by Vicki Delany
“Where’s Irene?” the voice demanded from inside.
“Miss Davidson is here,” McKnight said. “But I regret to say I cannot allow her to talk to you as long as you have that firearm.”
“Ask her if she’s ready to catch the noon steamboat,” Maggie shouted.
The Mounties looked at each other in disbelief.
“Tell her to let Angus go,” I said. “Why is Mrs. MacGillivray still here?” McKnight asked no one in particular. “Did I not order you to step back, madam?”
“You most certainly did, Inspector,” I replied. “In light of that order, let me say to you…”
“Fiona,” Richard almost shouted, “please let us do our jobs here.”
“Very well.” I stepped off the boardwalk and felt something squish between my toes. Ignoring it, I crossed my arms over the hideous brown jacket. Everyone’s honour having been satisfied, McKnight turned back to his men.
The crowd was growing again. Customers of the Vanderhaege sisters’ bakery had sensed that something was happening and wandered over to have a look. The smell of rich coffee and freshly baked waffles gave the situation the air of a church fête in a pleasant English village.
“Fiona, what is happening here?” Men stepped aside to let Euila Forester through.
“Nothing.” “It doesn’t look like nothing,” she said, quite sensibly.
“Martha left a note saying she was coming here to do some early morning interviews. She left her watch beside the wash basin.” Euila dug in her reticule and pulled out the instrument under discussion. “She hates to be without her watch. Looking at it makes her appear to be someone with important people to see.”
“Euila,” I said, slowly and calmly, “right now, I don’t give a fuck about Martha’s watch.”
She looked as if she’d been slapped. It was unlikely Euila knew what that word meant, but she knew when she’d been insulted.
Instead of taking offence, she spoke calmly. “It’s obvious something is seriously wrong, Fiona. Where is Angus?”
I mutely pointed to the Savoy.
She could put two and two together and come up with four. “I assume Martha is with him?”
I nodded.
Euila slipped her arm around my shoulders. It was a bit of a stretch for her. “I’ll wait here with you, shall I?”
“I’d like that.”
“Do you remember the time Percy thought he’d shot himself in the foot when he and Father were hunting grouse?”
I nodded.
“He missed, fortunately, but the birdshot kicked up a jagged-edged rock that struck his foot. Do you remember all the yelling and fuss when they carried him back to the house? Percy screaming at the top of his lungs that he’d be a cripple for life, and Father shouting at him to keep quiet.”
“Your mother fainted.”
“She never was much good in a crisis, Mother. Poor Mother, she was never much good at life.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Euila.”
“I’m glad I’m here, too, Fiona.”
Irene joined us. She shook her head. “They won’t let me talk to Martha.”
“Mrs. MacGillivray, please let your friends take you home; this is no place for a lady.” Sergeant Lancaster had arrived.
“Go away.”
“She’s upset,” Euila explained.
“Damn right I’m upset.”
“Your language, Mrs. MacGillivray,” Lancaster said. I’d never noticed before how much he resembled Miss Wheatley at her sternest.
“My language,” I said, “will be the least of your worries, Sergeant, if you don’t leave me alone.”
Lancaster decided to avoid a confrontation he couldn’t possibly win. “I’ll see if I can be of assistance.” He puffed his chest up before joining the group of Mounties in quiet conversation on the boardwalk. Richard Sterling had crept under the windows, trying to peek in, but the curtains, made by Helen Saunderson, were good, unlike most of the rest of the Savoy, which would fall apart in a strong wind.
Two constables came down into the crowd and politely requested that everyone move away. “Nothing to see here,” they said. The statement, of course, had the exact opposite effect. The men had been starting to break up; everyone knew the Savoy was normally closed in the early morning, so no one could suspect they were being kept out. Once I’d put the brown and mustard jacket on, the peep show was over. A few men might have the intelligence to wonder why I was standing in the street outside my own property, while the Mounties huddled in a group whispering to each other at the door, and Constable Sterling attempted to peer in the windows, but the sort of men who gathered on Front Street in the early morning weren’t known for the sharpness of their intellect.
