voice. Louis carefully turned to gaze into her sleek, delicate features.
“ Did I understand correctly that you are a writer?” Eliza asked. Her slender fingers played at the black ribbon tied around her tiny waist. Louis noticed she did not wear a wedding band.
“ I was once,” he answered with a pause, sliding his spectacles back up his nose. “I’m an editor by trade these days.”
“ Oh, do you work for Harper’s magazine, then?” she purred. Her voice was smooth and sultry, with an ever so slight hint of a southern drawl, sending tendrils of pleasure spiraling up his spine.
“ No, ma’am,” he answered, his voice a little higher than usual. He took a steady breath to calm his nerves. “Nothing so prestigious. I edit fiction, novels and tales of the west.”
“ I reckon’ she’s asking what brings you out here, Mr. Farmer,” O’Rouke pointed out in a gruff bark.
Louis hoped his companions attributed his reddened complexion to the increasing heat. “Research,” he answered honestly. “I’m working on a book about an outlaw who’s reputedly murdered hundreds of people.”
O’Rourke chuckled. “ Them books always glorify the evil that men do. Not a lick of truth or common sense to most of them. No offense, Mr. Farmer, but couldn’t you just make up the facts in your office in New York City like most of them book folks do anyway? ”
Louis didn’t react to the insult. He wasn’t about to start a fight with a man like O’Rouke. “No. This story is so strange, I won’t pretend I understand it. My publisher didn’t either, so he sent me out here to find the missing pieces of the manuscript’s puzzle so that I can finish the book.”
“ But you said you weren’t a writer anymore,” Eliza reminded him.
“ I’m not usually, but the original author is dead.”
“ How did he die?” Michael asked from beside him, suddenly interested in the conversation.
“ Rather gruesomely,” Louis admitted. “I would rather not share the details in the presence of a lady.”
Eliza giggled, bringing her hand up from her lap to cover her mouth. “ I assure you, Mr. Farmer, I am not faint of heart. Please continue, if you would be so kind. I admit to being afflicted with a dreadful curiosity, ” she urged him.
“ His body was found in the room of his hotel room in New York. He was staying in the city while I looked over the book and considered it for publication. A maid discovered his corpse dangling from a beam on the room’s ceiling, hanged there not by a rope, but by his own entrails. His body had been gutted and his skin flayed from his bone in long strips. Someone had collected what they could of his blood and wrote characters of some unknown language on the room’s wall that even the best linguists I could acquire the services of were not able to recognize the tongue, let alone decipher its meaning.”
Michael appeared sorry he had asked for details, and the yellowish hue on the young man’s flushed face suggested he was on the edge of being sick. Neither Eliza nor O’Rouke seemed fazed by the atrocity. The wealthy, demure southern woman climbed a few rungs on the ladder of his estimation.
“ That’s disgusting, is what it is,” O’Rouke grunted. “Sounds like the work of Indians or some sort of cult.”
“ That’s what I thought at first, too,” Louis agreed, “But the cuts on his body were too rough and jagged to have been made by any blade. They looked to be more the work of an animal—perhaps a large predatory cat or something of that nature, as the wounds more closely resembled claw marks.”
“ Ain’t never heard tell of big cats in New York City, son,” O’Rouke told him with a glower of disbelief.
“ Neither have I. His murder is just another piece in the puzzle of the murder book.”
“ Must be some sick book, ” Michael shuddered.
“ It is,” Louis nodded, “but it’s my job to make sense of it and make it marketable. Dark and disturbing tales
“ Did I understand correctly that you are a writer?” Eliza asked. Her slender fingers played at the black ribbon tied around her tiny waist. Louis noticed she did not wear a wedding band.
“ I was once,” he answered with a pause, sliding his spectacles back up his nose. “I’m an editor by trade these days.”
“ Oh, do you work for Harper’s magazine, then?” she purred. Her voice was smooth and sultry, with an ever so slight hint of a southern drawl, sending tendrils of pleasure spiraling up his spine.
“ No, ma’am,” he answered, his voice a little higher than usual. He took a steady breath to calm his nerves. “Nothing so prestigious. I edit fiction, novels and tales of the west.”
“ I reckon’ she’s asking what brings you out here, Mr. Farmer,” O’Rouke pointed out in a gruff bark.
Louis hoped his companions attributed his reddened complexion to the increasing heat. “Research,” he answered honestly. “I’m working on a book about an outlaw who’s reputedly murdered hundreds of people.”
O’Rourke chuckled. “ Them books always glorify the evil that men do. Not a lick of truth or common sense to most of them. No offense, Mr. Farmer, but couldn’t you just make up the facts in your office in New York City like most of them book folks do anyway? ”
Louis didn’t react to the insult. He wasn’t about to start a fight with a man like O’Rouke. “No. This story is so strange, I won’t pretend I understand it. My publisher didn’t either, so he sent me out here to find the missing pieces of the manuscript’s puzzle so that I can finish the book.”
“ But you said you weren’t a writer anymore,” Eliza reminded him.
“ I’m not usually, but the original author is dead.”
“ How did he die?” Michael asked from beside him, suddenly interested in the conversation.
“ Rather gruesomely,” Louis admitted. “I would rather not share the details in the presence of a lady.”
Eliza giggled, bringing her hand up from her lap to cover her mouth. “ I assure you, Mr. Farmer, I am not faint of heart. Please continue, if you would be so kind. I admit to being afflicted with a dreadful curiosity, ” she urged him.
“ His body was found in the room of his hotel room in New York. He was staying in the city while I looked over the book and considered it for publication. A maid discovered his corpse dangling from a beam on the room’s ceiling, hanged there not by a rope, but by his own entrails. His body had been gutted and his skin flayed from his bone in long strips. Someone had collected what they could of his blood and wrote characters of some unknown language on the room’s wall that even the best linguists I could acquire the services of were not able to recognize the tongue, let alone decipher its meaning.”
Michael appeared sorry he had asked for details, and the yellowish hue on the young man’s flushed face suggested he was on the edge of being sick. Neither Eliza nor O’Rouke seemed fazed by the atrocity. The wealthy, demure southern woman climbed a few rungs on the ladder of his estimation.
“ That’s disgusting, is what it is,” O’Rouke grunted. “Sounds like the work of Indians or some sort of cult.”
“ That’s what I thought at first, too,” Louis agreed, “But the cuts on his body were too rough and jagged to have been made by any blade. They looked to be more the work of an animal—perhaps a large predatory cat or something of that nature, as the wounds more closely resembled claw marks.”
“ Ain’t never heard tell of big cats in New York City, son,” O’Rouke told him with a glower of disbelief.
“ Neither have I. His murder is just another piece in the puzzle of the murder book.”
“ Must be some sick book, ” Michael shuddered.
“ It is,” Louis nodded, “but it’s my job to make sense of it and make it marketable. Dark and disturbing tales
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