Four Furlongs

by C. K. Crigger

  “I do? Really? But what if ...”

  Her nervousness was catching. “Do you want to meet me somewhere else?” I asked. “Is there a place we can talk in private?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

  Nimble, sensing the girl’s distress, leaned against her knee. This time the dog’s presence failed to calm her.

  “Have you changed your mind about your grandfather and your mother’s involvement? Do you now believe your brother’s death was accidental?” I asked.

  Unless her story from this morning was a total fabrication, Neva could hardly deny the race-fixing charge. As for the rest? Who knew?

  But she was made of sterner stuff. Slowly, she shook her head.

  “Please, Miss Bohannon, go over to the flower barn. I’ll meet you as soon as I’m free. My mother won’t go round there.” Her fingers crossed.

  “She doesn’t like flowers?”

  Neva’s lips twisted. “Oh, probably, if some man gave them to her. Except they make her sneeze. But mostly she doesn’t want anyone to think she’s weak.”

  “She believes liking flowers or sneezing makes her weak?” I gave a snort almost equal to the one Mercury had showered upon Nimble. “Harrumph. Guess she doesn’t know most flowers are propagated by men.”

  She replied with a blank stare, and rightfully so. Propagation had nothing to do with the present circumstance.

  “Neva,” a man’s voice boomed out. “Neva Sue, where are you, girl?”

  The poor girl jumped a foot and let out a little moan. Even Nimble turned to look toward the barn.

  I took a guess. “Your grandfather?”

  “Yes. Please ... I’ve got to go. Hide until I draw him away. I’ll meet you later.”

  She suited action to words, dashing away before I could say anything more. Either Neva’s planning or pure good luck had put us on the off side of the wagon, out of sight from the stable. I peeked around the corner to see a man in a black hat with hands cupped around his mouth yelling, “Neva Sue-ee,” even though she was in plain sight and running full tilt toward him. Her arrival at his side earned her a cuff on the cheek.

  Beast. Any doubt I might have felt about pursuing the case faded.

  Curiously enough, I did spot Mrs. O’Dell as Nimble and I made our way towards the fair’s agricultural displays. We had stopped to watch a juggler and, purely by accident, managed to embroil ourselves in a purse snatching. Nimble started our involvement by darting in front of the thief—just a young boy, really—when he sped off with the purse and excited cries ensued. Between the two of us, we managed to trip him in the second before the leash jerked from my hand. The boy sprang up in a flash, dropping the woman’s bag as he fled. He raced away as though the hounds of Hades were after him instead of one small Bedlington terrier.

  “Nimble, come,” I called, which didn’t do a particle of good since she was having so much fun playing tag. Unfortunately, I had to stop and return the purse.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you. I’m so grateful,” the victim cried, her voice soft and almost childlike. Overdressed for a fair, she wore a slubbed-silk afternoon gown and smelled like a whole field of flowers. She extended a hand, clad in a lace half mitt, for me to shake.

  I touched her fingers. “I’m happy to help,” I said.

  “Why,” she went on, “the little imp almost stole my entire week’s pin money! My husband would be so upset if he had.”

  “Anyone would be upset.” I peered around, looking for Nimble.

  In a worry about my dog running onto the racetrack or some other dangerous adventure, I tried edging away, barely listening to the lady’s effusive thanks. Nothing would do but we rehash the adventure and exchange our names, after which I sped after the dog. I turned the corner around one of the displays and found her ensnared, struggling against a gentleman’s boot-clad foot standing firmly on the end of her fancy red leather leash. He and Mrs. O’Dell stood elbow-to-elbow, only her hands were on her hips in an argumentative kind of pose.

  She stood sideways to me and there was no mistaking the woman’s wealth of messy hair or the splotchy skirt and man’s shirt. And although I didn’t actually see her speak to the man holding Nimble prisoner, I had the feeling I’d interrupted a conversation. A flip of her hand, as though she were hushing him, seemed to confirm my hypothesis as, after spotting me, she hurried away.

  She could’ve been telling him I owned the dog.

  Or discussing almost anything.

