Second Chance (The Deadman Series Book 5) Read online

  Matthew studied the faces that surrounded him and knew Annie was right. He had no clue how to orchestrate a high-society ball or, for that matter, how to act like he even belonged to the more elevated peerage needed to pull off their sting operation.

  Shoulders drooping, he murmured, “Okay, I know when I’m beat. Still…” he turned to his son. “You have made arrangements for the best guards to accompany you, right?”

  His son nodded. “Yes, Pa. They are good men. We’ll go straight to Mrs. Castle’s house, have tea, talk a little while and then, come straight back here.”

  “When are you leaving?” Matthew asked.

  Annie said, “Our meeting takes place in a little over an hour. It will take about a half hour to get there, so we should be heading out soon.” She walked up and put a gloved hand on Matthew’s sleeve. “Thank you, Matthew, for trusting us. We’ll be back before you know it.” Turning to Chance, she said, “There is a change of clothes laid out on your bed, Chance. Hurry now, so we’re not late!”

  Matthew watched as Chance scurried off to change clothes and wished there was something he could do, or say, to change today’s events but he knew that his fears were probably groundless. Too much had happened to the ones he loved, though, to ever sit easy when it came to criminals and their doings.

  He walked over to the room’s large buffet table and helped himself to eggs, bacon and bread as the rest of his friends and family scurried about in preparation. Finally, Chance stepped into the room and his father couldn’t help but stare. “Well, you dandy up real nice, son…” Matthew said with a grin.

  Chance pulled at the dark green silk bowtie at his neck and grimaced. “There’s a good reason I hate dressing up in monkey suits, Pa!” Although the young man clearly felt uncomfortable in his new duds, he looked as though he had been born to it—which, of course, he had, although Matthew had never forced him to participate in high-society events.

  Dove gray pants and a matching suit jacket fit him like a glove and a snowy white shirt seemed to illuminate his red hair, which Chance had tied back in a neat queue. Annie had also picked out a vest in shades of blue, green, gray and rust. The garment spoke of wealth and plenty—an affectation necessary if they hoped to blend in to the rarified circles of Seattle’s higher echelon.

  Matthew stood up and extended his hand. “Good luck, son. Be on your guard at all times. I know that, even as we speak, forces are moving against us!”

  “Chance shook his father’s hand. “I know it, too, Pa. We’ll be careful, I promise!”

  Two hours later, Chance, Annie, Hannah and Fanny sat in a lovely, feminine tea room in the Castle House. Tea and small crust-less cucumber, fish paste and egg sandwiches had already been served and the dishes cleared away for the arrival of sweet cakes and cookies.

  Fanny Castle sat in pensive silence, staring at the tips of her velvet house shoes as she processed the information Annie Thurston had just given her. At first, she had been somewhat irritated that Annie was clearly trying to introduce a low-born woman into high-society circles. Fanny did not consider herself a snob, but after taking one look at the young woman, she had known that the girl was no debutante.

  Oh, she was lovely and her clothes were impeccable, of course, (thanks to Miss Thurston) but once Hannah’s snowy white gloves came off, the girl’s rough palms and broken fingernails were tell-tale enough to inform the older woman that the girl was a poseur.

  In addition, proper young ladies were taught to never look their betters (or an oldster) in the eye, and this little miss stared back at her as fearlessly as a cat at a mouse!

  Still, Hannah seemed sweet enough and so did her companion, a handsome young man named Chance Wilcox. He did seem to belong, somehow, to the upper-class but he acted as if that knowledge brought him no joy and the clothes he wore…no comfort. Still, Fanny believed in bearding the goat.

  Once the tea was brought in from the kitchen and her servants left the room, she had turned to Annie and said, “No offense to you, my dear, or your guests but…you are proposing that I introduce a ‘nobody’ to society?”

  Hannah looked down at her lap, blushing bright red in humiliation. Annie put her hand on the girl’s sleeve in comfort, glancing over at Chance who acted like he wanted to give the old woman a piece of his mind.

