Mail-Order Bride Ink: Dear Mr. Vander Read online

  “Wasn’t hard to, was it?” He pushed himself away from the door.

  “I’m sorry, Fletcher. Two years is a long time to invest in a place, then lose your position.”

  “Two years is a warm-up in the world of law, Mary. But don’t worry, I’ll find something soon.”

  “Going back to Independence?”

  “Not you too,” he said with a grimace. “Why does everyone assume I’ll go home?”

  “Why wouldn’t you? You talk about it often enough. In fact, the place sounds wonderful. I’d like to go there.”

  He leaned against her desk and smiled. “It is pretty special. Though the town does have its characters.”

  “What little town doesn’t?” She smiled. “By the way, I wouldn’t head home just yet. I believe Mr. Woolley and company owe you some money.”

  Fletcher puckered his brow in thought. “Good heavens, you’re right, they do.”

  “Come back in the morning and I’ll see you have your check.”

  “You don’t think you could get a letter of reference for me, do you?” He held up the briefcase. “The old man wrote me one, but it was a note to my father not to hire me.”

  “He didn’t! What am I saying – of course he did.”

  Fletcher nodded. “Maybe I’ll frame it so my father can hang it in his office.”

  Mary giggled. “Fletcher, you’re terrible!” She got up, came around the desk and gave him a quick hug. “We’re all going to miss you, but I think it’s for the best. I mean, your methods are, how should I say …”

  “Unorthodox?”

  “Different. Perhaps a little too much for Woolley, Holmes & Shunk.” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “But I think they’re wonderful!”

  “Thanks, Mary. I’m glad you appreciate my quirks.”

  “Maybe you should become a Pinkerton,” she suggested.

  Fletcher smiled, took her by the shoulders and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks for the idea – I’ll think about it. See you in the morning.” Before she could respond, he left the outer office and headed for the staircase.

  It had been a rough two years of employment at the floundering firm. He wondered if it was because of his unorthodox methods of researching a case, or just Woolley, Holmes & Shunk’s dwindling cash reserves. He wasn’t some sterling specimen of lawyerdom, but he wasn’t an idiot either. If he’d been really smart, he’d have left months ago, gone home, visited his family, then decided where he wanted to go next. Instead, he’d stuck it out, hoping the firm would turn the corner.

  If it had turned a corner, it had run him over in the process. That didn’t mean his pride wouldn’t be pricked when he told his folks he’d been fired. But his father had warned him that his time there might be limited.

  Fletcher left the building, crossed the street and entered the cheap hotel directly opposite. His room was on the fourth floor. At least he wouldn’t have much to pack – his belongings consisted of a few shirts and trousers, a couple pairs of suspenders, a pair of shoes, two jackets and his law books. He didn’t own a horse or wagon because he didn’t need them, not when he lived literally across the street from his employer and three blocks from the courthouse.

  He supposed, however, that he might need a horse if he went home to Independence. Then again, once he arrived he could walk to get what he needed just as well as here in Portland. Though he would miss some of “Stumptown’s” finer forms of entertainment. The most entertainment Independence had was Professor Hamilton’s bookshop. Not to mention Professor Hamilton himself, a character and a half even though he was on the far side of eighty.

  Fletcher entered his room, glanced at his meager belongings and sighed in resignation. His parents would understand. His grandparents, on the other hand, might drive him to drink. Especially Gran Mercy, though if he was lucky, she wouldn’t remember who he was.

  “Well,” he said with another sigh. “I guess it’s time to go home.”

  Dear Miss Baxter,

  It is with much joy that I write this letter to you. Your consent to marry me has made me the happiest of men! I’ve enclosed train fare and anticipate your arrival. Please send a telegraph message with the date. I pray your journey is a pleasant one.

  Respectfully Yours,

  Edgar J. Munson

  “Mrs. Edgar J. Munson.” Sophie sighed. The name didn’t roll off the tongue like she thought it would. “Mrs. Edgar J. Munson.” She twisted her mouth, furrowed her brow. “Mrs. Edgar J. Baxter-Munson.” She smiled. That sounded better. Unfortunately, she didn’t think her future husband would think so.

