The Wickedest Town in the West: And Other Stories

By Marilyn Todd

Sometimes, wishing someone dead is not enough.
Sometimes, you need to make it happen.
Always, there’s someone there to make you pay.

From one of the best mystery short story writers of her generation comes this sparkling collection of ten chillers and thrillers, where justice takes many forms. Whether you’re a witch (“A Taste for Burning”), a soldier in the trenches (“Michelle”) or a demure churchgoer (“The Wickedest Town in the West”), you will always know that justice is served.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Untreed Reads
• Release date: Oct 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781945447969

Book preview

Author

The Wickedest Town in the West

By Marilyn Todd

Copyright 2016 by Marilyn Todd

Cover Copyright 2016 by Untreed Reads Publishing

Cover Design by Ginny Glass

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

Previously published in print:

The Wickedest Town in the West, 2012

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

2013 EQMM Readers Award winner

Thoroughly Modern Millinery, 2004

Mammoth Book of Roaring 20s Whodunits

A Taste for Burning, 2001

Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunits

Fruit of All Evil, 2014

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

Show Time, 2011

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

Michelle, 2008

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

Open and Shut Case, 2010

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

Room for Improvement, 2007

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

Shamus Award nominee

Who Pays the Piper, 2015

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

Blood Red Roses, 2014

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

2014 EQMM Readers Award winner

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Also by Marilyn Todd and Untreed Reads Publishing

The Claudia Seferius Mysteries

I, Claudia

Virgin Territory

Man Eater

Wolf Whistle

Jail Bait

Black Salamander

Dream Boat

Dark Horse

Second Act

Widow’s Pique

Stone Cold

Sour Grapes

Scorpion Rising

The High Priestess Iliona Ancient Greek Mysteries

Blind Eye

Blood Moon

Still Waters

www.untreedreads.com

Critical Acclaim for Marilyn Todd Includes…

One of the best mystery short story writers of her generation, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

Delectably enjoyable, Daily Mail

Never boring, Kirkus

Thoroughly entertaining, The Bookseller

Deliciously drawn characters, Library Journal

Wry and entertaining, Mystery Scene Magazine

The Wickedest Town in the West

And Other Stories

Marilyn Todd

To Ann & Malcolm

Good company, good times, good friends.

The Wickedest Town in the West

My dearest Mary,

Thank goodness. After weeks of storm-tossed seas, unreliable railroads and having every bone in my body jarred by the Wells Fargo stagecoach, I have finally reached my destination. Though I confess, dear sister, the town is far from how I envisaged.

When my dear, darling Edward wrote of the opportunities that abounded in this booming mining community, my mind pictured a city such as our own Newcastle-upon-Tyne. A town of shops, theatres and fine dining establishments. Imagine my shock upon discovering that, apart from a few principal thoroughfares, Jerome is little more than a squalid assembly of timber shacks and canvas tents stuck on a hill!

That is not all. The buckboard fetching me from Prescott lost a wheel a few miles out of town, and the driver advised against my attempting any climb in this heat. He would walk up, he said, then send someone back to collect me. Well! Hardly five minutes had passed before a rider approached from the direction in which we had come.

‘Trouble, ma’am?’

My dear Mary, you have never seen such a ruffian. His high leather boots were covered in dust, his hair fell past his collar, and I doubt he had shaved in two days. But by far the most disconcerting part about his appearance was the guns he wore on either side of his hip, slung low and tied to his thigh.

‘Thank you for asking, but no, sir,’ I replied. ‘I have the matter in hand.’

‘So I see.’

He dismounted. Studied the broken spoke from the wheel. Made what I felt was a far lengthier survey than necessary of my person.

‘An English rose won’t last long in these temperatures.’ He nodded in the direction of that monstrous black brute of his, merrily snickering away in a cactus. ‘Hop on up.’

In respect of the heat, of course, he was right. My dress—you remember my pale blue afternoon gown with the triple frill skirt?—this had already stuck to my skin, for there was little shade in the rough desert scrub. When we left Prescott, I recall the thermometer was reading close to one hundred, and my corset was biting so tight I could faint. But believe me, I was going nowhere with this vagabond.

‘A kind offer, sir, which regretfully I must refuse. For one thing, I have never sat astride a horse in my life, and for another, I cannot leave my valise unattended—’

‘Those are excuses, not reasons.’ Without warning, I found myself picked up as though I was a sack of flour and thrown into the saddle. ‘There. You are now astride a horse, not so bad is it? And frankly, unless your luggage grows legs, it’s not going anywhere. Let’s go.’

