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“Nope. I’m staying right here. Like I said, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“Well, I hardly think—”
“Alice, don’t think. My orders are to protect you and find your sister’s killer, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. The killer could be anybody, so I’m sticking close.”
“But, Rand, I want to take a bath!”
“Good idea. I’ll turn my back.”
She gave him a long look, then studied the steaming tub that beckoned. This was highly improper, sharing a room with Rand, and now... She gulped. Now she would be taking a bath with him standing right there? This was the most scandalous thing she’d ever done in her life!
But instinctively she knew he wouldn’t be talked out of staying, so she shrugged, shook out the petticoat and the corset and lacy camisole she’d brought in her saddlebag and hung them up to air with her red dress. Then, with a surreptitious glance at Rand she began to unbutton her denim riding skirt.
“Rand?”
“Yeah?”
“I am waiting for you to turn around.”
“Oh. Yeah.” He pivoted toward the window and stood with his back to her.
Rand didn’t watch her, exactly. But he could sure hear her. Every little splash and sigh set his imagination on fire, and finally he cracked. He half turned away from the window, and out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the bathtub. And her.
Big mistake. Big damn mistake.
By the time she finished smoothing that cake of soap all over her skin he was rock-hard. Miss Lolly-Alice was changing his mind about everything—librarians, Pinkerton assignments, even celibacy. When she reached for a towel to dry herself off, he knew he had to escape.
“Alice,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’m going to talk to the sheriff after all. Don’t let anyone in, even someone who wants to take away the bathtub.”
“The bathwater is still warm, Rand. Wouldn’t you like to use it? It will be cold when you get back.”
“A cold bath will suit me just fine.” If he was honest with himself, a cold bath was exactly what he needed.
He sidled past the tub, locked the door behind him and headed out onto the street to find Sheriff Lipscomb.
Silver City had exactly seven wooden structures. In addition to the Excelsior Hotel and the Golden Nugget saloon, there was the Silver City National Bank, the Coleman’s Assay Office, the run-down livery stable, the tiny sheriff’s office, which looked like a made-over chicken coop, and a large, well-maintained stamp mill, where mined rocks were smashed into bits to extract the silver. Everything else, two mercantiles, a dressmaker, a barber shop, a bathhouse and four eating establishments, one of which served nothing but pie, conducted business in tents. Even the physician-coroner and the funeral parlor did business in tents. One stiff wind would flatten the entire town.
Rand found the sheriff’s office, lifted the tent flap and stepped over the threshold. The fleshy lawman sat with his boots propped up on a desk littered with Wanted posters, sipping from a glass of what looked suspiciously like whiskey. That, Rand thought with annoyance, might explain why the murder investigation had stalled.
“Sheriff Lipscomb?”
“Yep, that’s me. Who’s askin’?”
“Rand Logan. I wired you ten days ago.”
“Oh, yeah? Sorry, don’t recall that.”
“Randell Logan,” Rand clarified. “United States Marshal.”
The sheriff shot to his feet, scattering posters all over the floor of the tent. “Oh, yessir, Marshal Logan, now I remember. You’re investigatin’ Miss Dorothy’s murder.”
“I am, yes. Do you have any new information to report?”
“Uh...cain’t say that I have, no. Talkin’ to those miners is like conversin’ with a clammed-up clamshell.”
“Has the coroner made a report?”
“Nope.”
“Have any witnesses come forward?”
“Nope.”
“You hear any rumors or scuttlebutt around town about the killing?”
“Nope.”
Rand gritted his teeth. Looked like miners weren’t the only closed-up clams in this town. “Sheriff Lipscomb, would you care to accompany me to visit the coroner?”
“You mean now?”
Rand nodded. “Now.”
The sheriff set his whiskey on an uncluttered corner of his desk. “Well, shore, Marshal. Doc Arnold’s a friend of mine. His office is just around the corner on Jasmine Street.”
