Gold Fever (34 page)

“It would help.”

Without another word, Fiona turned. The look on her face was so intense, the men stood back and let her pass.

I flew up King Street, my bare feet slapping against the muddy boardwalk. I remembered the day Angus had been born and the joy amidst the pain that was the wonder of it all. I remembered that I'd felt sorry, that one time only, for his father, who hadn't been there to see what we had produced. I remembered scraped knees, exasperated nannies, expensive schools, and the dogged determination on the young face that he be the sole protector of his mother. People stepped out of my way as I ran, and no one was foolish enough to attempt to stop me and inquire as to where I was headed in such a hurry.

I burst through the doors of the Imperial Restaurant. The place was almost empty at this early hour. A sourdough scowled as he attacked a plate stacked high with pancakes. Big Alex MacDonald, who everyone called the King of the Klondike, sipped his coffee while he listened to the man seated across the table. A single bored waiter dressed in a long white apron leaned against the wall while involved in an intense examination of his ragged fingernails.

In the far corner, well away from the windows letting in the soft morning light, sat Irene, in her red-and-black silk, and a delicately pretty young percentage girl, wearing a dress that might have come out of her grandmother's closet. The remains of a lavish breakfast were on the table in front of them, not yet cleared away. Streaks of yellow egg yolk ran across the girl's plate. More precious than gold, the eggs alone would have cost Irene a fortune.

Everyone looked up as the door slammed behind me.

Irene's painted mouth opened in an ‘o' of surprise. The percentage girl squealed. “Good heavens, Mrs. MacGillivray, are you all right? You look a dreadful sight.”

I ignored her and stared at Irene. “You have to come with me.”

She gestured to her coffee cup, still filled almost to the brim. “I haven't finished yet…”

I grabbed Irene's arm and lifted her half out of her chair. The chair clattered to the floor. “Come with me, Irene.”

Indecision crossed her face. She was being accosted in a public place, for no reason, by her employer, who, judging only by her appearance, not even by her actions, had clearly gone mad. How, Irene was no doubt wondering, could she take advantage of this?

“Maggie,” I hissed, not wanting everyone in the restaurant to know our business, “has Angus.”

“I scarcely know what that's got to do with me.”

Seeing an opportunity, the percentage girl piped up. “I'd be happy to help you, Mrs. MacGillivray.”

Still standing, Irene picked up her coffee cup and touched it to her lips. I sent the cup flying. Big Alex's chair scraped on the floor. “Can I help here, Mrs. MacGillivray?” he asked.

I leaned into Irene's face. “Your friend Maggie killed Chloe, then she killed Jannis, and now she wants you, Irene, but she has my son instead. So you
will
come with me.”

Irene looked behind her—the percentage girl's eyes were open almost as wide as her mouth—then back at me. She hesitated for only a moment. “I swear, Mrs. MacGillivray, you have to believe me: I knew nothing of this.”

“What you knew or not is hardly my concern right now. If you don't agree to come with me to the Savoy right this minute, I will have these men drag you there. You know they'll do anything I ask.”

“I'll come.”

Trusting she was behind me, I headed out the door. The waiter stepped away from the wall. “You ain't settled the bill yet, lady,” he said.

“Stuff it up your ass,” Irene replied, tumbling into the street after me.

The percentage girl squealed again. “You're not gonna stick me with it. She said it was her treat.”

I glanced over my shoulder only once as we ran back down King Street. Irene was behind me, her lovely gown streaming out behind her; the percentage girl was trying to keep up, but she was falling back, about to be overtaken by Big Alex and his companion. Far behind, the sourdough stumbled, having abandoned his pancakes to join in the chase. The waiter brought up the rear, waving a slip of paper—Irene's bill, presumably.

The crowd outside the Savoy had begun to disperse, as nothing of interest appeared to be happening. When Irene and I arrived, they turned as one and resumed their position in the street.

Two Mounties were talking to Richard in low voices. I pushed the onlookers aside, ignoring the babble of shouts and questions. Irene and I climbed up onto the boardwalk.

Richard looked into my eyes. “No further developments,” he said.

A wave of relief washed over me—I hadn't dared think of what might await me upon my return.

Sterling filled Irene in on the situation. “You probably don't even know this Maggie Brandon, but people sometimes get the strangest fixation on popular performers such as yourself.”

The Mounties' broad-brimmed hats bobbed in agreement. Neither Irene nor I disabused the men of their assumptions.

“What are you going to do?” I asked Richard Sterling.

“First, he's going to request that you move back, Mrs. MacGillivray.” Inspector McKnight came up behind me.

“You're serving no purpose here.”

“My son…”

“Is in there. I know that, madam, but there's nothing you can do. If you'll stand out of the way and let us get on with our work.” McKnight was trying to be kind. And failing >miserably—he made the saving of my son sound as important as clearing a drunk from the sidewalk.

“Absolutely not,” I said.

“Mrs. MacGillivray,” Richard said in his deep, calm voice, “you must realize that your state of dress is attracting onlookers. The fewer people around, the easier it will be for us to deal with the Brandon woman and thus rescue Angus and Miss Witherspoon.”

I looked down. I'd lost the shawl I'd tossed over my shoulders, and my breasts were spilling out of my exposed over-corset. In order to facilitate running, I'd tucked my skirt into the waistband, revealing a generous amount of ankle and lower leg. My stockings were so badly torn, I was virtually barefoot.

“Perhaps you should see to your feet, ma'am,” one of the Mounties said. Only once he pointed them out to me did I realize how much they hurt. Blood was leaking into the dirt of Front Street.

I'd worry about pain later.

I let the skirts drop but could do nothing about the button I'd ripped off the front of my dress. “I'm not going home to change,” I protested.

Richard beckoned to Irene's breakfast companion, the percentage girl who'd followed us rather than be responsible for the extravagant breakfast bill. “Would you be so kind as to lend Mrs. MacGillivray your coat,” he asked in a tone that said it was not a question.

She wore a short jacket over her dress. It was the colour of dog dirt, accented by a double row of mustard-coloured braid running around the collar and down both sides of the front. I momentarily thought that I wouldn't be caught dead in it but remembered quickly enough that that might be a possibility. I'd risk my life to save my son, if I had to.

She hesitated. “I'll buy you another,” I said and slipped on the garment she quickly discarded. Perhaps she thought it as ugly as I did. She was a good deal stockier than I, and the jacket buttoned up with room to spare.

I had not failed to notice that while this exchange of clothing was going on, the Mounties held a quick conference. McKnight stepped forward and rapped on the door of the Savoy. “May I come in, Miss Brandon?” he asked with perfect manners.

“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.