by Stephen Bly
Brannon started to hand out the small packages of candy to each of the orphans that Lady Fletcher had prepared for them. “Wait until after the pageant,” she prompted.
The orphans acted out some scenes from Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist, then all the orphans and the staff were called on the stage for a final bow. Wax Lanigan took their picture with a folding Kodak Brownie camera.
Brannon and a crowd of others admired it.
“They’ll make improvements. The larger cameras still take better, more permanent photographs.” Lanigan aimed the camera at Brannon.
He turned away. “I’ve had enough for a lifetime.”
Laira rushed up to her mother after the event. “Can we keep one of the orphans for a few days?”
“What on earth for?”
“How about Bueno, the hero? He could stay with me in my room. I have a partition. We can take him back Saturday, after the golf tournament.”
“Laira, these kids aren’t like pets for your diversion.”
“Oh, please, Mum. I want to do something good for someone.”
Lady Fletcher checked with Director Sam Smythe. He gave permission for Bueno to stay over Wax Lanigan’s objections. “The Fletchers are quite capable,” Smythe said.
“To be sure,” then Lanigan offered Lady Fletcher a profuse apology. “I didn’t want you to be ill-disposed in any way by the boy. They can be quite a challenge.”
Lady Fletcher patted Lanigan’s shoulder in appreciation. “Perhaps he can room with you, Brannon. You don’t have to care for him. Laira will do that. It shouldn’t intrude with your search for Tom Wiseman.”
Brannon hesitated. “There’s no place for him. You see, I invited some ladies to stay in my room.”
Lady Fletcher turned crimson. “Oh, Stuart, I had no idea.”
“No, it’s not like that. They were in a tent out in the park and it was raining and the tent had holes.”
“Ah, the compassionate Brannon.”
“I believe that Edwin will remember them. They are the Lazzard twins from Paradise Meadow.”
“Oh?” The way Lady Fletcher crooked her head indicated an imminent inquisition. Brannon made a mental note to warn Edwin.
“In fact, they wanted me to ask you to invite them to a party or two of yours. They’re from San Francisco now and want to get acquainted.”
“My, Stuart, we’ve got our hands full with your bevy of women.”
Brannon blew out a breath and scratched his head. “It’s not what you think. I know it sounds…”
Lady Fletcher lightly touched his arm. “I’ll stop by your room and investigate them myself.”
Fifteen
Brannon noticed Lanigan and Rebozo engaged in deep conversation by the stage. When Rebozo walked by, Brannon asked him about their relationship.
“Well, we’ve got the same vice: poker,” Rebozo explained.
“I hear gambling debts can corral mighty poor company.”
“I play smart and prefer partners who do too.”
“Got a game going around here?”
“At Seaside. This town’s as dry as a sunstruck cactus. And Lanigan’s a calculating player. I like the challenge. Never seen him lose a big hand yet of any significant money. Very cautious. If he’s not absolutely sure he has the best cards, he’s out. Me, on the other hand…”
Madam Cob, whom he heard addressed in his presence several times as Mrs. Jedediah Acorn, widowed, cozied up to him like a lifelong friend. “Mr. Brannon, we heard about your attack in the streets by some Serbian diamond smugglers. Do tell us about it.”
“Serbian?” Mrs. Gillespie had sidled up to Rebozo without Brannon’s notice even though she had added purple feathers to her already large hat. “No, no, no. I was told he got throttled by Romanian acrobats.”
Mrs. Acorn gently tucked her arm through his one decent sleeve. “Will this be in your next book? You know, my name is Patricia, but I have always wanted my name to be spelled Patresha. When you write the Serbian or Romanian chapter about my eyebrow signal that saved your life, could you spell it that way?”
The slightest swish of a lavender dress and a whiff of perfume closed in as Mrs. Gillespie took up residence on Brannon’s other arm. “Don’t be silly, Patricia. You’ll need to discuss that with his editor, Mr. Hawthorne Miller.”
“Or to a real Serbian,” Rebozo interjected.
