Gratton and Monk had only to keep the bunco men at bay and all would be well.
We alighted from the streetcar near the fair gates. I paid my admission and Nimble and I made our way toward the track. Our progress was slow, impeded by what seemed half the population of Spokane wandering about. Nimble did her part to keep the area tidy by stopping to sniff—and preferably eat—every dropped peanut shell, chicken bone or crust of bread she found. I could hardly blame her. An aroma of fresh coffee hovered in the air. The scent of roasting peanuts tempted me, a reminder of the bag Grat bought for us the other day. The one sacrificed to Jimsy Woodsmith’s capture.
Babies cried in the area where the Best Baby contest was being judged. Losers in the contest, perchance? Above their cries, organ music soared over the fairgrounds. Beyond the fruits and flowers tent, children squealed in high glee. Grat had mentioned a merry-go-round had been brought in, along with games like ringtoss and a shooting gallery. He’d also said the pickpockets searched for easy marks there. I hugged my pocketbook closer to my side.
I was nearing the track where I expected to find Monk when, almost exactly where I’d seen them yesterday, I spied Neva’s mother once again talking to Mr. Warren Poole. He frowned down at her, while she shifted from foot to foot and gazed up at him as if trying to appeal to his better nature. If he had one, which I doubted, considering his previous rudeness to me. Mrs. O’Dell looked a great deal like Neva—or rather Neva looked a great deal like her—both of them with masses of dark hair and big brown eyes.
My curiosity drew me toward them. Mrs. O’Dell’s expressions changed with the earnestness of her speech. The corners of her mouth turned down as though she was about to cry. Poole reached in his pocket of his fine gray suit for a handkerchief and gave it to her. She dabbed her eyes, and gave it back, managing to brush against him as she talked. He nodded once. Small smiles followed. She certainly had a lot to say and I wanted to listen.
Especially when one considered what I’d just seen her do.
By fortunate chance, a young couple strolling ahead of me hailed a peanut vendor not three feet from my targeted pair. The vendor stopped his cart and began pouring hot peanuts into a small brown paper bag. I slipped in behind the couple as if I were next in line and perked my ears.
As it happens, I have excellent hearing and Poole and Mrs. O’Dell, no doubt striving to hear each other over the merry-go-round’s music, children, and general hubbub around them, spoke quite loudly.
“I’ve paid right on time up until now,” Mrs. O’Dell whined. At this juncture, the corners of her mouth turned down. “And see, I have money. Take this on account. I’ll have the rest on Sunday, I promise.”
“Best spent fifteen cents of your life. What girl can resist a man who buys her the tastiest peanuts at the fair?” The vendor broke my concentration. His jocular words made me miss whatever Poole replied to Mrs. O’Dell, especially as Nimble took it upon herself to agree with the vendor by letting out a loud whine. Apparently she’d acquired a taste for peanuts. Although considering she’d choked on one—
I peeked around the young man.
Poole’s frowning glance regarded the scattering of wrinkled bills Mrs. O’Dell thrust toward him with a measure of disdain. “It’s not enough. You’re not a beginner at this game, madam. You know the procedure. All payments must be paid in cash beforehand.”
I sucked in a breath. I hadn’t expected to hear so blatant a confession of wrongdoing, even though they weren’t aware of being overheard.
“Please, sir—” For an instant she sounded so much like Neva when the girl was appealing to me for some favor that I had to take another look. “—my son has just been killed. The horse—” She hesitated. “The horse is a little lame from the ... the accident. We’re certain he’ll be ready to run on Sunday, but not this afternoon. Please, sir, can’t you take today’s fee and add this to it for the derby entry instead?” This time the corners of her mouth turned up, the slightest amount, in a quavery little smile.
She avoided, I noticed with a wry smile of my own, telling the man Mercury was gone and she didn’t know where. Score points for Neva.
“How do I know the horse will be ready on Sunday?” Poole asked.
A pertinent question, to be sure.
