Smokin' Six-Shooter

Was it possible he was the author of the murder story? It didn’t seem likely, but then some people wrote better than they spoke.

Locking up behind her, she biked to her little house. Then, with the installments of the murder story in her backpack, she got in her car and headed toward Whitehorse.

She took the dirt road out of town. Old Town White-horse had been the first settlement called Whitehorse. It had been nearer the Missouri River and the Breaks. That was back when supplies came by riverboat.

Once the railroad came through, five miles to the north, the town migrated to the tracks, taking the name Whitehorse with it.

As Jolene drove, she mentally replayed the conversation with the women of the sewing circle and was even more curious why they had been so reticent to talk about the murder.

RUSSELL FOUND HIS FATHER waiting for him when he returned to the ranch. Grayson Corbett was a large man with graying hair and an easygoing smile as well as attitude. Grayson had raised his five sons single-handedly from the time Russell was small and had done a damned good job.

Actually there was little his father couldn’t do. That’s why seeing him like this was so hard on Russell.

Worry lines etched Grayson’s still-handsome face and seemed to make his blue eyes even paler. Russell knew what he wanted to talk about the moment he saw his father and felt his stomach turn at the thought.

“We have to make a decision,” Grayson said without preamble. “We can’t put it off any longer.” Clearly his father had been thinking about the problem and probably little else since they’d last talked.

“You already know how I feel,” Russell said. “It’s a damned-fool thing and a waste of money as far as I’m concerned. What did the other ranchers and farmers have to say at the meeting?”

“Some agree with you. But there are more who are ready to try anything if there’s a chance of saving their crops.”

Russell shook his head, seeing that his father had already made his decision.

“If some of these farmers and ranchers don’t get some moisture and soon, they’re going to lose everything,” Grayson said. “I don’t think we have a choice.”

“So what did you tell them?”

“I told them I had to talk to my son,” his father said. “This is your ranch as much as mine, more actually. You get the final word.”

Russell could see that his father was worried about the others, who had the most to lose. “What choice do we have?”

If he and his father didn’t go along with the rest, he doubted the fifteen thousand dollars needed to hire the rainmaker could be raised. “I’ll go along with whatever decision you make.”

Grayson looked relieved, not that the worry lines softened. They were throwing good money away, Russell believed. But if the ranchers and farmers wanted to believe some man could make rain, then he wasn’t going to try to stop them.

“Thank you,” Grayson said as he laid a heavy hand on his son’s shoulders. “At least by hiring a rainmaker, they feel they’re doing something to avert disaster.”

THE MILK RIVER EXAMINER was the only newspaper for miles around. It was housed in a small building along the main street facing the tracks.

Andi Blake, the paper’s only reporter, a friendly, attractive woman with a southern accent, helped Jolene.

“What date are you looking for?” Andi asked.

Jolene told her it would have been this month twenty-four years ago. “I’m not sure of the exact date.”

“I wasn’t here then, but you’re welcome to look. Everything is on microfiche. You know how to use it?”

Jolene did from her college days. She thanked Andi, then sat down in the back of the office and, as the articles from May twenty-four years ago began to come up on screen, she began to roll her way through.

She slowed at the stories about the drought conditions, the fears of the ranchers and farmers, talk of hiring a rainmaker to come to town. A few papers later, there was a small article about a rainmaker coming to town and how the ranchers were raising money to pay him to make rain.

With a shudder, Jolene thought of the murder story and her feeling that the weather conditions were too much like this year.

The headline in the very next newspaper stopped her cold.

Woman Murdered in Brutal Attack

An Old Town Whitehorse resident was found murdered in her home last evening.

Heart in her throat, Jolene read further, then backtracked, realizing that the article didn’t say who found the body.

The sheriff was asking anyone with information in connection to the murder of Laura Beaumont to come forward.

If this Laura Beaumont was the same woman that the author of the murder story was writing about, she had at least one lover.

Their DNA would have been in the house. But had law enforcement even heard of DNA testing twenty-four years ago? It wouldn’t have been widely used even if they had. Certainly not in Whitehorse.

Jolene continued to read, halting on the next paragraph.

The woman was found upstairs in her bed. She had been stabbed numerous times.

Had her lover found her? Or—

Sheriff’s deputies are searching for the woman’s missing young daughter.

Missing?

Angel Beaumont is about four or five years old with brown hair and eyes. It is unknown what she might have been wearing at the time of her disappearance.

Jolene quickly flipped to the next weekly newspaper and scanned for an article about the murder. The girl was still missing a week later?

Searchers are combing the creek behind the farmhouse for the girl’s body, but with no sign of the daughter. If anyone knows of the child’s whereabouts or has information about the killing, they are to contact the sheriff’s department at once. All calls will be confidential.

A few issues later, Jolene found the news article about the daughter.

DULCIE GRABBED SOMETHING to eat at a small café downtown and debated if she should call this Arlene Evans woman or drive out to her place. She opted to drive out unannounced and talk to her face-to-face.