The two women flashed him adoring smiles, then turned back to Brannon.
Brannon took a deep breath and both enjoyed and regretted it as the ladies’ competing perfumes filled his lungs. “Mr. Miller is the actual writer. I have nothing to do with his books, especially the royalties.”
Patricia Acorn brushed his shoulder with a yellow silk handkerchief. “And so modest too.”
“But a bit scruffy, don’t you think?” Rebozo pulled at his arm as he winced.
“It wouldn’t be right somehow if Stuart Brannon didn’t look a bit bashed,” Mrs. Acorn huffed. “That’s the excitement of sharing the same room with him. One never knows when one could get robbed or clobbered, even shot.”
Lord Fletcher rescued him, but it was to a storm brewing and it wasn’t long until Brannon fumed with himself about his generosity to the Lazzard twins.
Sorry, Edwin.
“I knew about the Lady McNeil stories, but hadn’t heard about these women,” Lady Fletcher remarked.
“But we only knew them for a day or two,” Edwin tried to explain. “I got rid of them as quick as possible. Sent them to San Francisco.”
“Hmmm… sent them. So, you paid their way?”
“It appeared to be the best way to handle the situation. Tell her, Stuart.”
“I wasn’t there at the time exactly. I freed them from jail and told Edwin to take care of them and he did.” Brannon knew he wasn’t helping much. Edwin’s look of defeat confirmed it.
As rumors of the Lazzard twins circulated the party, Brannon realized it was now public knowledge that he would be sleeping out on the beach. He had no reason to skulk out with his gear. He marched in plain view towards the final rays of sunset over the ocean, streaks of red-orange, peach, and deep purple reflected in the wide swath of sea. A gold-yellow cloud halo hung over Tillamook Head.
As the waves tumbled in the distance, Brannon stretched his bedroll on a flattened place of the tall dune grass. A bright, almost full moon glowed through. Puffy clouds, a mixture of charcoal and marshmallow, chugged across the darkened azure sky. He reflected on what he had learned about Tom Wiseman and what he should do next to find him.
Brannon knew Wiseman had many Indian friends through his duties as a U.S. Marshal and contacts with the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Many Indians were scattered throughout this area and signs indicated recent fires on the beach. Maybe he should contact the nearby tribes or clans. He would search for the Nicaraguan and Frenchman too.
He tried to relax every muscle and almost drifted to sleep when he jumped up and slapped his arms and legs and face. Tiny pricks all over. Stings up and down his arms. He grabbed up his bedroll and shook it out as hard as he could as his legs threatened to turn to jelly.
Mosquitoes? Sand fleas?
With great reluctance, Brannon abandoned his grassy hideaway and ventured out onto the open beach. He gathered driftwood and bits of bark to start a fire, in hopes of warding off the insects. He drank his coffee straight off the campfire from a chipped blue enamel tin cup. “Well, world,” he muttered. “Here I am for all to see. One easy target.”
He searched the horizons that had turned indigo after the iridescent sunset for any movement of suspicious shadows. Satisfied that he was alone on this piece of beach, he settled down for another try at sleep. As he dozed on and off, he surrendered to a strange dream.
A beach stretched with pebbles, not sand, for miles. As he walked along barefoot, he faced a fork forced by a stream. He didn’t know which way to go, but he felt certain the choice was important.
He decided to try a couple miles on each side and starte
d to the right. He stumbled on tree roots, then tripped over a man’s body half-buried in a strip of sand. The man raised an arm in greeting. He resembled Tally Rebozo.
“Are you a Serbian spy? Are you a Serbian spy?” Brannon goaded him over and over.
Finally, the man spit out a spray of sand to reply. “Doesn’t matter. Serbians don’t care about your country or the Panama Canal or Tom Wiseman. Remember that. And they don’t give a hoot about you.”
Brannon pounded stakes to mark the path back to the man. Along the way, he passed several abandoned campsites he hadn’t noticed before. A huge wave swelled over him. Trout and salmon flopped around on the shore.
Fish. What did this have to do with fish?
