by Donis Casey
“Collins, we presume….”
“We presume. I’m hoping he found the item and delivered it to his boss. And now the boss is happy and intends to keep his counsel and not bother Olivia anymore.”
“That’s a happy thought, but if it’s so, then why hasn’t Collins withdrawn his claim on Kenneth’s estate? If Collins is indeed our culprit.”
Martha shrugged. “Well, he wouldn’t want to tip his hand. But like you said, it’s just a happy thought.”
Grace came in from the kitchen, clutching a bamboo serving tray in her two hands and stepping carefully to avoid spilling napkins and cutlery across the floor. Ike preceded her at a saunter, and Lu followed, carrying a large platter piled with thick pork roast sandwiches. Grace set the tray on the tea table next to the sandwiches and straightened with a grin, extending her arms with a flourish, rather like a magician who had just pulled off a particularly difficult trick.
“Good job, cookie,” Martha said. “Pull up that footstool and sit down at the table, here, and let’s eat some of these good-looking sandwiches.”
Grace was more than ready to eat and snatched a sandwich off the platter, but she had her own ideas about seating arrangements and hoisted herself into McCoy’s lap. He settled the child on his knee with a delighted grin at Martha. She grimaced back. Another vote in his favor. Ike jumped up onto the settee beside them, marginally more interested in the roast pork than in being companionable.
“I bring pitcher of milk and some glasses,” Lu told them.
“Lu, is my mother still upstairs with my uncle?” Martha asked her. “I’d like to talk to her.”
“No, Miss. Your uncle asleep now. Your ma, she left.”
“Left? When?”
“Maybe a half hour ago.”
“Did she go to Olivia’s?” Martha looked at McCoy. “We must have just missed her.”
“No. She tells me that if anyone asks, she’s gone to visit Mr. Collins at his house.”
Martha’s forehead wrinkled and she stared at the housekeeper silently, unable to process this information. “Collins? Are you sure she said Collins?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Did she say why she…” McCoy began, but Martha jerked herself to her feet and he swallowed his words mid-sentence.
“Streeter!” she exclaimed.
Grace delicately picked a piece of fallen roast pork off of McCoy’s trouser leg and fed it to Ike before she looked up. But McCoy’s eyes widened at the urgency in Martha’s voice.
“Take me uptown—right now!”
His lips parted, perhaps to speak, but Martha didn’t give him a chance.
“Your motorcycle! Take me to the Collins mansion!”
He asked no questions. He stood and handed Grace to Lu and went into the parlor with Martha two steps ahead of him. He snatched his leather helmet and goggles off the hat rack with one hand and grabbed Martha’s arm with the other, and hustled her out the front door.
Ike remained with the sandwiches, but Lu walked to the screen with Grace in her arms and watched the young couple hurry down the front sidewalk toward McCoy’s motorcycle.
“Where’s Martha going?” Grace had not yet decided whether or not to be upset by Martha’s sudden departure, and eyed the housekeeper for a clue.
“Time for your mama to come home.” Lu patted the child’s leg. “Your sister give her a ride.”
***
Martha flung herself into McCoy’s sidecar without worrying about propriety, giving him a glimpse of her white-stockinged calves. He caught his breath and tried to concentrate on adjusting the helmet on her head and tightening the goggles so they wouldn’t slip down her nose.
She batted his hand away. “Stop fussing, Streeter. Let’s go, let’s go. I need to find Mama right quick.”
He shook the numbness out of his fingers, flung a leg over the cycle and stood on the starter, and they roared off down Washington.
He had no idea what was happening. He had had no idea of what was happening from the moment he got off the train at the Enid railroad station, retrieved his cycle from the baggage car, and went calling at the Yeager house. He was getting rather used to it. McCoy was a man who had always been in charge of his life. There was something surprisingly exhilarating about having no control whatsoever.
He glanced at his passenger. Her hair had come completely undone and was streaming out behind her from under the helmet. He squeezed the accelerator.
