Outcast (24 page)

Arch's eyes jerked to his mother. She nodded. Arch grabbed Standish by his shirt sleeve and dragged him down, whispering in his ear.

Standish nodded. “That's not a bad word, Arch.”

“It ain't?”

Standish shook his head.

The young lady leaned across the counter. “Which word,” she whispered.

“Titter,” Standish said.

Iona covered her mouth with her hand.
Chuff, chuff, chuff
.

“Well, ain't that a quandary of a thing,” Arch said, climbing back on the stool.

“It's a quandary, all right,” the young lady said, and the three adults burst into laughter. Arch stared at them as though they had lost their minds.

Arch chased the last drop of ice cream across the plate with his spoon. When he was content that he had wrung the last bit of taste from the banana split, he sighed. “Guess that was about the best banana split ever.”

Standish and Iona and the young lady—they had discovered her name was Melissa—sighed, too.

Melissa whispered, “I have never seen anyone enjoy a banana split so much.”

Iona said, “If eating were an art, Arch would reside in the Louvre.”

Melissa's eyebrows furrowed.

Iona explained, “An art museum in Paris.”

Arch nodded. “Us royals know things like that.”

The furrows on Melissa's forehead deepened. “Royals?”

Iona seemed surprised. “Hasn't he eaten like a king?”

Melissa smiled.

“Us royals and the one varlet,” Arch explained.

Melissa frowned. “Varlet?”

Iona took on a serious air. “It is difficult, you see, to be a royal if one doesn't have a varlet to do one's bidding.”

“Bidding?” Arch said, frowning. “That's what you do when you buy cows.”

“Yes,” Iona said. “If ever we sell our cows, Mr. Standish will do our bidding.”

Melissa laughed, and Arch muttered. “Tough to be a royal.”

Standish paid the bill, and the three stepped through the soda shop door, stopping on the boardwalk to consider the next stop on their trek.

“Anything in mind?” Standish asked.

Iona turned sober. “Perhaps we could go to the clothing store.”

Standish nodded.

“Don't know why we would want to do that,” Arch intoned.

Iona said, “I'd just like to look at some of the new fashions. It's been so long since I've done that.”

“Mr. Kennedy might run out of licorice while we're there.”

“For your mother, Arch?”

Arch scuffed at the boardwalk with his shoes and nodded.

Standish peered down. “About time to get Arch some new shoes.”

Iona nodded. “It's about time, but.…”

“Well, let's see what they've got that will fit him.”

Arch brightened. “Mr. Kennedy has shoes. While we're in there for the licorice, we could.…”

Iona laughed, and then took a deep breath. “Mr. Standish?”

“After you, Mrs. Belshaw.”

The store was busy, not with customers but with a clutter of clothing. Dresses, skirts, blouses, and jackets occupied every inch of space. The aisles wound their way through colors enough to challenge, though not match, a Montana sunset.

The clerk approached the moment they entered. “May I help you?”

“We would just like to look for a while.”

The clerk nodded, a question plain on her face. “I'm sorry, but I can't remember who you are. You look familiar, but.…”

“Perhaps you will allow me to introduce us,” Standish said. With a wave of his hat and a slight bow, he said, “This is Mrs. Iona Belshaw and her son Archibald.”

“Arch,” the word came in a hiss.

“I am Miles Standish, Mrs. Belshaw's brother, and Archibald's uncle.”

“Arch! My name is Arch. It's a quandary of a thing when your own uncle doesn't know your name.” Arch glared up at the clerk. “He's a varlet and his mother was locoed, so you can't pay much attention to him.”

“Varlet?”

“Us royals got to have a varlet to do our bidding in case we want to sell our cows,” Arch explained.

“Royals?” Confusion galloped across the clerk's face.

Iona stepped away, looking through the dresses hanging by the door. There were blues and yellows and pinks and…a maroon. A beautiful maroon dress, with a high collar and long sleeves. Lace played across both. She stopped, captivated by the garment, seeing herself whirling in a dance, the light playing across the silk. Reality crushed the fantasy, and she stepped away, moving to a shelf with men's shirts.

