by Sofia Grant
“It ain’t dangerous,” Stan said. “I got a good hold on her—see?”
He shook Patty’s arm hard enough that her bottom slipped off the sign and she dangled, screaming, from his hand. Stan jerked her roughly, settling her back onto her perch, and she wrapped her free arm tightly around the sign again.
Underneath her, Virgie had found a foothold and was starting to scale the sign, moving slowly up the front of the mule, clinging to the metal outline like a human spider. In a few moments she would reach the mule’s head, and from there she might be able to pull herself up onto the neck next to Patty. But if Stan spotted her, he might cause Patty to fall, either on purpose or by accident—or he could wait until Virgie almost reached him and then push her off and send her plummeting down to the street.
“No—don’t do it!” Francie yelled, willing Virgie to understand the danger she was in and turn around.
Instead, Virgie braced herself with an arm around the metal reins dangling from the mule’s bit and dug a slingshot out of her back pocket. Working around the reins, she pushed something into the rubber band, then pulled it back and let go. Whatever it was struck Patty’s arm and got her attention; she startled and looked down at Virgie, just a few feet out of reach. Virgie put her finger to her lips.
“Stop that, damn it,” Stan said, holding Patty’s arm all the tighter as she twisted to see Virgie better.
One of the cops was moving slowly toward Francie, nightstick in hand. Fine; let him crack her over the head with it—there was just one thing she needed to do first.
“Stan—June told me to give you this,” she called, reaching into her pocketbook and grabbing the first thing she touched, something cold and round and hard—Vi’s perfume bottle, which she’d been carrying around with her since that terrible morning. She closed her fist over it before she could change her mind, and then, just like when she was fifteen years old and pitching against the Saint Anne’s Panthers, she squinted, took aim, and threw.
Stan saw it coming, the faceted crystal reflecting splinters of light, and he let go of Patty to reach out and grab it, not realizing that Francie had been named MVP two years in a row and pitched a record six shutouts. He wasn’t fast enough, and the bottle hit his forehead with a sickening crack that could be heard all the way down below and then, for a slow-motion moment that seemed to go on forever, he teetered on the edge of the sign, arms pinwheeling and mouth contorted in a rictus of terror while Virgie scrambled up the last few feet and, hanging on with one arm, grabbed Patty in the other.
As Stan lost his battle with gravity and sailed forward, falling toward the street with his limbs flailing, Patty wrapped her arms tightly around Virgie’s neck and buried her face in her shoulder, so maybe she didn’t hear the sickening thud as Stan’s body hit the pavement, his weight having been too much for the linked arms of the Good Samaritans below who’d done their best to save him.
Or maybe, as Francie reflected later, at the last minute they’d changed their minds.
Chapter 56
Father Fletcher
Father Mortimer Fletcher, who’d been driven to Reno that morning by a pair of spinster sisters who’d attended weekday-morning Mass for many years, remembered Violet Carothers mostly as a silent presence near the back of the church. Recently, the diocese had sent a newly ordained young man from rural Oregon to take on some of Father Fletcher’s duties as he approached his eightieth birthday, but when Mrs. Carothers’s best friend called to ask if he’d be willing to make the trip, he seized on a chance to escape what felt like the young priest’s constant scrutiny, as though he expected Father Fletcher to drop dead at any moment.
He’d been sitting in the chair someone had thoughtfully placed in the shade for quite some time. He wasn’t clear on what was causing the delay, but it was a pleasant afternoon and he’d had the foresight to tuck his flask under his vestments before leaving that morning. Also, someone had brought him a plate of little sandwiches and tasty iced cookies, which he was steadily making his way through.
When, finally, the bereaved family members arrived, debarking from a number of shiny, expensive automobiles, they were an astonishingly motley group.
First came a pair of young men, one with a prosthetic hand and the other with a colorful black eye and bruises all over his face, flanking a pretty young woman who carried a sleeping child in her arms and was, inexplicably, wearing torn stockings and a pair of men’s brogues. Trailing a few paces behind them was an older man who’d apparently been in the same fight as the younger one, his eyes bloodshot and a large bandage bridging his nose, his sport coat wrinkled and stained.