***
It was a long walk from Ruth Ann’s to the Collins house off of Van Buren. The sky was covered with fluffy white clouds that floated serenely across the blue. The weather was fairly cool, but Alafair was hot from her brisk walk as she mounted the steps onto the spacious porch of the grand, golden-brick, Spanish-style mansion. She knocked, and was fanning herself with her handkerchief and admiring the wrought iron detail around the windows, when the big, oak-plank front door swung open. She found herself eye to eye with an elegant, liveried Negro butler.
“May I help you?” he said.
“I’d like to speak with Mr. Collins, please.”
“Mr. Collins is not at home.”
Alafair changed tack at once. “Is Missus Collins to home, then?”
The butler examined her critically, rather like he might an unusual bug he had just found on the porch. She wasn’t worried about passing muster. She knew she looked quite presentable in her navy blue skirt and white blouse, and what was now her second-best hat with the cherries on the band.
Apparently the butler thought so, too. “I’m sorry, Madam. Mrs. Collins is not at home at present, either. She has gone to the railroad station to meet Mr. Ellery Collins on his return from Baltimore this afternoon. I expect her back before supper, however. If you’d like to leave a calling card, I’ll see that Mrs. Collins receives it.”
Alafair felt an ironic smile tug at her lips. A calling card, indeed. “Thank you, but it was Mr. Collins I actually came to see. No need to bother the lady.”
“I expect you will find Mr. Collins at the Agriculture Exhibit in the basement of the Collins Building, Madam. Today is the last day of the exhibit, of which he is the sponsor.”
Alafair sighed and thanked the man. She was girding herself for another lengthy walk when she caught sight of a streetcar coming toward her down Van Buren, heading in the direction she wanted to go. She sprinted to the curb and flagged him down.
***
Alafair was long gone by the time McCoy and Martha pulled up to the curb in front of the Collins manse. Martha leaped out of the sidecar and dashed up the sidewalk and porch steps, and was urgently knocking on the door by the time McCoy trotted up behind her.
“Is my mother here?” she demanded of the man who answered.
The butler didn’t say anything at once. He was too startled by the sight of the young woman in goggles and a leather helmet standing before him, looking frantic and windblown. He glanced at the tall man behind her, who gazed back at him.
“Your mother, Miss?”
“Mrs. Tucker. About yea big, dark hair. I was told she was coming here to talk to Mr. Collins. Is she here?”
After a moment’s thought, the butler nodded. “She was here, Miss, maybe half an hour ago, but Mr. Collins is not at home and she didn’t tarry.”
“Where did she go?”
The butler struggled not to let his expression register disapproval at this unladylike insistence. “I believe she intended to go to the Collins Building in order to speak to Mr. Collins at his place of work.”
“Thank you,” Martha called back over her shoulder, already halfway down the steps.
McCoy added his own thanks and followed Martha back to the motorcycle. He threw his leg over the saddle and glanced at his passenger. “To the Collins Building, I presume.”
“Yes, Streeter, and let’s hurry, please.”
“Martha, my darling, I expect it’s time you told me what this is all about.”
“I will when I have time. Can we go now?”
/> But he just stared at her, determined to understand what she was thinking, for once.
She puffed impatiently. “She’s always doing this. She’s going to confront Collins about something or other, about some idea she’s come up with about how he’s involved in Kenneth’s death. She’s like to get herself killed, Streeter.”
“What do you think he’s going to do, sugar? Pull out a gun and plug her right in his office? He seems more like the type who would send someone to smother her in her sleep.”
His attempt at making light of the situation didn’t work. “Streeter! Don’t even joke like that. Her snooping around has got her hurt before, and I aim to keep her from it this time.”
Her distress was very real, and McCoy was instantly sorry he had teased her. He stepped on the starter without another word.
