The Loner: Trail Of Blood (5 page)

Arturo had taken the note from the messenger and handed it to Conrad. He cocked a quizzical eyebrow but didn’t come right out and ask what it was about.

Conrad told him anyway. “This is an invitation to dinner tonight, Arturo. At Mrs. Beatrice Garrison’s house. She apologizes for the lateness of the invitation but says she only heard today that I’m back in Boston.”

“I’m afraid the name means nothing to me, sir, although it clearly does to you.”

“The late Mr. Wilbur Garrison owned textile mills, a shipping line, and everything else he could get his fat, greedy hands on. When his heart gave out in his mistress’s bed, his wife inherited everything and became one of the wealthiest women in the Northeast. She’s a prominent figure in Boston society.”

“Ah, then I take it no one else knows about the amorous activitives that cost her late husband his life.”

“On the contrary.” Conrad smiled. “Practically everyone knows about them. But members of high society never allow the truth to interfere with their illusions. I know what I’m talking about, because for a long time I was the same way.”

“Having seen you in action, sir, I find that difficult to believe.”

“Believe it. There was a time when I was the most pompous, priggish stuffed shirt you could ever hope to see. My mother, rest her soul, tried to help me grow up, but it took a couple of other people to finally accomplish that.”

A couple people named Frank Morgan and Rebel Callahan.

Conrad put away the thoughts of his father and his late wife and went on. “It’s short notice to get a tuxedo fitted and altered in time for dinner this evening, so we’d better get busy. The jacket is going to be especially tricky.”

“Why is that, sir?”

“It’ll have to be cut so you can’t see the guns.”

When attending a dinner party in one of Boston’s most elegant Beacon Hill mansions, most people wouldn’t have felt the need to go armed with anything more than a gracious smile, a quick wit, and good manners. But Conrad felt naked when he wasn’t packing iron.

The alterations on the tuxedo had been hurried but expert. The price he’d paid insured that. When he climbed out of the carriage in front of Mrs. Beatrice Garrison’s house that evening, no one could tell he carried a .38 caliber revolver under each arm. The holsters had been removed from the cross-draw rig he’d worn during the train trip and attached to a special shoulder harness that was invisible under his clothes. Being armed like that wasn’t particularly comfortable, but the weight of the guns was certainly reassuring. Conrad didn’t expect any trouble at Mrs. Garrison’s party, especially the kind that required hot lead, but he was ready just in case.

A servant met him at the door and took his hat and walking stick. Conrad vaguely recognized the old butler. “So good to see you again, Mr. Browning,” the man murmured. “Welcome back to Boston.”

“Thank you, Charles,” Conrad said, coming up with the butler’s name. “I trust that Mrs. Garrison is well?”

“Very well, sir. She and the guests who have already arrived are in the solarium. Do you remember your way?”

“Yes, I do, thank you.” Conrad started along a richly carpeted hallway lined with sober portraits of generations of wealthy Garrisons, thinking of the many dinners and balls he, his mother, and stepfather had attended at that house.

The solarium was a high-ceilinged room with numerous tall windows. Boston wasn’t blessed with the sunniest climate in the world—those people wouldn’t know what hot sunlight was until they’d been through the
Jornada del Muerto
. During the day the room took advantage of what sunlight there was, but the curtains had been drawn against the dark night.

A servant handed Conrad a drink as soon as he stepped into the room. He sipped the champagne and moved toward the cluster of people around a short, stout, white-haired figure in a glittering dress and an abundance of brilliant jewelry.

“Conrad Browning!” the woman cried happily when she spotted him. “Dear boy! I thought you had deserted us forever.”

The beautifully dressed crowd parted to let
him through. He took the hand Mrs. Garrison extended to him, bent over it, and pressed his lips to the back.

“How wonderful to see you again,” she went on. “We won’t stand on ceremony. Come here and give your Aunt Beatrice a hug.”

She wasn’t really his aunt, of course, but she and his mother had been close friends. Conrad hugged her, being careful not to spill his drink, and kissed her rouged and powdered cheek.

Her blue eyes sparkled as she looked up at him. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Why?” he asked, smiling.

