I raised my own pistol. “Do not ...,” I began. At that very moment Mrs. Branston—Esther’s—feet slipped on the black and white marble tiles and swooshed out from under her.
Arms windmilling, she lurched straight toward me.
If she expected me to catch her, she had another think coming. I skipped aside. She scooted past, right into Neva. Down they both went. Esther, to my gratification, at the bottom of the pile.
Even though I avoided the collision, the commotion diverted my attention from Branston for a brief moment. His attention, I regret to say, was not diverted at all. Lightning fast, he lunged for the derringer, grabbed it up, and leveled it on me.
Neva cried, “China, look out!”
Branston and I pulled our triggers at pretty much the same instant. Our pistol’s reports, louder for happening together, reverberated off the hard surfaces of the foyer, the noise hurting my already-suffering ear. Esther’s scream didn’t help.
A bloom of red spread high up on the front of his shirt. He staggered, sagging against the wood paneled wall.
At the same time, a searing pain scorched my thigh. Shocked, I realized I’d also been shot.
Branston remained standing, gripping one hand with the other and cursing as blood dripped from his fingertips.
Instead of a direct single hit, it appeared my bullet slid off the derringer’s metal frame, giving me a “two for the price of one” shot. How lucky can you get? But now the pair of us were sort of at a stalemate. He wounded with his derringer ruined. Me wounded, with only one shot remaining.
But he didn’t have to know that.
Somehow, I managed to remain on my feet and upright. I held the pistol, barely wiggling, aimed at his belly.
“We’re all making our way down to the road where Warren Poole, along with my uncle and Gratton Doyle are waiting.” My words wiped away the smirk that touched Branston’s mouth at this news as I added, “Mr. Poole is helping keep watch over some prisoners. Your men, sir. Murphy and Les. Both of whom are more than willing to tell us everything we want to know.”
Esther moaned. Not painfully, even though she was still sprawled on the tile floor with Neva sitting atop her, but mournfully. “Lloyd, how could you let this happen? You told me everything was going smoothly. You said we’d—”
“Be silent, Esther,” he gritted.
Tears ran from the corners of Esther’s eyes. “You’ll be ruined. We’ll be ruined. What will our friends think?” Her voice grew louder. “What will become of me?”
“Hush.” His command didn’t strike me as particularly sympathetic. “If you hadn’t ...” He stopped, realizing he was on the verge of giving too much away.
I glanced at her. “No, no, speak right up, Mrs. Branston. I’d like to hear what you have to say. But I’ll give you fair warning. It sounds an awful lot like you’re in on the plot.”
She tried, unsuccessfully, to push Neva off. Neva, tough and wiry, though small in stature, stuck to her like a cocklebur.
“What plot?” Esther huffed little gasps in and out between pursed lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You barged in here and shot my husband and now you’re making wild accusations. You’ve abused—”
Her voice failed. Perhaps her corset strings were pulled too tight. Or Neva too heavy.
“That man—your husband—is a bad man and he’s shot China,” Neva burst out, bouncing a little and forcing a grunt from Mrs. Branston. “He held us prisoner in that awful little shed. And he killed my brother.” This last rose on a wail. I was afraid poor little Neva had taken about as much as she could bear over this last while. The drama needed to end.
What I’d said about making our way down to the road? I’m afraid that may have been wishful thinking. A kind of dark weakness spread over me, enveloping me in a slowly descending fog. I barely managed to stay standing at all, let alone walk all the way to where the men were waiting.
I’d caught a criminal, but now I didn’t know what to do with him.
The darkness receded—momentarily—when Gratton Doyle’s voice, rough with anger, spoke from the open doorway. “What the hell is going on in here?”
We all jumped.
“Dammit, China,” he went on, apparently blind to Branston’s condition as well as to Neva and Esther still wrestling about on the floor. He strode toward me. “You’ve been shot.”
I nodded. This wasn’t exactly news to me.
30
My gunshot wound, though it bled copiously at the time, didn’t amount to much. A minor graze, or so Monk informed me. But then he wasn’t the one with a two-inch-long furrow in his flesh.