The sides of Mrs. O’Dell’s nose pinched with the force of her inhaled breath. Her mouth clamped into a severe straight line. “He’ll be ready. I promise. Please, will you let me stay in the race?” She put her hand on his sleeve and looked up at him with rounded eyes. Her lashes fluttered. “I’ll do anything you want if you will.”
What was she saying? I saw a brief flash of what might have been distaste cross Poole’s face. And maybe Mrs. O’Dell saw it, too, because her hand dropped to her side.
“Please,” she said again. “Mercury will make the race. I’ll see to it.”
I wondered how she planned on guaranteeing a lame horse’s ability. The horse had been the odds-on derby favorite. Until the accident, at least. By this time the punters must’ve chosen a new horse to favor. So what made her certain Mercury could, or should, race now?
Hah! As if I had to ask. Neva had told me Mercury’s well-being didn’t matter. Or even, in this instance, whether he won or not. The only concern was how the money got bet. I doubted the event that caused Robbie’s death was even unique. Just more deadly this one time.
“Next,” the vendor said in a carrying voice. I had to step forward.
“Dime bag, please.” I fished in my pocket for a coin, slowly, so as to draw matters out.
At last Poole accepted Mrs. O’Dell’s money. “You’d better be right,” he said on a note of sour warning. “I’m holding you responsible.”
Her persuasion attempt successful, Neva’s mother brushed past me with no sign of recognition. I think she was a little upset, for I heard her muttering under her breath as she went by. “Damned girl! I’m going to beat her within an inch her life.”
Not a figure of speech, judging by precedents set and the fierce look on her face. She may have hidden her anger from Poole, but she wasn’t bothering now.
Poor Neva. No wonder she dare not go home. But what to do with her? Monk was bound to object to yet another houseguest, one who wasn’t even family. I just seemed to be digging myself into a deeper hole.
“Here ya go.” Squinting at my face, the vendor handed me the bag of peanuts. As I turned away from his cart, I came face-to-face with Poole. I fear I blanched.
“You again,” he said, not as if he were pleased to see me. He pointed his long patrician nose at Nimble where she was pawing at my skirt asking for a treat. “See you keep hold of your dog. I won’t have her running loose.”
“Yes, sir. I intend to.” To my horror, I sounded rather breathless, but he strode on without further ado. Apparently, I hadn’t really registered on his consciousness, not that I’m complaining. I felt a little like laughing, truth be told. He’d been thoroughly snookered by Mrs. O’Dell, and served him right.
Holding the bag of hot, fragrant peanuts, I continued across the sere and sorely trampled grass toward the racetrack in search of Monk. Puffs of dust spurted from beneath Nimble’s feet, rising in little clouds.
As luck would have it, I found Gratton first.
And Lars.
Together.
Why? The question screamed through my head.
If I turned aside, my aversion would be obvious. Too, I didn’t want Lars to believe he’d frightened me badly enough I’d never tell what he’d done. He hadn’t. Or so I assured myself. Fiercely.
Even if it were true.
As for Grat, he’d probably just think I was pouting over our words this morning. Sunk no matter what I did.
Straightening my shoulders and pasting on a smile—but not too big a smile in consideration of my lip—I forged ahead.
Nimble, tail between her legs and drooping ears showing her distrust, sidled past Lars to jump up and place a dusty little foot on Grat’s knee.
Caref
ul not to let my glance stray toward Lars, I centered all my attention on Grat. “I need to talk to you,” I said.
“Here I am.” He smiled a little and reached down to pat Nimble.
“Hello, China,” Lars said. “You’re looking pretty as a picture this fine afternoon. In high complexion, I see.”
Inwardly, I railed. Outwardly, I ignored him.
“In private,” I said to Grat.
Lars jerked, although I’m certain he hadn’t meant to. His icy blue eyes narrowed.
Good, I hoped he was worried.
Grat, covering the movement by scratching Nimble’s ears, flicked a glance first at Lars, then at me.
Took a second look.
