Carol Cox (14 page)

The burly lawman pushed himself to his feet with a grunt and motioned for Caleb to cover the body with a tarp fetched from the store. Keeping his eyes fixed on the corpse, he asked, “Do you know who he is?”

Caleb shook his head. “I have no idea. There were no identifying papers in his pockets.”

Melanie didn’t miss the quick glance his comment earned from the lawman.

“You went through his pockets?”

A dull flush colored Caleb’s face. “I checked them while I was waiting for you. I thought I might find a wallet or some other identification.”

The marshal grunted. “As stiff as he is, it looks to me like he’s been dead awhile. This must have happened sometime during the night.”

He turned to face Caleb, fixing him with a keen stare as he said, “You’re sure you don’t know him?”

“I’ve never seen him before.” Caleb tucked his hands into his pockets. “It seems that he intended to come to the store, but why? And why the back door?”

The marshal flicked a quick glance at Melanie, and she felt heat rise up her neck to stain her cheeks. Pushing away from the wall, she faced the marshal directly. “I assure you, I’ve never seen this man, either. I have no idea why he was lurking around here at night.”

Marshal Hooper held her gaze for a long moment, then gave a brief nod as if satisfied. When he turned away, Melanie felt an unaccountable sense of relief. She turned her attention back to the dead man.

Death wasn’t completely unfamiliar to her. She had handled the funeral arrangements for both of her grandparents, but she had never been associated with a violent death before. She supposed that in cases like this, the lawman in charge had to look at everyone in proximity to the death with some degree of suspicion, but she’d never imagined how uncomfortable that would be for the parties involved.

Much as she wanted to look away, her eyes kept returning to the spot where the poor man’s body lay. Thankfully, the tarp now covered the wound on his head. It didn’t cover the pool of blood, though. It would have to be scrubbed away soon, before it left an indelible stain. The thought of that job falling to her made her stomach roil, and she pressed her hand against her waist to quell the sick feeling.

Her beautiful morning had turned into a nightmare. Had that man really been murdered? Right on her doorstep?

Her bedroom window on the second floor overlooked the back stoop. Why hadn’t she heard anything?

And what if she had? Her mind continued its relentless questioning. Could she have done anything to prevent the murder, or would the attacker have turned on her, as well, leaving two bodies for Caleb and Levi to discover when they came to the store?

Her body began to tremble, and her knees threatened to give way. A long, shuddering sigh escaped her lips, and she leaned back against the wall for support.

Caleb looked at her, his face a mask of concern. He turned to the marshal. “Is there any reason the body can’t be moved now?”

The marshal shook his head. “No, I think I’ve seen all I need to.”

Caleb stepped over to Melanie and spoke in a low tone. “Why don’t you let the undertaker know he’s needed? You should be able to find him at the barbershop.”

Melanie nodded and pulled herself erect. Still unsteady on her feet, she tottered around the corner of the mercantile toward Lincoln Street, appreciating Caleb’s consideration in providing her with a way to make a graceful exit.

Her steps quickened as she left the scene of death behind her. By the time she reached the town’s main street, she was nearly running. Looking to make sure the way was clear, she crossed the road quickly, relieved when she saw two men standing in front of the barbershop. She hurried over to them, focusing her attention on the one dressed all in black.

“Could you come with me, please? Your services are needed at the mercantile.”

The one she addressed tilted his head, and a flicker of interest lit his eyes. “Dear lady, I would be happy to assist you, but what kind of service would you like me to provide?”

Melanie resisted the urge to shake the man by his starched collar and tried to keep her voice level. “A man has died at the mercantile. Could you please come?”

A smile flitted across his face. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. Mr. Bingham here is the one you’re looking for.”

Melanie looked his companion up and down. In shirtsleeves and a bow tie, the man’s round cheeks and cheery expression seemed far removed from what she had expected. She stared for a long moment. “You’re the undertaker?”

A merry smile lit his face. “Yes, ma’am. And the barber.” He cupped one hand around his mouth and added, “And a decent substitute for a dentist, if you happen to need a tooth pulled when Doc has been bending his elbow a bit too often down at the Silver Moon.” He doffed his bowler hat and bowed. “Andrew Bingham, at your service.”

