Mary Russell - Doc

“My pleasure, sir, but I would like to ask for something in return, if you don’t object.”

“Anything,” Alexander said, “that is not sinful or illegal.”

“Neither of those. A little more than curiosity, I should say. A little less than suspicion.”

Doc outlined what he wanted. It was simple enough. Alexander was happy to oblige, but puzzled. “Why not ask about this yourself?”

“The sin of pride, I suppose,” Doc said. “Such an inquiry might invite others to believe that I am hopin’ to be recompensed for the expense of the wake, and that is most surely not my intent.”

“Daddy? Daddy! A man just came into the store.”

Bob Wright looked up from the order he was working on in the back room. It takes a fair amount to unnerve a child raised in Kansas, and a man coming into the store was not what you’d call unusual, but Belle was standing in the doorway, half-hiding herself, holding on to the jamb. It had been a long time since Bob had heard that little-girl uncertainty in her voice. His reaction was swift: grip the shotgun he kept under his desk and go directly to her side.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“Daddy,” she said with quiet urgency, lifting her chin slightly toward the front door, “that man is wearing a dress !”

Frowning, Bob scanned the customers for someone sporting a beard and a bustle. He’d seen stranger things in his day … But when he spotted the gentleman in question, Bob put the shotgun away.

“Father von Angensperg!” he called, going out to the counter with his hand extended in welcome. “Nice to see you again, sir.”

Belle recognized the name. It was that of Johnnie Sanders’ favorite teacher at St. Francis, back in Wichita. So that’s a Jesuit , she thought, not a crazy person!

This realization failed to make her feel a great deal better because everybody knew Jesuits took orders straight from the pope. Her father said that they were in league with Irish immigrants to take over the United States, which was why she wasn’t allowed to attend Johnnie’s funeral: because there might be some sort of papist uprising, or riot, or something. Even at the time, that seemed a little far-fetched, but the day of the funeral, Belle couldn’t argue with a locked door, and that was exactly why she took this opportunity to meet the man Johnnie had liked so much.

The moment her father stopped to take a breath, Belle said, “Daddy, would you introduce me to the gentleman, please?” Which he did, because there wasn’t really any courteous way to get out of it.

So there she was, little old Isabelle Wright, surrounded by shirts, hats, boots, canned goods, flour barrels, hair tonic, and neckerchiefs, saying howdy-do to an international conspirator wearing a dress! And she didn’t know what she might have expected such a person to be like, but it wasn’t this handsome older man with his sunburned face and smiling blue eyes and lovely manners. She was sort of thrilled by the way he straightened and clicked his heels and took her hand like he was going to kiss it, although he didn’t really—he just bowed over it and brought it close to his lips like he was going to—and said how pleased he was to meet her.

Except—and this might have been her imagination—there was something sort of strange in his expression, like he’d noticed something about her and felt concerned about it. That was disturbing, but Belle covered her confusion by telling him that Johnnie had spoken of him often.

Before she could say much more, her father cut in—so friendly in that embarrassing, fake way of his—to ask, in his heartiest voice, “What can I do for you on this fine day, sir?”

“I was wondering if I might have a minute of your time,” the Jesuit said with a refined-sounding German accent. “I would like to ask a few questions about some money Johnnie Sanders might have left in your care, if that would be convenient.”

Which caused Belle to prick up her ears, and don’t think she didn’t notice the way her father made clear that it wasn’t a bit convenient, letting his attention be interrupted three or four times for things that one of the clerks could have done perfectly well, like quoting prices for a cowboy who wanted “a bran-new rig,” and penciling a long order on some brown paper for a trail boss, and generally stalling around like anything.

Suddenly international papist conspiracies were less intriguing than her own father’s odd behavior, so just to see what would happen, Belle said in her best Helpful Hannah voice, “Daddy, I’d be happy to take the gentleman into the back until you have time to speak to him.” And before her father could say no, she asked the priest, “May I offer you a cup of coffee, sir?”

Well! That changed her father’s mind about what would be convenient and when, because he took the priest right back into the office and closed the door behind them. But Belle was determined to find out what was going on, so she stood right by the door to listen and didn’t care a rap if anybody saw her do it, either.

The priest’s voice was pretty quiet, but her father’s had a sort of carrying quality to it. Belle was familiar with some of what he was saying, so it was easy to figure out what she couldn’t hear. Bob didn’t know anything about any money, but allowed as how Johnnie might have booked his cash and put it in the safe without mentioning it. Bob himself used to keep all the transactions in his head, but he was out of town a lot, what with being a state representative and so on, lot of responsibilities, you see. He’d trusted Johnnie to do the books in his absence. Then the boy died in the fire just as the cattle season was picking up steam, and Father von Angensperg could see for himself how busy the store was. Bob had been more careful about accounts back when he had business partners in the old days, but since he bought out Charlie Rath and Henry Beverley, he’d gotten careless because there was nobody else to answer to, and that was why he’d hired Johnnie to take over the books in the first place.

Now, it was Belle’s observation that when people gave a whole lot of reasons for something, it was because they were trying hard to make sure you didn’t notice something else. And she was trying to figure out what her father was covering up when he said, “I haven’t really looked at the account books since Johnnie passed on. What kinda figure are we talking about here, do you know?”

The answer was so startling that her father repeated it, and Belle gasped, which set off one of those coughing spells that had been giving her trouble lately. It was probably just hay fever, which doctors said now wasn’t really a fever and didn’t have anything to do with hay, but Belle did feel awfully warm, at night especially, and she would be glad when the first frost hit because she expected she’d feel better after the goldenrod died back.

She was still coughing when her father opened the door and frowned at her like he knew she’d been eavesdropping and didn’t like it, but he couldn’t say anything about it because he was still talking to the priest.

“Well, I sure don’t know anything about a sum of money like that, but I’ll check into it for you, and I’ll let you know if I find anything out,” he said. Except he had a sort of stiff look on his face that meant, Hell will freeze solid before I tell you anything about my books, you Catholic fiend. You probably want that money for the pope .

Belle could tell that Father von Angensperg wasn’t a bit fooled either. He thanked her father for his time, though his eyes were on Belle as he spoke, and he had that look of compassionate concern again, which gave Belle the cold creeps because she didn’t know as there was anything to be concerned or compassionate about . Personally, she thought she was the last person in Kansas anybody should feel sorry for, given that she was tolerably pretty and her daddy was indecently rich and her whole life was laid out before her like a banquet on a fine lace tablecloth, and yet …