“First of all, for taking that charming wife of yours and abandoning Boston in the first place.” She grew serious as she placed a beringed hand on his arm. “I was so sorry to hear about Rebel. She was … very different from the sort of woman to whom we’re accustomed around here, but I could tell she was very good for you, my boy. I liked her a great deal.”

“She liked you, too,” Conrad said softly. Although two women couldn’t have been more different than Rebel and Mrs. Garrison, they both had a streak of honesty a mile wide. Mrs. Garrison had known perfectly well her late husband was a pirate and a lech. She had chosen to deal with it by not dealing with it.

“And you let all of us believe for the longest time that you were dead! Didn’t it ever occur to you to let your old friends know you were alive?”

“I’ve been … busy.”

That was an understatement. Every time
Conrad had turned around, he had been mixed up in some gun ruckus or another. He had fought outlaws, land grabbers, and bounty hunters. He had come within a whisker of dying more times than he liked to think about. He had slept on the hard ground, gone hungry, and been tortured. Thoughts of Boston society hadn’t really entered his mind.

“Well, now you’re back, hopefully for good,” Mrs. Garrison went on. “I won’t monopolize your time. I’m sure everyone here wants to speak to you.”

Conrad didn’t tell her he wasn’t planning to stay in Boston a minute longer than he had to and spent the next half hour exchanging greetings, small talk, and pleasantries with the other guests, with all of whom he was acquainted. Joseph and Celeste Demarest were there. Celeste pouted a little as she said, “I was so disappointed you couldn’t come to tea this afternoon, Conrad.”

“I had to get ready for this evening.” He lowered his voice. “Can’t disappoint Mrs. Garrison, you know. And I was sure I’d see you and Joseph here.”

“Of course,” Joseph said. “Conrad, you and I really should have lunch sometime while you’re here. I know you said you weren’t in Boston to do business, but it never hurts to consider your options.”

“I’ll think about it,” Conrad promised, which was an utter lie.

What would these people do, he asked himself, if they knew that only a few months ago, he had
been locked up in Hell Gate Prison, a beaten, half-starved wretch? What would they think of all the men he had killed? How would they react if he told them about gunning down the bastards who had murdered his wife?

Ignoring his thoughts he smiled and chatted, and none of it meant a damned thing. The party was just an ordeal to be endured until he found out what he needed to know.

No one had mentioned Pamela Tarleton or her father by the time everyone was called into the dining room. They had to be curious, but Conrad knew they were avoiding the subject—like they always avoided talking about anything unpleasant. He was willing to bide his time.

After dinner the guests moved into the ballroom for dancing. Conrad tried to plead a stiff leg, but Celeste Demarest dragged him onto the floor anyway. As they circled the room to the music of a string quartet, Celeste said, “You must be terribly lonely these days, Conrad. I don’t mean to remind you of your loss, but I worry about you.”

He doubted if she had spared a thought for him until he showed up unexpectedly in Boston again, but he didn’t let that show on his face. “I try to keep myself busy. It helps not to think about things, you know.”

“Well, if you ever need someone to talk to, or simply a soft shoulder on which to rest your head for a while, you know where to find me.”

“Indeed I do,” he said, making her flush with pleasure. “Things have certainly changed in the
past few years. Five years ago, it would have been Pamela in my arms.”

“Pamela …” Celeste repeated. For a second her face hardened. “That was a dreadful thing, you know.”

He thought she meant how Pamela had died from a gunman’s bullet in a tiny New Mexico settlement, but then Celeste went on. “The way she shut herself up in her house was just tragic. She never saw anyone for months at a time, at least no one in our circle. I assume she saw her servants.”

“She isolated herself?”

“Because she was too ashamed to show her face after … Oh, Conrad, don’t get me wrong. No one blames you for breaking off the engagement. I don’t know what actually happened. It was all shrouded in some sort of cloak of mystery, but I’m sure you had perfectly good reasons for doing what you did, probably more than one reason. Pamela was always rather … rather …”

Celeste couldn’t find the words. Conrad could have supplied them.

Vicious. Scheming. Insane.

“It was a terrible time for all of us,” he murmured.

