sheriff McMasters, I order you to open up in the name of the law.”

Law. He acted like the badge he wore gave him the authority to do whatever he wanted. In some ways, that made him an accurate representation of the time. On a wild frontier, more than one lawman freelanced as a gunslinger or outlaw when it suited him.

“Go away. You don’t have jurisdiction here.” She returned to dressing. The fishnet pantyhose were another cheat. Pantyhose weren’t even invented until 1959. Stockings, yes, but pantyhose? It was as if no one even researched the garments saloon girls actually wore.

“When all’s said and done, maybe you’ll let me buy you a whiskey at the bar. Demonstrate how grateful you are that I didn’t kill you when I had the chance.”

He spoke in character, but the words made her uneasy. He was one of those guys who had all the attributes of a great cover on an awful book; attractive enough to gain attention, but hiding a deeply flawed character inside. He’d asked her out every day since she joined the cast. Each time she’d said no.

She zigzagged the laces around the hooks of her granny-boots. Double knotted them, yanking the laces tight with more force than necessary.

The only thing left was a drawstring purse. She fastened the empty decorative cloth bag to her belt and stole a glance at her watch. Eleven thirty. An ungodly hour for a college senior on summer break. She dropped the timepiece into the valise and grabbed her garter. The cheap polyester lace scratched against her fingers. A red rosette hid the tiny holster like a wilting afterthought. Hurriedly, she slid it over her boot, snagging the rosette on one of the hooks. She bit back a swear word and set about untangling it.

“You listening to me?” He rapped sharply on the door.

She started and the garter tore free. A red scrap of lace clung to the hook like a droplet of blood.

“You know I have a boyfriend.”

He snorted on the other side of the door, so close she checked the keyhole to make sure he couldn’t see through it.

“Slim Jenkins is a skinny runt and he certainly isn’t the most fearsome gun in the west if he lets a common saloon girl get the drop on him.”

He knew nothing about her boyfriend. “It’s a show, Shane.”

“What you need is a strong man like me to take care of you.”

She slammed the valise shut. “I don’t recall asking you what I need, but since you seem so interested, let me make one thing perfectly clear.” She opened the door so fast he took a step back. “It isn’t you.”

“I’m sure sorry to hear that.” His eyes narrowed. “I suspect you’ll be regretting them words ‘fore too long.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just threaten me. Make that mistake again, and you can explain yourself to HR.”

“That’ll never happen.” He touched his fingers to his hat and stomped away.

Frontier Adventure, Modern Luxury

Outside the bunkhouse, the air smelled of pine and horses and Cassidy inhaled huge lungsful in an effort to calm down—or at least as much as the corset allowed. The summer afternoon rains that washed across southwestern Colorado had come and gone. Already the dirt was dry enough to kick up little dust clouds as she weaved her way past Hansen’s Mercantile and toward the blacksmith’s forge.

She knew better than to let Shane get under her skin, but darned if he didn’t do it anyway. You’d think he owned the ranch, instead of being a cast member, apprentice blacksmith, and occasional bellhop. Cassidy had grown up on a real ranch. He wouldn’t last a day.

She took another deep breath and slowly spun with her head tilted back. There was nothing like a Colorado sky seen through a screen of branches. Even Shane couldn’t spoil this.

Ads for the Stagecoach Guest Ranch promised adventure, and the ranch delivered. Guests were met at the imposing wrought iron gates of the resort by one of the namesake stagecoaches. There, a cowboy took possession of their car, making a corny joke about being a reformed horse thief. An authentically bumpy stagecoach ride through pine trees and aspen groves transported guests through history, and by the time they arrived at the resort—a collection of buildings built to look like a weathered frontier boom town—they’d landed in the 1880s.

Guests checked in at the Grand Hotel, but specialty rooms were also available behind the mercantile, in leather-smelling tack rooms off the stables, on the upper floor of the saloon, and in individual cabins scattered across the property.

