Page 3 of Deadly Sins: Gluttony
After almost two hundred years being exposed to harsh weather and direct sunlight, any bloodstains would be unrecognizable, as the brick would have endured extreme weathering and chemical breakdown.Any surviving stain would be faded at best, a fact I decided to keep to myself.
“Why was his nickname Bear?”one woman asked.
“He was said to have killed a bear with his hands.”Ichabod turned toward Cade.“As to your question about why McCoy died that night, let’s retrace the final minutes before his death.McCoy was inside this building.Back then, it was a saloon.He was indulging in a few pints of beer at the bar when the door to the saloon swung open.In walked Cyrus Tate, the father of Esmerelda Tate.Tate had just received word that McCoy had proposed marriage to his daughter without his consent.But even if McCoy had asked for consent, it wouldn’t have been given.”
“Why not?”Cade asked.
“Cyrus Tate was a man of means, while McCoy was an outlaw—one of the most feared of his time.The day McCoy rode into town and laid eyes on Esmerelda, he was determined to win her over.Cyrus forbade it outright, but Esmerelda, unwilling to bend to her father’s will, met with McCoy in secret.It didn’t take long for Tate to discover the affair, and his fury was swift.”
“He came to the bar to confront him that night,” I said.
“Right again,” Ichabod said.“After a verbal altercation at the bar, Tate suggested they go outside, settle their dispute like men.And he wasn’t talking about a fistfight.No siree.He was looking to put a bullet in the center of McCoy’s head.”
“Sounds like he got his wish,” one man said.
“In the standoff, both men stood their ground.The rules were, Cyrus would count to three and they would fire.”
“Who was the better shot?”Cade asked.
“McCoy, by far,” Ichabod said.“They say he gunned down more than twenty men, and his aim was so true he never missed a shot.”
“Then why was McCoy the one to die?”a woman asked.
“Cyrus cheated.He counted to two and fired, shooting McCoy right in the heart.McCoy went down, and rumor has it his last words were, ‘I’ll haunt you, Cyrus.I’ll haunt you every day you live from the afterlife.’To this, Cyrus responded, ‘Not in hell, you won’t.’”
“What happened to Esmerelda?”Cade asked.
“Upon hearing of McCoy’s death, Esmerelda ended her own life right here, pressing her back to this building, weeping as she lifted a gun to her temple and pulled the trigger.”
“What a shame.”
Ichabod nodded, sweeping his arms wide.“And now, as our tour comes to an end, I urge you—keep your eyes sharp.Countless witnesses have sworn they’ve seen Esmerelda’s ghost drifting along Ravenwood Drive, draped in a long, dark red dress.Perhaps one of you will catch a glimpse of her tonight.”
3
“You may feel I talked you into the haunted history walking tour, but I heard the questions you asked Ichabod toward the end of the tour,” I said.“You enjoyed that last stop, didn’t you?”
“Aside from the fact the red stains on the brick weren’t bloodstains, I did.It was an interesting story.”
Cade was a retired detective and chief of police, so it didn’t surprise me that we reached the same conclusion—the “blood” Ichabod pointed out seemed like nothing more than paint spatter.
“I wasn’t buyin’ all the stuff he said about people seein’ the spirit of Esmerelda roaming the streets.What about you?”
“Through the years, I’ve stumbled on things that defy explanation.I remain doubtful, yet something in me stays open to the unseen.”
We rounded the corner, strolling hand in hand down the historic main street, our shoes clicking against worn brick and weathered wooden planks.Old storefronts lined either side, their painted signs faded but proud, each one telling a story in chipped lettering and curled edges.It was as though the town itself still breathed in time with a newer century.
“What do you reckon?”Cade asked.“Do you think you could ever live in a place like this, a town that looks like it’s been frozen in time?”
I considered the question.“I like the life we live now, traveling around in the RV several months out of the year and spending the rest of it in our condo in New Orleans.It’s a good life.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
In the distance, a lone bell tolled the hour, and we went quiet for a time, taking in the surroundings.We passed an antique shop with lace curtains that had a pair of rocking chairs on the porch out front.A plaque on the wooden door indicated the shop was established in 1912.Next door was Sweet Hearth Bakery, which looked fresher and more up to date than many of the other shops we’d passed.
On the glass door hung a photograph of a woman, secured with tape, a tender tribute written beneath it.I stopped, drawn in.Her name was Betty Belmont, and the message told of the deep bond she’d shared with the bakery and what its patrons had meant to her in her life.
Cade leaned in.“Whatcha reading?”
