Darlene Franklin - Dressed for Death 01 - Gunfight at Grace Gulch (15 page)

My face flamed. Audie had referred to my detective getup as well, but he made it a compliment.

“Just a minute, Grace.” Audie spoke for the first time since Cord entered the house. “Cici is asking questions because you and Dina are both under suspicion. Don’t you get it? She’s trying to help you. Somebody killed Penn Hardy, and your cousin is one of the people in the right place to make the shot.”

Cord took a step toward Audie.

“Don’t you see?” I stood between the two men. This was worse than I feared. “We have to talk with the mayor, if only to eliminate him.”

“And I trust Cici,” Audie continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “To follow the truth, wherever it leads. Now, if you don’t mind, we have a nine o’clock appointment.” He opened the door and gestured for Cord to leave.

Cord looked at me one last long moment. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” He jammed his Stetson back on his head and walked through the door. We followed him.

Once inside the car, I flicked on the heater, although I felt fine. Audie had championed me, and it warmed me to my toes. But only heat would defog the car windows.

“Thanks for taking your car today.” He spoke as if nothing special had happened, as if he hadn’t stood up for me to a prime alpha male.

“No problem.” We drove the short distance to the city office building, rebuilt at the edge of town for the millennium.

“Do you know why Grace Gulch doesn’t have a town square? You know, court and jail and all that in the center of town?”

“Save that for your county seats. No, we’re just small potatoes here. We don’t even have our own jail.” We found a parking place and dashed inside.

Ron’s secretary, Betty Bruner, greeted us at the door with her high-pitched squeal. The shapely blond provided the town’s only competition to Suzanne Jay’s come-hither looks. “I’m sorry, you can’t see Mayor Grace just now. He has a visitor.”

“A visitor? We have a nine o’clock appointment,” I protested. Now that I had mustered the courage to come, I didn’t want it to seep away while we waited.

“The gentleman came in with the mayor this morning. I’m sure it will be just a few minutes.”

I wanted to ask about the mayor’s unexpected visitor but decided against it. Girlish voice and sexy appearance aside, Betty did a good job and kept the mayor’s business affairs in order and as secret as they could be in a small town.

Soon the murmur of voices behind the door grew to a dull roar.

“That sounds like—” Audie began.

“Mitch Gaynor.” I had recognized the voice at the same time.

We stared at each other. What a stroke of luck. The two suspects we had not yet questioned were at the same place at the same time, and more than that, appeared to be having a serious disagreement. I wanted to creep closer to the door to hear better. While I considered the wisdom of such a move, Betty appeared in front of us.

“You look cold. I brought you some fresh coffee.”

That settled it. I couldn’t sneak around with a cup of hot java in my hand.

Mayor Ron’s voice rose to a bellow. The three of us turned our heads as words exploded through the closed door. “Repeat that. . .dead man. . .”

Repeat what? What had Mitch said? The mayor’s threat echoed the argument between the original Grace and Gaynor at the time of the land run.

Different sounds replaced shouts. A crash, the sound of glass breaking, followed by a thud, then a crack loud enough to shatter my eardrums.

Betty sprang to the door.

“Call 911!” Audie barked at her and pushed past her into the mayor’s office.

The glass of the gun case holding Bob Grace’s gun was shattered, the velvet lining empty. Gaynor and Grace faced each other like duelers at high noon, shock mirrored on both faces.

Mitch Gaynor clutched his left arm, blood dripping from his fingers.

And Mayor Ron held a smoking gun.

15

September 20, 1891

Dearest Mary,

I’m certain you spent the night on your knees for me although you could not yet have received word of my plans. A preacher who has joined the thousands at the border, hoping to make the run for the town of Chandler, held a service.

We sang many familiar tunes, including my favorite, “Amazing Grace.” He preached from Isaiah 43:19. “Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness.” The words resounded in my heart. The preacher warned against moving ahead of God’s timing; God will make everything new and right and beautiful in His time.

I am torn. My mind was settled, but now I feel ashamed. How can I fail you again? Numbers at the border have swollen beyond count, each one certain that this is his opportunity for a new life. It helps me to pour out my heart to you, even though events will have been decided before you see my words.

Your loving fiancé,

Robert Grace

~

Thursday, September 26

I stood rooted to the spot for the space of a heartbeat. The irony of the situation registered. This was the true reenactment of the original gunfight, in reverse. Dick Gaynor had wounded Bob Grace in the arm; now Bob’s grandson Ron had wounded Dick’s grandson Mitch the same way. I doubted that it was a fatal wound, but blood dripped in an ominous puddle on the plush beige carpet.

“You’ll pay for this.” Mitch circled the mayor, an animal made fierce by injury, the difference in their heights menacing in the circumstances. “You shot me on purpose!”

“You stupid—stupid—” The mayor couldn’t find a word worthy of the insult that wanted to escape his lips. “Gaynor.” A Grace could think of no greater insult. “If I meant to shoot you, I would have done more than nick your arm.” Red anger suffused his normally placid face and sent fingers up his bald head. “It was an accident.”

