Good. It served him right.
Ever since Harry had suffered with gambling problems last year, Trip made it a practice of checking things out one last time after everyone else retired for the evening. Tonight he knew sleep would be a long time in coming, so he took his time latching all the doors of the boat shop.
He stopped short when a lone figure walking along the road caught his eye. Harry? No, he was asleep upstairs. He’d already checked. Besides, Harry didn’t wear a skirt. Perhaps she was some lost lady or sleepwalker.
Twisting the key in the lock, he opened the door and stepped into the night. Jogging down the path, he slowed before he could startle the woman. He’d heard a sleepwalker could die if you startled them, and he’d had enough near-death experiences for one day.
She looked young from the back, her waist and hips narrow. Light hair, hanging loose, was gilded by the moonlight. Where had she come from? The hotel was across the lake, and the only other place to stay was the camps. She seemed intent on something down the road.
With whisper-soft steps, he drew close. “Ma’am, do you need some help?”
The lady whirled and let out a strangled cry. He caught her by the arms before she could strike him.
Wait. He knew that face.
“Marguerite Westing, what on earth are you doing out here?”
14
“Unhand me.” Marguerite twisted from the viselike grip wrapped around her arm.
Trip released her and crossed his arms over his chest. “Now, tell me what you’re up to. Going to sneak in the Yacht Club and steal a boat? Take a little midnight dip in the lake?”
Her eyes darted toward the building down the road, and he followed the direction of her gaze. Even in the dark, she saw his nostrils flare.
“You were going there?”
“No … I … What is that place?”
He shook his head. “It isn’t something you need to worry about. Come on. I’ll see you back to your camp.”
When he took hold of her elbow, Marguerite refused to budge. “I can’t leave. I have to know what goes on in that place.”
Trip’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“I’m making it my business. What’s going on?”
Her heart thundered, but she didn’t answer.
“So? Why do you want to go there?” He paused and then tossed his head back. “I know why. It’s because it’s off limits. That’s the kind of girl you are. You have to push boundaries and make waves. Draw a line and you just itch to stick a toe over it every time.”
“No … yes … ooooh, you’ve got me making as much sense as a mynah bird. I’m following my father. He keeps sneaking off in the night to go there.”
His brows shot up. “And you decided to take it upon yourself to follow him to Lord knows where without a second thought as to the danger involved?”
“I thought about it. I just decided the risk happened to be worth it. And if you aren’t going to tell me what that building is …” She turned on her heel and started down the road.
Trip caught her arm. “Over my dead body are you going there.”
She turned and raised an eyebrow. “I could arrange that.”
“Marguerite, that’s a gambling hall, a den of iniquity. The only women there are working.”
“Working? Oh.” Her cheeks burned as the meaning of his words registered, and she prayed the darkness hid them. The throbbing in her head intensified and she rubbed her forehead. “I have to know if my father is … well, you know.”
“Let’s go sit down, and you can tell me the whole story.” His voice softened, and he led her to a bench outside the Yacht Club. “How’s your head?”
“We’re talking about my father, not me. My mother said he was at risk.”
He tipped her chin toward him and studied her face. She blinked as the moon’s light reached her eyes, and he frowned. “Your head hurts, doesn’t it?”
“I’ve had worse.”
“I don’t doubt it. Still, you should be resting, not wandering the road alone at night.”
“I’m not alone, now am I? And you said we could talk about my father.”
He sighed. “Your mother told you he’s in trouble?”
“No, I overheard them arguing.”
Trip frowned. “You never learn.”
“Now, don’t go judging me. I accidentally overheard them. I had too much on my mind and couldn’t sleep, so I went outside. They were fighting in their tent. My father has never acted like this before, and I just know something is wrong. Maybe someone is forcing him to go to that awful place, and he’s in some kind of trouble.”
“I doubt it, but anything is possible.”
“Trip, my daddy is the most wonderful man on earth. He’s good and kind and tolerant.”
“To put up with your shenanigans he’d have to be.”
She frowned. “I’m serious. I can’t imagine any reason he’d do this other than him being forced into something against his nature. Now do you understand why I have to go check it out?”
Trip could. When Clyde Stone’s Gambling Den lured Harry into its clutches, he’d watched the damage a few innocent games of chance could do to someone in a remarkably short time. But he didn’t want to share those suspicions with Marguerite. “Why don’t you just ask him what he’s up to?”
“I don’t think he’d tell me the truth.”
“So lying runs in the family.” He wished the words back immediately.
She stiffened and rose to her feet. “I’m going to find my father.”
Trip stepped into her path. “No, you’re not.”
He expected her to argue, fight him – anything but cry. She seemed as angry about the tear that slithered down her cheek as she was about being stopped by him.
“Don’t you understand?” She swiped the tear away. “I have to know what’s going on.”
“I do understand.” He placed his hand on her forearm. “That’s why I’ll go after I take you home.”
She opened her mouth to argue.
He held up his hand. “You wouldn’t find out what you wanted to know if you were to go there anyway. Your father would see you and promptly tan your hide. I’ll go. No one will notice me.”