“Oh, I’m sure it was! Such a shame, such a shame.”

“So she never saw anyone?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

That made sense. Pamela hadn’t wanted anyone to know she was pregnant.

“And then after a year or so, she went away again,” Celeste continued. “No one knew where.
We heard later that she had been killed in some sort of accident out West somewhere.” A shudder went through her delicate frame. “What a dreadful place to die.”

Before either of them could say anything else, Joseph Demarest tapped Conrad on the shoulder. “Could I trouble you for my wife back?” he asked with a smile.

“Of course,” Conrad said as he handed over Celeste, who didn’t bother hiding her disappointment at having to dance with her husband.

Conrad walked over to Mrs. Garrison, who was watching the dancers with a faint smile on her face. “A lovely evening, as always,” he said.

“Thank you, dear boy.” She linked her arm with his. “How are you holding up? The losses you’ve suffered, first your wife and then Pamela—”

“Pamela was nothing to me,” he said bluntly.

Mrs. Garrison’s lips tightened in disapproval. “The two of you were once engaged to be married.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“You would have been a good match.”

“I don’t think so.”

Mrs. Garrison waved her other hand. “Oh, not as good as you and Rebel, of course, but still, it’s a shame that things didn’t work out.”

“I heard that she shut herself up in her house, and stayed there for a year.”

“Indeed. I suppose she was in mourning for what she had lost when you broke your engagement to her.”

“With all due respect, Aunt Beatrice, I don’t intend to explain myself.”

“I’m not asking you to. What happened between the two of you can remain between the two of you as far as I’m concerned. Anyway, it’s obvious. You met Rebel, and that was the end for Pamela.”

“Do you know where she went when she left Boston after that?”

The old woman shook her head. “I’m afraid not. There’s a rumor she was killed.”

“It’s true,” Conrad said with a nod. He didn’t mention that he’d been there when it happened.

“A terrible shame. First Clark and then her. But these things happen, I suppose.”

“I’d like to know more about what she did during those days.”

Mrs. Garrison frowned up at him. “I thought you washed your hands of the poor girl.”

“That’s true, but I’m curious. Do you think you could ask around for me?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You want me to be a gossipmonger for you, is that it?”

“Not exactly.” He sighed. “I’d just like to get everything straight in my mind at last, so I can put it all behind me and get on with the rest of my life.”

Her expression relented a little. “I suppose I can understand that. I felt the same way when Wilbur passed on. Sometimes the knowledge is bitter, but it’s better for us to go ahead and swallow it and be done with it.”

“That’s true.”

“All right. I’ll see what I can find out.” She squeezed his arm. “I knew you must still be in pain
when I heard that you couldn’t bring yourself to go back to your mother’s house and were staying in a hotel. I’ll do what I can to help you, Conrad.”

He kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”

“I warn you, though … sometimes when we look for the truth, we find out things we would have rather not known.”

She didn’t know how well acquainted with that idea he already was. He and the bitter truth were already old friends.

Conrad was a little surprised at how much relief he felt when he left the Garrison mansion later that evening. He paused before climbing into his carriage and drew in a deep breath. The air was full of the various unpleasant odors of the city, but it wasn’t as stifling as the hothouse atmosphere of stratified society inside the mansion.

Someday, he thought, he would once again breathe in the clean, crisp air of the mountain desert country that had become his real home.

But first he had a job to do.

The driver he had hired was a burly, middle-aged Irishman named Clancy. He turned around on the seat and asked, “Where to, Mr. Browning?”

“Back to the hotel, I suppose. Where else would I go?”

Clancy grinned at him. “Well, there’s this little pub I know where ye could indulge in some good Irish whiskey and a song or two.”

“Do you really think I’d leave a dinner party at a mansion such as this and go to some pub?”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but ye strike me as a diff’rent sort of gent than most o’ these stuffed shirts.”

Conrad returned the grin. “And thank God for that! Sure, Clancy. The idea sounds like a good one to me.”

After spending the evening with all those swells, it would be nice to be around some real people again, he thought as he climbed into the carriage. To forget about everything for a while and just enjoy himself.