CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
R UBY OPENED HER EYES . S HE WAS LYING ON A LUMPY DIVAN WITH an afghan over her legs and a damp cloth laid across her forehead. The monster dog sat nearby, staring at her with cataract-veiled eyes. It growled as she stirred and tried to sit up.
“You gave us quite a scare, young lady.” The elderly man stepped into sight, carrying a tray.
Young lady . Her disguise hadn’t worked.
“Forgive me,” the man said as if reading her thoughts. “I needed to pick you up and move you inside. It was hard not to notice certain . . .” He colored slightly. “I’ve got some tea and sandwiches here, if you’re hungry.”
“Thank you, I’m starved, but I don’t dare move. The dog—”
“Oh. Brutus is just curious. Get over there, boy.”
Still growling, the dog retreated to the side of the high-backed chair where the woman sat. Her striking green eyes glared at Ruby, their color the same as Mason’s. She would be his mother, of course. But there was nothing welcoming in her sour expression.
Ruby pushed herself to a sitting position. The man placed the tray on her lap. It held a delicate china cup filled with amber tea and a sliced beef sandwich with mustard on white bread. “If you’ll allow me to introduce myself, miss, I’m Sidney, Mrs. Dollarhide’s butler, at your service.”
A butler? Here? Ruby felt as if she’d stumbled down the rabbit hole. ““It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sidney,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Ruby Weaver. Thank you for your kindness.”
The old man inclined his head. “It’s Mrs. Dollarhide you should thank. This is her home. I have the honor of serving her.”
“You may go, Sidney.” The woman waved him away and turned her attention to Ruby. “Please go ahead and eat while we talk. Can I trust that you fainted from hunger, and not because my son has fathered yet another bastard?”
“You needn’t worry on that account. I was just tired and hungry. It’s been a long day.” Ruby hid her shock at Mrs. Dollarhide’s frankness. She knew that Mason had a past. He’d even spoken with some pride about his grown son. What surprised her was that his mother would speak of it in such a way. She took dainty bites of the sandwich, trying to eat like a well-mannered lady.
The dog had remained at his mistress’s side. She stroked the massive head with one blue-veined hand. An emerald set in gold adorned her middle finger. “Since you claim to be a friend of Mason’s, maybe you can tell me where he’s gone off to,” she said. “It’s been days since I’ve seen him. He even took my automobile and left me with no way to get to town.”
Lying would only complicate things later. “Mason’s back in prison,” Ruby said. “But it’s not what you think. He’s working with the Bureau of Investigation to catch an evil man who’s running a crime ring from behind bars. Once that’s done, he’ll be released.”
“A likely story!” Mason’s mother snorted. “I’m not a fool. I know what’s been going on—the late nights, with Mason coming home at all hours. The phone calls when he thought I wasn’t listening. He tried to make me believe he was sneaking around, seeing women. But I knew better. It was that wretched bootleg whiskey business. He couldn’t leave it alone, and now he’s been caught again.”
She leaned forward in her chair. “And what about you, missy? Galivanting around, pretending to be a boy. Were you in on that filthy business, too?”
“Yes, but I was working for the Bureau, as an informant. I was found out, and now some very bad people want to silence me. I had to go on the run, in disguise.”
“And so now you’ve come here—to hide.”
Fear and exhaustion broke through Ruby’s pride. “Please,” she begged. “I have no family and no place to go. I could sleep anywhere, even in the barn. And I’d work for my keep. I’m an excellent mechanic. I even have an old car outside. I could fix it up for you to use—”
“That’s enough whining, girl,” the woman snapped. “I may be short on kindness, but I would never force a woman to sleep in the barn. You can stay in my son’s old room and work in the house. Sidney’s getting feeble. He could use some help. Pity I don’t have a maid’s uniform, but I have some old work clothes that would fit you. I might even have a lace cap that would cover that awful hair of yours. Understand, you’ll be working for room and board only. You’ll be expected to earn your keep. No slacking. And if I find out you’re pregnant, you and your bastard will be out the door.”
“I understand. And I’m not pregnant.” The memory of Mason’s loving was still fresh. But after her tragic miscarriage, the doctor had told her that she wasn’t likely to have more children.
Ruby had finished her sandwich. She glanced toward the dog. “And what about him?”
“Leave him alone until he’s had time to get used to you. Sidney will show you to your room tonight. I’ll have him find you some clothes and leave them outside your door. You’ll start work at first light. The place could use a good scrubbing—floors, walls, everything. Don’t make me sorry I let you stay.”
