the casual, meaningless chatter required among strangers forced to share a meal. Everyone was quite good-natured about the seating arrangements, however, and appeared willing to be caught up in the fiesta mood. The endless flow of beer and tequila-based drinks helped.
Halfway through dinner the young woman sitting across from Amber said something about Western folklore, and Amber seized the opportunity.
"Funny you should mention Arizona legends," she said cheerfully. "My husband is something of an expert in the field of Western poetry."
Immediately all heads turned toward Gray, who shot Amber a chiding glance.
"I don't believe I'm familiar with any Western poets," someone said thoughtfully.
"Gray's field of expertise is Sherborne Ulysses Twitchell," Amber confided.
"Really?" The young woman looked interested.
"When did he live?"
"His birth date is a little uncertain," Amber said. "When Gray does his articles about Twitchell, he usually writes 'born ?' in the biographical notes."
"When did he die?" the white-haired gentleman sitting next to Amber inquired politely.
"Gray usually puts 'died ?' in that section of the notes."
Gray jumped into the conversation before Amber could cause it to deteriorate further. "That's a bit misleading," he assured the other guests smoothly. "We're almost positive Twitchell died sometime in 1901."
"What happened to him?" someone asked.
Gray cleared his throat. "There appears to have been an accident in a hotel in which he was staying. He was traveling toward Mexico, from what I've been able to determine, and had stopped for the night in a little town just this side of the border. Apparently there was a fight."
"A gunfight?" the young woman demanded, looking quite interested now.
"So it appears. Shots were exchanged in one of the hotel rooms that night according to a newspaper story the next day. One unidentified body was buried. There is no mention of Twitchell after that incident, but his name was definitely on the hotel register according to the newspaper accounts. Since he published no poetry after that date, I think it's safe to assume it was his body that was buried."
"Why wasn't he identified?"
Amber grinned. "Because the body was naked when it was found. Except for a pair of socks, that is."
"How odd," the gentleman next to Amber observed.
"Not really. From what Gray discovered in the newspaper article, Twitchell was in bed at the time of the shooting."
"Murdered?"
"Depends on your point of view," Amber informed them all with great relish. "S.U.T. was in bed with a woman when he was killed."
"Now, Amber, you're getting into an area of sheer conjecture," Gray warned loftily as he reached for his tequila.
Amber grinned. "The hotel, you see, was actually a bordello. Twitchell made the mistake of climbing into bed with a lady who happened to be the favorite of one of the other patrons. The patron took exception to the situation."
"How extraordinary," the white-haired gentleman marveled. "Got himself killed in a fight over a lady of the night."
"I don't think it could have been much of a fight," Amber said blithely. "From what Gray discovered in the newspaper account, Twitchell never even got a chance to draw his gun."
"Well, it sounds as though he probably died happy," the older man remarked with a satisfied nod.
There was a moment of silence around the table and then everyone burst out laughing. The conversation after that loosened up a great deal. Amber threw Gray a teasing glance, and he returned the look with a faint gleam in his eyes.
"You're not doing much for S.U.T.'s reputation as a respectable poet," Gray complained.
"He hasn't got a reputation as a respectable poet. I've decided he might as well have one as an unrespectable poet."
When dinner was over, many of the guests drifted into the large, dimly lit lounge for the floor show. Dancing was to follow, and Amber settled back to enjoy the evening. Surreptitiously she used the concealing shadows to tug down
Halfway through dinner the young woman sitting across from Amber said something about Western folklore, and Amber seized the opportunity.
"Funny you should mention Arizona legends," she said cheerfully. "My husband is something of an expert in the field of Western poetry."
Immediately all heads turned toward Gray, who shot Amber a chiding glance.
"I don't believe I'm familiar with any Western poets," someone said thoughtfully.
"Gray's field of expertise is Sherborne Ulysses Twitchell," Amber confided.
"Really?" The young woman looked interested.
"When did he live?"
"His birth date is a little uncertain," Amber said. "When Gray does his articles about Twitchell, he usually writes 'born ?' in the biographical notes."
"When did he die?" the white-haired gentleman sitting next to Amber inquired politely.
"Gray usually puts 'died ?' in that section of the notes."
Gray jumped into the conversation before Amber could cause it to deteriorate further. "That's a bit misleading," he assured the other guests smoothly. "We're almost positive Twitchell died sometime in 1901."
"What happened to him?" someone asked.
Gray cleared his throat. "There appears to have been an accident in a hotel in which he was staying. He was traveling toward Mexico, from what I've been able to determine, and had stopped for the night in a little town just this side of the border. Apparently there was a fight."
"A gunfight?" the young woman demanded, looking quite interested now.
"So it appears. Shots were exchanged in one of the hotel rooms that night according to a newspaper story the next day. One unidentified body was buried. There is no mention of Twitchell after that incident, but his name was definitely on the hotel register according to the newspaper accounts. Since he published no poetry after that date, I think it's safe to assume it was his body that was buried."
"Why wasn't he identified?"
Amber grinned. "Because the body was naked when it was found. Except for a pair of socks, that is."
"How odd," the gentleman next to Amber observed.
"Not really. From what Gray discovered in the newspaper article, Twitchell was in bed at the time of the shooting."
"Murdered?"
"Depends on your point of view," Amber informed them all with great relish. "S.U.T. was in bed with a woman when he was killed."
"Now, Amber, you're getting into an area of sheer conjecture," Gray warned loftily as he reached for his tequila.
Amber grinned. "The hotel, you see, was actually a bordello. Twitchell made the mistake of climbing into bed with a lady who happened to be the favorite of one of the other patrons. The patron took exception to the situation."
"How extraordinary," the white-haired gentleman marveled. "Got himself killed in a fight over a lady of the night."
"I don't think it could have been much of a fight," Amber said blithely. "From what Gray discovered in the newspaper account, Twitchell never even got a chance to draw his gun."
"Well, it sounds as though he probably died happy," the older man remarked with a satisfied nod.
There was a moment of silence around the table and then everyone burst out laughing. The conversation after that loosened up a great deal. Amber threw Gray a teasing glance, and he returned the look with a faint gleam in his eyes.
"You're not doing much for S.U.T.'s reputation as a respectable poet," Gray complained.
"He hasn't got a reputation as a respectable poet. I've decided he might as well have one as an unrespectable poet."
When dinner was over, many of the guests drifted into the large, dimly lit lounge for the floor show. Dancing was to follow, and Amber settled back to enjoy the evening. Surreptitiously she used the concealing shadows to tug down