Pretty Smile
Stories similar to this that you might like too.
“I can’t do it,” Susan said in a voice that was so low and trembling she could barely hear herself. “I can’t go back there.”
She had been trying to convince herself of this fact for the last hour, but she still felt as if her life were being pulled out from under her like some kind of giant hand puppet with invisible strings. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold on. In fact, she wasn’t sure at all anymore whether she wanted to.
The only thing she knew for certain was that she had no choice. If she did not return to her father’s ranch before he came back from town, she would be forced to remain in Denver until his return—or until he finally found someone else who could take care of him. It was an awful thought. She couldn’t bear the idea of spending even more time in that place than she already did.
Susan was supposed to meet her father after lunch when he returned from town, but she hadn’t seen him yet. Instead, she’d spent the morning sitting quietly by herself, trying to get used to the idea that she would soon have to leave Colorado.
When he arrived, her father would likely ask about her new job. He would probably want to hear everything from the beginning. That meant she needed to tell him about Mr. Pendergast too. And about how Pendergast had hired her to kill him. The problem was, she wasn’t sure what to say. How should she explain why she had done such a terrible thing?
It was all she could do just to think about it without getting angry or upset again.
Her father was always concerned with appearances. He never let any of their ranch hands see anything that might make them look bad. So he wouldn’t believe her unless she told him exactly what had happened.
But how could she tell him that she’d killed a man? Would he really understand? Or would he be furious? Worse, would he send her away? Even if she managed to convince him of Pendergast’s threat, that would mean leaving Colorado for good.
And then what? Susan had no idea where she would go. Her mother had been dead since she was five. There was no one else to stay with.
What was going through her mind right now was something that could have come from the mouth of one of her father’s hired men. No matter how hard he tried, Susan often wondered if her father ever realized how much trouble he got into because of his own stubbornness.
He had been born and raised in San Francisco, but he’d left California during the Gold Rush and moved to Texas. His first wife, who died giving birth to Susan, had hailed from New Orleans. Her husband had followed the gold rush west, but he met a woman in Texas and eventually settled down in Colorado.
That was where they married. Susan’s father had been a tall, handsome man with sandy hair. For years, he’d led the same kind of quiet, peaceful existence that seemed to have come naturally to him. But when Susan was eight, her mother died suddenly. Afterward, her father withdrew further into himself, becoming moody and unpredictable.
Susan had been alone in the world when Pendergast came along. He had taken her in and made her part of his family. Now he was asking her to abandon all that and run off in search of danger—and death! It was almost like having a stranger in charge of her life.
But she couldn’t let him down, no matter what. She owed it to him—to both of them.
As she walked up the steps to the porch, she looked over to see that the horses were still there. One of the ranch hands must have brought them around earlier.
Susan opened the door and stepped inside. As usual, the house was empty except for the two of them. A pot of coffee sat on the stove, and she saw that there were biscuits baking in the oven. The smell of baking bread always reminded her of the past.
“You’re late,” her father said as he entered the room. “I was wondering where you were.”
“Sorry I’m late,” she replied, looking down at the floor. “Mr. Pendergast is waiting for me at my apartment.”
She waited for her father to respond, but he didn’t. He simply stared at her in silence for several moments. Then he took a chair across from her, picked up the newspaper he’d been reading, and began to read again.
Susan hated that silent treatment. Her father’s disapproval always felt like physical pain in her stomach. Sometimes she wished he would just stop talking altogether and let her live in peace.
“Where are your bags?” he asked. “Do you plan to move in here?”
“No,” Susan answered quickly, hoping to change the subject. “That won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Pendergast lives in Denver. I don’t know how long we’ll be gone.”
“So you need somewhere to stay while you’re there.”
“Yes,” she muttered, feeling miserable and guilty. Why did she have to complicate things so much?
“Your mother’s old apartment in New Orleans has just become available. You should have stayed with us until you found another place. It would have saved you so much trouble.”
Susan glanced over at him, surprised by this sudden change of tone. They rarely discussed her mother’s death, which seemed to have caused him more distress than Susan remembered. “My apartment isn’t ready yet.”
“We can afford it,” he grumbled. “And you’ve lived in New Orleans before.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Bother me!” Her father slammed his fist down on the table. “How dare you say that after everything I’ve done for you. What are you trying to prove?”
The sound of her father’s anger startled her. It was so unlike him to lose his temper. When he did, he usually turned very quiet and distant. But now he was yelling and screaming at her.
This is what I get for trying to help, Susan thought as she stood up and went to the window. The sun was just coming over the horizon, filling the kitchen with its warm glow. She could hear birds singing outside.
Susan looked out the window, watching the early morning light wash over the hills and trees beyond the pasture. She imagined herself standing there someday, perhaps on some other ranch. And then there were all those places Pendergast had mentioned that she hadn’t even seen yet: Chicago, Boston, San Francisco, Philadelphia…
There will be something wonderful waiting for us, she thought. Something that makes this all worthwhile.
