Short Story About A Cowboy
Murder Mystery Party
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The door opened and a young man stepped into the room, dressed in a pair of worn jeans. A cowboy hat sat on his head; he wore boots with the tops cut off—notched like all cowboys wear them nowadays, although it was fashionable when he purchased the boots years ago. He looked around the room for a second before coming over to the fireplace. “I don’t see you anywhere. You must be here somewhere.”
“That’s me,” Molly said softly from behind him as she stood up from her chair and walked across the floor, holding onto the side of her skirt so it wouldn’t fall down.
She saw the man smile before he turned his attention back to the fire and took another sip of whiskey. She came up next to him. Her eyes widened at the heat that filled the room. The air conditioner didn’t work; the windows were shut tight; yet, the house still felt hot enough to bake cookies in a few minutes. “Are you ready?” she asked quietly.
He set his glass on an end table beside him and turned to look at her. His hair fell just below his shoulders, wavy, and his eyes sparkled with humor. He reached out to take her hand, but Molly quickly pulled away. “I’m not a damsel in distress. I can get myself out of this mess, thank you.”
His gaze drifted down her body to her feet then back up again. “Not even if we tied your wrists together?”
She smiled at his comment as he chuckled. “I’ll need more than two hands.”
“Well, there are plenty of men in the room who would be happy to help you.”
Molly frowned. “No thanks.”
“Why did they send me here then? To rescue some helpless woman?”
“You aren’t supposed to know what happened yet, but since you do already…you’re going to play my brother-in-law. We’ve both been married to the same woman, and we’ve never liked each other very much.” Molly smiled. “But, I guess we should be thankful we haven’t killed each other yet.”
“What about you? Why are you here?”
She laughed lightly at his blunt question. “Because I had to come. My mother died last night; I have to go home and bury her before anyone starts asking questions.”
He nodded as if he understood how tough this must be for her. He held his hand out to shake hers and then placed it over his heart. “Sorry for your loss. I hope you find your murderer soon.”
“Me too, but it’s not looking good. I only found one clue.”
“And that’s?”
“My name. It was scratched into the wall by whoever wrote those initials and numbers.”
“Those are the killer’s own personal markings. How can you use that to track him?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
“So, are you ready for this?”
She smiled as she thought about the murder mystery party they had thrown many years ago in a different town when she was working undercover for a private detective agency. They played it pretty straight, but they also had fun playing their parts as the suspects in the murder case.
Tonight’s murder mystery party is different though. She’d never seen anything like it. There were ten women in the room: three men, all in cowboy hats and wearing blue jeans; four women in business suits, two blondes, one redhead, and two brunettes—all attractive, yet not quite in Molly’s class.
The two youngest ladies appeared to be teenagers, but judging by their attire, Molly suspected they were actually in college or maybe even in law school. One of the young women wore a black cocktail dress, another a long purple gown; the last wore a white wedding dress.
Molly shook her head as she tried to decide which would look better on her. But then, she couldn’t worry about what any of them looked like; she needed to think about catching the culprit.
As far as the men were concerned, they wore a wide variety of outfits: a pair of faded Levi’s and a flannel shirt, a pair of gray slacks, a buttoned-down shirt, a dark suit, a brown tuxedo and a leather vest over a plain shirt, all the way to a green silk jacket and a white dress shirt and tie.
Molly’s eyes narrowed as she studied the room. The men looked as nervous as the women, but no one else seemed as uneasy as she was. “Where is everyone?” Molly asked the man sitting closest to the door. He turned to face her; he had a handsome face with a strong chin and piercing blue eyes.
“I don’t know. You’re not in charge; you can’t tell us where to go.”
She sighed as she glanced around at the others. No one seemed anxious at all, which made her wonder why she was so jittery. A couple of the men were laughing and joking with the younger girls in the room while a few sat in deep conversation with the older men.
She wondered what these people were doing in her house, in this part of Texas, and why she felt such an odd sense of unease. Then her mind flashed to the man she saw coming out of her bedroom earlier today. What exactly did he mean when he said something about being a stranger here? Could this killer be from one of the nearby towns?
A sudden scream caused Molly to jump to her feet. “Oh! That’s awful!”
Two of the young men stood quickly; one walked to the woman in the pink cocktail dress and knelt beside her; the other hurried to the man in the gray suit and began to talk quietly to him. “Are you okay?” Molly asked.
The young man nodded as he helped the woman in the pink dress to her feet. Then the two of them went over to the man who had just spoken to them and took his arm. Molly followed as they led him toward the front door, where they opened it and guided him outside. “Do you need medical assistance?” she asked. “Someone could drive you to a doctor if you want.”