“I’ll do my best. And thank you for taking me in, Mrs. Dollarhide. I mean to repay you for your kindness.”
“We’ll see about that in the morning when I put you to work.” Mason’s mother glanced back toward the kitchen, where the butler had gone. “Sidney, I’ll take my tea now,” she said.
“Coming up, ma’am.” The old man spoke from the next room.
Keeping a wary eye on the dog, Ruby stood and carried her tray to the kitchen. She’d hoped for a warmer welcome here. But at least she could be grateful for a safe refuge.
How long would that refuge last? With danger afoot, anything could go wrong. Her best and only hope was to be here when Mason came home.
* * *
Jake sat in his wheelchair, on the back porch of the house he still thought of as Britta’s. The night breeze was chilly, the moon a silver crescent above the mountains. Across the back lot, he saw the light go out in the rooms above the jail. His heart lightened. Britta would soon be here to share supper with him and his daughter.
Two weeks had passed since the shooting at the dance. Jake’s gunshot wounds had nearly healed, and he was gaining enough upper body strength to pull himself into and out of the chair. He’d even figured out how to bathe himself with a bucket and a sponge. But so far, there’d been no improvement in his legs. They were as useless as ever.
It was Marissa who’d solved the problem of his living quarters. After he’d explained to her why they couldn’t live over the jail and why social custom dictated that he couldn’t move in with Britta, the little girl had suggested, “Why don’t we trade places? Britta could live upstairs in our old place, and we could live in her house by the school.”
Britta had agreed, and it was done. It was a practical arrangement, although not a fair one. The prisoners in the jail, most of them drunk on illegal moonshine, tended to be unruly—snoring, arguing, and cussing—especially at night when Jake left them alone. The noise found its way upstairs, as did some of the odors. Although Britta never complained, Jake was eaten with guilt over the discomfort and inconvenience the new arrangement caused her. This was only temporary, he vowed. But his options were limited, including the one he refused to consider—marrying the woman who had done so much for him. The woman he still loved.
The city council had hired a young cowboy as a deputy to do the leg work and drive him where he needed to go. Jake spent most of his days in the office, babysitting the jail prisoners, reviewing case files, filling out paperwork, and dealing with visitors. He hated being tied to a desk, but at least he had a job—although that was likely to change with the November election.
Now, in the moonlight, he could see Britta’s graceful silhouette coming down the path toward him. The yearning that rose in him was like silent torture. He wanted her—and he knew that she was willing to be his. But the miracle he’d hoped for had yet to happen.
“Come on in.” He greeted her warmly, but the tension—the unspoken longing between them—was always there. Tonight, he’d ordered a dinner of roast beef, vegetables, and sourdough bread from the restaurant. It was warming in the oven. Marissa had set the table with the dishes Britta had left in the kitchen. The little girl already knew how to arrange the plates, glasses, napkins, and cutlery for each place setting. It was one of the lessons Britta had taught her.
Now Marissa came bounding outside, her golden curls flying as she ran to meet the visitor. Britta often shared meals with Jake and his daughter. The third-rate kitchen in the rooms above the jail was barely suitable for making coffee and toast. Sometimes Britta cooked for them at her former home. But it was easy enough for Jake to call in a delivery order to the restaurant.
The three of them were becoming a family. Jake could see how attached his motherless child was becoming to Britta. Britta sensed it, too. Jake could tell that she was concerned.
Clasping Britta’s hand, Marissa pulled her into the kitchen. Jake followed through the door that she held open. “How nicely you’ve set the table, Marissa,” Britta said. “Everything looks perfect.”
“I wanted to have flowers on the table,” Marissa said. “But the flowers are all gone.”
“It’s too cold for flowers now,” Britta said. “There’ll be more in the spring. Until then we can pretend. What kind of pretend flowers would you have on the table?”
“Roses! Red ones, like the ones at my grandma’s house.”
“And I would have wildflowers because they make the land so pretty in the spring,” Britta said.
“What kind of pretend flowers would you have, Daddy?” Marissa asked.
Jake hesitated, thinking, then smiled. “I don’t need to pretend,” he said. “I have two beautiful flowers right here, and I’m about to have supper with them.”
Britta raised an eyebrow as she transferred the food from the oven to the table. “What a charmer you are, Jake Calhoun. Sit down, Marissa. Let’s eat.”
