Revenge and the Wild(79)

Her clothes were wet and splattered with mud. Most of the folks in the bank wore fancy clothes to ask for loans or beg for extensions. Westie used her machine to shake out her dress, slinging mud onto everyone else’s silk and velvet.

“That better?” she asked.

Alistair chuckled beneath his mask, a sound that was as familiar to her ears as her own voice but spooked others. No one moved or spoke, just stared.

An older gentleman with a strangely sculpted beard that split in the middle and curled up at both ends stepped out from behind the counter. “May I help you?”

“We’re here to see Amos Little,” Alistair said.

The man’s face rolled from smile to sadness in one swift motion. “I’m sorry—you must not have heard.”

“We don’t hear much about the outside world in Rogue City,” Westie said.

He braided his fingers protectively in front of his chest the way some folks did when they were about to tell someone something sad enough to flail their arms at. Westie’s heart sank lower each second he prolonged the silence.

With eyes lowered and a tremor in his voice, he said, “I regret to inform you that Amos Little has passed on, but I’ll be happy to help you with any of your banking needs.”

The hope Westie had felt earlier dissipated, its remains carried away on the wind like a dandelion. She leaned against a wall covered in Wanted posters. Dead? But he’d just been at her party not that long ago.

“How did he die?” she asked.

“House fire—a terrible accident.”

“Accident my ass,” she mumbled low enough to keep the banker from hearing.

Even after closing her eyes and slowing her breathing, the malevolent thing knotting in her chest grew until it was painful. She put her copper hand to her heart. They’d come all this way for nothing. Whatever rivalry there’d been between Amos and the mayor, now she’d never know.

Deciding there would be no hysterics, the banker dropped his hands to his sides and asked, “Is there anything I can help you with?”

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.