  The gentleman turned. If there’d been any doubt as to Nimble’s mistress, my set lips must’ve been a confession.

  He bent and picked up the leash. “Yours?” he said.

  “Yes. Thank you.” I held out my hand for the leash. He jerked Nimble’s head up, surprising a cry from her before handing the end over to me.

  I stiffened, ready to lay into him.

  A stern look deepened the lines from the corners of his long, thin nose all the way to his chin. Other than that, his features were well put together, his physique straight and muscular.

  “I’ll thank you to keep a tighter hold on your dog—which I’m about to declare a public nuisance,” he said. “You would’ve been in serious trouble if he’d knocked down or bitten the child he was chasing. The lad was frightened.”

  His attitude not only rubbed me the wrong way, it caused my temper to soar. Enough so I didn’t mince words. “Of course the lad was frightened. Frightened he’d be caught! He’s a purse snatcher and because of you, he’s gotten away.”

  His eyes, an odd shade of pale green, hardened. “Young woman, I don’t like your tone. Do you know who you’re talking to?”

  “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. What of it? Unless you’re the chief of police and need details of the purse snatching.” I knew very well he wasn’t.

  If I thought he looked stern before, it was nothing to what he looked like now.

  “I am Mr. Warren Poole, head of the fair board,” he said through gritted teeth. “I have the power to eject you from this facility, which I am about to do right now. I don’t believe your fanciful story of a purse snatching. I do believe you’re some little shopgirl trying to avoid trouble and a fine you can’t afford to pay.”

  A rude, and rather uncouth retort hovered on my lips, fighting for release. My better self fought the good fight and won—more or less.

  Arrogant toady. As if I hadn’t met the wife of one of the other members only moments ago!

  “Well, Mr. Warren Poole,” I said, staring him in the eye, “I, on the other hand, believe that while you are one of the four fair board members, and that you have the power to eject my dog and me, you’re on the wrong track. Your other two conclusions are quite erroneous.”

  He seized my upper arm in a strong grip, crushing the full sleeve of my shirtwaist into the flesh beneath it, and began towing me along.

  “Ouch! You’re hurting me.” I glared at him. Nimble growled with a show of fierce white teeth, earning herself a kick, which she easily dodged.

  “Yoohoo! Miss Bohannon.” A woman’s cry broke into a pained reflection of the bruises I’d soon have. “Miss Bohannon, please wait up.”

  Recognizing her voice, I stopped in my tracks. Trying to ignore the ache in my arm, I turned to face Mrs. Lloyd Branston, the purse-snatching victim. To tell the truth, I was happy to see her, if only because Poole’s grip noticeably slackened.

  “Dear Miss Bohannon,” Mrs. Branston said breathlessly as she approached, “I don’t know where my manners are this afternoon. Please, won’t you allow me to reward you and your dear little doggie for saving me from that horrible young person?”

  She stood out like a Christmas cupcake in a basket of biscuits as simpering, she twinkled up at Poole. “Good day, Mr. Poole. You’re a member of the fair board, are you not? I recognize you from a meeting you had with my husband a few weeks ago. I am Mrs. L. L. Branston.”

  He bowed. “Warren Poole, madam, at your service.”

  “Oh, just the person I need to
see, then.” She laughed. “Although it’s not my service, but Miss Bohannon’s with which you should be concerned. Did she tell you she saved my purse from a boy who stole it right out of my hand? And her little doggie gave chase. I owe her such a debt, and I dare say the fair board does as well. We certainly don’t want word to get around about boys at our fair who grab purses right out of one’s hands!”

  “No, indeed we don’t, Mrs. Branston.” Red mottled Poole’s face. He avoided even glancing at me.

  Mrs. Branston didn’t seem to notice his discomfiture as she rushed on. “I know my husband would want me personally to reward you as well, Miss Bohannon. He keeps telling me I shouldn’t carry so much cash.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I grinned at Poole—or maybe my expression was more of a smirk. At any rate, I went on to thank Mrs. Branston for thanking me (it all became a bit confusing) and to turn down the reward she offered. I hadn’t, after all, nor had Nimble, succeeded in capturing the thief. We agreed to hope he’d been frightened away from a life of crime by Nimble’s and my efforts.

