by Stephen Bly
She gave him a quick hug. “It’s so good having you here, somewhat of a miracle, I’d say.” She tugged on his arm. “Come get some fresh air with me.” As soon as they ventured outdoors, Brannon realized he’d forgotten his revolver. He stewed whether to return for it. Relax. It’s a stroll on the beach. No one dangerous will be up this time of morning.
They strolled on the fine sand grains of the almost level beach. Waves could easily push this sand towards shore while prevailing winds blew it farther inland. Constant movement. Shifting, growing and shrinking.
Lady Fletcher reminisced about their memories long ago in Arizona, then concluded with, “It’s hard to believe I’m actually staring again into the Atlantic Ocean–hazel eyes of a wide-shouldered, gray-haired man who still wears a dusty, black cowboy hat. After so many years apart, those creases around your eyes hint at hundreds of tales I may never get to hear.”
“I’ve never been to the Atlantic Ocean.”
Lady Fletcher chuckled. “Well, if you ever go, you’ll find out the true color of your eyes.”
“You said that Tom Wiseman was last seen in these parts?” Brannon thought he caught the movement of a silhouetted figure far behind them. He casually turned his head to get a better look.
“Yes, here in Gearhart. The hotel manager said he had an important meeting and that he reserved two extra rooms next to his and paid for them too. Three or four U.S. civil engineers and a few foreigners arrived. They had supper together, then several of the group left for a late walk out on the beach. Never saw Tom again.”
The other morning hiker kept at a distance, stopped and stepped forward when they did. “Foreigners, you say? What nationality?”
“From what I could tell… Edwin and I happened to be sitting across the room from them… at least one was a Frenchman. Another was Latin descent… certainly South American or maybe Mexican.”
“Harriet, I’m shocked. You’re losing your touch.” Brannon heard the scrape of a shoe on a rock and regretted leaving his gun in the hotel room. Don’t be so leery. It’s a man dawdling on the shore, just like you and Harriet.
“He was very much trying to hide who he was and where he came from. He wore a costume.” She paused.
“Well, what was it?”
“Buckskins, moccasins and a band with feather. He wanted everyone to think he was an Indian.”
“Maybe he was.”
“Perhaps…” Lady Fletcher’s voice tinged with doubt.
The loitering man halted to light a cigarette and tossed a match into the water. “Show me where Tom was last seen,” Brannon requested.
Rain sprinkled in spurts and fitful splats as they skirted the water’s hissing edge.
“It’s not far from here.” Lady Fletcher led him down the beach.
Brannon tried to take in the immensity of the vast ocean, to imagine the teeming multitudes of creatures below and the apparent chaos of living things above the surface. Yet a rhythm ruled in the cycle of life.
“I’ve found the beach to be an elixir to the senses,” Lady Fletcher mused.
He closed his eyes as the thundering breakers, rolling waves, and the odors of salt, fish and seaweed resonated all around him. When he opened them, he noted the undulating snakes of pattern on the wind-swept, water-whipped sand and that the man behind them had vanished.
The tide washed in again, spilling driftwood of a variety of shapes onto the rocky shore. Somewhere near this spot, one hundred years before, Captains Meriwether Lewis and William Clark first saw the restless breakers of the Pacific Ocean and the lush land that would supply them with fuel. But no ship on the horizon.
“Right about here,” Lady Fletcher announced. “Tom Wiseman and several others… who, I don’t know… were spotted beside a fire across from these boulders.”
Brannon studied the stacked wood, ashes and rim of rocks from a recent campfire. “Who saw them?”
“Some hotel employees on their way home after their late shifts. They recognized Wiseman because he called out, ‘Good night, be careful of the jelly fish,’ to them.”
“Jelly fish?” Brannon spied the man with the cigarette again. He emerged from a rain fog that seemed to hug the ground and made no pretense that he had his focus on Brannon and Lady Fletcher.
