Second Chance (The Deadman Series Book 5) Page 15

  “Take your guns off my son!” a familiar voice rang out and Chance saw his father standing in the doorway. Matthew looked him up and down, and said, “Are you okay, son?”

  Chance felt tears sting his eyes, but he nodded stoically and said, “Yes, Pa. Mr. Farnsworth decided to put an end to things right here in Mrs. Castle’s tea room.”

  “I see that,” Matthew replied. “…and Mrs. Castle, is she alright?”

  Chance nodded. “Yes sir. Shook up some, but unharmed.”

  The sheriff in charge listened as the two detectives spoke and decided that they…and the frantic phone call from Annie Thurston…were on the level. “You can put your guns down, men,” he said, watching as his deputies holstered their pistols.

  Turning to Matthew, the sheriff said, “So, this can be written down as a domestic dispute and simple suicide?”

  Although this was much, much more than a domestic dispute or a simple suicide, Matthew was not prepared to involve the Seattle city police in this case. Not only did he, himself, have an unfortunate history with the King County sheriff’s department, but the sheriffs tended to run their own program and agendas, despite a civilian’s experience or knowledge of the case at hand.

  Nodding in agreement, he said, “Yes sir, I think so. My friend Annie Thurston, my son here, and his young lady friend were simply planning a ball with Mrs. Castle, when this man burst in. Luckily, Annie was able to escape and call you for help.” Looking the older, grizzled lawman in the eye, Matthew added, “Thank you for arriving so quickly, sir.”

  “Well, we will need to speak with Mrs. Castle now, and the rest of you at some point in the future…probably within a day or two,” the sheriff warned.

  “Absolutely, whatever you need,” Matthew replied, respectfully.

  Turning back to his deputies, the sheriff barked, “You two…wrap that body up and take it downtown to the mortuary. Pete, you take down these men’s addresses and phone numbers and Hal…you come with me to interview Mrs. Castle!”

  Turning back to face Matthew, the sheriff said, “Miss Thurston told me that you two are private detectives?”

  Matthew wondered if the legal shoe was about to drop. Nodding in the affirmative, Matthew said, “Yes, Sir…the Wilcox and Son Detective Agency—out of Spokane—at your service.”

  The sheriff harrumphed. “Well, I’m sure you are aware that you need a special license to operate in King County, right?” The old man’s eyebrows rose querulously over inquisitive, brown eyes.

  Matthew grinned, and lied through his teeth. “Yes, sir. Honestly, we are not here for work at all. Chance and I are simply here to visit with old friends and attend a ball…”

  Green eyes met brown in a silent standoff and then the sheriff stepped back. “Okay then, please don’t leave town without calling the sheriff’s office first, and try to stay out of trouble this time, Mr. Wilcox, while you are visiting our fair city.”

  The sheriff gave a small, knowing grin as he turned away and Matthew suddenly realized that this man knew exactly who he was—despite the years that had passed since he, himself, had put the King County sheriff’s department through the public and legal grinder for conspiracy and graft.

  Oh well, Matthew thought, at least he’s going to let us go on our way, rather than hold us on some sort of trumped-up charge, for revenges’ sake.

  Looking at his son, who was watching as the two deputies rolled Farnsworth onto a police-issued tarp, Matthew said, “Let’s head back to the Thurston’s house, Chance.”

  The young man started and then, looking a little ashy, he said, “Yeah, let’s get out of here!”

  ~

  A few minutes later, Matthew and Chance drove back to Clyde Thurston’s home in a borrowed car. The day was still sunny, although Chance could see fog rising up like a large, gray ogre over the downtown area. He shivered as if the fog’s clammy embrace had reached out to touch him, personally.

  Matthew glanced over at him and murmured, “Death is never an easy thing to witness, Son. I would worry about you if you weren’t a little bothered by today’s events.”

  Chance sighed. “Yeah, it was a close thing, I think. I have no doubt that Farnsworth would have killed every single one of us if Mrs. Castle hadn’t have been there…”

  Matthew nodded in agreement. “I have seen it time, and time again. Even the most hardened criminal has a weak spot and, believe me, lawmen know how to use those weaknesses against them. I’m just shocked that Branson is so ready to turn on his own men…it’s going to make a messy situation even messier.”

