Linda Castle (5 page)

Flynn drew back his hand as if the letter were afire. “It’s probably.personal.”

“Maybe, but it looks like it has taken the long way round coming here—how personal could it be when the sender didn’t even know the Black Widow had been sent to prison?”

A muscle in the side of Flynn’s jaw began to work. He hated the name the townspeople had pinned on Marydyth. For Rachel’s sake.

“It doesn’t seem right.”

“Fine, I’ll do it.” Moses snatched up the envelope and ripped open one end. A page fluttered to the top of the desk. He carefully unfolded the brittle paper. It was a heavy cream-colored stationery. He held it up to the light. Flynn could see the distinctive watermark of a clipper ship. Then Moses squinted his eyes, ducked his chin and started to read.

A hard knot formed in Flynn’s gizzard. He didn’t feel right about any of this.

“Well, now this is a fine kettle of fish,” Moses said as he let the paper slip from his hand.

“You look like somebody died.”

Moses never spoke, he just slid the single page across the desk. “Read it for yourself.”

Flynn picked up the letter, his eyes darting quickly over the large handwriting. He looked up from the page and swallowed hard.

“What are
you
going to do?” Moses asked.

“So it’s all up to me, huh?” Flynn stood up. He would
have liked to pace, but the cramped office wouldn’t allow it. “What would you do if you had to deal with it?”

Moses grimaced and read the letter again. “Claims complete responsibility for the murder in Louisiana.” He mused aloud as if he had not even heard Flynn’s question. “Could it be possible?”

“If it is, then Marydyth Hollenbeck…” He couldn’t finish his sentence.

Moze swallowed hard. “Now, let’s not be too hasty. At the worst it may mean that she didn’t kill her first husband, Andre. This second part could be a confession of guilt, I suppose, if you are inclined to interpret it that way.”

“And it could just as easily not be. Is that what you’re saying?” Flynn searched the attorney’s face with narrowed eyes.

Moses sighed and placed the letter in the middle of his desk. “Any way you look at it, it’s a judgment call, Flynn. The decision and the responsibility are all yours, I’m happy to say.” The words fell harder than the judge’s gavel had on that fateful day. “Victoria made it real clear—any and all decisions regarding Rachel and the Hollenbecks are yours alone.”

Flynn picked up the letter and stared at it. “Did you notice the signature?”

“Yes, I did. I have to admit it shocks me. I thought Murdering Mary was all alone in the world. If she had an uncle, then why didn’t she tell anybody?”

Flynn glanced up. “Kind of sticks in your craw, don’t it?”

“I don’t want to even entertain the notion that we might’ve separated Rachel from her mother and sent an innocent woman to prison,” Moses replied. “In fact I don’t like to think about that a’tall.”

F
lynn gave Jack his head as they rode out of town. The bay enjoyed the run and Flynn was glad to let him pick his own trail so he could wrestle with the problem of the damned letter.

If he decided to interpret the letter as a full confession for both murders, Andre Levesque’s and J. C. Hollenbeck’s, then Rachel could have her mother back.

The memory of the child’s latest nightmare brought a shiver coursing through him.

And if it isn’t a confession?
the voice of the cynical retired U.S. marshal prodded. Years of training, years of single-minded devotion to the law, made it difficult for Flynn to forget that big
if.

The letter was vague on J.C.’s murder. That was God’s honest truth. But it was blunt and to the point about the first one—about Andre, Marydyth’s first husband.

But if Marydyth were innocent of killing Andre Levesque and she had an uncle, then why didn’t she defend herself at the trial?

Flynn shook his head, realizing finally what it was that had bothered him about that damned trial.

Day after day Marydyth had sat there in silence. She
had grown more pale and drawn as the damning evidence was revealed, and not once had she raised a finger or uttered a single word to defend herself.

She had stood there dry-eyed and silent while the town judged her guilty.

Why?

That question hammered at Flynn’s brain. It was a question he had no answer for.

He rode for hours, and with every mile the letter nagged at him. It would be so easy. If Flynn chose to read between the lines, he could give Rachel what she needed most in the world.

If he chose to.

Was it possible that he
wanted
to see Rachel reunited with Marydyth so badly that he could, or would, turn a blind eye to the weakness in the wording of that letter?

“Hell no, I wouldn’t,” he declared with hearty conviction. “And I’d have harsh words with any man who thought otherwise.” The sound of his raspy voice started Jack’s ears working back and forth again. “If I believed Marydyth killed J.C., I’d let her rot in Yuma and damn her to perdition without a second thought,” he assured himself and his horse.

But do you really believe that?
the stubborn voice asked.
Or are you like Moze?—afraid that you escorted an innocent woman to prison and mighty unwilling to face that possibility? Even if it means leaving her there?

Later that afternoon, Flynn had made a big loop around Hollenbeck Corners and ridden through Sheepshead. He had checked on the herd and felt satisfied that the grass would hold through the summer. While he rode, he had argued with himself over and over, and still he had not made a decision about the letter.

He pulled his Stetson hat from his head and used his bandanna to wipe the moisture off the inside of the sweatband. A white ring of crystallized salt had stained outward onto the brim.