One of the young men nodded and waved to the other. He left the room through the back door and disappeared down the hall as Molly watched as the rest of the guests followed. As they moved closer to her, she realized it was two of the young women who had been in the room with the dead man: the redhead and the blonde.
They wore identical expressions: shock; confusion; fear and horror. The older man in the tan tuxedo had joined them and now stood next to the door to the hall, waiting for the others to come out.
When Molly reached the front door, she paused and peered down the hallway. It was quiet except for some distant sounds of muffled voices. The front door slammed shut and Molly waited until the sound faded away before going back inside. She glanced at the clock above the mantelpiece. Nine o’clock already? Where had those hours gone?
“Is everything okay out there?” Molly asked. “Should I call an ambulance or—”
“No,” one of the women spoke up as she stepped into the room, looking at Molly and the man who accompanied her, then at the group of men standing behind her. “He needs time alone. We’ll take him home with us tonight. You won’t see him again.”
The man bowed to Molly and said, “Thank you very much.”
“Don’t mention it; we all feel responsible for our guest’s untimely death. Besides, he was a murderer,” Molly replied with a smirk that sent chills down her spine. “I hope he enjoyed his evening.”
Molly closed the door and leaned against it, staring at her guests as they returned to their seats around the table. Two of them, both redheads with short hair, sat at the same end of the table. One was a tall, slender redhead wearing a black sleeveless sundress; the other had curly brown hair and wore a blue cotton dress and a pearl necklace.
There were also four men: one middle-aged with gray hair in a brown suit, one elderly gentleman with a bald head who was missing several teeth, and two young men, both thin with sandy hair.
They all looked at one another and laughed. Then they turned to look at her as if they weren’t sure what to do next. The redhead in the black sleeveless dress got to her feet first. “Well…it looks like your evening is over,” she said with a sad smile.
Everyone else followed and soon every seat at the table was filled once again. After a few minutes, the redhead rose to her feet, walked over to Molly, and said, “It’s late and we should be heading home.”
“But where will you be staying?” Molly asked.
“At my husband’s place,” the redhead replied with a shrug. “We can sleep on the floor where—the house has plenty of bedrooms—and leave early in the morning.”
The man with the missing teeth raised his hand and said, “I’d be willing to offer you a ride since I have an extra horse.”
“That would be wonderful,” the redhead answered. “Thank you.”
As one of the young men helped the elderly man to his feet, Molly went to the front door and opened it. It was dark outside now as the sun sank below the horizon. She looked around the street for a taxi; it wasn’t hard to find one.
With two of the women in tow, she walked to the cab and paid for their fare with money from a cash register in the foyer. As the driver got back into the car, one of the young men came out of the house. “Thanks for your help,” he told Molly.
She smiled and said, “It’s no problem.” As she walked back inside, she couldn’t help thinking about how different this evening had been. First, it began with a murder. Now it ended with a funeral. And she still didn’t know why she’d been invited to join the party in the first place.
***
The driver pulled up to the curb across the street from Molly’s boardinghouse, but Molly was too tired to climb out. Instead, she handed him the money he’d requested and watched as he drove off. Then she went inside and headed upstairs to her small apartment above the parlor.
When she unlocked her door, she saw that it was empty except for a piece of paper lying on the dining table along with a note she hadn’t noticed earlier.
Molly, I’m sorry I had to run out so suddenly, but my wife just arrived from Chicago and I wanted to surprise her by having dinner ready when she got here. She’ll probably be waiting for me, but I thought you could use some company tonight. Come downstairs and sit down while we eat; I’ll even pour us a glass of wine.
With that, the young man took off toward the stairs and Molly went to check on the stove. Dinner smelled wonderful and was perfectly cooked. She poured herself a glass of wine and waited patiently until the doorbell rang. When she opened the door, she saw her visitor in the hallway. He was smiling as he greeted her.
“Hello, Molly,” Jim said as he stepped through the doorway and walked toward the dining room.
When he saw Molly’s puzzled look, he added, “My name is James O’Neil. I don’t believe we’ve met before.”
“I suppose not,” she replied, stepping aside to let him enter. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Jim looked around and then followed Molly into the dining room. The smell of cooking food made his stomach growl. He set his hat on a side table as he joined her at the table. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
Molly shrugged and said, “Not at all.” She pulled out the chair to his left and then placed a napkin in his lap.
Jim picked up a fork and knife and started eating as he listened to Molly. “This is very good,” he said between mouthfuls. “What did you make?”
“Chicken cordon bleu,” Molly replied with pride. “I found the recipe in a cookbook.”
“I’m sure it tastes better than any store-bought dish,” Jim said as he continued to chew. “How long have you been staying in Denver?”
“Just a few weeks,” Molly answered as she ate. “I’m actually working for a detective agency there.”