His face took on a solemn expression better suited to his second profession. “You say someone has died at the mercantile?” The somber look changed to one of alarm. “You wouldn’t be speaking of Caleb Nelson, would you?”

“No, I don’t know who it is. He’s a stranger to us both. Someone seems to have . . . killed him . . . during the night.” Her voice choked, and she pressed her hand to her throat.

Both men gaped at her. Andrew Bingham nodded and started for the barbershop. “Let me get my jacket, and I’ll be right over.” He stopped in the doorway and turned back to
Melanie. “You don’t need to accompany me if you’d rather stay away.”

Melanie nodded her thanks, suddenly feeling at loose ends. She had done all she could for Caleb and the marshal, and the poor stranger was beyond any human aid. There was nothing left for her to do, except go back to the mercantile to pick up her morning routine where it had been interrupted and get ready to open the store for business.

But she didn’t particularly want to go back at the moment. And she wasn’t sure she had the stamina to do so, even if she did. Her legs began to tremble again, and she swayed.

The black-clad man beside her cupped her elbow with his hand and steered her along the boardwalk. “Would you care to sit on this bench?” He indicated one of a pair of benches in front of the barbershop.

Melanie let him escort her to the seat without protest. His offer hadn’t come a moment too soon. She didn’t think her legs could hold her up one minute longer. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re quite welcome.” Her dapper escort waited until she sank onto the bench and seated himself at the other end. When he tilted his angular face toward hers, she could see that his eyes were so dark they appeared as black as his clothing. He assumed a kindly expression and regarded her with a look of keen interest. “We haven’t been introduced yet. My name is Benton Woodbridge, but people around here call me the Professor.”

Melanie accepted the hand he extended. “I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Melanie Ross.”

The Professor smiled. “I thought as much. I have heard of your arrival, of course. It doesn’t take much time for news
to make its way around Cedar Ridge. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. Your coming has added a spot of beauty to our little community.”

Melanie drew a long breath, feeling the first glimmer of normalcy she’d experienced since walking onto the back stoop and discovering the murdered man.

The Professor went on without waiting for a response, seeming content to carry on the conversation alone. Melanie was more than willing to let him, relishing the calming effect created by his soothing stream of words.

After a while he paused, then said, “It’s my understanding that you are a relative of George Ross.”

Melanie nodded, relieved to find the energy to speak again. “He was my cousin. A much older cousin,” she added with a smile, “but he was the only family I had left.”

The Professor’s lips curved in a gentle smile. “I met George the day he and Alvin Nelson rode into Cedar Ridge and bought the mercantile. I always enjoyed visiting with him. He was a fine man, a decent man—as was Alvin.” He kept his eyes focused on her as he spoke, as if watching to make sure she wasn’t about to succumb to an attack of the vapors. “I was very sorry when they passed on. They have been sorely missed. I’m glad Caleb was here to take over and keep things going in the store, carrying on their legacy, you might say. He’s a good man.”

Melanie blinked at the change of subject, and then she nodded. “Yes.” She thought again of the concern she’d seen in Caleb’s eyes when she’d sagged against the wall, and the opportunity he’d given her to escape the grisly scene. “Yes, he is.”

At the reminder of the stranger’s demise, she shot to her
feet and pressed her fingers to her lips. “What are we going to do? About a funeral, I mean?”

When the Professor only tilted his head and looked at her with a puzzled expression, she explained, “We don’t know anything about him—his name or where he came from. How are we supposed to send word to his family? Who is responsible for making arrangements?”

The Professor stood beside her with half-closed eyes and pursed his lips, as though calculating something in his head. Finally he nodded, seeming pleased. “The timing is good, if anything like that can be said about such a tragic situation. Today is Monday, and the circuit rider is due to arrive this weekend.” Seeing the blank look Melanie gave him, he went on. “Pastor Dunstan has the responsibility for preaching to a number of communities in this part of the territory. He rides from one town to the next—making a circuit, you see—and stops in Cedar Ridge once a month or so.”