His expression closed. “Be right with you,” he said and turned to Lars. “We done here? Because I got the work I was hired to do waiting for me.” He sounded icy cold and decidedly unfriendly. “In fact, there’s a woman over there, the one in the yellow calico dress, trying to find herself a mark right now. Maybe you’d like to take care of her yourself. An arrest might look good on your record. Unless,” his voice lowered, “you’re taking half of what she steals to pretend you’re blind.”
“Watch your step, Doyle,” Lars said. “There’s a line you best not cross. Not if you want to continue doing business in this town.”
“You telling the power brokers what to do now?” Gratton snorted. “I don’t believe it.”
For the first time in the months I’d known him, Lars refused to rise to Gratton’s bait. He shrugged. “Try me too far. In fact, I wish you would. You’ll see. Bad things have been known to happen.”
“You threatening me, Hansen? Gettin’ pretty low, aren’t you?”
“Me threaten you?” Lars laughed as he emphasized the you part. The thing is, Grat wasn’t in on the joke. I understood what he meant. He meant to get at Gratton through me. “You ain’t understanding me, Doyle. Not at all.”
With an obnoxious smirk that included me along with Grat, he swept nonchalantly off in the opposite direction of the woman wearing the yellow dress. He was whistling like he hadn’t a care in the world, exactly as he had this morning. The tune was a slightly off-key rendition of “The Sidewalks of New York.”
How could I ever have been even slightly attracted to him? The mere idea made me sick.
Nimble, certain she’d done her part to chase him away, growled low in a self-satisfied manner. In the background, the carousel’s music soared from high to low, children laughed, a baby cried. Another loser in the Best Baby contest, perhaps? A sudden roar of men’s voices over at the track indicated another race had either started or been won.
Grat seemed to gather himself. Then, “Who hit you, China? Him?”
“What? No. Not ... nobody hit me. Why—”
“Do you think I’m an idiot? Do you think I can’t see the bruises through the powder on your face? Hell, China, you never daub your face up with a lot of female goo.”
He sounded furious. He was wrong though. I did upon occasion powder my nose. Just not with such a heavy hand.
“It’s not what you think,” I said. How I detested Lars in that moment, more even than in the instant when he’d struck me. He’d put me in a position where I had to lie for him.
“No? Tell me the truth, sweetheart. I know something’s up because you didn’t say a word to Lars. Not one word.”
“He ... I ...,” I floundered. “I’m still angry for the way he treated Neva and me last night. He was unkind to Neva and rude to us both.”
Grat shook his head. “Huh-uh. Try again. How’d your face get bruised?”
“I ... I ... it was the stupidest thing. I was sweeping the floor and caught the broom head on a chair leg. The handle whipped out of my hands and slapped me. A silly accident is all.”
He didn’t say anything, just looked at me. Then, “Not a very likely story, China.”
“Well ... well ...”
Why did I bother? I had intended to tell him Lars had come around to the office this morning. I’d just meant to omit the part about him actually striking me. Grat was bound to pass anything I said on to Monk and I didn’t want either of them to go off half-cocked.
On the other hand, maybe I wouldn’t say anything to either man. Someone, aside from me, was too apt to get hurt.
“Do you know you stutter when you lie?”
I swallowed. Our conversation was not going the way I’d planned. It seldom does when Grat is involved and on his high horse.
“What did Lars want?” I asked. When one runs into a brick wall, a change of direction is called for.
In something of a miracle, Grat let me off the hook. “He told me a racehorse was stolen from the course stable last night, and more or less accused me or Monk—or maybe you. I’m not quite certain what he was getting at—of having a hand in the theft. What he wanted is the horse back.”
“A stolen horse?” My response turned into a harsh cough. “Why on earth does he think any of us had anything to do with a stolen horse?”
I swear I saw his eyes twinkle.
“Because the horse in question is Mercury, the derby favorite. Seems it belongs to your young friend’s folks.” He paused for effect. “And apparently she’s gone too. The girl, that is.”
“Oh,” I said, and rewound Nimble’s leash around my wrist. The little chore took all of my attention. I felt certain Lars hadn’t known Neva and the horse were missing earlier this morning. I shuddered to think of what my face might look like if he had.
