Alistair hung his head. “No, thank you,” he said. “We’re here conducting business for my employer. He asked us to speak directly to Amos.”
As Westie and Alistair turned to leave, the banker said, “Your employer is Nigel Butler, correct?” Westie looked over her shoulder. Alistair twisted on his heels to face the man. When he saw their quizzical looks, the banker said to Alistair, “I’ve seen you here before. I was Amos’s assistant and helped with most of his dealings with your employer. I assure you Nigel won’t mind me helping you.”
“I’m afraid it’s nothing you can help with,” Alistair said, making up the story on a whim. “Nigel’s going into a business venture with Mayor Chambers and the Fairfields. We’re here to check on their references. Amos was one of them.”
The man looked skeptical. “I can’t imagine the Fairfields venturing from their home, let alone into business. And I highly doubt Amos would give the mayor a reference after the investigation.”
“What investigation?” Westie said, taking a step forward.
The banker hesitated and looked around the room before saying, “Amos was looking into the mayor’s past dealings when he was still a property lawyer. I’m sorry, but I can’t go into further details regarding bank business.”
“What did you mean about the Fairfields not venturing from their home?” Alistair asked.
The banker’s mouth opened, looking confused. “Everyone knows the Fairfields are recluses. No one has seen them in years—oh,” he said, looking embarrassed, “that’s right. I keep forgetting you’re not from around here. It’s difficult to believe a distinguished man such as Nigel Butler would live in a town like Rogue City.”
Westie and Alistair looked at each other, brows curling in question marks. The last thing Westie would’ve called the Fairfields was reclusive. After all, they were in Rogue City making friends with anyone who gave a damn about Nigel’s machine. And Lavina, with those flashy dresses and low-cut bodices, gliding from store to store spending James’s inheritance . . . it seemed impossible.
“Is there anyone else who might be able to tell us about Amos’s investigation into the mayor, unofficially, that is?” Westie said.
The banker looked around the room as if he were being watched. Finally he said, “If anyone knew about the goings-on with the investigation, it was Amos’s wife, Lucy Little. He did most of his work from home. You’ll want to give her a few days, though. Poor thing barely escaped with her life, but it seems she’s doing much better; I talked to her nurse at the hospital just this morning.”
Westie sighed. They didn’t have a few days.
“Thank you for your help,” she said.
As they rode through town, Westie’s stomach felt sick with dread. Though she couldn’t prove it, she was certain that Amos Little’s death and the list of names she’d found in the mayor’s safe were connected somehow.
She pulled at Henry’s reins when they came across the blackened remains of a burned-up house. It looked like the carcass of some giant black mythical beast, with shards of brittle framework sticking out like rib bones.
The smell of scorched wet wood hung thick in the air. Piles of rubble continued to steam after the rain. The fire had taken everything. All evidence of the life Amos and his wife had built together was gone.
Alistair stared at the burned rubble, eyes glazed over with worry. “If burning someone in their home is what the mayor does to those who investigate him, imagine what he’d do to those who accuse his friends of cannibalism.”
Westie put a hand to her stomach. “I’m trying not to think about that.” She climbed off her horse, kicking at the rubble to see if there was anything to be salvaged from the ruins. She made her way to a charcoaled support beam, where she sat and wondered which room she was sitting in. As she looked up at the sky, a drop of rain landed on her lashes. She blinked it away, trying not to let the hopeless feeling inside consume her. If nothing came of their trip to Sacramento, all would be lost. The Fairfields’ gold was useless without Hubbard and Lavina being in jail, and it was doubtful Westie could find a crook brave enough to trade eight gold bars for enough money to allow Nigel to finish his machine.
Alistair sat beside her on the beam and leaned his head against her shoulder. His hair smelled like earth and macassar, and she was reminded of the connection they’d made beneath the maples. Closing her eyes, she tried to hold on to that moment of happiness. “I have to fix this, Alley,” she said, voice barely a whisper. “Of all the plans I’ve messed up, this can’t be one of them.”
“We’ll fix this, I promise. We won’t stop until we do.” He moved his hand to her hair, pulling out a maple leaf. “Let’s start by talking to Amos’s widow.”