All they needed to remain in place was an order from the police to disperse.
The waiter from the Imperial restaurant stopped one of the young Mounties. “That woman,” he shouted, “didn’t pay her bill. Ten dollars!” he waved the paper in the air. Even over my terror for my son, I was shocked that anyone would spend ten dollars for a breakfast. “Arrest her!” the waiter demanded.
The crowd’s attention turned. A low mumble began at the back of the pack as word spread that someone was asking the police to arrest the most popular performer in town.
“I’m sorry, but that will have to wait, sir,” the Mountie said.
“What sort of town are you running here?” the waiter demanded. “I’ve told you that woman is a thief.”
The crowd growled. A white-faced Euila hugged me. The Mountie’s face had gone as red as his jacket. He looked for assistance from the officers on the boardwalk, who were paying him no attention, and then his partner, who was busy trying to send the back of the pack on their way.
“A misunderstanding. Easy to clear up.” Big Alex Macdonald pulled out his billfold. “Allow me to settle the lady’s account.” He peeled off several bills and pressed them into the waiter’s hand. The man stuffed the money into his apron pocket and walked away without another word.
Alex looked at me and gave the slightest of nods. “You men,” he bellowed in a voice pitched to carry to the very back of the crowd. “Why don’t we do as these fine officers suggest? The Monte Carlo’s open. First round’s on me.”
The men set off up the street like a pack of dogs catching the whiff of a bitch in heat. True to his word, Alex followed, at a more dignified pace.
“That was slick,” one of the young Mounties said to no one in particular.
Only a few onlookers remained, those more interested in the goings-on at the Savoy than a free drink. Among them, Graham Donohue, of course. I could see Mouse O’Brien tearing up the street. His collar was loose and his cravat badly tied.
“Miss Witherspoon, where is she?” Mouse gasped. He’d been running hard.
“Inside,” Euila said, before I could stop her. “She’s inside, being held hostage by a woman gone mad. And poor young Angus too.”
Mouse pushed his way (as Mouse tended to do) past the two young constables who’d reassembled at the foot of the boardwalk and fell into intense conversation with the Mounties gathered around the door to the Savoy. Mouse gestured wildly; McKnight lifted his chin and looked authoritative; Lancaster kept glancing at me; Richard tried to persuade everyone to calm down; Graham Donohue edged forward, ears flapping.
The men all eyed each other for a few moments. I almost expected them to lower their heads and charge. Then, with a growl, Mouse turned and stalked away.
He passed two people I hadn’t seen arrive. They were standing by themselves, just watching: vultures, waiting for the kill. Joey Leblanc and her employee Al Black.
Joey saw me looking at her, and the edges of her thin lips turned up in a malicious smile. Today, she was just an onlooker, hoping to be witness to my misfortune. I had no doubt that one day she’d be the instigator of it.
I’d worry about Joey another time.
* * *
Angus wanted nothing more than a drink of water. His mouth was
so dry it made him think of the men of the French Foreign Legion, whom he’d read about in his boys’ adventure stories, marching through the North African desert.
Miss Brandon had scarcely moved a muscle since Constable Sterling had left the Savoy. She twitched occasionally, and once she rubbed at the arm that was holding the gun to Miss Witherspoon’s head. That was all.
Angus had gotten a glimpse of his mother in the doorway before Constable Sterling practically carried her away.
Miss Brandon ordered him to lock the door, but as he fumbled at the lock, Miss Witherspoon let out a low moan, and Miss Brandon growled at her to keep quiet. Angus didn’t let the lock catch.
Since then, he’d heard a mass of men gathering on the street, and Inspector McKnight asking if he could come in, but mostly nothing but the sound of Maggie Brandon breathing and Martha Witherspoon weeping.
“I’m sure thirsty,” Angus said, barely able to force the words past his parched throat. “You must be too, Miss Brandon. Can I get you a glass of water?”
“No.”
