Gone to Glory Read online

  “Women,” Martin breathed. “You don’t see me getting married again, do you?”

  Traveler’s only answer was to chew harder.

  “When Kary, your mother, died I said to myself, ‘You’re past it anyway. You don’t have to be led around by your balls anymore.’”

  He looked around for eavesdroppers. When he found none he continued. “The trouble is, the sap still rises once in a while.”

  Traveler swallowed and clenched his teeth.

  “When that happens I get drunk. That’s just as good as sex at my age. But at yours?” Martin’s head shook. “You’ve got to find someone else to play games with.”

  “I haven’t seen Claire in months.”

  “You should see the look on your face.”

  Traveler studied the window in front of him, but it was free of reflection. The only thing revealed was blue sky.

  “The storm’s breaking up again,” he said.

  “Good,” his father answered. “Because I’ve got a date.”

  “You know what happens to sap in the spring.”

  Martin grinned. “A plane has my name on it at the airport.”

  His father had learned to fly during the war and had kept up his license ever since, including a full instrument rating for single-engine aircraft. Traveler had yet to go up with him.

  “There are those who say flying gets them closer to God,” Martin said.

  “Just the two of you up there, is that right?”

  Martin winked. “I owe a lot to the army.”

  The details of Martin’s service were unclear, since he refused to talk about the war, a situation that had made Kary furious.

  “Your father came home a hero,” she had said every time the subject came up. “A band was playing and there he was with a chestful of medals. But I never believed a word of it. If he’d been a real hero, he would have bragged about it like everyone else.”

  10

  Samuel Howe and Associates occupied the tenth and top floor of the Keams Building on Main Street between First and Second South. It was within easy walking distance for Traveler, who arrived five minutes early for his appointment. Since he knew they’d probably keep him waiting anyway, he stood outside for a while, enjoying the rain-freshened air and admiring the building, one of Salt Lake’s landmarks.

  The Keams had been constructed in 1911 for Thomas Keams, one of the mining millionaires to come out of Park City in the 1880s. Its reinforced concrete was a marvel of the time, as was a design hinting at a Renaissance revival that included terra-cotta tile, brick veneer, and bold cornices.

  Keams, like his building, became a fixture in Utah. Although a Catholic, he served one term in the United States Senate, taking office at the turn of the century, a time when a kind of gentleman’s agreement existed between church and Gentiles. One senator would be LDS, the church decreed, and one would be a Gentile, a policy to placate Mormon-baiters in Washington.

  Traveler took a deep breath. A breeze coming off the mountains carried with it the smell of pine and sage. It reminded him of childhood outings he’d taken with his father at Rockwell’s Flats, an area of Cottonwood Canyon since bulldozed for ski resorts.

  What would Tom Kearns think of his city today? Traveler wondered as he walked into a lobby far less grand than the Chester Building’s. The Kearns’ elevator was in better shape, though, with buttons to push instead of the likes of Nephi Bates at the controls.

  Carpet that smelled like old money led Traveler across the tenth-floor foyer to an elegant antique desk, behind which sat an even more elegant receptionist. The highly polished metal plaque said his name was Mr. VanHorn. Behind him were two impressively paneled oak doors, both closed.

  “Moroni Traveler to see Mr. Howe.”

  “Someone will be with you in a moment, sir.” He pushed a button on his phone console.

  A minute or so later one of the doors opened. The man who stepped through it was short, no more than five-five. He had close-cropped sandy hair with bushy eyebrows to match. His white shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, his collar was unbuttoned, and his tie hung loose. He shook hands fiercely, as if to prove himself against Traveler’s bulk.

  “Sam Howe,” he said … I’ve always wanted to meet you.” With a brusque gesture he indicated that Traveler was to follow him through the open door.

  The same carpet continued into the wide corridor beyond. They passed half a dozen heavy doors, including one with gold lettering that said samuel howe. When Traveler stopped in front of it, Howe kept on going toward a door at the end of the hall, over which glowed a discreet Exit sign.

