“You might get away with shooting a man at an auction,” I say. “But not even Mr. Hardwick will protect you if you shoot a woman in his garden.” Henry sure is taking his time. I trust him to know the exact perfect moment, but waiting is nerve-wracking, nonetheless.
“Don’t try me,” Dilley says. The music and chatter have stopped. Everyone watches as he escorts us to the gates at gunpoint. Large and Larger guard the entrance, and as usual, they appear to be suffering from an excess of boredom, at least until they see us coming. Not that they move, or rise from their chairs, but I think, in the light of the lantern, that I see their eyebrows go up.
“Where are your brats?” Frank asks Becky.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.
“Your children. The guest log says they came with you.”
“Well, they’re not here,” she says.
“They’re very curious children,” I say, just to stall. “They could have wandered anywhere. You should probably go look for them.”
Finally, a high, operatic tenor rises loud and clear over the garden, from the direction of the gaming tables. “I’ve been robbed! Help!” the voice sings. “My gold is gone, stolen right out of my pockets! Check your pockets, everyone.”
Henry is overdoing it somewhat, but before I can worry, his cry is followed by a second, unfamiliar voice. “My watch is gone!”
There’s a sudden babble. Frank Dilley turns to Large and Larger. “Lock the gates. No one leaves until we’ve got this solved. Especially not these two troublemakers.”
Frank takes off to investigate.
“So, are you enjoying the party?” I ask Large and Larger as the commotion in the garden grows louder.
“It’s starting to get interesting,” says Large.
“But I don’t expect it to last,” says Larger.
“Somebody would have to be really stupid to steal anything at one of Mr. Hardwick’s parties,” Large says.
“They’d be sure to get caught,” Larger agrees.
I lock eyes with Becky, but I decide not to say a thing. I try to clutch my locket for comfort, but of course it’s not there anymore.
One of the waiters runs up to the gate, a young man with his collar undone and his tie loose. “Are you all right, young man?” Becky asks.
“One of those nights,” he answers. To the two guards, he says, “Mr. Hardwick says you must run and fetch the sheriff. There’s been a theft, and he wants it solved and the thief punished.”
Large looks at Larger.
“Do you feel like running?”
“I don’t get paid enough to run.”
“Me neither.”
Larger stands and opens the gate. “You better go and fetch the sheriff,” he tells the waiter. “You know all the details anyway.”
The young man starts to protest, but Larger put his hand on his Colt revolver. “Sure,” the waiter says quickly. “I can do that.”
After he dashes through the gate, they drag it closed and lock it again. I ask, “Do you mind if we go see what’s happening?”
“Just don’t try to leave through this gate,” Larger says.
“Because then we’d have to stop you,” Large says.
“And it feels like that could take some effort,” Larger adds.
Becky and I stroll back toward the crowd, which has gathered around Hardwick’s porch. The general sentiment seems to be anger and suspicion, with everyone giving the side-eye to everyone else. Hardwick himself stands in the doorway, backlit by a fire in the hearth of the room behind him, while various prominent men deliver complaints. The governor points to the missing pocket watch at the end of his gold chain. The wife of a senator complains about her absent necklace and bracelets. A judge wants Hardwick to know that his pocket has been picked clean of golden eagles.
Hardwick is doing his best to calm everyone down when Mr. Keys appears at his shoulder to whisper something in his ear.
“I can’t hear you,” Hardwick says.
The whole crowd falls silent just as Mr. Keys, still clearly tipsy, shouts, “We have a problem inside—someone broke into one of our safes!”
The timing could not be better, and it’s hard to resist clapping. For once, luck is with us.
Hardwick follows Mr. Keys into the house, and the crowd surges forward. I make sure I’m near the front as we push in and chase him through the house to a large storeroom behind the kitchen. Eleven safes stand neatly in two rows against the wall. Being this close to that much gold is nearly enough to make my knees buckle.
The largest safe, from Owen and Son, Bankers, stands with its door wide open and its shelves completely empty. Almost two hundred thousand dollars in gold was held in that safe. An unimaginable amount. And now it’s all gone.
I grin in spite of myself.
“Is there something amusing about this?” Hardwick asks me. His voice cracks, which widens my grin. He’s finally losing his composure.
“I told you to stay by the gate,” Frank yells when he spots me.
“You didn’t, actually. You just said we couldn’t leave—”
An unfamiliar voice hollers, “Look at all those safes! If Hardwick has so much money, why’d he steal from us?”
“Thief!” someone else shouts.
“Yeah, thief!” I chime in.
Hardwick raises his hands. “Hold on, friends. The sheriff will be here any moment, and we’ll sort this out. Now, please, please, all of you go back to the parlor. We have wine, whiskey, hors d’oeuvres . . .”
California is still too new and wild for people to ignore free food. A bit mollified, we all wait, crowded inside and around the front of his mansion, until Sheriff Purcell storms in, accompanied by several deputies.
Somehow, I thought he’d be larger. Imposing. Instead, the sheriff is of medium height and weight, with curly light brown hair turning to gray. He has a hornet’s-nest-poked-with-a-stick kind of look about him, thanks to his unkempt hair and beard, which bodes either very well or very ill.
“You have some nerve, hauling me down here,” Purcell says to Hardwick.
A puzzled look flits across Hardwick’s face. “Perhaps we should discuss the situation in private.”
Purcell glances around, noting all the familiar faces in the crowd. “No, I think I’m fine discussing it in front of witnesses.”
“Something has upset you,” Hardwick observes.
“You left me with a colossal mess after the auction yesterday. I’m still sorting out all the complaints!”
“What complaints?” Hardwick seems truly baffled, and I’m not ashamed to say I don’t feel sorry for him in the least.
“Theirs and mine,” Purcell says. “Their complaints are that you sold a bunch of property that was already owned by other people. I’ve got two sets of owners for all these different plots of land lined up in my office, wanting a resolution.”
“Thief!” someone shouts behind me. Jefferson’s voice, unless I miss my guess. Whispered echoes of “thief” ripple through the crowd.
“That’s not what I . . . that’s not right,” Hardwick says.
“No, James, it’s not right at all. My complaint is that you set the prices for the last auction so low that my office’s cut of the proceeds is just a fraction of what we need this month. I’m going to have to let deputies go, because I can’t afford to pay them, and that’s on you.” Purcell sticks a finger in Hardwick’s chest.