“Oh.” Melanie pondered this new concept. “But surely we can’t wait that long before we bury this man.”

The Professor made a clucking sound with his tongue and reached out to pat her hand. “I know this must seem strange to you. Andrew will see to the burial—probably tomorrow. Pastor Dunstan won’t be able to officiate, of course, but I’m sure he’ll be willing to say a few words at the graveside after the service on Sunday.”

Melanie looked around as she let the Professor’s words sink in. “Where will the service be held? I’ve walked all around town, and I haven’t seen a church.”

A dry chuckle rose from the Professor’s throat. “When the circuit preacher comes to town, we hold services in the mercantile.” He chuckled again at her look of surprise. “It’s
something George and Alvin instituted when they came to Cedar Ridge. It is a common practice in western towns, as odd as it may seem to someone fresh from the East.”

Melanie caught her breath. “And the only services for that poor man will be held out at the cemetery?”

The Professor nodded. “That, too, is common out west, especially when the person in question doesn’t have any family in the area.”

Melanie latched onto the Professor’s assurance as the only bright spot of news she’d heard that morning. Bad enough to think of the stranger being murdered right under her window. She couldn’t have borne seeing his body laid out inside the mercantile.

T
he next Sunday, Melanie fidgeted on the rough wooden bench, more intent on relieving her discomfort than on listening to the low hum of conversation filling the mercantile. All her life, she had heard people talk about feeling as crowded as sardines packed in a tin. Now she understood exactly what that meant. She couldn’t move more than a fraction of an inch without bumping Mrs. Fetterman on her right or Levi on her left.

Mrs. Fetterman’s sturdy figure blocked Melanie’s view farther along the bench on that side, but she could see Caleb’s solemn face on the other side of Levi, and Dan Crawford, the saddlemaker, sitting beyond him. Up front, she spotted Mrs. Pike and her husband, the mayor. The Professor sat in the row just ahead, along with Andrew Bingham, Micah Rawlins, and Rafe Sutton, the scraggly-bearded freighter.

She looked in vain to find Will Blake, then remembered him mentioning he had to take care of some business over at the county seat. The ride to Prescott and back would take the
better part of three days, so she couldn’t expect to see him back yet. A soft sigh escaped her lips. Will’s presence would have been a comfort on this sad day.

Across the aisle, she saw the scrawny figure of Thomas O’Shea, owner of the emporium. He turned at that moment and their eyes locked. O’Shea drew his brows together in a fierce scowl, then swiveled around to face the front again.

Melanie caught her breath at the show of animosity and dropped her gaze to the floor. When she recovered her composure, she went back to scanning the benches, careful to avoid the area where O’Shea sat, his back rigid.

She met the glances of several of the area’s single men, some of whom had already offered proposals of marriage. She let her gaze slide away from theirs, grateful that none of them seemed to be focused on continuing their amorous pursuits now that the mercantile had been transformed into a church. It was not a day to have to worry about fending off would-be suitors.

The rest of the benches were filled by an array of people whose names she didn’t know. Who would have thought there could still be so many people in the area she hadn’t met yet, and that they all could fit into the mercantile at the same time? The transformation from store to sanctuary had been remarkable. Three men had walked in the door at closing time the previous evening, ready to help Caleb set up. It was clear they had done this before, needing no direction in pushing all the stacks of merchandise—including the tables holding her new displays—back against the walls, leaving the center area open. From the wagon one of them backed up in front of the store, they produced a number of crude benches and set them up in rows.

They worked steadily, leaving little for Melanie to do, other than hover over her displays like a mother hen protecting her chicks. After a while, she found herself standing off to one side, reduced to the role of onlooker, feeling out of place, as though she didn’t belong. Not unwanted—the way those horrid anonymous notes made her feel—but unnecessary. And that was almost as difficult to bear.

She shifted as much as she could in the confined space. The benches had not been made for comfort. Her backside already felt numb, and the service hadn’t even started. As if in tune with her thoughts, Levi squirmed beside her. Melanie quieted him with a finger to her lips, although she understood exactly how he felt.