***
Buck Collins was taking a turn around the special Founders’ Jubilee display of farm products in the enormous exhibition hall in the basement of the Collins Building. With his man Hanlon close at his elbow, he was spending the afternoon glad-handing the dignitaries and gracing the ordinary citizens with his attention one last time, before the display was dismantled. The splendid exhibit consisted of samples of just about every kind of agricultural product grown in the entire northwestern part of the great state of Oklahoma. The hall was filled with varieties of corn, wheat, head feed, potatoes, and garden vegetables, proudly displayed by every local man, woman, boy, or girl who had put a seed in the ground over the previous season. One end of the hall was taken up with schoolchildren’s artwork—drawings, paintings, maps, and essays by the hundreds, on the walls and on easels. The children’s art was very popular, and that end of the hall was crowded with proud parents and grandparents, exclaiming over their darlings’ work before it was returned to them to be displayed at home in a place of honor. Many people had congratulated Collins for hosting the exhibit. He had spent much of the afternoon here, enjoying the warmth of the crowd and taking advantage of the opportunity to think about something other than the events of the past few days.
A middle-sized woman in a white blouse and blue skirt put out her hand and he shook it, but her grasp tightened when he attempted to withdraw.
“Mr. Collins,” she said.
He looked up into her face. “It’s Mrs. Tucker, isn’t it?”
She smiled. “You have a good memory, Mr. Collins.”
“What do you want?” His tone was more curious than abrupt. “I’m truly sorry for your niece’s troubles, and I wish her nothing but well, but I don’t intend to discuss my business affairs with you, Madam. That’s a thing should be left to the lawyers. Besides, this is not the place…”
Alafair squeezed his hand, then released it. “I’m not here to talk business, Mr. Collins. I wouldn’t understand it if we did. I want to ask you what this bad blood is between you and Lester.”
When she mentioned Lester’s name, any human warmth that may have been in his eyes drained away, and she found herself staring at gold-flecked blue eyes as hard as ball bearings. She took an unconscious step backward, startled.
“Ask him,” Collins said, brittle as ice.
Alafair had felt no fear of Collins, the Enid founding father who had given a speech at the Jubilee opening ceremonies. She couldn’t say that about the Collins who stood before her now. She swallowed. “I did, sir. But I’d like to hear your side of the story.”
He gazed at her for a silent moment, assessing. He looked over his shoulder at the man standing behind him. “Hanlon, drive the lady home.”
Alafair didn’t even consider arguing as Hanlon stepped forward and offered her his arm.
***
Collins shook off his black mood and moved on to greet a knot of people who were admiring a large pumpkin at a table close to the door.
He didn’t spare any indignation for the woman who had interrupted him. In fact, he was already forgetting what she looked like. But she had thoroughly spoiled his good mood by uttering that hated name.
Lester Yeager.
Damn his eyes.
He had just about completed his circuit of the hall when he became aware of a commotion near the main entryway. He turned back toward the women he had been talking to and excused himself before moving toward the noise, feeling irritated. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would be making a fuss about a bunch of corn and potatoes. Probably some reveler who had had one too many nips with the carnies as they dismantled their tents. Collins was annoyed that the security guard at the door hadn’t discretely taken care of the unruly wretch before anyone could become aware of him.
A woman screamed, and Collins elbowed his way through the crowd, alarmed now, just in time to see a strange gargoyle of a figure smash the security guard in the jaw and knock him cold. A couple of men lunged toward the fray, but the gargoyle turned on them with an inhuman noise rather like a hiss, and leveled a .44. The crowd backed off and melted away to relative safety, scurrying out the doors and squatting behind tables, just as Collins stepped forward.
“What…” he began. He hesitated when he recognized who was pointing a gun at his head. “Nickolls! What in the name of Jesus and all the saints happened to you?”
Pee Wee wasn’t that easy to recognize. He looked like something that Satan himself had dragged out of the bowels of hell and thrown into a pig wallow. He had probably been wearing a shirt at one time, since he still had cuffs around his wrists, but the rest of it was gone. His corduroy trousers were shredded, one foot booted and the other bare. Where it wasn’t lacerated, his skin was black with soot, or dirt, or burns, or something else that didn’t bear thinking about. His hair stood straight up in spikes, wild as the wildest Celt to ever run screaming at the Roman legions. His good left eye was rimmed around with white and bulging with an unnamable animal emotion. The right eye-patch was gone, exposing the scarred and puckered eyelid around a blind eye, which added to the horror of the bare-fanged snarl that distorted his face.