  She folded the letter, tucked it into her reticule and tried to enjoy the scenery. The train would be pulling into Independence soon, then … who knew? Would he take her to the church right away, or home first? Taking her to his home while still unmarried didn’t seem proper, but this was the West and folks did things differently out here, or so she was told.

  “Look at all the hops, Mama!” the boy sitting behind Sophie said in astonishment as the train chugged along.

  Sophie studied the fields of oddly tall green leafy plants supported by a series of poles and rope trellises. “Good heavens, is that what those are?” she said aloud.

  “They make beer with them!” the child explained.

  “So I’ve heard. I’ve just never seen them before.”

  “Zachary, sit down,” his mother scolded.

  “They grow everywhere around here,” Zachary volunteered as he sat.

  Sophie turned in her seat and smiled at him. “You seem to know a lot about them.”

  “He knows too much,” his mother said. “His father … likes his beer.”

  Sophie grimaced sympathetically.

  “Around here is known as the hop capital of the West!” Zachary announced.

  Sophie smiled. “Really? And to think I get to live here.”

  “You do? Are you going to Independence too?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Zachary wiggled in his seat. He had to be no more than ten. “We’re here to visit my grandma and grandpa. We live in Nowhere.”

  “Nowhere?”

  “It’s in Washington,” he said, his eyes bright. “We have an apple farm there.”

  “Zachary, I’m sure this nice woman would like to turn around now –”

  “I’m Zachary Johnson! What’s your name?”

  His mother shut her eyes and pursed her lips. When she looked at Sophie again, it was with a sigh. “I’m sorry if he’s bothering you. He’s just excited about our visit. He’s my youngest and this is the first time we’ve come to see my parents with just the two of us.”

  “My older brother had to stay at the farm and help our pa work,” Zachary said with glee.

  “Mind your manners,” his mother warned. She sighed again and offered Sophie a hand. “Bernice Johnson.”

  Sophie took it. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Sophie Baxter. Though,” she said with a bob of her head. “It’ll be Munson soon.” Or Baxter-Munson! She smiled and blinked a few times to still her mind. Nerves. It had to be nerves that had her brain insist her maiden name remain.

  “Do you have family in Independence, Miss Baxter?” Mrs. Johnson asked. She smiled. “Or just a betrothed?”

  “Just the betrothed,” she confessed. She put a hand to her mouth and whispered. “I’m a mail-order bride.”

  Mrs. Johnson’s eyebrows rose. “You needn’t make it sound like it’s fatal.”

  Sophie bit her bottom lip. “I suppose not. It’s just that where I come from, it’s thought to be a bit … old-fashioned.”

  “Old-fashioned?” Mrs. Johnson said in shock. She tilted her head and furrowed her brow. “Of course, we are nearing the turn of the century. Perhaps the need for such a thing has dwindled since I was one.”

  Sophie’s mouth dropped open as she re-adjusted herself in her seat. “You were a mail-order bride?”

  “Yes. I traveled from Independence to Nowhere about this time of year, back in 1872.
”

  Sophie openly gawked – one of her more irritating habits, according to her mother. But how could she not? This was the first mail-order bride she’d ever met – and from the sounds of it, a successful one! How could she not be impressed? “Was it wonderful?”

  “Was what?”

  “Your wedding?”

  Mrs. Johnson’s mouth curved up on one side, then the other. “It was … memorable.”

  “Ma’s just being modest,” Zachary put in. “The town still talks about my folks’ wedding.”

  Mrs. Johnson suddenly looked like she wanted to slide under her seat. “Zachary,” she warned.

  “On account of them Weavers brought a skunk as a wedding present and it got loose and sprayed everyone!”

  “Zachary, that’s enough!”

  Sophie, unable to help herself, snorted, then quickly covered her mouth to keep her giggles in check.

  “Oh, go ahead and laugh – everyone does,” Mrs. Johnson said in good-natured dismay. “My friends and neighbors can, and they’re the ones that got sprayed, not my husband and I.”

