“Maybe I could do that.”
“What? And encourage him? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
It probably wasn’t, but Laurel was fairly certain she’d be greeted with less suspicion than Call. “So he’s going to look around at the top of the falls?”
“He says he is.”
“Is there anything left for him to discover?”
“Maybe he’ll find another greenback, but I don’t think we’ll ever know. I’m not at all confident that he’d mention it.”
“I think he’d like to show you up to Mr. Stonechurch. Solve this himself.”
“If that were true, why didn’t he try harder to find Mr. Pye?”
“He didn’t know about the robbery when I went to him. I only reported Mr. Pye as a horse thief.”
“He knew everything later and still didn’t do much. He took a deputy with him and didn’t form a posse. Didn’t that ever strike you as odd?”
“I chalked it up to Carter being out of practice and generally unmotivated. Why? Why do you think he hung back?”
“Self-preservation, Laurel. I think the sheriff of Falls Hollow is up to his neck in this thing.”
31
Over the course of the next week, Laurel thought a lot about what Call had told her. The investigation stalled again while Call casually asked folks around town about their war experiences and managed to raise the topic of Springfield rifles. Most of his inquiries were done in Sweeny’s, sometimes after a few drinks, sometimes during a game of cards. It wasn’t unusual for both to be involved. Laurel wondered how he squeezed information from men known not to talk about the war, but when she asked him, he merely shrugged, not dismissively, but as if he didn’t know.
Rooster tagged along on a couple of occasions, and Laurel put the same question to him. “He’s got a way about him,” said Rooster. “Puts folks at ease, though I know him well enough now to see that he isn’t easy himself. He talks about Libby Prison and Andersonville sometimes. Doesn’t say much, but men respect him for it. They tell him things they’d never tell their mothers, wives, or sweethearts. Not sure they realize they’re telling him.”
Laurel took in what Rooster told her and hugged it to her heart. Through no intentional avoidance on her part, she didn’t see much of Call except at meals. Everyone at the station was working their routine during the day, feeding, watering, grooming the horses, weeding and picking vegetables in the garden, gathering eggs, milking thecows, providing slops for the hogs, butchering, smoking, repairing, cooking, baking, washing, and welcoming every stage passing through.
In the evenings, Laurel sat on the porch alone. Sometimes she read until it was too dark to see; sometimes she only pretended to read. Call rarely returned from town while she was sitting outside, and when he did, he only raised a hand in passing and went straight to the bunkhouse. They never spoke of him returning to her bedroom. With deep regret, Laurel came to realize they were rarely speaking at all.
She didn’t like it. She simply didn’t know how to fix it.
Rayleigh Carter never showed up at her door bearing flowers or asking her to walk with him. She had suspected all along that Call had been pulling her leg and the sheriff’s lack of attention seemed to be proof of that. She was relieved that it had only been a tease, especially now that she knew about Call’s suspicions.
As far as Laurel knew, Carter was the only person on Call’s list that he hadn’t spoken to about the rifle. Call had also talked to a number of men who weren’t on the list, but that was in aid of providing cover. She supposed he had his reasons for excluding the sheriff, but other than his suspicion that Carter was involved, he hadn’t told her what they were. She tended to go at a thing straight on. Call practiced circling his prey.
“Well, don’t you look fine today,” Mrs. Lancaster said when Laurel walked into the kitchen. “And it not being a Sunday, I have to wonder what’s going on in that busy, busy mind of yours.”
Laurel smoothed the midriff of her bodice and plucked at her skirt to make it fuller. She was wearing a modest cherry-red-and-ivory-striped dress with three-quarter-length sleeves and a buttoned-up neckline. “You approve?”
“Of the dress, yes. What you’re going to do in it, well, I’m reserving judgment.”
“I haven’t worn this in an age,” Laurel said. “It was in the back of my wardrobe. I’d forgotten about it. Probablybecause it requires lacing my corset so tight I can barely breathe. Can you tell?”
Mrs. Lancaster pursed her lips and looked Laurel over. “You seem to be breathing just fine. Leastways the corset hasn’t interfered with your talking.” The cook punched the puffy ball of dough on the table, folded and turned it, and then dug in with the heels of her hands. “What I surely can tell is that you’re avoiding my question.”
“You haven’t really asked one, have you?” When Mrs. Lancaster merely gave her the eye, she relented. “Very well. I’m going to visit the sheriff.”
Mrs. Lancaster’s eyebrows rose halfway to her hairline. “Now why are you going to do that?”
“I have some questions to put to him.”
“Well, I reckon you’re dressed to get some answers.”
Laurel nodded but her smile was suddenly uncertain. “Maybe I should change.”