“Yes, I guess there’s been a lot of them washed up on the beach. They can sting, you know. About golf,” Lady Fletcher was saying. “It’s a royal and ancient game where you hit balls with sticks and it can be quite fun. Poor children do that in slums. I play it myself once in awhile.”
Brannon tried to catch up with the conversation, though he hadn’t noticed how the topic changed. “I hear tell it’s only fit for unemployed Scotsmen. I’ve never played it and you know that. I’m goin’ to look mighty foolish. Why did you think of me to compete in a tournament?”
“Well, first, I take exception to the Scotsmen remark. Perhaps if you referred to Englishmen. Edwin plays, you know. And it’s not exactly a competition. You show up as a celebrity…”
“A very minor celebrity…”
“You’re the most infamous man I know. Meanwhile, you will be given your own clubs, bag, caddy and… free lessons. It’s for the orphans, Stuart.”
They listened to the rhythm of the break of surf, the billows of foam that rushed and roared against the rugged, rocky coastline. Ducks floated in a long row off the shore.
Brannon scoured the area where Wiseman had been for any signs or clues. He kicked the moist sand with the toe of his boot, then patted it flat. “I’m trying to determine why Tom agreed to come up here for this assignment. I checked with his two daughters in Prescott. He told them it was to be his last. But why this place?”
“Perhaps no other reason than the President ordered it?”
“That’s logical, but he was often given choices. I’m wondering if it had to do with his admiration for Captains Lewis and Clark.” Another person joined the man behind them… a woman wearing a dress of flowing, deep purple. They conversed a few moments, embraced, then she strolled away. The man remained and lit another cigarette.
“To think, we’re walking the same ground they tramped,” Lady Fletcher remarked.
“After that long, exhausting trek across the country, the fight for survival, then the tense waiting, hoping for some sign of a ship. That stirred up quite a controversy among them and later with historians.”
“Stuart, speaking of controversy, about that train robbery. Some think as a citizen you had a right to defend yourself and the other passengers. Others charge you jumped over some bounds.”
“There’s no way I could sit there and let that guy ride off without a challenge.”
“I know that. But these are different times.”
“Harriet, it’s always right to fight evil. But let’s change the subject. I’m wondering what it felt like to be camped out right here one hundred years ago.”
“Tell me, which one are you most like? Captain Lewis or Captain Clark?”
“Not sure I have what it takes to be either one. I wish I could be more like Captain Clark… the negotiator, master of frontier arts. He had the greater gift of the two for making friends with the Indians.”
“How long would you have waited?”
“A little bit longer than they did. I never was very good at breakin’ promises. I was born to the land and raised by the code. Share your fire and food with whomever comes into camp. It’s better to lose your life than your good reputation. If I said I’d be a certain place, that’s where I’d be until the cows came home.”
Lady Fletcher tugged her wool shawl around her neck against the coastal cool air. “But why didn’t President Jefferson send a ship?”
“Ah, you’re getting too political for me.”
“But didn’t he make a promise? Being President doesn’t exempt him.” She reached down and picked up a pearly pink shell. “I know you’re here mainly to find Tom Wiseman, but I do ask you to attend at least three events.”
“Which are?”
“The banquet tonight… the director and workers for the orphan farm will be here, along with some of the orphans.”
“Where does that name Willamette derive from?”
“Sam Smythe’s father started an orphanage in Salem by the Willamette Valley and Willamette River. This one’s connected somehow.”
“And the other events?”
“There’s a pre-tournament social Friday evening. And, of course, the tournament next Saturday. That gives you a bit more than three days to solve this mystery.”
“Okay.” Brannon pursed his lips, wondering whether to say more.
“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “And you really must sneak in some golf lessons too.”
Brannon began to get that tight feeling that he was being controlled… and he didn’t like it. He had two causes to champion. He needed to spend earnest time chewing on one, which was difficult for a man of action. The other he’d prefer to avoid altogether. But he also knew Lady Fletcher had her project, her benefit, and she followed through on every commitment she tackled.