  The man retraced his steps to Traveler’s side. “On a day like this, Moroni—you don’t mind if I call you Moroni, do you?—it’s best to enjoy God’s fresh air at every opportunity.”

  “Mr. Howe, I’ve been hired to help Pepper Dalton. In order to do that, I need to see him.”

  The lawyer nodded. “Follow me, Moroni.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Howe continued down the hall to the exit door. When he opened it, bright daylight flooded the short flight of steps that led up to the roof. From there, they could see the entire valley. To the west, the Great Salt Lake looked as blue as the ocean. To the east, the Wasatch Mountains had been covered with fresh snow and seemed close enough to touch in the shimmering air. Still another procession of thunderheads, blacker even than those before them, loomed above the ten thousand-foot peaks.

  “At times like this,” Howe said, “I know Salt Lake is the most beautiful place in the world. But then, I see it differently from most people. I wasn’t born here.”

  “I need your permission to see Pepper Dalton,” Traveler persisted.

  “I haven’t decided if we need the services of a private detective as yet.”

  “I’m working for one of Pepper’s friends.”

  “Of course you are, Moroni. But that’s your business. My business is to look after the interests of my client.”

  “They’re one and the same,” Traveler said, but couldn’t help wondering which client Howe had in mind. He was, after all, the church’s thirteenth and unnamed apostle. As such, he could give the appearance of being unbiased, even pro-Gentile when it suited him.

  “Look around you, Moroni.” Howe made a sweeping gesture meant to encompass the entire valley. “Since moving here, I’ve studied Salt Lake’s history. Think of what it took to build this city. The guts, the faith. This was nothing more than a wasteland when Brigham Young led his people here. And what did they find? I’ll tell you. Not very much. Even the Indians had little use for this valley. They only came here to harvest crickets when they got desperate for food. But Brigham took one look at it and said, ‘This is the place.’ “

  Howe’s head shook as if he couldn’t believe his own words. “His promised land, his Eden. Think of it. Quite probably this was the most hostile environment ever to face American pioneers. And Brigham Young turned it into the crossroads of the West.”

  “You argue a good case. I hope you do as well for Pepper.”

  “I never discuss my clients, or their cases, in advance of the trial.”

  “From what I hear, the church is your client.”

  The lawyer squinted at Traveler, then turned suddenly to point north. “Look at the temple. Even a Gentile like you would have to call that a monument to faith.”

  At the top of one of the spires, the golden Angel Moroni shimmered as if it had caught fire in the sunlight.

  “It took forty years to build. Ox teams hauled granite blocks one at a time from Little Cottonwood Canyon. That’s twenty miles away. Think of it. Think of the dedication. It was pioneers like that who made this country what it is today.”

  “You’re quite a convert.”

  “There’s hope for everyone, Moroni.”

  “I understand that Pepper is a Gentile.”
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br />   “I was a Gentile once. I saw the light.”

  “A Gentile without money if he’s convicted,” Traveler added.

  “My client is innocent. When I prove that in court, he’ll come into his inheritance, both financial and spiritual.”

  “Why would a man like you involve yourself in a murder case?”

  The lawyer smiled. “I’m a good friend to have, Moroni.”

  “And a bad enemy. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “In this town you don’t want to step on the wrong toes.”

  Traveler glanced at Howe’s perfectly polished shoes. “Church toes, I take it.”

  Howe looked down at Traveler’s scuffed loafers and shook his head.

  “I don’t understand why the church is involved in this,” Traveler said. “My God, polygamists and murder. That’s just the kind of publicity they don’t want.”

  “I read the newspapers every day, Moroni, and I haven’t seen anything yet. Have you?”

  “All right. You win. Just tell me one thing. Do I get in to see Pepper or not?”

  “My advice to you, Moroni,” Howe said, raising his voice, “is to mind your own business.”