Marissa slipped into her seat, made higher by two thick books. After the little girl took her turn at blessing the meal, she waited while Britta filled her plate.
“I can pretend about something better than flowers,” she announced. “I can pretend that you two are married. And Britta can be my real mom. And we can all live together.”
Jake saw the shock that passed across Britta’s face, followed by a flush of color. How could he explain their situation to a child so young? Heaven help him, he didn’t know where to begin.
Marissa looked from Jake to Britta, as if puzzled by their reactions. “Is that all right—to pretend?”
“It’s . . . fine, honey,” Britta said. “As long as you know that you’re just pretending.”
“But—” the little girl began.
“That’s enough, Marissa,” Jake said. “Eat your supper. We’ll talk later.”
The meal continued with some awkwardness. When it was finished, Britta began cleaning up while Jake helped his daughter get ready for bed and tucked her in.
“You said we’d talk.” She gazed up at him from her pillow.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “It’s late. It’s time you were asleep.”
“I want to talk now,” she said. “Why can’t you and Britta get married? I can tell you love each other. Why don’t you ask her?”
He sighed. “Because I want her to be happy. How can she be happy with a man who can’t walk?”
“That’s silly, Daddy. You’re still you. I still love you. So does Britta.”
He kissed her forehead and backed away from her bed. “That’s enough talk for now. Go to sleep.”
He left the room. She didn’t understand, he told himself. Or maybe he didn’t. He envied his daughter’s innocent wisdom. If only things were that simple.
He found Britta in the kitchen, drying the last of the dishes. She gave him a questioning look.
“She’s not giving up on the idea,” he said. “I suppose she will, in time.”
Britta hung the damp towel over the back of a chair and reached for her shawl. “I should go,” she said.
“No, stay, please,” he said, his chair blocking her path out the back door. “Come sit with me in the parlor. We can’t leave things like this.”
He ushered her into the parlor, a cozy room with a cushioned settee, an armchair, an overfilled bookshelf, and a miniature potbellied stove. He’d kindled a fire earlier. Flames glowed behind the mica panes in the door.
She took a place on the settee. He turned his wheelchair to face her.
“Do you have something to say to me, Jake?” He could read the apprehension in her lovely azure eyes. For as long as he’d known her, Britta had seemed unaware of her beauty. She was vulnerable, unable to believe that a man could love her—that he loved her.
“I just wanted to apologize.” Fumbling his way word by word, he stumbled on. “This living arrangement is working for me, but not for you. Those quarters above the jail aren’t fit for a lady. With winter coming on, the noise and the smell are going to get worse. You mustn’t stay there.”
She flashed him a startled look. Then swiftly composed herself. “I suppose I could find a room to rent somewhere. But it isn’t such a hardship living over the jail. I’ve enjoyed doing for you and Marissa. This is the first I’ve felt useful since I lost my family. I never realized how much I’ve missed having someone to care for. Jake, I’ve needed this—”
She broke off, staring down at her hands. “I’m sorry. I do understand that Marissa is becoming too attached, and you want to—”
“Stop talking, Britta.” He seized her hands. Suddenly he knew what had to be said—what he’d wanted to say all along. “Listen to me. I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future. I don’t know how much of a recovery I’ll make—but does anybody know what life is going to throw at them? I only know that I love you. I need you. And Marissa needs us both. If you’ll have me, and if you think we can be a family, I’m asking you to marry me.”
“Oh!” Tears welled in her eyes and flowed down her cheeks. “You big, proud fool, of course I’ll marry you!”
Gripping her hands, he pulled her onto his lap. She came willingly, her soft curves melting into him, her mouth meeting his in a long, passionate kiss. He felt her close to him, her breasts full and warm, her hips fitting the curve of his body.
There was more than one way to love a woman and make her heart sing. He would learn them all, Jake vowed. But he would never stop hoping.
* * *
Mason surveyed the exercise yard. The morning was cold, the prisoners moving briskly to keep warm. They circulated, exhaling puffs of vapor that hung over them like a fog bank. Watching them was like scanning a herd of zebras in a shifting kaleidoscope of black and white.
Julius Taviani had ordered him to find a man named Harvey McGill, whose family owed money on the outside. Mason’s job, for now, was to remind McGill what would happen if they didn’t pay up.
He hated being Taviani’s errand boy, and he hated Taviani. Worse, he was having a hard time finding any solid evidence against the old man—evidence that Taviani had ordered the murder of Art Murchison or any of the other prisoners who’d been found dead and quietly buried in a weedy plot behind the prison.