She saw the shirt immediately. It was the last shirt she had taken to Mr. Kennedy. The clerk stepped to her elbow, whispering in her ear. “Mr. Standish would love that shirt. Mrs. Kennedy—you know from the general store—does these shirts exclusively for us. You won't find a higher quality shirt in New York City.”

“How much is it?”

“Three dollars.”

Iona jerked her hands back.

“I know that seems like a lot of money, but for the quality, it is a bargain. Look at the stitching.”

Iona didn't have to look. She had seen every stitch by the soft light of a kerosene lantern. Arch stepped up. “Wow, ain't that.…”

Iona grabbed him by the arm. “You're right Arch, that's more than we can pay for a shirt. We'd best be going over to the general store.”

Arch jerked to free his arm from his mother's grip, but she held tight.

The clerk whispered as though she were a co-conspirator in a bank robbery. “That would fit your brother to a tee. I could lay it away for him for Christmas. You could pay me a little every month. That way.…”

An overdressed woman stormed through the door as though it were an impedance unbefitting a woman of her stature. Her eyes roved the room, coming to an abrupt halt on the clerk. She walked to the clerk, stepping in front of Iona.

“A waitress at the Range Café spilled coffee on my husband, yesterday. That clumsy oaf ought not be permitted to serve the public. I told Mr. Jensen that if he hires clumsy people, they can expect to pay for their
faux pas
.”

Her nose went an inch or two higher, and a sneer slipped into its accustomed position on her face. “
Faux pas
means mistake for those of you not familiar with the term.”

Standish stepped forward, a wide smile on his face. “Actually ma'am,
faux pas
is French. It means false step.”

The woman glared at Standish, her nose climbed a bit higher. She turned to the clerk, “I did not come to this store to be corrected by a buffoon. You know the shirts my husband wears. Wrap one up—now.”

The clerk shook her head. “I'm afraid we don't have one of those shirts that would fit your husband. I was telling Mrs. Belshaw.…”

“Belshaw!” The intruder whirled around, seeing Iona for the first time. Her mouth wrinkled into revulsion. She turned back to the clerk. “You are catering to whores?”

The clerk blanched. “Ma'am, I.…”

“I will not frequent a store that serves trash.”

Pain wrinkled Iona's face. Standish stepped forward. “Madam, I share that impression.”

Mrs. E.J. Burkhart, wife of the president of Last Chance's only bank, turned to face Standish. A handsome man, and while not dressed properly, he had a certain grace in the way he walked. Mr. Burkhart was more the proverbial bull in the china shop.

Iona stepped back, her face a mask.

Standish leaned forward congenially. “Trash stores are not high on my list, either. I mean why should we buy somebody else's trash, when we have such a plethora of our own.”

A shadow crossed Mrs. Burkhart's face. Of what was this man speaking?

Standish continued, “Now as far as catering to whores. I feel the same way you do. You should have equal access to this store as women who aren't…professionals. I must say madam, that your choice of clothing fits your business to a T. I personally do not indulge in your profession, but I hold you in no less esteem than I would—the clerk was standing behind Mrs. Burkhart shaking her head. She mouthed the words, banker's wife.” Standish continued, “Than I would the banker's wife.”

Mrs. Burkhart turned a thousand shades of red and purple. She thrust her nose in the air, and with a
harumph
stomped toward the door. She turned as she reached the door to say something, but Standish was quicker. “I would like to thank you madam for sharing a view of your nasal hairs, so heavy and svelte.”

Mrs. Burkhart slammed into the door jamb, setting her hat askew. A caterwauling scream fled through the door with her.

Standish turned to the clerk. “Nice lady.”

The clerk stared at him a moment and then whooped. “That gas bag is meaner than a scalded cat. Her husband deserves her. He is a dolt.”

Her words were broken by another whoop of laughter, and then she continued. “He spills coffee on himself, and she sets out to blame the waitress. No doubt the waitress will have the price of a new shirt taken from her pay. Mrs. Burkhart is.…She.…”

Standish leaned forward. “She certainly is,” he said.

The clerk whooped again.

A smile teased Iona's face. “Perhaps we should go now.”

