To Love and Cherish (31 page)

Using short flicking motions, Lawrence brushed loosened dirt from Midnight Flight's coat. “You're looking quite sleek, you beauty.” He continued along the side of the horse, but stilled his movement at the sound of galloping horse's hooves in the distance. One look down the path and he groaned.
Preston.
The last person he wished to see. Had there been sufficient time, he would have saddled Midnight Flight and ridden in the opposite direction.

Hoping to make this a brief encounter, he stood in the doorway and waited. As Preston drew nearer, he slowed his horse to a trot. When he was beside the doorway, he pulled back on the reins. Looking down from atop the horse, he nodded. “Glad to find you here. I wanted to be sure you completely understood what's expected tonight.”

Lawrence leaned against the rough timber of the doorframe. “Quite clear.” He made no effort to hide his contempt. “I'm to be at the side entrance of the clubhouse with Midnight Flight at eight o'clock.”

“And if anyone asks why you're waiting there with the horse, tell them you're helping one of the guests in a portrayal of Paul Revere and his midnight ride.” He chuckled. “Uncanny that the horse is named Midnight Flight
,
don't you think?”

“I think you're making a grave mistake, but I don't expect you to listen to anything I have to say.”

“This is no mistake. We're saving the nation from an imperialist.” Preston pointed his riding crop at Lawrence. “Keep in mind that the weapons used by the pirates in their skit won't all be fake. If anything goes wrong, your sister is the first one I'll look for.” Preston tightened his legs against the side of the horse and nudged it into a trot. “Until tonight.”

Lawrence bowed his head. His stomach twisted. What if Evan failed in keeping Melinda safe? If anything happened to her, how could he ever forgive himself? This was one gamble he wasn't willing to lose.

Dressed as Martha Washington in rich green brocade, Melinda acted as hostess for the party, greeting the guests as they arrived for dinner and directing them to their assigned tables. It had already been decided that the president and his wife would not be in costume, and because of this, Mr. and Mrs. Mifflin had chosen to do likewise. Melinda had arranged for Mr. and Mrs. Mifflin to flank the president and his wife, with the security guards standing close behind. The ladies looked beautiful in their evening finery and the men quite dashing in their tailed tuxedos. It rather reminded Melinda of royalty keeping watch over their court.

The other guests at their table had been selected in a drawing held the previous week. The possibility of being selected to sit with the president had elicited a great deal of excitement, and Melinda had encouraged Mr. Zimmerman to employ the same method for seating at the skit. But after a stern comment that the seating had already been assigned and everything was in order for the skit, he had shooed her from his office. The man's attitude baffled her.

Other than what was likely the lumber for a makeshift stage, Melinda had seen little evidence of anything being completed in the annex. Each time she'd attempted to peek inside, the doors had been locked. After weeks of planning each detail for this evening's event, she hoped the skit would add to the perfection but feared it would not be so.

Melinda approached the front door of the dining hall and smiled at the approaching guests. “Welcome, Mr. Morley—or should I say Uncle Sam?” She accepted his invitation and nodded toward his wife, who was wearing a costume of Betsy Ross and carried both a small flag and a sewing basket. “You and your patriotic bride are assigned to table one with President and Mrs. McKinley.”

With each arriving guest, the variety of costumes amazed Melinda. She had feared that with so little time to arrange for their outfits, the guests would not have much choice in their attire. She was delighted to see otherwise and supposed that with enough money all things were possible.

The attendees appeared costumed as Robin Hood, Cleopatra, and Julius Caesar, as well as Abraham and Mary Todd Lincoln, among others. When Victoria Polter entered the foyer dressed as an Indian maiden, Melinda worried she might spot Evan, but she had walked by him without notice. Apparently the white wig served well to disguise him from the overly amorous young woman. Melinda sighed. The last thing she needed right now was to worry about Victoria's trying to engage all of Evan's time at the ball.

An Egyptian pharaoh presented his invitation only minutes before Preston Powers entered. He looked a bit outlandish in a Viking costume, complete with fur-lined vest, horned helmet, and sheathed dagger.

“My, my,” he said, giving her a quick once-over, “don't you look charming. I'm particularly fond of that shade of green on you. It brings out your lovely eyes.”

Melinda forced a smile. “Thank you. For a Viking . . . you are quite civilized.”

He laughed. “It's merely a costume, my dear.”

What did he mean by that? But she had no time to further consider the statement because a group of pilgrims arrived carrying a turkey they'd borrowed from the island taxidermist. Melinda laughed aloud. “You do know that you're going to have a bit of trouble if you try to cook that bird. I think it will be a little dry.”