  Or so I told Mrs. Branston. I didn’t believe it for a second. Neither did Poole, and by the flash of his green grape eyes, I could tell he’d still rather have collared me. Alas for him.

  And alas for me, too. While I hadn’t made any progress on discovering Robbie O’Dell’s killer, I’d found a surefire way to make enemies in high places.

  7

  My impatience like a rash I’d best not scratch, I’d almost given up on meeting with Neva when finally I spotted her slinking around the door to the gardening section. Once inside, she quickly melded into the shadows. The girl was an expert at hiding in plain sight, a knack I promised myself to emulate.

  Nimble and I had observed every vase of flowers, some of which almost made me want to try my hand at their cultivation. We’d admired every tray of vegetables, which included onions and beets and foot-long carrots, along with every pile of gloriously scented melons. Twice. Nevertheless, just how much attention can one shower upon such items when they’re not even available to purchase? They just made me hungry.

  I went to join Neva in a secluded area near the door where giant sunflowers and dried corn stalks made a bower over our heads. She appeared relieved to see me.

  “At last,” I breathed. “I’d begun to think your grandfather was holding you hostage.” Actually, I’d wondered if, for all Neva’s bold words of retribution involving her relatives, consideration of what they would do to punish her had frightened her into staying away.

  “Granddad, he kept finding things for me to do. Please, I can’t stay long.” She pushed a lock of sweaty hair from her forehead and took a deep, shaky breath. “What do you need from me?”

  Cooperation, for starters, I thought, but said, “I need a description of the man who paid off your grandfather.” I smiled, trying to put her at ease.

  “A description?”

  It was as if she’d never heard the word before. “Yes. I need to know what he looks like.”

  Her dark eyes went wide and panicky. “Oh, Miss Bohannon, I don’t know. When I saw Granddad and my mother and the stranger coming, I hid. It was awfully dark in the stable and I didn’t want to look. I thought if I did they’d somehow know and catch me. And then my granddad would slap me. Or my mother would, or make me fast for a day.”

  “Fast?”

  “Yes.”

  The situation struck me as a scene copied from a Charles Dickens novel. David Copperfield came to mind. Was any of it even real?

  Yes. At least one fact remained, Gratton and Monk were working the race meet to prevent the kind of thing that had led to Robbie O’Dell’s death. Or murder, according to his sister. If this wasn’t just some kind of act. And I didn’t believe it was.

  A perambulator containing one of the ugliest children I’d ever seen mashed into my legs. “We can’t stand here.” I clutched a sturdy-looking cornstalk to help me remain upright, its dry leaves crumpling to powder in my hand. I rubbed the dust onto my skirt and guiltily looked around. “We’re right on the path to the public toilets. Not a good place if one wants to remain unobserved.”

  So, although I’d already practically admired the petals off the blooms, we traversed the flower section once again. Blending, I hoped, with the crowd. It was easy to pretend we were discussing the displays as many others were doing.

  “Now, for a description. What was the man wearing?” I asked Neva.

  Her eyes widened. “Wearing? I don’t know. What difference does it make? Anyway, he may have changed his clothes by now.”

  “A distinct possibility, but the clothing he had on last night may give clues to his profession. For instance, see the gentleman with the white hair and bushy mustache over there?” I pointed at the back of a man walking a few steps ahead of us. “Do you suppose he’s a banker? Or maybe a baker?”

  She gawked, then shifted her scornful gaze to me. “No. Neither.”

  “What makes you think not?”

  “Look at him. He’s one of those sawmill men, for sure. There’s even sawdust in the cuff of his pants. Besides, those men always wear heavy plaid shirts and suspenders, just like he is. Funny to see him viewing all these flowers, though.”

  “So, you agree you can tell something about people by the clothing they wear?”

  “I guess so.” Her eyes glazed over as she stared at a mason jar full of pink and yellow gladiola blooms. They had probably been beautiful yesterday. “He dressed like a banker.” She sounded surprised. “Real natty, and he wore shiny shoes. I guess I noticed because he went out of his way to avoid a pile of droppings in the barn aisle.”

