The mayor shrugged, exhaustion weighing down the movement. "You insisted on moving out, albeit for the noble reasons of protecting me and your mother. Art and I knew there was no way to fight your stubborn streak. So we decided we might as well take advantage of it, but only if we felt we could keep you safe."

  She frowned at him.

  Sitting back again, her father told her, "The entire time you've been in this room, you've been surrounded on all sides. Samuel gave you an end room, and I was in the room next to you, while Samuel and Art occupied the two rooms across the hall."

  Minnie sat back and crossed her arms in front of her. "Did it never occur to anyone to tell me this was going on?"

  Her father laughed and said, "Minnie, you were so busy trying to protect the rest of us that if we'd told you what we were doing, you'd have thwarted it, all for the sake of sacrificing yourself to save us. I couldn't allow that. You are far too precious, and I won't have you taking those kinds of chances with your life." The mayor released a shuddering breath. "You're too courageous for your own good. You should have been seeking assistance from me, but you opted to keep me in the dark to shield me. Believe it or not," he said with a smile, "you get your stubborn streak from me. You don't need to protect me, though. That won't do either of us any good. What I need is for you to allow me to help you."

  Minnie shook her head and said, "I've caused you and Mum so much grief over the years. I didn't want to cause more."

  "Perhaps, Daughter, you put more guilt on yourself than you need to. Someday when you have children of your own, I believe you'll understand. Until then, you'll have to take my word for it. There's nothing you could do that would drive us away or make us stop loving you."

  "Yes, sir," Minnie said, her voice bright with wellbeing and gratitude.

  Samuel and the mayor left a short time later with instructions for Minnie to spend the night at the hotel and move back home tomorrow. "After all," Samuel said, "it wouldn't do for one of my guests to disappear from the hotel in the middle of the night. Might draw too much attention."

  ****

  Minnie, wondering at how easily her father had figured her out, slept nary a wink the rest of the night. The wee hours of the morning welcomed her with the obvious conclusion that she was too much like him for her own good. That's how he'd known what she would do; because it's what he'd have done in the same situation. As the sun rose, Minnie got up, packed her belongings, and checked out of the hotel.

  Samuel refunded the rest of her money for the week since she'd stayed but one night. "You should at least let me pay for the other rooms you couldn't put guests into last night because of my folly," she told him.

  Leaning over the counter and whispering, he said, "You never tell my wife what I think of that green vest, and we'll call it even." Minnie was still laughing as she sashayed out the door.

  After depositing her valise at home and giving her mother a long hug, Minnie headed out again, this time for the sheriff's office. She was done with skulking about and trying to hide from prying eyes. Walking tall, she entered, scanned the two men in the cells, and marched past them to where Art sat at his desk.

  "Good morning, Sheriff," she said jovially.

  "Morning, Minnie. How are you doing this fine day?" His light tone contradicted the serious look in his eyes.

  "I am quite well, thank you. I wondered if I might speak with you in private for a moment."

  "Certainly," Art said. He stood and motioned her toward the room at the back of the office where he kept another desk and his cot. Once they stood in the small space, Art kept the door cracked enough so he could keep an eye on the two men in the cells.

  "Have you learned anything from them?" Minnie's anxiety was palpable.

  "The dirty one's not talking. The one that was following your father, however, claims to be a detective from San Francisco. Says he's following a lead."

  "What? That can't be… can it?"

  "I'm not sure yet. He seems believable, but I'm not taking any chances. As soon as Jasper gets here, I'm going to go see Mr. Clement and get a telegram sent off to Detective Wilcox."

  "I don't understand. Why would a detective from San Francisco be here in Larkspur? It doesn't make sense, unless he came to arrest me, but if that was his reason, wouldn't he have done so long ago?"

  "It seems there's a lot more going on than just William's death. If the man is indeed a detective, then the simple truth is, he hasn't decided yet whether or not he can trust me. Once he does, he might be more forthcoming. For now, he's told me to contact his superiors but hasn't said much else."