  They rounded a corner and turned onto one of the wide, tree-lined avenues leading to Thurston’s home. The houses and shops in this part of town were glossy and opulent, befitting one of the cities preeminent neighborhoods.

  Matthew grimaced. “Now I have some answering to do to the lead man in Clyde’s security force. Also, I’m not sure whether Mrs. Castle will still want to host this ball, now that her husband’s crimes have come home to roost.”

  “I bet she’ll want to do something-if it means protecting her husband.” Chance replied. “Annie was right, Pa. Stephen and Fanny Castle are still real close. If this dance helps to keep him safe, Fanny will do her part.”

  Matthew stared at the road ahead of them and saw that some sort of disturbance was taking place a few, scant blocks from Thurston’s house. His heart constricted in worry. Had Branson’s men somehow breached Clyde’s security… had yet another fire been set to burn them out?

  Indeed, smoke was rolling down the road toward them. Automobiles, carriages and freight wagons were stopped in the middle of the street and many people had gotten out of their vehicles to stare at whatever was taking place in the distance.

  Matthew and Chance glanced at one another with worried expressions and got out of the car to see for themselves what was going on. Walking toward a black carriage that was parked, haphazardly, about fifty feet away, both of them covered their mouths against the plumes of black smoke rolling their way.

  Stepping up to a man in fancy livery, Matthew said, “Hello! What’s going on, do you know?” He coughed a little as a particularly noxious finger of smoke stung his throat and eyes.

  The old man started a little and said, “Well, it sounds like somebody put dynamite, or something in a judge’s car!”

  Matthew felt a chill of misgiving…surely it wasn’t the same judge he had visited with just last night? “Do you know which judge it was, sir?” he asked the coachman.

  The man shook his head. “Nah, I wouldn’t know one judge from t’other, and I wasn’t told a name. You might have better luck with those folks there in that fancy car, though…”

  Matthew followed the man’s pointing finger with his eyes and said, “Thank you, I will.” He and Chance walked another twenty feet and saw the car’s inhabitants clustered by the side of the road.

  They were quite rich, apparently, in their fine clothing but also quite shaken up. The man of the family scowled as Matthew stepped up. “I don’t know what happened!” he barked.

  Matthew was taken aback but Chance said, “Sir, we are friends of Clyde Thurston. We were just heading back to his house and wondered if you know what has happened?”

  The cranky gentleman stared past them and studied Thurston’s fancy, black automobile. Deciding, apparently, that they were legitimate socialites rather than newspaper journalists, he nodded once and said, “It seems that Judge McKinley decided to pay a call on Clyde and his daughter, Annie, today. While he was inside the house, having tea, someone put a bomb in his car…”

  Then, he stopped speaking and stared in offended amazement as the two rude fellows took off running toward the still burning car.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Plan Falls Apart

  Matthew and his son ran up the street and stared, aghast, at the smoldering ruins. One car was completely demolished, just a blackened husk, really, with small tongues of flame still rising up from the rear end. Another small black car w
as parked close by. It had not been bombed, as far as Matthew could tell, but the front window was smashed out and a number of dents and dings marred the front-end and bonnet, presumably from falling debris.

  Looking closer, both Matthew and Chance saw withered human forms in the lead car. In the front seat, the dead driver still clutched the steering wheel with wizened, leathery fingers. The man’s face had, literally, melted away and bits of bone and skull could be glimpsed through his shriveled, burnt flesh.

  Queasy, Matthew heard Chance groan slightly and turn away, gagging. Then, he looked in the back window. The passenger had tilted to the side, and Matthew took off his hat in respect, and regret. Judge McKinley’s suit had been blown away, although, incongruously, his familiar, gray derby was still in place on his ruined head.

  Hearing a series of horrible cries, Matthew stared past the bombed-out automobile and saw that a carriage and two horses had also been caught in the blast. One of the horses was screaming in panic and trying to break free of the harness that held it captive to its partner which had, apparently, caught the brunt of the blast.

