St. Louis
In the dark study at Libby’s former residence, the two amoral men eyed each other warily.
“How could you have let this happen?” Edward de Julius, tall, dark and rather sallow of complexion, with a narrow, veiny nose and straight gray hair, spat out. He snatched a decanter of brandy from Elias Parminter’s sideboard and poured himself a generous three fingers. His black waistcoat always looked a little too large, as if he were shrinking a little each time he wore it, but Elias Parminter noted he seemed to be healthy in his own paler-than-death way.
“Jesus, DeJulius, don’t get wrathy with me. My wife was dying; I was a bit occupied.” He sat down heavily at his study desk, wondering why he had ever entered into an agreement with this greedy idiot.
“Well, your wife is gone now. Where the hell is Elizabeth?” DeJulius paced, looking so affronted, Elias almost laughed. It was not exactly a love match.
“I’m not a mind reader. She could have gone anywhere, you know.” But he was pretty certain she had not. The sly Mr. Parminter was not about to tell Edward DeJulius he suspected his daughter was heading to whatever that town was in Montana Territory where Elinora had briefly lived with that cowboy that had spawned her. With Elizabeth gone, the game had changed. He had tried to do the right thing, to share the dowry with DeJulius to pay off the debt. But Elizabeth had gotten greedy. How dare she defy him? Bitch! She would pay. Oh, yes, she most certainly would pay.
Now he would not have to share the majority of the dowry with the other insufferable man if he found her first. He could pay off his debt to DeJulius and still have enough wealth to restart his thoroughbred operation and do just about anything else he wanted to do. And he vowed he would find Elizabeth first. The girl was the only one standing between him and financial independence beyond his dreams, so he would not only find her; he would get rid of her. She had to go. It was unfortunate, perhaps, but it was as simple as that. It might not have been if she had not betrayed him by sneaking away, the stupid little bitch. Now Jackson Butterman’s bastard would pay with her life. And maybe she had done him a favor by bolting. Now no one would miss her when she disappeared for good. He almost smiled, but DeJulius might get suspicious, so he turned it into a scowl.
“She must have friends in the area,” DeJulius said, downing the liquor in one gulp and pouring more. Elias noticed his hands didn’t even shake, despite his fervor. This one was a cool customer, as ruthless as they come. It would behoove Elias to remember that.
He placed several papers in a desk drawer, and then gave his companion his best nonchalant look. “I don’t know. I suppose. I never met her friends.” He had never cared enough to find out who her friends were, if she even had any. He had forbidden her to have anyone over to the house. Children were loud and messy, and he would not put up with that. Who would want to be friends with her anyway? Still, it might be good to send her “fiancée” on a wild goose chase. “I can get you a list of her friends, though. I think one of them moved to Ohio.” That would be good if he could send him in the wrong direction.
DeJulius eyed the other man suspiciously. He was lying. It was obvious; it was written all over his face. No wonder he was such a lousy gambler. He might not know her friends, but he must know something else, perhaps where or who she would run to. Edward DeJulius was not a man to give up. He had been only days away from getting his hands on a very sizable dowry, minus a small percentage to Elias and erasure of the debt, and he was going to get it back. And this time he would not share.
“Get me that list. And keep me informed of what progress you are making in your search. I will send some inquiries out as well.”
That made Elias nervous, although he tried not to show it. He would have to move quickly. DeJulius could not beat him to his quarry. That would ruin everything. “Of course. She is meek and will not last long on her own.” That much was true. “She will ask for help, and people will talk. We will find out who is helping her. She cannot have disappeared off the face of the earth. ”
Yet.
* * *
When he had the scent of something he wanted—and he wanted Elizabeth Parminter, or rather, her dowry—Edward Capo DeJulius was like a rabid dog. Yes, he wanted Elizabeth Parminter’s dowry. He needed Elizabeth Parminter’s dowry. Oh, he wouldn’t mind having the shapely young woman herself to dally with for a few days, and punish for her recalcitrance—she was comely enough—but it was the money he craved. Not because he was poor. There just was never enough. Money meant popularity. Money meant comfort. Money meant power. When he left Parminter’s home, he instructed his driver to head for one of the seedier areas of town, where a certain rather unscrupulous private detective operated a store-front office.