  "But you believe him?"

  Art, his eyes still trained on the two men in their cells said, "I'm not certain yet."

  Minnie put her hand on his arm, drawing his eyes toward her. She said, still in a whisper, "Thank you for everything you did. My father explained what was going on last night. I'm sorry to have caused you so much extra work and trouble, but I'm glad you were able to apprehend the men involved."

  Art's eyes scanned the outer room again before he quietly closed the door, turned to Minnie, and captured her face between his hands. "You are never allowed to scare me that way again, are we clear? Things could have gone wrong. There are so many ways you could have been hurt. Promise you'll think things through next time, or better yet, talk them over with me. Okay?"

  Captivated by the light shining in his eyes, Minnie said, "I'll try, Arty."

  Before she realized it was going to happen, Art closed the distance between them and kissed her. There was no reminder, as she'd feared there would be, of the kisses she had shared with William. Instead, this kiss was gentle and loving, making her feel precious and valuable. Art broke away before she had a chance to respond. She keenly felt the absence of his lips on hers. "I'm kind of partial to the name Arty when it comes from you," was all he said before he opened the door again and stepped out into the main room.

  A moment later, as Minnie was getting ready to leave the sheriff's office, Deputy Jasper came in. He tipped his hat to her and said, "Good Day, Miss Minnie. Hope you're having a fine morning."

  Minnie smiled at him absently and said, "Fine, indeed," before stepping out onto the boardwalk, bemused.

  ****

  "Nice weather we're having, wouldn't you say, Sheriff?" Mr. Clement's cheerful voice greeted Art as he walked into the telegraph office.

  "Almost good enough for a picnic," Art replied, smiling to himself as he remembered his feigned picnic conversation with the mayor the other day.

  "Same direction?" Mr. Clement inquired.

  Art nodded and said, "I wrote the message down. It's long." He then slid the paper across the counter to the man.

  Package threatened. Two men arrested. One claims to be yours. Immediate response required.

  "You ain't a kiddin' there, Sheriff. That's even longer than the last one. Where can I find you when a response comes in?"

  "If I'm not at the sheriff's office, I'll be at home," he said. "And, Mr. Clement?" The older man pulled his eyes from his task and gave Art his attention. "After you've sent the telegram, destroy the paper it's on."

  "I'll toss it into the fire, Sheriff. No one will ever lay eyes on it."

  Art tipped his hat and said, "Much obliged," before walking back out the door.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When no return telegram came from Detective Wilcox by evening, Art began to worry. He'd tried to speak to the dirty blond prisoner earlier in the day, but the man had spat at him and refused to utter a word. Art had half a mind to shackle him. Sleep wasn't going to come easy, for he didn't doubt at least one of his prisoners was the type to slit someone's throat if given the chance.

  The other prisoner was better-mannered. He said thank you for his meal and didn't seem nearly as intent on glowering. He'd bathed recently, too, and it was easy to see his face had met a barber's razor sometime in the last month.

  Art sat at his desk, feet up, watching the two men through lowered eyes as the sun started to set. The tidy prisoner spoke up and asked, "Did you contact my superior?"

  Pushing his hat back on his head, Art said, "Yep." A lazy drawl crept into his voice. "Sent a telegram this morning."

  The prisoner asked, "Have you heard anything from him yet?"

  Art gave a big yawn and then said, "Nary a word."

  "What do you plan to do?" He might have been able to mask it in his voice, but his eyes showed his discouragement plain as day.

  "Well," Art said, "I've been thinking about giving Mr. Stinkweed there," he nodded toward the other cell, "a bath, but I haven't yet decided whether or not I trust him enough for that."

  "You can't let him out of his cell," the tidy prisoner said.

  "Say, mister, you still haven't told me your name. Don't you think we ought to be on first name basis, what with you claiming to be a lawman and all?" Art got up and moseyed over to the cell. Sticking his hand through the bars as though to shake, he said, "I'm Sheriff Paulson."