  The horse that had been closest to the car was lying dead now, its glossy, black coat was pocked and bloody from the force of the explosion and one of its long legs had torn completely away. A number of men were trying to sooth the surviving animal and untie it from the carriage traces.

  Looking closer, Matthew saw Ian Revell working alongside the other men. The front of Ian’s shirt was back with soot and Matthew saw that the young man was bleeding from a number of cuts and scrapes on his face and arms.

  “Let’s go lend a hand, Son,” Matthew said. He and Chance waded into the fray and within a few minutes, the surviving animal was led away to safety, leaving only human witnesses behind to ponder the horrible attack.

  Ian had glanced over at Matthew at one point and nodded in recognition. Now, though, as he gazed about, trying to spot McKinley’s nephew in the crowd, the man was nowhere to be found. Sighing, Matthew stepped back and removed his hat to wipe sweat and dirty soot out of his eyes.

  Sheriff’s deputies, ambulance drivers, newspaper journalists and photographers mingled with random citizens and many people who had come to gawk at the victims. Chance had gone to find water.

  “Mr. Wilcox…” Ian Revell said.

  Turning around in surprise, Matthew saw the younger man standing behind him on the street. Either Ian had a spare shirt handy, or someone had loaned him one. Most of the blood and dirt on his body had been washed away…Ian still held a damp washcloth in his left hand.

  “Mr. Revell… I’m so glad to see you well! At first, I thought you might have perished along with your uncle.” Matthew said. Ian stared up at him and Matthew could see tears forming in the younger man’s eyes. Ian blinked them back, though, and stood up straight.

  The look that came over Revell’s face made Matthew blink in surprise and he studied the young man’s face as he replied, “We almost always travel together, Mr. Wilcox, but in separate vehicles. Often my uncle would ask me to stop here or there for important business. We found it much more convenient that way…today, that habit saved my life.”

  Matthew extended his hand, and murmured, “I am so sorry for your loss, Ian. I did not know Judge McKinley well, but I found him to be a man of honor.”

  Ian shook Matthew’s hand and replied, “He was an honorable man, Mr. Wilcox; kind, honorable and very, very intelligent. In fact, we were working on your case today…” Revell had finished washing up and was polishing the lenses of his spectacles.

  In truth, Matthew had really only noticed the man’s slight frame and large, round eyeglasses when they met for the first time two nights earlier, but now he saw how beautiful Ian’s eyes were. Large and luminous, his eyes were as blue as the ocean on a sunny day. His face was pale, but handsomely put together, and although his hair was thin it was a rich gold color. All in all, although the man seemed rather frail, he was quite handsome.

  When they first time met, Matthew had thought Ian a lackey… a subservient, public servant. Now, though, studying the cold calculations on Ian’s face, Matthew realized that McKinley’s nephew looked nothing short of frightening. Those blue eyes were as cold as ice and his golden eyebrows were drawn together in a fierce frown.

  “I am glad you happened by, Mr. Wilcox. The bombing took place about a half an hour ago, and I have had a chance, by now, to collect my wits. You were not at Clyde Thurston’s house, earlier, when Judge McKinley and Mr. Thurston agreed upon a change of plan, but now that you are here, I wonder if you could join me for a cup of coffee…”

  Chance walked up to where the two men stood, and handed his pa a cup of water. Matthew introduced Revell to Chance and said, “Ian, do you mind if Chance listens in? He is not only my son, but my partner in this endeavor.”

  Ian smiled, although there no humor in his expression. “Certainly,” he answered. “We will all need to be in on this plan, if we hope to pull off a coup of this magnitude.”

  Two days later, Henrietta (or, Henny, as she was commonly called) McKinley sat alone in her drawing room, listlessly picking apart the embroidery she had started on her unborn grandchild’s baptismal gown. It was her third attempt to finish the garment in the last day and a half, a half-hearted endeavor she had assigned herself to keep her mind occupied against the demons of grief and sorrow that threatened to overwhelm her senses.

