"You could be right about that, Sheriff," Carlyle said, going along with the sly tone.
"You idiots," Prine said.
He walked to Daly's desk, grabbed the sack, shoved his hand inside, and brought forth a handsome, expensive black western shirt with the kind of white piping they wear in Wild West shows. About as fancy as a feller could get in a burg like Claybank.
"You got matchin' silver pistols to go with this shirt?" Daly said.
"Very funny," Prine said. "Now, if you're finally satisfied, I'll take my shirt and ride on out to the Washburn place."
"Be sure and wear your shirt," Carlyle said. "I hear those widow women get awful lonely. And she sees you in that shirt, she's liable to come runnin' out to greet you bare naked."
Daly smirked. "She's got a nice set on her, nobody could argue with that."
Prine decided to have a little fun on his terms. He said, "I'm more worried what Cassie Neville thinks of me than the widow Washburn."
"Cassie Neville? You spendin' time with her?" Carlyle said. "Oh, bullshit."
"Afraid it's not," Prine said.
"You serious, Tom?"
"Invited me out to her place tonight. Some kind of violin recital. Some girl who studied music back east."
"Well, I'll be damned," Carlyle said. "He ain't woofin'."
"Cassie Neville?" Daly said. "No offense, Tom, but I thought she . . ."
"Well, she apparently changed her mind," Prine said. "At least for a night."
There was no doubting the pleasure in his voice. Not only had Cassie Neville actually invited him to her mansion, Prine had also had the extreme fun of seeing Daly and Carlyle stammer and stutter and try to make some sense of how—even if he was young, strong, and nice-looking—a deputy got himself an invite to such an event.
"Well, gentlemen, I guess I'd better get out to the Washburn place."
He turned when he got to the door, his sack under his arm, and gave them the biggest grin he could summon. "And I sure wouldn't want to hold my new friend Cassie up, either."
Both men gaped. Neither said a single word.
Chapter Five
The horseshoe-shaped drive in front of the plantation-style house allowed room for every expensive, elegant, and remarkable surrey and buggy in the area. Three Mexican servants in red coats, white shirts, and black trousers hastened about helping people with their vehicles, then leading them to the open front doors of the mansion.
Conversation and laughter poured from the doors. Many of the guests had arrived somewhat early and the liquor was flowing freely. Richard Neville was a drinker, even if his sister was not.
Some of the younger guests strolled the perfectly kept rolling lawns on the sides and back end of the house. They were dressed so well they looked, from a distance, like huge flowers in the gauzy half-moon dusk, lilies floating on a stream perhaps.
Prine's first reaction to all this—he was the only person to arrive on horseback—was to flee. He'd grown up poor enough to be intimidated by anybody who seemed connected. He knew that a lot of rich people were stupid, venal, and corrupt—probably just about the same percentage of poor people who were that way—but they had a social edge he couldn't deny. And in the face of them, he always stammered and made foolish statements. As soon as he left the party tonight, he'd think of all the dumb and inappropriate and shitkicker things he'd said. He could get drunk, of course, but that would ensure that his remarks would be even dumber.
He stood just inside the doors, in a vestibule large enough to hold twenty people. The servants didn't seem to know quite how to deal with him. True, he wore his nice new shirt, but all the other men wore suits and cravats.
Finally, Cassie swept up in a navy blue chiffon gown that hinted at cleavage and exposed a span of elegant, fragile shoulder.
"You certainly look handsome tonight."
He gulped, hoping that nobody nearby had heard her. He wasn't good at accepting compliments in public. "You sure look pretty yourself."
She leaned to his ear to whisper. "Don't worry about being shy. I'm the same way. But my brother needs me to play hostess, so I have to force myself to be outgoing." She touched his hand. Pleasure flooded him. He hadn't felt like this in a long, long time. "C'mon, I'll introduce you to Richard. I've told him all about you."
"I didn't think you knew that much about me."
