Wickenburg was a small hamlet with a population of a few thousand. It had struggled and thrived on the banks of the Hassayampa River since the early 1820's, and over a century later it boasted gold mines including the incredibly productive vulture mine, cattle ranches, and the nations first dude ranch. The Wickenburg Tack and Harness sat along the strip of stores at the edge of the historic main street, at the corner of Cochise and Tenger. The Stockton house was down the street, no more than a hundred yards away. The store was a slice of the old west, slowly being replaced by a notion that everything would be better if it looked like Chicago, even in Arizona. The front had a planked porch, a hitching rail, and a clapboard siding with a reasonably fresh coat of barn red enduring the high desert sunshine.

Inside, Mrs. Stockton could be found at her usual spot, her foot working the treadle of a cast iron sewing machine with parts larger than standard - sewing several layers of leather takes a strong machine and a confident hand. The Lady Stockton had a generous spread of hips and bust, belly and backside, all of which spoke of a life of comfort and children, a reliable husband and toil and leisure in equal measure. She was tan and bespectacled with a long wide Mayan nose and barely subdued raven black hair worn in a bun. Her mouth seemed prone to a medium expression, frugally conserving smiles and frowns as if strong emotions were luxuries. A fan nearby oscillated and brought a breeze across her brow, air that moved even when it was not cool was better than the still heat that let sweat make one's hands to swollen and slippery to do any work.

Her husband was a tall man with pepper hair and spectacles of his own. His high cheekbones and broad jaw were still fairly handsome, but they spoke of days gone by when he was the greatest thing his wife had ever seen, a king on the high desert. Years and beers had added a modest belly and a jowly appearance, but his shoulders were still broad and his back still strong enough that he hoisted western saddles to overhead displays without apparent strain. He was dressed as a typical western man, a button down chamois shirt and denim dungarees, and cowboy boots that were nice enough to be respectable but not too nice to be respectable either.

The tack shop had sections for tack for horses, boots and leather goods for people, equine lineaments, and the other sundries that a stable or hostler might need. The store was tidy, and not overcrowded with goods. There were some shirts, boots and hats gaudy enough that they were clearly for the benefit of the occasional dude ranch tourist, but most of this store was the real deal, high desert cowboy through and through.

Mercedes stepped through the screened door which Wu Long held open for her, ushering her in with one of his smoothly ubiquitous bows. The wide board wooden floor shifted under her slight weight but didn't dare creak, the wood grain worn soft from the passage of thousands of boots. She felt Stockton's eyes on them both; they were an unlikely pair in a cosmopolitan city and thus nearly impossible in a small backwater like Wickenberg.

"Mr. Stockton," she began, drawing the man's attention to her. "I'm Detective Moore and this is my associate, Dr. Chow. We've been hired by Mr. Gai Chen to find his daughter, Arizona."

The treadle stopped it's squeaky journey for a second before continuing. "I hope you find her," Stockton said. He regarded the two of them briefly and then cursed. "That man doesn't make nearly enough money to afford one detective, much less two. What can I do to help? We've already looked damn near everywhere." He retreated to the counter where the cash register sat and looked at them, waiting. The west was such a taciturn place it was hard to imagine how anyone ever met and married out there.

Having closed the door quietly, Wu Long stood quietly beside her and greeted Mr. Stockton with a pleasant expression. Listening to the conversation, he examined the whole of the shop interior. Quickly cataloging all the possible entrances and exits for every building he entered was a habit developed from long experience. As the sound of the treadle paused, he focused a portion of his attention on Mrs. Stockton, looking for any change in her demeanor.

Mrs. Stockton's mouth was a set line. They looked like they were able to smile broadly when the mood struck her. Her eyes told a different story - they were edged in red, and still wet at the corners. Her glasses were spotted with the dried salt of blinked away tears. She kept to her task, paying attnetion to her leather to still the turmoil in her mind.

"For now, I just have a few questions," Mercedes said, crystalline voice cutting through the hazy afternoon light. "If you and your wife would begin by enlightening us about the last time you saw Miss Chen?"

"It's like I told Chen. Our days start pretty early, and that day Arizona left our place at around 4:30 to go tend to the Chen's garden and chickens before opening the store - she opens for us most days, Mother and I don't get up as quick as we used to. She didn't open the store. I don't believe she made it as far as the chickens." His retelling of the event, such as it was, had a monotone quality, not so much rehearsed as done to death. He looked tired.

Dust motes shifted in the glass-filtered light, slanting across pale blonde hair as the female detective stepped over to examine a pair of riding chaps on display. "I understand that you and your wife are concerned for the girl. You must have been close. Did Miss Chen seem normal? Had she confided in you or Mrs. Stockton the disagreement she had with her father over her betrothal and impending marriage?"

"Normal?" The old hand looked a little shocked, and glanced quickly at Chow. "Sure, she was a Chinaman and all, but normal enough as far as that goes. She was worried about marrying some fella she never laid eyes on, but who was she going to marry here in Wickenberg? Damn near every young man who could got out by thirty-five before the dust could kill 'em off." He looked at his wife, who nodded agreement with the sentiment without even looking up from her sewing.

