Chapter Thirty-two
After the last shovelful of dirt fell on Maurice Bird’s grave, Dallas Steele took off the black mourning garment supplied by the undertaker as did the other men who’d come for the funeral.
“Well, they done ol’ Maurice just fine,” Luther Ironside said. “Laid him out all nice and planted him in a silk-lined coffin. A man can’t ask more ’n that.”
“This was a most singularly depressing event.” Edith Ludsthorpe was dressed from head to toe in black and a weeping veil covered her face under which she continually dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “Poor Mr. Bird. Such a great talent to be taken from us so violently by ruffians.” She swayed a little. “I feel faint, I really do.”
“Please don’t distress yourself too much, dear lady,” Shamus O’Brien said. “Mr. Steele has thoughtfully provided a picnic basket that will help sustain you in your time of grief.”
Ironside listened to the colonel’s speech with growing disbelief. He grinned and opened his mouth to speak, but Shamus silenced him with a warning glare.
“Dear Mr. Steele, thank you for the thought, but I declare, I can’t eat a single bite,” Edith said, taking Steele’s arm. “I am so distraught I can barely walk.”
“Well, I can,” Chastity said, dressed like her mother all in sable, but without the weeping veil. “Funerals always make me hungry.”
“Well, perhaps my daughter is right,” Edith said. “Pray, what refreshments did you provide, Mr. Steele?”
Smiling slightly, he told her.
Edith said, “Perhaps I can force down a couple pieces of fried chicken and a glass of brandy. I always say that a slice of apple pie settles nicely on top of all that’s gone before.”
“My sentiments entirely, Mrs. Ludsthorpe.” Steele led the woman and Chastity to a tree-shaded area on the top of a low hogback that overlooked the small Recoil graveyard and spread a blanket on the ground.
After the ladies were seated and the picnic basket opened, he said, “Will you join us, Colonel?”
“I don’t think so, Dallas,” Shamus said. “I reckon Luther and I will head back to town”—he waved a hand—“with Deputy Sparrow here.”
“I’m h-h-here in an o-o-official c-capacity,” Sparrow said. “It w-w-would not do to s-s-socialize.”
“I understand,” Steele said. “Well, I’ll see you gentlemen back in Recoil.”
“Mind if I grab a chicken leg, Steele?” Ironside said. “I’m a little sharp set.”
“By all means. There’s plenty.”
“Luther,” Shamus said, “does your mind ever rise higher than your belt buckle?”
“Sometimes,” Ironside said. “But never at weddings and funerals.”
After the others rode away and the gravediggers packed up and left, Dallas Steele said, “How do you like the chicken, Mrs. Ludsthorpe?”
Edith sighed. “Truth to tell, Mr. Steele, I’m so upset I can hardly taste it.” That she was on her third piece gave the lie to that statement and Steele smiled.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you something, Dallas,” Chastity said, laying aside her wineglass. “It may be of the greatest moment, or nothing at all.”
“Then let me be the judge,” Steele said.
“Do you remember just after we first met I told you I wanted to be an actress?”
“Chastity, really, how could you say such a terrible thing?” Edith exclaimed. “Acting is a profession for whores.” A scrap of chicken skin clung to the corner of her mouth.
“We’ll talk about this later, mother.” Chastity turned to Steele. “Now where was I? Oh, yes, I said I wanted to be an actress and I told you that there were people all over the West who’d trod the boards at one time or another.”
“I remember,” Steele said, wondering where this was leading.
“Well, before he was killed, Maurice—”
“Poor Mr. Bird,” Edith sobbed, lowering her weeping veil. She was on her second brandy and feeling the effects.
Chastity glared at her mother, then continued. “Maurice had traveled around quite a bit and he said he saw Mr. Shaw—you know that nice man who owns the hardware store in town?”
Steele nodded. “Yes, I know him.”
“Well, Maurice said he once saw Mr. Shaw and his wife in burlesque at the Royal Strand Theater in London, oh, maybe ten years ago. Apparently they did an American-millionaire-meets-the-English-lady act that was quite popular at the time.”
“So Shaw was an actor? I don’t see where that’s taking us.” Steele removed his coat as the sun rose higher in the sky.
Chastity leaned forward to within whispering distance. “Is Mr. Shaw all that he seems?”
Steele smiled. “Have you been reading detective dime novels?”
“Dear Mr. Shaw”—Edith hiccupped—“what a nice man.”
“Tell me what you know about him, Dallas. Mr. Shaw, I mean,” Chastity said.
“Well, I size him up as a timid, henpecked little man—”
“Who was bold enough to shoot dead one of the bandits who held up our stagecoach the day we arrived in the Playas,” Chastity said.
“I heard about that,” Steele said. “I guess it took sand on his part.”
“You guess! It took a deal of bravery.”
“And some skill with a gun.” Steele thought for a moment, then said, “When we get back to Recoil I’ll ask Sheriff Clitherow what he knows about Shaw.”
Steele had his own suspicions about Shaw, and Nate Condor’s recent attempt to visit the man’s home had sharpened them, but he didn’t want to tip his hand, at least not yet. If Shaw was connected to Condor in some fashion, he could lead the way to the army gold.
Her pretty face eager, Chastity said, “Do you think he could be in league with the night riders?”
Steele laughed. “Catch your breath, Chastity. I think that’s highly unlikely. Shaw is a respectable businessman.”
“And a church elder,” Chastity said. “But that doesn’t mean anything. Listen, his wife’s name is Martha and from what I’ve seen of her she has an actress’s expensive tastes in clothes and jewelry. Maybe the money is running out and Martha is complaining.”
“Actresses . . . whores . . .” Edith said. Her head dropped to her chest and she started to snore.
“We have to get your mother home,” Steele said. “She’s had a . . . trying morning.”
“She’s had too much to drink, you mean.” Chastity frowned at Steele. “Do you always wear your gun like that?”
“In a shoulder holster? Yes, I do. I have my tailor cut my coats to accommodate a revolver.”
“Who’s your tailor?”
“I bet you ask ladies, ‘Who’s your dressmaker? ’”
“Oh yes, I do. All the time.”
“Brooks Brothers of Manhattan, New York though I often patronize a tailor in Denver, a man called Simon Levy who’s a genius with cloth.” Steel smiled. “Satisfied?”
“Quite,” Chastity said. “Your taste is exquisite. Now I really must take mother home.” She laid her hand on Steele’s forearm. “After you speak to the sheriff, you will tell me what he says?”
“Of course. But don’t get your hopes up. I believe Clitherow is going to tell me that Shaw is a pillar of society and a shining light that illuminates the church.”
“Perhaps,” Chastity said, “but my woman’s intuition tells me otherwise.”