“I found out about the O’Dells in the New York Times. They ran a list of all the victims when the Lusitania went down. I was reading down the column and all of a sudden there it was. Shamus and Katherine O’Dell, San Francisco.”
“I suppose Shamus had his good side, he just never showed it to me. And Kate was a fine lady. Loved him dearly, although I’ll never know why.”
“Water under the bridge, Mr. Eli.”
“It’s hard to forget the past when you live with it every day.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Prohibition starts in two weeks. Things are going to be tough around here. Social House is a private club so we’ll be alright. And they’ll never shut down Grand View. I know a couple of senators and at least one governor who’ve visited the place. The good news is, it may put Riker out of business. I’ve tried to buy him out since the night O’Dell left. The town is still as rotten as ever. It attracts rowdy crowds from fifty miles around.”
“Prohibition won’t hurt Riker. If anything, he’ll make more money. He’ll board over the windows and put up a front door with a peephole, just like they’re gonna do in New York and Chicago. Hell, the Feds’ll be too busy worrying about the big cities, they won’t be snooping around a little place like this.”
“That’s bad news,” Eli said. There was still anger in his tone after all the years.
They talked for several hours, about Eureka, about what Brodie’s job would be, about Ben, whose dream for the valley was more elaborate than Eli’s. About plans to form a county board, get a new prosecutor, clean up Eureka. No decent middle-class families would live there the way it was.
“You’ll be special deputy under Buck,” Eli said. “When he retires, you will become sheriff of the whole damn shebang.”
Twenty years and nothing had changed. Eli Gorman had a plan and Brodie Culhane was the last piece to fall into place.
The conversation finally wore Eli down, and Brodie and the nurse helped him to bed for his afternoon nap. Brodie strolled across the big backyard, past Maddy’s winter garden, and through the trees to the barn. The white horse lounged near the far end of the paddock, chewing on grass. His winter coat was matted and there were snarls in his mane, but he looked as strong as ever.
Brodie whistled to the horse. The white’s ears went up and he responded immediately, peering across the length of the paddock with curiosity. Brodie whistled again.
“C’mon, pretty boy,” he said softly. “I got something for you.”
He had brought two apples from the house.
Cyclone loped down the length of the paddock, approaching Brodie cautiously at first, sniffing the air, grumbling and snorting, his ears standing straight up. He’d come close and back up, come closer and back up.
“Look what I got,” Brodie said, and held up one of the apples.
Cyclone moved closer. Brodie held the apple between his hands and twisted it in two. The horse watched, his nose checking the air. Brodie rested half the apple in the palm of his hand and held it toward the horse. Cyclone snorted, bobbing his head up and down. He walked sideways, away from the apple, and leaned his long neck out, checking it. Brodie leaned through the fence and held it.
“C’mon, boy,” he said softly. “Pretty boy, come and get it.”
Finally he came close enough to roll back his lips and snatch the apple-half with his teeth. He munched it noisily and stepped closer, sniffing for more.
“Do you remember, pretty boy? Is it coming back?” He took the makings from his pocket and awkwardly began to roll a cigarette. A piece of shrapnel had injured his left hand and it was difficult. He finally prepared the paper and then the wind blew the tobacco off. “Damn,” he said, and started over. When he finished, the butt looked like a small pretzel but he got it lit and took a deep drag, all the while talking softly to Cyclone. He gave the other apple-half to him, and this time Cyclone came closer, let him pet his muzzle.
Brodie went into the barn, found a brush, and entered the paddock. The horse backed up, his eyes cautious and uncertain. Brodie broke the other apple in half, and this time Cyclone came over and got it. Brodie very slowly began to brush his side. The horse was still skittish, but he stood still as Brodie brushed his sides and then his mane and then finally stood close to him and petted his long nose.
“Wanna go for a ride?” Brodie asked gently. “You’ll have to wear a saddle. I got a bum leg, I don’t think I can handle you bareback.”
Cyclone grumbled but held fast. Brodie returned to the stable and came back with a blanket, bridle, and saddle. Every move was slow and easy. He put the blanket on Cyclone’s back first. The horse jumped a bit but Brodie soft-talked him, then eased the saddle over the horse’s back, reached under his belly and buckled the straps. So far so good. He put the bit in his mouth and laid the reins over Cyclone’s back, and the horse bolted. He trotted a dozen yards away and stopped, his ears twisting, his nose testing. Brodie held the last half of the apple in his palm. The horse slowly returned, this time bumping against him before taking it.
“Let’s give it a try, pal,” Brodie whispered. He leaned on the cane and got his right foot in the stirrup. The horse grumbled but stood fast. Brodie swung his injured leg carefully over the saddle and sat down.
Cyclone backed up, started to bolt again, and Brodie leaned over his neck. “Easy, pretty boy. It’s just you and me.” He kept talking, and walked Cyclone around the paddock a few times, then eased him into a trot. They circled the paddock a few times and Brodie steered him to the gate, reached down, and unlatched it. Cyclone walked slowly out of the paddock.
“Okay, son, let’s go for a ride.”
He rode around the barn, then down the path toward the ocean walk. The sun was slowly sinking toward the horizon, its reflection shimmering on the waves far out toward the entrance of the bay. The path was overgrown and unused, and Brodie walked the horse down it. Through the trees he saw the Hoffman house, and a moment later the greenhouse. He stopped and stared at it through the trees.
Even with memories of the war fresh in his mind, it had been the worst night of his life.
He went on, riding down to the wall around Grand View and then heading along it toward the road. From inside the house he heard music, strident military music, yet with a different kind of beat. He stopped and listened to the faint tune. There was something familiar about it. He rode down to the road and turned in front of the house.
Tall iron gates protected the house from intruders. A small guardhouse was situated on the far side of the gate but it appeared to be unmanned. Rows of tall hedges bracketed the road that led to the white-columned mansion a hundred yards away. Behind it, beyond and below the sheer cliffs, the ocean was serene. A Japanese gardener was meticulously snipping the grass around the gate. He saw Brodie and, smiling, he stood up and saluted.
“Speak English?” Brodie asked.
“Yes, suh, very good.”
“Miss Delilah is an old friend. I’m going to ride down to the house and say hello.”
“Need to call first,” the gardener said, pointing to the guardhouse.
Brodie eased Cyclone through the gate. “It’s a surprise,” he said. The gardener stood motionless as Brodie trotted down the paved road to the house. The music got louder as he reached the house and tied the horse to a fence post. He got his cane from the saddle pocket and went to the door. He could hear the music more distinctly now and realized it was a recording of “Memphis Blues” he had heard in Paris years ago. He rang the doorbell.
A minute passed, then the door opened and Noah stood there. He was wearing a blue jacket, tan cord pants, and immaculate knee-high leather boots. He stared curiously at Brodie for a long moment.
“What’s the matter, Noah, don’t you recognize an old friend?”
Curiosity melted into a smile.
“Mistah Brodie?” Hints of the Caribbean still haunted his accent. “Mon, look at you. Ain’t you the fancy one.”
“You’re not looking too bad yourself. May I come in?”
“Yes, suh. I’ll tell Miss Delilah you’re here. Mon, she is goin’ t’be some surprised.”
Brodie entered a wide, two-story foyer. A winding staircase faced him on the other side of the large room and led to a balcony on the second floor, with four hallways leading away from it. It was a pleasant room, with handsome stuffed chairs, antique tables, Tiffany lamps, vases of flowers, and two large davenports. In a stained- glass window over the doorway, a knight was challenging a dragon with his lance while a lovely damsel cowered