  Looking flabbergasted, the prisoner said, "You can't call it first name basis if you don't even give me your first name. Have you no sense?"

  Withdrawing his hand, Art said, "Around these parts people think I'm mighty wily. I suppose I don't much measure up to your citified ways."

  The tidy prisoner bit out, "You can call me Mitch." As he said it, he leaned his head back against the bars of his cell as if he were hoping to find a clue there – or more patience. Out loud, he said, "Lord have mercy on us all."

  Samuel came through the door then, carrying a tray with three plates on it. "I brought dinner for everyone," he said. "Sorry I'm late. We had quite a dinner rush. Cook wasn't feeling well, and Sarah thought she might help in the kitchen." When Art raised his eyebrows, Samuel said, "Why do you think I'm late? I had to talk Cook out of quitting."

  Walking over to Samuel with an exaggerated gait, Art said, "Now why ever would you marry a woman who couldn't cook?"

  Samuel gave Art a look and then said, "She has many other talents and charms, trust me. Cooking and coffee aren't on the list, but everything else she's good at more than makes up for it."

  Art pointed toward the first cell and said, "That there's Mitch. I'm guessin' he'd enjoy having some dinner about now."

  Samuel handed the plate of food through to the prisoner then gave him a spoon. "Sorry, no knife or fork for you." Looking over at the other cell, he asked, "What about this one?"

  With a shake of his head, Art said, "He hasn't told me his name yet, so I'm not sure I should feed him. I was thinking about giving him a bath, though."

  Samuel advanced to where Art had reclaimed his seat and handed him a plate. "Enjoy the meal. If you'd like, I can give you a hand with the bath. What did you have in mind?"

  The two whispered for a minute before Samuel left.

  ****

  "Blast it all, what in Sam Hill are you doing!?" The man let loose a string of curses that was cut off as his voice was literally drowned out. When he got air again, he began to rant some more, "For the love of…" and his words were again washed away under a deluge of water. "By thunder, I'm gonna get out of here…" and he was silenced.

  Art, who had been out in the back alley, strutted into the sheriff's office and up to Mitch's cell. Mitch, eyes wide, asked, "What on earth are you doing to him out there?"

  Pulling his hat down tight on his head, Art leaned into the bars of the cell and drilled Mitch with a lethal gaze. "Tell me now why I should believe you work for the police."

  Mitch did a double-take as the easy-speaking country sheriff disappeared before his eyes. "How do I know I can trust you?" he asked.

  "I haven't killed you yet, how's that?"

  "When I left San Francisco, my boss hadn't decided yet whether or not you could be trusted."

  "And who is your boss?"

  "Detective Wilcox."

  Mr. Clement came bursting through the front door. Art's gun was drawn before he registered who it was. "Sheriff, I've got something for you!" the man said, frantically waving a paper, oblivious to the reaction he'd caused.

  Art holstered his weapon and took the paper from his hand. After inspecting it, he shifted his eyes to the prisoners. "Are you sure this is every word?"

  "Absolutely." Then, craning his neck to look behind Art and toward the prisoner, he said, "There's been an awful caterwauling, but I can't figure out where it's coming from. I thought maybe it was one of your prisoners."

  Art put his hand on Mr. Clement's shoulder and said, "Don't you worry about a thing. I've got it all under control."

  Giving one last look toward the sole prisoner in the sheriff's office, Mr. Clement went out the front door and shut it shakily behind him.

  Art took another look at the telegram in his hand.

  Mitchell Wilcox. Nephew. Black hair. Blue eyes. Ask sister's name. Send me answer.

  Tucking the telegram into his inner vest pocket, Art meandered back over to the cell and said, "So, Mitch, are you going to tell me your last name?" When the man shook his head, Art said, "I have a telegram here from your Detective Wilcox. Want to know what it says?" Mitch stared at him. "How many brothers and sisters do you have?" No response. Leaning in, Art said, "You need to speak to me before I bring Mr. Stinkweed back in here, don't you think?"