  Smiling, she said to Fanny, “It’s a ruse, of course, as I’m sure you know. Now, if you will allow me to explain?” Twenty minutes later, Fanny sat in silence…both horrified and, unfortunately, not in the least bit surprised.

  Fanny and Stephen Castle had been married when she was only a teenager, a silly and romantic sixteen-year-old. She (and her concerned parents) carried a secret…one that caused her great shame. Fanny’s lower spine was as bent as a willow switch…the result of a brief but terrifying bout with polio. The condition was not life-threatening but it did cause a great deal of pain and made sexual intercourse almost impossible to endure.

  Once her wealthy father had announced the match, Fanny was both overjoyed at being wed to the handsome young attorney and terrified that he would reject her and her body in disgust. To her great relief, Stephen did not seem to mind in the least. The money in Fanny’s family was enticement enough, of course, but the young man honestly seemed to like her.

  They had been married for over thirty years now and although Fanny knew Stephen had entertained a number of mistresses over the many decades of their union he was a loyal, gentle and loving husband and, more importantly, her best friend. There had only, ever, been one fly in the ointment and that was Stephen’s lack of money.

  She couldn’t have cared less. Francis (Fanny) Blyght had been extremely wealthy as a young woman, and now that her parents were dead and buried she was one of the wealthiest women in America. She had always made her fortune available to her husband, and gladly, but Stephen was embarrassed—almost resentful of his “secondhand” wealth and had always done everything he could think of “to be his own man.”

  Fanny sighed in regret. Time and again, whenever she met with her accountant, she was given reports on her husband’s endeavors. Sometimes Stephen did very well, indeed. Despite his small salary (which he faithfully deposited into Fanny’s bank account every month), he had turned a profit on a number of business ventures. His excited joy and pride were evident and served to diminish the fact that many of his schemes failed, miserably.

  Although Fanny had always paid off his debts, Stephen’s financial solvency was one topic they never discussed, at least if she wanted the pleasure of his company at all. Shaking her head, Fanny now realized that Stephen’s recent absences lately, must stem from his relationship to that scoundrel, Edward Branson.

  She had always hated Edward, both for the sway he held over her beloved husband and the way Branson sometimes stared at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Suppressing a chill, Fanny knew that the man judged her and found her…wanting in every way…and completely disposable.

  Turning to Annie Thurston, Fanny said, “First, you need to elaborate on what Stephen has gotten himself into and then…” the old woman stared at Hannah for a moment, “we shall plan a coming-out ball for your young friend.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  An Unfortunate Turn of Events

  Chance wandered about the small parlor and made his way into a library as the women made plans for the upcoming ball. He was bored and wondered how long the preliminary preparations would take…knowing his Pa, Chance had no doubt that if too much time passed, Matthew would be sending out the Cavalry to fetch them back to the Thurston house.

  He plucked a book of poetry from the floor to ceiling shelves and made his way to an arm chair by the fireplace to wile the time, but paused by a window to catch a glimpse of the outside gardens before he sat down to read.

  He pulled a long, velvet panel aside and peered out at the front lawn, the high wrought iron fence surrounding the property and the two big, security gates standing guard at the street. One of the gates was shut but the other was ope
n, slightly, and seemed to be hanging askew of its supporting pole.

  Frowning in alarm, Chance looked closely at the vast grounds of Castle’s estate. Nothing seemed out of place but long, dark shadows stretched across the grass-like fingers grasping for purchase toward the house proper. Not knowing how he knew, Chance realized, suddenly, that their security had been breached.

  At that precise moment, the window in front of which he stood shattered, sprinkling his vest and pants in a hundred tiny shards of broken glass. Chance felt a sting on his right wrist, saw blood and lunged quickly to the left, to stand behind brick and lath rather than in an assassin’s sights.

  “Ladies, we are under attack!” he shouted. “Please arm yourselves and hide!”

  He heard a small squeal of alarm from the adjoining room and then Hannah hollered, “We’re okay, Chance. Be careful…” Chance heard a door closing and hoped it was the sound of the women finding their way to safety.

