Robert B. Parker's Blackjack (25 page)

T
hough it was not direct proof, it was proof enough that Daphne was in part responsible for the death of Ruth Ann Messenger. Allie did not accompany me to the hospital, nor did I go with Virgil. I went alone. I wanted to go alone. When I entered her room she was sitting up in bed smiling, and sitting with her, with his back to the door, was Bill Black. He turned and smiled at me.

“Howdy,” Black said.

I nodded a bit.

“Everett,” she said, “I’m so happy to see you today. Happy Independence Day.”

Black’s big frame blocked Daphne’s view of the suitcase I held in my hand.

“Guess what?” she said.

“What?”

“Bill has asked me to marry him,” she said.

Black nodded and looked back to me and smiled.

“I was stupid enough to let her get away before,” he said. “Not this time, though.”

“And you have accepted?”

She smiled.

“I have,” she said.

I moved into the room, and when I did she saw the case in my hand. She stared at it as if I were holding something dead.

“No,” she said, and shook her head.

“No what?” I said.

She stared at the case for a moment longer, then looked to Black. Black looked to the case, then looked to me.

“What?” he said with a grin.

I set the suitcase on the foot of the bed and Daphne recoiled like the thing that was dead was now alive.

“Found this in your room,” I said. “In your closet.”

“No,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

She started to shake her head back and forth like a child refusing to listen to her parents. Then tears started to fall from her eyes.

“What’s . . . what’s going on?” Black said.

“I won’t let you do this,” she said. “I won’t let you do this. I won’t let you do this.”

“I didn’t do anything, Daphne,” I said.

“What?” Black said. “What is it?”

“This is your doing, Daphne,” I said.

“What’s going on here?” he said, and reached for the suitcase.

“No!”
Daphne screamed, and kicked the suitcase off the foot of the bed. It hit the wall next to the bed and opened, spilling the contents across the floor.

Black stood up and moved around the footboard to see the paints and brushes. He looked to me with a confused look on his face.

I walked to the case, bent down, and picked up the tintype photograph of Bloom’s Inn and handed it to Black.

“You might want to reconsider that proposal,” I said.

Black shook his head in disbelief and looked to Daphne.

“You?”

She smiled.

“It’s not what you think, sweetie,” she said.

Black looked to me.

“I just want to know if you did this alone,” I said.

“Why,” she said, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“You did this?” Black said.

“No, sweetie,” she said.

“You did,” he said. “Didn’t you?”

She stared blankly at Black but said nothing. Then she backed up, curled into a ball at the headboard, and cowered like she was about to be beat.

Black looked to me slowly and said, “My God.”

I moved toward her, and her eyes were wide with fear. She turned her head to the side but remained looking at me out of the corner of her eye.

“Daphne,” I said.

She cocked her head a little.

“Yes, Daddy,” she said.

I moved closer and she smiled.

“Daphne?”

She looked away.

“Daphne?”

She did not respond. She stared off, looking at nothing. It was now very clear to both Black and me that she was not well.

Black stared at her, but she did not look at him. She kept looking away, staring at nothing. He shook his head and moved the chair back away from the bed and sat.

“Daphne?” he said.

She did not respond.

“Are you not listening?”

She did not respond.

Black shook his head.

“My God,” he said.

I moved around to the other side of the bed, in the direction she was staring. I moved close to her and it was clear she was in some kind of shock. I looked to Black and he shook his head.

“Before,” he said, “I met this beautiful woman, I never knew anyone brighter, smarter, or kinder . . . but then there was always . . . I don’t know, something unusual. There were glimpses of someone other than her, within her, someone other than the bright, smart, and kind woman I got to know and love. I never was certain why I moved away from her but I knew there was something . . .”

“You left her?” I said.

He nodded and leaned over with his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor.

“I’d seen this before. Not like this, not this bad, but some. I also sensed a grave jealousy within her, but she never really, truly acknowledged it or acted out about it . . .”

“Think she’s done that now,” I said.

A
tiny light whistled up high into the dark night, followed by an astounding kaleidoscope of bright red, white, and blue light that exploded in the night sky.

“Oh, my,” Allie said.

An enormous boom immediately followed.

“Oh!”
Allie said, placing her hand to her chest. “That was loud.”

“Sure was,” Valentine said.

“So interesting how the boom happens after,” she said.

“Happens at the same time, Allie,” Valentine said. “Just sound travels a hell of a lot slower than light.”

Virgil, Allie, Valentine, and I were sitting on the front porch of Virgil and Allie’s house, watching the fireworks display that was being put on by Pritchard’s grand opening of his casino.

Earlier in the day, after Daphne had rested from her confrontation with me, and her subsequent mental lapse, she came to, not really remembering everything that had happened really clearly, but remembering enough.

