A Gilded Drowning Pool

A GILDED Drowning Pool CECELIA TICHI A Gilded Drowning Pool Copyright © 2023 by Cecelia Tichi All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author. ISBNs:979-8-9851216-6-7 (paperback)979-8-9851216-7-4 (eBook) In the Val and Roddy DeVere “Gilded” Series A Gilded Death Murder, Murder, Murder in Gilded Central Park A Fatal Gilded High Note A Deadly Gilded Free Fall A Gilded Drowning Pool To Come.... Death in a Gilded Frame Chapter One New York City, June 12, 1899 A HORSE THAT KICKS can kill anyone near its hind legs. A stable hand, a groom, a coachman, or a careless owner will risk their lives if struck by the animal’s lightning-fast speed and power. Some escape with broken bones. Others die. I knew this from girlhood in the far West, where wild horses stomped and kicked in the picturesque distance. Close to home, my papa warned me to look out for the pinned ears or bared teeth. He made me watch a blacksmith hammer iron horseshoes at the anvil and nail a shoe into each hoof of my dear buckskin Quarter Horse, Comet, who did not seem to mind. Saddled, she took me riding in the streets and outskirts of Virginia City, Nevada, where Papa was a “Silver King” and the mining camps of Colorado were a thing of our past. Comet came to New York City when I married, and Central Park’s bridle paths suited just fine in season. So did Newport’s Ocean Drive in the summertime. Comet was never a “kicker” until this spring of 1899, when her back legs struck hard and fast—and sent someone six feet under to the grave. It was judged an accident, nobody’s fault. To be clear: her kick saved my life. (The deceased was interred in another state.) On this warm Thursday evening, the twelfth day of June, my horse would stir a spat between my husband and me over an invitation to a country house in the Hudson Valley. My Roddy had just mixed one of his fabulous, mysterious drinks, this one called a Collins. We tapped our tall glasses and sipped. “Delicious, Roddy.” I sipped again. “I taste orange, Florida orange. The name of this must be the Florida Collins.” “Are you so sure?” My husband’s blue eyes twinkled devilishly. “Out West,” I said, “we placed bets whenever we were darned sure. If I put one dollar on Florida, will I win?” “Not so fast, my dear. How about the saying, ‘The House always wins?’” “So,” I said, “will the House give this wagering lady a hint? Offer more favorable odds?” My husband stroked his firm, clean-shaven chin, winked, and said, “Think north...far north.” He tapped his glass and mimicked a shiver. “Think ice and snow, and two places starting with ‘A’ and ‘Y.’” “Don’t tell me...Alaska? Yukon?” Roddy grinned. “The Klondike Collins Cocktail, a tribute to the Gold Rush.” I held up my glass and peered at the bottom. “No nugget? A Klondike cocktail without a gold nugget...I withhold my bet.” “Then, let us bet on one another,” Roddy said, leaning for the kiss I enjoyed. The evening was on course for a discussion of plans for this month. We could not foresee that a minor disagreement would soon balloon—and explode by midnight, though neither Roddy nor I could have foreseen homicide as we debated the invitation and my horse’s hind legs. “Please, Roddy, let’s just send regrets,” I said. “We will be in Newport by July, and I want the rest of June to work with Comet before we go. She is much better...gentled. But I cannot risk another...episode.” I put down my glass. My handsome husband narrowed his deep blue eyes and fingered the country house invitation. The “episode,” as we called it, occurred less than two weeks ago. Roddy was not in the stable with me when Comet’s back legs hammered and killed. Our groom and coachman could not account for the unprovoked kick, though I had my own ideas. “So, how about it?” I prodded. “Regrets to the Kidds?” “Not so fast, Val,” my husband replied. He sipped and put his glass down. We sat together in our newly redecorated Empire room in this French chateau that my husband’s parents had built before Wall Street sent them to the brink of bankruptcy. The Street’s bulls and bears had butted and clawed until the senior DeVeres faced ruin because of poor investments. I had become Mrs. Roderick Windham DeVere of New York City before my dear papa’s death, when the Mackle silver mining fortune came to me and meant that Rufus and Eleanor could once again hold their heads high. My turn as the mistress of the chateau also marked a timely change in décor, which my husband warily approved. The ink-dark upholstery and the fat, stubby legs of the Victorian Empire room’s chairs and sofas gave way to sunny wallpaper and lightweight furnishings. “I’m afraid there’s more to this than several days at Kiddwood,” Roddy said. My handsome husband held the invitation to Alfred and Mercedes Kidd’s country house where he had spent long weekends in boyhood and, later on, in his bachelor days. “Father hopes we will accept the invitation,” he said. “It seems that something has gone wrong with the water flow at Kiddwood. It usually gushes this time of year, but it’s been a dry spring up there, and Father asks me to see about the flow, since the Kidds’ water comes from my parents’ tract.” “Tract? What tract?” “Property...” Roddy said. “Acres.” These words were as familiar as the reference was baffling. “About a hectare,” Roddy said. “Roughly, one hundred acres.” “Your parents own property in the Hudson Valley, Roddy? Property deeded to them? I didn’t know.” My husband looked like a caught-out schoolboy. Why had the moment turned awkward on this mild evening with drinks and gentle teasing? Roddy and I conversed easily and believed in each