“Same here. It gives me pause, though, and I thank the Lord my man never took to serious drinking. None of my sons either.”
“Certainly not Hank or Dillon,” Laurel said. “I’ve made my selections, Mrs. Booker.”
“Bring the spools here and I’ll measure and cut them for you.”
Laurel carried them over. “Eighteen inches each, please.”
“I especially like this cornflower blue grosgrain.” Mrs. Booker measured, snipped, and wrapped all three ribbons in a brown paper envelope that she tied off with string. “That’ll be one dollar twenty cents.”
Laurel’s hand went to the pocket of her trousers and stopped before she reached inside. “You know, if it’s all the same, I think I’ll put it on my credit.”
“That’s fine.” She got out her pad and flipped through it until she came to Laurel’s name. She wrote down the purchase and the amount. “Anything else?”
“No. I’m good. Thank you.”
“See you at services, then.” She jabbed her index finger at the front window. “And if you expect to get a lick of work from Mr. Landry today, you best pry him away from my husband.”
Laurel grinned. “My plan exactly.”
30
I didn’t require rescuing,” said Call when he and Laurel were out of Mr. Booker’s hearing. “He’s an interesting fellow. I was enjoying myself.”
“I’m sure. But did you learn anything you came to town to find out?”
“Not a thing, but when I saw you go into the mercantile, I knew my presence inside was unnecessary. Why are you here anyway? And where are we going?”
“I’m here because I wanted to purchase some ribbons.” She showed him her packet. “We’re going to the bank. I learned that Mrs. Booker took ten-dollar notes from Mrs. Fry, Bobber Jordan, and Magnus Clutterbuck. Mrs. Fry gave her more than one over the last few weeks. Bobber won his note playing poker. Sweeny paid Mr. Clutterbuck to leave the saloon before he destroyed property, and I reckon we know where and how Mrs. Fry came by her legal tender.”
“Where and how,” said Call, “but we don’t know who gave them to her. I doubt she’d be forthcoming if I asked. Maybe I can find out who was at the poker table with Bobber Jordan. Did Mrs. Booker wonder why you were asking about the notes?”
“She didn’t seem to.” Laurel told him how she had come by the information.
“Clever. I knew I was right to leave you in there with her.”
“Yet you didn’t invite me to accompany you.”
“You were busy. And you didn’t mention ribbons.”
Laurel let it go, mostly because they’d reached the bank. Call held the door open for her and she waited for him to accompany her to the teller’s cage. “I’d like to see Mr. Higgenbotham. Is he in?”
The man behind the cage offered a perfunctory smile. “He is, but allow me to tell him you’re here, Miss Morrison.” He looked at Call. “Mr. Landry. Another withdrawal?”
“Not today,” said Call. “I’m here on Mr. Ramsey Stonechurch’s behalf.”
“Of course.”
When the teller disappeared into the office behind him, Laurel spoke to Call in hushed and faintly accusing tones. “He knew you.”
“Sure. I took Mr. Stonechurch’s money out of my boot a long while back. It was damned uncomfortable.”
“No longer a legal tenderfoot, is that it?”
He groaned softly. “It was awful when I said it. Don’t remind me.”
The teller returned and ushered them into the bank manager’s office. Mr. James Higgenbotham was a man of fleshy physical consequence. He carried most of his extra weight in his belly, some of which rested on his lap, but there was enough left to fill out a second chin. His fingers were as plump as sausages, and when he smiled, his round and rosy cheeks lifted until his eyes were mere slits.
“Welcome. Welcome.” Higgenbotham heaved himself out of his chair and came around the desk to greet Laurel warmly. He took her hand in his and shook it. “Close the door, Simms,” he said to the teller. “No disturbances.”
