A Western Romance: Rob Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 10) (Western Mystery Romance Series Book 10)

by Morris Fenris

  “Well, that sounds about right. But don’t jump t’ conclusions, kid. Mighta just been a local miscreant, bent on murder and mayhem and tryin’ t’ rob you blind. So. I sent Walter outa town for a coupla days.”

  “Business?”

  “Nope. Told him he ain’t had any time off in months, commerce is a little slow right now, and he’d oughta take Marcella off on a little getaway.”

  Rob was leaning back in his castered chair, one elbow on its arm to support his chin. “That’s generous.”

  “Ahuh. Good t’ be generous once in a while.” Quint chuckled. “You get yourself hitched, boy, and you can have time for a little getaway like that, your own self.”

  A snort of disdain and a shake of the head. “Every one of the Yancey sons pledged not to marry. Yet they did—all but you, of course. Well, that’s my pledge, too. And I’m sticking to it. Too many other things to do in life than tie myself down to some female.”

  “Oh, the same old story.” Quint rose, stretched his arms and rolled the kinks out of his back, and headed for the door. “Back t’ work. Just wanted t’ let you know, Rob, you’ve done a fine job down there at Sea Wind. Enough that I’m mighty glad nothin’ happened t’ you.”

  What was there about a well-set-up young man eating supper alone in the little restaurant he’d discovered several blocks away that seemed to arouse such strong instincts in the female breast—some maternal, some not at all? A couple of the older ladies, dining out with their escorts, smiled sympathetically; several others, much younger and more appealing, sent him sidelong flirtatious glances.

  Rob, still concentrated on the Yancey Holdings trouble and his own aching arm as a reminder thereof, ignored his fellow gourmands to plunge heartily into his lamb chop and risotto. At least the food helped him acquire a second wind. That, and coffee. The whole Yancey tribe was addicted to coffee, and drank it by the gallon.

  Another hour of work on accounts took him to almost ten o’clock and he was ready to call it quits. Youth will get you just so far; after that, only a hot bath and a soft bed will do.

  Needing a break, he shoved things aside and went out to prowl the halls of what he thought was a deserted office building. Wouldn’t anyone in his right mind be long gone by now, home with family or out whooping it up at the nearest saloon? Except that the light showing beneath Quint’s door pointed the way to another night owl burning the midnight oil.

  “Huh,” said Rob, after his knock and a bid for admittance. “Somebody else not in his right mind.”

  “Never claimed t’ be.” Quint rolled up one of the maps he had been perusing, shoved it aside, pulled another forward. “How come you’re still here, kid? No earthly temptations around t’ lead you down the garden path?”

  Leaning one shoulder against the door frame, Rob chuckled. “I could ask the same thing of you. If I recall, you’re pretty fond of the fleshpots, yourself.”

  “Oh, hell, what red-blooded man ain’t?” Quint pushed back into his chair, extending both arms straight overhead in a stretch that had muscles creaking and ligaments popping. “Best time t’ try gettin’ things done, doncha think? Nice and quiet, without all the hullabaloo goin’ on around you. In my opinion, a day should start comfortably about ten, with a long siesta halfway through.”

  “Naw, not for me. I’m a morning person, usually—like to get up and going early. Listen, Quint, got a problem.”

  “Hang on.” Quint chugged down half a cup of lukewarm coffee, took a breath, scrubbed at his bewhiskered face, and blinked several times to fully wake up. “Okay. Shoot.”

  Rob shifted position, easing his achy arm away from the unforgiving wood. “Well…it’s Walter. I’m finalizing some work on the general profit and loss statements, now that I have the information I needed from Sea Wind, and I asked him for a couple of ledgers that covered the last six months.”

  “Ahuh. And?”

  “Don’t have ’em.”

  “Well, that’s easy enough. Musta forgot.”

  “Maybe.” He frowned, sounding dissatisfied. “Walt is far too friendly with Amory Kincaid, though, Quint. Too many ties there. And I don’t like it.”

