The Flapper's Fake Fiancé

by Lauri Robinson

  Or, Gaynor could have left the money someplace, had someone else hide it, and this was where they did just that.

  Hard telling.

  The money was of no consequence to him. Getting Gaynor back behind bars was what he wanted to see. He’d forgotten that the last couple days. Had been too interested in other things. Mainly the flapper beside him. That had never happened before. In fact, she had been the reason he’d gone to the abandoned house this morning. “I’m going down there,” he whispered. “You wait here.”

  “I’m not waiting here.” She planted her walking stick in the ground. “This stick is for snakes, not bears.”

  For someone he’d sworn whom he was never going to see again, he’d spent the last two hours, or more, with her, and enjoyed it. She’d just trekked over a mile without a single complaint. In a dress. She wasn’t wearing heels, but the flat shoes she was wearing didn’t have very good soles. Watching her climb the rocks had made him nervous that she might fall, get hurt.

  He was nervous about leaving her here alone, too, and about having her follow him down the hill. Of the two, keeping her close was the best choice, so he nodded. “All right, but you are not going in the cabin.”

  “Deal,” she whispered, gesturing with her chin. “That’s not a cabin. It’s a dilapidated shack.”

  He didn’t bother agreeing, already convinced the shack was going to look worse the closer they got.

  It did.

  If not for the solid and chinked-together logs, the old hut would have fallen down years ago.

  Keeping her close to his side, Lane had worked their way down the hill and around to the front of the windowless shack. There was only the one door, and Gaynor had left it partially open. Not enough to see if anyone was inside. He couldn’t hear anything, either, but was convinced Gaynor was in there.

  He’d chosen a spot with plenty of cover for Patsy to watch the front door while he made his way around to the other, and then, inside.

  Huffing out a breath, he whispered, “Watch the front door.” That would keep her in place better than telling her to stay put.

  He hoped.

  “You have to keep an eye on the door for me,” he repeated, reinforcing his hope that she would stay hidden.

  She nodded and handed him her walking stick. He took it. Figuring it was better than nothing. The idea of kissing her, just a quick one, made him spin around and take off. That couldn’t happen again. He was already going to pay hell for being anywhere near her.

  That was a given, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it right now, except to keep her safe.

  Staying low to the ground, he made his way through the shrub and pines to the side of the shack, and then quietly crept along the outside wall, mentally preparing himself to rush the door. He had no experience on such things, definitely not in his normal line of work, and was going strictly on instinct.

  Once at the corner, and not sure what else to do, he counted to three, then jumped around the corner and kicked the door wide open. Holding the stick with both hands, and angled across the front of him, he shouted, “Gaynor!”

  “Lane? I wasn’t sure if that was you following me or not. It’s not Gaynor, it’s Henry Randall.”

  The words shocked Lane. So did the man who stepped out from behind the door. “Henry?”

  “Yeah, it’s me,” Henry said, holding out a hand. “I’ve been hoping to talk to you.”

  Lane leaned Patsy’s walking stick against the outside wall and pumped the man’s hand. Henry was an FBI agent, and had worked on the train robbery. The two of them had gotten to know each other during that time, but last he’d heard, Henry had gone back east, to Washington, DC. “What are you doing here?”

  “Off the record?” Henry asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Pretending to be Rex Gaynor.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Gaynor’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  Henry nodded.

  Lane hadn’t seen Gaynor in years, but would never forget what he looked like. Henry’s height, broad build and black hair were similar enough to Rex’s that some could believe he was Gaynor, from the back, like he had, but from the front, Henry’s facial features weren’t chiseled enough. Gaynor’s face had looked like it had been carved out of stone, with deep-set dark eyes that had shimmered with evil. Henry’s eyes weren’t deep set, or evil, and even when he was serious, they looked like he was hiding a smile.

  Lane had been prepared to come face-to-face with Gaynor, face the revenge the man had instilled in him years ago, and hearing the man was dead left him in a quandary. He held no remorse, but Gaynor’s death meant there was no one to avenge for Naomi’s and Sarah’s deaths. He was contemplating that when Patsy arrived at his side.

  “Why did you shake his hand?” she asked, flipping her long hair away from her face.

  “Because I know him.” Lane stopped before saying more. The heavy rise and fall of her chest said she’d ran down the hill, and the way she held another stick in her hand said she was ready to use it. He grasped the stick and lowered it to the ground.

  She glanced at Henry. “Who is he?”

  Lane looked toward Henry, offering an apology because Patsy had already figured out he wasn’t Rex Gaynor. She knew he wouldn’t have shaken hands with Gaynor. Henry was undercover, and the answer to that question was up to him.

  Henry’s return gaze was full of questions as he glanced between him and Patsy.

  “She’s trustworthy,” Lane said.

  Henry gave her a quick nod. “Henry Randall, ma’am.”

  The frown between her eyes grew. “Where’s Rex Gaynor?”

  “He’s not here,” Lane said.

  “It’s not much, but come in.” Henry, dressed in a pair of gray trousers, white shirt and suspenders, stepped aside and waved them to enter the cabin.

