by Stephen Bly
Brannon’s vision and head were clearing. “Who hit me?”
“None of us. We’ll deal with that man later.”
Brannon sat up. “Well, ladies, how can I be of assistance?”
“You’ve got to help Darcy with her llama. She’s over there.” She pointed to somewhere outside the tent. “And get us an invite to Lady Fletcher’s soiree tomorrow.”
“What?” The demanding tone irked him, especially after being knocked unconscious. But the voice had a tinge of southern drawl, full of practiced charm.
“We traveled here all the way from San Francisco to go to the Exposition and attend all the parties we can. A woman we met in Portland told us about Lady Fletcher and we figured out she was married to the Fletcher we knew in Paradise Meadow. We owe him a lot, you know, and we aim to pay. And you promised us a meal with you.”
Her twin interrupted. “Yeah, but we’re more than willing to let you off the hook… if…”
Darcy finished. “If you’ll put in a good word to Lady Fletcher, so all three of us can enter her circle.”
“Her circle?”
“Go to her events. Be part of high society. Wear these expensive dresses we drug all these miles in our trunks.”
“And maybe get us out of this tent.”
“What is this place?” Brannon rose to his feet and staggered towards what he assumed was the tent opening. He pulled back a flap. Landscaped lawns and gardens stretched as far as he could follow, with scattered tents, buggies, a few motorcars.
“The Gearhart Park. We’ve got permission to camp here until one of the hotel rooms become available.”
He started to say, “You can use mine,” but stayed silent. He wanted more information before he volunteered away his freedom and comfort.
Darcy twisted around, reached under a bedroll, pulled out a long, curly black wig and tossed it on her short hair.
A quick look at the girl in her disguise and Brannon’s neck muscles tightened. His mind snapped into sharp recall. “At the Louis XIV Drawing Room… on the chandelier… you pushed me on the bed.”
“What?” one of the women spat out. He figured that to be Mama Darrlyn. He made a note of the sapphire rings she wore. The other twin preferred rubies.
“Oh, you know, that job Daniel and I got to play-act at the Exposition. We tried to talk with Mr. Brannon then about helping us and every-thing got crazy.” Darcy attempted a cautious smile for his angry eyes.
“Where is it?” he growled.
She went back to the bedroll and slid out a pair of glasses, broken. “Sorry,” she said. “Daniel sat on them.” She tossed some coins on a tiny table. Brannon grabbed her wrist. She winced and the two older women tried to pull him back.
“She must be very important to you.” Her smile was nervous, tentative. “You can have it if you talk nice to Lady Fletcher for us. Otherwise, it’s gone. Forever.”
Brannon yanked up the bedroll. A number of items scattered around. None of them the locket.
“It’s not in the tent,” Darcy said. “I’ve got to trade it back, to the man who gave me the llama. The picture reminded him of his daughter.”
“You had no right.” Brannon for the first time in his life considered whipping a girl. In a flash, he wondered if his father would approve, under these circumstances. “Trade it back. I want that locket. Now.”
“Help me with the llama. She’ll need to be returned in good condition.”
Brannon followed the girl and the two women to a thicket where a llama lay, panting and eyes dazed. “Did I hear you right? Are you telling me you traded my locket for a llama?”
“Sort of,” Darcy said. “Plus all the money I earned at the Exposition.”
“Stole, you mean.” Brannon leaned down to the unsheared, gray llama. He figured her to be about three hundred pounds and two years old. “Why did you want a llama?”
“Lots of reasons.” Darcy spouted her list. “Clean. Don’t cost much to feed. They stay calm, even around kids. Their hair makes good sweaters and blankets. And they don’t bite or bark.”
Brannon wondered why her mother and aunt didn’t protest his accusation. Or scold the girl for her actions. As Darcy touted the benefits of a llama for a pet, Brannon determined from his experience with calves that the birth date was a few days away. But he wanted that locket. And he had to find Tom Wiseman. Why was life so complicated out here away from the simplicity of home sweet home?