As Taviani’s man, he had more freedom than most of the prisoners. But that didn’t mean he could waltz into the records office and start going through the files. Even the library, where Art had worked and died, was a problem to access alone. So far, it had been either attended or locked.
Mason was getting impatient—and worried. If he didn’t deliver on his promise to nail Taviani, the federal agents were capable of leaving him here to rot.
As he eyed the crowd, searching for McGill’s thatch of white-blond hair, Piston appeared beside him. The husky man gave Mason a nod and a smile that was almost childlike. When Taviani wasn’t around, Piston’s gentle nature came through. But with the old man, he was like a fighting dog, trained to attack, even kill—one more reason for Mason to hate Julius Taviani.
Mason fished in his pocket and found the biscuit he’d saved from breakfast. Piston never got enough food to satisfy the needs of his body. He was always hungry. Mason passed him the biscuit.
“Thanks.” The big man downed it in a couple of bites. Piston wasn’t much of a talker, so it wasn’t easy to know what was on his mind. Mason had formed a cautious friendship with him. He felt genuinely sorry for the childlike giant. Piston didn’t belong here. He belonged in an institution where there were no people like Taviani to take advantage of his trust. But what could be done with a man who’d killed, likely more than once?
Piston nudged Mason and pointed. There was McGill, having a smoke at the fringe of the crowd. With Piston following him like a shadow, Mason approached the man. McGill dropped his cigarette and backed away. “Give me two more days,” he pleaded. “My brother will have the money by then!”
“I’ll pass that along,” Mason said. “But you know the deal you made, and you know what will happen if your family doesn’t pay.”
McGill’s pale eyes shifted toward Piston, who stood at Mason’s shoulder. No more words were needed. The man slunk away to lose himself in the crowd. Message delivered.
Mason and Piston moved to a sheltered spot next to the wall. A guard with a club glanced at them, then turned away. “Where’s Taviani this morning?” Mason asked.
“He’s talking on the telephone with his friend, Mr. Colucci. I heard before he sent me out here,” Piston said.
A chill crawled over Mason’s skin. He couldn’t help wondering about the danger to Ruby. But he’d seen her safely on the train. Right now, he had a little time with Piston alone. He needed to make the most of it.
“You do a lot of things for Mr. Taviani, don’t you, Piston?” he asked.
“Yes. He treats me nice when I help him.”
“Do you hurt people?”
“Just when he tells me to,” Piston said.
“Do you do everything Mr. Taviani tells you to?”
Piston nodded. “He gives me good things. Sometimes I even get ice cream.”
“Do you ever kill people?” Mason held his breath as he waited for an answer.
“I don’t like to. It makes me feel bad.”
“Does Mr. Taviani tell you to kill people?”
Piston pressed his lips together and shook his head. “We don’t talk about that.”
Mason cast his gaze around the yard. There was no sign of Taviani. Playing it safe was getting him nowhere. It was time to take a dangerous risk.
“Do you like books, Piston?” he asked.
“I like pictures. Mostly pictures of animals. But I can’t read the writing.”
“There are some good picture books in the library. Have you seen them?”
“No.” He sounded nervous.
“Let’s go and have a look. Come on.”
Piston followed him inside the main building. The library would be open at this hour. There would be people inside, but having Piston along would give Mason an excuse to paw through the shelves. Finding any solid evidence linked to Art Murchison’s murder would be a long shot. But if that evidence existed, that would be the most likely place to find it.
The library was in a room off the open second-floor walkway. The rows of shelves were all visible from the front counter. An elderly man Mason recognized as one of the lifers was watching the room and checking out books. There were two other prisoners in the library, one reading a newspaper at a long table, the other perusing the shelves. Both of them were past middle age, peaceful men, known and trusted.
It might have been helpful to question the men about the murder, but when Mason walked through the door with Piston, all three of them made a hasty exit. If there was going to be trouble, they wanted no part of it.
“Come on in, Piston. Let’s find you something to look at.” Mason guided the big man to a low shelf that held easy picture books, along with some larger photographic volumes. The books had been donated and were well-worn, some missing pages and covers. At one end of the shelf was a stack of tattered magazines, mostly old issues of The Saturday Evening Post.
Mason began thrusting books toward his companion. “Do you like dinosaurs? Or maybe trains? Here’s a good book about Africa.” It had been Mason’s intent to get Piston interested in the books, while he searched as much of the room as he could, but the big man seemed distracted. Maybe he hadn’t had much exposure to books.
