“Ah, here we are,” as the desk clerk, looking considerably less harassed, entered with a silver tray and all its accessories. “Thank you, Mr. Denton. Miss Brennan, would you be so kind as to pour? Now, please tell me, what you’ve found objectionable during your stay at the Sea Wind?”
An appalling number of things, Padraic started out. The condition of their rooms fell far short of their own exacting standards. Linens were of poor quality, and in scant supply. The bath—at this point, Fiona took up the refrain.
Better to get it out, thought Rob, in an aside, then to keep all that vitriol stored up inside where it could do damage.
“Unclean.” Was she referring to the lepers’ chant? “Disgraceful. And the dining room…”
“What about the dining room?” Rob was curious, since he hadn’t had a chance yet to sample its wares.
“Closed for breakfast, closed for lunch,” Padraic informed him. “And mighty poor service the rest of the time.”
“Poor service, poor food, poor accommodations.” Fiona, sitting forward, ticked off the list on her fingers. “Even the room allotted my poor maid was second-rate.”
“Not the sort of recommendation you would want your guests to spread about,” added her father. “Disappointing, Mr. Yancey. Most disappointing.”
Disconcerted but determined, Rob could only agree. After a sip of the fortifying coffee—and another mental note: needs more kick!—he repeated his apology to the Brennans for such discomfort, and his admission that he had, in fact, arrived here exactly because of their unsatisfactory experience.
Feeling by now not only mellowed but mollified, Padraic’s eyes had begun to twinkle. “What, you looked into your crystal ball and saw us here, did you?”
“No, sir.” With a smile, Rob reached for one of the small pastries provided on a plain white plate. Then he explained the situation here at Sea Wind—or of, at least, as much as an outsider might expect to be apprised—and his intention to rectify it.
“Hmmph. Sounds like quite the undertakin’, Mr. Yancey.”
“I expect it will be, Mr. Brennan. But I also expect to succeed, and in jig time, at that.”
For a few minutes Miss Brennan had done little more than partake from her coffee and listen intently. Now, rejoining the conversation, she mentioned that their stay at several other Yancey hotels over the past year or so had proven to be perfectly delightful.
A sop for Cerberus? Or the truth? Whichever, Rob wasn’t proud when it came to the reputation of his family’s business. He turned to her feeling more encouraged and certainly more kindly, his dark eyes agleam with new-found confidence.
“Thank you, Miss Brennan. It does me good to hear that. Now, as to your stay here…”
Not only would their stay here be fully reimbursed, but Rob would have a letter of introduction prepared that would allow both Mr. and Miss Brennan the finest amenities at any Yancey hotel for the next year, at no cost.
“Oh, well now…” Padraic’s voice sounded like the last rumblings of a valiant old lion, relinquishing to a younger, stronger male. “I hardly think it’s necessary that you—”
“Also,” Rob cut in smoothly, “I would like to invite both of you to join me for dinner tonight, if you plan to remain in town. My own private dining room, which is, I believe, of higher caliber.”
Father and daughter looked at each other with surprise. Clearly neither had expected such generosity. Nor such charm and good will.
Another smile, and a handshake as Rob rose in farewell. “Yes? Good, then I’ll see you later this evening. Eight o’clock, shall we say? I’ll leave you now, as I have some business I must transact. But, please, stay, and enjoy the rest of the coffee.”
Even while Rob was making his way to the door, he could hear Fiona’s murmur in the background, “Actually, their coffee could use a little more kick.”
VI
Another stop at the front desk provided little of the information he was seeking.
Praise for anyone, be it menial, servant, employee, or even family member, works to bring far better results than criticism. After a few words of appreciation and gratitude toward the equally appreciative and grateful Farley Denton, Rob asked for the whereabouts of Amory Kincaid.
“I’m sorry, sir, I haven’t seen him this morning.” The clerk brightened. Every emotion could be easily seen in his transparent features. “However, he did leave instructions for the projects that are to be done. We’re starting to paint and paper some of the rooms upstairs, and he’s told us it’s an ongoing process.”