The murmurs died down as Pastor James Dunstan rose from his seat on the first row and stepped to the front. Melanie had met him when he’d ridden into town the night before. A lanky man with features weathered from riding back and forth across the harsh Arizona terrain, he seemed like one who would be more at home behind a plow than a pulpit. His voice was surprisingly gentle, in contrast to his rugged appearance, although it was strong enough to carry throughout the building.

“Friends, I know disturbing events have occurred here since we last worshiped together. Circumstances like this can shake the foundations of our faith and show us what we truly believe. In the book of Matthew, our Lord says that we must build our foundation on the rock, so that our house will be able to withstand whatever storms may come.”

While he spoke, Melanie scanned the crowd as well as she could from her cramped position, wondering if all these people typically turned out for one of the circuit rider’s
services, or if a greater number than usual had come that morning to draw comfort after the killing.

Beside her, Levi stirred again. Melanie quelled him with a pointed look, then glanced over at Caleb, wondering why he wasn’t dealing with the distraction his son was creating. His eyes were fixed on a point at the front of the store, but he looked as though his thoughts were miles away from the service and the preacher’s words.

What could he be thinking about? Melanie wondered if his thoughts, like hers, had strayed to the puzzle of the murdered stranger. Only the day before the marshal had told them the man’s identity was still a mystery. The only clue that had turned up so far was a horse left at the livery stable on the night of the murder. Micah Rawlins had been in the Silver Moon Saloon at the time, so he hadn’t seen the man and didn’t know his name or anything about him.

Chiding herself for letting her attention stray, Melanie turned her focus back to Pastor Dunstan.

“He is our Rock,” the preacher was saying. “And He is big enough for us to trust with everything—our hopes, our labors, and our fears. Please bow your heads with me while we pray.”

After the final amen, the pastor raised his head and looked out over the crowded room. “I hope you’ll all proceed now to the cemetery and join me in laying our unknown brother to rest.”

The congregation rose and started to file out. Beside Melanie, Mrs. Fetterman dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “That poor soul. Imagine dying all alone, far from home and unknown, buried in a grave that won’t even bear a name.”

Unable to speak past the sudden lump in her throat, Melanie
could only nod and walk beside Mrs. Fetterman. Outside, it looked as though the whole congregation had taken the preacher’s urging to heart and joined him in following the route Melanie had taken on her walk through town. Once they reached the south end of Lincoln Street, the crowd turned left, circling the scattered buildings that lay beyond, and followed the rough, rock-bordered path that led from town to the top of a low cedar-studded hill.

At the edge of the path, Levi leaped from one rock to another. Melanie frowned and looked around for Caleb, finally spotting him some distance ahead, deep in conversation with Dan Crawford. Reaching out, Melanie caught Levi’s hand and held it fast. After a tentative tug, which got him nowhere, the boy settled down and walked along beside her.

They joined the rest of the group in forming a circle around the rim of the hill, surrounding the open area where headstones and simple crosses marked the final resting places of a dozen or more departed souls.

On the other side of the circle, Melanie watched Caleb glance around and saw a furrow appear between his brows. When he spotted Levi standing next to her, he gave her a brief, relieved smile and remained where he was.

Pastor Dunstan opened his well-worn Bible and lifted his head toward the heavens, as if speaking to one whose presence was evident. “Father, while this man is a stranger to us, he is known to you. You have watched his life on this earth unfold in its entirety. We are gathered together today in your name to acknowledge that every life is precious, and we commend his spirit to your keeping.”

Lowering his gaze, he smiled at those gathered before him.
“Moses wrote a psalm that speaks of the brevity of life. On an occasion like this, it seems especially appropriate.”

Looking down, he began to read: “‘Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God.’”

Melanie closed her eyes, the better to focus on the words penned so long ago.

“‘The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years . . .’”