“How will I know what you found out?”
“Well, seeing as I don’t have a student in the morning …” He paused to gauge her reaction. She frowned and looked away. “I’ll meet you for breakfast at the pavilion and tell you all about what I’ve found out.”
Blinking, she stared at him. “The whole truth? You won’t try to sugarcoat it?”
“Unlike some people, I always tell the truth.”
She winced at his words and lowered her chin.
Good. You should feel guilty.
Kicking a stone with the toe of her boot, she turned to him. “Trip, I said I’m sorry.”
“I know you did.” He drew his hand through his rumpled hair. “But that doesn’t make it all right. Don’t you realize how close you came to dying today? You scared ten years off my life.”
“Only ten?”
A throaty chuckle escaped his mouth. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”
When he offered her his arm, she tentatively accepted, and they started to retrace her earlier steps. He heard her sniff and spotted her dabbing her eyes with her free hand.
Compassion shook him, but he wanted to stay angry. After this morning, she certainly deserved it. And if what she did hadn’t been foolhardy and irresponsible enough, she had honestly planned on going to the gambling hall.
He looked at her again – strong yet vulnerable – and his heart softened. He considered the horrible day she’d endured, and this situation concerning her father could only get worse.
He was no stranger to the feelings she stirred in him, but he didn’t plan to act on them, especially with the race only a few days away. Besides, he couldn’t trust her. He’d help her out because it was the Christian thing to do, but h
e’d guard his heart.
“So, Marguerite, what did you name your camp?” he finally asked.
“Camp Andromeda.”
“Isn’t that the maiden who was chained to a rock as a sacrifice to a sea monster because of her mother’s bragging? Your mother let you name your camp that?”
“You know mythology?” Marguerite laughed. “Suffice it to say my mother doesn’t.”
“And are you chained to a rock with a sea monster hovering at your door?”
“You might say that.”
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t pry.
She stopped in the road and turned her head toward the sky. “Do you know where Andromeda is?”
“The constellation?”
“Yes. It’s visible only in the fall and winter. Do you know any constellations?”
“The Big Dipper.”
She smiled, her face bathed in moonlight. “That really isn’t a constellation. It’s an asterism.”
“A what?”
“A pattern in the sky that isn’t an official constellation.” She lifted her hand and pointed at a cluster of stars. “Tonight you can see Hercules and Scorpius quite well.”
“You’re a stargazer.” He couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.
“Amateur astronomer.” She tucked her hand back into the bend in his arm. “I know. It’s a strange hobby for a girl.”
He chuckled, patting her hand. “Maybe for some young ladies, but not for you. It fits.”
They walked in silence the rest of the way, listening to the wind in the cottonwoods, frogs croaking by the water, the chorus of chirping insects, and the occasional wail of a coyote in the distance.
Marguerite’s concern for her father was palpable. Who was this woman on his arm? Would-be sailor, protector of her family, and now an astronomer? What other secrets did she hold? The desire to discover each of them threatened to surface, but he pushed it back down. Don’t even go there. You can’t trust her. He shook his head. Even if she hadn’t lied to him, he didn’t need the distraction. Too much was at stake, and he had his own family to protect.
She stopped beneath a sign with “Camp Andromeda” neatly carved in arching letters across its surface. “Thank you for checking my father’s situation out for me.”
“You aren’t going to follow me, are you?”
She bit her lip. “I thought about it, but I decided you’re right. Unfortunately, you’ll have a better chance of finding out what’s going on there than I ever would.”
He nodded and flashed an encouraging smile. “Try to get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Knots of men gathered around the gaming tables in the gambling hall, intent, absorbed, obsessed. Rows of polished glasses and glistening bottles beckoned thirsty gamblers, while scantily clad scarlet women slipped between the men, offering their own form of entertainment. Trip stole to the corner to take in the action.
A wide mirror behind the bar provided a better look at the patrons of Clyde Stone’s Gambling Den. Trip saw many familiar faces. These frock-coated men, a far cry from what one would expect at such an establishment, represented bank presidents, company owners, railroad executives, and other men of significant means.
Trip casually leaned against the wall, a sick feeling pooling in his stomach. How well he remembered coming to this gambling den, attempting to haul Harry away. Between the liquor and the lure of Lady Luck, his best friend since childhood had quickly become someone he barely recognized. But even then he couldn’t abandon him.
Night after night he’d followed Harry to this very spot and watched him toss his inheritance down on the tables. Then, on the one night Trip hadn’t followed, Harry’s debts surpassed his abilities to pay them. The club’s goons hauled him from the gambling hall, beat him senseless, and tossed him in the ditch.
Later, Harry described it as the longest night of his life. Too weak to move, he’d lain in the mud, thinking about how he’d gone from being a wealthy dandy to a penniless gambler. After that night, Harry insisted he’d changed and rededicated his life to the Lord, but Trip still found it difficult to trust him completely. The brazen lure of this place, with its glitzy gas lamps, brass trimmings, and party atmosphere, had a strong pull. Even the mightiest fell under its spell.
