“James Deel, Cory Johnston, Paul Burkett …” She hesitated again. “Chief Bender.” The police chief’s name came out in a bare whisper. She sounded frightened, he thought. Damn.
“You’re very brave,” he said. “Thank you.”
“I’m not brave, Officer. I just … don’t much give a damn any longer. You know?” She raised her small shoulders and dropped them again. “I only had one small measure of happiness. Now that has been taken away from me. I don’t suppose …” She didn’t finish the thought. And he did not ask.
After a moment Longarm coughed lightly into his fist and changed the subject. “I’ve heard the possibility mentioned, ma’am, that these killings could have something to do with the shenanigans at a shivaree years back. Revenge for what happened that night.”
“A shivaree, Officer?”
“Yeah, they’re …”
“I know what a shivaree is, of course. The young men around here do it all the time. I remember on our wedding ni …” She blushed, stopped, reconsidered bringing that night up.
Longarm got the distinct impression, though, that Sylvie Allard had been a more than willing bride. Whatever went wrong between herself and her husband happened long after their fondly remembered wedding night. Shivaree and all.
“What I meant to say, Officer, is that I can’t think of any reason why anyone would have particularly strong feelings about an ordinary little thing like a shivaree.”
“You don’t remember a man named Buddy Matthews or someone called Wallace Tatlinger?”
“I remember Wallace, of course. He was such a nice man. A cripple. He died a while back. Who was the other man you named?”
“Matthews,” Longarm repeated. “Buddy Matthews.”
Mrs. Allard frowned. Then her brow smoothed as memory came to her and she said, “Of course. I’d forgotten. I was a little girl then. There was a scandal. A shooting or something like that, and I think he was sent to prison. But my, that was years and years ago. I’m sure everyone has forgotten all about that by now. We have other things on our minds here, Officer, things more important than old scandals.”
“Yes, of course. I, uh, think you were gonna tell me some more about those fellows you mentioned a minute ago, Chief Bender and Deel, Johnston, Burkett?”
“Was I really?”
He smiled at her. “Well, I was kinda hoping.” She glanced toward the sun, which was dropping low on the horizon.
“Just another couple minutes,” he asked. “Then I’ll try an’ not bother you no more. And … no more threats. I’m sorry ‘bout that. I feel badly for doing it.”
“Yes, all right. I suppose a few more minutes won’t hurt. “And then,” she straightened her shoulders and tried on a brave but artificial and decidedly strained little smile, “then I shall have to think about my memories, shan’t I, as they will be the only things I can look forward to for the rest of my life.”
A couple more years, Longarm figured, and Sylvie Allard would, at least in her own mind, be a regular martyr. Thank goodness that wouldn’t be on his plate of things to fret about. He had enough worries of his own without taking hers on to boot.
“You were gonna say …?” he prompted.
“Yes, of course. Let’s see now. James Deel is …”
Chapter 22
Longarm had supper at a small cafe where they either didn’t recognize him or were too interested in food to bother deviling the intruder. Whatever the truth, no one treated him like anything but just another customer.
After the meal he lingered over pie and coffee, then lighted a smoke before venturing out onto the streets. It had come dark while he was eating, and Addington—modern though its residents seemed to think it—had no gas lights on the street corners like Denver and San Francisco and other up-to-date metropolises could boast.
It also seemed that Addington closed its doors early. The only lights in the business district were those of the saloons, and Longarm was not interested at the moment in being the subject of whispers and stares. Better figure to head back to the hotel for the evening.
Besides, if Amos—uh, Lester Colton hereabouts, and he damn well better remember that before he slipped up and gave Amos away—wanted to see him about anything, it would be at the hotel where contact could be made.
The way he and Amos figured it, Norm Colton’s cousin would have no qualms about talking with a federal peace officer. Far from it, in fact. And from Longarm’s point of view, Cousin Lester would be one of the very few folks in Addington willing to talk with him. So there was no harm in the two being seen together. It should seem only natural to the locals and should in fact support Amos’s false identity. Smoking contentedly on a good cheroot, Longarm walked down the sidewalk toward the hotel.
As he approached the Nare and Son hardware—Peter apparently was the Son indicated there as he had no surviving children of his own—Longarm’s gaze was naturally drawn in that direction. He stopped, hand halfway to his mouth and his lips already parted to receive the soggy end of his cigar. There might not be much for light at street level, but there damn sure was a light behind one of the windows on the second floor of the murder victim’s store. Someone was moving around inside there, carrying what looked to be a candle instead of a lamp.
But Pete Nare had no living kin. He’d lived alone. And at this time of night there was no sensible reason for anyone to be inside the living quarters over top of the hardware.
It crossed Longarm’s mind that Sylvie Allard could have had reason to sneak inside. To recover love notes, perhaps, or other mementos of the long-standing affair between her and Nare.
She might be interested for reasons of sweet sentiment. Or as likely it would be to keep her husband from finding out that he was wearing a cuckold’s horns.