At any rate, I only limped a little the next day. Not at all, if I made a conscious effort to ignore the painful twinges every step brought about. It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t have missed the Spokane Derby and seeing Mercury run for all the tea in ... well ... China. Not even if blood were still running down my leg.
Hyperbole? Maybe, but no more than the honest truth.
Porter had agreed to act as my escort since Gratton and Monk were still on the job providing security for loyal fairgoers. Instead of hoofing it to the streetcar under a gray sky threatening rain, Porter had hired a cab and picked me up right outside the office. He even hoisted me onto the seat.
Alice, his intended, was going to be a very spoiled lady when and if they ever tied the knot.
“I could get used to this. Thank you, Porter.” I grinned at him.
He blushed. “Yeah, well, tell it to your boyfriend,” he replied, whereupon I felt heat rising in my own cheeks.
“He’s still angry with me.” Without pretending to misunderstand, I toyed with the clasp on my handbag. “He won’t talk to me. Not since the tongue-lashing he gave me yesterday. And when I kind of fainted in his arms, he thought I was putting on an act to make him stop.”
A bushy eyebrow arched. “Were you?”
“No! Well, maybe a little. But I was hungry. It had been hours and hours since I’d had anything to eat. Neva, either, and she said ...”
Porter’s laugh stopped my excuses.
“And I was scared. And bleeding. I had been shot, after all.” I found myself indignant all over again.
“Should’ve thought of that before you marched into Branston’s house like you headed up a whole posse. You and Neva. Worst couple of headstrong numskull females I ever heard of. It’s a wonder the pair of you weren’t murdered right then and there.”
Evidently Porter and Grat had gotten together to manufacture their speeches. I’d heard this one before.
I sat back in a huff. “How should I know Grat had sent you for the chief of police and he intended to delay the confrontation with Branston until the authorities got there? Or that he had Bill Jackson keeping an eye on Branston. He could’ve said something!”
To my surprise, Porter nodded. “Yeah, he could’ve. Thinking back, he should’ve. He ought to know you by now.”
Before I had time to ask just what he meant by that remark, we arrived at the fairgrounds where the entire Kennett family awaited my arrival at the front entrance. A perfect copy of his father, Sawyer Jr. shifted impatiently from foot to foot, while Liddy played peekaboo with a wandering clown. Such a beautiful child is hard to resist.
Gincy wore a lovely dark red woolen walking suit. Atop her head sat a magnificent specimen of the milliner’s art, evidence she’d been visiting Spokane’s finest stores and spending some of the money her husband had won from Lloyd Branston. While Porter paid off the cab and departed on his own business, the Kennetts took me under their collective wing.
As we paid our entrance fees, I noticed the autumn harvest decorations at the gate were getting a little shabby. On this last day of the fair, heavy-headed sunflowers sagged on their stems and massive pumpkins shriveled after days in the sun. A stack of apples were quickly losing their bloom and beginning to smell of rot.
A different scent, that of fried food, still wafted enticingly over the grounds. Along with roasted pe
anuts. And coffee. And bruised grass.
The merry-go-round calliope trilled just as loudly as ever, children laughed just as gleefully—and a whole parade of noisy horse race aficionados made their way toward the track. We joined the migration, Gincy assuring her children the merry-go-round would still be there after the race.
I checked the time on my watch, recovered from Foghorn’s pocket yesterday and returned to me. After washing and polishing, it had seemed clean enough to pin on my shirtwaist, although I still shuddered at the thought of him ... well, I wouldn’t let those memories spoil the day.
Thirty minutes to post time. My own nerves hammered. I could only imagine how tense Neva must be.
Sawyer lent his arm in support as the wave of humanity swept us forward.
“Will Porter be able to find us?” Gincy, clutching Sawyer’s arm on his other side, gripped Liddy’s little hand in a death grip so as not to lose her. “Junior,” she shrilled. “Stay close.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the boy said, but truthfully, I doubted it would take long for him to disappear into the crowd.