Cassidy cut through the bone orchard and wound her way around gravestones that sprouted like crooked teeth from the hard- packed dirt.

A boy wearing an obviously new cowboy hat called out, “Hey, Dad, listen to this one. ‘Here lies Lester Moore, Four Slugs from a .44, No Les No more.’” He darted to another one and started to read it aloud.

The headstones were replicas of several found in the real Boothill Cemetery in Tombstone, Arizona. Whether Lester Moore was an actual occupant of the cemetery like the men killed in the O.K. Corral shootout, or if the witty marker was merely a ploy to draw tourists into the cemetery was yet to be established to most historians’ satisfaction.

In the distance, a cloud of dust rose. The morning trail ride would be returning to the stables. She’d have to hurry, or she’d be late for the show.

The ranch Cassidy’s folks owned was seventy-two acres divided between growing alfalfa and raising cattle, but it had nothing on the resort’s four hundred acres snugged up against the San Juan Mountains. Here, guests could pan for gold, shoot a bow, ride horses, or participate in sanitized versions of roping (a set of longhorns protruding from a hay bale), branding (searing the resort logo into souvenir wood trivets), and moving cattle between pastures (a glorified trail ride where real cowboys did all the moving of said cattle).

For something less dusty, there were gifts to buy at the saddlery, mercantile, and blacksmith shops. Hungry folk had their choice of chuckwagon grub, gourmet game, and farm-to-table produce flavored with herbs grown in the sprawling kitchen garden. But by the end of the day, everyone ended up at the saloon.

The entire downtown served as an informal stage. Cowboys and guests rode through town and tied up their horses at various hitching posts. Stagecoaches and wagons rumbled between eras. Inside, the buildings sported frontier chic decor with modern innovations. Guests may claim to want an authentic experience, but no one liked outhouses or spotty Internet service.

A rhythmic metallic clang grew louder as Cassidy reached the entry to the blacksmith’s forge. Shane barreled out of the double doors and slammed against her shoulder, knocking her off balance.

“Watch where you’re going.”

A very unladylike word escaped her lips, but he was already out of earshot. The calm she had worked so hard to create evaporated. Shane was a bully and bullies were dangerous.

She ducked through the door of the stone building. Smitty stood in front of an open forge at the far end of the shop. He served as both prop master and armorer, but now the muscles of his shoulders rippled with each hammer stroke as he worked a glowing piece of iron. A woman wearing her weight in turquoise jewelry leaned against the fence that kept guests from straying too close to the forge.

“You just missed the sheriff,” he called out.

If only.

The woman glanced toward Cassidy, but quickly returned her attention to the sweaty blacksmith.

Cassidy entered the employee equipment room and found her Colt House Pistol waiting for her on the workbench. On a ranch, a gun was just another tool. She’d dispatched more than one rattlesnake while checking her family’s irrigation ditches. This pistol was different. It was a pretty little thing, manufactured in the 1870s. Elaborate engraving swirled across the brass frame and the handle sported pearl grips. When it worked properly, the cylinder held four .41 caliber rounds and resembled a four-leaf clover—which explained why it was dubbed the Cloverleaf. And with only a one-and-a-half-inch barrel, a user would need the luck of the Irish to hit anything.

Frontier life was hazardous for anyone, but more so for women. As a saloon girl, Cassidy would have carried a single shot derringer—it was the only gun tiny enough to stay tucked in a garter. Twice now, she’d jostled the small 4-shot revolver right out of the holster when she ran across Main Street. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out how the cylinder had become jammed. Although for the record, it had happened before she came along.

Still, if there was one thing a person from the west could spot at a hundred paces, it was a toy gun. The history buff in her appreciated the effort the resort made to bring realism to the show.

Theater arts took considerable liberties with range-safety rules, but even blank rounds were dangerous. They didn’t have a projectile per se, but the firing pin still created an explosion, and depending on proximity, exploding gas could be lethal.

