Karen Mercury (6 page)

“Stay put!” he hollered, racing forward to scoop up the candle, which was still lit. He held it to the woman’s fearful face as she froze with her shaking, empty hands held up. “
Fidelia.
”

The bushy-tailed barmaid was not so bouncy or perky now. Her normally oriental eyes were wide with terror, and he could even see her locket trembling in the pit of her throat. “I suppose I am caught,” she whispered.

Chess frowned and looked down to kick the spurs aside. “Yes, I suppose you are.” He walked around her, examining her for weapons. She could have a little derringer in her pocket, but he would shoot her before she could draw it. So he dripped a few blobs of wax onto the tabletop and set the candle in it. “The question is, why? Are you that hard up for money that you needed to break into my room and steal my spurs?”

He remembered giving Fidelia his room number to give to Spenser, but there were many more valuable objects than the spurs in his room, and Chess strode about, noting that nothing else had been touched. He waved his pistol at Fidelia. “Speak, woman! Why have you broken into my room only to molest my spurs?”

The fearful attitude completely fell from her then. Her hands of surrender turned into fists of anger at her sides, and she even took a couple of steps toward him. “Because you’re a damned-ass murderer, that’s why! An informant has told me that an absinthe drinker who went to the place where women pose as Eve is the one who murdered my brother, and I have come here to bring you to justice!”

She dove for the spurs but only managed to grab one before Chess snatched her by the arm and twirled her around, pinning her against the wall with his body. “Did it occur to you there are hundreds of men who enjoy absinthe and patronize the Morning Star Gallery? Why didn’t you accuse one of them?”

Fidelia’s eyes narrowed, and she looked about to spit. “Because the murderer also wears these enormous Californio spurs with these giant six-inch rowels, that’s why!”

“And hundreds more men wear those!”

She even laughed now with disgust! “Those? I think not! The only idiots in Laramie who would be caught dead in those ridiculous things are swells and complete dunderheads!”

Ridiculous things?
Chess had heard from some railroad magnate in New York that these were the grandest, most ostentatious things to wear in the West. But then again, that fellow had probably been a swell. And possibly a dunderhead.

Chess pressed his revolver barrel to Fidelia’s breast and tore the spur from her grip, flinging it aside. He then rifled her overskirt pocket, instantly finding the suspected derringer. He stuck it in his waistband but not before making a big show of feeling around for other stolen items. His fingers closed over a metal object. “Aha!” he barked, but it was only a key he had never seen before.

Fidelia snatched it back. “That’s my hotel room key,
du Schweinehund!
”

Chess kept her pinned to the wall because it was pleasurable, but he lowered the pistol. “Do tell me, what is
Du Schweinehund
? Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Pig-dog!” she spat with satisfaction. “That is what you are for taking my beloved brother from me, and I am going to see you hanged!”

“Oh, yes? And pray tell, Fräulein Fidelia. Who is this intellectual ‘informant’ who has given you this valuable information?”

She wriggled her shoulders, perhaps unaware that the action bobbled her titties nicely. “I cannot tell you. His…his identity is a secret.”

“Ha!” Chess finally backed off. He circled the room, waving his pistol about. “So based upon something vague and unspecific—absinthe, Eve, big spurs—that a nebulous and probably roostered ‘informant’ has told you, you automatically jump to the conclusion that your brother’s murderer is
me?
Dear fräulein, when was your brother murdered?”

“About a month ago.” Fidelia was more uncertain now.

“And
where
was he murdered?”

“I heard he was murdered in Laramie.”

“And have you seen a dead body?”

“No. But the information I have is dependable and impeccable.”

Chess had relaxed enough now to holster his revolver and uncork the absinthe bottle. He poured some into the whiskey glass he’d been using only hours earlier with Spenser. What a strange town this was! He could see there would never be deadly boring days here.

Offering the glass to the barmaid, she accepted it and sipped.