Next came a distinguished-looking couple and their three adult children—Father Fletcher made that assessment based on strong family resemblance—and their spouses and children: a thin fellow with an unruly thatch of red hair; a petite blonde in a tiny black hat, who looked desperately uncomfortable; and a handsome fellow sweating in his black suit, weighted down with a baby and a toddler, the older child holding her mother’s hand.
Father Fletcher studied this group perhaps a bit too long, because when he turned his attention back to the mourners, they were watching him with concern. He wanted to tell them that after nearly sixty years in the priesthood, he was almost never surprised by anything anymore—but unexceptional Violet Carothers had pulled it off.
There were stories here—intrigue and passion, grievances and violence, devotion and betrayal. (It couldn’t be proved, of course, but given the thousands of hours he’d spent in the confessional, Father Fletcher knew the signs.) He wanted to tell the mourners that there was more to every one of them than met the eye, that they all carried with them myriad secret desires and craven impulses and burning regrets, and that he had come to believe that these were the true substance of the soul. And he wanted to share with them his terror—not just that he would be judged harshly when he faced Saint Peter, but that he wouldn’t even be able to explain himself. He wanted, more and more often these days, to ask them all for their mercy.
Instead, he cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses and took the card from his pocket that the parish secretary had prepared for him, with the names of Vi’s husband and children and a list of all the duties Violet had performed over the years at Saint Isidore’s.
“Dearly Beloved,” he began, wondering if there would be liquor at the reception.
Chapter 57
June
June hadn’t even noticed that her feet were bleeding until Arthur had bundled her into the passenger seat of his car.
“Your shoes!” he’d exclaimed, and offered to go back for them, but she’d begged him to just drive as fast as he could. The very next intersection was blocked to traffic, a pair of police officers erecting barriers across the street.
June opened the door before Arthur had even parked and ran to the barrier, where one of the cops stopped her.
“Hold up, ma’am, no one beyond this point.”
“But he’s got my daughter!”
“Who does?”
“Stan! Oh, please, you’ve got to let me through!”
“Ma’am! You need to step back now, or I’ll be forced to move you myself!”
The more she tried to explain, the angrier the police officers became. Even after Arthur joined her and explained the situation much more calmly, they wouldn’t listen, talking into their radios and holding up their hands to stop her every time she tried to come closer. June was certain she was about to be arrested, until one of the cops looked up from his radio and asked her name.
“June. June Samples. I mean Wentlandt! My name is June Wentlandt!”
Only then did the cop grudgingly move the barrier a few inches so she could squeeze by. “Not you,” he said, when Arthur tried to follow.
June started running again.
She must have been screaming Patty’s name when she reached the crowd behind another set of barriers, because strangers parted to let her through. “Over there,” a man told her, pointing to on
e of the police cars parked askew in front of the Prospector Casino. She climbed over the metal barrier and ran past a bunch of police officers clustered around something lying on the street, sprinting the last few yards to the car. There, sitting in the backseat with the door open, was Virgie Swanson—holding Patty in her lap.
The minute Patty saw June, she started to scream. One of the police officers had broken away from the others and was running toward June, but she dodged around him and ran for the car and grabbed Patty right out of Virgie’s arms. People were yelling and flashbulbs were going off, but June ignored them and examined every bit of Patty to make sure she was all right—and then she just held on for dear life.
Much later, when the cops had shooed the reporters away and the crowd had wandered back into the casinos and restaurants and bars, and an ambulance had taken Stan’s body to the morgue, and Mrs. Swanson had come for Virgie, and Arthur had taken Francie to the cemetery, and June had answered the detective’s questions, and it was agreed that she could return to talk to them after the service was over, Charlie showed up in a truck driven by a man who looked just like him. He jumped out and ran to her and threw his arms around her, then drew back to touch her face, her hands, the hem of Patty’s dress, as if to convince himself that they truly were all right. He and his brother had been on their way to the service, he explained, when they overheard the hotel valets talking about the crazy man who’d kidnapped his child and tried to kill them both, and had come straight over.