Mason tried again. “Look, Piston. Here’s a big book about ships, or maybe you’d like this one about—” He stopped, his pulse lurching. He had just picked up a book about airplanes.
On the cover was a picture of a Jenny, like the one Art had flown. Surely Art would have held this book in his hands. He would probably have read every page. That he’d left any kind of message was probably wishful thinking. But it was worth looking inside.
Piston had chosen a book about horses and taken a seat to look at the pictures. Mason held the airplane book spine-up and gave it a careful shake. A sheet of torn-off notepad paper fluttered from between the pages and settled to the floor. Pulse racing, Mason picked it up and began to read the neatly penciled script.
To whomever finds this note:
I have just made a terrible mistake. In my foolish vanity, I shared a secret with a man I trusted, a man I believed to be my friend—Julius Taviani. I have since learned more about the man from people who fear him. I have come to understand that in confiding my secret, I have compromised my daughter’s safety and my own life. Mr. Taviani has arranged the deaths of others, and I fear that I will be next.
Mr. Taviani relies on others to do his killing for him. But if I am dead by the time you read this, know that it was on Taviani’s orders. He is as guilty of murder as if he’d committed the act with his own hands.
To my daughter, Ruby, I send my love and a plea for forgiveness. I can only pray that she escapes this net of evil and finds her way to a happy life.
Arthur Murchison
Heart pounding, Mason read the letter again. It was evidence, but it wasn’t proof. He needed more.
He was folding the letter, planning to replace it in the book, when Piston looked up at him. “What’s that paper?” he asked.
It was now or never. “It’s a letter from a man who died in here. A man with graying hair and a little moustache. Did you know him?”
“Uh-huh.” Mason nodded. “He was nice.”
“Did you have to hurt him, Piston?”
The big man nodded again, gazing down at the table. “Mr. Taviani made me do it. With my hands. He wouldn’t let me stop.”
“So Mr. Taviani was there with you when the man died?”
A tear rolled down Piston’s cheek. “I didn’t mean to kill him. He was nice. Mr. Taviani gave me ice cream after, but I still felt bad.”
And there it was. Mason had the letter and he had Piston’s confession. But would the authorities believe a man with diminished capacity, a man who couldn’t read or write?
Mason tucked the book, with the hidden letter, inside his undershirt. “What if I told you that you’d never have to hurt anybody again?” he asked. But Piston wasn’t paying attention. His gaze was riveted on the library door, which had just opened.
Mason turned. Taviani stood in the doorway with the open walkway behind him, a brutally cold expression on his face. Clearly, he’d heard everything, or at least enough.
Piston was on his feet now, looking confused. His gaze darted from Mason to the old man.
Taviani pointed to Mason. “Kill him, Piston,” he ordered. “Do it now.”
Piston hesitated, then raised his head and squared his massive shoulders. “No,” he said.
The old man’s face went livid. He drew a small revolver from his pocket. It was hard to believe that a prisoner could have a pistol, but Taviani had ways of getting what he wanted. “I mean it,” he said, pointing the gun at Piston. “Do what I say. Now.”
“You’re not going to fire that gun, Taviani,” Mason said. “If it’s loaded, which I doubt, the sound would bring every guard in the place, and even you would be in big trouble.” He turned to the big man. “You don’t have to do what he says, Piston. You can be free of him. No more killing. You’ve already taken the first step. You’ve said no.”
“Don’t listen to him, Piston,” Taviani snarled, pointing the gun. “I’m giving you to the count of three. If you haven’t made a move, I’ll pull this trigger.” He took a deep breath. Beads of nervous sweat stood out on the old man’s forehead as he began the count. “One . . . two . . . three!”
On the count of three, Piston charged him. Lunging through the open door, he pushed Taviani out onto the walkway. The momentum carried both men to the railing and over it. Piston had his hands around the old man’s throat as they plummeted to the concrete floor below and lay still.
Mason raced out of the library and down the nearby steps. He reached the two men ahead of the guards. Piston was moaning, badly injured but alive. Taviani lay on his back, blood pooling around his head. His grin was like a death’s head as Mason leaned over him.
“I’m done for, Dollarhide,” he said in a gurgling voice. “But there’s one thing I meant to tell you. Colucci told me he’s tracked down your little pilot. As it turns out, she’s at your ranch.” His laugh was hideous, spraying drops of blood. “I told him to go ahead and kill her, along with any witnesses.”