A Western Christmas Homecoming. Lynna BanningЧитать онлайн книгу.

      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.