“Miss Witherspoon would probably like a drink.”
“No.”
“We can’t sit here all day, you know. My mother will be around soon to open for business.”
“Once Irene gets here, we’ll be gone. Boat leaves at noon. I’ve bought the tickets already.”
“That’s great,” Angus said. “There’s quite a crowd outside. Can you hear them, Miss Brandon?”
“Yes.”
“Miss Davidson probably can’t get past them. You know what a mob like that’s like. Most of them with nothing better to do. My mother says they’re the curse of Dawson—no money to spend, nothing to do, no interest in finding work.”
“Layabouts, scavengers,” Miss Brandon agreed.
“Poor Miss Davidson trying to push her way through that lot.” Angus shook his head sadly.
Miss Brandon turned and fully looked at him for the first time. Wood creaked in the back rooms, but Maggie didn’t notice. Her gun hand moved away from Miss Witherspoon’s head so it was pointed directly at the portrait of Her Majesty hanging over the bar. “I suppose I could let you go outside and tell her I’m waiting in here. Would you do that for me, boy?”
Angus nodded. Trying to look sympathetic and friendly, he started to edge off his stool.
A shape moved at the doors leading to the gambling rooms. This time it was not a rat.
It was a Mouse.
Mouse O’Brien.
Mouse tossed a long, desperate look at Martha Witherspoon, now lying almost prostrate across the table. Then he looked at Maggie Brandon. Angus tried not to look at Mouse. “That’s a great idea, Miss Brandon,” he said as the man stepped cautiously into the saloon. Mouse pressed his six foot-seven height and two-hundred-and-fifty pound weight into a loose floorboard. The board snapped.
Maggie Brandon swung around.
She fired.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Inspector McKnight was telling the assembled Mounties that it was unlikely they would be able to save the hostages.
Of paramount importance, he said, was the capturing or killing of the hostage-taker.
Sterling looked at Fiona MacGillivray, wrapped in her friend’s embrace. Her face was white with fear, but even with hair resembling that of one of the witches from Macbeth, she looked both strong and beautiful. He knew then that he didn’t care one whit what happened to Maggie Brandon—he’d pay for her steamboat fare out of the country himself if Angus was spared.
Fiona felt his eyes on her, and she raised her heavy lashes. Her glance hit him like a bolt of lightning. He forced his attention back to what McKnight was telling his officers.
“When women go bad, it’s a particularly dangerous thing. Their monthly cycles turn some of them into mad things.”
One of the men, who’d hardly started shaving yet, asked his companion what a monthly cycle was.
None of the Mounties carried firearms. The force kept a Magnum machine gun at Chilkoot Pass, mainly to keep the infamous Soapy Smith of Skagway, Alaska, off the Pass and out of Canada. And that was about it for the firepower of Her Majesty’s North-West Mounted Police in the Yukon Territory. There might be a few guns locked up in the store rooms, but if there were, no one had thought to bring them along.
Sterling stepped forward. “We have to proceed cautiously, sir,” he said. “Brandon has asked for Irene Davidson. Miss Davidson is here, willing to do anything she can to help. I suggest we ask her to shout into the Savoy and try to mollify Brandon.”
“We don’t mollify madwomen, Constable Sterling, we overwhelm them.”
“I want to help.” Irene Davidson stepped forward. “Maggie only wants to talk to me.”
“If you would please go and join the other ladies, Miss Davidson,” McKnight said.
“But…”
“This is a police matter; the assistance of women is not required. You’re only causing a disturbance and a distraction.”
Richard Sterling had been demoted once; he knew he now stood at the edge of outright dismissal. “With all due respect, sir,” he said, trying not to scream his frustration, “there are two civilians in there. A woman and a child.”
“Nevertheless…”
Before McKnight finished his sentence, a shot rang out.
