The Leopard's Prey (16 page)

Harley hesitated for a moment, his youthful bravado diminished. “Mr. Stokes was taking money in return for silence,” he said.

“Blackmail!” said Sam. Here at last was a motive he could get his hands on. “Who?”

“I can’t say anything specific,” the boy blurted. “That would defeat the purpose.”

“On my honor!” exclaimed Colridge. “You’re defaming a dead man, son. With accusations of extortion, no less. This is unheard-of!”

One of the other men cleared his throat. “Don’t be too hasty, Colridge.”

The old lord snapped around. “What’s that you say, Griswell? Don’t tell me you agree?”

“There’s some truth to what young Harley said. I … I’ve heard … uh … of another account of extortion by Stokes.”

Sam tried to read Griswell’s face. A few beads of sweat, the man’s general hesitation, and the way he fidgeted with his coat buttons hinted that
he
was the one who had been blackmailed. “You should report this to the police,” said Sam. “It may have some bearing on the case.”

“I don’t see how it would help,” protested Griswell. “Stokes killed himself, and reporting this incident would only put my … er … friend in trouble of public exposure, the very thing he wished to avoid.” Behind him, Harley nodded his head vigorously.

“Hmm,” murmured Colridge with another puff and mustache flutter. “Quite right. Best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

The men dispersed, leaving Sam alone with the boy. Before he could question Harley further, a customer approached, and Sam left to find his friends. His pulse quickened with the keen excitement of discovery.
Ha! Wait till Jade hears that Stokes was a blackmailer.

A man’s affairs are his own.
Was Stokes blackmailing married men to keep their infidelities a secret? Was he blackmailing the kid’s own father, Winston Berryhill? Maybe he was blackmailing the boy?
Nah. What could he be doing that was worth blackmailing? Strike that. Probably plenty he wouldn’t want his parents to know.
But somehow, thought Sam, blackmailing a sixteen-year-old hardly seemed lucrative. It was a shame that Griswell wouldn’t reveal anything. How many more victims were there?

Whoever the victim, extortion certainly gave someone a motive for killing. Sam wondered how much credence Inspector Finch would place in any of this information coming from one of the prime suspects, namely himself. Especially since no one else was willing to come forward. But it might at least put Finch on a different track.

Suddenly, Sam didn’t want to wait until they met up at the Dunburys’ house. He wanted to find Jade now, look in her incredible eyes of moss and light, and tell her his bit of news. But where to find her? Had Perkins and Daley set up a booth to talk to farmers about selling the unusual pets the settlers seemed to keep? She might be there, checking in with her employers.

Sam picked up the pace, at least as fast as his tired body, artificial leg, and heavy equipment let him, and scouted each of the booths he passed. That was another thing that worried him: this damned job she had as rope wrangler for some half-baked outfit out of Chicago. Sitting inside a cage as bait for a leopard? The thought still gave him chills.
When we get married, there’s not going to be any more of that bull!

He had to laugh at his own arrogance.
When we get
married? Hell’s bells, man. You haven’t even proposed yet.
And he couldn’t until he cleared his name. He didn’t know about life in New Mexico, but in northern Indiana, decent girls didn’t marry murder suspects, innocent or not. Then he needed to convince Jade that she needed him, which was going to be hard since Jade was a woman who didn’t really need anyone. After rescuing her and her mother in Marrakech, he’d thought he had a shot. He’d planned out his entire courtship, too, wooing her in the air.

And now she calls me her friend!
A sensible man ought to chuck it and go, he thought. But Sam had a Midwestern stubborn streak. It had served to keep him flying as a green pilot when his courage first faltered under fire, and it frequently helped him to see a job through when patience had long since got up and left. Now he’d be dogged if he was turning tail and going home to lick his wounds. He’d win Jade or get shot down trying.

And you know all about that.
He reeled as a wave of dizziness hit.
If she accepts you, man, will you be able to control her wild streak? Will you even want to?
That gave him pause. No, not Jade.
Gotta let varmints be varmints.
The question was, could he live with that?

“Excuse me, young man!”

Sam stopped abruptly and blinked. In his mental wanderings, he’d run right into a large male. “I’m terribly sorry,” said Sam. Then he recognized the man from Jade’s descriptions. “Beg pardon. Aren’t you Charles Harding?” Harding nodded. “I’m Jade del Cameron’s friend, Sam Featherstone. Have you seen her today?”

“No, I’m afraid I cannot help you there, Mr. Featherstone.”