  Lane rested a hand on Patsy’s back, encouraging her to step in first. He followed.

  “I’ll leave the door open so we have some light,” Henry said.

  Lane nodded as he and Patsy entered the small cabin. The inside was in better shape than the outside. They sat down on the two chairs at a small table in the center of the room that Henry gestured toward.

  “Does she work for you?” Henry asked while he took a seat on a cot covered with a blanket.

  There was also a small coal cookstove, cabinet and a suitcase in the corner. Lane completed his scan of the room by returning his gaze to Henry. Having contemplated how to answer, he gave a nod. “Yes, she’s working with me.” He had to bite back a smile at the way Patsy’s neck snapped around. The shocked look on her face quickly disappeared and a smile formed. That was partially true, and Lane needed to know what was going on with Henry and Gaynor.

  “So, what did she find out from Vincent Burrows?” Henry asked.

  The hair on Lane’s arms stood.

  “What’s going on here?” Patsy asked. “Who are you?” She looked at Lane. “Who is he? How do you know him?”

  Henry shrugged, letting Lane know it was up to him to answer.

  Careful, knowing she’d soak up everything he said, Lane gestured toward Henry. “This is Henry Russell, an FBI agent who worked on the Rex Gaynor case when the train was robbed.”

  “I would have contacted you, Lane, if I’d been able to.” Henry shook his head. “I knew the news of Gaynor’s escape would be distressing for you.”

  “More like unbelievable,” Lane admitted. Henry knew about Naomi and Sarah, and how Lane had not only reported about it, he’d helped see that Gaynor was put behind bars for the rest of his life. “Gaynor’s dead?” Lane asked, solidifying the fact in his mind.

  Henry nodded.

  “Dead?” Patsy asked. “The newspaper said he escaped.”

  “That’s what I was told,” Lane replied. It didn’t
make sense for officials to make up a story that he’d escaped. “He was in a maximum security prison,” Lane added. “What happened?”

  Henry lifted a brow. “Someone killed him.”

  “Who? How?”

  “Moonshine,” Henry answered. “The first cup.”

  Generally, the first drops out of a still were pure poison. Widow-maker juice. Not only did it smell like rubbing alcohol, it tasted awful. Moonshiners commonly discarded the first cup out of every batch because the shine produced before optimal temperature was reached was pure methanol. Even a small amount could cause blindness or death. “How did he acquire moonshine in prison?”

  “Don’t know.” Henry flashed a brief glance toward Patsy. “The man who presumably gave it to him was found dead, too. With an empty flask.”

  “When?” Lane asked.

  “A week ago,” Henry answered as his gaze shifted to Patsy again. “We believe Vincent Burrows was behind it. The man who presumably gave Gaynor the moonshine used to work for Burrows, one of his torpedoes, and had recently received a visit from a petite blonde woman.”

  Lane didn’t like the way Henry was looking at Patsy. “It wasn’t her.”

  * * *

  The shiver that rippled up Patsy’s spine made her gasp. “Me? You think it was me?” Her insides started trembling.

  Lane reached over and took a hold of her hand. “No.”

  “He does.” She leveled a glare at Henry. If he really worked for the FBI, why was he holed up in the woods, pretending to be an escaped convict? She’d find out, right after finding out why he would think she had anything to do with it. “Why would you think it was me?”

  Henry leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. “You appeared to know Burrows well the other night at the Rooster’s Nest.”

  Her entire body went stiff. Lane squeezed her hand, but it didn’t ease the way her insides quivered due to the distrust shimmering in the other man’s eyes.

  “The way the two of you talked and danced,” Henry continued.

  “I was trying to find out more information about Rex Gaynor.” Determined to prove her innocence, she added, “And I did. He told me about the money.”

  Her heart skipped a beat at the way Henry looked at Lane. As if he was now questioning him.

  Lane shook his head. “I’ve never told anyone about the money.” He glanced at her, and nodded. “Burrows told her. Proving he knows about it. Question is, who told him?”

  “That’s why I’m undercover,” Henry said. “We figure that’s why Gaynor was offed. Someone knows about the unrecovered money, and is now looking to recover it.” He stood and the look in his eyes was somewhat sympathetic. “It’s been years, Lane, and considering all you lost in that accident—”

  Lane released her hand and stood. “Hold on, Henry. You can’t possibly believe that I have anything to do behind this.”

  Confusion filled Patsy.

  “I hope not, Lane, but we have to look at every avenue. You lost your wife and daughter in that train robbery, a man doesn’t get over that easily, and—”

  “No, they don’t. But do you honestly think that now, after all these years, I’d decide to partner up with the mob and off a prisoner?”

  Patsy swallowed the lump in her throat. Wife and daughter? Lane had a wife and daughter who died during the train robbery? She looked up at Lane, wondering why he’d never mentioned that. Why he hadn’t told her this was more than a story, that he was seeking justice for himself, his family. A knot formed in her stomach. No wonder he’d said he wasn’t interested in marrying anyone.