“Porter said he was going to help Neva and Lorenzo saddle Mercury,” I said. “Neva is rather at a loss now that her mother and grandfather are in jail awaiting their arraignment. She needed an adult to oversee the entry and Porter, bless his kind heart, volunteered.”
Sawyer muttered something that sounded a lot like “Man’s a brave fool,” but I could’ve been mistaken.
“But where will she go?” Gincy, bless her motherly heart, sounded worried. “She’s only fourteen.”
I’d been worried too, until I learned Lorenzo and his grannie planned on taking her in. Probably, judging by the way the two kids looked at each other, on a permanent basis.
I caught sight of Uncle Monk over by the bookie area, and waved, but I couldn’t spot Gratton anywhere. Lost in the sea of people, I expect.
“Keep tight hold of your purse,” I raised my voice over the background noise to say to Gincy, “and Sawyer, you’d best have a care for your wallet.”
“Money belt.” He patted his waistline and grinned. “And just a little cash on hand.”
An excellent precaution, for whom did I chance to see but our old friend Jimsy Woodsmith? He saw me, too, and quickly veered off in another direction. Evidently, he’d made bail, although why a judge would turn him loose with the fair still underway was beyond my understanding.
Plying elbows and hips, I found myself a place at the rail near the finish line. Gincy moved in close beside me. Despite her protests, we sandwiched little Liddy between us. To quiet her, Sawyer promised to put her on his shoulders when the race started.
“You’ll have the best seat in the house,” he promised.
“What house?” Liddy wanted to know, scowling.
Time ticked away. Activity over by the saddling enclosure drew my attention. I picked words out of the crowd around me.
“Look, ain’t that Mercury? The bay with the braided mane?”
“Think so,” another voice replied. “I heard he was crippled when that boy got killed.”
“Don’t look crippled to me.”
He didn’t appear crippled to me, either, from what I could see over myriad tall forms moving between me and the horse. He danced about, hooves lifting high and dainty. His ears were pricked, his coat gleamed with good health and a thorough brushing.
I caught sight of Porter, standing at Mercury’s head with a good grip on the horse’s headstall. Lorenzo, hard to miss, wore a bright green shirt with a number eight tacked to the back. And Neva, her hair plaited into a thick braid to match the horse’s mane and just as black. I laughed to myself. Like the horse, she was almost dancing. Avoiding Mercury’s hooves here, whispering in his pricked ears there, patting his shoulder. Gripping Lorenzo’s hand.
Truthfully? She looked scared—or maybe just apprehensive—or excited. Hard to tell from this distance, but probably a combination of all three. I doubt she could stop thinking about the last time the horse ran and her brother was killed. God willing, this race would be a triumph.
A stentorian bellow from an important-looking stout man caused a flurry of action. I have no idea what he actually said, but it caused riders to mount their horses. Lorenzo for one, bouncing onto the tiny saddle on Mercury’s back as if he had springs beneath his feet.
Or no. Only Porter, with an almost-too-helpful heave-ho.
Then the horses entered the track, and the crowd roared.
Bookies called for last-chance bets.
Gincy smiled at me and said, “Isn’t this exciting? If your girl doesn’t win, I hope number five does. He belongs to my cousin Jack. He’s running a reservation-bred horse.”
“Cousin Jack,” Liddy screamed. I guessed she was rooting for her relative. “Rider, Rider.” To her joy, the horse’s jockey waved to her.
The rest of the horses were passing us now, some already beginning to sweat as they sensed the tension all around them. Their riders, the crowd, their own racing experience.
Cousin Jack’s horse was dark brown, tall and rangy, his finish not so fine as Mercury’s. Nevertheless, if I’d actually wagered money on the race, I would’ve hedged my bet on Mercury with a few dollars on him. His rider wore white, a stark contrast to his brown skin.
I didn’t pay much attention to any of the other runners. Only to Mercury, stepping lightly through the soft dirt of the track. The horse mouthed his bit, ready to run, Lorenzo barely able to restrain him.