I was too dizzy from the enormous height at which I’d found myself to object. And, if the truth be told, I was grateful at not having to spend the next few hours under the fierce Arizona sun with only rattlesnakes and scorpions for company. Alas, my relief was short-lived. Whereas I had been expecting my rescuer to walk alongside, he suddenly swung up behind me, took hold of the reins, and kicked the stallion into a gallop. By the time we reached Jerome, my ringlets were frizz, my throat was parched, and I had never been so…so…personal with a man in my life. And that includes Papa and my darling fiancé.

‘The name’s Jacob Fuller,’ he said, lifting me down from the saddle. ‘Jake to my friends. Welcome to the wickedest town in the West.’

I’m sure he was teasing, but my knees were too weak from pressing against that horrible horse to stand up, much less care. Mr. Fuller left me at the Trinity Hotel, one of the better structures, and this is where I now pen my letter.

The loneliness I wrote of last time has not diminished. I am like a fish out of water in this treeless, lawless, Godless land, but crying solves nothing. Tomorrow I shall begin enquiries as to what could have happened to my sweet, darling Edward, after which I cannot wait to return home. I shall never again moan about the sweet rains of England, or the fog that rolls in from the sea.

Give my love to Papa, may God rest you and keep you both safe.

Your dear sister, Elizabeth.

*

Dearest Mary,

How time passes! It seems barely two days since my last letter, never mind two weeks! But I am learning (the hard way) that the marking of time is a difficult business in an industry where there is little by way of a regular calendar, and where the hands on even conventional clocks stand at frivolously different angles.

I confess I am making poor progress in the matter of dear Edward’s disappearance. Part of the problem is that I had gravely underestimated Jerome. Not only in size, but in the scale of industry that goes on here. The copper mine is the biggest by far, producing over a million pounds of copper per month. Per month, Mary! Can you credit it? Then there are the gold and silver mines to be worked, not to mention the vast quantities of zinc and lead that are also extracted. Between the clunking of ore carts and the pound of the stamp mills, there were times when I could hardly make myself heard. Assuming anyone could see me through the smoke from the smelting works!

Productivity on such a scale means people. Lots of people. I am told by the hotel clerk that over ten thousand souls have flooded into Jerome, and the numbers continue to rise. The town itself is orderly and neat, weaving its way up the mountain. But the camps are unstructured, and many of the men are foreigners with limited knowledge of English. So far, I have encountered Germans and Swedes, Irishmen and Scots, two Cossacks, many Chinamen, and someone I am told is an Austrian count. Many of these keep irregular hours. Many more of them keep dogs.

My search is further hampered by a rather more delicate issue. Mr. Fuller, and it grieves me to write this, was not teasing when he pronounced Jerome the wickedest town in the West. You and I, my dear, seem to be the only two people in the Universe who were unaware of this fact, but—and again I defer to the hotel clerk’s knowledge—the town has no fewer than thirty-seven saloons and thirteen bordellos. Whereas I have only seen but the one church, and that with the door off its hinges.

As you know, Edward and I agreed to give our engagement three years, while he made his fortune out West. However, it occurs to me that, if we bring our wedding forward to next year, Edward could use the time to build a small chapel, then we could revise our plans of spreading God’s word in Africa and bring His love to where it is needed the most. In Jerome.

Many a time you and I have sat through our dear father’s sermons as he raged against Sodom and Gomorrah, but none of them, sweet sister, prepared me for the sights here. Such dens of iniquity you cannot imagine—and I have yet to venture into the district known as the Cribs, where most of the gambling, boozing and bawdy houses are found. Only last night, a girl called Cajun Sue was nearly strangled to death by one of the miners. She only survived, because he passed out from the drink. However, unless I find out what befell my dear Edward, this is an evil I will not shirk from facing. I only pray it does not come to this, and that I find him safe and well soon.

What is particularly distressing is that no one has heard of him, Mary. How can this be so?

‘Mr. Bishop is a carpenter,’ I tell people. ‘A joiner.’

For heaven knows, there is enough work for such a tradesman. Buildings are going up everywhere that one turns, raised wooden sidewalks are lining the streets, and mule trains are constantly bringing timbers up to the mines. Yet no matter where I’ve enquired, I’ve met with blank faces and shakes of the head.

I simply do not understand. Edward may have skipped over some of the less savoury aspects, but he wrote so eloquently about the Arizona sunsets, the mountains, the mines and the characters he encountered, and how much work there was for him in Jerome, that I do not doubt for a second he was here. It is, of course, a mystery that I shall get to the bottom of. However long it may take.