He chuckled at the thought of someone calling themselves a detective in this day and age. “And what kind of work do they send you to do?” he asked.
“Anything from murder investigations to finding lost children, mostly child abductions,” she replied.
“You mean like those cases in Chicago?” Jim guessed.
“Yes, exactly,” she answered. “They’ve sent me to the Windy City several times now.”
“So why are you still working there after you’ve proven yourself so many times?” Jim asked.
Molly smiled and said, “One, because of my connections here in town. Two, because I enjoy being part of the excitement. Three, because I can always go back home to Colorado whenever I need to recharge my batteries.”
“You live here in Denver?” Jim asked as he swallowed another bite.
“Yes,” Molly said. “It’s closer to where the agency offices are located.”
Jim nodded as he finished his plate and reached for his wineglass again. He’d never met anyone quite as interesting as this woman. “Where did you learn to cook?” he asked between gulps.
“My mother taught me, of course. And then, later on, Mrs. Larkin, our landlady, taught me to cook more dishes,” she said with a grin.
Jim raised his eyebrows as he tried to imagine Mrs. Larkin teaching a grown woman to cook. “Mrs. Larkin? The old lady who lives next door?” he laughed.
Molly grinned and said, “That’s right. She’s a little quirky but very sweet and she loves to cook and bake.”
Jim was surprised when he heard the term ‘quirky’ applied to any female over seventy. It wasn’t unusual for an elderly woman to be eccentric, but a little oddity was one thing; outright craziness was something else entirely. But he decided against asking Molly about it. She might think he was laughing at her and he didn’t want that. Instead, he changed the subject.
“Did you know Mrs. Larkin when she lived in New York?” he asked. “She used to tell me about her time in the Big Apple.”
“Actually, yes, I did,” Molly answered as she sipped her wine. “I worked for an insurance company at that time. We had several offices throughout the Midwest and she was transferred to our office in Kansas City. I only knew her for about two years, but I enjoyed getting to know her.”
Jim chuckled as he imagined Mrs. Larkin living in the Big Apple during the 1940s. “Sounds like she led a colorful life,” Jim remarked as he took another sip of wine.
“Oh, no doubt!” Molly replied with a laugh. “But then, every person has their own story to tell.”
Jim nodded as he leaned back and relaxed into the chair. They chatted for a while longer and then Jim excused himself.
“If you’re headed toward the saloon tonight, you can join me,” Molly suggested. “I’ll introduce you to some people you’ll probably recognize.”
“Why don’t we meet up here tomorrow morning before I go?” Jim offered. “Then, if I’m invited to the saloon, I won’t have to worry about leaving you alone in this house.”
Molly looked down at her hands and then glanced up at Jim through her eyelashes as she said, “All right. That sounds perfect.”
***
As soon as Jim closed the front door behind him he noticed two men walking his way. The one on the left wore a cowboy hat and a gray mustache while the man on the right was wearing a black top coat and a red-and-black-striped tie.
He stopped as they came to a halt across from him and said, “Good evening, gentlemen.”
The one with the mustache said, “Good evening, sir,” and Jim could see both men looking down at the ground as if trying not to make eye contact.
Jim stood and walked toward them until he was within arm’s length and then stopped. He extended his hand and said, “Please, have a seat.”
Both men looked at each other and the one on the right said, “Are you the sheriff of these parts?”
Jim nodded. “You can call me Jim if you prefer.”
The man with the mustache cleared his throat nervously and said, “We would appreciate it if you could help us find a missing girl.”
“A missing girl?” Jim asked as he turned around and glanced up at his guests. “How long ago did she go missing?”
“About seven months now,” the man replied with a shrug.
“And you just happened to come here today and ask me to search for her?” Jim shook his head and said, “That doesn’t add up.”
“Well,” the man began.
Jim interrupted him by saying, “I’m not going to pretend I’m not curious about this young lady so maybe you can tell me why you chose to visit me.”
His guest paused for a moment before answering, “Her name is Dolly Wilson. She was born and raised in Chicago and moved to Denver with her husband a year ago.”
Jim nodded as he listened.
“Her husband, John, was killed three months ago in a mining accident,” the man continued. “It was very tragic for us.”
“Of course,” Jim said as he gave the man a sympathetic look.
“After John’s death, we wanted to return to our roots,” the man said with an awkward laugh. “John was from Missouri; his parents are buried there. He always told us he’d be buried there too, so we packed up everything, including Dolly’s daughter.”
Jim was surprised to hear he had a child. “Was she married?” Jim asked.
The man hesitated before continuing with his answer. “We never bothered to marry her. There was never anyone else.”
“And where is she now?” Jim pressed.
“In Kansas City,” the man said with a sigh.
