They suspected Ned Bucksmith, owner of the Buckshot mine. Immediately he tried to buy the Big B from the widow. But Bridget was a strong woman. She said she’d operate it herself. The idea of a woman mine operator shocked the other owners, and when the mother of three proceeded to do a man’s job better than they could, their antagonism grew – especially that of Ned Bucksmith. She was twice his size, being tall, buxom, and broad-shouldered. She always wore a long, voluminous black dress with a little white lace collar and a pancake hat tied under her chin with ribbons.
Folks said it was the lace collar and ribbons that sent Ned Bucksmith over the edge. He and the other mine owners met in the back room of the K Saloon on Thursday evenings to drink whiskey and play cards, and he got them plotting against Big Bridget. One Thursday night a window was broken in the shack she used for an office. The next week a giant tree was felled across her access road. Next her night watchman put out a fire that could have burned down the office.
One Thursday morning Bridget was sitting at her roll-top desk when she heard a frantic banging on the door. There on the doorstep was a young boy, out of breath from running. “Them men!” he gasped. “At the saloon. They be blowin’ up your mine!” Then he dashed away.
That evening Bridget went to the saloon in her tent-like black dress and pancake hat, carrying a shotgun. She barged in, knocked over a few chairs and shouted, “Where are those dirty rats?” Customers hid under tables as she swept toward the back room. “Who’s gonna blow up my mine?” she thundered and pointed the gun at Ned Bucksmith. He went out the window headfirst, and the other men piled out the back door. She followed them and unloaded a few warning shots.
There was no more trouble at the Big B. Now if you’re wondering about the youngster who tipped her off, he was Ned Bucksmith’s boy, and he had a crush on Bridget’s daughter. When they grew up, they were married, and that young boy became my grandfather.
Qwilleran turned off his tape recorder. “You tell the story well, Maggie.”
“That’s how I told it at the genealogy club. One man came up afterward and said his ancestors knew Bridget. They worked for her.”
“It must be gratifying to know who your forebears are. I never knew my grandparents. How do you know details like the lace collar and pancake hat?”
“The historical society has a daguerreotype of her. She looks like a king-size Queen Victoria.”
“You’ve inherited some of her fine qualities, Maggie.”
“And some of Bucksmith’s bad ones. That was my maiden name, and I was glad to get rid of it when I married Mr. Sprenkle. He was a gentleman and a gentle man. He grew prize roses. Do you like the roses in this carpet? They remind me of him. Have another brownie, Qwill.”
“You talked me into it. By the way, I think the Big B shafthouse is the most dramatic.”
“They say it has a subterranean lake at the bottom of the shaft.”
Qwilleran walked to the window to say goodbye to the ladies and look at the windows of the inn. He said, “There was a murder in that room on the third floor early this morning.”
“I know. Poor Mr. Delacamp! He was kind of silly, but we liked him. He was supposed to make me an offer for the Sprenkle torsade today.” She shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll have it made into five collars for my ladies…. Incidentally, Qwill, I saw something last night, and I’m wondering if I should report it to the police.”
“It depends what it was.”
“Well, Carrie was unwell, and I was sitting up with her – just to make her feel cared for and loved. We sat in the dark. It was late, and there were no lights in any of the guestrooms across the street. The windows have those narrow-slat blinds, you know, and suddenly I saw streaks of light behind the blinds in two of the windows on the third floor – like the beams of a flashlight moving around.”
“How long did the light show last?”
“Only a minute or two.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to report it,” Qwilleran said. “You never know if some small observation will develop into a clue. Do you know what time it was?”
“Well, the bars close at two, and there’s a brief rush of traffic, and then it’s quiet. About two-thirty, I’d say.”
“Do you know anyone at the police department?”
“Andrew Brodie – I know him very well. He played the bagpipe at Mr. Sprenkle’s funeral.”
When Qwilleran left the Sprenkle building he crossed the street to pick up Friday’s paper in the lobby of the inn, and he was disappointed to find that the Something knew of no more about the murder than did WPKX. He did, however, see Roger MacGillivray in the parking lot. “Are you on the Delacamp story?” Qwilleran asked him.
“I was, but they’re not releasing any more details. I’m on my way to cover a meeting of the Interact Club at the school.”
Knowing that reporters always know more than they’re at liberty to write, he asked, “Any off-the-record dope on the girl?”