As the armorer, Smitty prepped the guns for the daily shows, but Cassidy always performed a safety check. She’d been handling guns for years. It was habit.

The pistol had been recently polished and not a smudge marred the glinting brass. She drew the hammer back and sighted down the barrel, rotated the cylinder. The bottom of each cartridge lay flush with the edge of the cylinder. Just like they should.

Across the forge, Smitty plunged the red-hot iron in a tub of water and the sizzle of steam hissed like an angry snake. You’ll be regretting them words ‘fore too long.

Cassidy’s heart beat high in her throat and she stared at the pistol in her hand for a long moment. She had to face facts. No matter how much she wanted to believe otherwise, Shane was unhinged. And she was squarely in his crosshairs.

She propped her foot on a bench and with a shaking hand, wedged the revolver into her garter holster.

The chapel bell began to toll the noon hour and she scribbled a note to Smitty.

Today’s script needed a new ending and it was time to pick a fight.

It’s High Noon Somewhere

The tap of Cassidy’s granny boots marked her progress along the boardwalk, each step jostling the brass in the cloth purse dangling from her waist. Plenty of other costumed employees worked at the ranch, but with the exception of Shane, the gunslingers had all been plucked from the Echo Valley College theater group and had known each other for years. Smitty had once mentioned that Shane had drifted into town like a tumbleweed, but no one knew much about him. The daily frontier show was a cheesy high noon shootout where good always prevailed, hats were either black or white, and everyone got shot, but no one was ever hurt.

The midday sun beat down on Curly Joe as he sat in front of the Assayer’s Office, his chair tipped back on two legs with his black cowboy hat pulled low over his face. Resort guests glanced at him as they paused to look in the window at the chunks of silver ore and gold nuggets on display, but no one disturbed his siesta.

An errant gust slapped the iron Wells Fargo Bank sign and it creaked eerily above the door of the narrow building. On the corner stood a solid adobe building with a barred window high on the wall that overlooked the street. Slim Jenkins, the most fearsome gun in the west, would be inside the cell on the other side of the jail wall, waiting for his cue.

It was as if the whole town was holding its breath. Anxious.

Sheriff McMasters leaned against the opened doorframe and eyed Cassidy as she neared. She felt her face twist with anger and struggled to wipe it clear. He grinned as he placed two fingers along the brim of his cowboy hat in a mocking salute.

Cassidy stepped into the street to give the bay mare tethered to the hitching post an apple. It wasn’t in the script and she knew it would provoke him. Frankly, she didn’t care. The mare’s whiskers tickled her palm as the horse lipped the apple out of her hand. It was oddly reassuring. A moment of normalcy in the minutes before everything changed.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Nellie?” His voice held an unexpected menace and she raised herself on her tiptoes to see over the mare’s shoulders. He’d taken a step toward her, his face flushed.

You’ll be regretting them words ‘fore too long.

“Now that you mention it, I’m late for a meeting with the devil.” She patted the mare’s neck, at once reluctant to leave and anxious to get away. No sense delaying. She’d made her decision.

Tinny piano music lured her across the street, and she stopped in front of the saloon.

Inside, Rusty would be slamming a sarsaparilla while sitting at the Faro table with Six-fingered Sanchez and any number of thirsty guests. He had his back to the wall, and his eye to the street, waiting to see the flounce of her petticoat that set the drama in motion. Already other employees were roping off the street behind her to give the actors their space.

“You’re a stinkin’ cheat!” Sanchez yelled from inside.

The piano music abruptly stopped, and the swinging doors slammed against the outside wall. Rusty crashed onto the boardwalk at Cassidy’s feet, rolled twice, and came up in a crouch. “Ain’t no one call me a cheat and live to tell the tale.”

Guests plastered their faces to the windows. Strollers gathered closer, eager to watch the drama unfold.

