The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Vicki Delany
not to get on Helen Saunderson’s bad side.
But how much of a display was it? She hated Ireland, that was plain to see. How far would she go to get revenge on the man who had supposedly slandered her? She’d appeared to be genuinely surprised at my news of the body and then its identity. Could that have been an act? Did she arrive at work this morning knowing exactly what had been found in the back room of the Savoy? She’d been distressed at the thought that I was about to sack her. Was it because she feared I was going to cast her adrift in order to avoid implication in any scandal that would arise from the murder?
I still didn’t understand why Helen was making such a fuss over it all. But then the upkeep of my “good name” has never worried me over much. Although, when I stopped to think about it, if my lack of reputation ever endangered Angus, denied him a position at school perhaps or shut him out of the homes of his friends, I might have been ready to do some serious damage.
Which is why it is always better, I had learned, to move in the very highest of circles, where men scarcely care about their reputation or anyone else’s as long as their wife or, most important of all, her mother, doesn’t find out. I do have one addendum that I will add to my life’s lessons: It is even better to swim in the waters of a town so wild, so full of naked ambition, so free of inhibition, that no one cares who you are or where you come from. As long as you have coin in your pocket.
My head hurt. There would be time later to sort out who amongst my acquaintances might be a murderer.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I sat on the hard, uncomfortable bench and looked around the empty dancehall. The benches were pushed up against the walls, except for two that had been placed in the middle of the room, for some reason. A mouse scurried across the floor and jumped up the stairs onto the stage. Its whiskers twitched cautiously and, catching sight of me out of the corner of its black button eyes, it disappeared into a crack that at a casual glance appeared to be far too small to accommodate its chubby frame. My stomach rolled over at the thought of what the creature might discover in the dark, empty space underneath the stage.
I fled.
Ray Walker was sitting at the big table in the centre of the room, reading my ledger. He looked up when I came in. “Not a good idea, Fee me dear, to leave the accounts spread open on the table with the door unlocked and not a soul in sight. Ye don’t look well. Rough night?”
“Oh, shut up.” I slammed the ledger shut.
“Rough night,” he said.
I placed my hands on the table and leaned forward. “What do you know about Jack Ireland’s body being found in the Savoy? If you know anything, you’d better tell me.” Helen came out of the back with a tray. “Coffee!” I said. “How lovely!”
I threw my body into a chair with so much force, my tailbone groaned in protest. “I told Helen about the unfortunate events of yesterday. She’ll have the stage as clean as a whistle by opening. And biscuits too, isn’t that nice.”
Ray accepted his coffee with a tight smile. He might think I looked awful, but I hope that as far as my appearance is concerned, awful is a relative term. Ray himself looked like he’d been dragged out of a snowdrift and left to thaw in front of a one-twig fire.
Coffee served, Helen retreated to her back room.
“These biscuits are as tough as hard tack,” Ray mumbled. “They could be used to stake out a man’s claim.”
“Will you shut up about biscuits and how the hell I look. I want to know what you know about the murder of Jack Ireland, and I want to know it now.”
Ray’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking me this, Fee?” Helen’s bucket clattered as she dragged it out of her storage closet. Ray and I smiled at her. She disappeared into the back rooms.
“I’m asking you,” I whispered, “because if you’re involved, I’m going to be dragged through the muck with you, and I’d prefer to avoid that.”
“Now, I wasn’t there, but folks told me the last words anyone heard from Jack Ireland was that he was going to get you, Fee. So I’m thinking you may have had more reason to want the man dead than I did.”
“Me! You can’t turn this back on me!”
“Come on, Fee. There are parts of your life you don’t want exposed to the world.”
“Now see here, Ray Walker! Constable Sterling, what brings you out so early this fine morning?” Sterling stood in the doorway, blocking the morning sun. “If you two are having a business meeting, I can wait here. Pay me no mind.”
“Please join us. Would you care for coffee? It’s fresh. Let me pour you a cup.”
“That would be nice, Mrs. MacGillivray. Thank you.”
The Mountie pulled up a chair. “Morning, Walker.” “Morning.”
I sprinted into the broom closet and grabbed a cup from the cupboard. I couldn’t find a saucer, too bad. My heart was pounding in my chest, and not from that minuscule bit of exercise.
“Have you made an arrest yet, Constable?” I put the cup down on the table and poured the coffee. “Please, have a biscuit. Made fresh this morning.”
“I’ve come to talk to Mr. Walker,” Sterling said. “About the events of Saturday night.” He selected a biscuit, which is what the Canadians call a “cookie”. Horrible word. Belongs in the nursery, not as a part of polite, adult conversation.
Ray leaned back in his chair. “Busy night, Saturday. Always is.”
“Everyone’s trying to soak up enough drink and dances and spins of the wheel to see them all the way through to Monday,” I added.
Ray eyed me. “Really, Fiona? Is that what they’re doing?”
Sterling cleared his throat. “Tasty cookie this,” he said, trying to stifle a grimace of distaste and avoiding my eyes as he put the remaining half back onto the table. Goodness, he thought I had made them.
I once boiled an egg. Forgot about it and left the pot over the fire until all the water had evaporated. The egg exploded as I reached into the burnt pot to take it out. I never dared to try cooking again. I wouldn’t call the horrid food I managed to scrape together on the Chilkoot trail cooking. Angus had to intervene out of sheer desperation.
“Can you tell me any more about what happened on Saturday, Walker, Mrs. MacGillivray?” Sterling pulled a small note pad and a stub of pencil out of his tunic pocket.
“Where’s Inspector McKnight today?” I asked, dipping my biscuit into the coffee to soften it. “I expected he would be the one looking into Ireland’s death.”
“Who said anything about Jack Ireland? I only asked you about the events of Saturday night.”
“Oh, don’t play clever with me, Constable Sterling. You don’t come in every morning to join us for coffee and chat about our business.”
He grinned, and I remembered last night and that brief moment standing on the steps of the stage, with a dead body lying at our feet, when I had thought he was going to touch me.
“McKnight is pursuing other lines of inquiry. He’ll be around later to talk to you. This isn’t Alaska; we don’t have many murders in the Yukon. Ireland is the first this year, and the boss is determined it’ll be the last. Now, about Saturday?”
Ray shrugged. “Told you all about it last night.”
“So you did. But I’d like you to tell me again.”
“Ireland wanted to keep dancing after his minute was up. He wouldn’t let go of the girl and objected when I told him to leave. So he got thrown out. That’s about it.”
Sterling lifted one eyebrow. “Was Jack Ireland here for long?”
“I seem