"So she had no other suitors of which you were aware?" Mercedes asked the question, but frowned because it seemed the answer was obvious. "No other friends, no acquaintances closer to her own age?"

Wu knelt next to Mrs. Stockton and spoke quietly, resting a firm hand on her shoulder while offering her a clean cloth. "Mrs. Stockton, here use my handkerchief. I think Arizona and her father would prefer that you see what you are doing so that you do not get hurt. Please," he said, his voice warm, sympathetic, and supportive.

"She was easy on the eye, and plenty of men liked the look of her, but her father didn't let her date. He was real worried about it for a while, but he only had to chase off one suitor before the rest got the idea. I never would have guessed a man who moved so slow in the morning could move so fast when he set his mind to it." The laconic westerner looked over at his wife. "Did Ari mention any boys to you, Ma?"

Mrs. Stockton, squinting and cleaning her glasses, frowned a bit and spoke. She still had an accent, even after a lifetime married to a gringo. "She didn't have anybody close, her own age. She wasn't white, and she wasn't indian, and she wasn't Mexican, and she wasn't even black. People here tend to stick with their own kind, and she didn't have any kind of her own. I don't think she could have run off with any man in town, they were all out on the round up, same as her Pa. A couple of boys were waiting for to her give up and give in, but they were going to get old before that happened. Everyone pretended not to take no notice of her except that one the other day." She gestured with her chin to her husband, putting her glasses back on to see him clearly and leaving the question of this stranger unspoken. After enough time together, a couple can know what's coming in a conversation, even if they can't always understand what the other one is thinking.

"That Kraut?" Mr. Stockton answered. "He was probably a tourist up at the Bar FX, looking for the America he hears about on the radio." He looked at Mercedes "It ain't there, either. He was asking her what tribe she was part of, thought she was some sort of Apache or something, his eyebrows almost fell off when he found out she was a Chinaman's daughter, especially named Arizona."

Mercedes turned toward Mr. Stockton at this, gazing at him as if she was seeing him for the first time. "Describe him please, Mr. Stockton."

"Big ol' boy, blond as a Swede, but I know a Kraut when I hear one. Came in here looking for rawhide. If I recollect right when he left I sent him down to the train station - he was looking for a phone booth"

Mrs. Stockton added "He was interested in Arizona, asked her what sort of Apache she was, and then what sort of Chinese she was. He kept looking at her, but it wasn't like some of the cowboys do. It was ... I don't know the word. It wasn't emotional."

As if she were a missing puzzle piece, or a treasure found, Mercedes mused, nodding her head once, unconsciously. "How long after this did Miss Chen disappear?"

"A couple days, I guess," she said. Mrs. Stockton looked blank and matter of fact for a second, and then her mouth opened and her hand floated up to cover the "Oh" of her mouth as her eyes got wide as saucers, matching her mouth.

Pale eyes rippled, like fire under ice, as Mercedes turned to Maria Stockton. "Yes. Precisely." Her hand dipped into her pocket, pulling a Kool and a card. She lit the former, handed Mr. Stockton the latter.

"You can help Gai Chen and his daughter by asking every person who comes in your shop about the big blond man, or any other strangers seen around town about the time Miss.Chen disappeared. If the blond man went anywhere else in town, I want to know it. If anyone knows the facts about where he was staying, I want to know it. If he showed up between the time he was in your shop and when Miss Chen disappeared, I want to know it. You'll find my office telephone number on that card." She drew on the smoke, calculating the mathematical equations that would describe the rising curls with one part of her mind while the rest of it considered what they'd learned here.

She turned to Mrs. Stockton. "May I see the palms of your hands, please?"

"Miss Moore wishes to examine your hands for callouses," Dr. Chow explained quietly. "There are circumstances where... this information may help."

Mercedes could see small callouses on the woman's fingertips from years of use of a thick needle and heavy thread, permanent stiffening and discoloration of the skin from the tanning chemicals, some age spots, and a little arthritic swelling. She had the well trimmed unpainted nails of a craftsman. She wore simple rose gold wedding band. They were strong hands that worked constantly with stiff leathers, strong with years of use, and with many years of strong use left in them. Mrs. Stockton held them up with a small shrug and little smile of embarrassment. They were not the hands of a lady, and Mercedes at least looked like a lady. She was obviously intimidated by the European's innate glamour, a swan in a duck pond.

The cool blond didn't seem to notice the bigger woman's discomfiture, her considerable faculties were focused down on the information the woman's hands could provide. She noted the thick, discolored ridge along the outside of the right thumb, the worn-smooth places along the base of the fingers, the thick callouses on the tips. Mrs. Stockton was obviously right-handed, though she drank her tea, or perhaps coffee, with her left hand predominantly.

"Thank you, Mrs. Stockton," Mercedes finally said, curling the woman's hand closed with uncharacteristic gentleness. The innate, hard-working honesty in those hands had been a rarity in her life, to date. "Miss Chen's hands won't bear the same rich depth that yours do, but the overall pattern will be telling.

"Come, Dr. Chow. Mr. Stockton, please remember what I asked of you. Any tidbit of information or gossip could be most helpful. We're heading to the train station now."

***

OOC: Can close this off however you like and we can move it to the train station. Or you can short-form what they found there, if you need to take bigger strides to move this along. :)