Jasmine Street smelled like rotting garbage, not like anything remotely floral, but Dr. Arnold’s office smelled better, like antiseptic.
Sheriff Lipscomb barged into the coroner’s tent. “Doc, this here is Marshal Randell Logan.”
Rand shook the man’s hastily extended hand. “Dr. Harvey Arnold,” the physician muttered. The sheriff plopped onto a canvas folding chair and ran two fingers through his thinning hair.
“Jeremiah,” the physician intoned, “you want a drink?”
“What? Uh...no, thanks, Harve. I’m on duty.”
For a split second a look of confusion crossed Dr. Arnold’s lined face, and Rand nodded in comprehension. During the day Sheriff Lipscomb drank. A lot. Rand clenched his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. That might explain why Dorothy Coleman’s killer hadn’t been apprehended; the sheriff was probably drunk by noon. Sheriffs were elected. How did this man ever get voted into office?
He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I am investigating the death of Dorothy Coleman.”
Dr. Arnold jerked. “Oh, yes, I remember. Murder, as I recall. Gunshot.”
“You recover any bullets from her body?”
“I dug one out of her back,” the physician said in an almost inaudible voice. “The other one was embedded too deep in her brain to retrieve without...you know, damaging her looks.”
“Are you saying she was shot twice? Once in the back and once in the temple?”
Doc Arnold nodded and turned to a tall cabinet in the corner. He scrabbled through three file drawers and finally dropped a bit of metal into Rand’s hand. A thirty-two-caliber bullet, Rand noted.
“Any other injuries on her body?”
The physician exhaled heavily. “Other than a slight abrasion on one elbow, Miss Dorothy looked as pretty as she always did.” His voice died away, and he dropped his eyes to study the stack of medical reports on his desk.
The doctor was behind in his paperwork, Rand noted. He also noted how inappropriate the physician’s observation was.
“Was a funeral held?”
“Oh, sure, Marshal Logan,” Dr. Arnold assured him. “Half the population of Silver City turned out, all of ’em crying and carrying on like it was the end of the world. Miss Dorothy’s buried up on the hill, behind the stamp mill.”
“Is that the town cemetery?”
“Not exactly,” Sheriff Lipscomb said. “But Miss Dorothy was awful partial to the Lady Luck mine, and that’s as close as we could get to dig her grave.”
Rand nodded. “If either of you think of anything else that might help the investigation, you’ll find me at the hotel. I’m registered as George Oliver, for reasons that should be obvious.”
The sheriff and Dr. Arnold exchanged a puzzled look. “Pinkerton sent you, isn’t that right?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes, that’s right. But I’m working this case undercover.”
Both men looked at each other and nodded, and Rand took his leave. “Gentlemen, stay in touch.”
He headed back to the hotel with a sinking feeling in his gut. The sheriff liked whiskey. The coroner was almost obscene in his admiration for Alice’s sister, Dorothy Coleman. And if either one of them knew anything of significance, they weren’t saying. This investigation was going to be uphill all the way.
Chapter Eight (#u9199c2c6-69a5-525a-ab96-ba742cd122de)
“Lolly? Open up, it’s me, uh... George.”
Alice removed the chair she’d pushed under the doorknob and slid back the dead bolt as he unlocked the door. “Rand!” She swung the door open. “Did you talk to the sheriff?”
“I...” The words died on his lips. Standing before him was a stunningly attractive woman in a shiny red satin gown with a neckline so low it would make a shady lady blush.
“Say something, Rand. Do I look the part? Like a saloon girl?”
“You do,” he said tersely. “And I want you to take it off.”
“What? What do you mean, take it off?”
“I—I’ve changed my mind, Alice. I don’t want you to go anywhere dressed like that.”
“But it was your idea,” she protested. “This was your plan, you said so yourself.”
Rand nodded. “Yeah, I did. Now I wish I hadn’t.”