  That did it. Sophie laughed. “Oh my goodness!”

  Mrs. Johnson joined her. “And fittingly, it was the Weaver family that got it the worst!”

  Zachary watched with a wide smile. “But Ma and Pa got sprayed weeks before that, didn’t you, Ma?”

  “Oh, Zachary!” Several other passengers erupted into laughter, and Mrs. Johnson nodded and smiled. “The story amuses people wherever I go.”

  Sophie did her best to stifle her chuckling. “What a tale! I hope I have something as interesting to tell about my wedding day! Though hopefully not as … odorous.”

  “If you’re a mail-order bride, that could well be today, right?”

  Sophie sobered and absently brushed at her jacket. “Yes. By this afternoon I could be Mrs. Edward J. Munson.”

  “Munson,” Mrs. Johnson mused. “I don’t recall any Munsons in Independence. They must be new in town.”

  “Independence is growing, according to my groom. He said so in his letters.”

  “My mother, Lord bless her, has a very sharp memory. I swear that woman has informed me of everyone’s comings and goings in that town for the last twenty years.”

  Sophie smiled. “She can’t know everyone.”

  “No, but she makes it her business to try. You’ll find Independence charming, but it has its share of gossips.” She sighed as she glanced out the train’s window. “My mother chief among them.”

  Sophie grimaced. “Oh dear.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Independence! Coming into Independence!” the conductor cried as he entered their car, walked through and went into the next.

  “Well, this is it,” Sophie said with excitement.

  “You’ll like Pastor Adams and his wife Winnie.”

  “Pastor? Oh! You mean you know the man who’ll be marrying us?”

  “Yes, I’ve known them for years. Very nice people.”

  “Are you visiting long?”

  “A few weeks. Why don’t I look you up once you get settled?”

  Sophie’s heart swelled. She hadn’t so much as left the train and already she had a new friend. “That would be wonderful! Please, call me Sophie.”

  “Then you can call me Bernice.”

  The train whistle blew as the rhythmic clackity-clack of the wheels slowed. This was it, the moment she’d been waiting for!

  Bernice smiled. “There’s nothing like seeing him for the first time.”

  “My groom?” Sophie said, eyes bright. “I’ve thought of nothing else since I left Denver.”

  “That’s a lot of time to imagine things,” Bernice said.

  “And I have. For hours and hours.”

  Bernice smiled at the dreamy look on her face. “I almost wish it were me.”

  Sophie laughed as the train slowed further, the brakes bringing them to a screeching, steam-filled stop. “Would you like to meet him? I’m sure he won’t mind. Besides, he’ll be easier to spot if two of us are looking for him.”

  “Very true. What does he look like?”

  “He described himself in his letters as being of medium height, with blue eyes and sandy blond hair.”

  “Rather general, but it should do. Did he say what he’d be wearing to help you recognize him?”

  “No, but with your help …”

  Bernice put a hand on her arm. “And Zachary will help too. Won’t you, sweetheart?”

  “Uh-huh,” the boy said as he looked out the window. “I don’t see Granny Eunice anywhere.”

  “Don’t worry, she’ll be along – late as usual.” She turned to Sophie. “My mother hates crowds. She always picks us up fifteen minutes after the train’s arrival.”

  Sophie grinned. “At least she’s punctual about being late.”

  Bernice laughed as passengers got up and began to gather their belongings. “Yes, you could say that.” She and Sophie rose and retrieved their things, then disembarked the train. “Do you see him?”

  Sophie shaded her eyes against the sun. “No, not yet.”

  “Mama, look over there!” Zachary cried.

  The women turned. A crowd was quickly gathering at the far end of the platform. “I wonder what’s going on,” Bernice said.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps we’d better go see,” Sophie suggested.

  They headed that way and noticed men ushering women away from whatever had everyone’s sudden attention.

  “Good heavens,” Bernice said. “What’s happening?”

  Sophie, still glancing around for Mr. Munson, didn’t answer. She didn’t want to miss him by immersing herself in the growing throng, but for all she knew he was just as curious as everyone else and she’d find him there.