  His eyes narrowing, Mitch said, "What did the detective say?"

  "How many brothers and sisters do you have?"

  "Two brothers."

  "No sisters?"

  "Why?"

  "Answer, and give me the truth."

  "What exactly are you supposed to ask me?"

  Sighing in frustration, Art said, "I am to ask you for your sister's name, and I'm to send the answer back to the good detective. Now tell me the truth."

  Nodding, Mitch said, "I don't have a sister, but the name he's looking for is Cora."

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Art said, "You know that makes no sense, don't you?"

  Mitch said, "If I were an experienced detective, and I wanted to find out if somebody was who they said they were, I'd ask a question that made no sense to anybody but the person whose identity I wished to determine. Wouldn't you?"

  "Touché," Art said, as he strolled out the back of the sheriff's office again.

  Within minutes, he returned with Samuel, the two of them carrying a soaking wet and shivering prisoner between them. They tossed the man, buck naked, into the neighboring cell, then closed and locked the cell door. "Now, you," Art said, pointing to the unclothed man, "have one chance to tell me what I want to know."

  The man who had previously been defiant and antagonistic, not to mention malodorous, stared at Art.

  "Tell me your name," the sheriff demanded.

  Glaring with more enmity than a naked man ought to be able to muster, he said, "Carl."

  Pushing his hat back on his head, Art said, "See, that wasn't so bad, was it, Carl? I didn't want to have to keep calling you Mr. Stinkweed since you've had the good manners to bathe." The man said nothing else, but Art continued on in the same congenial tone. "We're going to play a game, Carl. I'm going to ask you a series of questions. Each time you answer correctly, I'll give you a piece of clothing. Now, we had to burn what you were wearing because it smelled so bad, but I sent my friend here," he said, indicating Samuel, "down to the mercantile earlier this evening to pick up a few of the essentials for you." Art indicated the pile of brand new folded clothes sitting on the corner of his desk.

  "So tell me, Carl, what brings you to Larkspur?"

  "I was sent to follow a woman."

  "Name, please."

  "Minnie Drake," Carl said through gritted teeth.

  "Very good, Carl," he said as a trainer might speak to a colt who'd just mastered a new command. "Now here's your prize." Art skillfully tossed a pair of socks into Carl's cell. The man, murder in his eyes, bent down to retrieve them and put them on.

  "What were you to do with Mrs. Drake after you found her?"

  "I was supposed to get some information."

  "And after you obtained the information, Carl?" Art's ingratiating tone was even starting to get on his own nerves. He was sure he had to be annoying his bare-skinned prisoner to no end.

  "Kill her," the man said.

  "Well, I don't much care for your answer, Carl, but a deal's a deal, so here you go." Art tossed a union suit next. It came unfolded in flight and was not going to make it into the cell, but Carl reached a snakelike arm through the bars and grabbed it out of the air before it could fall to the ground outside his cell.

  "And what, pray tell, is this information you were supposed to obtain from the woman?" Carl glared at him without answering.

  Art glowered. Samuel shrugged and said, "I told you shooting him would be more effective than bathing him."

  When both Samuel and Art removed their weapons from their holsters and began checking to make sure they were loaded, Art again asked, "So tell me, Carl, exactly what information were you supposed to obtain?"

  Spitting on the ground, Carl said, "The lady has a photograph. I was supposed to git the photograph from her."

  "A photograph of The Palace Hotel, perhaps?"

  Both Mitch and Carl gaped at Art, surprised etched into the lines of their faces. "Mebbe," Carl said in reply.

  "Oh, Carl, you do disappoint me. Wouldn't you enjoy something more than a union suit to wear?" asked Art, his voice oozing false charm.

  Carl let out a string of expletives before saying, "Look, I don't know why the photograph is important. I was told to retrieve it. That's all."

  "All right then," said Art, "tell me who your boss is. Who ordered you to retrieve the photograph?"

  "If I tell you, I'm a dead man," Carl answered.

 

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