Hannah Grace (29 page)

"I'll be back later to check on those winter coats," the scruffy fellow said, passing her and walking to the door.

"I think perhaps it's best ifyou don't show your face around here again, young man," her father said, standing tall, blocking the man's efforts to pass.

"Oh, yeah? Ain't this a public place?"

"It is, but as the owner of this establishment, I have the right to decline my services to anyone I choose." Her father's smile matched that of the stranger's, minus any feigned friendliness. "I hope I make myself quite clear."

Hannah had never seen Jacob Kane look more serious, not even when taking his young daughters aside and scolding them for some infraction or another. Usually one stern look put them back on the straight and narrow. Would he have the same effect on this young man?

Jacob stepped aside to allow the scoffing ruffian to leave. He muttered something indiscernible on his way out, and she wondered if her father had made out the words.

Jacob shut the door emphatically, making the bell above it gong rather than jingle.

He leaned against it briefly and shook his head. `Are you all right, Hannah Grace?"

"Of course, Papa. Don't look so worried. He's gone now." She moved from around the counter and walked to her father, who looked to be breathing heavily.

"What brought you over here, anyway?"

"I've been watching the comings and goings of folks all morning. I noted the time that fellow walked through the door. When he didn't leave shortly afterward, I figured something wasn't right."

He eyed her gravely. "Do you happen to know his identity-or the nature of his business in Sandy Shores? What did he want from you? Did he ask any questions about anyone in particular?"

"Papa, no. He was just looking for a coat and making a pest of himself. Acting like a bully, in truth. Why? What's wrong?"

Jacob swallowed hard. "Sheriff Devlin stopped in to see me early this morning. Seems there are some criminals on the loose. He's suspicious that the kid that drowned is somehow connected with this-this group of crooks,"

"But-what would they be doing in Sandy Shores?"

"I'm not sure, but we need to stay alert,"

The deep lines etched in his brow revealed worry. "I'm not saying that the fellow who just left is one of them, but it doesn't hurt to remain particularly cautious. I hope he heeds my words and stays away. I don't want some devious character snooping around my store, much less ogling my daughters." He ran a hand through his normally neat head, mussing the part.

"Where're Maggie and Jesse, by the way? Upstairs?"

"No," she replied. "They went for a walk to the docks to watch the workers remove cargo from the barges and load up the freight cars. Things like that fascinate Jesse so. They should be back most any time. Why, what's the problem, Papa? Does Gabe truly think Sandy Shores is in danger?"

Even under his thick beard, she saw his jaw clench. He studied her with thoughtful eyes. "I'd say so, Hannah. Gabriel Devlin is a perceptive man, and my instinct is to follow his instructions very carefully."

"What do you mean, `instructions'?"

He heaved a loud sigh. "He's concerned for Jesse's safety, in particular."

No sooner had he uttered the words than the bell above the door tolled, and in raced Jesse, Maggie, and the scruffy pooch. "Hannah," Jesse squealed with bulging eyes. "You shoulda seen the big barge in the harbor! It was plain amazin'!"

abe pored over the most current files, the latest bulletins, and the most detailed summaries of wanted felons, looking for some hint regarding the drowned victim, something more than a silly snake tattoo. He knew he had to base his hunch on more than just that-a hunch. Nothing new came to the forefront regarding the McCurdy gang, only that the South Bend police department was still actively seeking them, following up on leads but always coming up short.

Then, there was that local reporter who'd barged into his office earlier. "Luis M. could be Luis McCurdy, you ever think of that?" the bushy-haired fellow with the wire-rimmed spectacles had asked while leaning his heavy frame over Gabe's desk. Of course, that was what he was thinking, but he didn't want to voice it just yet, particularly not to some newspaper reporter he barely knew.

"What makes you say so?" Gabe asked, curious.

Removing his glasses, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and squinted. "A hunch."

Gabe couldn't help the chuckle that erupted. "That's about all I've got to go on myself, friend."

Stuyvesant gawked. "You serious?"

`As a dead duck."

The two conversed further, Stuyvesant asking Gabe to relay what he knew of the McCurdy gang and Gabe posing further questions of his own. Between them, it wasn't much, but enough that Stuyvesant thought he had a story worth writing.

Gabe groaned. "Promise me you'll stick to the facts. I don't want this town whipped into a frenzy thinkin' there's a murderous gang lurking about."

Stuyvesant lifted one sly brow. "But what if there is? The people have a right to know. Don't worry, sheriff; I always state the facts. 'Course, it's easier when folks give 'em to me straight."

The lead tip on his pencil broke off from all his tapping as he watched Stuyvesant exit his office a few minutes later. He couldn't decide if he liked the guy or not.

Later, one of his deputies, Gus van der Voort, stopped by with some incident reports, a Peeping Tom on River Street, a drunk who'd fallen asleep on a park bench and needed reviving, a domestic dispute on Jackson Avenue, and a cat that had scampered up a tree three days ago in Bill and Evaleen Elwood's backyard and refused to come down.

`A cat?" Gabe asked, laying down his paperwork to rub his tired eyes.

"Yep. Evaleen insists we come over and handle the matter."

"Tell her to summon the fire brigade. They've got the ladders for that."

"I did that," Gus said. "But she's determined this is a case for the sheriff's department."

Gabe hated to ask. He arched his brow and slanted Gus a curious stare.

