Wolfsbane

By Lincoln Reed

The groom’s lips twisted in a final death cry.

Someone in the wedding party called for a doctor, but US Marshal Roland Chadwick suspected the worst. As the wedding’s officiator, he’d heard both bride and groom swear till death do us part, but not even he could have predicted such a swift separation. Frontier weddings rarely guaranteed a long life together, but this had to be a new record.

He inspected Jefferson Tait’s vitals once more and glanced over his shoulder toward a weary-eyed Laura Tait. Chadwick hadn’t known the couple well, but he’d thought Jefferson and Laura were smitten. Earlier, both were happier than two squirrels in a peanut shop, clasping each other during the fiddle music and dancing. Now the wedding guests were silent, staring at the marshal as if waiting for a verdict. With the preacher sick at home, Chadwick had been the logical substitute to conduct the ceremony. He was just passing through, but now it seemed he’d have to stay with the remote mining community a little longer.

The groom, an hour ago healthy and in his prime, had no stab wounds and no apparent injuries. An aroma of whiskey filled the air, as if coming straight from Jefferson’s mouth. Chadwick scratched his whiskers and glanced again at the corpse. He plucked the purple flower pinned to the dead man’s suit lapel and placed it within his duster coat. A woman named Heather Faye watched nearby, clasping ten of the same flowers, a trophy from the bouquet toss.

A quaint church steeple stood in the distance. Chadwick adjusted his brown Stetson and exhaled a plume of frosty air. Darkness would soon cover the valley, and the corpse would stiffen along with the evidence.

“Everyone inside the church,” Chadwick said. “Nobody leaves till I say.”

Chadwick’s neck ached as dawn approached. He’d used the pastor’s study quarters to interrogate each attendee and had one final interview. He rubbed his eyes and verified the time on his gold chain watch until a kind voice broke his trance. “Coffee, Marshal?”

Heather Faye’s roan hair rested at her shoulders, sadness clouding her face with dried tears.

“Some Joe would do me good. Mighty obliged.”

She delivered the tin cup into the marshal’s hands and pulled up a chair. The scalding drink sent a jolt of energy through Chadwick’s chest.

“How’s the bride?” he asked.

“About as you’d expect,” her voice cracked.

“Hope you can help clear something up for me.” He leaned forward. “Folks are saying you and Jefferson were courting. Not long ago, too.”

Heather paused as if considering her words carefully. She wiped her eyes. Chadwick sipped his coffee. “Had he proposed to you?”

A brief smile of reminiscence flashed across her face. “Well, no, but we were in love. I hadn’t yet known Laura existed… until she showed up here from Boston. Jeff said they were betrothed once. She’d called it off when he’d headed west. But she must’ve changed her mind and tracked him here. With Laura having abandoned her life for his mining dream, Jeff felt it was his duty to wed her. He was a good man, Jeff was. After he’d struck gold at the creek, I was sure he’d plan a bright future. But I won’t lie, I was hoping it’d be with me.”

A knock at the door drew the lawman’s attention, and Laura entered, eyes red. “Oh, Marshal. I was wondering if we could talk about ensuring Jefferson’s cl—”

When she noticed Heather, tears welled in Laura’s eyes and she crumbled into a series of sobs. Chadwick gave her his handkerchief and offered Laura his seat. He then pulled a purple blossom from his coat, crushed it with his fist, and scattered the contents in his coffee cup.

“These purple ones from the bouquet are called Monkshood. Also named Wolfsbane. Back in old times, warriors would douse their arrows and swords in its liquid. Kept away evil spirits, especially werewolves. After this tragedy, I think we could use some spiritual protection.”

“Pagan arts? In a church?” The widow’s expression darkened with a judgmental frown. “Marshal, I’m ashamed of you.”

Chadwick stirred the cup’s contents with his index finger. “The feeling’s mutual.”

“What is this all about?”

He sighed and took a long drink. Laura paled.

As Chadwick gulped, the widow sprang from her seat and, in a swift motion, batted away the tin cup, splashing its contents across the room.

Slowly, Chadwick spit his mouthful of coffee on the wood floor. “Funny thing about Monkshood. Boil it. Pour it in a liquid. Stir it up. Fatal results within a few hours.” He glanced at the widow. “But I’m betting you already know, and Jefferson is proof. When I was doing the vows, I counted twelve purple flowers in your bouquet. Later that afternoon, there were only ten.”

The realization appeared to settle on Laura. Her fists clenched. She glared at Chadwick, eyes like daggers. “He’d been with her!” She spun and pointed an accusing finger at Heather. “He confessed before the wedding. And Lord knows he deserved what happened. I gave up everything for him.”

“Not his mining claim.”

“But there was no gold!” Heather said with a fire in her voice.

The widow and marshal both turned. Heather nodded. “Well, truthfully, I had gold dust of my own, a gift from my late brother. Sometimes I’d sneak a little of it into Jeff’s prospecting pan. I hated seeing him so downtrodden. It was just so he’d have the courage to propose to me.”

Laura’s jaw hung agape. Chadwick solemnly tipped his Stetson. “I’m past due for the trail.” He extended his right arm toward the widow as a man does when offering to escort a woman to a dance. “And you, Mrs. Tait, are due for the judge.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a professor, writer, and editor. He holds a BA in film and media production from Taylor University and an MFA in creative writing from Miami University of Ohio. More than a dozen of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies.

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