Black and Pritchard remained with her throughout the afternoon
as we made arrangements with the Denver contingent to take her back to Denver, where she would be charged with the murder of Ruth Ann Messenger.

Another tiny light whistled up high in the sky, followed by an exploding circle of bright sizzling white light and a boom.

“A dandelion,” Allie said.

“Big one,” Virgil said.

“That is so beautiful,” she said.

“It is,” Valentine said.

Another big one exploded, sending red twinkling streamers falling from the sky.

“Oh . . . look at that,” Allie said.

The fireworks kept coming.

“And that,” she said. “Would you look at that?”

“Another good one,” Virgil said.

“That one had some spread,” Valentine said, “and some kick.”

“Did,” Virgil said.

We watched as the fireworks continued. A huge exploding blue one lit up the evening expanse very brightly, followed by an enormous loud boom.

“Oh, my,” Allie said. “Gosh . . . that one was really loud.”

I looked to Allie as she stared up at the sky. She was beaming like a little girl . . . and it made me smile some. Though none of us, particularly me, were in the mood for celebration, we were doing our best.

We watched for a while before anyone said anything else. The fireworks were, as Pritchard promised, a spectacular display. He was not wrong. It was outstanding.

Allie grinned as she looked up. Her eyes were fixed and childlike.

I thought sadly of Daphne earlier in the day and how she, too, was so childlike, but the tragic circumstances were very different.

Allie, I thought, was not at all without her own disappointments and tragedies in life. She had been through a hell of a lot.

“Look at that one,” Valentine said.

Hell, in hindsight, we all had been through a lot. I looked to Virgil and Valentine and thought we all have lived somewhat desperate lives and, in some ways, many lives. The person we were before was not necessarily who we were today. But then again, it’s circumstances that pretty much make us who we are.

But what Daphne had endured as a child was horrific. Pritchard was the least astonished to learn of what had happened to Ruth Ann Messenger.

Turned out he knew Daphne’s father and knew he was not the mathematician she said he was. In fact, he was a drunk that Daphne had taken care of since the day her mother walked out. According to Pritchard, her father abused her in ways that were unimaginable, and before Pritchard had him arrested and sent away, Daphne attempted to beat him to death with a shovel as he slept. Since that time, Pritchard had treated and raised her like his own daughter. He loved her, and though he was dreadfully deflated to learn the news about the killing of Ruth Ann Messenger, he understood it. He said there was a rage that remained inside her that he could never help suppress, relieve, or alleviate. He also knew she was brilliant, and the scheme of how she wanted to persecute Black for breaking off their engagement was also no surprise to him.

“Look at that one,” Allie said. “Who would have thought?”

“The Chinese,” Valentine said. “Hell, all the way back to the Tang dynasty.”

“Well, it’s remarkable,” she said. “Don’t know how on earth they do it.”

“Gunpowder,” Virgil said.

“Yep . . . Some Chinaman mixed charcoal, sulfur, and saltpeter
together and . . . boom,” Valentine said. “Gunpowder. First invented to scare off evil spirits . . . now it is more commonly used in one form or another to kill people.”

I glanced over at Virgil, and he was staring at Valentine as he watched the fireworks. He remained looking at his big brother for a moment, then Virgil looked over to me as I looked back up. I could feel Virgil looking at me, but I continued to watch the dazzling display that was taking place for the grand opening of the Maison de Daphne.

As always, “much obliged” goes out to G. P. Putnam’s Sons’ president, Ivan Held; my editor extraordinaire, Chris Pepe; and Helen Brann for shuffling and dealing up this newest adventure with Hitch and Cole. Like Virgil says, “This sort of work we do is always a gamble.” So I appreciate those who have pulled up a chair, put their chips on the table, and anted up. Without that ante there is simply nothing to win or lose, and for this go-round I have to say
muchas gracias
to gifted mountain guide Rob Wood of Rancho Roberto, Jamie “Whatnot” Whitcomb, Rex “Double Down” Linn, Jared Moses, Genevieve Negrete, Jayne Amalia Larson, Kevin Meyer, and the shifty-eyed Mike Rose. My apologies to Alice DiGregorio, Claudia, Pete, Ingrid, and Lucy Crosen for putting up with my sequestering during our retreat. And to Julie Rose for putting up with me, period. A big hand for Ed Harris, the great and talented man who so expertly brought Virgil Cole to life on the silver screen, and the incomparable Viggo Mortensen for his voice of Everett Hitch that keeps coming around throughout. And I’d like to raise you a thousand for my riverboat steam crew: Josh Kesselman, Allison Binder, agent Steve Fisher, and the rest of the
crafty card sharps at APA. A rousing toast to my sisters—the Clogging Castanets—Sandra and Karen, for dancing around the table. And in memory of Robert and Joan Parker, a tip of the hat for reminding me of the most significant of all gambler’s creeds: never sit with your back to the
door.

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