  “Morgan!” Bernice cried.

  A handsome man turned at her voice. He looked to be about her age, with dark hair and blue eyes. “Bernice!”

  Bernice hurried to where he stood, Sophie on her heels. “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know – I just got here myself. Good to see you.”

  “You too.”

  “Hi, Mr. Tindle!” Zachary said with a smile.

  “Morgan,” said Bernice, “This is Miss Baxter. We met on the train. She’s come to Independence to get married.”

  Sophie blushed.

  “Married?”

  “A mail-order bride,” Bernice volunteered. “Just like Daisy and me.”

  Sophie didn’t know what to make of Bernice being so liberal with her business, but this was a small town and it was only a matter of time before everyone found out anyway, so what did it matter? “How do you do?”

  “Very well, thank you,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “My wife Daisy was a mail-order bride. May I inquire as to who your husband-to-be is?”

  Sophie opened her mouth to speak.

  “It’s Jasper Munson!” a man cried from the center of the crowd. “He’s dead!”

  Somewhere in the melee, a woman screamed.

  “What?” Sophie whispered. “Mr. Munson?”

  “Oh, Sophie,” Bernice said. “Morgan, that must be her betrothed!”

  Morgan’s eyes went round as saucers, and he shoved his way through the crowd. Sophie followed without thinking, her mind a whir. She had to know what was going on. Maybe it was some mistake.

  It wasn’t. Morgan broke through the ring of men surrounding a man lying face down on the platform, blood pooling beneath his chest. Sophie gasped, and Morgan grabbed her and turned her away. “Don’t look, Miss Baxter.”

  But she already had. “No, no. How could this happen?”

  A tall handsome man with dark hair and green eyes shoved his way through the crowd and bent over the body. She noticed the silver star he wore and swallowed hard. “Jasper?” he asked.

  “Yep,” someone answered.

  Sophie had to ask – had that poor man really been her future husband? “Edgar J. Munson?”

  The newcomer dropped to one knee and wen
t to turn the body over. He stopped halfway then looked up at her. “I’m afraid so, ma’am. Though around here we all knew him as Jasper. Is he a relative of yours?”

  Her lower lip trembled as she shook her head, still not looking. “He’s my betrothed.”

  The people nearest glanced at each other in shock. “Jasper got himself betrothed?” one man said, his voice cracking.

  “Zachary, get behind me,” Bernice ordered, taking Sophie into her arms.

  “That’s Jasper, all right,” Morgan said.

  Sophie summoned her courage and opened her eyes, not realizing she’d closed them, and she looked back at the man lying on the platform. He was older than she – by a good twenty years, was her guess. He’d depicted himself as much younger in his letters. A tiny spark of anger flamed, then died away as she continued to study him. His clothes were clean but careworn, his face unshaven. He held a sprig of flowers in his hand. And a knife in his chest.

  “Back away, please,” the sheriff said as he stood. He turned to a man with blond hair and blue eyes. “Gabe, run and fetch the doc.”

  Gabe stared at the body. “I don’t think Doc Stone’s gonna be able to help Jasper much at this point.”

  The sheriff sighed. “I know, but he still needs to examine him. Go!” He turned to Sophie. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Howdy, Bernice. Visiting your ma?”

  Bernice nodded, her eyes fixed on poor Jasper. “Hello, Jace,” she said numbly.

  He nodded in return, then focused on Sophie again. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’ll have to ask you some questions.”

  “Questions?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “What sort of questions?”

  “For starters, who’d want to murder Jasper Munson?”

  Chapter 3

  Murder. Such a hideous word. Sophie sat, a cold cup of coffee in her hand as Sheriff Jason Diamond paced back and forth in his small office. The town doctor, Ephraim Stone, sat behind the sheriff’s desk like he owned it and drummed his fingers on the surface. “This gets out, Jace, people are going to panic.”

  Sheriff Diamond stopped his pacing. “I’d say it’s a little late to worry about that. It’s probably all over town already.”

  Sophie sat numbly and took another sip of coffee.