  Henry let out a long sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “No, Lane, I don’t.” He sat down on the cot again. “But I, we, had expected Burrows to take the bait, think I was Gaynor, but so far, that hasn’t happened. I’ve given him chances, too. At the docks and at speakeasies. Either Burrows knows I’m not him, or he knows Gaynor died.”

  Patsy glanced between Henry and Lane, who both appeared to be deep in thought. She bit down on her bottom lip, and tried to stop herself from thinking about the other questions hopping about in her head, like why he’d kissed her, when he was still in love with his wife, but truly couldn’t hold her silence any longer. She had to help. That would prove to him that she’d been telling the truth. That she was doing this because she wanted to be a reporter. “I could find out.”

  Both men turned to her. Lane was frowning and shaking his head, but Henry appeared to like the idea.

  “I know I could make him tell me,” she said. Burrows had told her about the money and would surely tell her more.

  “No,” Lane said. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Not with you, and me, nearby,” Henry said.

  “No,” Lane repeated. “It won’t work.” Pointing at her, he continued, “She sneaks out at night, to go to speakeasies. If her father finds out, even the FBI will be in trouble.”

  Frowning, Henry stood, and looked at her for so long she was sure he was boring a hole smack into the center of her forehead. Finally, with an odd gleam in his eyes, he asked, “You’re one of William Dryer’s daughters, aren’t you?”

  Frustration and a hint of fear had her holding her breath.

  “Yes, she is,” Lane said.

  Henry muttered a curse under his breath. She didn’t hear the exact word, but knew it was a curse.

  Huffing out the hot air burning her lungs, she said, “That doesn’t matter. I’m careful. My father won’t know anything about it. No one will.” Certain that wasn’t changing their minds, she continued, “Vincent Burrows was at a party Lane and I were at last night. I’m sure he’ll be at another one. I’ll ask him to dance, and question him, and—”

  “No,” both men said at the same time.

  Flustered, she jumped to her feet. “What else are you going to do? Everyone knows who Lane is, so Burrows will never talk to him, and you said you already tried, that he must not believe you are Gaynor.” She could help him. Had to help him. It would prove that their kiss meant nothing to her, too. That she didn’t want to get married, either. This was all about solving the case. Getting the scoop on the story. The idea of truly helping Lane, not only on a story, but in assisting the authorities capture a criminal, filled her with excitement. “I can do this. I know I can.”

  “No,” Lane said. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Lane’s right,” Henry said. “I have other agents working with me. We’ll get Burrows.”

  “How?” Patsy asked, convinced she could get the information they needed, if they’d give her the chance.

  “Do you think he’s already found the money?” Lane asked.

  “I don’t know,” Henry said. “We know Gaynor is a killer, but he maintained his claim that he wasn’t the one who had blown up the train until the day he died. He insisted he didn’t know where the dynamite came from or who lit it. He and his partner, Billy Phillips, were in the baggage car, stealing the money, when the dynamite exploded. Their plan had been to ride off in separate ways, and meet up later. That’s what Gaynor did, ride off, but someone killed Billy at the robbery site, took his horse and his share of the money. That person was never found. Rex was captured that night, because his horse had gone lame. He said it was dark, and that he didn’t know where he buried his share of the money. Authorities searched the entire area between the robbery site and where they captured Gaynor numerous times, but nothing was ever recovered.”

  Patsy’s heart was thudding at learning so much about the train robbery. She looked at Lane. “None of that was in the newspaper.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Lane said. “Billy Phillips was Gaynor’s partner, but Gaynor swore he hadn’t killed him, that he knew nothing about a third person, and the authorities never released that any money had been stolen off the train, because they couldn’t.”

  “Why?” She sat down, completely committed to he
aring all they’d tell her.

  “Because the government didn’t want anyone to know that the Federal Reserve was shipping old money to LA to be destroyed,” Lane answered. “If word had gotten out, every train on the rails would have been robbed for months on end.”

  Patsy didn’t understand one thing. “What do you mean, old money?”

  “Bills wear out, and are replaced, but until they are destroyed, they spend as well as any others,” Lane answered.

  She was listening to everything he said, but still confused. “So you mean it wasn’t any good? The money.”

  “No, the money was still good,” Lane said. “Every dollar printed is backed by gold held by the government. As the paper wears out, the bills are collected, destroyed and replaced with new ones. However, in this instance, those old bills had already been replaced with new ones, ultimately, meaning the government had bills out there without the Federal Reserve having enough gold to back them, which is illegal.”

  “Even for the government?” she asked.

  Henry let out a grunt. “Especially for the government. Not all Americans trust the government. A large percentage don’t agree with the politicians and their laws. The shipments of old bills were to be kept quiet because the politicians weren’t following their own law. The railroad didn’t even know they were carrying them.”

  Lane laid a hand on her shoulder. “It’s a bit confusing. A lot of people didn’t even know the changes that were happening. The war had ended, the economy was building again and the newly appointed members of the Federal Reserve Board were focused on implementing a system where a specific amount of every bank’s assets was on deposit as Federal Reserve funds. Part of that included replacing all old currency with Federal Reserve notes.”