The ten-horse field lined up at the starting ribbon.
For a couple brief seconds there was total quiet.
Then a collective gasp as the ribbon dropped.
Ten horses leapt away from the post.
The crowd roared, me along with the rest. Liddy shrieked with glee, her mother almost a match. The field flashed by so fast I didn’t have time to see who was in the lead. I caught a glimpse of green. A dash of white. Red. Pink. Two shades of blue. Even black, although distance may have eroded my vision by then since they were all well past me and I saw them through a cloud of dust.
Someone moved close behind me then, and forgetful of my wound, I spun. The leg might’ve given out except it was Grat, there to catch me.
Again.
“Shouldn’t you be patrolling the crowd?” I asked, basking for a moment in his arms. I could tell by his crooked grin and the look in his storm-gray eyes he was over his mad.
He shrugged. “You think I’d miss the derby? Not a chance.”
“I saw Jimsy Woodsmith,” I warned him.
“Don’t care.” He spoke over my head, intent on the race, so I turned back to watch as well.
A matter of seconds took the horses to the four-furlongs pole, which marked the spot where a horse had been deliberately rammed into Mercury, his rider slashing Robbie across the throat with his whip. My breath caught and held. I could only imagine what Neva was going through at that moment. I only hoped Porter had her in hand.
I prayed for Mercury to win. For her and for Robbie.
Safely past the halfway point, the horses were already on the backstretch. Dust roiled. Flashes of color came through now and then. The rider wearing the green shirt seemed to be near the front. So did the white. The rest were a blur of color in motion.
“Jack, Jack,” Liddy was still calling from her perch on Sawyer’s left arm. “Rider.”
Gincy just laughed.
Behind me, his hands on my shoulders, Grat, not so imperturbable as he’d like everyone to believe, bounced on his toes.
The horses flew around the last turn, onto the homestretch. There was Mercury. Then Jack and Rider, and one whose jockey wore red. Close behind him one of the blues gained ground with long strides. I didn’t bother with the rest. These were all who had a chance.
Hooves thundered. The crowd cheered. I could hear the horses grunting with effort.
They swept past. Which horse’s head passed the finish line first? I didn’t know, but then a man with a megaphone, the official announ
cer, I guess, bellowed, “Mercury wins.”
The crowd, in a single voice, roared.
Those closest to the finish line went wild, starting a chant. “Mercury, Mercury,” those few yelled and a few thousand more picked it up.
Owners went out to catch their horses, winners and losers.
A beaming Neva, with Porter as escort, and Lorenzo still aboard Mercury, went out to accept a silver loving cup trophy and what I’d heard was a satisfyingly large purse.
“Gonna pat yourself on the back?” Grat spoke into my ear as we watched the celebration, causing shivers to run down my spine.
“What?”
“Mercury’s big win is all due to you, you know. The horse would probably be ruined, and the girl silenced—if not as dead as her brother—if it hadn’t been for you.”
Eyes wide, I pulled back and stared at him. Accolades for a job well done? Or Grat’s brand of an apology?
“Not to mention Branston getting away with a great deal of other people’s money.” He gave my shoulders a little shake. “You stuck with the job, regardless what Monk and I thought. And you were right on the button.”
Praise. I figured I must be dreaming. Or else died and gone to heaven.
“Good for me,” I said, trying to make light of it.
He laughed. “Yep. Good for you.”
“Does this mean I get a raise?” I arched an eyebrow. “Or my name on the door as partner? Or ... or ...”
Grat’s smile barely faded. “Means something, I guess,” he said slowly. His storm-colored gaze caught and wrangled with my own.
Mercury walked past just then, blowing snot and with steam rising off his sweating chest. Neva walked beside him, one hand on the bridle’s cheek strap. She seemed lit from within, looking up at Lorenzo and talking almost as fast as her horse could run.
A fine ending to the day. To the week. To the case.
The corner of Grat’s mouth quirked up. The situation got even better when he draped his arm around my shoulders and finished what he’d started to say. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see what this something turns into.”
Four Furlongs Page 24