Brannon woke to pungent, salty sea smells, a clap like thunder, and a man towering over him. He aimed his Colt through the thin blanket.
“You always sleep with a cocked revolver?” Rebozo said.
“A habit from the old days.”
“I’ll bet it has stunted your social life.”
What social life? Point taken. “Funny, I was just dreaming about you.”
Brannon tried to shake off the dream when about ten horses splashed the surf and roared past them. Although he hadn’t noticed a rider, a spear soared a few feet away, missing them both. After the rumble faded, Brannon stretched out to pull up the spear. Hand carved. Rough wood. No markings. A threat or a warning? Or a simple greeting?
They both studied the six-foot long spear.
“Someone trying to stick you?” Rebozo asked.
“If so, not a great aim.”
Brannon gathered his gear and they shuffled along the beach. The sky was scattered with gray clouds and streaked with light, as though uncertain what kind of day to be. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“Checking up on my assignment. So, what was your dream? Did we do something exciting, like find Tom Wiseman? Was Lady Fletcher chasing us?”
“No women, not even Sharon Gillespie.”
“Pay attention to your dreams. They can conceal messages. Someone could be trying to tell you something.” He aimed a finger above.
Sixteen
Tuesday, June 13
Sylvia Wiseman accosted him before he reached the hotel café. She wore the same tweed suit as the previous day, but had added a fur hat without the wrap. They passed a sign that said: “Good meals: fifteen cents and up. Fine meals served at all hours.”
The two of them sat down at a table for four and the waitress slid off two sets of silverware.
“My name’s Katie and I am your server.” She had a friendly, open face. She gave the impression that if she heard restaurant gossip she’d put a positive outcome to it.
“How are you today, Katie?” Brannon noticed bear meat as a menu item. Maybe another time.
“Fine as long as I don’t have to work fifteen hour days.”
Sylvia ordered a boiled egg and toast. Brannon wanted the special: ham, omelet, hashed potatoes and a stack of pancakes with blackberry syrup.
“I’ve been on the telephone already this morning,” she announced. “Sully grabbed two of those ruffians who shot at us last night. And Cordelle’s still working hard to follow up on his orphans. One he fears is involved with that young gang. He’s real concerned about a seventeen-year-old named Mort. He ran away from his foster home in Portland after some friends influenced him to do some petty theft. Made major problems for his assigned family.”
“So, the boy’s roaming the streets of Seaside?”
“Yes, Cordelle told him that at the least he could be arrested for vagrancy. And with the mood of the Seaside citizens right now, he could be implicated in much worse. He’s too old to go to the orphan farm, so Cordelle’s making arrangements for him to live with a farmer in the area.”
“Why shoot at us?” Brannon asked as Katie poured each of them steaming cups of coffee.
“That’s just it. They don’t seem to have any motive. Sully thinks maybe the new members of the gang are trying to prove they’re tough enough to join by random acts of mayhem.”
Maybe the orphans do need more help around here. “Is that all you talked about?”
She blushed. “There were other items. Which reminds me, I asked Lady Fletcher to find out if any of Papa’s belongings had been saved from his room.”
“What did you find?”
She read from a handwritten note. “A Remington bolt-action rifle, a duffle with clothes and personal items, pair of shoes, extradition papers for Chuy Carbón, information on the backgrounds of half a dozen engineers that included the Frenchman, Bois DeVache, and a list of telephone numbers that I was surprised had the name of Geoff Wiseman beside one.”
“Geoff Wiseman? A relative?”
“Papa’s brother. They have been estranged for years, all my life at least.”
“I didn’t know he had a brother. What was the rift?”
“They both dated my mother. Papa talked her into an elopement the very night he knew Uncle Geoff wanted to ask her to marry him. Uncle Geoff left the family and the state after that. I know my father wrote to him at least once a year, but we hadn’t heard from him since.”
“Maybe Tom was going to contact him, try to reconcile.”
“I called that number. Talked to Uncle Geoff’s wife. Papa did attempt a contact. Uncle Geoff died last year. His wife said the official cause was listed as epilepsy. But she confessed later in our talk that he drank himself to death. She sounded like a nice woman. I’ll go see her sometime.”