Standish turned to her.

“Miss…?” he asked staring at the clerk.

“Mrs. Thomas Simpson, Estelle.”

The clerk extended her had to Iona, a warm smile lighting her face. “I think I heard something about you.”

Standish stepped in. “You know how it is in a small town. If they don't have anything to say, they'll make something up”

Mrs. Simpson smiled. “Nothing truer. Now that the dreadnought has steamed away, can I help you with anything?”

Iona shook her head, but Standish stepped forward. “We'll take this,” he said, handing the clerk the maroon dress.

Iona stepped back. “No, you can't…”

“I believe I can,” Standish said. He turned to the clerk. “I can buy this dress, can't I?”

“You certainly can,” the clerk said. She held the dress up, envisioning Iona wearing it.

“Ma'am.”

“Iona.”

“Iona, you will look beautiful in this.” The words rustled like the sound of the silk in her hands.

“Yes she will,” Standish whispered.

Iona shook her head. “I really can't.”

“You really must,” Standish said.

Iona nodded, a slight smile on her face.

“I think it will fit perfectly. Perhaps taken in a bit at the waist. Would you please try it on?”

Iona took the dress and stepped into the change room.

Arch had his hands on his hips. He was just on the edge of kicking up a fuss. The clerk stepped over to him. “Could you help me with something, Arch?”

Arch stood arms akimbo, head cocked to one side. “Doubt it.”

“Well, I have a jar of peppermint sticks. They don't last very long in this dry heat. I was wondering if you would take one off my hands?”

Arch nodded. “S'pose I could do that for you. Course. I'd have to charge you another peppermint stick for the service.”

Estelle whooped. “You have a lot of your uncle in you.”

Arch's eyes squinted almost shut. “Hope not.”

Estelle whooped again.

“Two peppermint sticks it is.”

Arch stuck one in his mouth, the other in his pocket.

Iona stepped out of the change room, grooming her hair with her fingers.

Estelle sighed, a long, soft sigh.

Standish smiled.

Arch squinted, “Don't see why you would wear a dress like that to feed the chickens.”

Iona squealed. “You're absolutely right, Arch. What good is a dress like this for feeding chickens?”

Estelle didn't seem to hear the banter, concentrating instead on the dress. “It should be taken in around the waist.” She grimaced. “I'm sorry, but I don't have a seamstress right now.”

“Iona's a seamstress,” Standish said.

Estelle beamed. “Maybe you could do some work for me.”

“I would be pleased to,” Iona said.

“Not as pleased as I,” Estelle said.

“When we going to get that licorice?” Arch said.

Last Chance Banker E.J. Burkhart leaned across the sheriff's desk. “I want that son of a bitch arrested.”

“Which son of a bitch?”

“That newcomer. That Standish fellow, took up the Bele place.”

“On what charges?”

“He brutalized my sweet Mable. How would you like to have him brutalize your wife?”

Sheriff Jeff Dolby leaned back in his chair. “I don't have a wife, Elmer.”

“If you did have a wife, would you like him to brutalize her?”

“Maybe brutalize is a strong word, Elmer.”

“He humiliated her in public.”

“Maybe he twisted her words a bit. I talked to the county attorney about that. He said twisting a person's words isn't the same as twisting her arms.”

“She had a bruise on her cheek!”

“She ran into a door jam, Mr. Burkhart. If I were going to charge anyone, I would have to charge your wife for that.”

“He called her a whore!”

“No, he didn't. She criticized Mrs. Simpson for catering to whores. Since, Mr.—the sheriff looked at a piece of paper on his desk—Standish didn't know her, he assumed she must be speaking about herself.”

“She was speaking about that Belshaw whore!”

“Have you ever been out there to avail yourself of Mrs. Belshaw's services?”

Burkhart's face turned purple. “Of course I haven't,” he sputtered. “I do not frequent whores.”

“Do you know anyone who has availed himself of her services?”

“Well, I have heard talk.”

“Well if anyone ever says he has, I would like his name.”

“For what purpose?”

“I need to talk to him.”

Suspicion slipped over the banker's face. “Why?”