Chapter 25 But I Won #2
“Right there,” Jill, our tour guide, pointed into the street, “is where Mean Bill McInerney faced down young Weasel Johnson in a dual. Shocking the bystanders, Weasel’s bullet hit Mean Bill right in the heart, and he dropped like a stone.
The problem for young Weasel was,”—making a few of the folks around us jump, she jerked her flashlight to an old-timey picture she had held up in front of her of a kid that didn’t look older than sixteen, he had acne and a hat on his head that was way too big on him—“Mean Bill got a shot off too. It hit Weasel in the shoulder. The bullet was dug out, but Weasel got an infection, and within days, he was dead. And witnesses report his last words were, ‘But I won.’”
Yuck.
This was supposed to be spooky, not sad.
She turned and had deftly switched the flashlight for a laser pointer that she was now pointing at a second-story window over Mistery Flowers and Gifts.
“Weasel died there. In that room. And people say, if you’re in the room he was in, and awake at one thirty-seven in the morning, Weasel’s time of death, you can hear the disembodied words of a young man saying, ‘But I won.’”
Okay, a little spooky.
But still sad.
She shoved the picture she had in her messenger bag and started walking.
The small group followed her.
Hutch and I drew up the rear, with Hutch saying in my ear, “That building wasn’t there in gunslinging days. If anyone looked, they’d see the year plaque on the front says 1911.”
I slapped his chest and snapped low, “Don’t ruin it. And give a girl some room to hustle.”
He grinned and slung an arm around my shoulders. I slid mine around his waist.
And we took the tour, which wasn’t that spooky at all, so I figured, unless the tour had significantly changed in the last few years, Abigail wanted to get laid by Brett and was looking for an excuse.
When it was over, and tourist lady and her man were approaching people to see if anyone could drive them the five blocks to the start of the tour, undoubtedly so she could get off those heels, Hutch and I were again last to give Jill a tip.
While Hutch was handing over ten dollars, I asked, “In your awesome bag of history, do you happen to have a picture of Chisolm Beckwith or Clementine Cosgrove…erm, Beckwith?”
Jill brightened up, but she said, “No. Though I have a ton of boxes of old pictures and stuff at my place. I can dig through them. You have an interest in Misted Pines history?”
“I moved here just under a year ago. So now I get to do the fun parts of getting my bearings,” I told her.
“Well, you should take my history tour. I do it two times during the week, and every Saturday and Sunday.”
Since her ghost tour only cost ten bucks a person, and there were only eight folks in tonight’s tour, and she had the same schedule for the history ones, I hoped she got good tips.
“I’ll do that,” I told her.
“How do you know about Chisolm and Clementine?” she asked.
Considering she knew a lot about MP history (even if she embellished or changed things to suit her fancy and get her numbers up), I wasn’t sure Hutch wanted me to say anything due to the fact he was a private person, and she might know where Chisolm and Clementine lived, and as such, Hutch.
So I was surprised when he said, “I live on their land.”
In the old-fashioned, black iron, globe streetlights, her face veritably beamed.
“Oh my God!” she nearly squealed. “Does it still have the Tate kitchen?”
That got my attention. “That Tate kitchen?”
She nodded giddily. “Tate and Sons Cabinetmaking and Woodworking. They were based in New York City. They did Gilded Age mansions. They also shipped custom pieces out west for government buildings, like state houses, and gold and silver rush mansions. Their work is supposed to be amazing. And word is, Beckwith commissioned Tate to build the kitchen in his log cabin for Clementine. They say it cost a year of furs he trapped. But he didn’t even blink. ”
That explained Hutch’s kitchen.
And how much Chisolm loved his wife.
“So?” she pushed. “Is it still in the house?”
“’Spect not,” Hutch lied (and that would be what I’d expect him to say). “My kitchen is old, but not that old.”
Her face fell.
But she brightened again when she remembered my request. “I’ll have a look for some pictures. I would want to know the history behind where I live too.” She smiled. “And I do. But, say I moved to a new place, I’d look into that.”
“That would be great. I own The Groove. If you find something, and you’re in town, you can drop by. Or, if you have an iPhone, we can AirDrop, and you can just call me.”
“I have an iPhone,” she replied.
We exchanged numbers and goodbyes, and Hutch slung his arm around my shoulders again (ditto with me at his waist) and turned us around to walk back the five blocks to his truck.
We did this not speaking, and we did that not-speaking bit comfortably.
There weren’t a lot of folks around. Some in the Double D. Some late stragglers strolling down the street where Hutch pointed out Harry and Lillian lived, checking out the elaborate Halloween decorations.
But mostly, it was quiet and peaceful, and we both were clearly feeling the need to take those vibes in.
We were in his truck and on our way when I said, “I know it wasn’t your thing, but thanks for going on that with me.”
“It might not have been one hundred percent accurate, but it was interesting,” he replied.
He was right.
“You think I should have my kitchen appraised?” he asked.
I was taken aback by the question.
But I answered it.
“For the purposes of insuring something that is highly likely very valuable, maybe. But they’ll jack up your rates, and if you don’t intend to sell it, the only value it really has is how gorgeous it is and its usefulness.
You could never replace it and probably wouldn’t want to spend that kind of money on a new kitchen.
That said, if something were to happen to it, you could just pocket the difference. ”
“You really like that kitchen, yeah?”
“Don’t you?”
“A kitchen’s a kitchen, May.”
What a guy.
“To answer your question, yes, I do.”
“I could auction it and make money for the sanctuary.”
The idea of that kitchen being pulled from his house physically hurt me.
But I said. “It’s your kitchen, honey.”
“You have trouble cooking with that stove?” he asked.
We cooked together at his place because, one, it was his place, two, Hutch could cook and told me I’d been bearing the brunt of it and that had to change, and three, he had to guide the way so I could get the hang of things.
“There’s definitely a knack to it. But you said you keep it stoked all the time. So it isn’t like you have to squat in front of the door blowing on the flames to reach three hundred fifty degrees.”
There was humor in his tone when he said, “No. You don’t gotta do that.”
“Alternate question, is the sanctuary in trouble financially?”
“The sanctuary and rescue are always in trouble financially. We got government grants and sometimes can be at the whims of an administration. But that sanctuary has been there for thirty years, and it keeps limping along. Still, money always helps.”
At this very true statement, I decided right then, I’d give it time. I’d make sure the shop was a go. I’d buy my place. I’d set some aside for a rainy day. And I’d give the rest of Frank’s money to Stony Bluff.
Frank might like that.
He might hate it.
I didn’t care.
Something of that man’s should do some good.
And I’d just decided how it would.
I didn’t tell Hutch, though.
I said, “You just learned you might be sitting on a goldmine. Can I suggest you don’t make any hasty decisions?”
“I never make hasty decisions.”
I didn’t doubt it.
“Except the one I made when you were asking me to fuck you.” He shot me a shit-eating grin. “But I seriously don’t regret that one.”
Ugh.
And…
Yum.
Simply to keep up appearance, I slapped his arm.
Then I leaned over to kiss his jaw.
“Mm,” he hummed in a way that made me suddenly want to get home, and fast.
We got home, just not fast, though we did it safe.
And after some fur baby greeting, puppy checking, and a bathroom break for all of them, as anticipated, Hutch delivered on the promise of that hum.