"Oh, I'm a devil, Tom. I have spies everywhere." Her perfume was hypnotic. He followed her through the mansion.
The home managed to feel spacious despite the fact that each room he glimpsed was filled with art and artifacts of all kinds. He didn't know what periods the various furnishings came from, only that the furnishings had been organized to complement the art. One room was given over to French art. He recognized it because he'd happened to see an article about it. The furnishings were all French, too, including a large fireplace whose mantel was covered with a line of music boxes that two women were discussing. The tiny sounds were quaint and fetching in the large room. The paintings were all of girls in ballet poses. He could imagine Cassie in such attire and pose.
The flooring was parquet, the decorative molding and trim on the walls classically Roman. In the halls, huge urns of numerous colors gleamed in the dancing light of carefully placed sconces. Two of the large rooms he saw had verandas off them, crowded verandas. People were everywhere, perhaps a hundred in all.
The music room was large enough to seat everybody. A grand piano sat near open French doors that let in a slash of dramatic moonlight. A rather square-bodied young girl with thick eyeglasses and a moon face and a pink formal sat at the piano, not playing, simply staring, as if she were having a secret dialogue with it. Prine felt sorry for her. He would have preferred—as would most of the people here—that she were a slip of a girl whose ethereal face hinted at a charming and socially acceptable form of eroticism. He felt guilty for not being able to accept her as she was. What the hell, why couldn't a sort of mannish girl play a good piano?
He'd seen Richard Neville around town many times, so he recognized him right away—the handsome, blond man whose size and power made him the focus of any room he walked into. There were men like that. You could say it was their money, you could say it was their looks, you could say it was their cunning. But what you really meant was that there were men—and women—whose magnetism would have been just as strong without any of these things. They were the superior branch of the species, and there was no denying it.
Neville, like most superior people, was holding court. He talked, you listened. This particular portion of his godlike utterances had to do with a short-haul railroad he was thinking of investing in—and that he wanted them to invest in, too.
They waited at the edges of the court until Richard released his charges. "But you didn't come here to listen to me," he said with no hint of modesty in his voice—of course you came here to listen to me!—"you came here to have fun."
And then Neville came forward like a politician sighting a particularly scruffy poor person. "Hello there," he said, pushing forth a wealth of hand that was twice the size of Prine's. At least he didn't try to impress Prine with his strength. Strapping blond gods didn't need to impress people. People knew enough to be impressed without having a demonstration. "You're Prine. You work for Sheriff Daly. Darned good man. I got him elected the first time, and I'll keep right on getting him reelected. And you can tell him that for me. I think he's done a fine job."
He looked around to see if any of his courtesans were nodding in agreement, but, to his surprise, they seemed to have found other interests.
"And my sweet little sister has told me a lot of good things about you, too," he went on. "I'm not always too happy with her choice of friends. Her taste will improve as she grows up and learns to be responsible. But from everything I've heard, you're a start in the right direction, Prine. And I'm darned happy you could be here tonight. Now, if you'll excuse me . . ."
Prine wondered how old Neville had been when he adopted this act. The insolence in his
eyes had been expressed only once, in the dismissive, nasty way he'd referred to his sister. Otherwise the act had been without fault. Hail-fellow-well-met and all that businessman bullshit. But Prine knew better. What you had in Richard Neville was an animal who could go dangerous on you in a second. No wonder he'd tripled the value of his father's estate. No wonder he was being talked about as the next governor.
A man Prine didn't know, a man who was probably drunker than he should have been at a recital, bumped into Prine and nearly sloshed his drink all over Prine's sleeve.
"Whatever you do," the man said, overenunciating as drunks do, "don't ever borrow any money from him. He'll never let you hear the end of it. Especially when things're going bad. He just keeps right on you anyway. Like you could help it that things're going bad." The man waggled a finger in Prine's face. "Don't borrow money from him, you hear me?"