  Chance stared out the open doorway of the library into the hallway and wondered where the three guards were…had they been overcome or were they on the prowl, looking for the unwelcome intruders? He reached into his shoulder holster, grabbed his .38 revolver and groped, also, for the .22 in his right boot.

  He moved swiftly to the hallway and peered right and left toward the formal parlor. Immediately, he saw the still form of a man lying on the polished plank floor by the front doors. It was too dark in the house to make out who the man was, but Chance’s heart sank in his chest. He, himself, had assigned one of the guards to that precise spot, while the other two guards were stationed on the front porch.

  Biting his lower lip, Chance limped gingerly to where the man lay in the shadows. Cursing the pain that accompanied his movements, he stared at the guard’s body and saw the red gash on his neck that stretched from one ear to the other. Knowing that the man was dead, Chance tiptoed past a puddle of blood and peered through lace curtains by the front window.

  Looking to his left, he could see the toes of someone’s boots pointing skyward and he cursed under his breath. Whoever had breached the property was, apparently, a master at knife work and knew how to operate in complete silence. Feeling the flesh on the back of his neck crawl, Chance knew that his duty lie in protecting the women in his care.

  Holding his gun high, he lurched down the hallway again and entered the tea room. Looking right and left, actually feeling (if only in his imagination) the bite of honed steel on the soft flesh under his chin, Chance moved toward the back of the room. He figured there was some sort of bolt hole hidden there—otherwise, he would have seen the ladies leaving the tea room earlier.

  Chance had taken about eight steps when something registered in his peripheral vision. He stopped short and stared at a man who now sat in Fanny Castle’s recently vacated chair. He was an older man—probably in his middle sixties. His dark, thinning hair was oiled to a glossy sheen, and his fine, black day suit bulged at the shoulders and upper arms—a testament to the man’s size and strength, despite his advanced years.

  He was wiping blood and gore from the blade of a long machete-style knife and staring at Chance with wide, almost friendly eyes. “Who are you?” the man asked.

  Chance was trying to keep from trembling, and wondering whether he had enough time to point and fire his pistol before that sharp, gleaming weapon impaled him like a butterfly on a display board.

  The man frowned and picked up the large caliber pistol that sat next to him on the arm of the chair. Pointing it at Chance’s nose, he said, “Who are you and what are you doing in Stephen’s house?”

  “My…my name is Chance Wilcox. I am here to plan a ball,” Chance stuttered as the mouth of that oily, black pistol studied every pore on his face. He felt like an idiot…a small, scared idiot, afraid of the schoolyard bully.

  “Well, Chance, who wants to go to the ball, why don’t you let the ladies out of their bolt hole…it’s just there, by that little painting.”

  The gun moved to the left a bit and Chance turned around to look. Sure enough, there was a sort of door inset into the wall’s paneling. One push, Chance thought, and the hidden doorway would sag open.

  Turning to face the man in the chair again, Chance knew there was no way in hell he would expose the ladies in his care to this awful killer, unless it was over his own dead body. “No, I will not.” He replied in a flat voice.

  The man smiled. “Oh, so the boy who wants to dance has teeth!”

  Chance felt his fear turn into anger and he was glad. If he was to die here today, he wanted his death to be hard-fought, and achieved with some sort of dignity. “You bet I do, Mister, and you’ll feel my bite if you harm a hair on those women’s heads!”

  The man stopped smiling and stared up at Chance with solemn eyes. “Yes, Mr. Wilcox. I believe you would do your very best. Where is your papa today?”

  Chance was, once again, shocked to his toes. Who is this man who knows me and my Pa? he thought. “What does he want? Oh Pa…what should I do?”

  “That’s none of your business, sir.” Chance snarled. “Now, who are you and what do you want?”

  “My name is Timothy Farnsworth, Chance. I was sent here today to assassinate my oldest and closest friend. Where is Stephen, do you know?”

  Chance shook his head. “No, I don’t know where he is. The only people here today are innocent!”

  Farnsworth barked in laughter. “Innocent… you? I guess if hunting down and destroying the Trinity is the act of an innocent man, you and your father are as white as the driven snow! Now, call Fanny out here right now. I want to speak with her for a few minutes before I go.”