Sanchez barreled onto the boardwalk. The six fingers on his right hand twitched above the handle of his gun. “I’m going to give you one chance to hightail it out of this town.” He stared hard at Rusty. “And you best start before I change my mind.”

More guests craned out over their balconies to watch the show. Cassidy scooped up Rusty’s black hat and stepped between the two men. “That’s the bottle courage talking. I’m sure we can settle this peacefully.” She smacked the hat against Rusty’s chest. “Step back inside. Let me buy you a drink.” She turned and smiled at Sanchez. “On the house.”

“Ah, Nellie,” Sanchez said. “You know I can’t refuse you when you smile at me all pretty-like.”

Rusty snorted. “Well, if this ain’t something. Ol’ Six-finger’s sweet on a sportin’ woman.”

Cassidy concentrated on not rolling her eyes. Sporting women worked in bordellos, not saloons. “You hush, Rusty,” she said. “You know my heart belongs to the sheriff.”

Blech. Whoever wrote this drivel should be tarred and feathered, and had obviously never met the sheriff in question.

Cassidy kept her focus on the two men in front of her, but listened for the creak of leather and scrape of metal behind her. After all, the three of them were just the distraction while Curly Joe set up.

“Gentlemen.” Cassidy put her hand to the side of her face conspiratorially and addressed the crowd. “And I use the term loosely.” She faced the men again. “Today things are going to unfold a bit differently. First off, you’re going to have to behave yourselves.”

Members of the crowd chuckled. Rusty and Sanchez exchanged confused looks.

“There’s big changes about to take place,” she continued. “And when the unexpected happens, I’m going to need your help.”

Sanchez was the first to play along with the new script. “You know I’ll do anything for you, Nellie.”

Rusty opened his mouth to speak when a gunshot drew everyone’s attention to the middle of the street. More people crowded the sidewalk to watch the show.

Curly Joe sat astride the bay mare holding his six-shooter in the air and cranked off another round. A rope stretched between the jail window bars and his saddle horn. With a mighty “Yah!” he spurred the bay forward. The window popped out of the wall and bounced into the dirt.

Slim Jenkins wiggled free from his cell and landed with a resounding thud on the boardwalk, his hat firmly adhered to his head.

Under cover of the commotion, Cassidy leaned close to Rusty’s ear and whispered, “Bring the extra horse.”

His brows furrowed, but he nodded.

Slim planted his hands on his hips and drew in a dramatic breath of freedom as he surveyed the crowd. “Whoo-ee! About time. I couldn’t handle another night in the pokey.”

A boy behind Cassidy announced. “He’s a bad man. Look at his hat. The sheriff needs to do something!”

As if summoned by the child, Sheriff McMaster appeared in the doorway of the jail, his white Stetson a beacon against the dark interior.

This was Cassidy’s cue to run across the street to warn the sheriff—as if the gunshot, window demolition, and Curly Joe’s ruckus wasn’t enough to alert a lawman that something was awry. It also allowed Cassidy to move the grappling hook and window to safety before more horses entered the story.

“Sheriff McMasters! There’s been a jailbreak!” she shouted, just in case anyone in the audience harbored any lingering confusion about what had just happened.

Curly Joe wheeled the mare around and tossed a gun belt to Slim who slung it around his hips.

Cassidy timed her steps onto the boardwalk to coincide with Slim drawing his gun. Seriously, whoever scripted the production severely underestimated the ability of dance hall girls to sniff out danger and avoid it. She readied herself to be bumped from behind. Last time, her boyfriend had been a bit too enthusiastic and nearly bowled her over.

Sheriff McMasters raised his pistol. “Stop in the name of the law!”

Slim grabbed Cassidy around the waist with his left hand and raised his right arm and pointed his prairie pistol at the sheriff. Tactically speaking, it was a terrible way to try to control a hostage. She’d grown up with four older brothers; she’d been training for something like this her whole life. A hard granny heel to the shin as a distraction, sweep the gun, leverage the barrel, et violà. She could strip the gun out of Slim’s grasp before he could even say ouch.

