Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(78)

“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.

“That’s a lie,” Hardwick says furiously. “I chose those prices myself.”

“So you admit it’s your fault,” Purcell says.

“I admit nothing,” Hardwick says. “But if you help me figure out who the thief is tonight, I promise I’ll make it right with you.”

“Your promises are worth squat,” the sheriff says.

This is working out far better than I had hoped or dreamed.

The governor steps forward and rests a hand on Purcell’s shoulder. “What about my promises? Help us find the culprit tonight, resolve this situation, and I will make it right with you.”

The sheriff’s outrage melts away like a spring snowfall. “Yes, sir,” Purcell says. He waves over some deputies. “Make a list of everything that’s been stolen, and then start searching everyone.”

This process moves quickly, more quickly than I expected, because the party is no longer any fun, the whiskey is no longer flowing, and people are eager to wrap up this problem and leave. When my turn comes, I report that I’ve lost a few five-dollar pieces, and a quick search of my pockets and purse turn up empty. I’m herded toward a group of folks who have already been searched.