The Lady Doctor's Alibi Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  Teaser chapter

  Fighting Franco’s Fire

  Out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw Jim Boone and his shotgun move onto the boardwalk. There was no flash of silver on his chest.

  “Your call,” he said to Franco.

  Franco nodded, but before the nod was complete, his hand went for his gun. This was the signal for the others to draw as well.

  Clint drew his gun and fired before anyone else. His first shot took Franco in the chest, drove him back a few feet. The shotgun blast shredded Rufus Holmes before the big man knew what had hit him.

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  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE LADY DOCTOR’S ALIBI

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / March 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Robert J. Randisi.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18542-1

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  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  ONE

  When Clint Adams rode into Veracruz, it was between French and United States possession. It had last been held by the French in 1861. Currently, they were ruling themselves. Porfirio Díaz had regained the presidency he’d held for a brief month, then taken back from Juan N. Méndez after three months. The Mexican people didn’t know at the time—and neither did Díaz—that he would now hold that office until 1911.

  Veracruz was a port town off the Gulf of Mexico, which was what made it so desirable as a possession. At the moment, it was desirable to Clint just as a place to get away for a while.

  He directed Eclipse down the street, keeping his eye out for a livery stable. He didn’t find one until he was within sight of the docks. He was about to turn around when he saw it and shrugged. It was as good a place as any, and there was a hotel right across the street. Neither would offer top-rated services, but Clint wasn’t looking for the kind of amenities he usually liked. A room with a bed would do for him.

  He dismounted in front of the livery, which, despite the fact that it was run-down, was clean—as barns go, that is. Favoring his left foot, he approached the front doors.

  A man came out wiping his hands on his thighs, then stopped when he saw Eclipse. He stared at the Darley Arabian with wide eyes.

  “Señor,” he said, “that is the finest-lookin’ animal I have ever seen.”

  Clint studied the man. Late fifties, rawboned with big jug ears. His hands were scarred, a sure sign of a man who had dealt with livestock most of his life. You can’t handle horses for a living without having a finger or two bitten off.

  “Can you care for him the way he should be cared for?” Clint asked.

  “Señor, horses are my business,” the man said. “I have never seed one like this before, but I know I will take the best care of him.”

  Clint held the reins out to the man.

  “Then do it. I’ll be staying in the hotel across the street.”

  “That is not such a nice place to stay, señor,” the man warned him.

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “I’m not looking for such a nice place.”

  Clint turned, winced when he put his weight on his foot.

  “Did you hurt your foot, señor?” the man asked.

  “Twisted it,” Clint said. “Is there a doctor around?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What do yo
u mean ‘sort of’?”

  “You will see,” the man said. “The doctor’s name is Doc Sugarman.”

  “Sugarman?”

  “Sí, señor. When you check into the hotel, ask at the desk and they will direct you to the doctor’s office.”

  “Thank you,” Clint said.

  “De nada, señor,” the man said. “It is my honor to care for your horse.”

  “How much?” Clint asked.

  “We do not need to speak of that now, señor. Another time.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ignacio.”

  “Gracias, Ignacio.”

  “Enjoy your stay, señor.”

  As Ignacio walked Eclipse into the stable, Clint crossed the street and entered the hotel.

  The disinterested desk clerk allowed him to sign in and gave him a key.

  “Gringo?” the lazy man asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Top of the eh-stairs,” the man said.

  “Gracias.”

  Clint started for the stairs, then remembered he wanted to ask directions to the doctor, but since the clerk apparently didn’t speak much English, he decided to wait. Maybe when he came down later there’d be someone else around who did speak English.

  He got to his room, found the door unlocked. He entered, made sure the lock on the door worked by using the key, then closed it and locked it. The room looked neat, and although dusty, it wasn’t what he would call dirty.

  He dropped his saddlebags onto the bed, set his rifle down in a corner, then went to the window. The room overlooked the main street, but there was no access to his window from outside. Anybody wanting to get into his room by the window would have to walk up the side of the building.

  He sat down on the bed and felt his foot. He didn’t want to take the boot off because his ankle was swollen. He might not get the boot back on. He had to go see the doctor, just in case it was broken—although he didn’t know what even a doctor could do. He’d never had a broken foot or ankle before.

  There was water in a pitcher on the dresser, next to a basin. He poured some and washed his face and hands. It was brackish, but wet. Once he felt cleaner, he left the room and went back downstairs. The desk clerk was still the only one there. He had his elbow on the desk, his head in his hand, dozing.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  “Señor?”

  “The doctor?” Clint asked. “Can you direct me to the doctor?”

  “Sí, el médico,” the clerk said. “Eh-outside, that way”—the man pointed to his left—“eh-two block.”

  “Two blocks?” Clint held up two fingers. “Dos?”

  “Sí, dos,” the man said, holding up two fingers. “Up eh-stairs.”

  “Two blocks that way, and upstairs.”

  “Sí.”

  “Gracias.”

  The man waved him off, went back to his nap. Clint left, hoping the directions were right.

  TWO

  Clint found the doctor’s office right where the clerk said it would be. He would never have found it without the directions, because it wasn’t marked at all. He saw a stairway and a door above a leather store, walked up, and knocked. A woman in a cotton dress, with a full figure, blond hair, and striking blue eyes, answered.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was told—I mean, I’m looking for a doctor named Sugarman?”