This will certainly be no holiday, as Edwin would say. But Lord, I believe this is Your leading. You want me here. So here I am. Help me do this with joy. Help me not fight Harriet or You.
Lady Fletcher tugged his arm once more. “Edwin will want me to bring you back to the hotel. What shall I tell him?”
“Tell him the salt hasn’t boiled yet. He’ll understand.”
“But it’s time for tea,” she teased. “Oh, I know you like the dregs at the bottom of the pot of cowboy brew after it’s been over the campfire four hours or so. Well, I can make you some tea every bit that strong.”
“I’m sure you can.”
She scanned his attire with a frown. “Please remember you’re supposed to dress up to meet some dignitaries tonight.”
“Ma’am, I truly don’t know how you talk me into these things.”
“Brannon!” The bass voice startled them. The former dusky figure appeared in full view.
Was he the man earlier on the beach?
Brannon’s hand moved for the revolver that wasn’t there.
Six
He wore glasses with smoked lenses, top hat, diamond tie pin and carried a gold-headed cane as though he used it for a club, not as a walking aid. “Mr. Stuart Brannon? I’m Tally Rebozo.”
“Are you from the orphan farm?” Lady Fletcher intruded before Brannon could respond.
“Orphan farm? What makes you think that?”
She scrutinized him more closely. “You show up out of nowhere, on this particular part of the Oregon beach, at this time of morning, wearing an expensive three piece silk suit. I say… you’re a Serbian spy.”
To Brannon, he looked more like a professional gambler.
“Who is this woman?” Rebozo said.
Brannon kept his eye on him and made the introduction. “This is Lady Harriet Reed-Fletcher.”
“You mean, as in Lord and Lady Fletcher, the Ambassador?”
“That’s the one.”
“I did not know.” Rebozo gave a deep bow. “Forgive my impertinence.”
Lady Fletcher held out her hand. “You are forgiven. But the fact is, you could be a Serbian.”
In the haze of early morning light, Rebozo pulled off his glasses and seemed to play with his smile. “Perhaps.”
“Oh, good.” Lady Fletcher clapped with delight. “That will make conversation around our supper table much more interesting.”
Rebozo pulled out a white handkerchief, wiped his glasses and bent down to swipe at his shoes. “How does my pretending to be a spy…?”
“A Serbian spy…”
Rebozo rose up. “How does that make excitement for your guests? I presume that portends I’m invited to your banquet.”
“Why, most certainly.” She curtsied to an imaginary lady. “Oh, Marguerite, did you happen to get a chance to visit with the Serbian spy? He’s such a delightful man.”
Lady Fletcher, not some weak, trying-to-please woman, knew what she wanted and she was good at what she did… the consummate hostess.
“Well, I am sorry to disappoint you. I am but a…”
“No, no, no. I refuse to listen. You will be my Serbian spy. Now, if I can find a Turkish diamond merchant, I’ll be set.”
Rebozo turned to Brannon. “Does she jest?”
“Oh, no. Harriet will not tolerate a boring party.”
Rebozo shoved on his top hat. “My lady, that is my cue to entertain at your beckoning. Whatever the occasion, I will concoct intrigue for you.”
“Good. Now, I must return to the hotel. Are you coming with me, Stuart?”
“I have some important issues to discuss with him,” Rebozo said.
“Then my presence is no longer needed.” Lady Fletcher lifted her skirt, raised her parasol, and walked back over the footsteps they had stamped in the moist sand.
Rebozo turned to Brannon. “The President wishes me to partner with you.”
“Oh?”
“To help you find Tom Wiseman.”
“Why didn’t he tell me about you?”
“Hard to say. But I am well trained. I know how to wield a sword.” He pulled a dagger out of a small scabbard and swished it next to Brannon who lunged out his leg and tripped the man. He sprang up and replaced his dagger. “Bravo. And I’m adept at poisons… as well as international intrigue.”