  Chance was steeling himself to die, after he denied the man a second time, when he heard the double snick of the hidden door behind him. Keeping his eyes on Farnsworth, Chance held one hand in the air behind him and said, “Mrs. Castle, no! Go back inside, where it’s safe!”

  Ignoring him, Fanny saw Timothy Farnsworth, her husband’s oldest and dearest friend, sitting in her favorite damask armchair. “Timmy! What is happening, my friend?” The old woman rushed to her uninvited guest in a rustle of taffeta and lace and knelt by his feet. Chance stood still, mouth agape, as the two older people embraced.

  Hannah and Annie came to stand by his side. Chance looked down at his new love and saw that she held her small .22 pistol in her hand, and Annie had somehow gotten her hands on a long, silver letter-opener. None of their weapons seemed necessary, though.

  Grasping Hannah and Annie’s elbows, Chance pushed them gently out into the hallway. “Go now! I don’t know if Farnsworth brought any men with him, but it’s not safe here…GO!”

  For a moment, it looked as if the women might argue, but Annie grasped Hannah’s arm and dragged her out the front door. “We’ll call the police, right away!” Annie cried as she left the house.

  For some reason, Chance felt that the police were unnecessary. Of course, the murderer inside of Fanny Castle’s tea-room needed to pay for his crimes…needed to be stopped, but Chance didn’t think the police would help matters.

  Stepping back inside the small tea room, Chance sat down and watched as the two older people talked. Fanny held a lace hankie to her eyes, trying, in vain, to stop tears from falling, while Tim Farnsworth held her left hand and spoke in a tone too low for Chance to hear.

  Fanny shook her head in denial and at one point her voice rose enough for Chance to hear her say, “No, Timmy, don’t!”

  Chance fingered his pistol again, wondering whether he should just put the old man down when he heard Farnsworth say, “I have no other choice, Fanny! Surely you know how I feel about Stephen.”

  Fanny nodded her head, and Chance thought she said, “Yes, my dear, and he loves you too, with all of his heart.”

  Then, before Chance had the time to make a decision—one way or the other—Farnsworth leaned forward, kissed Fanny Castle on the cheek, picked his pistol up and put a bullet in his own temple.

  Chance stood up in shock as Fanny Castle
cried out in mourning.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A Sorry Affair

  Fanny Castle’s butler rushed into the room. He stared at the body on the floor for a moment and at his mistress’ blood-soaked gown and horrified face. Then he led her, gently, out of the tea room. Chance, like most witnesses to suicide, felt shocked, angry and nauseated.

  On one hand, Farnsworth was clearly a dangerous man and had done many terrible things for the Trinity and his friend, Edward Branson. He should have stood trial and, hopefully, rotted in jail for his many misdeeds. He should have answered for his crimes!

  Instead, some terminal point within the man’s soul had been breached. He had been asked to perform a crime so heinous that his heart had broken in two. He had been asked to choose between his two oldest friends and, in the end, had chosen to terminate his own existence, rather than harm either of them.

  Filled with pity, Chance walked over to where Timothy Farnworth lie on the floor between a toppled chair and a high credenza by the wall. Blood had splattered everywhere, and Chance felt rage take over again. The man’s ruined face was, thankfully, turned down toward the Oriental rug, but that hadn’t stopped a spray of gore from covering—and ruining—a six-foot radius of Fanny’s fine tea room.

  “What a mess…” Chance murmured, feeling equal parts shame and horror at his own callousness and fury for Farnsworth’s selfish immolation—not only did the man perform his final, bloody act in his best friend’s house but he did it right in front of a woman he clearly loved!

  “Prick…” Chance whispered, and looked up as a number of policemen filled the room. “Put your gun down!” one of the officers cried.

  Chance stared at the pistol in his own hand and placed it, carefully, on the credenza. Then he put his hands in the air as he saw a number of police-issue firearms pointing his way.

  “Step away from the body, sir,” one of the policemen said. Chance took two long steps backward, out of the line of fire.