“Zip is dead.” Considering that he looked inhuman, Pee Wee sounded remarkably calm and civilized.
Collins’ eyes narrowed. He had no idea who Zip was, but now was not the time to ask. What an ironically bad time to send Hanlon on an errand. He caught sight of one of his employees peeking out from behind a painting on an easel and jerked his head toward the exit. The man slipped out a side door, and Collins turned back to Pee Wee.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.
“I’ll bet you are. They ain’t even enough left of him to send home to his ma for a funeral.”
“What happened?”
“Deo Juarez is blowed to hell, too.”
“Now, just calm down, Nickolls. I don’t know what you think happened, but it won’t help anything to go off half-cocked, here. Whatever you’re aiming to do with that pistol…”
“I aim to shoot you with it, you son of a bitch.”
And then Pee Wee shot him. Collins went down with a shriek, clutching his shredded left shin.
“I know he was just a frijole, but Deo was a damn good worker.” Pee Wee fired again, hitting Collins in the right thigh.
The second shot galvanized the few men who were watching this drama from their hiding spots behind the pillars and furniture. There weren’t that many people in Enid who cared whether or not Buck Collins got kneecapped by his latest enemy, but just in case things were about to get out of hand, several men charged out of their hiding places and tackled Pee Wee before he could shoot off anymore of Collins’ body parts.
***
Hanlon settled Alafair into the backseat of Collins’ black brougham, walked to the front of the auto and cranked the engine, then leaped into the driver’s seat when it turned over. He put the auto into gear and eased out of the parking area at the rear of the Collins Building, steering around a bridled but unsaddled horse which was wandering aimlessly across the street. He was inwardly cursing idiots who didn’t know how to hitch their mounts when Alafair spoke to him.
“How long have you w
orked for Mr. Collins, Mr. Hanlon?”
Hanlon eyed her in his side mirror before he spoke. “Three years.”
He had pronounced it “t’ree years.”
“Are you from Ireland?” Alafair asked.
“I am.”
“Where in Ireland?”
“County Kerry.”
“My father-in-law is from Ireland. County Tyrone. Is that anywhere near where you’re from?”
“No, ma’am. Kerry is a long way from Tyrone.”
“Is Mr. Collins from Kerry?”
“No, Mr. Collins is from Antrim. Also a long way from Kerry,” he added, hoping to forestall further grilling.
It was a vain hope. “So you met Mr. Collins here in America.”
Hanlon’s tone conveyed his long-suffering patience with her. “Aye.”
Alafair had about decided that Hanlon was the least talkative Irishman ever born. “In Kansas?” she asked.
No reply. She stared at the back of his head. Well, she didn’t expect he was proud of the fact that Collins had found him in Leavenworth. She persevered.
“Do you like working for Mr. Collins?”
He said nothing, but the bitter snort that he emitted told her what she wanted to know. She decided to stop annoying the man and leaned back into the leather seat.
Hanlon was checking traffic to his left before pulling onto Randolph when an eruption of running people spewed out into the street from the entrance of the Collins Building and scattered in every direction. Startled, Alafair reached forward and grabbed Hanlon’s shoulder.
“What’s all this commotion, Mr. Hanlon? Do you reckon it’s a fire?”
Crowds were pouring out of the building in a panic, dragging sobbing children by the hands and pushing spouses before them. Hanlon got out of the auto and seized a fleeing passerby before he could streak away.
“What’s happened, man?”
The man looked up at Hanlon, his eyes popping, and tried to shake free. “Let go, I’ve got to get to the police! Some hellhound just shot Buck Collins!”
Alafair found herself out of the car and on the sidewalk beside Hanlon without entirely remembering how she got there.