“How do you know Tom?”
“We met opening day of the Exposition, but I was called away on another assignment soon after that. The President ordered me to return.”
“Well, Mr. Rebozo, no offense intended, but I like to pick my own partners. I’ll go this one alone.”
“You can’t. My commission is to keep you alive. Thought it fair to warn you.”
“Telegrams aren’t totally private. They can get intercepted or confiscated.”
Rebozo pulled out a cigarette from a Murad package, lit it and blew circles that lifted in the slight breeze. “True. What are you saying?”
“Nothing… yet.”
“I do know that the last communiqué the President received from Wiseman indicated that he possessed important information and that he’d send an updated telegram following a scheduled meeting.”
“And that message never arrived?”
Rebozo flicked an ash from his Murad cigarette and bowed his head. “I was involved at that moment in solving another case. That’s why you were contacted. T.R. knows you, trusts you, and you’re a good friend of Tom’s.”
“And why are you on this case?”
“The President knows me, trusts me, and I’m a good friend of his sister’s.”
Who is this guy really?
They headed back towards the hotel together, an awkward lack of rapport between them, though Rebozo offered several attempts at light banter.
“Who’s the woman?” Brannon finally pried.
“Which woman?”
“The one on the beach.”
“A good friend, one of many.”
Rebozo’s smile had a hint of man-to-man.
Does he expect me to cooperate or compete? Maybe he’s testing me.
As they arrived back at the hotel, Lady Fletcher hailed him from the front deck. “Ted Fleming’s getting ready for your first lesson.”
“But I haven’t had breakfast yet.” Or done my own planning for the day.
Rebozo waved goodbye and headed upstairs.
“I’ve got some hot coffee and warm blackberry pastries waiting for you inside,” she said.
After he finished the passable coffee and the delicious scones, Lady Fletcher escorted him several blocks down the street to the golf course. She pointed out the wooden golf clubs in a bag leaning against a rattan chair.
A slight shiver shook Brannon’s spine, like the time Victoria asked him to dance with her around a hat in front of all her hacienda residents. Or when Lisa begged him to sing with her in the church choir. “You’ve got a good voice, Stuart,” she had said. “Wit
h a little practice, you could sing bass.”
He had made attempts to communicate to each of them how their requests petrified him, to no avail.
“You’ll be in good hands,” Lady Fletcher assured him. “Ted Fleming can teach anyone to hit a ball.”
Seven
Brannon had donned the wool twill jacket with khaki breeches and belt that Lady Fletcher insisted he wear, but he added his Stetson and boots too.
“We need to get you a lounge or reefer coat for the tournament,” Harriet said.
She waved to a man who wore a dinner jacket, knickers and lace-up shoes. The gentleman motioned them over.
What good is an outdoor sport if you can’t wear ranch clothes? A pair of broken-in denim jeans? When’s the next train to Arizona?
Pot-style bunkers, mounding and beach grass distinguished the seaside links course. Several young men, including an Indian youth, clipped hedges, raked and pushed mowers over sand dune–shaped fairways and greens.
Lady Fletcher introduced him to Ted Fleming, a huge, burly man who didn’t look like a golf professional. His curly, salt and pepper hair and infectious grin promised a friendly exchange. “This is the legendary Stuart Brannon who knows absolutely nothing about golf, but with your expertise he’ll come around.”
Ted Fleming reached out his hand. “I’m charmed. Truly. A man like you should take well to this game. It’s a gentleman’s game, built on honesty and the integrity of each player. I know we’ll get that from you.”
Brannon clasped Fleming’s hand with a quick shake. “I think you’ll need lots more.”
Brannon deliberated several nagging factors, each which tugged him away from this place: his fervor to find his friend; the alien atmosphere of the course; and the brief amount of time to master the sport.
He tried not to look Fleming in the eye as he asserted, “Harriet, I have decided not to do this. If you recall, I never promised I would. It’s not my expertise.”