A few minutes later, the doorbell rang.
“I’m sorry,” Susan said as she walked toward the front door. “It’s probably Mr. Pendergast.”
Her father followed behind her, glaring. “I warned you about him.”
Susan stopped and turned around. “What do you mean?”
“He’s a dangerous man.”
“I know,” she said, trying to calm him down. “But I trust him.”
“Well, I don’t.”
Susan tried to explain, but her father cut her off. “I don’t care if you love him or hate him, but I won’t have you involved with him.”
Susan’s eyes filled with tears. “Please don’t tell me what I should do with my own life.”
“Don’t give me orders! I’m your father—”
“Not anymore!” she cried, cutting him off again. “You’re my employer—that’s all.”
They stared at each other in silence. Then her father walked out the door without another word. He didn’t even look back.
***
Pendergast sat alone in the small parlor, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. The house was empty now that Susan had left, and he had no idea how long he’d have to wait.
Susan’s departure was a blow to him. He’d expected her to return to him eventually, but not this soon. And he’d hoped that the distance between them might allow him a little time to adjust to her absence before she returned.
She’d made such an effort to fit into his world. Even though she’d been born and raised in New York, she’d learned the etiquette and customs of the South. She understood the importance of maintaining a proper demeanor, and she knew exactly when and how to speak in polite conversation.
It was one of the reasons he trusted her so much: she understood human nature and how people worked.
And she was so beautiful, too. That was why he had wanted her to stay with him in the first place. But instead of making him feel loved, she just made him feel lonely.
He looked up from the floor where he’d been sitting. His eyes fell upon a photograph hanging on the wall above the mantelpiece. A young woman gazed out of the faded black-and-white picture. She appeared to be in her late teens or early twenties, with short curly hair and a sweet face.
Who was she? Pendergast couldn’t remember. It bothered him that he couldn’t recall.
“Mrs. Crenshaw,” he muttered, looking at the photo again. “What happened to her?”
He got up and took the framed picture down, then put it back on the mantelpiece. It wasn’t as if he needed a reminder of Susan, but he felt better having seen her.
When he was through with his inspection, he went upstairs to bed. He hadn’t slept well lately, but this night was worse than most.
***
The next afternoon, Pendergast went to the office, still troubled by his encounter with Susan. He found her mother already there, sitting at the desk.
Susan came over to the front door and let Pendergast inside. “I told Mrs. Crenshaw that we can handle things here while you’re gone.”
“Good. Thank you, Susan.”
“Did you find anything out about Mrs. Crenshaw?”
“Very little. But I did discover that she’s never married, and no record exists of any child being born to her.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Susan said. “Lots of women in her age group are unmarried.”
“True. It may be nothing.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling at her. “But you’ve already done enough.”
“I’ll miss you,” she said. “But I hope you have a good time.”
“I will,” he replied. “But I also wish you would come with me.”
She shook her head. “I can’t leave right now.”
“Why not?”
“My father is still upset with me.”
“Well, I don’t blame him,” Pendergast said. “Your choice in men has always been questionable.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“Come on, Susan, please.”
She sighed. “All right, but only because you asked so nicely.”
Pendergast smiled. “Thank you.” He kissed her gently on the cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”
Susan watched him go. She hated to leave him behind, but she knew that he’d understand. “I’ll miss you,” she whispered to herself as she closed the door.
***
On the train, Pendergast tried to read a book, but his mind kept wandering. He wondered what he could do to make this trip worthwhile. Maybe he could get some information on John Wilkes Booth’s whereabouts. The assassination of Lincoln had happened less than two years before, so there were bound to be records of that crime—if anyone had survived the chaos and bloodshed.
His thoughts turned to the photograph again. What about that young woman? Did she ever marry? Was she still alive?
Pendergast glanced at the photograph once more and saw something strange. There was another person standing beside the girl in the picture, a man wearing a hat. Who was he? Why was he there? Had he been her lover? If so, what had become of him?
As if reading his mind, Susan came over to sit next to him. She’d changed into a blue dress, the same color as his favorite sweater.
“You seem distracted,” she said. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“I am now.”
“It’s just that you look so serious, and you’re staring off into space.”
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Nothing important. I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”
“You’re always telling me what to do. You need to give yourself more credit for knowing what you want.”
He chuckled at that. “Perhaps,” he replied. “But I haven’t figured it out yet.”
The conversation trailed off after that, and they sat in silence for several minutes until the train pulled away from the station and headed west toward Chicago.
***
They stopped in St. Louis that evening, then continued their journey the following morning, traveling by rail through Missouri, Kansas, and Colorado. Finally they reached Denver, where Pendergast rented an apartment near downtown.
In the days that followed, Pendergast made calls to law enforcement agencies in every state along the route between Illinois and California. He discovered that the Lincoln assassination had been a national tragedy, but that no one had survived the massacre.