  His chair squeaked a protest as Quint pulled himself closer to the desk. “I agree that’s a dicey situation. We need to keep an eye on Walt, no matter how many years he’s worked for us. So, for now, just go get what you’re lookin’ for outa his office.”

  “Can’t. The door’s bolted. I’ve tried every key on my ring, and nothing works.”

  “Huh,” said Quint again. A puzzled, thoughtful response. “Interestin’. Well, son, just go jimmy the lock.”

  Tired though he was, Rob couldn’t help flashing a conspiratorial grin. “What, engage in larceny?”

  “Why not? It’s our goddamned office, ain’t it? He’s got no call to keep us from goin’ in and out whenever we want. Bust the thing down if you have to.”

  The point of his Bowie knife, used patiently and judiciously, worked a miracle. Making a mental note to replace the lock tomorrow, along with collecting a set of shiny new keys, Rob fetched his lamp, opened the door, and went inside.

  The place was neat, Rob would give him that much. Not a speck of dust, a drop of cigar ash, a splotch of India ink. Every book, every folder, every paper was stacked and lined up as if measured by a ruler. Still, for all the impression of order, it took some time to sort through everything before he could find what he was looking for.

  In the process, movement hampered by the injured arm, his wrist brushed against a cup filled with sharpened pencils. Over it went, with a soft thump and rattle as pencils rolled every which way, across the desk top, and onto the floor.

  “Oh, hell and damnation,” muttered Rob. He might not have acquired as much of the Charleston accent as his father, born and bred, but his vocabulary of expletives could come a close second.

  Grunting, he got down on hands and knees to chase after the errant escapees. Sure didn’t want to leave the mess for Walter to clean up when he returned. Two in the corner, one next to a side table, several beneath the workspace.

  Whack! as the crown of his head connected solidly and painfully with the desk’s wooden underside.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  It was when he plunked down to regroup that he spied it: something small, gleaming silver in the lamplight, hanging from a nail tucked up into the alcove. A key. Odd. And secretive.

  Fitting his finger through its ring, he tucked the key safely into one palm and began sorting amongst the various pigeonholes above. Nothing. Just a few papers, more pencils—the man was a fanatic about his pencils, each with such a newly cut point it could have been used as a weapon—some calling cards, a stack of envelopes, and miscellaneous pieces of whatever.

  Next it was time to rifle the drawers. And rifle he did, taking careful note of just how everything was arranged, to be replaced in order. Again, nothing. Except—wait a minute…

  Buried in the far back of a deep bottom drawer lay the notch used to snag and lift a false base.

  “Huh,” said Rob, surprised and displeased, and pulled out a metal lock box from its hidey-hole.

  Of course the key fit. What else, with such precautions?

  Inside had been stored four ledgers. Quickly glancing through their contents, he found records for the four red-starred, unprofitable Yancey hotels which he was expected to investigate: Sea Wind, in San Jose; Feldspar Ridge, in Sacramento; Stockton’s Bywater Pine; and Mission Azul, south in San Juan.

  All located in California, convenient to any corruption or outright thievery. All under the jurisdiction of Walter Hadley.

  V

  Even now, he found it hard to accept—even with the buffer of a good eight sleepless hours between his discovery and the morning’s sun that shone as blithely as if nothing were wrong.

  For several years, Rob had found, poring over his purloined ledgers, the Holdings’ Chief Financial Manager had been embezzling funds, hand over fist. Small amounts at first; then, as daring supplante
d caution, gradually more and larger sums.

  That Walter, an up-and-coming, respectable, Harvard-educated young man whom the Yancey clan had taken in as one of their own, could so betray his adoptive family was simply incomprehensible.

  But why write it down? Why keep a record for someone to possibly stumble upon? Stupidity? Or bravado? Or a finger in the eye for the corporation he served, if he were caught?

  Mainly, though, the question was simply: why do it at all?

  And from here on, how exactly should Rob handle the situation?

  Selfishly, he wanted to take charge of things on his own, without immediately bringing in the family. Later on, certainly. But not right now. This was his Rubicon to cross, and he intended to cross it in style, with competence and expertise. Like Julius Caesar, and his famous utterance, “The die has been cast,” for Rob to accept the challenge of dealing with a trusted employee’s perfidy had become a make-or-break moment. It was the point of no return; there could be no reversing of course from here on.