Jim was confused as to how that made sense and he frowned.
The man said, “Dolly was living there until recently. She came home last week to visit and to take care of her mother.”
Jim couldn’t hide his surprise as he said, “She didn’t seem happy to see you.”
The man sighed again and lowered his gaze. “Yes, well, she did. Then we went out for supper.”
“And?” Jim prompted.
“After we got back to the house,” the man said, “we were sitting together, talking when suddenly a terrible scream came from the kitchen. It was Dolly—screaming at her mother. We rushed in and found Mama dead. The knife was buried deep in the woman’s chest. And then, as we stood there stunned, the front door swung open and Dolly walked out.”
“You think someone murdered your daughter-in-law?” Jim asked.
“What other conclusion could there have been? Her mother was stabbed and then Dolly walked outside without even trying to stop it from happening,” the man explained. “Then she disappeared!”
“Did you try to call her friends?” Jim asked.
“No, sir,” the man answered. “We were too shaken by the news.”
“Do you think your daughter-in-law had anything to do with her mother’s death?” Jim asked.
The man’s expression became sadder. “Absolutely not,” he replied.
“But you don’t know why she might have killed her mother-in-law?” Jim pressed.
“She was angry,” the man said with a shrug. “Angry at her mother for leaving her alone and raising Dolly without any help.”
Jim thought about Molly being accused of killing her employer’s wife and said, “Maybe she didn’t realize it was an accident.”
“I don’t care,” the man said as he shook his head. “This wasn’t some sort of accident. That’s what I’ve been telling the law.”
“Who would you like me to talk to?” Jim asked as he glanced up at the night sky. He was thinking how strange it was that he was standing under a starlit sky at eight o’clock on a Wednesday night.
“There’s only one person who has ever come here,” the man said as he sat back against his chair. “He used to visit every day, almost religiously, until the day he died.”
Jim looked up at his guest and saw something strange in his eyes as he said, “If he were here tonight, I believe he would know more than most people.”
“Who is he?” Jim asked. “Is he local or a miner?”
“Neither,” the man replied as he shrugged and added, “He was a traveler.”
“Where does he live?” Jim asked as his thoughts wandered.
“South Dakota,” the man said and gave Jim a wistful look. “It’s funny,” he continued. “He traveled all over the world yet he never left Colorado.”
“How long ago did this man die?” Jim asked as he felt sorry for the man having to remember such a sad event.
The man paused as if thinking hard and then he said, “Three years ago.”
“And where is he buried?” Jim asked.
“Here,” the man said as he reached into a pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “His grave is right out there.” He pointed at his front door. “He loved this place and told us many times that he’d never leave it until he died.”
Jim unfolded the paper and read the name printed across it: Frank Taggart.
“Frank?” Jim asked as he handed the paper back to him. “I never knew his real name.”
“Frank was a miner, but that’s not important,” the man replied as he smiled through tears. “Frank was a good man.”
“What makes you so sure of that?” Jim asked as he glanced around the deserted street.
“Because Frank never harmed anyone,” the man explained. “Well, except for two women once.” He paused as if remembering, then shook his head. “That’s the way he described it. Two women and were dead before morning. No one ever found out who killed them. But I always figured it was Frank.”
“Why were these two women killed?” Jim asked.
“I don’t know,” the man said with a shake of his head. “But Frank swore that if he ever saw them again, he’d kill them just like he killed those two other girls.”
“And how did he describe the way he killed them?” Jim asked.
“Like he did with that woman,” the man said with a sigh.
Jim remembered Frank mentioning that he wanted to get married someday. “When did you meet this man?” Jim asked.
“Four years ago,” the man answered. “My wife was pregnant with my daughter when I met Frank. He came to stay with us and offered to teach our son to play poker.”
“So he spent time with you and your family,” Jim said as he looked at the night sky. The stars twinkled brightly and Jim wondered how anyone could have killed Frank without knowing his identity. He didn’t think anyone could have done it without leaving signs behind. If there hadn’t been any evidence, then Frank must have known everyone in town.
“Yes, and we were happy to see Frank return to us every day after work,” the man said as his voice caught. “He would often stop by for dinner.”
“Did you find him odd at all?” Jim asked as he thought about how strange it was that Frank visited the same house twice a day and never left the house for more than three hours at a stretch.
“No,” the man replied as he shook his head. “In fact, Frank used to tell me things I would never have believed.”
“Such as?” Jim asked as he tried to imagine Frank talking to anyone about anything.
“Well, once he told me that there are people who walk among us that aren’t human,” the man replied as he wiped his eyes. “They’re not like us—not really. They can take on many forms and disguise themselves in many ways, but deep down inside, they’re not like us.”
The End