“Well, I’ll let you go about your business.”
Camille’s voice broke in on his musings. She’d pivoted away, but not before he captured the brief glimpse of the wounded expression in her eyes. Strange to have his heart lurch at that. Strange, too, he’d be affected by it. He didn’t want to be aware of her in that way.
Some part of him, a vicious little thing that mutinied against the leeriness, ensnared his mouth and asked, “What are you reading, Miss Bradford?”
A pleased light appeared in her tigress eyes. He cursed himself silently for letting that small part of weakness gain hold of his senses. Why had he succumbed to it?
“A collection of short stories by Edgar Allen Poe.” The words rushed out on a wispy breath.
“Indeed?” He wouldn’t have thought a woman like her would be intrigued by such gruesome tales.
“My sister, Mrs. Smith, adores Poe.” A wry expression played on her face. “I’ll admit, I don’t find his stories entertaining all the time. And, that I must read his works in the full light of day. He did have a wonderful way of bringing the darkest shadows of the human psyche to life, didn’t he?”
Once again, the image of almond brown eyes rose in his mind. Rounder felt the weight of his sins and secrets crush him like a millstone.
“I’m sure,” he managed to reply.
The animation in her voice, despite her words and what they erected in his mind, drew him. Almost against his own mental strength, he engaged her. “I’m drawn toward poetic works myself,” he revealed as he stopped a few feet before her.
“Are you, Mr. Addison? Why is that?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Poetry immortalizes truth in an instant. A man can behold an event, study an object, or inquire about a person. Within that moment of time, a truth is unfolded.”
Although he shied away from truth, he enjoyed the works that captured it.
“I see.” Camille touched a small, delicate finger to her mouth. “Do you find the exposure of truth comforting? Should I take it that you bask in its openness? Its boundlessness?”
Rounder stiffened and Camille’s eyes narrowed at the spontaneous reaction. Damnation, his instincts proved true. This woman’s perception would lead to his destruction.
“Mr. Addison, why are you afraid of me?”
The question arced in the air like streaks of lightning. It ignited the quivering tight-rope tension. A denial rushed forward, eager to defend him, but it died under the marked knowing look in her eyes. It was as if within her presence, it was impossible to occlude honesty.
“I believe,” he answered carefully, “There is more to you than meets the eye, Miss Bradford.”
“What do you mean?” A wrinkle marred the smoothness of her brow.
Rounder cleared his throat. “An attribute of a Pinkerton agent is to trust one’s instincts. Training has honed my ability to such a degree that my instincts have saved my life more than once. From the moment I laid eyes on you, Miss Bradford, I knew there was something different about you.”
An uneasy expression came to her face. Good, he thought with some satisfaction, it was a nice feeling to have her in discomfiture for a change.
“Something different about me?” she echoed in a low whisper.
“Yes.” He gave a curt nod. “Something murky and without physical attribute but ever present. My instincts caution me against you. I obey my instincts.”
“Caution is one thing, Mr. Addison. Fear is something else. And fear of me is what…I sense.”
Rounder’s heart banged in his chest, but he let out a harsh laugh. “Is the predator afraid of the prey within its claws?”
“But two days ago you said—”
“You misinterpreted my words, Miss Bradford.” He hurried to throw her off the scent. “I am not fearful of you or anyone else for that matter.”
“I don’t believe that is true, Mr. Addison. In fact—”
The doorbell ranged and they both jumped at the sound. The intrusion broke through the tension that had built up between them. Rounder hurried to answer the door. Against the bluster of the winter wind with drifts of snow slashing at his face, he made out two shapes of men.
Ones familiar to him and he grinned.
“Cyril! Perky!” he exclaimed as he took in the snow-covered form of his old friends. “What are you doing here?”
The tall one, lanky with a sallow color peeking through the slit of the thick scarf spoke first. “Rounder, I don’t know how you can stand abidin’ in this Yankee weather.” Though muffled, the words still came out distinct.
“Well, I—”
“Are you gonna let us in or do ya want us to freeze our toes off?” Snow covered the shorter man’s beard who shivered and then gave a wet sneeze. “I think I done gone and caught a Yankee cold.”
“Colds ain’t Yankee,” Cyril retorted.
Rounder stepped back to let them in and shut the door. As they stomped their feet and took off their outerwear, Cyril went on. “But if anyone could cause a cold, I bet it was a Yankee that did.”
“Cyril, Perky. How did you find me? What is it?”
The tips of both their noses and cheeks were red like cherries. “We heard about the fire and figured ya woulda been transferred to somewhere or other.” Cyril rubbed his hands together, the end of his thin, knife-blade like nose wiggling. “We just figured we’d keep pokin’ around till we found ya.”
“What for?”
“Somebody is tryin’ to put us out of business.” Perky snorted. “That’s right cruel, wouldna you say?”
Rounder’s face scrunched. Put them out of business? “How is that possible?”
“Right cruel,” Cyril agreed. “We already don’t get ‘nuff bodies as it is. So we really want the ones we got.”
“Somebody keeps stealin’ our bodies, Rounder. Ya gotta stop ‘em.”
***
“Stealing bodies? What sort of business are you gentlemen in?”
“Who’s that?” One of the men asked from behind the massive form of the Pinkerton agent.
Rounder Addison’s shoulders stiffened, and Camille suspected he’d forgotten she was there.
Or maybe he wished she wasn’t.
Truth be told, she was a bit relieved. Their prior conversation had taken a turn that she wasn’t sure she wanted to explore.