  Two men big enough to have given Goliath a hard time stepped onto the roof and took up positions on either side of the stairway.

  “Please escort Mr. Traveler out of the building,” Howe told them before turning his back on Traveler to stare out at the city.

  11

  State Street runs parallel to Main, one block to the east. Unlike Main, which is graced by Brigham Young’s statue at its apex, State is crowned by the Eagle Gate, a seventy-six-foot span topped by the two-ton copper eagle that once marked the entrance to Brigham Young’s private estate.

  Traveler passed under the bird on his way to the Semloh Hotel. It, too, was a relic of bygone days, with a façade as sad as the rouged cheeks of an old woman.

  According to Martin, the hotel had been christened for its owner, a man named Holmes who liked the mystery of spelling his name backwards.

  Rain was falling again by the time Traveler entered the lobby. He dripped across threadbare maroon carpet to a front desk that was made of dark wood, probably walnut, and was as massive as the pillars that held up the hand-painted stucco ceiling. By comparison, the man behind the desk looked puny, though he stood eye-to-eye with Traveler’s six feet three inches. The clerk wore a three-piece suit that was shiny by design rather than wear. A plastic tab on his vest said he was Mr. Young. In Utah hundreds bore that name, maybe thousands. Most claimed to be direct descendants of the prophet, whose twenty-six wives had contributed to such a likelihood.

  When Traveler leaned against the desk, he could see that Young was standing on a raised platform made of lumber fresh enough to bleed resin around the nail holes. The clerk backed off a step, causing the new planks to creak underfoot.

  “They say the guy who built this place was a midget and worked the desk himself,” the man said. He wore the lie easily, like an actor. “Now what can I do for you?”

  “Have you been on the desk all day?”

  Young’s eyelids drooped. “I should have known it. You’re here about the murder like everybody else.”

  “I’m a detective,” Traveler said, hoping he wouldn’t have to qualify himself as self-employed and private.

  The clerk pulled at his nose like a man getting ready to do some surreptitious picking. “I’ve been talking to your cohorts all day. Because of them, business is off.”

  “Let’s start with Rick Dalton. What can you tell me about him?”

  “Your people are the ones who came and took him away. So you must know more about him than I do by now.”

  “Were you on duty when he checked in?”

  The man twitched his bony shoulders. “Like I told the others, Mr. Dalton is a regular here. Over the last six months, I’ve seen him three or four times. I check him in. I check him out. But that’s as far as it goes. I don’t know anything about his personal life or his business. The fact is, until today he was just another customer demanding fresh towels, soap, or some damn thing.”

  “What about Zeke Eldredge?” Traveler said.

  “He’s another kettle of fish altogether. You can’t miss him. Has a beard down to here.” Using the flat of his hand, the clerk made a chopping motion at the base of his neck. “He reminds me of those pioneer photos you see of Brigham Young. Of course, Mr. Eldredge is a widower now, because of the murder. Her name was Priscilla, you know, which sounds pioneer to me, too.”

  “Is he still in the hotel?”

  “Checked out right along with the body.”

  “What about his registration card?”

  “Your buddies took it with them.”

  “The look on your face tells me you remember what’s on it.”

  The clerk sighed. “He left a forwarding address. I remember that because the police are sending his wife’s body there when they’re through with it. No street address or anything like that. Just Glory, Utah. Wherever that is.”

  Traveler checked the notes he’d jotted down after his talk with Hap Kilgore. High on the list was Pepper’s fiancée. “Would you check your registration for the name Kate Ferguson?”

  “I don’t have to. Like I told the other cops, we have no record of her.”

  “I have information that she was sharing a room with Mr. Dalton.”

  “What our guests do in their rooms is their business, as long as they’re not too loud about it.”

  “Did you ever see another woman with him?”

  “One of our bellhops said he saw a lady in the elevator with Mr. Dalton.”

  “I’d like to talk to him.”