Prine smiled. "You've got my word on it."
The man's head rotated as if it were on ball bearings. "And don't you forget it."
The recital was an ordeal.
Before each endless number, the girl would pronounce the name of the composer in very bad halting French—at least Prine assumed it was bad French; for all he knew it might be bad Italian—and then proceed to play the piece. Even Prine could tell she was making a lot of mistakes. He felt sorry for her again. But he also felt sorry for himself. This wasn't his sort of an evening. A couple of beers, a couple of sentimental songs on the player piano in some latrine of a saloon—that was the sort of recital he was used to.
Apparently, he wasn't radiating any of his boredom. He sat next to Cassie. She kept squeezing his hand. And smiling. And breaking his heart. He was stricken with her, positively stricken.
There was an intermission. Everybody raving how wonderful, how wonderful to the pianist's parents and then obviously loading up on liquor so they could get through the second half of the recital.
Cassie excused herself for a few minutes. Prine walked around the mansion. He couldn't see how anybody could live here. It was like visiting some vast institution, like the museum or library in Denver.
He nodded to people, but he was quick to steer clear of conversations. He didn't want to toss and turn all night, thinking of the stupid things he'd said. Better to say nothing at all.
He recognized the voice long before he saw it. He'd taken a westward turn somewhere near the back of the house. A servant passed by a closed door, shaking his head at the loud voice. The servant glanced at Prine, frowned, and hurried away.
The voice belonged to Richard Neville.
"The champagne is flat. The beef is tough. And the crepes are all but inedible. Dammit, Cassie, can't I put you in charge of anything? My God, when are you going to grow up?"
Prine had partaken of the champagne, the beef, and the crepes and found them to be pretty damned good. Of course, he was a sixty-dollar-a-month deputy. He was not one of the great gods stalking the earth.
Neville settled down finally. "Next time, please do a better job. That's all I ask. That you apply yourself. Apply yourself, Cassie." He sounded like the teacher all the kids hated. There was a prissy, prim side to his superiority.
"I did everything I could, Richard. I honestly did. Everything came from Denver. And everybody else seems to like it. They've been complimenting me on it all night."
He laughed harshly. "God, you're so naive sometimes, Cassie. What else would they say? That it's tripe? That they're insulted that a family of our standing would offer things like this? Of course not. Polite people don't hurt other people's feelings."
"You don't seem to mind hurting mine, Richard." She'd found a little bit of anger and dignity. Prine hoped she'd build on it.
"I'm doing this for your sake, Cassie. You never seem to take that into account. I'm doing this for your sake. If I didn't love you, I wouldn't spend so much time trying to turn you into a mature and responsible young woman. And while we're at it—"
"Don't say a word against Tom Prine," she snapped.
"I'm sure he's a nice young man," he said. "But my Lord, Cassie, a deputy? What kind of a job is that? You need someone with a future, someone like—"
"Like you, Richard?"
Her remark apparently hurt him. "Am I that bad, Cassie? I've raised you, don't forget. Dad didn't. Dad was always too busy. So I took the time and trouble to make sure that you were growing up the right way. And look at how you treat me now."
Another pose, guise. The deeply hurt saint. All I've done for you; all I've sacrificed for you.
And she went for it.
A rustle of evening gown; Cassie sighing. "I'm sorry, Richard. I never should've said that. And I really will do better next time. I promise."
Tell him he's a pompous shit, Prine thought. Don't take the blame. Tell him where to put it.
"Next time I'll let you know every store I'm buying from before I place the orders. Won't that be better, Richard?"
"That'll be much better, Cassie."
Easy to picture her, so slight, in her brother's arms. Playing guilty child to his stern pastor. "You'll grow up yet," he said, "and be a mature woman who finds herself a worthy husband. You wait and see."
Prine hurried back to the music room.
When the recital was over and the gushing begun, Cassie took Prine's arm and guided him out to one of the verandas.