“I’m glad I bumped into you,” said Sam, then realizing how that sounded, quickly added, “I don’t mean literally, of course.”

“Of course,” echoed Harding. He put a hand where Sam had accidentally jabbed him in the stomach and winced.

“It’s just that I saw the most amazing sight the other day while I was flying and I thought you’d like to know about it.”

“Oh? And what might that be?”

“I flew over your farm yesterday afternoon and I saw what looked like a zebra mating with one of your horses. It was—”

“You flew over my farm and paddock?” Harding’s face reddened and his lips tensed into a tight line.

Sam stepped back a pace. “Well, yes, but I didn’t swoop down or buzz the place, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I don’t care two straws for what you call whatever you did. You stay away from my place. I don’t need a ewe throwing a lamb because she got scared of your blasted flying machine.”

Alwyn Chalmers was walking by and stopped to see what the commotion was about. “Your ewes are throwing lambs, Charles?”

Harding glared at the newcomer, then composed himself by tugging down on his tweed jacket and stretching his neck. “No, but they’re likely to if this here flyboy keeps flying over my property.”

“I only wanted to tell you what I saw—”

“I don’t care what you saw,” snapped Harding. “Wildlife wanders onto the farm often enough, and as long as it’s not a predator, I don’t pay them much mind.”

“While we’re on that topic, young fellow,” said Chalmers, “my farm is just south of his and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t fly over it, either. I’ve lost my best polo pony already. I wouldn’t care to have any more animals scared off by one of those machines.”

Sam clenched his jaw to keep from saying something he might regret later. Instead he touched his hat brim in a polite salute, turned on his heels, and left. From the corner of his eye, he saw Inspector Finch watching him. He also spied Perkins standing next to his two hired men, Anderson and Cutter.

Might as well check if they’ve seen Jade.
He stopped and asked.

“Not today,” said Mr. Perkins. “But I’ve been wanting to speak with you. I want to hire you to fly over some of the western region, near the Maasai land. See if you can scout up a young rhino. We’ll pay for your fuel and fifty American dollars on top of that. If you spot anything that we can get to and capture, we’ll throw in a hundred-dollar bonus.

“Make it seventy-five for the search plus fuel and bonus, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Done,” said Perkins. He and Sam shook on it. “We’re loading up some zebra and a pet lion tomorrow afternoon, and Monday we’re picking up that young buffalo the governor’s kept as a pet. Apparently he butted a lady the other month, so they’re looking to find him a new home. Point is, we wouldn’t be ready to go after anything before Tuesday.”

Sam felt his head throb again. Surely this headache would be gone by then. “I can go up at first light Monday.”

JADE PULLED OUT her pocket watch and decided it was getting late. Time to take Biscuit home. The cat had already had a good run today alongside Sam’s motorcycle, but the three miles to the Dunburys’ wouldn’t tax him. She’d probably discovered as much as she could here anyway and had bumped into Mr. Daley and discussed work as he wandered through the fair. He wanted her to help Sunday afternoon loading up Percy and the Thompsons’ zebras. Jade chirped once to Biscuit and headed for the parking grounds and her motorcycle. Halfway there she saw Anderson signal to her. She stopped, thinking that there might have been a change in plans.

“I suppose you’re going to the dance tonight with that Featherstone fellow,” he said.

Jade sighed. This was the last thing she wanted to deal with. “Yes, I’m going with Sam and the Thompsons.” Wayne seemed like a nice man, but she was never one for playing the field, and right now, Sam had her attention.

Anderson grunted. “I wanted to warn you about your flyboy,” he said. “If I were you, I wouldn’t want to take any chances. I have it on good authority that he struck and killed a man.”

He turned and walked away, leaving Jade no opportunity, short of calling after him, to ask for more details. Did he know the supposed eyewitness that Finch had mentioned? Or was he just trying to drive a wedge between her and Sam?

THE BALL AT the New Stanley Hotel was a lavish affair. Bandmaster Harvey and His Merry Men, an orchestra well versed in all the latest songs, filled a dais at one end of the ballroom, and a sumptuous assortment of cakes, tarts, cheeses, fruit, and tiny watercress sandwiches was laid out on the other side. The punch bowl was kept full of a bubbly champagne punch, and a cash bar provided for anyone in want of something stronger.