  She had hardly slept since she heard of Ash’s death, and even now she found it almost impossible to believe. But, every time she thought she must lie down before she fell down, she would make her way to her bed chamber and lie awake, eyes wide open, fingers clutching at her bedclothes in nervous agitation.

  Her husband Ashley was gone! Blown to bits by some unknown assailant; probably a criminal who had been sentenced harshly by Judge McKinley…a man who was known to be strict, but fair. Henny took a deep breath, trying in vain to keep the weight of his loss from crushing her heart.

  Looking up, she heard one of her grandbabies laughing in childish glee from the other room. Both of her children were staying with her—her daughter, Bonnie, eight months pregnant with two little ones, a three-year-old boy and a one and a half-year-old daughter already clinging to her skirts, and her son, Lance, morose and moody as usual…more so now that he had been called home for his father’s funeral.

  Henny sighed. God knew she loved her children but by now Henrietta wished everyone would just go away. She had spent more hours drying her daughter’s tears and soothing her son’s temper than she had dealing with her own loss, and she was tired…of the unrelenting sorrow, the “widow’s weeds,” the never-ending list of funeral details and the non-stop line of callers at her front door.

  At that precise moment, she heard the doorbell chime. A few moments passed and then her butler Morris stood in the doorway. “Ma’am?” he said.

  Frowning in fatigue, Henny said, “Yes, Morris. What is it?”

  “You have visitors Ma’am…your nephew Ian, and two other guests…Mrs. Francis Castle and a man named Matthew Wilcox.” Looking scandalized, Morris added, “That man is a private detective!”

  Fanny? she thought. Why, I haven’t seen Fanny Castle in ages! Henny looked forward to seeing her beloved nephew, Ian, but who was this private detective and why would he be in the company of her own family and friends?

  Intrigued and awake now for the first time since she heard the news of her husband’s death, Henrietta sat up in her chair, ordered Morris to arrange for tea to be brought and asked him to show her guests inside.

  Three hours later—three excruciating hours of tears shed, truths revealed and plans for revenge mapped out and plotted, Henrietta begged her son and daughter’s leave and made her weary way to bed.

  And, for the first time in days, she slept well and dreamlessly, a small smile of grim satisfaction on her face.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Stephen Castle

  Stephen Castle slammed the phone into its cradle with a snarl of rage a
nd winced as his aching head reminded him of his losing bout with a bottle of brandy the night before. The desk clerk at the Portland Hotel stared at him with reproachful eyes—he was subservient enough to know that he could never admonish a paying guest—no matter how unruly they might become. Still, this phone had only recently been installed…a fancy, long-distance capable device that had cost management the moon and stars!

  Castle winced in apology and muttered, “Sorry…bad news.”

  The stuffy old clerk said, “That is quite all right, sir. Is there anything we can do for you?”

  “No…wait! Tell maid-service that I won’t require a turn-down today. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Very good, sir” the clerk murmured, but Castle had turned away and was already making his way up the stairway to his room.

  Closing and locking the door behind him as he entered his suite, Stephen sat on the side of his bed, eyeing the scant two inches of brandy left in the bottle on the nightstand. Sighing in disgust, he unscrewed the cap and took two, deep pulls…a little hair of the dog, he figured, to pull his thoughts together.

  He normally did not drink to excess, but he had proceeded to imbibe yesterday afternoon after reading the newspaper article in the Seattle Times, stating that his dear friend Timothy Farnsworth had committed suicide in Fanny’s tea room the day before. At first, he simply did not believe it. There must be some sort of mistake! he thought. Timmy would not do such a thing to me…or Fanny!

  He had tried calling his wife but there was no answer, so he called his lead man in the Seattle area instead, and was assured the information was, apparently, correct. That was when he ordered a bottle of brandy brought to his hotel room and proceeded to get stinking drunk.

  He had awoken to a raging hangover and an unfamiliar body in his bed. Groaning, he sat up and stared at the woman who, in the harsh light of early morning, looked far older and much more used up than he had thought the night before in the hotel lounge.