There were plenty of other crimes in those states and others that had happened long ago, but none of them seemed likely to yield useful information. Pendergast also called newspaper offices in each state, hoping that someone might recall an unsolved murder or even a suspicious death. None of these efforts yielded much success either.
Finally, Pendergast decided that his best course was to continue his search in Illinois. The first step was to learn more about the assassination. He visited the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum in Springfield. There, he learned a great deal about the assassin’s life and times.
The story of Booth began as a small-time actor who rose to prominence only after a chance encounter with Lincoln. They became close friends while attending the theater together in New York City. In fact, Lincoln had given Booth his own private box for free, which gave him a special relationship with the president.
Booth was a gifted mimic, but he lacked the temperament to make it as a professional performer. He eventually drifted south to Virginia to work as a stagehand and actor, and met Mary Surratt, a widow who’d lost her husband three months earlier. They fell in love and were married within six weeks.
Mary’s brother, George Surratt, was a member of the local Masonic lodge and a prosperous merchant in his own right. He owned a dry goods store, where Booth worked part-time and sold supplies.
A few years later, George joined a group of men who planned to kidnap the South Carolinian governor and demand that he withdraw troops from the border with Maryland. When the plan failed, George and two of his confederates were arrested and sent to prison in Baltimore.
George’s wife was accused of aiding and abetting the plot, but she managed to escape prosecution when the case collapsed. She returned to her family in Washington, D.C., and was ostracized by society.
When Lincoln was elected to the White House, Mary was distraught over losing her husband and afraid of being separated from their son, whom she hadn’t seen since the kidnapping. After Lincoln’s election, she wrote to him asking for help.
Lincoln responded favorably, offering her protection from the public and a place to stay on the presidential estate in Springfield. It was there that Lincoln would die less than two years later.
Booth soon left Washington and went back to Virginia to resume his acting career. During a play he appeared in, he met a young lawyer named Edwin Booth, who was also playing a role onstage. The younger Booth had recently been disbarred after being accused of stealing money from clients’ accounts.
Their paths crossed again when Booth played the title role in a new production of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. This time he asked Edwin to join him in the role of Brutus. Their friendship deepened as they spent more time together in New York and Washington, where they lived and worked in separate apartments above their father’s businesses.
By this point, Booth was becoming increasingly unstable. He’d been diagnosed as suffering from paranoid delusions and prescribed medication, but he refused to take it. He also suffered from insomnia and was often drunk.
His marriage to Mary was falling apart, and his drinking worsened. In 1858, he took up with Sarah Ann Lewis, a wealthy woman from Philadelphia.
On July 7, 1860, Edwin died unexpectedly in his sleep. At first, the cause was thought to be heart failure, but the coroner’s jury ruled otherwise, concluding that the cause was “the effect of liquor.”
Pendergast’s interest was piqued. What could have caused such sudden death? And why had it not occurred sooner? The autopsy showed no signs of alcohol or drugs in his system.
He next visited the home of Edwin’s mother, Abigail, in Baltimore. Here he found a remarkable array of artifacts and memorabilia from the Lincoln administration—a cabinet filled with books and newspapers, a large library of books and pamphlets, letters and photographs, and even a small model of the White House itself.
Abigail herself was friendly and open, and Pendergast stayed for hours talking about Edwin’s life and career. But Abigail’s answers to Pendergast’s questions were vague and evasive. She did seem to remember something strange about his death, but she didn’t elaborate.
Pendergast decided to visit one of his most trusted sources: Mary Surratt, now a widow living in Washington, D.C.
Mary’s house, which she’d inherited from her brother, was larger and more opulent than any other house in the neighborhood. It stood on a corner lot at 1415 Pennsylvania Avenue, between 17th and 18th Streets.
A few minutes after arriving, Pendergast noticed a young white man walking up the street toward her home. As he neared her residence, he suddenly stopped and stared at the house. He then turned around and walked away.
Pendergast knew the man. He was Thomas Niles, Mary’s nephew by marriage. He was an attorney and a former Confederate soldier.
Mary was inside her home when Pendergast arrived, and he immediately sensed that she was anxious to see him. He sat down with her and listened while she described her brother’s death and how she’d come to live alone in Washington.
She told him that Edwin was still buried in Baltimore, but that no one seemed to know what became of his body after its discovery. He was never brought back to Washington, and no funeral or memorial services were held.
“Why?” Pendergast asked.
“It just didn’t seem right,” Mary replied.
That was all she said.
There was another matter, too, Pendergast learned. Mary had heard rumors that Edwin’s death might have been related to the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. But she had no idea of the truth behind those rumors.
What did Mary think about Booth’s involvement in the Lincoln assassination? Did she believe that he was responsible for her brother’s murder? She gave a guarded response, saying only that she believed in God and in the goodness of people and that she was certain her brother was innocent.
The End