  Sequestered once more in his office, with the door closed, he began writing. At Columbia he had discovered that he thought best, and made the clearest decisions, when he could make a list of whatever concerns had been raised.

  “Once all this is settled,” he mused, staring out the window opposite with an absorption that ignored topsy-twisty Madrones and twittering parakeets, “we gotta change policies. No more leaving so much control in one man’s hands.”

  Because “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

  Rob didn’t think he’d have any difficulty persuading the First Ten—his silent reference to the founding brothers at Yancey Holdings—of what must be done. Every one of them was a reasonable, practical man. If not, how would they have built this empire? It was just that, with their being too busy, and possibly too trusting, things had slipped.

  For now, company guidelines would need to be reconsidered and rewritten.

  According to his final instructions to the manager, he would plan on returning to Hotel Turquoise Sea Wind in a couple of months. However, with this evidence in hand, he decided it would be expedient to pay another visit in the next day or so. Check on the progress of improvements, and have another little chat with Mr. Amory Kincaid.

  Before leaving for the day, he stopped in at Quint’s office.

  “You spend so much time here, it seems like you must live in this place.”

  “Huh.” His uncle turned from the window, where he had been watching a lovely young thing sashay her way along the wooden walk and into the Blue Sky next door. Have to check that out, when he got a chance. “Yeah, son, it often feels that way. You’ll get t’ that point yourself, one of these days. If you haven’t already. Want some coffee?”

  “No, thanks. On my way out, gonna have some supper. Then I need to pack a bag.”

  Quint’s straight black brows drew together as he returned to his desk. “What, leavin’ again? You got itchy feet, Robbie?”

  “Business, sir. I’m heading back to Sea Wind.”

  The man was nothing if not quick to pick up nuance in voice and stance. “Somethin’ t’ do with Walter, I’m guessin’.”

  “Afraid so.” Rob shoved one hand into his trouser pocket, jingling the set of keys he had learned to carry. Just in case.

  “Feel like sharin’?”

  “Uh. Not right now. Got some loose ends to tie up, first. Listen, Quint?”

  He merely looked up, acquiescing.

  “Walt’s due back day after tomorrow, right?”

  A slow nod.

  “Send him on down to San Jose, the minute he gets in the office, will you? We have some details to go over, at the hotel, and things I have to discuss with him. Best if we do it there. Okay?”

  “Your wish is my command, son.” Quint grinned. “What you say goes; you’re our consultant.” It seemed more expedient to take the stagecoach south, this time. For one thing, he would be able to look over the damning ledgers again and put together notes and a plan, despite the jouncing around inside he knew to expect. For another, riding in the company of several other individuals would be considerably safer than on horseback, alone.

  Rob didn’t much cotton to the idea of someone with improved aim using him for target practice again. He liked his strong, muscular body just the way it was, thank you very much: whole and untouched, with all his parts intact, instead of filled with lead.

  Quite gratifying when someone who had turned to larceny kept such accurate records of it, he decided, mulling over page after page in the sunlight that shone through the coach window. Was there anything that Walter hadn’t cheated on, over the past few years?

  Funds diverted from projects and disappeared; work claimed to have been done—and paid for—left unfinished; sub-par supplies ordered, not only for new construction or ongoing maintenance, but for everyday items such as linens and china and even kitchen fare and bar stock, and premium prices paid; employee payrolls padded, while cutting not only the actual number but their hourly salaries.

  Incredibly ingenious.

  And maddening as hell.

  Rob could only hope that such wide-spread scope of fraud and pilferage had extended no farther than the four hotels listed in Walter Hadley’s ledgers. He had not yet had time to dig into the books of the other three; that would come soon. Right now, he wanted to nip this flower of corruption in the bud, before it could grow.

  Outwardly, Rob could notice signs of improvement when he arrived at the Sea Wind in mid-afternoon. Repairs were being effected, paint applied, overall cleaning and neatening carried out. The general impression was warm and welcoming, even seen close to.