Ladies posed and glided in straight sleeveless gowns of wispy tulle, silk, and satin. The older ladies chose darker hues of black, violet, or midnight blue. Younger women, or those pretending to be, opted for pastels in peach, green, rose, or dainty blue. Jade wore the same apricot gown that Beverly had given her last year. Its style was one year behind the times, but she didn’t care. Madeline, a bit more fashion conscious, had once again remade her blue gown by loosening the waist so it hung straight, as was the current vogue.

Both Neville and Sam looked dapper, albeit uncomfortable, in their black ties, stiff collars, and black dinner jackets. Several of the younger men, Mr. Holly included, sported midnight blue jackets, reported to be the latest in men’s fashion.

The Thompsons had brought their journals to the house. Jade had read them, but neither had had anything new to add. Jade had hoped to share what information they’d garnered during the day, but Madeline, giddy over her blue-ribbon roses and exuberant about the prospects of adopting a child, could talk of nothing else. Even Neville was elated enough by his blue ribbon coffee that his partially dismantled coffee dryer didn’t disturb him. They had money from Maddy’s books and the prospect of higher pay for their crop, and both trusted that Inspector Finch would soon return the dryer door to them.

The Thompsons had arrived at Jade’s door around midday, shortly after she returned to Parklands, and by the time Sam got there, Maddy had Jade shut away in a back room helping her make last-minute alterations to her old gown. With one or another in the bath or dressing, there was no opportunity for Sam and Jade to swap news. Then Madeline insisted on sitting in the back of the car with Jade to talk about building a nursery onto their house, and Neville drove them all to the dance. And now, when Jade hoped finally to hear from Sam, they discovered that any semblance of serious conversation was impossible over the noise from the dance floor.

Not that Sam particularly wanted to dance. He found it impossible to keep up with the fast fox-trot, Peabody, or turkey trot tempos, which were primarily what the dancers clamored for, along with ragtime and jazz. The more sedate castle walk and waltz, both of which Sam managed very gracefully, were rare, and as soon as Jade and he moved back off the dance floor, some man grabbed Jade’s hand and whisked her out onto the floor without even asking if she wanted to dance. This last time, it was Cutter who held Jade in a bear hug, leaning in close and pumping her right arm up and down in tune with
Loving Sam, the Sheik from Alabam
, a popular stateside song. At least he’d changed his shoes, so he didn’t smell too much from polecat. Jade saw Sam scowl and move off to the corner, his arms folded across his chest. She also spied Inspector Finch, in evening attire, watching from near the punch bowl.

When the band finished, Jade thanked Cutter for the dance but declined another and hurried off the floor before anyone else could grab her.
Stand by the food and act like you’re eating.
She shoved a finger sandwich in her mouth, as the band struck up “Choo Choo,” grabbed another, and looked around for Sam. She didn’t see him anywhere. She did spot Pauline Berryhill and hurried over to her just as Anderson turned in her direction.

“Mrs. Berryhill, how are you enjoying the dance?”

The woman might have been sucking lemons for her grimace. “It’s amusing if you care for this sort of thing.” She smoothed the skirt of her plain indigo dress. A single locket on a gold chain relieved the austerity of the bodice’s narrow pleating. It was not a homely dress, per se. “Dignified” was the word that came to Jade’s mind, and to an extent, it became Mrs. Berryhill. “I really cannot be staying long though. I have offered to make some of the deliveries myself tomorrow. Winston deplores driving.”

“Deliveries on a Sunday,” said Jade. “That’s very dutiful of you.”

“It’s practical,” replied Mrs. Berryhill. “The store will be closed then, so I am not needed behind the counter.”

Jade set the uneaten sandwich in her hand on a nearby empty tray set aside for used punch cups and champagne flutes. “Mrs. Berryhill, I’d like to talk to you about Mrs. Stokes’ child.”

Mrs. Berryhill raised her chin and pulled back her head. “I’ll not spread any gossip about that innocent creature.”

For some reason Jade wondered if she meant the child or Mrs. Stokes. She decided it didn’t matter and pressed on. She already felt that Mrs. Berryhill knew more than she was letting on. “I’m not looking for gossip. Good friends of mine, Madeline and Neville Thompson, wanted to give a baby a home. They answered an ad to adopt a four-month-old baby boy the day after it was first published. Later I learned that Mrs. Stokes had a baby boy that age. I’m not one to believe in coincidences, so I think they were the same baby. The baby was already taken, Madeline was devastated, and I think she deserves some explanation as to how that child in the ad managed to get adopted so quickly.”