If he believed the letter was genuine, then he was beholden to see the territorial judge about Marydyth’s sentence. But he hadn’t quite come to that decision—just yet.

The sun was a red-gold disk when Flynn unsaddled Jack and rubbed him down. The expansive adobe stable behind the Hollenbeck house was cool and dim. It was big enough to hold four horses and two buggies but Jack lived all alone inside. The smell of hay, dust and cracked corn surrounded them.

It was a comforting odor, a familiar one that had drawn him to this spot many times since he came to live in Hollenbeck Corners. Flynn rolled himself a smoke and let it dangle unlit from his mouth.

Flynn brushed the horse and ran an empty gunnysack over him to give him a shine. He tossed down his unlit cigarette, picked up each of Jack’s hooves, one by one, and carefully cleaned them, taking particular care with each frog.

An hour had passed while he kept his hands busy, and still he had not come to a decision. Flynn walked toward the mansion, still lost in thought. He was near one of the tall colonnades at the back of the house when the smell of smoke reached his nostrils.

He turned his head and lifted his nose like a feral animal. He inhaled deeply, narrowing his eyes and allowing the scent to guide him to the source. The smoke was coming from the direction of the stable.

Flynn ran to the well and grabbed up a bucket of water. It sloshed over his Levi’s as he ran. When he threw open
the double doors a column of smoke roiled out. One bucket doused the smoldering manure and straw, but as the smoke wafted around his head a tendril of suspicion wove around his mind.

It was damned hard to start a fire with a cold cigarette.

Flynn made sure the blaze was well and truly out before he went to the house. A nagging sense of unease was his constant companion. He hadn’t started that fire, so who had? The stable was behind the house, a damned long way from any road or alley. If someone had been smoking around there, then they were hiding.

As soon as Flynn opened the door a streak of calico ruffles and bouncing russet curls flew at him.

“Unca Flynn!” Rachel squealed. She hugged his knees so tight he thought they both might go end over teakettle into the hallway.

“Whoa, little lady.” He untangled her arms and lifted her up. Her cheeks dimpled when he tickled her.

It never ceased to amaze him that in the light of day she had no memory of her nightmares. As long as she was awake she was a happy, laughing child.

“What’s goin’ on, dumplin’?” he asked as he walked the same path he took every day, through the foyer, up the hall, across the parlor and finally through the kitchen door.

Mrs. Young was already tying on her bonnet. “Evening, Mr. O’Bannion.”

“Evening, ma’am.” He shifted Rachel’s weight to his bony hip, tickling her as he did so.

She giggled shrilly.

“Chicken and dumplings on the stove, cobbler on the warmer. See you tomorrow at seven.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Young,” he said to the flash of
white petticoat that showed beneath the Scotch tweed muslin of her skirt before the door slammed with a rattle.

Flynn had been so busy chewing on the problem of the letter that he had plumb forgotten about looking for another housekeeper. He had to find somebody who would be better with Rachel. At least now that the cattle were moved he would be home with Rachel more during the day. Until roundup in the fall he would have time aplenty to spend with her.

“I been waiting for you,” said the golden sprite clinging to his neck. Excitement telegraphed through her body and up his arm. She gnawed at her bottom lip, as if she were about to explode. “I’ve been waiting a long, long time.” She sighed as if to emphasize the extreme hardship it had been.

“What’s got you hopping like a Mexican jumping bean?” He left the kitchen and went-into the study. He folded his body into a big padded chair.

Rachel scrambled up and positioned herself squarely in his lap. She stared him in the eye and then she leaned close as if she was about to tell him a secret. “Mrs. Young wouldn’t help me get into the attic today.”

He felt his eyebrows rising.

Then cool smooth palms clamped on either side of his beard-stubbled jaws. “She said I had to wait for you…so I waited.”

Flynn felt the strain of the day winnow from his bones as he stared into cornflower-blue eyes. “What in tarnation do you want to go into the attic for?”

“’Cause I need baby clothes.” She patted him with those tiny hands that felt softer than goose down. Then she impulsively kissed his cheek and giggled. “You are an old silly, Unca Flynn.”

He laughed with her. “Yes, I guess I am, sugar.” Rachel
was like a ray of sunshine all bottled up in a Mason jar. “’Cause I can’t figger out why on earth you need baby clothes. You’ve been out of nappies for a long while now.” He chuckled at the expression that flitted across her face, a combination of horror and embarrassment, as he teased her.

“I am a big girl now—they aren’t for me. Mary Wilson’s mama had another baby girl. Mrs. Young said my baby clothes are in the attic.” She turned serious. “Could we take the baby some?”

Flynn didn’t know whether to laugh or moan. There were so many things that he didn’t know about little girls. Was this the kind of thing he could look forward to, crawling around in the attic for baby clothes to give away?

“Please, Unca Flynn.”

“All right, punkin. As soon as we’re through with supper we’ll go into the attic and find you some baby clothes.”

“I knew you’d say yes.” She grinned triumphantly. “I
told
Mrs. Young you would say yes.”

