The Desert Moon Mystery by Kay Cleaver Strahan

The sheriff, the coroner, the undertaker, a newspaper reporter, and another man that the coroner had brought along for a juryman, drove up to the ranch at five o'clock that morning. It had been past midnight before Sam had been able to get hold of one of them at Telko, on account of them all being out taking in the celebration there.

Sam and the sheriff had been friends for thirty years. Sam's money had paid for the coroner's medical education. They, and the others, were mighty sorry to have to bother us at all, and their sole aim was to make as little trouble as possible.

They interviewed each one of us, alone, but pleasantly and informally, in the dining-room; each one, that is, but Danny-the coroner, visiting her as a doctor, said it would never do to pester her, in the state she was in-and Martha, who was still asleep, and whom they said it was no use to wake. They kept each of us about ten minutes. They brought in the verdict of died by his own hand, for Chad; and, murdered by person or persons unknown for Gaby. They left, on tiptoe, holding their hats in their hands clear to the end of the driveway. The coroner and the sheriff both came, I think, with the conviction that Chad was the guilty person; but Sam was so right down violent about Chad's innocence, that they let that drop at once.

The sheriff left, I am all but certain, with the strong conviction that I had committed the murder, and with the resolution that he would not do Sam an ill turn by depriving him of a good cook. The coroner, and the others, except the reporter, were sure, I think, that one of us was guilty; but were thankful to goodness that they had not found out which one.

The undertaker did not leave with the others. He was preparing the bodies to take them to Telko; there to await the instructions that we could not give until after we had gotten in touch, if possible, with Chad's people, and had come to a decision about Gaby's burial place.

The reporter, whose name-not that it matters except for its fitness-was Clarence Pette, waited to return to town with the undertaker. While waiting, he went snooping about the place, looking for footprints-there could not have been any, after the deluge of rain the night before-cocking his head to one side and the other, writing in a notebook, making knowing, humming sounds between his tightly closed lips. He had been bothering me, like a fly on the ceiling, all morning. Finally, when he came poking right into my kitchen, and opened the door to the back stairway, I turned on him.

"What's the matter with you? " I asked. "If you have any business, why don't you go about it?"

"Yes, yes," he said. "Precisely. Now, my good woman, if you can spare me a few moments -- "

Sam came ambling into the kitchen and threw himself into a chair.

"Ah, Mr. Stanley," Clarence said. "I was just telling your cook here that, if she could spare me a few moments of her time, I probably could be of much service here, under these unfortunate circumstances. You see, we reporters are, necessarily, detectives, in a smaller or greater degree. Until I came to Nevada, I was on one of the large San Francisco dailies. Not taking undo credit to myself, I will say that, while serving there, I was instrumental in getting to the bottom of numerous crimes. Have I your attention, Mr. Stanley?"

Sam looked at him as he would look at some snapping puppy that was pestering around his heels.

I don't know what Clarence thought. What he said, was, "Precisely. By mere observation. Trained observation, that is, coupled with a naturally analytical and deductive mind, _and_ imagination. Observation, first. As an example: since entering this kitchen, I have observed that your cook -- "

"If you mean Mrs. Magin," Sam interrupted, "say so."

"Precisely. I have observed that Mrs. Magin has been but recently divorced. She was married to a man of some property. Of this she received a share, at the time of her divorce, in lieu of further alimony. She has come here, recently, from Chicago, where she lived in comfort, but not in luxury. She did not keep a servant. Her daughters were dutiful girls. All of her children, at the time of the divorce, however, sided with their father."

I glanced at Sam. He was resting his head in his hands, elbows on the table. He had not, I could tell, heard one word that Clarence had said. To my own discredit, at an hour like that, I was curious to find out how a man could make so many mistakes in so short a time. "But how -- " I began.

He was too eager to explain to allow me to finish the question. "Very simple, for a trained observer. You no longer wear a wedding ring; but the mark of one, worn for years, shows plainly on your finger. " (My wedding ring is set around with garnets; so I always take it off when I cook, and hang it on a nail for that purpose, over the sink. It was hanging there in plain sight, right then.) "If you were a widow, you would continue to wear your ring. Your clothes, your wrist watch, your silk stockings, show that you have been accustomed to a comfortable living. Since you came to Nevada, it was you who got the divorce. Hence-alimony. Had you received a lump sum of money, or monthly payments, you would not have taken a position as a cook. You undoubtedly received property, on which you can not at once realize. Your kitchen apron, here on the hook, and like the one you are wearing, has the label of a Chicago firm in its waistband, and is of excellent material. Had you been poor, you could not have afforded such an apron-more than likely you would have made your own aprons. Had you been wealthy, you would not have owned a kitchen apron. It is easy to tell, from watching you, that you have been accustomed to having help in your work-hence, your daughters. If your children had been in sympathy with you, at the time of the divorce, you undoubtedly would have returned to make your home with one of them, instead of remaining as a cook in Nevada -- "