By the way, I had another encounter with the unmentionable Mr. Fuller. This was yesterday evening, and although his boots were no longer covered with dust, it seems he has retained his aversion to barbers.

‘If you’re going to continue traipsing round factories and mines,’ he said, not even bothering to remove his hat, but merely tipping the brim with his finger. ‘I suggest you ditch those heavy petticoats and that corset of yours, before you poach to death up there in the hills.’

You see, Mary? Exactly the kind of vulgarity my dear Edward was protecting me from.

‘Mind telling me exactly what it is that you’re after?’

‘I most certainly do mind, Mr. Fuller!’

A lady does not discuss business with any gentleman who considers undergarments to be an appropriate topic of conversation. Especially when they are hers.

Incidentally, please don’t mention the fist fights, opium dens and brothels to Papa. He will only worry himself silly. Tell him I am in excellent health, which is true, and that I am thoroughly enjoying my sojourn in the West. The latter may be a falsehood, but it is only a small one, and, as far as Papa is concerned, it’s for the best. I know he feels I’m on a fool’s errand. That Edward has simply found a new love and has been too cowardly to write me, but I know this is not true. His last letter was every bit as affectionate as the twenty before it. He would not have broken our engagement without honour.

With luck and God’s blessing, I will still be home before All Saints.

Your ever-loving sister, Elizabeth.

*

PS: I almost forgot! A week ago I had the most unimaginable toothache and asked one of the miners, an old-timer rejoicing in the name of Turkey Creek Jones, how I might find relief.

‘Your best bet’s the Lone Star Saloon,’ he told me. ‘Ask for John Henry. You’ll find him dealing faro, most like.’

The Lone Star does not enjoy the most salubrious reputation, but at least it is not in the Cribs. Also, with my mouth swollen and exceedingly painful, I had little choice in the matter. Even so, you can imagine how my heart thumped as I approached the double swing doors! The smell of rye whisky almost overpowered me as I entered, as did the smoke from the cheroots.

‘Excuse me, I’m looking for the dentist, John Henry.’

My request was greeted with a series of whistles and catcalls loud enough to waken the dead, not to mention a set of old-fashioned looks from the saloon girls. Who, I might add, look quite delightful in their brightly coloured ruffles and feathers. To my surprise, a handsome young man, well-dressed, with a neat moustache and slightly asymmetrical eyes, quietened the crowd with his hand.

‘I am John Henry.’ He coughed. ‘How may I help, ma’am?’

I explained about the toothache, trying my best not to stare at the pistol concealed beneath his long broadcloth coat.

‘Come with me,’ he said kindly, ‘I’ll see what I can do. Meanwhile, if any of you gentlemen,’ he added over his shoulder, ‘takes so much as a peek at my cards while I’m gone, you might want to send for a priest.’

The hush that settled over the saloon suggested the young dentist wasn’t joking, but strangely, Mary, I did not feel ill at ease. Even when he led me up to his room in the hotel across the street and laid out his instruments on the dresser, I felt in capable hands.

‘Open wide.’

I opened wide.

‘Say aargh.’

I said aargh.

‘Abscess,’ he pronounced after prodding and probing until my eyes watered. ‘Gargle with salt water four times a day, and within a week you’ll be righter than rain.’

I thanked him warmly, and asked how much I owed him.

He coughed again, this time so hard that his face grew quite pale from the effort. ‘See these clothes? This fine handgun?’ He uncapped a small bottle of laudanum and sipped. ‘I’ve earned these, and more, through the proceeds of blackjack and poker. I can’t, in all conscience take money from you, especially when the only thing I’ve done is diagnose the obvious.’ He bowed. ‘No charge for today’s services, ma’am.’

How refreshing, I thought, to be dealing with the only true gentleman I had met since my arrival! When I emerged from the hotel, would you believe there was none other than Jacob Fuller leaning against the wall, grinning from one side of his face to another.

‘Well, well.’ There it was again. That insolent tip of the hat brim. ‘Who’d have expected an English rose to be in the same bed as a thorn bush.’

‘I hab a toodache,’ I said crossly. ‘I needed a debtist.’

‘Lang-hao is the best doc in town. He’s reasonably priced, offers good Chinese medicine, and doesn’t shoot holes in his patients.’

‘I wib consult who I like, and, if you don’t mide, I wib stick wid John Henry.’

‘Then you’d best get better or worse by tomorrow,’ he laughed. ‘John Henry Holliday’s headed east at first light. For Tombstone, to join Wyatt Earp.’

