“I even suggested that some people might be planning to steal it,” Jefferson adds. “The idea was to have the rumors get back to Hardwick, so we could see what protection measures he’d put in place. But that part backfired a little. When we went to the bank that night to check it out, a couple of ambitious knuckleheads got there first.”
“We did find out exactly how his money was guarded,” I say. “But I couldn’t let the robbers get away with the safe—we needed that safe intact.” The shadow of the gallows passes across my thoughts.
“In the meantime,” Tom says, “I learned everything I could about the sheriff’s auctions. Hardwick managed them, and Sheriff Purcell took a cut of the money. I soon discovered that Purcell felt he wasn’t getting his fair share.”
“So Jefferson sabotaged the auction,” I say. “All the prices were too low, only a fraction of what Hardwick wanted. And every single lot he had sold at the last auction was listed again. But, Jefferson . . .” I turn toward him. Sweat runs down his neck. “How did you do it?”
His self-satisfied grin is the best thing I’ve seen in days. “I paid a printer to run off phony auction sheets,” he says. “Billy, the pickpocket, was already working at the auctions, handing out price sheets every month. So Hardwick’s printer handed him the real price sheets, and then we replaced them with fake ones we commissioned, and Billy distributed them, just like always.”
“Custom House lot twenty-three!” Becky says.
“Huh?” I say.
“Custom House lot twenty-three, that was the other thing you changed. The original bid sheet said ‘one house, from Tennessee, complete with furnishings and ready for assembly.’ But the fake one said ‘one small load of wood, somewhat water damaged.’”
I grin. “That probably made it easier to buy.”
“We were the only bidders,” Henry says, looking up from the hole again, which is now almost waist-deep. “Imagine that!”
“My job was to create a distraction,” Jim says. “To keep the auctioneer from paying close attention to the false bid sheets, and to put the crowd on edge.” He winces. “That proved to be an even better distraction than anticipated.”
“You mean worse,” I say, glaring.
“After Jim was shot,” Becky says, “Henry and I stuck around for a while, sowing discord.”
“We put on a fine bit of theater, if you ask me,” Henry says. “We didn’t know what kind of shape Jim was in, but we soldiered on.”
“Ideally, the plan should have worked either way,” I say. “If they didn’t catch the substitution, then the sale proceeded and the sheriff would think Hardwick was trying to cheat him. If the auctioneer did notice something wrong and called off the auction, then both Hardwick and the sheriff would come up empty-handed.” I turn to Jim and say, “But neither one was worth your life. If Frank Dilley had killed you, I don’t know what I would have done.”
“I didn’t come all the way out to California just to die,” Jim says. He stretches out his crutch and taps the name on the grave marker. “But since everyone thinks I did, I might try being someone else for a while.”
“Well, you’re welcome in Glory, Mr. Boisclair,” says the Major.
“But why?” Hampton says. “Why let people go on thinking Jim was dead? I’m still so confused.”
“We’re getting to that,” Mary assures him.
Hampton’s frown deepens. I open my mouth to assure him, to explain, but he jumps into the muddy hole and takes Jefferson’s shovel. “I have no idea what’s going on here, but let me spell you a bit.”
“Thanks, Hampton.” Jeff wipes his forehead with his sleeve and climbs out.
Following Hampton’s lead, Jasper rolls up his sleeves and jumps in to spell Henry.
“The best thing about the auction,” Tom says, “is that it made Sheriff Purcell steaming mad at Hardwick, even before he got called out to the party.”
“Party?” says Hampton. He pauses midshovel, and dirt clods topple back into the hole.
“I bet the sheriff expected to confiscate all the money Frank Dilley stole,” the Major says.
“Frank Dilley stole a bunch of money?” Jasper asks, exchanging a baffled look with Hampton.
“Don’t stop digging!” Mary says. “We have to get this done before anyone comes along.”
As they resume their attack on the hole, I say, “We stole the money. But we made it look like Frank Dilley did it.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard all month,” Hampton says.
“Tell me how you did it,” Jasper demands.
“Well, we needed your help for that,” Henry says.
“Ah,” Jasper says. “That’s what all the fuss with Jim was about.”
“Yep,” I say. “After Jim was shot, Mary had the best idea.”
Mary grins. “It turned out pretty well, if I do say so myself. Once we had the keys for Hardwick’s safes—”
“Hold on, hold on, hold on,” Tom interrupts. “How did you get the keys to Hardwick’s safes? I’ve been dying to know how you managed it. They were never out of Ichabod’s hands.”
“Ichabod?” I ask.
“His accountant.”
“Mr. Keys!” Jefferson says. He’s leaning against the wagon now, taking a breather. “That was a tough one. He checked those keys every time he sat down and again the second he stood up. So I paid Sonia to help us. One day when Mr. Keys . . . Ichabod . . . stopped for lunch, she lifted his key ring. We had wax trays ready so she could make impressions of all the keys in just a few minutes.”
“Like the locksmith who worked on the Charlotte,” Melancthon says.
Jefferson nods. “By the time his food was served, the ring was back on his belt; he never noticed it was gone.”
“Once we had the keys for Hardwick’s safes,” the Major continues, “we needed a way to get the gold out quickly and efficiently, and then transport it without it being noticed.”
“Aha!” Melancthon interjects. “That’s what you needed that bilge hose for. They’re heavy when full, but easy to move.”
“We were going fill the hose with gold coins, and then store them all in the Charlotte in a barrel,” the Major says. “But it’s a good thing we didn’t. After he was arrested, Frank Dilley told the sheriff that we stole the money, and Purcell came and searched the Charlotte from stem to stern yesterday. If we’d had a single coin hidden aboard the ship, he would have found it.”
“I still don’t understand how you got the money out of the bank,” Jasper says.
“That was me, too,” Jefferson says. “The bank has a tile roof. I climbed up, removed a few tiles, and slipped directly into the cage. Took me a minute to figure out which key opened the safe. Then I stuffed the gold coins into the bilge hose.”
“Which was why Major Craven had me line it with cotton padding,” Melancthon says, running a hand through his whisk-broom hair. “To muffle the sound.”
“Exactly,” the Major says.