Chapter 19
Justice Often Must Wait
The time since Fen’s death seemed like an eternity. His closed door served as a stark reminder of his absence. No one could bring themselves to enter. Her appointment with Mr. Bennett first thing Wednesday morning left Charlotte with no choice.
With trembling fingers and a heavy heart, she opened the door.
A wave of tobacco and sandalwood hit her immediately, the familiar scents like a physical blow.
Her gaze swept across the rumpled bed, her copper tub, and, on a nearby table, a half-smoked cigar.
All stirred memories and emotions she wasn’t ready to confront.
Taking a deep breath only made it worse; the smell of Fen was overpowering.
“Stick to business,” she cautioned herself. “That’s what he’d do. And he’d expect nothing less from you.”
She crossed to his desk, the most probable spot to locate what she had come for.
Each drawer revealed a peculiar mix of items, some valuable and some not.
She found what looked like an antique timepiece, a man’s ruby-and-diamond ring, and the deed to a cabin west of town.
It was a fascinating assortment, all won at cards, no doubt, each with a backstory that was forever lost with Fen.
None of it was what she searched for, however.
Charlotte rose from his chair and looked around the room for where else he might store his important papers.
She searched his armoire and a nine-drawer dresser, both filled to overflowing with clothes but nothing else.
Kneeling in front of the chest at the foot of his bed, she sifted through more garments.
These were what he wore as master of the Red Eye, all in rich colors, especially the brocade vests he favored.
She swallowed down tears as she continued to search.
Nestled at the bottom, she unearthed a plain wooden box.
Opening it, she breathed a sigh of relief, finding their partnership agreement and the deed to the saloon, along with cash—just under $2000. Not a fortune, but any little bit would come in handy until she resolved her banking situation.
A soft knock on the door broke the silence, followed by Morgan’s voice calling out, “Miss Charlotte, you have a visitor downstairs.”
A thrill ran through her as she stared at the closed door.
Could it be Seth here to persuade her that a romantic entanglement between the man charged to uphold law and order in their town and a saloon owner and madam was feasible?
He was fooling himself, and she had to stay away from him and his irresistible offer.
“Tell the sheriff I’m not available.”
“It’s not the sheriff.”
“Who is it, Morgan?”
“Said his name was Quentin Sneed and that you and he had important business.”
Curiosity propelled her to the door, and she yanked it open. “Did you say Sneed?”
“Says he’s the old boss’s brother, but he looks nothing like him.”
“Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
She closed the door, her heart pounding against her breastbone.
Fen never mentioned his family, except for his recent trip to New Orleans, and he hadn’t elaborated when she asked for details.
A warning bell went off in her head. Quickly, she gathered the papers and the valuables and hid them in the wall in her room.
A few minutes later, when she descended the stairs, Charlotte took a moment to study Quentin Sneed. He was short and balding—the little hair he had was oily and plastered to his scalp—and his potbelly strained his shirt. For the life of her, she couldn’t see how he and Fenton were related.
When this new Mr. Sneed caught sight of her, he smiled and moved to meet her at the bottom of the stairs.
“You must be Charlotte,” he said, grinning to reveal crooked, yellowed teeth.
In contrast, Fen’s were straight and brilliantly white, and his eyes were an unusual gray, unlike the lackluster brown behind this man’s round spectacles.
“My brother sang your praises, but he didn’t do your loveliness justice.” His grating slightly nasal tone was a stark contrast to Fen’s melodious baritone—when he wasn’t bellowing up the stairs at her, that was. Surprisingly, she missed that and wished he were here to do it again.
“What brings you to our humble establishment today?” she inquired, trying for cool and composed but falling short.
The smile left his face. As he closed the distance, his intense, almost-predatory stare made her deeply uncomfortable.
Everything did from his ill-fitting, rumpled clothing that screamed of neglect to the smell of whiskey and stale tobacco on his breath.
She wanted him gone and would have loved to throw him out, but she needed to tread carefully until she understood his motive for being here.
“Fenton and I had unfinished business. The news of his death has left me shaken.”
Charlotte managed to contain a snort of disbelief. He looked anything but.
“The responsibility falls on us to address it, I suppose. I’m the new owner, you see.
While visiting recently, Fen put up the saloon in a rather high-stakes game of poker.