The night was warm for autumn. The moon had that fierce ancient aspect that the Aztecs built so much of their religion on. Dark gods hidden in the pocked fierce silver face.
Her earlier cheerfulness was gone. Obviously, Richard berating her had taken its toll. She was still unhappy.
She leaned against the hip-high stone wall and said, "You know something stupid about me?"
"Hard to believe there's anything stupid about you."
He leaned against the wall next to her. She touched his arm again.
"I still read children's books."
"What wrong's with that?"
"Richard thinks I'm immature. Silly, actually. He thinks I'm silly. And that just proves it, I suppose."
"Richard isn't always right."
She laughed, but there was nothing gay about it. "He gives that impression, doesn't he? He's always been like that. My father was like that. But Richard is twice as bad. Three times. But you know something, if I ever had nerve enough to tell him that, he'd deny it. I don't think he's aware of it."
"Maybe," Prine said.
She leaned forward slightly so she could see his face. "You didn't like him, did you?"
"I was taking a tour of the house. I heard him arguing with you. Nobody should talk to you that way."
She covered her face with her hands, the way a small, embarrassed girl would. Then she surprised him by laughing. This time the sound was merry. Her hands came down.
"It must've sounded terrible."
"The worst part was that you didn't fight back. You started to. But then you stopped."
"He scares me, Tom. I could never stand up to him."
"Everything was fine tonight. I heard people say that over and over. And you weren't around, so they weren't just flattering you. Everything was fine for everybody but your brother."
She leaned back again. They were silent for a time. The sounds of the party floated out the veranda door. A lot of social gush from the women; a lot of political guff from the men. The women wondered who'd have the best Christmas party; the men wondered if now would be a good time for Richard Neville to announce for governor.
Cassie said, "I suppose it's because he had to be the man of the house. Richard, I mean. Father was gone a lot. Mom depended on him, and so did I. I suppose that gave him a certain arrogance. Here was this very wealthy young man—not much more than a boy, really—and he spoke with the authority of my father's estate."
"Doesn't matter," Prine said. "He still doesn't have any right to treat you that way."
One of the servants came to the edge of the veranda and asked if Cassie could come to the kitchen for a moment.
<
br /> "I really need to do this, Tom. I'll be back as soon as I can."
"It's all right, I need to go anyway. I need to get up early tomorrow."
She kissed him. It was a quick, chaste kiss, but a kiss nonetheless. It made him feel ridiculously important.
"I hope I see you again, Tom."
He smiled, still under the spell of her kiss. "Oh, I imagine that could be arranged."
"I was afraid you might have been put off by tonight and—"
He took her hand. He wasn't good at moments like these. His tongue became heavy as a boat oar and his heart threatened to explode on him. Sex was a whole lot easier than romance.
"I had a good time."
"You liked the music?"
"I really enjoyed it."
"Isn't she wonderful?"
"She sure is."
"You're lying, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am."
She gave him a grin that stayed with him all the rest of the night. Then she gave him a fake girly punch in the stomach. He was surprised and pleased to find her that playful.
"But," he said, "I'd sit through another recital just like that one if I got to sit next to you."
She was wise enough to end on that note, a perfect romantic line.
Another kiss. Not so quick, not so chaste, and then she was gone.
On the ride back to town, all he could think of was the kidnapping. Maybe he should tell her, warn her. Much as he wanted to collect the reward and be the hero, what if something went wrong? Things often went wrong with kidnappings. But what if—? But no, he wouldn't let that happen. He'd rescue her right away. Before anything could go wrong. He was sure of it.
Chapter Six
When the mail came in the morning, Sheriff Daly looked through it, as usual, and then dropped an envelope on Prine's desk.
"You have room in that busy social schedule to do a little job for me this morning?"
Daly and Carlyle had been joshing Prine all morning.
"I suppose," Prine said. "Just as long as I don't have to get my hands dirty."
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