“I don’t know how you’re going to do it,” Brannon proclaimed, “but you’re going to get that locket and bring it to me at the hotel as soon as possible. Or Lady Fletcher will hear an earful and not the sort of recommendation you wanted.”
He raised up, took some deep breaths to clear his brain of the overload of emotions and thoughts, then started to head for the hotel. He turned back around instead. “Where’s my clubs? Surely you haven’t sold them too.”
The Lazzard twins pulled him aside.
“It’s hard raising kids these days,” Mama Darrlyn stated. “We brought her here to get her away from her friends and influences in San Francisco. Her last friend committed suicide by drinking vials of carbolic acid. Darcy was devastated.”
“Over an infatuation with a married man,” Aunt Deedra added. “Who happened to be Darcy’s father… and never married to Darcy’s mother.”
Mama Darrlyn shot her sister a fierce look. “Please be patient. Darcy’s developed a few habits, but we’re trying to break her.”
“A stint in jail might help,” Brannon offered. For all of you. Aunt Deedra walked behind a nearby tree and dragged his bag and clubs. Brannon looked them over. “The putter’s not here.”
“Is that what this stick is?” Aunt Deedra raced over to a hole in the grass and pulled up a long pole. “We tried to discourage a bushy animal that keeps climbing up our tent and poking holes.”
Brannon grabbed the putter and swung the bag over his shoulders. He rejected the girl’s plea to stay and help with the llama and the women’s offer of strong coffee and cookies.
As he marched down a path between other tents and wagons spread out on the acreage, he noticed a handwritten sign at the gazebo that advertised several speakers that day, one from the Women’s Christian Temperance Union and the other from the Waitresses Union. A small crowd gathered, mostly women. He couldn’t detect if the men in attendance were sincere listeners or collared by their wives.
“You give even your horses one day’s rest in seven,” he heard the fervent appeal. “We do not want sweatshops nor tenement districts. Now is the time to make laws to prevent such conditions, not wait until these conditions exist and then bring reforms.”
A steady rain began to pour, then a cloudburst, which gave him an excuse to keep his head bowed. He didn’t wave or greet anyone or say a word until he reached the hotel lobby. He tossed the bag into his room, grabbed up his duffles, and remembered what a miserable night he endured on that bed. He had fully meant to camp on the beach that night… and every night.
He gritted his teeth and stomped back out to the Gearhart Park, and told the women in the leaking tent they were welcome to stay in his room that night.
Nine
After Brannon dressed in the only other suit he brought, he packed up his belongings and tucked them in a hotel storage closet that the manager showed him. He sauntered to the lobby, lowering his head when anyone came into view. Recognition or conversation didn’t appeal to him at the moment. He pulled on his tight collar and wiped his face with a handkerchief.
An idea hit him as he walked near the library.
I need to do some research on the Indians in this part of the country, to see if that might relate to Tom.
He opened the door and almost collided into Tally Rebozo, dressed in tuxedo, tails and a top hat. This disturbed him more than he wanted to admit. This guy is going to be very difficult to evade. It’s like he knows what I’m going to do, before I do it.
“She is a writer.” Rebozo pulled out a copy of The Yavapai C
ounty War, by Lady Harriet Reed-Fletcher. “That explains her imagination.”
Brannon offered a curt nod, then browsed through the books. The Pilgrim’s Progress, by John Bunyon. White Fang, by Jack London. Four volumes of The Winning of the West, by Theodore Roosevelt.
Beside How to Play Golf, by Harry Vardon, he discovered a linen handkerchief. He tugged it out. Stitched on one quadrant in an array of multi-colors was the U. S. Government Building at the Lewis and Clark Exposition with flag flying. The personalized name of “Sharon” and “1905” in pink thread was embroidered in another corner.
“Sorry.” Rebozo reached for the cloth. “That’s for me.”
Brannon handed it over and Rebozo tucked it with tight folds in his breast pocket. Brannon started to pull out a pamphlet entitled “A Survey of Indians in Washington and Oregon” by Charles McChesney, then slid it back.