*

Dear, Mary,

How wonderful to hear from you! I am so glad your sewing is improving and that you are enjoying your work with the choir. I confess it quite made my heart ache, reading how the ladies of the Church miss me as much as I miss them, especially Miss Bunce. Such a meek, gentle creature, and I swear no one bakes seed cake quite like her.

Have I written about the food here? The Mexican influence is strong in the camp, and the spices take some getting used to. But once one has embraced the fiery blends, the palate finds most other foods bland, and those floury tortillas crisped up on the griddle are scrumptious. In addition, a wealth of foreign influence abounds, and who would have thought Danish sausages could taste so different from German sausages, eh? In particular, my friend Jia Li, whose father, Lang-hao, the doctor who also owns the laundry, conjures up some truly magical dinners in her round, metal pot. What is amazing is that she produces them in next to no time.

Also, I cannot be sure whether I told you that I moved out of the Trinity Hotel? Partly, this was because the red floral wallpaper with its tasteless blue frieze grated my nerves. Partly because the establishment was running expensive, and my funds need to stretch further than my initial budget, although I still hope to be home with you by Christmas. But mainly it’s because I found the atmosphere stuffy and dull. The little bald clerk, with his striped vest and gold pocket watch, had perspiration in abundance but no conversation, and there were times when I could scream at the constant tick-tick-tick of the clock in the lobby, especially when it is permanently set at the incorrect time.

Consequently, I have removed to rooms adjacent to the Chinese laundry, and you have never seen such a hive of industry in your life. How they cope with the heat from the wood-fired boiler that is constantly burning is beyond me. I suppose they get shade from the drying platforms in the back yard, where the wet clothes are hung, but on the whole, I find the place very festive. The front of the premises is painted in red with black lettering and the most glorious symbols you have ever clapped eyes on, and often Turkey Creek Jones and I drink tea with Jia Li and her father from dainty porcelain cups without handles. Imagine. No handles…! There is, of course, a certain irony in seeing men beavering away at the washtubs and scrub-boards, when such a notion is unheard of in China, this being women’s work there. But then they don’t use starch in the Orient, either! Lang-hao says more of his countrymen will be flooding to this corner of Arizona soon, to help build the railroad that is planned for next year.

Apart from Turkey Creek and Jia Li, my other good friend is Mrs. Brown, known to all and sundry as Butter. I met her about a week into my stay, when one of Moondog Kelly’s puppies broke loose, and he and I were trying to re-capture it before it ran under a cartwheel or got kicked by a mule. As I turned the corner, I cannoned into Mrs. Brown, sending her flying backwards into the dirt, then compounded the felony by landing smack-bang on top of the poor woman. I felt sure she would be furious. Remember Miss Tyndall, when all I did was step on her toe? No such tirade from Butter, whose trademark saying is legendary.

‘I ain’t much to look at, boys, but wait till you see my gals. You’re gonna love me then.’

Despite running a house of ill repute and having a talent for drinking most men under the table, a warmer, funnier soul you could not hope to meet. Believe it or not, it was on the opening night of her establishment that the famous encounter between Wyatt Earp and Billy the Kid took place.

Apparently, Mr. Earp was more interested in how the town was shaping up than romance, while over by the bar, a young man she’d never seen before had the miners in stitches with his jokes and tall tales. He was of small build and rather strange-looking, she remembered, but in spite of his joviality and charm, she had this feeling that you wouldn’t want to get on his bad side. The other thing was that both his holsters faced backwards.

After an hour or so, the boy sauntered over to where Butter and Wyatt were drinking. ‘City dude like you,’ he said, indicating Mr. Earp’s sharp suit and neat grooming. ‘Kinda outta place here, ain’t you?’

‘On my way to Tombstone, son. To join my family.’

‘Henry, McCarty,’ the boy said, offering his hand. ‘My friends call me Billy. Y’know, I saw you in Dodge a while back.’

‘Did you now?’

‘Watched you down four drunk drovers in the middle of town, and I swear I ain’t never seen anyone draw nor shoot so fast in my life.’

Mr. Earp said nothing. Just put down his glass.

‘Which made me wonder,’ the boy said, grinning. ‘Who’s the fastest, d’you reckon? Wyatt Earp? Or Billy the Kid?’

‘You don’t have to do this, son,’ Mr. Earp said, and who knows what would have happened next, because suddenly there was shooting and yelping outside in the street, where a dozen war-painted Apaches were herding the horses out of the corral, firing wildly into the night.

Mr. Earp was at the door taking aim with his pistol, when he felt a Colt pressed to his ear.

‘I’ll be relieving you of that,’ Billy said politely. ‘Sorry we never got to finish our chat, but I gotta get these nags to