Dixon’s stomach growled at the aroma of Mrs. Clumpit’s famous pheasant stew wafting down the street. He stepped into his office, dropped his pouch in the safe behind his desk, and hustled out the door. He could already taste the savory feast he aimed to get.
The restaurant rumbled with conversation. More people than the usual afternoon tea crowd sat around tables dressed in calico cloths. Dixon took a deep breath, inhaling the wonderful smell of fresh barley bread and stew. He removed his Stetson, setting it on a chair beside him, and lowered himself onto another.
“Sure amazing how that fire stopped right by my pasture.” Blain Kirkland slurped his coffee. “God’s favor must be smilin’ on me.”
The crowd laughed.
“You mean on your wife.” Barty slapped Blain’s arm. “Everyone knows it can’t be you.” He guffawed, and Dixon chuckled as well. Blain and his wife were as different as night and day. Blain never placed a boot in a church and his wife never missed a service.
Mrs. Clumpit clucked as she set a bowl of steaming stew before Dixon. “You men ought not to be making light of this. That poor couple has suffered so. You ought to be counting your blessings.”
“Ma’am, that might be true.”
Dixon turned to see the stranger who spoke. He hadn’t noticed Abbadon sitting at the corner table when he came into the restaurant. Glancing down at Abbadon’s feet, he hoped to see the man’s boots, but they were tucked away from his view.
“Yet one’s got to wonder why there is such a distinct line drawn. My experience, from all my travels, has proven there is a reason for everything that happens under the sun.” Abbadon leaned forward. “And it is usually connected with a person’s secret life.”
Dixon cleared his throat. “What exactly do you do in all your travels?”
“I’m a student of mankind. A scientist of sorts, studying what makes a society tick.”
Dixon raised his eyebrows. “So what are you doing here?”
“I’m here to observe, mainly.”
Dixon suppressed a growl. “Any other reason?”
“No, not really.” The stranger tilted his head. “Pretty interesting things happening here. I wonder if my hypothesis that all men come to the same demise will hold true.”
“What exactly do you mean by that?”
Every patron locked his gaze on Dixon.
He bit his tongue. Yes, there was accusation in his voice, and they all heard it. He’d better back down, or he’d be sure to stir trouble. Better to observe than to force an issue. Undeniably, this man held an element of suspicion in his eyes, but Dixon needed proof. Even so, he couldn’t even come up with a reasonable motivation for Abbadon wanting to destroy the Blacks. How did he expect to substantiate his accusation with what little he had to go on?
“Well Sergeant, my scientific observation has consistently revealed that anyone blessed by God with plenty will inevitably turn against God, should it all be taken away.” In the fading afternoon light, the stranger’s eyes flickered with those unnerving multiple colors. “My observations have also revealed that rarely does a farmer exceed beyond his neighbor’s wealth unless he’s doing something other than farming.” He nodded his head as though agreeing with himself. “I’m sure you’ve all observed much the same in your years on this harsh land.”
Murmurs rolled through the room, and Dixon gritted his teeth. How could they agree with this stranger? He had no business studying this town. Who did Abbadon think he was, anyway?
“It’s not my place to say,” Abbadon lifted his cup to the crowd, “but I’m sure you’re all wondering how Mr. Black could afford the house he built.”
Dixon clamped his jaw tight. He couldn’t believe the brazenness of this fellow. Nor could he believe the nodding heads in the room. It was as though they were under a spell. Who could possibly think ill of Joab Black? The man did more for each of them in their time of need than anyone else.
“I’ll admit I wondered last year how my wheat brought twenty bushels to the acre and his was forty, since our fields lie side by side.” Mr. Shackly wiggled his nose as though sniffing out a reason to accuse.
“Yup, and Mrs. Black’s chickens always lay more eggs than anyone else’s. I asked her once if she had some secret formula. She just laughed and collected the money I gave her.” Mrs. Hawkins touched her bun.
