The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Vicki Delany

to be a Mountie

      Ha ha.

      He walked across the mudflats and looked towards Front Street and the Savoy. His mother would be there, all fancy silk and lace, but warm hugs also. And Helen, with a mug of hot tinned milk and maybe a cookie or two. He looked up at the sun, still high in the sky, and sat behind a giant boulder overlooking what passed as the docks in Dawson: a soft indentation in the Yukon River, where vessels constructed of nothing more than hope tied up.

      From behind his veil of gloom, Angus MacGillivray saw Ray Walker coming towards him. He started to stand. Ray was a great guy. Angus never gave up hope that his mother would some day marry Ray. Or, if not Ray, then Graham Donohue— but after what he’d overheard the other night in the cigar store, maybe Mr. Donohue should come off the list—or, best of all, Richard Sterling. Even Sergeant Lancaster seemed fond of Angus’s mother. Although Angus did have his doubts as to whether Sergeant Lancaster would be the type of father Angus had long dreamed of.

      Before he could get to his feet and shout out a greeting, Ray passed the boulder and Angus heard the soft murmur of voices. Someone had joined Ray.

      “They suspect ye,” Ray’s voice said.

      “Rubbish. I ain’t done nothin’. I haven’t killed no one.”

      “It doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t do. What matters is what the police think.”

      “Where did you hear this nonsense?”

      “Never you mind.” The woman’s voice collapsed upon itself. Fading, softening.

      “I didn’t kill him. Do you understand, Ray? Do you care?”

      The man struggled for breath. “You know I care.”

      The woman almost purred. “Then we can forget all about it.” She sounded like a huge Persian cat Angus faintly remembered his mother owning when they lived in London. That cat was always washing her fur and licking her paws and stretching luxuriously—and hunting rats in the alley at night.

      “The Mounties won’t leave it.”

      “You’re worried about this McKnight. Don’t be. He’s a fool.”

      “He’s not a fool. But even more dangerous than McKnight, there’s Sterling.”

      The woman laughed, a deep, hearty laugh so convinced of its own merits Angus was willing to agree with every word she said. “Sterling’s so besotted, he’s useless.”

      “Don’t underestimate Sterling. He might appear blind where she’s concerned, but nothing’ll distract him from his duty. I’m telling you, they think you did it.”

      “But I didn’t!” The woman moaned. “I didn’t kill him. Sure, I was thrilled to hear he was dead, but I’d nothing to do with it. They’ll always find a woman to blame, won’t they? The bastards. Curse every last one of them. Can’t find the killer, so to save themselves, they’ll blame it on a woman.”

      A mosquito landed on Angus’s arm. He swiped at it, but was too late. Blood oozed from the pinprick of a bite.

      “What should I do?” the woman said with a deep sigh.

      Angus peeked out from behind his rock. He should stand up and say hello, but he’d been listening for too long. Ray and Miss Irene would think he’d been eavesdropping, spying maybe.

      “It might be best if you left town.”

      “Leave town! I didn’t kill no one. Why should I run away? I can’t leave Dawson. I’ll never make this kind of money anywhere else.”

      “This is about more than money, Irene. How much’ll you be making in the Fort Herchmer jail? Or on the gallows?”

      “You wouldn’t let that happen, would you, Ray? You’d make sure they knew I didn’t have nothing to do with it?”

      “Who’s going to listen to me?”

      The woman’s voice dropped. “All you have to do is tell them I was with you that night. All night long.”

      “But, Irene…”

      “I can make it happen, Ray. A bit late, but it can still happen.”

      Angus dared to lift his head above the protection of his boulder. Irene’s chubby white hands stroked the front of Ray’s shirt. She undid the top button; her fingers moved down to the next.

      Ray grabbed her moving hands in one of his. “Not here.” His voice sounded exceptionally deep; he seemed to be having trouble catching his breath.

      Irene laughed, low in her throat. “All the night long, Ray.”

      “Christ woman, I canna…”

      They broke apart as two men appeared on the deck of the nearest steamboat. The men were arguing, their heads close together, their voices raised. They paid no attention to the private drama going on under their noses: the small, fierce man and intense, frightened woman in conversation, the hidden boy listening.

      “We can’t talk here,” Irene said. “But understand what I’m saying, Ray Walker. I worked too hard to get here, and I ain’t leaving Dawson, running from something I didn’t do. And as I didn’t do it, it wouldn’t hurt you none to tell them we was together.” She stretched the last word on her tongue. “Now would it?”

      “But I’ve already told ’em I was with me pal till about six…”

      “They’re men. They’ll understand.” The voices faded away. Angus pressed his back into the shelter of the rock. The men on the steamboat had stopped arguing and were looking at him.

      Angus waved. They waved back. He got to his feet and ran to the street. Miss Irene, his mother’s best dancer, had asked Ray Walker to lie for her. To give her an alibi for the time Mr. Ireland had been murdered.

      He had to tell Constable Sterling. Right away. But she said she hadn’t done it. She only wanted to avoid trouble.

      The police would never convict an innocent woman. So by pretending to be somewhere she wasn’t, Irene would only confuse the investigation. Make things harder for the Mounties.

      And what did Miss Irene mean that Sterling couldn’t solve the murder because he was besotted? Besotted with what? Sterling was a good officer. The best the NWMP had in the Yukon. Maybe in all of Canada.

      Angus knew where his duty lay. He had to tell Constable Sterling what he’d heard. If he moved quickly, Ray wouldn’t have time to tell a lie and get himself into real trouble.

      Chapter Forty-Three

      Ray disappeared for the rest of the afternoon, and I was glad of it. God spare me from having to deal with men, their precocious pride and overactive libidos. When he got back, I’d have a serious talk with him about the dangers involved in messing with the staff.

      The dangers arising from my anger, that is.

      Without me, Ray would long ago have lost every penny he’d sunk into the business and be working as a bouncer at the grimmest crib in town, if not panning through mountains of dirt up on the Creeks.

      It was past time I reminded him of his obligations.

      Of what would have become of me without Ray, it was best not to contemplate at this time.

      Another Saturday night: the eager clientele was desperate to get in every last drink, every spin of the wheel and deal of the cards, or the last possible dance with the most beautiful and popular of the performers, and failing that, the cheapest of the percentage girls. Perhaps because they remembered what happened here last Saturday night, everyone was particularly well-behaved.

      Big Alex McDonald sat in his box and ordered bottle after bottle of champagne. Mouse O’Brien dominated the poker table and pulled in his winnings in handfuls. The usual drunks lined up at the bar, and the usual hangers-on filled