“That’s one accident too many, if you ask me. First Penn, now me. The Graces have always had a feud with the Gaynors; you can’t deny it. You should all be locked up.” Mitch shook his fist in the mayor’s face, spraying fresh drops of blood to the floor.

“Sit down, both of you.” Audie spoke with authority. They complied.

The two men glared at each other, hurling verbal insults, but at least they didn’t come to blows. I glanced at the empty gun case and remembered that the mayor still held the gun in his hands. In the high emotions of the moment, he might decide to shoot again. I suppressed a shiver.

I started to reach for the gun, then stopped myself. Fingerprints. “Why don’t you put the gun on your desk?” I suggested.

Ron jumped, a blank look taking over his face at the interruption. He stared at the gun in his hand as if he had forgotten about it. “Good idea.” He hefted the weight in his palm and eyed the mechanism. “I didn’t shoot you on purpose, Mitch. I don’t even remember pulling the trigger.” After brushing aside slivers of glass with a tissue, he set the gun down. He stayed on his feet. He usually did—as short as he was, he looked ridiculous behind the big mayor’s desk.

For answer, he received a muttered curse.

“What do you remember?” I asked. “How did the gun case get broken?”

The mayor studied the display case, which held pride of place over his head in the mayoral office. Shards of glass had scattered across the entire end of the office. Cracks marred the frame of his diploma from Grace Gulch High School and his photo with the governor. The only thing untouched was the “Grace World Map,” which should please him. Multicolored pushpins still located all the communities and organizations containing the word
Grace
in their name. The proudest piece of Grace World memorabilia, a Maori tiki from Grace City, New Zealand, had fallen on its side. I closed my eyes, dredging up memories of the office layout from my last visit. What was out of place? I opened them again. I couldn’t remember.

“It was the key that broke the case.”

Key? It didn’t make sense.

“The key to the city.” Ron sounded tired. He pointed to the floor.

I walked around to the back of the desk. A three-foot long copper-plated key marked
Welcome to Grace Gulch
had fallen to the floor.

“He threatened to throw me out of the town and throw away the key,” Mitch said from his spot across the room. “So I said, ‘you mean this key?’ and I grabbed the thing. We must have knocked into the display case during the tussle. ” He pointed a finger at the mayor. “That’s when he grabbed the gun and shot me.”

Blood seeped through a white linen handkerchief tied around Mitch’s arms. Audie must have taken care of that.

“If the police don’t arrest you, I’ll sue.”

Ron only shook his head, anger drained out of him.

Something rumbled in the outer office, and we turned our attention to the door. The EMTs had arrived.

“Who’s been shot?” A petite brunette paramedic spoke up, her features suggesting the Fox Indian heritage common in our part of Oklahoma. She spotted the blood on the carpet and looked at Mitch. “Let me see.”

Several EMTs trooped in behind her, together with the one officer present. He let the techs do their work. They did the usual things, determining the nature and extent of the wound before they moved the patient. They unwrapped Audie’s makeshift bindings as well as cutting away the sleeve of Mitch’s shirt. Blood soaked the soft cotton. I watched, slightly queasy, unable to look away.

“It looks like this is just a flesh wound, sir. We’ll get you to the hospital and have you home in no time.” She unfolded a wheelchair.

When she tried to assist Mitch, he shook her off. “My legs are fine.” He leaned on the chair with his good arm and pushed up. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.” Mitch sent one last sally to the mayor before he headed out the door. “No Grace is going to get away with it a second time.”

“You can get his statement at the hospital,” the young tech said to the officer. She directed Mitch through the door before he could renew his complaints.

“No way to keep this quiet.” Mayor Ron’s face, pale as Swiss cheese, crumpled into worried lines. “I’m sorry to miss your appointment, folks. I always want to talk with the public.” He inserted a note of political bonhomie into the words.

Betty the secretary poked her head in the door. “Chief Reiner said he would come as soon as he returns to town. He’s out on a 911 call at the old Kirkendall place. It sounds like no one was there.”

The officer opened his mouth to speak. The mayor looked at him. “I’ll wait for the chief.”

The young man hesitated. I felt sorry for him. I could see his police training warring with his respect for the man in charge.

“You may leave.” Mayor Ron turned toward us. “Now give me a few moments to speak with these folks.”

The officer gulped and left the office.

“It looks like we’ll have time for our chat after all. But let’s leave this depressing office.” Mayor Ron stood up, matching actions to his words. “Betty, see if the cleaning crew can come by early, as soon as the police finish their investigation. Cici, Audie, the conference room?”

We sat at one end of a long, polished maple table.
So this is what our tax money went for.
I confess the ergonomic chairs cushioned me in comfort. I envisioned the movers and shakers of Grace Gulch crowded into the space during a city council meeting. Betty poured us each a cup of coffee and plopped a box of pastries from Gaynor Goodies in the middle of the table.