Melanie’s throat tightened. The stranger’s life hadn’t lasted anywhere near threescore and ten years. How old had he been? Probably little more than fifty. Old enough to have a wife, maybe even a family of grown children somewhere. But not nearly old enough to say he’d experienced the joy of growing old with his wife beside him. A silence followed, and she opened her eyes again.

Pastor Dunstan closed his Bible. “God knows the number of our days, and He tells us to be prepared for the time they will end and we step into His presence. This man”—he gestured toward the mound of fresh-turned earth at his feet—“didn’t expect his life to end so abruptly . . . and in a place where he was alone and unknown.”

He scanned the assembled group as if he were looking into each face there and reading each one’s heart. “None of us know when we will face that day of judgment. Let me urge you in the strongest terms to make sure you are ready for that day, whenever it may come.” He paused, then added, “Thank you for joining me here. This concludes the service.”

Levi slipped his hand free and scampered over to his father,
who smiled and gave Melanie a nod of thanks. The crowd began to disperse, with people breaking into small groups and talking among themselves. Melanie looked around, wishing she had someone to share the moment with.

“You thought you were pretty clever, didn’t you, Miss
Ross
?”

Melanie whirled upon hearing the voice at her elbow and came face-to-face with Thomas O’Shea.

His eyes glittered with undisguised malice. “Coming into my store like that, never saying a word about who you were or what you were doing there.”

“Why, I . . .” Melanie sputtered. She looked around, hoping to see a friendly face coming to her rescue, but no one seemed to be paying the least bit of attention to her.

O’Shea waved a bony finger under her nose. “Sneaking and prying around like that! If that’s the way you want it, fine. Two can play that game.”

With that, he turned and stalked away, leaving Melanie standing wide-eyed and short of breath. Apparently, her ploy to scout out the other store in town hadn’t been so clever, after all. Berating herself for her ill-conceived plan, she started back toward the path leading to town.

A sudden thought halted her in her tracks, and she turned to stare at O’Shea’s retreating back. The owner of the emporium knew who she was—had known it all along—and was clearly angry at what he perceived as an attempt to spy on him.

“Two can play that game.”
What had he meant by that? Was O’Shea the one who had sawn the ladder rung nearly in two, knowing it would only be a matter of time before either she or Caleb stepped on it and might be injured?

Melanie shook her head. She would have noticed Thomas O’Shea if he came into the mercantile, and she’d never seen him there.

But he might have sent an emissary sneaking around to do the deed for him. Melanie’s chest tightened, and she forced herself to breathe. Was that the way it had happened? There was no way to know for certain, but she promised herself she would be more watchful from now on. Once again she turned her steps toward town.

A stone marker several yards away caught her eye, and she moved closer, bending to trace the name with her fingertips:
George Martin Ross.
Tears stung her eyes, and she dashed them away. So this was Cousin George’s final resting place, the spot where his body would lie until the resurrection. Next to his grave, she spotted another marker, this one belonging to Alvin Nelson. The tears came again, along with a watery smile this time. Cousin George wasn’t resting alone. He had his treasured friend beside him, his partner throughout his life’s adventures.

And who did she have?

The thought caught her up short, but then she smiled, remembering the preacher’s words. She had the Lord. He was her foundation, and that was enough. Setting aside the temptation to be drawn into self-pity, she began to make her way back down the hill alone. As she walked, snatches of conversation drifted her way.

“Such a sad thing, coming here, only to be killed.”

“Who do you think he was?”

“Nobody knows, not even the marshal.”

“Well then, who do you think did it?”

“I’m thinking it must have been someone he was traveling
with. Maybe they got into an argument and his friend bashed him over the head.”

Melanie quickened her pace. She’d had enough of thinking about the stranger’s untimely demise for one day. Or any number of days.

But her mind refused to focus on anything else, fretting over the scrap of conversation she’d just overheard like a terrier gnawing on a bone. Could there be something to the idle speculation? Was the killer another stranger just passing through Cedar Ridge . . . or could he be someone local?

Her steps lagged, and she turned to look back at the scattered group with a fresh awareness, wondering if the murderer could be standing right before her eyes, a familiar face in the place she was beginning to think of as home.