“Ahuh. He’s correct. Well, no matter for now. All right, Mr. Denton, here’s the thing: I’m expecting the arrival of Mr. Walter Hadley sometime within the next couple of days, and I’d—what?”
For young Denton’s brows had raised with surprise, and his mouth slightly opened and rounded, like a goldfish coming to the surface for air.
“But he’s here, sir,” blurted out the clerk. “Well, I mean…not here, right now, clearly. But he got here several days ago, and he’s been in and out since then.”
Denton’s surprise was mirrored in Rob, although not so much to be noticed. Rob had become past master at masking emotion, for expediency.
“You don’t say. Well, then, we musta got our wires crossed somewhere along the line, and he showed up earlier than I expected. Did he happen to mention where he might be this afternoon?”
Glancing carefully around the empty reception area, Denton leaned forward upon the desk to reveal softly, “Uh…just in confidence, Mr. Yancey. I wasn’t supposed to tell anybody.”
“It’s all right, Farley. Tell me.”
“Uh—yes, sir. Well, there’s a—uh—a gentlemen’s club, over on Wilmont Street, called The Cavalier. He—well, he spends a lot of time there, when he’s in town.”
“Does he, now?” Rob nodded pensively. “Hmmm. Maybe I’ll just meander on over to the place, have a little sit-down with Mr. Hadley.”
“You’ll have to really look to find it; the owners have tucked their establishment away almost out of sight.” Even this meager description had the young man blushing like a peony. “Will you be wanting a carriage, sir?”
“Carriage? No, not at all. The walk will be good exercise for me. Thanks, Farley.”
Good physical exercise, along with the time needed to gather his thoughts as to how he should approach this whole mess. And to tamp down on burgeoning anger toward one treacherous, soon-to-be-former Chief Financial Manager.
The afternoon had grown later. Taking long enough to freshen up in his room, with a quick sponge bath and a clean shirt—shaving the start of a scruffy beard would have to wait for now—Rob exited via an open side door and out onto a tree-lined street thick with advancing shadows.
Balmy temperatures and sweet, flower-scented air lifted his spirits as he strode along, admiring the view from right to left and back again, through the downtown city area. From this spot, he could hear the sounds of remodeling construction work being done on Trinity Church and catch a glimpse of the towering spire belonging to Old St. Mary’s Cathedral, at California and DuPont Streets.
Within a few bustling blocks the business expanse thinned out into residential avenues, where neatly trimmed lawns provided the boundary for homes of various sizes and shapes. Citizens certainly did appreciate their native plant life, Rob decided. Cottonwood and sycamore flourished, as did oak and cedar and pine, as well as Manzanita, showy purple lupines, sage and coyote brush.
Still, the scenery could not keep a turmoil of thoughts at bay.
Rob had grown up in the hotel business. Shortly after his father had married Goldenstar Mendoza, and all ten brothers had gradually begun gathering in from all over the country, to consolidate, Yancey Holdings had been established.
As a boy, Rob had run errands, helped with chores, carried luggage for arriving or departing guests, hauled water to bolster thirsty landscaping projects, washed dishes, swept and mopped floors. With age and experience, his work had grown increasin
gly more important and more involved, learning the ins and outs of what he planned someday to run. He had always expected to join his uncles in their successful endeavor, just as he knew most of his cousins would, at some time, as well.
Their effects stretched out far-reaching and far-flung. In Whitfield, California, for example, not far from Sacramento, the Holdings sponsored an orphanage, overseen by Dr. Benton’s wife, Jessamine; in Virginia City, Nevada, site of the Silver Breeze, the Reverend Nathaniel Yancey’s church was supported by a goodly annual sum; San Juan Capistrano held the beginnings of an animal shelter, coaxed into being by a benevolent Franciscan father and dependent upon the Holdings’ generous contribution.
The fury that Rob was feeling toward Walter Hadley, on the chance that, because of his betrayal, all of this might come tumbling down, had hardened from a gut of red-hot lava to a spine of ice-cold steel. Now, he was wondering just what their one-time employee/friend would have to say for himself, whenever Rob caught up with him.