Alice propped her hands on her hips. “But you can’t have changed your mind! You said I was just what you wanted, an undercover saloon girl. The dressmaker made this gown especially for me.”
Rand settled himself heavily onto the bed closest to the door. She was right. But he was so shocked at seeing her all dolled up like that, all red sparkles and creamy bosom, that for a minute his mind wasn’t working right. Lolly-Alice had sneaked up on him.
“Rand?”
“Give me a minute, Alice.” He tried to calm his racing pulse by reminding himself of the assignment he’d taken on. Pinkerton wanted... Oh, hell, Pinkerton wanted him to use Alice as bait. He’d thought it was a good idea before he saw her in that sparkly red getup. Now he wasn’t so sure.
She settled on the bed beside him. “Whatever is the matter? Is my dress not daring enough? Don’t you like it?”
He stifled a groan. Her skirt rustled and he smelled the unmistakable scent of violets. “Yeah, I like it fine, Alice. You look very...fetching.”
You look so damn beautiful it makes my mouth water.
“Rand?” she said, a tentative note in her voice. “You are looking at me most oddly. Is something wrong?”
“No,” he lied. Everything is wrong! “I’m just surprised at your...disguise.”
She stood up and twirled in place, making her skirt bell out, then sent him a look of pure girlish pride. He almost choked.
“I find dressing up as Lolly Maguire has made me quite ravenous,” she announced. “Are you hungry?”
Hungry! He bit back a groan and considered stripping and plunging into the tub of cold bathwater still sitting in the middle of the room. He reached to unbutton his leather vest, then caught himself. He wouldn’t mind taking his clothes off in front of her, but he would mind revealing his engorged groin.
He swallowed hard. “Yeah, I’m hungry, Alice. I think we should go down to the dining room and eat some supper before you go into action at the Golden Nugget.”
“Oh, good.” She peeked in the mirror over the dresser and pinched her cheeks into a shade of raspberry that made his mouth water.
“I want a great big thick steak,” she said with obvious relish. “With mashed potatoes and lots of thick gravy. What do you want, Rand?”
She sent him a definitely un-librarian-like smile, and all his thoughts about librarians and undercover operations and incompetent sheriffs winged their way out of his head. He closed his eyes and clenched both hands into fists.
“Ice cream,” he answered. “That’s what I want. Something cooling.” Something to erase the image of Alice in that red satin dress.
Walking into the hotel restaurant caused a minor sensation. The entire room full of diners, almost all of them male, stopped talking and stared at Alice. Embarrassed, she tugged the red wool shawl she wore tighter around her shoulders to cover the revealing neckline and chose a chair facing the wall with her back to the patrons.
When conversation around them resumed, they placed their supper orders with the waiter, and Rand told her what he had discovered from Sheriff Lipscomb and Dr. Arnold, the coroner. Alice listened without interrupting, her mouth pressed into a thin line and her eyes filling with tears.
“You mean Dottie’s not even buried in a proper cemetery? That’s simply awful!”
“There’s more,” Rand said heavily. He waited until the waiter had set their plates down in front of them and retreated.
Alice ignored her supper and leaned toward him. “What ‘more’? Tell me.”
He reached for his steak knife. “Your sister was apparently very well liked in Silver City. Dr. Arnold said most of the people in town came to her funeral.”
He sliced off a bite of meat. “And,” he continued, “she was shot with a thirty-two-caliber bullet.”
“But you already knew she was shot, Rand.” She loaded her fork up with mashed potatoes, lifted it to her mouth and then lowered it without tasting it. Her lips, Rand noted, looked redder than usual. Rouged, maybe. Something inside him tightened. A large part of him didn’t want Alice to turn into Lolly Maguire.
“You already knew my sister had been shot,” she repeated.
“Yeah, but I didn’t know she’d been shot twice.”
Alice’s already shiny eyes widened into two pools of dark blue ink. “What? I don’t understand.”