Instead, he tried to get Rebozo to talk about himself. “I’ve been wonderin’. Why were you overdressed on the beach this morning?”
He affected a grin. “These are all I have. I plan to go shopping later in Seaside. Want to join me?”
“Surely you jest.”
“Later I’ve got some more Exposition duty too. The Centennial is as much political as it is a celebration. Points are being made, contacts scheduled, world business conducted. This Tom Wiseman business is extra. So, will you tell me what you know so far?”
“Nope.”
“I didn’t think so. Do you know Wax Lanigan?”
“Stood him down years ago after a stagecoach robbery at Globe, Arizona.”
“He moved up the line since then. Now he’s a union organizer. Moves in high society circles. He could be valuable in this case.”
“We must not be talking about the same guy, unless he’s taken to working both sides of the law.”
“Lanigan also has the sweets for Sylvia Wiseman, Tom’s daughter, who is head bookkeeper for Consolidated Mining out of Goldfield, Nevada. She’s also a part owner. As you may know, Goldfield’s the main gold rush region in the country right now, maybe the last. Lanigan spent some time there trying to encourage the mine workers to go union.”
“I know… that is, I knew Sylvia, when she was younger. She’s the middle daughter, somewhat a rebel. Not home much. Travels a lot. The other two daughters and their husbands work the home ranch near Prescott.”
Rebozo nodded. “Her mining company is helping to sponsor one of the exhibit buildings at the Exposition. Sylvia was last seen at the Portland depot. She had scheduled a meeting that day with one of her partners and didn’t show up.”
Brannon paid closer attention. “Perhaps Tom took off to find her.”
“Could be, but why didn’t he inform the President?”
The door burst open and a woman rushed over to Rebozo, spreading the delicate scent of mint and aromatic sachets. The sprinkle of perfume invaded the room with the promise of spring blooms and general feminine wiles. She planted a tender kiss on both his cheeks.
“Andale, I’m so sorry to be late,” she said.
Andale? Brannon averted his gaze, snatched a random book from a high shelf and shuffled through pages about the flora and fauna of New Zealand.
So, he wasn’t here expecting to see me, after all.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “I see you have company. Do come see me later.” She scurried out as quickly as she ushered herself in.
“Andale?” Brannon repeated. “Is that what she called you?”
Rebozo exhaled and rubbed his forehead as though he hoped to erase some thought or scene from the past. Or perhaps to draw it out. “I met her on another case. I prefer to change my name on occasion.”
“So, what’s your real name?”
“The President knows.” He inferred by his tone that ended the matter.
“And was that Sharon?”
“She also tends to bandy about various names, when it suits her.”
“We were discussing Lanigan. Why did you ask about him?”
Rebozo peeked through a slit opening of the door, then stepped back closer to Brannon. “On opening day of the Exposition, the Vice-President spoke and afterward I was introduced to Lanigan by members of the Centennial board. While we chatted, he suddenly pushed through the crowd, grabbed a Latin American man by the collar, yelled in his face, and shoved him away from the spectators.”
“The shoving and yelling part sounds true to character.”
“He said the man had been ranting at the Vice-President and threatened to do him harm. I ran after the accused, but lost him. You can imagine my chagrin and embarrassment, as one of the backups for the secret service. Can’t be too cautious since the President McKinley assassination at the New York Exposition.”
“Are you sure Lanigan wasn’t putting on some kind of show for you?”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because it is so like him.”
“I think you’ve got the man pegged wrong.”
“I hope so. It would renew my hopes for humankind.” Brannon pulled up his hat, swiped his hair down, and tucked his hat back on. “Why don’t you follow Sylvia’s trail? I’ll find Tom my way.”
Rebozo plucked out the McChesney pamphlet on Indians in Washington and Oregon, winked at Brannon, then handed it to him. “I think you wanted this. The only real lead I have is to look up someone called Sully. I believe that’s one of the other partners. I understand he supervises the Consolidated Pavilion and is looking for new investors for their mining operation.”
“No last name?”