Ron spoke in generalities, urging us to try the apple fritters. “They’re the best in the county, even if a Gaynor did bake them!” he declared.

I agreed. I ate them at least once a week. “Not today.” I smiled. I chose a bran muffin and bit into the thick bread.

Betty departed, leaving the door slightly ajar.

“Now how can I help you folks?” Away from the disaster of his office, the mayor regained his composure. He smiled in cheerful welcome.

I wanted to ask,
What were you and Mitch arguing about?
My gut told me it had to be about last weekend’s events, but a practiced politician like the mayor would sidestep that question. I needed a better opening.

Audie found it for me. “Did either Penn or Mitch ever discuss the history of Grace Gulch with you? I thought Penn might have interviewed you when he wrote the play.”

“Of course. You can’t read too much into what happened today. Mitch and I had a friendly bet over your little play. I warned him it was a losing bet; I had history on my side.” His grin increased until I was afraid his lips would crack from stretching so far. “He didn’t like losing.”

“What happened? Exactly?” Since the mayor brought up the subject, I felt I could ask. “When did you grab the gun? Did Mitch threaten you?”

“Why should I answer you?” Ron cleared his throat. “You’re not the police.”

“But we’ll listen with an open mind.”

I saw Audie’s mouth open to interrupt and frowned him into silence.

“We’re not Gaynors or Graces. Neutral, so to speak.”

“And you’re Cord’s friends.” A smile twitched at the corners of the mayor’s mouth. “To tell the truth, I don’t know exactly what happened. Mitch picked up the key and swung it at the gun case. We both went for the gun at the same time—I wanted to prevent a shooting, you understand—and the next thing I knew, the gun had been fired and Mitch was clutching his arm. I don’t remember pulling the trigger.”

What was he saying? That Mitch shot himself? Why would he do that? Or was this mayor-talk to cover his tracks?

“Were the two of you arguing about the true history of the land run, Mayor?” Audie leaned forward, elbows folded on the table, calm as a man holding the winning cards.

“What do you mean, the true history of the land run?” Ron’s lips snapped into a thin line, and he sank back in his chair. “Everybody knows what happened. You just produced the reenactment.”

“Gwen Hardy let us read the Grace letters. The ones Penn used to write the script. We ran across this.” Audie reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the letter we had found.

“It doesn’t matter.” Ron waved a pudgy hand in the direction of the envelope. “Whatever it says, it’s ancient history.” His pallor gave lie to his easy denial, and his protest rang hollow.

“If it doesn’t matter—then what were the two of you arguing about?” Audie asked.

I held my breath, waiting for his answer.

Pink returned to Ron’s cheeks. “Who do you think you are, barging in here and asking me questions?”

He knew more than he was telling. His indignation confirmed our suspicions more strongly than a signed confession would have.

“Tell me what you want, young man, before I have you thrown out on your ear.”

Audie remained unruffled. I wondered what went on beneath the surface—was he really calm, or was he acting? He pushed the envelope in Ron’s direction with one slender finger. Earnest sincerity marked his face. “Don’t you want to know the truth, sir? No matter what you decide to do about it? Before someone else is hurt by this so-called ancient history?”

“Very well.” Ron’s hand engulfed the envelope and extracted two thin sheets of paper. A faint scent of violets reached my nose.

I could see his lips mouthing the words. “
Ready to cheat. . .found a cave. . .ahead of anyone else. . .whatever I must.”
He looked at the date. “He wrote this on September 19. Three days before the land run. He must have changed his mind.” His political mind already put the right spin on the evidence.

The mayor picked up his coffee cup—a tourist cup from Idaho,
Grace City
painted in black letters on green clay—and paced the conference room. He walked from his seat, to the windows that overlooked the gulch, green hills that sloped toward our main street never far away from the center of town. “He chose well,” he murmured. “The story passed down in our family is that he wanted the town to be a place where God’s grace would reign. I can’t talk about it much publicly, of course—state and religion and all that—but that’s what we believe.”

“ ‘He who has been forgiven much loves much.’ ” Audie quoted. “Even if he was a Sooner, maybe because he was a Sooner, he knew about God’s grace first hand.” It was a nice gesture, paying tribute to Grace Gulch’s founder without making him a saint. And make no mistake about it, Bob Grace
did
found the town of Grace Gulch, whether by legal or illegal means.

The mayor faced northwest, to where the Circle G Ranch stood, and didn’t say anything for a few minutes. When he resumed his place at the table, both the blustering fighter and the grinning homeboy had disappeared, replaced by a wily politician.

“The ranch belongs to Cord, fair and square. Gaynor didn’t go down without a fight. He used every means, legal and illegal, to get my grandfather off his claim.”

I thought about that. Ancient history, maybe, but to Cord and any other Grace in town the history was as fresh as this morning’s coffee. For starters, Gaynor had tried barn burnings. Tampering with the water supply. Cattle rustling. None of it was proven, but suspicions ran strong.