* * *
I was about to shrug Euila’s arm off me. Time had long past for someone to do something. There was a woman in there with my son, holding a gun. She wanted Irene Davidson: I would see she got Irene Davidson. If I shoved Euila with enough force to send her floundering in the street, I could grab Irene and make a dash for the door. We’d be inside while the Mounties, gentlemen all, were rushing to assist Euila. Richard might present a problem, but if I had to, I could stop Richard Sterling in his tracks—one way or another—while Irene got through the door.
Would Irene do it?
I had no idea.
I could only make sure she had no choice.
For my plan to work, the door would have to be unlocked. Had I reminded Angus to lock it? I couldn’t remember. I considered going around the back but didn’t know if the back door was locked either. Ray had a set of keys, but Ray wasn’t here. And there was no time to send for him.
I flexed my toes, and pain shot through me so sharply, I gasped. Euila murmured soothingly, “It’ll be all right, Fiona, you’ll see.”
Pain be damned, I would save my child. I gritted my teeth and started to move into the half-turn that would break Euila’s hold with my body, while at the same time my raised leg would knock her legs out from under her.
Before I could move, everything changed. A single shot came from inside the Savoy. A woman screamed. I was so startled I grabbed Euila to keep her from falling. Then I was on my way, leaping up to the boardwalk and past the Mounties.
Only Richard Sterling moved faster than I.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Not much care or attention to detail had gone into the building of the Savoy; the door was soft and badly fitted into its hinges. Richard Sterling threw himself against the door. Unlocked, it crashed open under his weight.
Martha Witherspoon lay across the big central table, screaming at the top of her lungs. Angus MacGillivray was running across the floor, heading for a large body lying at the entrance to the gambling hall. A big man was face down on the floor, blood leaking out from under him. Maggie Brandon still held her pistol, but she appeared vague and confused, as if she didn’t seem to know quite what to do with it.
Sterling charged across the saloon; he vaulted over a chair lying overturned in the middle of the room.
Remembering what the gun was for, Brandon raised it slowly, and aimed it straight at Sterling’s gut. He stopped.
“Put the gun down, ma’am. It’s all over.”
With a flurry of Dawson mud, red silk and black hair, Fiona MacGillivray streamed past him. “You can shoot me, you bitch,” she shouted, “but you leave my son alone.” Fiona ran past Brandon, who didn’t even f
linch. Reaching Angus, who was crouching over the body lying limp on the floor, she gathered him into her arms.
“Maggie.” Irene Davidson had followed Sterling. He turned to see her standing in the doorway, the morning light around her. A dark shape was behind her, the Mountie hat unmistakeable, the features in shadow. Behind him, a cluster of officers.
Two men had been dispatched to try to get in through the back and determine if there was a way to gain access to the saloon safely and quietly. They hesitated in the doorway to the gambling hall, waiting for orders.
Martha Witherspoon looked up. Her eyes were wide with terror. She didn’t move.
“Maggie, put the gun down,” Irene said, her voice calm. “I have the tickets.” Brandon patted her skirt pocket with her free hand. “We’re leaving on the noon boat. San Francisco is supposed to be a good place.”
“A very nice place, I’m sure, but I’m not going with you, Maggie.”
Sterling wanted to scream at her. To tell Irene to play along. If they could get Brandon to think she would get what she wanted and put the gun down, it would all be over.
“Not going?” “No. I want to stay in Dawson. They like me here, Maggie.”
“They like you,” Brandon said, her words carrying the weight of the world behind them. Her head and shoulders shook like a dog coming out of the sea, and she raised the gun with steady hands. “Who the hell cares what they like. You belong with me. Once we’re away from this wicked place, you’ll see that all the fancy women mean nothing. You’ll understand I’m the only one.”
“No, I won’t.” Miss Davidson’s voice was a whisper. “I’m staying, Maggie. Why did you have to kill them? That man? I scarcely even knew him.”
“He was a sneak, always watching, listening, following people. He knew about us. He wanted money to keep quiet.”
“Chloe? She was harmless.”
“She had to die.” Brandon started to cry. Big, fat tears ran silently down her cheeks. “That ugly strumpet fooled you; she wasn’t your friend.”