But Slim wasn’t the problem. Shane was. She summoned her best damsel in distress voice. “Sheriff! Save me!” Even she heard the sarcasm. Good thing she was an historian first and an actress second.

“We don’t want no trouble, Law Dog,” Curly Joe shouted. “Go back inside, no one gets hurt.”

McMasters hunkered behind a water trough. In theory, his pistol was aimed at Slim, but Cassidy knew she was the target. You’ll be regretting them words ‘fore too long she heard, even as he said, “Let her go.”

“I don’t think we’ll do that,” Slim said. “Seems to me, she’s our ticket out of this here town.”

“I’m not going to let anything happen to Nellie.”

A bald-faced lie if she’d ever heard one.

He continued, “You boys need to do the clean thing, and lay down your guns. Turn yourselves in.”

A thundering of hooves neared. Six-finger Sanchez and Rusty careened around the corner on horseback, each holding the reins of a riderless horse.

The sheriff darted to the doorway of the jail, still pointing his gun toward Slim. “You don’t want to be no fugitive from the law, Slim. You get on that horse, I’ll hunt you down like the dog you are.”

“No offense, Sheriff, but I find your hospitality somewhat lacking.”

This was the point in the show when Cassidy was supposed to sidestep with Slim toward the horses. From an impossible angle, the sheriff would save the day by winging Slim. Freed, Nellie would hide behind a wagon. Sanchez and Rusty would enter the fray with much tucking and rolling across the ground, shooting from behind cover until the rest of the blanks were used up in a loud free-for-all that thrilled the guests and left three outlaws on the ground. Just as Slim was about to get the drop on the sheriff, Nellie was supposed to use her one shot to kill Slim before he shot the sheriff.

The horses would inevitably make their way to the flowerbed in front of the mercantile and snack until someone collected them. As a denouement, Nellie was supposed to proclaim the sheriff her hero, express her undying love, blah, blah, blah. The historian in her wanted to weep.

Fortunately, this was not that day.

Instead, Cassidy planted a kiss on Slim’s cheek. “There’s no use hiding it anymore.” She addressed Shane. “Sheriff, I know you think I’m sweet on you. But I’m not. In fact, despite all your pestering, I never was. My heart belongs to Slim Jenkins and everyone knows you’ve wronged him by locking him up when it was you who rustled them cattle off Teague’s Ranch.”

“Nellie, what in tarnation is going on? You love me.” The sheriff spoke evenly, but his face shone with malice.

“I’m exposing you for the yellow-bellied liar you are.” She faced her boyfriend and spoke quietly. “I love you. I need you to trust me on this.” She squeezed his hand before projecting for the audience again. “Grab the horses, darling. The sheriff and I have some unfinished business.” She leaned over and withdrew the small pistol from her garter. When she came up, she straightened her arm and pointed the gun at Shane’s chest.

He blanched. “Now hold on. What’s got into you?”

“It’s not what’s in me you need to worry yourself over.” She narrowed the distance between them, but stopped well out of reach.

“I’m sheriff of this town.”

She drew back the hammer. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” He stooped down and placed his gun on the ground. “You’re making a big mistake.”

“Explain to me how, exactly?”

Shane closed his fist around a handful of dirt and his legs tensed.

Cassidy took the slack out of the trigger. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

He clenched his fist tighter, then emptied his hand and held them both in the air.

“Get up,” she said.

Shane scrambled to his feet. For a second Cassidy thought he was going to try to rush her. Slim must have thought so, too, because he came up beside her. Curly Joe, Rusty, and Sanchez weren’t far behind.

“Cattle rustlers don’t deserve to wear a badge,” she said. “You aren’t worthy. Take it off.”

His jaw clenched, but he unpinned the tin star and threw it in the dust at her feet.