“You’ve got nothing else to say?”
I shrugged carelessly. “What should I say? I don’t know where the horse is. And for your information, the horse belongs to Neva, not her mother. Neva told me her other grandfather gave the horse to Robbie and her.”
Gratton went silent, although he never stopped scanning the fairgrounds for signs of bunco men and thieves. “You’re not concerned about Neva?” he asked after a while. “Not afraid she’s been kidnapped or hurt or lost?”
“I’m afraid,” I said clearly, so there wouldn’t be any mistake, “the biggest danger to Neva is if someone, for instance Lars, finds her and drags her back to her cockeyed family.”
14
Gratton didn’t bother arguing about Neva and her situation. How could he? He knew Lars too well to even try, and a passing acquaintance with Mr. Louis Duchene and Mrs. Hazel O’Dell must’ve confirmed my opinion.
His lack of resistance, if I’m honest, took the wind out of my sails. I’d been expecting him to guess I’d had a hand in Neva’s apparent disappearance. I was a little taken aback when he simply nodded and said in an absent manner, “She’s had a hard time, eh?” He then pointed out Monk’s location and said, a bit abruptly, “I’ll see you later.”
His quick reaction to a particularly careless dip working alone may have had something to do with his seeming unconcern. I say careless because the mark, a skinny man in a thick woolen suit, caught the pickpocket in the act and yelled for help. The pickpocket was almost as good at his trade as Jimsy Woodsmith. But this time, he, a common crook overconfident of his abilities, had picked on the wrong man. The last I saw of Grat he was frog-marching the young man away with his arm twisted high on his back, his coat pockets bulging with the telltale shape of stolen wallets. The catch meant Grat would be gone from the fairgrounds while the thief was booked into jail.
I continued on to where Grat had pointed, namely, the racetrack starting line. I found Monk there, keeping a close watch on the bookies’ cash drawers. A good deal of money was being wagered. I saw bills passing from hand to hand at a terrific rate. Spokane’s reputation as a town where horse racing was king seemed to have drawn every sportsman—and sportswoman, too—for miles around. They all seemed ready to spend money and enjoy themselves, which didn’t include getting robbed. My uncle served as the all-important first line against thieves. One would’ve thought to find a large police presence, but there wasn’t a bluecoat in sight.
I had to smirk. The punters didn’t realize
how lucky they were when Gratton—with my help—put Jimsy out of commission.
“China,” Monk said, sounding a little surprised as I approached, Nimble prancing at my side, “what’re you doing here? No new clients showing up at the office today?” He answered his own question. “I guess everybody is right here.”
“At least nine tenths of them, Uncle.” I staggered as a seedy runt of a man ran into me, the odor of whiskey enclosing him in a cloud of fumes. Monk shouted after the fellow, who disappeared into the crowd, while I checked my pocketbook and found it intact. Fearing Nimble would be trampled, I gathered the little dog in my arms and held her, although she put up quite a fuss.
“The Kennett family is in town to take in the fair and races,” I added, “and Sawyer wants to speak with you or Gratton about a job. I thought he might’ve met with you up by now.” I was careful to keep my face averted, hidden by Nimble’s body. Monk didn’t seem to notice as his attention was directed toward the crowd of men clamoring to place wagers.
“Haven’t seen him. Anyone else?”
“Yes. Porter Anderson. He’s meeting with Sawyer regarding some mine timbers. But he came by the office first.” I hesitated. “He said he was going to look you up, too.”
“Must’ve got delayed.” Monk inhaled a sharp breath and started forward as two men collided. One stumbled and almost fell as the other pushed against him. But the pusher helped hold the stumbler upright, they shook hands, and all seemed well. My uncle stopped and relaxed.
“I’ll be glad to see them both,” he said. “Anyone else?”
“Yes.” I wasn’t mentioning Neva. She was my responsibility, but then there was Lars. I had to tell Monk about him. Partly, anyway.
“Who?” My uncle, perhaps sensing something from my tone of voice, did look at me now, a glance more felt than seen as I had my head discreetly lowered.
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