“Only most?” Corey asked, a wry grin forming on his face.
“Well I can only speculate on the actual numbers,” Miss Parson reminded him, “but Mr. Collins had clearly picked up a rather large number of admirers for a man who’d been in Flat Rock only a few short months. Most of the women in that room were clearly very fond of him. If I were a husband, I wouldn’t like that.”
“So you’re sure now Collins was supposed to be shot?” Corey asked.
“Well I still have no actual evidence,” Miss Parson admitted, “but as you know, I am a woman who enjoys making a wager, and I would bet the farm on this. It’s the only theory that makes any sense.”
“Glad to hear it,” Corey said. It felt good to think that a rifleman was not out there waiting for another chance to shoot at him. But they still needed to identify the killer if they were to get another chance at that prize purse. “So how do we find out which husband did it?”
“I haven’t figured that one out yet,” Miss Parson told him. She was clearly enjoying herself. She had always liked a good puzzle. “But I will. Maybe we’ll learn something important when they bury him tomorrow.”
The whole town of Flat Rock and most of its visitors turned out to bury Mr. Gerald Collins. This offered both advantages and obstacles to Miss Parson in her efforts to investigate his murder.
The advantages were obvious. Just about every conceivable suspect had gathered together in one place, giving Miss Parson access to everyone. The disadvantages were equally evident — just about every conceivable suspect had gathered together in one place. There were quite simply far too many people to adequately observe or question.
Thunderin’ Joe Bullock was also at the funeral, as visible for his dark skin as he was for his size. He stood in the rear of the crowd and seemed at pains not to draw overmuch attention to himself. A white bandage covered the wound on his neck, but nothing about his movements suggested the cut was bothering him. Corey wanted to skirt the crowd and go stand with him. It wasn’t because they were friends — they weren’t — but be-cause Bullock was another boxer. In this crowd of mourners who were out for a spectacle, that gave Corey far more in common with Bullock than with anyone else here excepting Patrick and Miss Parson. He settled, however, for keeping his place on the outskirts of the crowd and nodding to Bullock across the heads of the people of Flat Rock. He was glad that Bullock returned the gesture.
“Where do you want to start?” Patrick whispered to Miss Parson.
“I’d like to talk to Mrs. Winslow again,” she whispered back. “She is a very wealthy woman in Flat Rock and was clearly fond of Mr. Collins. The roof of the bank would also make an excellent platform for the shooter if Mr. Winslow wished to forcefully object to the object of his wife’s interests.”
“I guess I could ask around and see if anyone saw Winslow in the crowd at the time of the shooting,” Patrick suggested.
Corey watched a look of utter consternation cross over Miss Parson’s face. He had seen her error immediately, of course. Patrick couldn’t keep secrets, and in his eagerness to help, he would likely tell the whole town that Miss Parson thought Mr. Winslow had shot Mr. Collins. She hadn’t said she suspected him, of course, but that was how Patrick would see it.
“Oh, Mr. O’Sullivan,” Miss Parson said. “Please don’t—”
“I’ll try to keep him out of trouble,” Corey assured her.
“What?” Patrick asked.
“I would so very much appreciate it,” Miss Parson told Corey.
“I’ll do my best,” Corey assured her. “Why don’t you go find Mrs. Winslow? I’ll drag Patrick with me and go talk to Bullock.”
The simple gratitude on Miss Parson’s face touched Corey deeply. Then she turned and slipped deeper into the crowd.
“I only want to help,” Patrick told Corey. “The sooner the marshal arrests somebody, the sooner we can reschedule the fight.”
“Oh, Miss Parson knows you’re on her side,” Corey assured Patrick. “But you know how she is. She’s right clever, and she really enjoys figuring out a puzzle. She just doesn’t want you solving it for her.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Patrick admitted. “I can see where that might be a problem for her. Still, maybe I should just ask a few questions real quietly. I don’t have to tell her the answers. That way she can still work things out on her own.”
“Oh, Mr. Callaghan,” a high-pitched female voice called over the low roar of the crowd. “Mr. Callaghan!”
Corey looked around to find Mrs. Alice Baker emerging through the throng to step between him and Patrick, forcing Corey to step back so she would not be physically pressed against him. She stepped forward as he moved, maintaining the same awkward closeness she had preferred the night before. “Oh, Mr. Callaghan,” she said, “I was so hoping to see you here this morning. I—”
Patrick sidled his way back next to Corey and interrupted Mrs. Baker. Taking the cap from his head, he said, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you yet, miss. Corey, me lad, have you been holding out on me? Who is this lovely woman?”
A range of expressions were fighting for ownership of Mrs. Baker’s face: irritation at being interrupted, pleasure at Patrick’s flattery, and curiosity as to the identity of the old man.
“Patrick, please allow me to introduce Mrs. Baker. Mrs. Baker, this is my manager and trainer, Mr. Patrick O’Sullivan.”
The instant that Mrs. Baker half turned to acknowledge Patrick’s presence, Corey shuffled a foot farther away from her.
“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. O’Sullivan. What a fighter you’ve produced. Why just look at him. He’s the perfect model of a man: tall, broad, strong, and so forceful.”
Patrick warmed to Mrs. Baker immediately. “Aye, that he is. The finest boxer I have ever trained. The stories I could tell you—”
“And I’ll want to hear every one of them,” Mrs. Baker announced. “In fact, you and Mr. Callaghan will have to join me at the potluck following the funeral. The whole town will be gathering to remember poor Mr. Collins.”
“Why that is right hospitable of you,” Patrick said, his face beaming at the suggestion. “Corey, me lad, why didn’t you tell me about this invitation?”
Corey forewent kicking Patrick in an effort to shut him up. “Just where is Mr. Baker?” Corey asked.
“Mr. Baker?” Patrick repeated, suddenly realizing the situation was a bit more complicated than he had originally assumed.
“Oh, he’s probably following after Mr. Winslow,” Mrs. Baker told them, dismissing her husband from the conversation. “He lets that man order him all over the place just because he works for him. Poor Eugene just isn’t a forceful man like you are, Mr. Callaghan.”
Corey found that Mrs. Baker had stepped right up against him again so that he couldn’t take a deep breath without brushing against her. She stared up into his face with such adulation that it actually unnerved the boxer.
Patrick unwittingly came to Corey’s assistance. “So you know Mr. Wins-low,” he ventured. “Do you remember seeing him when Mr. Collins was killed?”
“Mr. Winslow?” Mrs. Baker asked.
“Yes, we were wondering if—”
Remembering his promise to Miss Parson, Corey forced himself to interrupt. “Where were you when Mr. Collins was shot, Mrs. Baker?”
As Corey had feared, Mrs. Baker was eager for the chance to turn back and face him. “Oh, I was standing right beside him. It was just terrible. One moment he was talking with Mrs. Winslow while I watched the fight and the next he was crumpled against the ropes dying.”