“They said I could go to the service if I promised to come back to the station after, but the detective hasn’t come back yet,” June said.
“I’ll talk to him.”
“I already cleared it with him,” a man’s voice said.
June looked over Charlie’s shoulder to see his brother standing behind him holding a pair of men’s shoes.
“Thanks, Frank,” Charlie said. “What the hell are those?”
“I, uh, explained the situation,” Charlie’s brother said sheepishly, a bit of pink creeping up his neck. “The coppers compared shoe sizes and this guy came up short. He says you can bring them back to the station whenever you have a chance. I’m Frank Carothers, by the way. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Jeez, sorry,” Charlie said, smacking his forehead. “Frank, this is June Samples and her daughter, Patty.”
“Will you take her for a moment?” June asked, handing Patty to Charlie, who took her as gingerly as if she were made of china. She took the shoes out of Frank’s hands and set them on the ground. Then she took both of Frank’s hands in hers and looked into his eyes, which were the same shade of gray as Vi’s had been.
“Thank you very much, that was so thoughtful. And I’m so very sorry for your loss.” She blinked a few times—she hadn’t cried yet today, and she wasn’t going to start now. “I got to meet your mother, and to know her a little, and she was one of the kindest, nicest, most thoughtful people I’ve ever met in my whole life.”
Frank swallowed hard. He started to say something, then stopped and cleared his throat. “Thank you. And I, uh, hope to see more of you. Charlie says you’re a swell girl, and that’s good enough for me.”
“Okay, okay,” Charlie said, jiggling Patty in his arms. She’d snuggled up against him immediately, her eyes sleepy. “Speaking of Mom, how about we get going? I think we’ve kept her waiting long enough.”
Chapter 58
Officer Green
Officer Romeo Green was at the typewriter, finishing up his report at the end of his shift, cursing quietly as he dabbed Eraz-Ex on a mistake, when the receptionist came into the duty room with a girl around his niece’s age. Puberty had turned his once-sweet niece moody and unpredictable, and Officer Green looked around hopefully, but the shift change had come and gone, and he was the only one in the room.
“Officer Green, this young lady needs to speak to someone about an urgent matter,” Mrs. Wilkins said, winking at him. Mrs. Wilkins had the patience of a saint and a passel of grandchildren; Officer Green resisted rolling his eyes, knowing she could have handled the girl’s lost cat or whatever it was by herself.
“My shift actually ended twenty minutes ago,” he said. “Maybe you could—”
“I’m sure it won’t take long,” Mrs. Wilkins said firmly, already heading back to her post. “And she did say it was urgent.”
Officer Green sighed and pulled over a chair.
“How can I help you, Miss—”
“Kitty Warren, sir,” the girl said. She had tangled dirty-blond hair and was dressed in a pink blouse and grass-stained shorts that hung low on her skinny hips. “I’m here to retract a complaint on behalf of a friend.”
“Excuse me?”
Kitty tugged at her shirttail and blinked. On closer inspection, Officer Green saw that she was trying to cover up the fact that she was nervous—her eyes kept darting to the gun at his belt.
“A person who isn’t me thought someone was in danger and made a complaint and, well, they didn’t do anything wrong on purpose, but the thing is, if they get investigated, it might make trouble for them. So they just wanted to retract the complaint.”
Officer Green raised his eyebrows, trying not to smile. She was a funny kid. “Read a lot of detective stories, do you, Kitty?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered.
“Okay. Why don’t you tell me a little more about this case and how you got wrapped up in it.”
“I don’t have anything to do with it, sir, other than I happened to overhear the, uh, person talking about it. They—he or she—thought someone was in danger and sent a letter to this police station, but the person is perfectly fine and isn’t in danger anymore.”