Dixon wiped his mouth on a napkin. He wasn’t much for Mrs. Hawkins. She thought too highly of herself and gossiped something fierce.
He swallowed his last bit of stew, and then laid his spoon on the table. “Good stew, Mrs. Clumpit, as always. Got to get to work though.” He picked up his Stetson and stood. “Have a good afternoon.”
“We’ll see you in a few hours for supper.” Mrs. Clumpit smiled.
Dixon tipped his Stetson and stepped out the door. Across the street stood the Richard’s boardinghouse. It would be a good place to start his investigation since Abbadon stayed there.
After knocking on the door, he studied the blue mat beneath his feet. His mother’s rug was like that, made from bits of yarn. She rarely had time to create things of beauty, but that winter in Manitoba she sat by the fire each night hooking the pieces together. She said each piece was a testimony of God’s goodness to them. That rug burned with the house, killing Dixon’s father. The fire was started by the Métis, those fractious half-breeds, during the Riel Rebellion in Manitoba. He was only a youngster at the time.
The boardinghouse door opened, and Mrs. Richard’s square face and hawk nose peeked around the corner. “Why, Sergeant.” She opened the door wide and waved him in. “What brings you here?”
“Wanted to ask you a few questions, ma’am.” He removed his Stetson and fingered the rim.
“Sure. Just you come in here and set yourself down in that green chair.” She motioned him into the parlor. “Did I ever tell you my Josiah brought that with him from Utah?”
“Yes, ma’am, I believe you did.” Dixon eased himself into the soft chair.
“My Josiah, he was proud of it.”
“Ma’am, could you tell me about this man, Abbadon?”
Her chubby cheeks turned a rosy red. “My, isn’t he handsome? Why, if I wasn’t so old I’d be setting my sights on him.”
“Yes, well.” Dixon cleared his throat. “Could you tell me where he was last night?”
She tapped her forefinger, crooked with arthritis, against her chin. “Well, he spent the evening at Mrs. Clumpit’s restaurant. … He’s a fine one. He’s smart, too. Now my Josiah, he was a good man, but not too bright at times. Did I ever tell you about the time he rode a mule off a cliff?”
Dixon gave her a quick nod. “Yes. Now what did he—I mean Mr. Abbadon—do after that?” He leaned forward in his seat.
“Why he came back here and went to bed. I stayed up a little later than usual. Got myself interested in one of those romance books Mrs. Hawkins’s been stocking in her store. My, but they can get my heart in a twitter.”
Dixon sighed and resisted shaking his head. “So, he stayed in his room, all night?”
“Yes, I believe so. Now, why would you be asking? Surely you don’t have something against the good man. He’s such a sweet gentleman. So refined. Why, did I tell you how kind he was and brought me some flowers?” Her hand fluttered in the direction of the vase, filled with wild roses, sitting on a table under the front window.
Dixon stood. “No ma’am.” His shoulders knotted. This woman could beat all.
“Well, you needn’t worry about him, Sergeant. I’ve never had a finer boarder.” She blushed again and picked up a fan from the side table, waving it in front of her.
“Thank you ma’am. I’d best be going.” Dixon strode to the door like a rabbit out of a fox’s den. He stepped out, breathed in the fresh air, and slapped his Stetson against his thigh. He had forgotten to ask in which room the man stayed. That woman was enough to drive a man batty. Yet, she ran a clean place, and most spoke well of her.
He walked to the corner of the house and scanned the ground. That morning Abbadon had come around this corner. The outhouse was back there, but so were the bedroom windows. Dixon stepped off the boardwalk and followed footprints to the back of the house. Below the trellis that led to a second floor bedroom window was a mess of boot prints. He squatted to study them. Boot prints with lines at the toe made by tips. Interesting. He pulled on his mustache. Not enough evidence to convict, but certainly enough to begin asking questions.
No doubt he needed more information on this stranger. He stood and strode across the street to Mrs. Clumpit’s, the sweet lady. He smiled and warmed to the thought of her. I’ll call the man to my office. That should reveal a thing or two.