Rebozo shook his head and drew out another volume: The Clatsop and Lower Columbia Indians. He thumbed through it.
“What I cannot understand,” Brannon said, “is why you and me got roped into this duty. The President’s got federal Marshals, secret service guys and the U.S. Army at his disposal. But he’s going with Serbian spy Rebozo and an Arizona rancher?”
Rebozo affected a smile, as though they shared a secret joke. “You mean, the Brannon of Hawthorne H. Miller dime novel fame. I hear they’re a bunch of windies, colorful tales for an eager public hungry for daring adventures. Mysterious drifters. Handsome gunslingers.”
He handed the book he held to Brannon. “I think you’ll be interested in this.”
Who is this man? And what does he want?
“Maybe there is someone in his loop he doesn’t trust,” Rebozo remarked.
“In fact, I’ve got no reason to trust you,” Brannon shot back.
“Understandable, I suppose. Perhaps I can change your mind.”
“In addition, I don’t have a clue who or what T.R.’s loop includes.”
“Sure you do. What is the big news out of Washington these days?”
Brannon tried to keep his gaze steady, not to reveal how dense he felt.
Rebozo answered for him. “The big ditch. Panama. Lots of politics and intrigue. The French still smarting from the scandals. The Nicaraguans bidding for a channel through their country. And the Colombians not too happy with the President about his chess game takeover.”
“What does a U.S. Marshal like Tom Wiseman have to do with that?”
“It’s up to us to find out. I also happen to know there’s gold in that country. But that’s not the only crosscurrent of controversy T.R. faces. Among others, there’s the railroad mess. Fraud with public land grants, that sort of thing. The Oregonian newspaper broke the scandal last year when they discovered a large percentage of land sales violated federal law.”
“That sounds familiar. I believe Tom was called upon to help with evictions.”
“There are lots of politicians, businessmen and railroad executives involved. T.R. has vowed to clean it all up.”
“I’m not much of a political person, unless it gets personal. Maybe it’s about to get personal now with Tom.”
“First thing tomorrow, I go hunt for this guy Sully. Or we could both check on him tonight.”
“Harriet has my evening planned.”
“And an
assignment from the President of the United States can’t alter those plans?”
“Not a chance.”
Brannon gazed at the covers of the books he held, volumes he hoped would help him understand the region’s tribes and perhaps provide a trace that would lead to Tom Wiseman.
Or not.
But he had to start somewhere. And he had to stay alert in regard to one mystery man, Tally Rebozo.
Before he left, Brannon removed the Harry Vardon golf book.
Ten
A coat too tight at the shoulders. Limp tie. Unmatched studs. A yellowed-with-age cummerbund. Old and used, that’s what he looked like. That’s what he felt like.
Brannon peered into the hotel ballroom filled with young, fresh faces and knew he did not belong here. Even Lady Harriet Reed-Fletcher seemed his junior in age. However, it wasn’t the first time he loomed out-of-place. Every wedding he ever attended, including his own, for instance.
Brannon watched the guests saunter the wood plank sidewalk to come to Lady Fletcher’s benefit party. The north and south Ridge Path with flat terrain, less than a mile long, tucked in the woods, showed hikers the way down to the estuary at Little Beach. It wound among hemlocks, spruce and shore pine and offered shelter from the stronger winds and salty sprays. Another way to experience Gearhart.
Several couples lingered under the maple woods and exchanged whispered conversations. He thought of those long ago days with Lisa… and more recently with Victoria. “I’ve known love like that,” he muttered to himself, then quietly addressed the far-away lovers. “It’s a wonderful experience. Enjoy it while you can.”
Self-consciousness washed over him when Lady Fletcher tucked her arm in his. Her jade dress had a graceful poof in front and tucked over her slim waist with a matching sash. “It’s the grande promenade. They say it follows an ancient Indian trail known as the Ridge Path.”
They side-stepped through waves of trailing skirts and broad-brimmed hats with dangled ribbons and masses of feathers. Brannon spied a stuffed hummingbird on top of one.