Come to that, just what the hell was he doing here, anyway, when he was supposed to be off holidaying with his neglected wife?
Wilmont Street. A property studded by palm trees, barren but for exotic blooms and bushes, extending from one corner to the other. Empty of any human life or wild life. Farther to the west, set far back and away from other similar plots, surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence and more full-leafed trees that aided in concealment, stood an imposing three-story brick building that might almost, by virtue of elegance and magnificence alone, have rivaled the Sea Wind itself.
Here had been established the Gentlemen’s Club of record, The Cavalier.
A manservant, stationed at the front gate, was understandably reluctant to let just anyone walk onto the premises. Ditto another standing guard at the hand-carved walnut door.
Rob’s name, however, and the Yancey cachet, served as the magic key that blew down all resistance. Not only admitted inside, but courteously invited to the lounge, he allowed the rich curves of leather chair to surround him at a corner table while he ordered a glass of Old Forester and a Waitt & Bond cigar.
It was a classically typical men’s room, paneled in dark walnut, dressed up by plush rugs and elaborately framed paintings, encircled by gleaming mirrors. Which, helpfully, gave him a view of anyone coming or going. A few nicely dressed fops, a few wheelers and dealers; a couple of exotic women, accompanying what looked to be older, heavier, powerful pillars of society, who could only have come into this male bastion by invitation from their escorts.
After some little time had passed without spying any sign of his quarry, Rob caught the attention of a nearby steward to ask about the presence of Walter Hadley.
The man’s formal attire allowed him to bend slightly forward to murmur, “I believe he’s in the game room, sir. Would you care to accompany me there?”
“The game room, huh? Thank you, but not at the moment.”
How many of Yancey Holdings’ assets had he stripped away, how much cash had he stolen, in order to invade these hallowed walls reeking of cigar smoke and bourbon? To prove himself the equal of any wealthy, potent member of the Club? Or merely to risk whatever lay in a hidden vault somewhere through games of chance?
In college, Rob had come into contact with a number of bored students from affluent families, gifted apparently with no real purpose to their lives. They’d turned to gambling. Excitement. Activity. The peak of joy at winning, the abyss of despair at loss. Something in the flick of a card, or the throw of a die, satisfied some sick need. But only temporarily. Instead of slaking it, the need simply grew.
What had Walter gotten himself into?
“Your seneschal,” he said now to the steward. “I’d like to speak to him in private.”
“Of course, sir,” came the smooth, immediate answer. “Follow me this way, please, and I’ll notify Mr. Coleman.”
Their passage led down a well-lighted hallway, around a corner, and up a flight of carpeted stairs. At the door, a substantial bank note passed from Rob’s palm to that of his guide. “I’d appreciate your keeping my visit here today entirely confidential. Thank you.”
He had occupied the beautifully appointed parlor for only a few minutes when he was joined by a man probably running the whole show.
“Mr. Yancey.” Given their positions, a handshake would not have been proper. However, the seneschal introduced himself, invited his guest to take a seat, and asked how he could be of service.
Using generalities, Rob explained the reason for his visit, and a few details of the background. “You understand, some—uh—discrepancies have come to light in the management of our hotel syndicate, and I haven’t been able to reach our Financial Manager. I have it on good authority that he is here.”
“I see.” The seneschal, a tall thin stork-like figure, pondered the situation, then took the liberty of seating himself opposite. “May I speak frankly, sir?”
A sip from the glass of excellent bourbon, and Rob inclined his head. “Please do, Mr. Coleman. I think that’s the only way to do business, and I’d appreciate your telling me what you can.”
Elbows propped on chair arms, the man steepled his fingers while he considered. “There have been—rumors…” he finally admitted. “From various reliable sources. Which then cemented into hard fact.”
“Ahuh. That’s usually the way it goes. Relating to—?”
“Mr. Hadley’s gambling habits, sir. Not long after your Sea Wind Hotel opened, he applied for membership here at the Cavalier. The Club’s Board saw no reason to deny his application. He’s been quite a—frequent—visitor since that time.”