“Ah,” Officer Green said, putting two and two together. “As a matter of fact, I think I might know the letter you’re talking about. And you’re sure you can’t tell me anything about your, um, friend?”
“She’s not a friend,” Kitty said quickly. “Or he. He or she is not a friend, just someone I know. I just don’t want them to get in trouble. Their, um, employer wouldn’t understand if the cops came around to talk to them.”
“If the person was acting out of civic duty, even if he or she was mistaken, there wouldn’t be any trouble. We encourage citizens to come to us anytime they fear a crime has been committed. Or is about to be committed.”
“Oh.” Kitty seemed to relax a bit. “Well, I still can’t tell you, though.”
“I understand,” Officer Green said gravely. “Wait here a moment, please.”
He walked out into the hall, two doors down to the little kitchen. Monte Mondini was at the table unwrapping a sandwich, the sports page spread out in front of him.
Officer Green went to the bulletin board and took down a piece of paper that had been tacked next to a pinup calendar from Bob Gamble Chevrolet featuring a busty brunette who was pumping gas wearing nothing but a pair of high-heeled red shoes. Someone had drawn a moustache on the girl.
“What you got there, brisket?”
“Nah, meatloaf,” Officer Mondini said gloomily. “Second day in a row. Wife says no more steak until I take the sergeant’s exam again.”
“You’ll do better this time,” Officer Green said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I have a feeling.”
Back at his desk, the little girl was leaning forward in her chair, trying to read the report he’d been working on. When she heard him coming, she quickly bent over and pretended to tie her shoelaces. Officer Green turned the report facedown and set the sheet from the bulletin board in front of her.
“This the letter in question?” he asked. “I got to tell you, it’s had us stumped. Fingerprint testing didn’t give us anything, and this paper’s sold in every stationer in the county. The chief was about to call a press conference for tomorrow morning to ask the public for help.”
The girl barely glanced at the paper, on which letters cut from newspaper headlines had been pasted to spell out a message:
WARNIN
G PERSON IN DANGER GUEST OF HOLIDAY HOTEL. RECOMMEND 24-HOUR SURVEILLANCE POSSIBLE KILLER ON THE LOOSE!
“Is this the complaint in question, Kitty?” Officer Green asked.
“Yes—yes, it is. But the guest is fine. I promise.”
“I see,” Officer Green said, frowning. “But the thing is, the chief already pulled a third of the department to cover the hotel. All undercover, you understand.”
“It was a case of mistaken identity, sir,” the girl said earnestly. She was starting to get worked up, twisting her hands in her lap. “The, uh—the guest was not his target. He’s left the area. It probably wasn’t even him.”
Officer Green had only been teasing, not trying to frighten the girl. “Well, that’s a relief, I don’t have to tell you. A lot of folks around here are going to sleep better tonight.”
“Do you need me to sign a statement or something?”
“You know what, I think it’s in the best interest of all concerned to protect your identity,” Officer Green said. “When I write this up, I’ll refer to you as a confidential informant. Does that sound all right?”
Kitty nodded vigorously.
“You’ll let me know if your friend learns of any other potential criminal activity, won’t you?”
“Oh yes, sir, I definitely will.”
Officer Green stood up. “You have the department’s gratitude, Miss Warren. It’s a shame every citizen isn’t as conscientious as yourself. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”
The girl took a last look around the day room. “You know,” she said, “I’ve thought about becoming a detective myself one day.”
Chapter 59
Vi
The night sky was just as she remembered from all those years ago. The snow on Mount Rose gleamed in the moonlight, and there were a hundred times more stars than she ever saw in the city.
As Vi walked along the river, she remembered Saturdays spent fishing with her father, drinking cocoa from her small thermos that matched his big green one full of coffee. There had been lovely afternoons with her mother picking wild blackberries along the banks, then going home and making pies and setting them in the kitchen window to cool, Father teasing that he might just run off with them so he didn’t have to share.