  “Good, Neva, excellent.” I patted her shoulder. “What else? Did he wear a hat?”

  “Yes. One with a narrow brim, as if he didn’t need it to keep the sun off his head.” She paused and looked thoughtful. “There was a red feather in the band.”

  We strolled over to where some spiky, many-petaled purple blooms drooped in their vase. I touched one and found, to my surprise, the flower soft. “Was he tall, short, stocky, thin? Was he stooped or did he limp?”

  My questioning had become like a game to her. Neva’s enthusiasm grew. “Fairly tall. When he stood beside Granddad, he was a lot taller. He’s not fat, but not thin, either.”

  “And his walk?”

  This brought on a frown. “Well, he wasn’t stooped and he didn’t limp. He just walked like everybody else.”

  “Really?” I indicated a down-at-the-heels young man shuffling toward the toilets. “Like him?”

  “Oh.” Neva seemed surprised. “No. Not at all. Head held high, and my mother and Granddad had to trot to keep up with him.”

  We soon established the man who’d paid off her grandfather was well-spoken, with something of an accent. “Upper-class,” Neva said, as if she’d been discriminating between such attributes all her life. “Like rich men talk.”

  She glanced around the cavernous room. Watching for her mother, I suspected, although the noisy, shifting crowd made it difficult to separate out a person from more than a few feet away. And certainly difficult to hear any individual conversation.

  Her nervousness was catching. I sensed how badly she wanted to get away, but I needed more from her.

  “Very good, Neva. You’ve given me something to go on. If, by chance, you learn his name, I need you to drop everything and come tell me.” As a matter of fact, I had a name forming in my mind right now. Had I not just observed Mrs. O’Dell meeting with Poole? He certainly fit the bill Neva had presented.

  “Yes, ma’am. I will.” She was getting a little twitchy. “Please, I need to go now, before Granddad misses me. But”—she paused to chew her lip—“there is one thing I want to ask.”

  “What is it?”

  “Robbie ... my brother ... I want to see him. Please, will you go with me?”

  “At the undertakers? Oh, honey, are you sure?” How badly had the boy been damaged in the fall? Badly enough to give her nightmares? “In any case
, you must ask your mother. I don’t know where his bod ... where they have taken him.”

  “I know. And I know Granddad says there’s no money for a proper funeral. Anyway, he says, Robbie wouldn’t care. Plant him anywhere. One place is as good as another.” Her face reddened and her eyes blinked rapidly in an effort to hold back tears. “But I care. Just like Robbie would if it were me dead and laid out on a slab. I want to tell him good-bye by myself, without them.” Her voice broke.

  “Surely your mother ...,” I began, but she cut me off.

  “She told me I had no business looking at his dead body. She said I should remember him as he was.”

  My heart ached for the girl. I’d been told the very same thing when my father died. My stepmother hadn’t wanted to deal with my feelings, only her own. I suspected Mrs. O’Dell was cut from the same cloth. And yet, if the boy had been badly torn up, perhaps she was right. Perhaps seeing Robbie’s body would only hurt Neva more.

  “Why don’t you give it a day or two,” I suggested. “Then, when the undertaker has finished his ...”

  She interrupted again. “I told you! There’s not going to be an undertaker or even a service. I heard Granddad say. The county will put ... they’ll dump ... Robbie’s body into an unmarked grave and that’ll be the end of it.” She waved her hands, nearly knocking over a vase of dark-red flowers in her agitation.

  I’d never heard of such callous people. In my time at Doyle & Howe Detective Agency I’d met up with some evil, wicked criminals, but even they had shown care for their families.

  “Say you’ll go with me,” she begged. “Please. They might even bury him tomorrow, as soon as the police say they’re done with their investigation.”

  A dull ache pounded behind my eyes. Investigation? I had some experience with the way the police handle the death of a poor young person in this city, and I was not impressed. A couple patrolmen would probably talk it over and decide on the easiest course of action. Upon which they would, of course, declare Robbie’s death an accident.