  “You’ve come to the right place,” she said, stepping back. “Come in.”

  He limped in past her, and it was probably the last steps he would have been able to take that day without a doctor. The foot was throbbing and he sank down thankfully into a chair.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  “I twisted it,” he said. “Stepped into a chuckhole, like a tenderfoot.”

  “That could happen to anyone,” she said. “Let’s see if we can get that boot off without cutting it.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for the doctor?”

  She crouched down in front of him, bent to the task, and said, “I am the doctor.”

  “Doc Sugarman?” he asked.

  She looked up at him.

  “That’s right. Lissa Sugarman.”

  “Lisa?”

  “Lissa,” she said. “Two s’s.” She sat back on her haunches and asked, “Still want me to look at your foot?”

  “Well . . . sure,” he said. “After all, you are the doctor.”

  “Well, lots of folks around here don’t think so,” she said.

  “Because you’re a woman?”

  “A woman,” she said, “and the blond hair, I think. Especially the Mexican men. They think a blond gringa is only good for one thing.”

  She looked back down at his foot, took it into her hands.

  “Why do you stay, then?” he asked.

  “I came down here to help these people,” she said, “and that’s what I intend to do.”

  “Well,” he said, “I hope you’ll help me before you start in on the whole city.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m a long way from caring for this whole city.” She gripped the boot firmly with both hands. “I think this’ll come off.”

  He hoped she was talking about the boot.

  The boot came off, but wouldn’t go back on—not easily anyway.

  “It’s not broken, but you twisted it pretty good,” Lissa Sugarman said.

  She wrapped it, told him to try to stay off it for a few days.

  “That won’t be easy,” he said. “I have to get around.”

  “Are you staying in Veracruz for a while?”

  “I suppose,” he said, “until my foot heals.”

  They struggled with the boot, trying to get it back on without hurting him. In the end he gritted his teeth and yanked it on. It fit snuggly over the wrap.

  “Actually, that’s a good thing,” she said. “It’ll keep it immobile. How much walking do you intend to do?”

  “I’m staying in a hotel,” he said. “Up the stairs, I have to eat . . .”

  “You can’t just stay in your room?”

  “I’m not staying in a very good hotel,” he said. “In fact, it’s just up the street, across from a livery stable.”

  “That place?” she asked.

  “It’s not that I can’t afford a better place,” he said. “I, uh, don’t want to. I just want a place to sleep.”

  “I wasn’t judging,” she said.

  “Yeah, you were.”

  She waved her hands. “Look where I am,” she said. “Who am I to judge?”

  “I get the feeling you could practice medicine in a lot of other places.”

  “Yes,” she said, “all of them in the East, where I don’t want to be.”

  “And North of the border?”

  “Someday,” she said. “Not yet.”

  Clint studied her. She appeared to be in her thirties.

  “Thirty-eight,” she said. “Practicing medicine for about twelve years. Came here a year ago.”

  “From where?”

  “That’s all the information you get,” she said. “After all, I told you my age.”

  He stood, tested his foot by putting weight on it.

  “How is it?”

  “Better,” he said. “I think I can walk back to the hotel.”

  “Walk slowly,” she said, “and then stay there, at least until you need to eat.”

  “Everybody needs to eat, right?” he asked. “Even you?”

  “I was just about to hand you my bill,” she said. “Are you asking me to supper?”

  “Well,” he said, “I don’t really know where to eat, do I? I could walk for miles before I find a place, do irreparable damage—”

  “When you told me your name, it was familiar,” she said. “It took me a while, but . . . are you the Gunsmith?”

  “Does that make a difference?”

  “I’d just like to know.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Are you down here hiding?”
r />   “No,” he said, “at least, not in the way you mean. No one’s after me, I just wanted to take some time . . . away.”

  “I see.”

  “Supper?”

  “Only if I can pick you up at your hotel with a buggy,” she said. “I don’t want you undoing the work I did.”

  “Deal.”

  THREE

  Clint’s foot was sore by the time he got back to his hotel, but he was going to be picked up by Doc Sugarman in a few hours, so he had that long to rest. He debated whether or not to take the boot off, decided to go ahead.

  Lissa Sugarman had soaked his foot before treating it, gave him some extra bandages to take back to the hotel with him. She told him he could soak the foot in his room, and then rewrap it himself. It didn’t have to be artful, just tight. He told her he’d had some experience with bandages before.

  He relaxed in his room, soaking the foot, then rewrap-ping it. He stayed off it until it was time for him to meet the doctor out front. He struggled to pull his boot back on, then made his way down the stairs to the front door. As he came outside, Lissa pulled up in a buggy, all smiles.

  “You’re prompt,” she said as he climbed into the buggy. “I like that in a man.”

  “I aim to please, ma’am.”

  She tossed a kiss at her horse and shook the reins.

  “How’s your foot?” she asked.

  “Much better.”

  “Did you stay off it?”

  “I did, and I soaked it and rewrapped it.”

  “You’re a good patient.”

  “Where are we going to eat?”

  “Better part of town,” she said. “One of my favorite restaurants.”

  “They know you there?”

  “I go a few times a month,” she said. It wasn’t really an answer.