The pilgrims chuckled and moved deeper into the room to admit several of the other guests. Cowboys, Indians, a sheik, and a crowned king and queen followed behind the pilgrims and quickly located their seats.

There were even two guests in pirate costumes. Melinda wondered if Mr. Zimmerman worried that those men would detract from the actors in his pirate skit—or if he'd even considered the possibility that some of the guests might choose pirate costumes. If it bothered him, Mr. Zimmerman said nothing. He merely stood to one side, dressed in his boring black suit and white shirt. For whatever reason, he'd chosen not to embrace the party spirit.

Once the guests were seated, Mr. Morley walked to the front of the room. “Mr. President and Mrs. McKinley”—he smiled and nodded toward the couple—“it is my great honor to welcome you to Bridal Veil Island. The board of directors and our guests count it a tribute that you have taken time from your busy schedule to visit us.” He gestured toward Mr. and Mrs. Mifflin. “Cyrus and Dorothea, we thank you for convincing them that a visit to the South would not be complete without a stop at Bridal Veil.” A round of applause followed his brief remarks, and soon the waiters appeared.

Course after course, the dinner proceeded without incident. The guests expressed pleasure in every dish, from clams and oysters to quail and petit fours. Though she didn't have the privilege of eating the meal, Melinda sighed with pleasure when the guests had completed the final course. Perhaps any plot to assassinate the president had somehow been thwarted. By evening's end, she prayed they could count the event a complete success.

When Mr. Zimmerman entered the dining room moments later and made his way to the presidential table, Melinda's stomach lurched. They hadn't planned for him to make any announcements. The program that had been placed at each table setting clearly instructed the guests to exit the dining room following dinner and be seated in the annex to view the skit. Mr. Zimmerman was to remain in the annex with the performers and direct the guests to their seats.

Glancing toward the hallway, she spotted Evan stationed in the foyer near the door leading to the annex. She tapped her folded silk fan against her chin, their agreed-upon signal that something might be amiss.

Mr. Zimmerman approached Mr. Mifflin, whispered in his ear, and then backed away and strode toward her. A look of satisfaction glimmered in his eyes. “President and Mrs. McKinley will lead the guests into the annex. Mr. and Mrs. Mifflin will follow them.”

Melinda frowned. That hadn't been the way she'd arranged the procession to the annex. Why did Mr. Zimmerman insist on making simple things difficult? Did he always have to look like the one in charge?

She had planned to excuse the guests table by table, beginning with those seated near the exit to the foyer leading into the annex dining room. “That will create greater confusion. I prefer to do it table by table beginning back here.”

“You will do as you are instructed, Miss Colson.” His mustache quivered, a sure sign she'd agitated him. “This is for the president's safety.” Whether she liked it or not, Mr. Zimmerman had taken charge. Moments later, he signaled to Mr. Mifflin. The two couples rose to begin the procession, while the remainder of the confused guests whispered and looked at their programs.

“They don't know what to do,” Melinda hissed to Mr. Zimmerman.

He stepped forward to address the crowd. “Please remain seated. Once I have the president and his party seen to, I will arrange for everyone else. When I point to your table, please proceed through the foyer and into the annex.” Turning to Melinda, he nodded toward the door. “Go and accompany the president and his wife to the annex.”

Melinda was as confused as the guests. Why did he want her to take them to the annex? This performance was his portion of the entertainment, not hers. She had no idea what he'd planned or where he wanted the McKinleys to sit. And she could only hope that the doors were unlocked. Hurrying ahead of the two couples and a security guard, she turned the door handle, pulled open the doors, and backed away to permit President and Mrs. McKinley to enter.

She remained by the door and looked over to the makeshift stage. With nothing more than a sheet hanging over some sort of pole, clearly no scenery had been created. There weren't even places to sit, with the exception of one ladder-back chair that sat on the stage. What had Mr. Zimmerman been thinking? This wasn't fit for the president. Something was very wrong.

A lump formed in her throat and her mouth went dry. She looked toward Evan, who had moved closer to the president, and tapped the fan to her chin.

Before she could make sense of the situation, a man in a pirate costume stepped from behind the sheet.

“Death to imperialists!” He raised a gun and took aim at the president. Evan lunged forward and pushed the president aside as a shot rang out. Both men fell to the floor, and Mrs. McKinley crumpled in a faint atop them.

The assassin rushed from the end of the stage, and Melinda stuck out her foot, tripping him. The man scuttled to his feet, but the president's security guard threw him back to the floor. A feeling of elation filled Melinda's chest as the guard wrestled the would-be assassin into a stronghold.