As she was leaving the café, her mind on what she would say once she reached the Evans place, Dulcie bumped into a young woman coming out of one of the local businesses.

“Pardon me,” Dulcie said as the woman, slim, dark-haired and pretty, dropped the folder she’d been carrying. Papers fluttered across the sidewalk. “I’m so sorry.”

Dulcie hurried to help her pick up the scattered sheets, noticing that they were copies of newspaper articles. One headline caught her eye. Investigation Continues in Murder Case.

“Thank you,” the young woman said, clearly upset as she hurriedly stuffed the copies back into the folder and rushed to her compact car parked at the curb.

Murder? Dulcie wondered how many murders they had in a town like this and what were the chances the article could have been about Laura Beaumont. She told herself that when she had more time and information, she’d come back and have a look at some old newspaper stories.

As she climbed into her rental car, she put the incident out of her mind and drove south to the Evans place outside of Old Town Whitehorse.

Like everything else in this part of Montana, the houses were few and far between, with a lot of prairie and gullies and sagebrush to fill the spaces.

It was late and Dulcie wasn’t sure what approach to use when she knocked on the farmhouse door.

“Arlene Evans?” she asked the tall, rawboned ranch-woman who answered the door. Her hair was short in a becoming style that made her appear younger than Dulcie had expected.

“Yes?”

“I’m looking for some information and I was hoping you could help me.”

“I’ll certainly try. Why don’t you step in out of the heat? I just made some lemonade. Would you like a glass?”

Dulcie blinked in surprise at how easy it had been to get inside this woman’s home. Had this been Chicago and a stranger knocking on Dulcie’s door…well, she wouldn’t have opened it, let alone invited her inside for lemonade.

Dulcie noticed photographs on the wall of what appeared to be Arlene’s grown children. The oldest looked to be in her thirties and rather frumpy. A woman in her early twenties was posing with a baby in her arms and a young man, presumably her husband, standing next to her. They looked as if they were crazy about each other. The third photo was of a handsome young man, but there was something sneaky in his gaze.

“Is this about my rural online dating service?” Arlene asked from the kitchen. “Have a seat,” she said, motioning to the adjacent living room as she came in, and handed Dulcie a tall glass of lemonade.

It looked so good she took a sip before she sat down in the immaculate house. “This is wonderful,” she said, licking her lips.

Arlene Evans smiled as she sat down across from her. The house was surprisingly cool, considering how hot it was outside.

“An online rural dating service? That does sound interesting, but I’m here about something else,” Dulcie said. “Let me be candid with you. I am up here looking at a piece of property.” It was the truth. Just not as much truth as she’d told Roselee at the museum. She didn’t want another reaction like that one.

“Property?” Arlene repeated.

“I’m trying to find out the history of the place. I understand you’ve lived here all your life and might be able to help me.”

“Well, like I said, I’ll certainly try.”

Dulcie noticed the ring on Arlene’s finger as she put down her lemonade glass on one of the coasters on the coffee table. “That’s a beautiful ring.”

“Thank you. I’m getting married in a few months. A Christmas wedding.”

“Congratulations.” The diamond was extraordinary, and Dulcie wondered if Arlene was marrying some rich rancher from around here.

“So where is this property?”

“It’s outside Old Town Whitehorse. I believe the last occupant of the place was named Laura Beaumont?”

“Oh, my gosh.” Arlene’s expression told her that she’d hit paydirt.

“Did you know Laura?”

“Not personally. I knew she was widowed. She wasn’t from around here and wasn’t here all that long. I heard the land belonged to her husband’s family and was all that she had, so she had no choice but to live here after her husband died. She leased all of the farmland. Clearly she had no interest in farming or living in the country.”

Arlene seemed to catch herself. “I shouldn’t be saying anything because I didn’t know her. You know how rumors get started.”

Apparently Arlene was trying to live down her reputation as a gossip. “Do you know where Laura moved from?” asked Dulcie.

“California. That was another reason it was odd. Californians move to Montana all the time, just not this part of Montana, if you know what I mean.”

She did. California though? Not the Chicago area. So how was it that her parents knew this woman?

“Can you tell me what happened to her?”

“You don’t know?”

Dulcie wanted to hear it from Arlene. “Please, I really need you to be honest with me. I heard she might have been murdered?”

“Well, it’s not like I’m carrying tales. Everyone knows. She was murdered in one of the upstairs bedrooms twenty…oh, my gosh, twenty-four years ago this month!”

Did that explain why Roselee at the museum had gotten so upset? “Murder must be rare in this part of the country,” she said, thinking of the woman she’d run into earlier with the copies of the newspaper clippings about a murder.

“It is rare, but this murder.” Arlene shook her head. “It was quite vicious. She was stabbed to death over a dozen times and the killer was never caught.”

Dulcie was trying to take this all in when Arlene said, “What made it all the more horrific was her daughter.”

“Her daughter?”

“She was just a little thing, four or five, as I recall. They discovered her bloody footprints in the bedroom where she’d come in. She must have seen her mother lying there and ran.”

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