  Young glanced at the white-faced clock that hung on the wall behind the desk. “I’ve been on my own time for the past ten minutes. My replacement is late and they don’t pay overtime.”

  Traveler took out a twenty-dollar bill and slid it across the desk. The clerk tucked it into his vest pocket.

  “Jimmy’s a real baseball buff. He always takes care of Mr. Dalton when he stays here. But he’s off duty right now.”

  Traveler added a ten. At the twenty-five-dollar-a-day rate he’d quoted Kilgore, he was now in the hole.

  “This time of day Jimmy takes a shift as a waiter in our dining room. I’m afraid you’ll have to order something to eat if you want to speak with him.”

  The dining room had the same massive pillars as the lobby. Instead of carpet on the floor there was white tile, the old-fashioned hexagonal kind, small and mosaiclike, held together by grout that had blackened over the years. The one waiter on duty looked old enough to have laid it himself.

  When he came to the table, Traveler handed him a business card.

  “Sure,” he said, holding it at arm’s length and squinting. “I remember you. Played linebacker for Los Angeles. My name’s Jimmy Vaughn.”

  The old man held out his hand. Traveler stood up to shake it.

  “Would you sign your card for me?”

  “Sure.” Traveler smiled. People who remembered his football career usually wanted more from him than an autograph.

  Jimmy wiped his gnarled hands on his trousers before taking back the card. After admiring the inscription, he blew on the ballpoint ink to make certain it was dry. “The only time I ever rooted for LA was when you played for them.” He tucked the card into his wallet. “I never liked them before, or since.”

  “My playing days are long gone.”

  “When you get to be my age it’ll seem like yesterday, believe me.” He shook his head at the menu on the tablecloth in front of Traveler. “I don’t think you came here to eat. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have given me your card.”

  “I’m trying to help Pepper Dalton.”

  “Now there’s a man who’s had trouble all his life. Do you remember when he played
for the Bees?” Traveler nodded.

  “I wasn’t a waiter in those days. I had a season ticket. Reserved seats, too. A bunch of us used to sit together on the first base side, behind the Bees dugout. We did our best by Pepper. We cheered everything he did, even foul balls. But nothing helped. He couldn’t hit worth a damn. Old Hap Kilgore was the manager then. Why he stuck with Pepper, I don’t know.”

  Jimmy stopped speaking to catch his breath. His eyes, which had lost focus while he spoke of the past, winked at Traveler one after the other. “Of course, I didn’t know Mr. Dalton personally in those days.”

  “What’s he like now?”

  “He always acts like a gentleman when he comes in here. He overtips me outrageously.” Traveler reached for his wallet.

  “No, sir. I won’t take money, not from you, not for helping out Mr. Dalton. There’s one thing I do want to say, though. If you ask me, a man who was as bad with the bat as he was would never use one as a weapon. He’d probably strike out.”

  Traveler couldn’t help smiling.

  “Yes, sir,” the old man said suddenly, “the hot beef sandwich is one of our specialties.” Under his breath he added, “We’ve got company.”

  Traveler glanced up to see Sam Howe’s bodyguards crossing the dining room.

  “They don’t look like missionaries,” Jimmy whispered.

  Despite their bulk the men might have been mistaken for missionaries on the street, since the church tended to dispatch its proselytizers in pairs. These two even wore the correct LDS uniform: sincere cheap suits, white shirts, and ties. But that’s where the similarity ended. There was no zeal in their eyes, only danger.

  Behind them, dwarfed by their bulk, came the desk clerk. When they reached Traveler’s table, the clerk spoke from his position of safety. “Here at the Semloh we reserve the right to refuse service to anyone.”

  Jimmy backed off a couple of paces, fumbling with his order pad.

  Traveler forced himself to stay seated. He slipped his hands beneath the table to hide his adrenaline shakes, the kind he always got before big games. It was his body’s way of readying itself for combat on the football field. His eyes would be changing too, turning into crazy linebacker eyes, as his coach called them.