And Gilson was in. Despite his shabby surroundings, the man always dressed well and somehow fit in with his betters. DeJulius had used him before and he seemed to have few reservations or standards of behavior, which suited his employer fine.
“Mr. DeJulius. To what do I owe the honor?” the short and stocky Gilson, who had the look of a prize fighter whose nose had been broken more than once, gushed, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I’m in need of your services, Gilson.”
“You don’t say.”
Gilson indicated an old wooden chair across from his cluttered desk, an anomaly in the rather barren office, and DeJulius took out a handkerchief and brushed it off, as if it held some disease, before sitting. Gilson did not take offense. He knew DeJulius was an odd one, but he always paid in full and on time. He could put up with many insults if he had to.
Explaining that his intended bride had become nervous and run off on a lark, DeJulius described his betrothed and impressed the importance of finding her quickly, lest she be in danger, of course. At that Gilson raised one eyebrow skeptically. It annoyed DeJulius how well Gilson knew him. He supposed that was because he was good at his job.
“I also need you to get a complete family background and follow someone for me.” He described Elias Parminter and gave him his address.
“This is going to cost you,” Gilson said, striking a match on his desk and lighting a cheap cheroot.
“You have one week or the deal is off.”
Gilson exhaled a puff of smoke. “I’ll have to hire at least one bloke to follow Parminter.”
“Do it, and follow anyone he hires as well.”
DeJulius got up to leave, brushing his rear lest he carry some contagion with him.
Gilson watched him thoughtfully. “You must really miss your bride.”
The client looked over his shoulder as he departed. “You have no idea.”
* * *
At that moment, Elias Parminter was tearing through his late wife’s bureau frantically, looking for anything related to her previous life. Finally, in a secret compartment of her jewelry box—did she really think she could hide anything from him?—he found a letter written by Jackson Butterman about 15 years earlier. He picked it up, sneering as he read it.
Dear Elinora,
I am writing as a last resort, though I have little hope you are alive or that this will reach you.
I have had eight years to think about how and why you left. For most of those years, I blamed you entirely. You knew I was a rancher and would always be a rancher when you married me. But I realize now I was to blame as well, for I knew you were a city girl who adored your gowns and parties and looking beautiful. You did it well. Truthfully, it was a big part of what drew me to you.
So perhaps we were cattle and sheep and never had a chance to carve out a good life together. But I will always treasure my memory of the few weeks we lived together. Or most of them, anyway. We did have some happy times, when we weren’t arguing.
If I do not hear from you within one month, Elinora, I am going to have you declared legally deceased. I have found another woman I believe I can be content with and will then marry her. If you are still alive, I hope you found your happiness as well. You deserve it.
Yours in friendship,
Jackson Butterman
“Friendship, my arse,” Parminter spat out, wadding up the letter, casting it to the floor and stomping on it for good measure. Then he thought better of it. He picked it up and smoothed the crumpled page on the dressing table. Then he turned it over and located the addresses, including Jackson Butterman’s—Deer Lodge, Montana Territory.
He’d always known of the country bumpkin who had deposited his seed in Elinora but had put him out of his mind as best he could over the years. Now such a hatred bubbled within him, he thought he might explode. Elinora had never spoken of him after the first mention, when he struck her, but Elias could see it in her eyes over the years. She had regretted leaving him. She had hidden his letter. Elias knew in his soul that Elizabeth was heading toward this man who had defiled his Elinora and poisoned her mind. Well, if he was killing Elizabeth, and there was no doubt of that at this point, what was one more death? Jackson Butterman could not get away with what he had done. Elias Parminter would see to it.
With that, he began planning his trip to Montana Territory with a fervor he formerly had allotted only to gaming. His preparations included gathering up all of Elinora’s jewels, surprised that his so-called daughter had not absconded with them. What a fool. Next, he hailed his hapless valet and browbeat him into packing for a two- or three-week trip out West, instructing the underpaid servant to book him the fastest and most convenient passage possible. If he had bothered to look in the man’s eyes, he would have seen how he truly wished to inconvenience his master.
Elias Parminter had barely left town before his valet was accepting payment from one of Gilson’s men to divulge his travel plans and destination.