Hooked (21 page)

He let her hand go and took the cigar from his mouth. “I don't know what cure you're talking about. So this will have to do.” He leaned forward and kissed her. A slight and brushing kiss. Just enough to make him ache for more. That first warm taste made him desire her. He wanted to kiss her breathless. Give her passion and fire. But this was all he could let her have of Matthew right now. All he dared give.

Breaking apart, he looked into her face. He saw her in a way that he had never seen her before: vulnerable.

Christ. He didn't want to hurt her. Didn't ever want to see her cry because of him.

With a forced smile, he placed his cigar on her lips. She bit down, her pearly white teeth revealed. “You need this more than I do, Miss Brooks. I won't tell anyone.”

He strode down the rest of the porch steps giving
the impression of a confident man. But inside, he was more torn than he had ever been in his life.

*  *  *

Gage led his horse to the dilapidated log house the clerk at Schutter Wagons told him belonged to Oliver Stratton and his mother. From the looks of the place, a prayer was holding the framing together. The roof sagged and the attached lean-to was barely wide enough to hold a clothes-washing basin and stock firewood. Only one window, two six-over-six panes, greeted visitors beside a door that didn't seem strong enough to hold back a breeze.

Tethering his horse to the branch of an apple tree and unhitching his writing case, Gage made his way toward the front door. He didn't have to wait to announce himself; a yellow dog came from behind the house. A scrawny looking thing, but with a nice wag to its tail and without a gruff bite to its bark.

The dog's noise brought a young man out of the barn. He wiped his hands on a red bandanna, then stuffed it into the back pocket of his faded overalls.

“Help you, sir?” he asked.

Gage gave him a quick study. Tall, thin, and with a light brown mustache on his upper lip that looked like a down feather. His humbling eyes, though, expressed a maturity his mustache did not. Deep-set and soft in their brown color, they looked at Gage straight on with no prejudgment, even though Gage wore a suit and shoes whose combined value could have bought this man a month of supplies. In that moment of sizing each other up, Gage made a decision unlike any he'd ever made before in his career as a reporter.

Gage backed his hat off his brow with his thumb. “Are you Oliver Stratton?”

The youth nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Are you a man of integrity?”

His brows lifted with slight confusion.

Gage clarified, knowing that Stratton could never comprehend how much of a concession it was for Matthew Gage—who trusted very few, to take a man on his assurance. “You just tell me if you live by an ethical code, and I'll take you at your word.”

“Yes, sir.” His head bobbed. “I pride myself on it.”

Nodding, Gage said, “Good enough for me.” Then he shifted his case from his right hand to his left and lifted his arm as an offering. “I'm Matthew Gage of
The San Francisco Chronicle.”

Ollie took Gage's hand and shook it. “You're a long way from home.”

“Yes I am.”

Stepping back, Ollie asked, “What can I do for you, Mr. Gage?”

“The reason I asked if you were a man of your word, is because I've got to ask you for yours.”

Ollie slowly tucked his arms over his chest. “You've got it.”

“I'm staying in Harmony under the name of Vernon Wilberforce—an entrant in the fishing contest, but my true business is to expose any wrongdoing in last year's competition.”

“Can't help you there, Mr. Gage. I didn't do anything wrong.”

“Didn't figure you did. But I've heard you were expected to win. And when you didn't, quite a few people were outraged.”

“None more so than myself.” He motioned to the house. “Why don't you come on inside and I'll get you a cup of coffee.”

“All right.”

Gage followed Ollie; the dog followed Gage. Once at the door, Ollie opened it and called out in a loud voice, “Mother, there's a gentleman come calling.”

“Who's that?” came a weary and aged voice from the corner of the room; Gage became aware of the fact the woman was hard of hearing.

The whole of the house was in one space. A kitchen area, sitting area, and sleeping area. Two beds, neatly made with threadbare quilts, occupied the far right corner.

Gage looked at the woman with silver hair and a face that sagged from years of exposure to the sun. Gage deduced she'd plowed a field a couple thousand times in her lifetime. She sat in a rocker by the potbelly stove.