The black patch that had covered one eye now swung from the captured man's neck. “Wait! Wait! I wasn't working alone.”

The security officer propelled him away. “Don't worry, mister. All your friends will be walking the plank before this is done.”

Mr. and Mrs. Mifflin both hurried to Mrs. McKinley's aid and, along with another security guard, gently rolled her from atop Evan and the president. Someone else took off his suit coat and folded it into a pillow. Mrs. Mifflin began to fan her with a vengeance.

“Ida, all is well. All is well,” she told her friend over and over.

“Young man, I do believe you saved my life. I owe you a debt of gratitude.” President McKinley dusted off his pinstriped pants. He cast a glance at his awakening wife. Ida McKinley strained to catch sight of her husband. “I am quite all right, my dear. Thanks to this fast-thinking young man.”

Melinda beamed at Evan, but the muffled uproar of the guests filtered through the closed doors leading into the main dining room and kept her from telling him how proud she was of his bravery. When had those doors closed?

Mr. Zimmerman must have shut them, and now he was shouting at the crowd. “Keep your seats! It's part of the entertainment. In a few minutes, you'll all see what is happening.”

Part of the entertainment?
What was he talking about? Melinda started toward the doors, but an arm surrounded her upper body, and she felt the sting of cold, sharp metal against her throat. “Zimmerman is doing just fine without your help, dear Melinda. If you don't want this knife to ruin your beautiful neck, I suggest you do as you're told.” Preston's menacing voice hissed in her ear.

Melinda's hands trembled and her heart pounded a frenzied beat. She spotted Evan inching toward them and swallowed hard.
Please, Lord, don't let him do anything rash.

Preston tightened his hold. “If you don't want me to hurt her, stay where you are, Evan.”

When Evan took another step, Melinda thought she might faint. “Please, Evan. Don't do anything foolish. He'll kill both of us.”

“You'd do well to listen to her, Evan. She's a smart girl. And she's quite beautiful—at the moment. If you want her to remain that way, you'll all do as I say.” He waved the dagger toward the side doors before returning it to Melinda's neck. “Now, I'm going to go out that door, down those steps, and mount a waiting horse. If you want this young lady to remain unscathed, you'll do nothing to stop me. Is that understood?”

Melinda looked at Evan. Anger and determination shone in his eyes. When no one answered Preston, he tightened his hold until she yelped in pain. “Please answer him,” she begged.

They nodded and murmured their agreement.

“That's better.” He pressed his lips close to Melinda's ear. “Now begin moving with me toward the door, where your brother is waiting for me with his horse.”

“My brother? I don't believe you.” Her mind whirled. Preston and Lawrence had become gambling friends. Had Preston truly convinced her brother to become involved in this attempt to kill the president? Her body went limp as sadness mingled with escalating fear.

“Stand up straight and turn to the right. I'm not going to drag you!” Once again Preston tightened his hold. Melinda forced herself to remain upright and keep pace with Preston's movements.

They had just turned toward the door when Melinda heard a noise behind them. Preston turned to look over his shoulder just before Melinda heard a loud thwack and white fabric descended over both of them. Preston fell to the floor, and she heard the clunk of the dagger. When the sheet was pulled away, Evan was holding Preston on the floor and Mrs. Mifflin was standing over Melinda with a wooden pole in her hand.

The older woman's eyes were as large as saucers. “I do hope you aren't injured, but I had to do something to stop him, and that pole was the only thing nearby.”

“I'm fine. Thank you for taking action. I don't know what I would . . .” Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of a security guard entering the side door and holding Lawrence at gunpoint.

The guard shoved Lawrence forward. “I got this one before he took off on his horse.”

“No! He's on our side!” Evan shouted to the guard. “Come and secure this man's arms.” Evan lifted Preston to his feet and pushed him against the wall. “He's one of the ringleaders.”

With his powdered white wig askew, Evan rushed to Melinda's side as she attempted to stand. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

Tipping her chin, he eyed the welt on her neck and winced. Lawrence joined them and laid a hand on Melinda's shoulder.

Evan pulled Melinda close. “Tell the president's guards I'll be with them in a minute.”

“You take care of Melinda, and I'll help the guards take Preston and his henchmen to the jail in Biscayne.” Lawrence trotted off in the direction of the security officers.

Melinda shook her head. “I don't understand all of this, Evan. Preston said Lawrence was helping him with the assassination attempt. Is that true?”

“No. Your brother came and told me Preston was forcing him to bring his horse to be used in their escape. Preston stole the papers for Midnight Flight and threatened to have Lawrence thrown in jail for stealing the horse, but when Lawrence still refused to help, Preston threatened your life.”