“See? Even
you
enjoy absinthe. Well, will it convince you any further that I’m not the culprit if I tell you I only reached Laramie last night on the ten o’clock train to Ogallala? Before that, I obviously was in Omaha. Before that, Chicago. Look.” He took a waistcoat from a peg on the wall and shuffled through the pocket. “Here. Here’s my ticket stub from Ogallala.”

Fidelia barely glanced at it, giving Chess the idea that she no longer suspected him.

He took the empty glass from her and refilled it, sipping from it himself this time. “I’m sorry I have no absinthe spoon, cold water, or sugar cubes, as you so graciously provided us in the bathhouse.” He was trying to warm the girl up, and it seemed to be working, as she mustered a tiny smile. “Besides. Why would I, the son of the biggest tycoon in Laramie, be off murdering poor German boys? Even if I was in town two weeks ago, I’m the owner of the Serendipity Ranch! Ranch owners can’t be bothered murdering others. I’m sure you’ve heard of the ranch?”

“Yes,” Fidelia admitted. “I heard gossip that Neil Tempest was selling most of it off so he could spend more time in town being the marshal.” Fire came into her eyes again. “But that is even more reason to suspect you! If you are such back-slapping pals with the marshal, what’s to stop you from doing anything you want?”

Chess took her by the shoulders. He could be gentle and persuasive when warranted, and he felt called upon to be that way now. “Fidelia, I’m no murderer! I am many other things but no murderer. Didn’t you hear Mr. Murphy and me arguing in the bathhouse? Why would I be fighting the only friend I have in town for your hand if I had murdered your brother?”

Fidelia lifted a hand to her breast. Her mouth opened, but only a squeak came out.

“You
did
hear us, didn’t you? How could you not? We were practically kicking a lung out of each other.”

Fidelia gulped. “I thought you were arguing over Josephine, the girl who models Eve.”

Chess laughed with amazement. This poor German doll. She would assume the men would fall for the most flashy, silver-haired nymph in the burg.

Although he had to agree—a month ago he would’ve set his sights upon Josephine. He’d actually been wondering what change had come over him to suddenly have a case on for a shapely but simple country lass. At least, that’s how Chess had seen her at first. A doll so unsophisticated he probably couldn’t even bring her to a ball for fear she’d wear wooden clogs. But her boldness and bravery in tracking down her brother’s murderer gave Chess a new respect for her.

He touched her cheek almost lovingly, although he was sure it would look more like pity. “You thought we meant Josephine? Now, why wouldn’t we be fighting over you? You’re the bonniest piece of calico I’ve seen in all of America.”

“But I was born in Stuttgart,” she said, almost petulantly. She became even more cunning and captivating when pouting. “Maybe you just like European women.”

How he wanted to gather her ample ass in his hands and hold her to him! Her fleshy twat would rub against his cock, and she would squirm with lust, like a worm on a fishing hook. But he didn’t dare. Five minutes ago she had thought him a murderer. It was no improvement if she now thought him a masher.

“No, it is you,” he said sincerely. “You have such a bright-eyed manner, so spirited and bouncy.”

Chess searched her almond-shaped brown eyes for a sign of interest. True, she was not pulling away. Normally that was a good enough sign for Chess. But suddenly, with Fidelia he wanted more. He wanted her to actually
like
him, and for who he was. That was the biggest challenge.

She looked with humility at his necktie and gave a little shrug. “I merely have the lust for life, the enthusiasm to find my brother’s murderer.”

Chess plunged his hand into her coiffure and was shocked to find her hair so silky. He slithered thousands of tiny silken strands between his fingers. This must have carried him away, for he said, “No, it’s more than that. You have always been a vibrant girl, but I think for the first time in your life you need a man to bring out the full potential of that sunny nature of yours. You need a companion, a partner. Have you never been betrothed?” He suspected Fidelia was not terribly experienced in courtship—why, he didn’t know, as she was an absolutely stunning tomato.