” He looked around, lips pursed in distaste.
“Sadly, he failed to do this place justice, too. But with him gone, it is what it is, I suppose.”
Charlotte blinked, trying to process all he’d said.
“Fenton wouldn’t do that to me.”
“But he did, I’m afraid. After losing a substantial amount of cash, he tried to win it back with”—he waved his hand, clearly not impressed—“this.”
“I don’t believe it. He couldn’t gamble what wasn’t his. We were fifty-fifty partners in the Red Eye,” she lied. Her interest was only 40 percent, but he didn’t need to know that. “We have a contract that states I inherit Fenton’s half if he died.”
With a condescending smirk, his tone dripping with smugness—one thing he had in common with Fen—Quentin retorted, “You can’t inherit something that was already mine.”
“We’ll see about that,” Charlotte snapped.
She wouldn’t allow this con man to take away her livelihood and steal what she and Fenton had worked so hard to build.
“I find it odd that in the ten years I knew Fenton, he never once mentioned a brother. Furthermore, you look nothing like him. You learned of his death and came here to swindle me,” she proposed.
“Well, I’m not about to allow you to perpetrate this fraud on me.
Morgan, show this gentleman”—she cleared her throat, nearly choking on the word—“to the door.”
“Happy to oblige.” Morgan smiled, his words a little too cheerful, as he took Quentin’s arm and steered him toward the exit.
“Release me, you big oaf!” he demanded.
Morgan didn’t react or break stride as the much smaller man struggled in his grip.
“You haven’t heard the last from me,” Quentin snarled, his voice thick with barely suppressed rage. “Mark my words, the law is on my side. When I take ownership, I’ll be the one throwing you out in the street.”
Once the odious man was out the door, Morgan on guard so he didn’t return, Charlotte rushed upstairs.
She pored over their contract and the deed to the saloon.
It was all as she remembered it. The documents were signed and dated years before his death and the alleged bet with his supposed brother.
Still, she didn’t trust the slimy worm and considered herself lucky that her appointment with the Jacksons’ attorney was early the next morning.
***
The quiet of the attorney’s office made even the smallest sounds seem louder.
From the rustling of paper as he turned pages, to the faint scratch of his pen while jotting down notes, and the muffled clip-clop of a passing rider outside.
Charlotte closed her eyes and tried to remain calm, but the waiting was excruciating.
Worse, she practically jumped out of her chair when the cuckoo bird popped out of the wall clock to signal the top of the hour.
As her racing heart slowed to normal, Charlotte folded her hands in her lap, interlocked her fingers, and forced herself to sit still. But the anxious energy buzzing around her in anticipation of Mr. Bennett’s evaluation made it nearly impossible.
He glanced up, peering over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. “You didn’t find a will in his papers, by any chance?”
“No, and he never mentioned one. Is a will necessary? Will lacking one be a problem?”
“It certainly makes things easier.”
“As you can see, Mr. Bennett, the documents were drawn up years ago. Fenton and I have always operated the business based on them. We went ten years without a problem.” The rising pitch of her voice betrayed her escalating panic.
The attorney put the papers down, pulled off his glasses, and then laced his fingers with a grim set to his face.
“Here’s the real issue. Neither of your documents was witnessed or notarized.
Without Mr. Sneed able to confirm that this is indeed his signature, they can be disputed in court.
” He rose, hearing a commotion in the outer office. “If you’ll excuse me a moment.”
Before he could fully round his desk, the door burst open, and Quentin Sneed stormed in.
“You can’t go in there! Mr. Bennett is with a client,” his assistant insisted as he followed him in.
“I don’t give a damn if he’s with the president himself. I have a stake in this matter and demand to be heard.”
“What’s the meaning of this interruption?” Mr. Bennett demanded.
Charlotte surged to her feet and put the chair between her and her nemesis. “This is Quentin Sneed, the man claiming to be Fenton’s brother.”
“I’m also the new owner of the Red Eye Saloon. Nothing she says or presents is valid because I have superseding documents.” He slapped them down on Mr. Bennett’s desk. “I think you’ll find them in order.”
“This is highly irregular,” her attorney grumbled, but he replaced his glasses and began reading. A moment later, he looked up, frowning.