“Oh, my paws and whiskers,” muttered Rob. “What kinda money are we talking about?”
Coleman shrugged his immaculate, elegant black broadcloth shoulder. “Commensurate with the others at his poker table. Quite large sums, measured by any average citizen. Usually, thousands. And no markers allowed; only cold, hard cash. When that cash is gone, so is the player.“
“And he wins?”
“Not often. Losses, more usually.”
“Well, that explains a lot.”
“I imagine it would, sir,” agreed the seneschal in a dry tone. Then, at Rob’s questioning look, another small shrug. “That pesky thing again—rumor. Talk through the Club, sparked by Mr. Hadley himself, claims that there’s a killing to be made by—I believe his phrase was, robbing Peter to pay Paul.”
In this case, defrauding and looting his employment in order to stuff his own pockets full of riches. How could the Yancey clan have been so mistaken in their judgment of Walter Hadley?
“There’s more.”
With a grimace, Rob nodded. “Go on.”
“The Cavalier has not been Mr. Hadley’s sole source of—entertainment.”
“Others. I see. Any idea where?”
“With this sort of business, Mr. Yancey, I’m forced to keep my ear to the ground. Gossip tells me that a similar situation exists in San Juan, Sacramento, and Stockton. Exclusive clubs have been established there, similar to this one. Mr. Hadley patronizes them all.”
Hell and damnation. Which explained why the infection had spread from Turquoise Sea Wind to Mission Azul, on to Feldspar Ridge, and finally Bywater Pine. If Yancey Holdings had owned a luxurious hotel on the far side of the moon, this goddamned son of a bitch would have ponied up a membership there, too.
Coleman seemed to be watching for a reaction. Rob was not about to show him one.
“I’m dreadfully sorry to give you such bad news, Mr. Yancey. If there’s anything I can do…”
“No, actually, I think everyone has done enough.” Still pensive, the young man rose lithely to his feet and offered a handshake, with, once more, a large-denomination bank note passed from one to the other. Best to stay in everyone’s good graces for the moment. Who knew when or if more information might be needed? “Thank you, Mr. Coleman. I appreciate your time this evening. And your candor.”
VII
The brisk walk
back to the hotel, in early twilit hours, with a few stars twinkling overhead and crickets beginning to chirp, cleared Rob’s head and blew away the smell of cigar smoke. Funny, how that stayed with you, creeping into your clothes.
Another quick trip to his room for some last-minute freshening up, and he was ready to meet his invited guests in the Yanceys’ private dining room. Where, he found, as he entered, they were already seated and waiting for him.
“Mr. Brennan, Miss Brennan, good evening,” he offered a warm and effusive greeting. “So glad you could join me.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Padraic proclaimed, standing to share a handshake.”I hope you were able to conclude your business satisfactorily?”
“Huh. Not sure at this point, sir. Time will tell.” Seating himself at the table lavishly appointed with candelabra, a silver vase of fragrant red roses, and exquisite porcelain dinnerware, he opened the immaculate white napkin next to his plate with a smile for the lady opposite. “I gave specific instructions as to preparing your rooms for tonight, so I hope you’ve changed your minds about leaving and decided to stay over, after all.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Yancey. That’s almighty kind of you. And, yes, we did change our minds about stayin’ longer. In fact, Fee and I went out and did ourselves some shopping this afternoon, didn’t we, honey?”
When Fiona returned Rob’s smile, her green eyes crinkled with mischief and a charming dimple appeared in each cheek. “We certainly did, Papa. Let me see, I recall your ordering a new hay rake, for the farm. And fencing supplies, for the farm. And fifty-pound bags of seed, for the farm.”
“You run a farm in the area, Mr. Brennan?”
“Oh, I own a farm, son. That doesn’t mean I run it anymore. Got a nice family to do that.” He chuckled comfortably. “But I like to keep my hand in. A word of advice, Mr. Yancey: never get too far from your roots. The land is in my blood, and I couldn’t forsake it if I tried.”
A Western Romance: Rob Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 10) (Western Mystery Romance Series Book 10) Page 7