She looked even more shamed now and could not meet his eyes. “No. Some men have asked, but I haven’t said yes to anyone. I was too busy supporting my brother. Ulrich wanted to be a musician, which as you may know isn’t terribly lucrative.”

Without forethought, Chess kissed her. At first her mouth was frozen with surprise, and he merely kissed her like an ordinary masher. But swiftly she responded, actually putting a hand on his shoulder, the other wrapping around the back of his neck. Her lips parted, and Chess feasted upon her delicious licorice flavor.

Her hands were even aromatic from the cinnamon bark and mint she had crushed, and Chess couldn’t recall feeling this rapturous when kissing a woman in months. Years, perhaps. Actually, he rarely kissed women in Europe. Kissing was an affectionate thing one did not often do. But Chess had had the feeling affection was called for here—in America, and especially with Fidelia.

Fidelia even allowed him to back her up against the wall again. She allowed him to twine his tongue with hers, and she nipped at his mouth sensuously with her little chipmunk teeth. It was when he dared to lunge his hips into her, to massage his cock against the juicy plump layer of fat that covered her twat, that she broke away and slapped him.

The crack resounded sharply in the room and woke Chess from his absinthe-fueled lust.
Mon Dieu!
Shocked, he held his palm to his face. When had he last been slapped? Perhaps that time in the Côte d’Azur, but right now he had not been doing much more than merely humping a woman—over her clothing, at that!

“You’re just a whoremonger!” Fidelia cried, yanking up the shoulder of her bodice, although he had not mussed it.

“A pig-dog?” he suggested.

Fidelia looked confused at first. The kiss had softened her up considerably, and she looked prettier than ever with strands of brunette hair flying about her shoulders. She cried adamantly, “Yes!
Du Schweinehund!
You maul that poor innocent Spenser fellow just to satisfy your prurient desires!”

Chess frowned. “What is wrong with that?”

“I saw the rope marks on his wrists!” She pointed at the table where he had flung the reatas after slipping them off Spenser. “I am not stupid! And what do you need a riding crop for? You don’t even have a horse!”

“Fidelia, Fidelia, my dove!” Chess tried to soothe her, but she cringed back from him. “Did it occur to you that Spenser may have
willingly
allowed me to bind him? Have you never engaged in play of that sort?”

“Never!” she shrieked, more stridently than was necessary. “Binding and striking are only for mean, horrible people who have no other method to exert control over another!”

Chess said mildly, “But if it’s done in the spirit of play…”

Fidelia had yanked the door open. She was so upset over something so simple! She seemed nearly on the verge of tears. “I may not consider you my brother’s murderer any longer, but you are too crass and bullying for me! I will find the killer with Spenser’s help.”

“I will help!” cried Chess. “Neil Tempest is my sister’s husband. We can use his deputies, the vigilance committee, everyone Neil knows to discover who did this odious deed!”

Mon Dieu
, she
was
crying! The need to embrace and soothe her overwhelmed Chess, but she was already outside in the hallway, her lower lip trembling appealingly. “I do not need your help! I have never needed anyone’s help!” she sobbed, and slammed the door in his face.

Chess held his breath for a long time, listening to her stomping down the hall in her little boots. Once her boot steps were gone down the stairs, he exhaled heavily.

What a mess!
He knew he had made a stew of things—of his life. While he didn’t like to be lectured, in some ways he agreed with his father. Chess had succeeded in living frivolously, wasting money, and in general making a mess of things. That was why he had had to keep moving about Europe. To escape from the messes he had created.

Now he didn’t even want to polish off the bottle of absinthe. His debauch had come to an end. He would face his father tomorrow soberly and like a man, and then he would set things right with Fidelia and Spenser.

Spenser’s biceps were throbbing, holding this damned sword.

He had developed an acute sense of time, pretending to be Hercules in the Morning Star Gallery. Of course he could not move to look at a watch, and he was almost literally dying to know how much longer he had to stand here with this damned sword raised over his head. Maybe next time he would pretend to be The Drunken Hercules by that painter Rubens. That would be a much easier pose.