“This here is Mr. Wilberforce.” Ollie enunciated the words clearly and within an inch of the woman's ear.

Gage appreciated the man's confidence. Ollie could have easily said he was Matthew Gage and he doubted the old woman would have remembered.

“I don't know any Wilberforce.”

Her son patted her hand. “You just sit and we're going to talk a spell.”

Ollie gathered two cups and filled them with coffee from a dented enamel pot that had been resting on a back burner of the stove. Then he motioned for Gage to have a seat on one of the beds.

“Sorry. It's nothing fancy. But we make due.” Ollie sat across from Gage, cupping his coffee mug in his hands. “I don't know what all I can help you with.”

After setting his cup on the floor, Gage opened his case and took out a pencil and notepad. “Just start by telling me about that day. What happened first.”

Ollie proceeded to give him his account of last year's contest in which nothing out of the ordinary happened. “I never saw him fish, but I was told his cast only had one fly attached. Some people speculate there was more than one fly on his leader. It's a possibility, but doubtful. Caddis are small flies, but anyone with a trained eye can see if more than one is on the gut. Not to mention, it's only obvious when you snare two fish on the same line. You've got two hooks. That's against the rules and would have instantly disqualified him.”

“Is there a way he could have stocked that lake? I spoke with Leroy Doolin at the Waverly hatchery and he claims he never sold Wayne Brooks any fish.”

With a smile of conspiracy, Ollie said, “I went and saw Leroy myself. Got the same story as you. But one thing is for certain: Leroy Doolin has a tailwater trout fishery that lets him unload browns into Evergreen Creek.”

“You think that's what happened? Wayne got him to let fish go?”

“Yes, but I've got no way to prove it.” Ollie took a sip of coffee. “This is for true: Rainbows spawn so close to high river flows that their eggs are often washed away in comparison to brown trout in the local streams. But the contest takes place in early spring. Wayne Brooks didn't catch any fry—he caught adult browns, which don't even spawn until fall. Brown trout have only been around since eighty-three, so it surely does leave the mind open for speculation on how that big of population got into the creek during the contest.”

Gage reached for his coffee. “Is there a chance there could be a bunch of them in one spot?”

“It's more than possible.” Ollie's mouth fell to a grim line. “They like to hide in deep, slow water under overhead cover—usually in a logjam. So if Doolin did let all those fish go, they'd settle into one spot. And if you're fishing that spot, you've just hit the mother lode.”

They talked some more on the subject; Ollie even brought out his pride and joy—a split-cane Leonard rod and Wheatley fly boxes with individual lids on each inner compartment. He'd organized his flies by what they were supposed to imitate rather than by color or size. Ollie proudly declared he'd been saving for three years to buy it all, then practiced another year before entering the contest.

“Is there anything else you can remember?” Gage questioned, rubbing his jaw with his fingers. “Like what happened the day of the lottery? How did Wayne get picked to have first choice of spots?”

“That I don't know. But I was witness to Gus Gushurst pulling his name. He won that spot on the square. I can only guess if he had a plan to begin with or not. But winning the lottery gave him the most advantageous place around that lake. I don't know if you've been out there, but it's right at the top of the creek. I did my practice casts there.”

“What about the day of the competition? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Ollie grinned. “Ham Beauregarde had a case of barrel ache. He drank too much beer the night before. I limited myself to one. But some of them had quite a few.”

“Some of them?”

“The other entrants.”

Gage arched his brows in silent question.

“The night before the contest, all the entrants get together at the Blue Flame Saloon to talk bull.” He shot a glance at his mother, obviously to detect if she'd heard him swear.

Mrs. Stratton rocked in her chair, smiling at her son when he looked at her. She plainly was unable to hear a word he said.

Folding over his sheet of paper, Gage asked, “Was Wayne Brooks at this get together?”

Ollie inhaled while pondering the question. “Come to think of it, I can't see him in that saloon. I don't recall him being there. Don't know why it never crossed my mind until now.”

“Where do you suppose he was? At home?”

“Couldn't say. He might have been any place.”