  The surly desk clerk of Rob’s last visit had been replaced by a clean-shaven young man anxious to do anyone’s bidding, and that in itself was a change for the better. Attached to his suit coat he even wore a name tag of sorts: Farley Denton. Another positive development.

  Except that some sort of hullabaloo was taking place in the reception area. A minor altercation, to begin with, but one that had begun to escalate, with raised voices, agitated expressions, and vehement gestures.

  The poor harassed clerk seemed inexperienced enough as to be virtually in over his head, helpless to interrupt or cajole, with an expression that begged for rescue. Until he spied Rob. Then his features suddenly cleared from cloud into brilliance that rivaled the sun.

  “Oh, I do believe this is Mr. Yancey here now,” he proclaimed with a great deal of relief at being able to hand over the situation to someone of authority. “These guests were just checking out, sir, and most unhappy about arrangements.”

  As one, the two people at the desk turned to focus their attention—and, possibly, their invective—upon the newcomer.

  “Mr. Yancey.”

  “That’s me, sir. Something here I can help with?”

  “My name is Padraic Brennan,” and the man reached out for a quick, firm handshake. A typically Irish name, and a typically Irish countenance: bushy red hair faded to rust, florid coloring around a nose that had been broken once or twice and badly set, a sharp and discerning gaze. “And this is my daughter, Fiona.”

  With a nod, Rob turned slightly, to briefly clasp the girl’s fingers in his own. “Ma’am.”

  He recalled hearing stories of his uncles’ first meetings with the young women who had, eventually, become his aunts. Stories of a tingling touch, a sense of electricity in the air, amazement and purpose, even an awareness of portent.

  Magic fairy dust and rainbow-colored unicorns, Rob had scoffed to himself, probably when most of them were three sheets to the wind. Did anyone believe in such claptrap? Might just as well call upon leprechauns, lemurs, and shooting stars.

  And there was none of that here. Unless you counted the furious flash of eyes as green as a Kelly in the Emerald Isle.

  “This has been a perfectly abominable experience,” began Miss Brennan in an icy tone.

  “Yes, yes, Fee, we’ll get to that directly. Hold
on just a minute, though, before you go off harangin’. Anyone ever say that you’re the spittin’ image of your father, young man?” Head tilted to one side, like an analytical cardinal, Brennan was jockeying back into semi-good humor

  Rob smiled. “Actually, sir, I’ve heard that on a number of occasions. You know him, do you?”

  “We were introduced, years back, and I’ve stayed in the Yancey hotels whenever I’ve traveled, quite frequently. Been treated very well, too. Which makes our few days here at the Sea Wind so regrettable.”

  “Indeed. I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Brennan.” But a discussion now, in the center of the lobby, was neither the place nor the place to resolve differences. “Won’t you and your daughter please step into our anteroom, where things are more private, so I can find out more?”

  As the quietly simmering guests preceded him, in the direction of his outstretched hand, Rob glanced toward the clerk. “Mr. Denton, please take charge of my satchel and briefcase; have them taken up to my usual room. And then send along a tray of coffee, and whatever else you can find.”

  Seated with them, as their host, he made small talk for a few minutes, all the while taking the measure of both father and daughter. Padraic might have been a bluff and blunt man of the Old Sod, but he dressed well, with refinement and grace. As for Fiona...well…

  A second and more concentrated study showed temper still visible, just below the surface of a flushed and lightly freckled complexion, that flared finely honed nostrils and compressed a lush full mouth into unattractive lines.

  As for the rest, not beautiful, exactly; Rob had met his share of beautiful women. The first descriptive that came to his mind was spirited and willful. He could bet this one led her father a merry chase.

  Still, there was something about her… The whisper of scent from exotic locales that invited a man closer? The mahogany-colored hair, cascading down in ringlets that invited a man’s touch? The figure, admittedly superb, encumbered by rich plum velvet ruffles and ribbons, that invited a man to slowly unencumber it?

  No, no spark, no frisson. This lady would be, he knew to the depths of his bones, a handful. One he didn’t intend to mess with.