“You just wrap me around that little finger of yours, don’t you?” He rose from the chair with her in his arms. Rachel clung to his arm as he swung her around and perched her up high on his shoulders. He gripped her ankles above the high buttons on her black leather shoes. The rough skin in his palm snagged against her white silk stockings and the lace on her pantaloons.

“Hurry, Unca Flynn, hurry. Let’s eat fast so we can go to the attic.”’

He added a little speed and a lot of bounce to his walk. “I’ll hurry but you may be sorry you asked when we run—” he ducked low to miss the threshold of the study “—into a big—” he dipped again to miss the chandelier
in the hall “—fat, hairy spider!” He flipped her off his shoulder and tickled her ribs when they reached the kitchen.

Rachel’s screams of glee echoed through the house. His laughter mingled with the savory odor of chicken and dumplings, and for a while Flynn was able to forget about the damned letter.

When the dinner was eaten, the dishes washed, wiped and put away, Flynn and Rachel lit a lantern and went in search of the attic. He had never been in that part of the Hollenbeck house—the closed off wing where Marydyth and J.C.’s bedroom had been—and it took a few minutes to locate the right set of stairs that led to the attic.

Flynn held the lantern high and swept his hand across the gauzy veil of cobwebs when he opened the last door.

A hundred feminine articles met his gaze in the flicker of the lamp. Frilly doilies were piled on top of an armless rocker, the kind that women favored. Three dome-topped trunks were shoved in one dark corner.

By the time Victoria had had her stroke and wrangled Flynn into becoming Rachel’s guardian, Mrs. Young or some other hireling had packed away every trace of Marydyth that had ever existed. The day he had walked into the house it had been clean and completely devoid of anything personal. Over the years he’d had regular tintypes of Rachel taken to put on the piano and the mantel.

So far Rachel had not asked him too many questions, but her nightmares told him that she was asking questions in her mind. She had a natural curiosity about her folks, and the day was coming when somebody was going to have to give her some answers.

Flynn had a flash of memory of his own childhood.
He remembered sitting on Sky’s lap and listening to the story of her life over and over. Victoria’s hatred and bitterness toward Marydyth had left a great big hole in Rachel’s life. And no matter how hard he tried, Flynn hadn’t been able to fill it.

While he was preoccupied with his own thoughts, he stumbled over a big hatbox and staggered against a chest. The pain in his shin snapped him back to the present. A table with a cracked marble top provided him with a convenient place to set the lantern so he could rub his barked shinbone.

“Unca Flynn, can I come in?” Rachel’s voice sounded hollow as it echoed off the discarded furniture and trunks.

“You can come in, honey, but you be real careful.” He scanned the area with narrowed eyes. The cool, dry attic would be a favored nesting site for spiders.black widows.

Black Widow.

The name brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He froze for a moment, knowing that the letter in his pocket could remove that brand from Rachel’s mother. If only he could put aside his doubts.

“Looky, Unca Flynn!” Rachel’s excited voice brought him spinning around on his boot heel. She was stroking the hair mane of a carved wooden pony. The horse was white with black spots painted on its hindquarters.

Flynn took a step toward her but his boot caught on a red fringed shawl that was draped over something. The more he tried to free himself the more the shawl tangled around his foot. Rachel watched him wide-eyed while he did a dance with the thing hanging from his spur. But suddenly her frozen expression halted him in his tracks.

“What is it, honey? Are you bit?” He knelt down and
gathered her to his arms. Her face had gone pale as chalk. She was quiet as death. “Tell me, does it hurt, Rachel?”

She shook her head in denial. “No.” Her eyes were wide and unblinking.

Fear of a kind Flynn had never imagined squeezed around his heart. “Rachel? What is it? Talk to me, honey.” His chest contracted while he searched her hands and arms. He could find no marks, but if Rachel was quiet, something had to be wrong. “Rachel, answer me. What is the matter?”

She lifted her tiny hand and pointed. He swiveled around to see what she was staring at. It was a portrait. The flickering lantern light caused the azure-blue eyes to look as if they were alive. A cascade of flaxen curls tumbled over one shoulder and down out of sight at the bottom of the painting. Artfully painted stones glowed at the delicate ears and encircled the slender column of throat.

Smoky topaz and diamond earbobs with a necklace to match.

In a voice colder than the grave, Victoria had read the inventory of missing jewelry at the trial. Marydyth had sat silent, never denying her guilt, never defending herself. But now Flynn had the nagging question at the back of his mind. The letter that was signed “Uncle Blaine” mentioned that jewelry, even went so far as to talk about J.C. giving it to him as some sort of payoff.

But why wouldn’t Marydyth have mentioned that? Even when Flynn brought in the old Wanted posters and they spoke of a man she had been seen traveling with, she never said a word about having an uncle.

Why wouldn’t she have fought for her innocence?

“Who is that lady?” Rachel whispered.

Flynn jerked himself away from the memory of the trial. He searched his mind and his heart. If he told Rachel
she was staring at a likeness of her mother it would open a floodgate of questions, questions he didn’t want to have to answer. It would be even worse than the other night.