“Up at Waverly talking with Leroy Doolin?”

“Possibility.”

Gage put his things away in his writing case. “I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me.” He rose to his feet. “I'll let you know what I find out.”

“I'd be grateful.”

“Why aren't you entering this year?”

“My heart isn't in it, Mr. Gage. I worked for four years to get there. I had my chance and lost. I won't go back to be beaten again. If they play foul once, they can do it twice.”

Gage didn't like to hear the defeat in his tone. Before he went to the door, he hesitated. “What would you have done with the money?”

Oliver Stratton got a wide grin on his mouth. “Live a lot better than I do now that's for true. I'd buy a new house—nothing highfalutin. Then I'd get some help around here and hire a nurse to watch over my ma while I'm off at work. I wouldn't quit digging for
the gasworks. A man's got to pride himself on his labors. Those who sit back and do nothing but count their cash, I don't abide by.” He scratched his head. “I'm the youngest of nine boys and Ma's my responsibility. Everybody else has scattered.”

Gage nodded, understanding Ollie Stratton was committed to his mother for as long as she was living. He liked the boy, liked his outlook. “I wish you would have won.”

“Me too. But it's water under the bridge.”

“Not until I say it is.” Gage set his coffee cup on the counter.

Opening the door for Gage, Ollie offered, “I wish you the best of luck in the contest, Mr. Gage.”

“Thanks. I don't expect to win. But I do expect to find out what happened.”

Gage left the house, untethered his horse, mounted and rode out of the yard. The yellow dog followed him to the road, then stayed behind.

A lot of thinking.
That's what Gage had to do before he went off half-cocked. He believed every word of what Ollie Stratton told him. Gage was now fully convinced that Wayne Brooks had used illegal tactics to win. And Leroy Doolin played a part in the duplicity.

But the burning question was still: How to prove it?

And how to prove it without bringing grief to Meg?

She was connected to all this. He wanted to believe she didn't have anything to do with her brother's win. From appearances, she seemed innocent, yet she only reluctantly discussed Wayne's win. Perhaps she didn't want to dredge up the ill-will that had no doubt plagued her family last year. In any case, even with
her not knowing how her brother had won, whatever he uncovered would cause her pain.

But if Wayne Brooks had rigged the contest, then Gage owed it to his readers to expose him. They expected him to air dirty laundry in his column.

Gage didn't like this assignment. Wished he hadn't told David about it. But David knew and told Gage to run with the story. Said it would show that not even small-town America was free of corruption.

Corruption? Or was it plain greed that made Wayne Brooks do what he did?

One thing Gage did know was, he could no longer deceive Meg. His feelings for her had begun to cloud his judgment. He'd have to come clean with her. Maybe she'd admit to being a part in it. Gage wouldn't write the article if she had been. But he didn't know how to fix the wrong without going to the authorities. Perhaps he could get the police to stay quiet and deal with the matter without going public.

If it weren't a thousand dollars at stake, and a hardworking man and his old mother going without, Gage would have walked away. But dammit all to hell. He had principle. And principle didn't let him go without fighting for the cause.

Harmony came into view and Gage rode across Sugar Maple Street to Hess's livery to return his rented horse.

Gage was tired. Not only physically. But tired of trying to right the wrongs in the world. Maybe he ought to retire. Maybe he ought to write those slice of life stories now. Let somebody else who had an iron stomach for dishonesty take over.

With his conscience weighing down his stride, Gage
rounded the corner and took Dogwood. He climbed the steps to the hotel and let himself inside.

*  *  *

Just what
exactly
had Mr. Wilberforce meant by giving her his cigar?

That thought had been with Meg all day as she rearranged the bric-a-brac on the hotel mantel around a new floral centerpiece. While she moved, her new petticoat crisply brushed her ankles. She hoped the petticoat from yesterday's picnic didn't end up any place embarrassing. Once, Mrs. Wolcott had had her petticoat and skirt stolen from her clothesline and the police had found them at the disposal bin of Nannie's Home-Style Restaurant and in the alley behind Dutch's poolroom.