Brannon sat down at a table and looked at the day’s menu. “That must have been so tough on Tom…”
Sylvia looked at her ringless hands. “On a happier note, there’s more. In Papa’s goods, I found a gift wrapped in white lawn material with my name attached.”
“Did you open it?”
“No, my birthday isn’t until Sunday.”
“Oh, well, maybe we’ll find Tom and he can present it to you himself.”
“That would be more than delightful. Meanwhile, I’m going to check the rest of the phone numbers and talk to Mr. Carbón myself… right after I phone Seaside again.”
“And I’ve got to contact Tally Rebozo, at least to know where he is and to see what he’s up to.”
Sylvia gave him a quizzical look. “You his brother’s keeper?”
Brannon searched for Lady Fletcher and found her in the kitchen giving orders to the hotel staff.
She read another postcard to him from granddaughter, Elizabeth, written by her mother: “Porky the bull got loose out of the fence. Papa fell off his horse trying to rope Porky. Got him back through the gate. Papa has a broken arm and sore ribs. We miss you, Grandpa.”
After inquiries about Tally Rebozo produced no results, Brannon hiked to the hotel barn to saddle up Tres Vientos. He planned to investigate the beach, hills, and forest areas for signs or clues of the whereabouts of Tom Wiseman. But I’ll start with a ride through town. Sure won’t take long.
He counted about forty stalls and found the big black gelding in #35. He called to the horse. No movement. Brannon nudged him. He wouldn’t come. As hard as he coaxed, Tres Vientos refused to leave the barn.
I guess I finally found a bronc I can’t ride… my own.
“I will help you, Mr. Brannon.” Bueno, the orphan, rushed to stall #34. He led out a well-groomed, well-fed, probably never overworked white Arabian mare. “This is Amble, Lady Laira’s horse. She wants me to take special care of her.”
“Lady Laira? Is she considered a Lady?”
“I do not know. That is what she told me to call her. Now, watch.”
Bueno led Amble out of the barn and Tres Vientos followed as calm as can be. “I will go with you as far as the beach, but then I must get back. Lady Laira has errands for me.”
“You seem to know a thing or two about horses.”
“I can tell which is a dun and what’s a buckskin and that paint and pinto are colors not breeds. I learned that from Miss Tagg. She knows lots about
horses.”
“What else did you learn?”
“Every horse is different, so you gotta figure out its likes and dislikes, treat ’em like people.”
Brannon held the reins as the horses shuffled down a trail and out to the sand. But as soon as Bueno and Amble turned back towards the barn, Tres Vientos flipped around and headed that way too.
Brannon tried to talk to him. “Come on, boy, we’ve got work to do. You’ll like it out here with the sand, wind and water… once you get used to it. Stick with me, you’ll be safe and secure.” Tres Vientos balked and would not budge.
Brannon finally gave up, but he couldn’t help grumble. “I don’t have time for this. He’s fearful of this new environment. I guess I better bring some apples or carrots with me next time, like I did when he was young and ornery. Meanwhile, I need transportation. How can a horse that helps me drive cattle and ride miles of fence in the desert be so useless here?”
I guess I should have considered that before I drug him out here to a strange land.
“I could ask Lady Laira if you can borrow her horse, you know, as a companion?” Bueno suggested.
“No, definitely not.”
“Well, there is a bicycle shop right down the street.”
“Bicycle?” Brannon hooted.
“Or you could rent a motorcar?” The boy’s forehead furrowed in concentration.
“You don’t have to worry about it. Sounds like you’ve got your time spoken for with Madam Laira. You get along.”
“No, sir, I won’t worry about it because you’re Stuart Brannon. You’ll think of something. You always do.” The boy made a kind of salute, then ran into the barn.
Brannon stalled Tres Vientos in #35 and stomped out. Now what?
He charged forward again for the seashore and stopped. “Now, which way is that bike shop Bueno mentioned?”