She picked it up with her free hand and cleaned the dirt off against her skirt. “Now you’re going to step into that jail and set yourself down in an empty cell. And before you get any bright ideas, it’ll be the one without the window.”

People in the crowd laughed.

“You ain’t no better than them other outlaws,” he shouted. “And I’ll see to it you swing right next to them ‘fore this is out.” Tears brightened his eyes. “I loved you, and you done betrayed me.” He wagged a finger at her. “I’ve got a long memory and you’ll pay, Nellie. You’ll pay.”

“Uh-huh.” Still, she had to give him props for staying in character.

She looked past Shane. At the end of the block, Smitty signaled her. A sense of relief flooded her body. He’d gotten her note.

“Quit flapping your gums.” She jerked her head toward the jail door. “Go on.”

Shane didn’t budge.

Sanchez stepped his considerable bulk forward. “You heard the lady.”

Rusty laughed. “Dude, did you not hear? She just declared her love for Slim, you moron. And to think you caught me counting cards. I’m losing my edge.”

Sanchez sniffed. “Never much cared for the sheriff, that’s all.”

Cassidy motioned with the gun and Shane backed into the jail.

Rusty wrapped up the show. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’re witnessing the very first time a saloon girl arrested a lawman.” The crowd erupted in applause as Cassidy followed Shane into the building. She lowered the hammer, but didn’t dare lower the gun until he was in the cell. Sanchez scooted around her and locked the cell door.

Cassidy placed her hand on Sanchez’s thick arm. “Will you give us a minute?”

Shane leaped at the bars, gripping them so tightly his knuckles whitened. “Don’t leave me here, Sanchez. She’s crazy.”

“Geez, what am I going to do, shoot him?” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be out for the autograph session in a couple minutes.”

Sanchez headed for the door. “Holler if you need anything.”

“Will do.”

After he’d left, she stepped closer to the bars. The cloth purse hanging from her belt swayed and the contents jingled in the quiet. She turned the pistol over in her hands. So pretty. Potentially so deadly.

“This is kidnapping, you know.” Shane rattled the bars. “I’ll have you arrested.”

“Not if you meet with an unfortunate accident first.” She shrugged. “Of course, I don’t know how I’d live with myself if you came to harm.” Darned if she didn’t hear sarcasm again. She really needed to work on that. “Why’d you do it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Have it your way.” In one smooth move, she raised the pistol, drew the hammer back, and took the slack out of the trigger.

He threw himself onto the metal cot and curled into a ball, wrapping his arms around his head. “Don’t shoot! It’s loaded. Please.” He started to cry. “You didn’t even give us a chance. We would have been great together. Please. Don’t shoot.”

“You’re an idiot.” She pulled the trigger.

Click.

He flinched, and then looked up in disbelief.

“I wouldn’t waste a bullet on you.” She shook her purse over the desk and the brass rounds rolled across the surface and clinked as they fell to the floor.

You’ll be regretting them words ‘fore too long. If he thought he could have gotten away with it, she had no doubt he’d have loaded real bullets in his own gun. Instead, he’d loaded them in hers, and then waited for her to shoot her boyfriend.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t do a safety check? Not notice you fixed the cylinder? Shined the darn thing until it was spotless?”

“It’s my word against yours, stupid.”

Cassidy pulled out the desk chair, and sat. “That’s the difference between us. My word means something.” She leaned back in the chair and pointed to the surveillance camera in the left corner above the door.

“You ever hear of Kate Warne of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency?” She noted his blank expression and added, “First female detective—eighteen fifty.” She crossed her ankles. The granny boots had grown on her. “Or how about Phoebe Couzins, the first woman appointed as a U.S. Marshal? Still nothing? F.M. Miller? She rode alongside her male counterparts as a Deputy Marshal in Texas.”

“What’s your point, Nellie?”

Smitty escorted two deputies into the jail.

“My name is Cassidy.” She smiled at the newcomers. “And I’m here to tell you there’s a new sheriff in town.”