And tonight the mightiest appeared to be Edward Westing.
Trip shifted so he could see and hear Marguerite’s father eagerly exchanging a wad of bills at the faro bank for a stack of blue twenty-dollar double eagle chips. A portrait of a fierce tiger hung above the table, a common marker for those who enjoyed “twisting the tiger’s tail” at the faro table. From his vantage point, Trip could see the table with its cards, from ace to king, printed in red and black on the cards’ faces.
Clyde Stone, the finely dressed club owner, greeted Mr. Westing by name, slapping him on the back in welcome. He then nodded toward the dealer.
“Punters, place your bets.” The dealer pinched his handlebar mustache between his fingers and waited for the crowd of drink-sodden men to set down their colored chips.
Mr. Westing placed three blue chips on the queen.
The man next to him removed his bowler and ran his hand over his bald head. “Edward, you sure you want to back the queen?”
Leaning forward, Mr. Westing also set chips between the five and six and the ace and king. “What do you think if I split those too?”
The acquaintance nodded, placing his own bets on the table. Other patrons laid various-colored chips on the table as well.
Finally the dealer seemed satisfied that all bets had been placed. “Discarding the soda card.” He withdrew the top card from the dealing box and set it aside.
Moans went out as the losing card of an ace was revealed. The dealer quickly scooped up all bets placed on the ace. Then the dealer displayed the winning card – a king. Only one man bet that, and the dealer quickly paid him.
Shaking his head, Trip studied Mr. Westing’s reaction. He’d lost close to two hundred dollars, but his wild eyes focused only on the next hand. Before a half hour passed, Trip had watched Edward Westing lose close to a thousand dollars and win less than a hundred.
Trip clenched his fists as Mr. Westing placed another large bet. Even when the man he was with suggested they head home for the night, Marguerite’s father insisted on laying down a pile of chips on a queen.
“Hello, sugar.”
Trip turned to find one of the painted ladies standing next to him with a tray bearing a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.
“Buy a lady a drink?”
“No thanks. I’m about to leave.”
“What’s your hurry?” she purred. “You been watching that faro table all evening. Are you interested in the game or in someone at it?”
Trying to focus only on her face and not her scanty costume, Trip glanced from the raven-haired lady to Mr. Westing but didn’t say anything.
“Oh, don’t look so shocked, sugar. I make my living reading men. Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you all about him.”
“I don’t drink.”
“But I do.” She moved to the table nearest them, beckoning him to follow.
Against his better judgment, Trip took a seat across from her.
She popped the crystal stopper on the bottle and filled one of the shot glasses with amber liquid. “Sure you don’t want some?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You don’t have to look like it’s painful to be here with me. I don’t bite, sugar.”
“Sorry, ma’am. I don’t mean any disrespect.”
She laughed. “Ma’am? I haven’t heard that in a while. My name is Rosey. What’s yours?”
“Trip. Now, about him.” He inclined his head toward Mr. Westing. “How often is he here?”
“Ed? Guess he’s at that faro table most nights, plunking down his money like there’s no tomorrow.” She downed the glass of whiskey.
“Just this week?”
She raised an eyebrow. “For at least a month. I he
ard he likes to bet the foot and horse races too.”
Trip frowned. Things were worse than he thought.
“Why are you interested? Does he owe you money?”
He cleared his throat. “No. Someone is concerned about him.”
“And you fancy that someone.”
Trip stiffened. How could she see something that even he wasn’t sure about?
“I told you I’m good at reading men,” she said. “If you get tired of her, sugar, you know where I am.”
Pushing back from the table, Trip stood and reached into his pocket. He withdrew a couple of coins and dropped them on the table. “If you ever want out of here, I’ll help – ”
She held up her hand. “No preaching. I’ve heard it all before. Who knows? Maybe someday.”
He tipped his head toward her and smiled. “Thanks for the information, Rosey.”
Slipping out of the establishment, Trip drew in a lungful of night air. Though the breath helped clear the stench of tobacco smoke from his nostrils, it did little to clear the dread from his heart. It wasn’t fair. How dare Edward Westing do this to his family. Anger flaring, Trip picked up a stone on the path and hurled it into the trees.
Lord, help me find the words to tell Marguerite that the father she worships has fallen from his pedestal.
15
The lake glimmered in the morning sun like a beaded sapphire ball gown. From her window seat in the pavilion’s restaurant, Marguerite studied the sailboats, large and small, dotting the lake, all training for the upcoming regatta. The Endeavor wasn’t among them, so she prayed that meant Trip was already on his way to the restaurant to meet her.
She tapped her fingers on the table and eyed the door for any sign of the tardy sailing instructor. Where was he? What if he didn’t show? This could be his way of getting back at her. Maybe he thought he’d give her a taste of her own medicine. Tell the fibber you’ll meet her for breakfast and let her feel what it’s like to be lied to.
“Miss, are you sure you don’t want to place an order?” the waiter asked, his white jacket buttoned smartly up to the collar.
“Thank you, but I’ll give him a few more minutes.”
Making Waves Page 15