"Says her husband Bill ain't got all his rocks in a row up here." Gus pointed at his temple area. "Lately he's been polishing his gun and talking about killing that critter if it keeps him awake one more night. According to old Mrs. Elwood, the feline carries on from dusk to dawn. Trouble is, she says while he polishes the barrel, he lists off all his enemies from as far back as '75, some who still live in Sandy Shores. She says he's saying things like, `Long as I've got my gun out, I may as well put it to good use."'

Gabe shook his head, let out a long breath, and dragged his hand down over his face, "I suspect you'd better go pay a call on the fire chief yourself, then go to the Elwoods' place and kindly ask Bill to hand over his gun."

"What if he don't give it to me?" Gus looked mildly concerned. "He is a mean of cuss."

Gabe grinned. "If I was you, I'd figure out a way to take it off his hands. You never know, you could be on his hit list,"

Gus considered that with grimness, his brow furrowing into several crinkled lines. "There was that time in '93," he said, turning and heading for the door. "And '88, and now that I think about it..." He walked out just as Kitty peeked inside, silver hair askew.

"Somebody's here to see you. Name's Vanderslute."

His mind had gone in so many directions today, he had to concentrate to rein it back in, then focus his attention on Kitty. "Vanderslute? Who is he?"

Her round shoulders shot up, held, then slumped. "Never seen'im before. He says you'll know'im right off."

"I will?" He looked to Kitty as if she held the key.

Kitty's patience looked like it was wearing as thin as the skin of an onion. "You want to see him or not? He rode the train from Holland, if that tells you anything."

Gabe snapped his fingers. "I met a fellow in a restaurant there. I think he went by the name of Vanderslute. Wonder if it's the same guy. I'd seen Jesse scrounging around in a waste barrel before I went inside, and then again from my table by the window. This guy sat across from me, and I asked him if he knew anything about the boy."

Kitty's shoulders squared and her face softened. "Did he?"

Gabe shook his head. "'Fraid not,"

"Well, maybe he'll have some answers for you today. You want me to send him down?"

Gabe pushed back and stood to his feet. "Absolutely. You've got me curious now."

As soon as Vanderslute walked through the door, wearing a string bow tie over a white, ruffled shirt, a woolen coat, and baggy tweed trousers, Gabe recalled the first name of the man with the pencil-thin mustache.

"George, right?" Gabe walked around his desk and extended his hand. Vanderslute took it, his handshake firm and hearty.

"Excellent memory, my friend,"

"What brings you here?" Gabe asked, gesturing at the chair across from his desk.

Instead of sitting, though, George tossed his bowler hat on the chair and started wandering around Gabe's office. "I ran across an interesting tidbit a couple of days ago. Thought I'd take the train over and tell you about it,"

"Well, I'm anxious to hear what that might be."

George took his good of time removing his spectacles from his shirt pocket, tugging the wires around his ears, and leaning in to look at an old James Whistler print, facing away from Gabe. "I've always liked this one," he murmured, studying the details of Man Smoking a Pipe. "Whistler had a knack, didn't he? Look at that moth-eaten hat and the old guy's dark, weathered skin," He was in his own world as he viewed the masterpiece, tilting his head in several directions, "I've always wondered about that left eye, haven't you? Looks like a glass eye, if you ask me," He took a closer look, hands clasped behind his back. "You think they had glass eyes back then?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Humph, definitely somethin' wrong with it. I'd guess Whistler painted this in, say, 1860, what do you think?"

"I've never been much of an art buff." Truth was, he'd barely noticed the painting, except to set it aright once when he'd brushed against it in a mad rush. The muscles along Gabe's neck went taut, and he massaged them with care, even as his impatience mounted.

Vanderslute stepped back from the painting and Gabe grew hopeful. "Want to have a seat?" he asked.

"Sure," But then, Vanderslute noticed the old Seth Thomas wall clock with chimes and ran a quick hand over its side. "You ever dust?" he groused, squinting at his hand.

"Sorry about that," Gabe said, grabbing yesterday's Tribune and offering it over the desk.

Vanderslute looked down his nose at the paper, then looked up at Gabe. "I can't wipe my hands on an inky newspaper. Shoot, I wear gloves when I edit my newspaper work. Newspapers are notorious for leaving ink."

"You're right. What was I thinking?" He didn't recall the fellow being so persnickety upon their first meeting. All he could recall was the cigar hanging out of his mouth.

While Gabe rifled through one drawer after another, looking for a piece of cloth on which Vanderslute could wipe his dusty hand, the guy flipped his wrist at him. "Never mind. A little dirt and grime never hurt anybody, right?"

Gabe would be sure never to invite him to his house. Ever since he and Jesse moved in, he had yet to take a broom to the wood floors, even though he could feel the sand grind beneath his boots. No telling how many layers of dust lay on the shelves and bed stands. In that very moment, it occurred to him how much he needed a wife-and, just as quickly, Hannah Grace's face flitted past his mind's eye.

Next, Vanderslute's eyes scanned the floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with law manuals, leather-bound classics, and even a few dime novels, mostly detective-type and mysteries. He pulled a title from a tight slot and blew the dust off its top, handling it with care.

"Tate's collection," Gabe offered. "So far, no one from the family's stepped forward to claim it, so there it sits,"

"Humph," Vanderslute mumbled, "I heard tell Watson Tate was a good one for reading on the job-that and nodding off"

Gabe had heard the same. Also, that folks liked him plenty despite his rather idiosyncratic manner of maintaining the law.

"Well." Vanderslute replaced the volume, brushed his hands together, and faced Gabe head-on. "I s'pose you're wondering about my visit."