“Forgive me,” Rounder stood aside. A quick, tense smile lifted his mouth. “This is Miss Camille Bradford.”
“Boy, she sho is pretty.” The bearded man breathed as he pulled his hat off his head. “I do believe you’s one of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you, Mister—?”
“Perky. Larry Perkins really but most folks call me Perky.” His glossy eyes roved over her features. “I’d be mighty happy if you do the same.”
“You’ve very kind, Perky.”
“You gotta nice voice, too.” The tall man with a knife blade of a nose squashed his hat between his hands. “Hot and slow like molasses.”
Warmth bloomed on Camille’s cheeks. Men had admired her for most of her life. Being the third daughter of Brutus Bradford and his wife, Roseline, reputed as one of the most beautiful women in the West Indies, it was expected. For some reason, Perky and the other man’s blatant appreciation slightly embarrassed her.
“Cyril! Perky!” Rounder glared at his friends, his voice gruff. “Don’t be so forward. You’ll make Miss Bradford uncomfortable.”
Both men blinked as if coming out of a trance and then twin chagrined expressions crossed their faces. “Beg pardon,” they mumbled.
“Think nothing of it.” Camille shook her head to wave away their apologies when she blinked. Then she suppressed a start. It had never happened so quickly. In that instant, she perceived the color and texture of their souls at once. The colors were a bit dull in hues of gray and white respectively, but they felt as solid as brick walls.
More impressions struck her. Solid. Steady. Dependable.
“But I must repeat my
question. What sort of business are you in?”
Perky said cabinetmakers while Cyril responded with undertakers. They both froze and looked at each other. Then Cyril scowled. “Why don’t you let me do the talkin’?”
“Ain’t a coffin sorta like a cabinet?”
“No one’s puttin’ lard and flour in it, now is they?” Cyril retorted.
Perky muttered something under his breath, almost unintelligible but Camille picked up the words, “…could in a pinch.”
“We’re undertakers, miss,” Cyril repeated. His shoulders pressed back as if his chest poked out, but he was such a thin man, even with the thick woolen coat on, she couldn’t be sure.
“Are you?” she replied.
Cyril nodded like a pleased child. “That’s right. Cyril Cuthbert’s Cryptic Cabinets and Coffins, where we bury your mistakes.”
Camille forbore from stating anything about the cabinets. “Indeed?”
“Surely,” Perky added with a proud smile. “The best undertakers in Southern Texas.” The smile melted away a few seconds later. “That is, we was until someone started stealin’ our bodies. Hard to bury folks’ mistakes if you can’t get to them.”
“Before we go any further,” Rounder interrupted in a brisk manner. “I suggest that we excuse Miss Bradford so we can discuss this in full detail and out of delicate hearing.”
Delicate hearing? Her brows drew together as Rounder gave her a slight bow and a tight smile that didn’t reach his hazel eyes. Something rife with challenge passed between them. Did he really think she possessed a weak constitution? No, that wasn’t it. He just wanted to get rid of her.
The fear he stated he didn’t feel showing itself in another way.
The question that plagued her screamed in her mind. What was the color of his soul?
“Thank you for your consideration, Mr. Addison. But I’d much rather—”
“Oh, we do have guests,” a different voice intruded from behind.
Camille turned to meet the serene gaze of Marianne as she came forward. As she came flush to their group, Cyril’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. “Rounder, did the Pinkerton Agency become some kind of hair-reem?”
Camille hid a smile.
Rounder’s mouth pressed together as if trying to pray for patience. “This is Marianne Chapman. She is Archie Gordon’s assistant.”
Marianne smiled. “I thought I heard some commotion and came to investigate.”
Rounder made the introductions of his guests. “I believe Mr. Cuthbert and Mr. Perkins may be potential clients, Marianne. I was letting Miss Bradford take her leave while—”
“I’d like very much to stay and hear about this,” Camille hurried to interject.
“I’m sorry, but the particulars of a case are a private matter between the client and Archie,” Rounder added. Another triumphant gleam appeared in his eyes.
“Aw, we ain’t got to be so fermal,” Perky dismissed with a wave of a moth-eaten gloved hand. “She already know anyway. Won’t kill nothin’.”
Marianne gave a quick nod. “If Mr. Perkins and Mr. Cuthbert are amendable to it, then I see no reason why Camille couldn’t join us.”
Camille fought the urge to poke her tongue out at Rounder.
“Gentlemen, if you’ll follow me to Mr. Gordon’s office—”
Just then, a distinct rustle of skirts interrupted Marianne’s invitation. A small group of women came into view from somewhere deep in the dormitory. Dressed to go out in the wintry weather, their faces were outlined by bonnets, hats, and scarfs. They gave polite nods but moved past the gaping gazes of Cyril and Perky and were out the door a few moments later.
Cyril whistled. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s—”
“You can be the monkey’s uncle. I’ll be the Pinkerton agent. Where do I sign up?”
As it turned out, they were all seated in Archie’s office who promptly but respectfully declined Perky’s desire to join the agency. “Despite what you may think, Mr. Perkins, the women in my agency have put themselves in harms’ way in order to bring the criminal element to justice. They are good at their duties and their jobs. I must insist that you do not suppose a beautiful face in the Denver Office of the Pinkerton Agency is ornamental.”
He cleared his throat. “Now, gentlemen. It’s obvious you know Rounder Addison here, who has recently joined this branch. I understand that should we take on this case, you’d want him to be the agent assigned to it?”
“You’re right about that.” Cyril folded his arms across his chest. “We didn’t come up all this way in the Yankee cold to just get anybody.”
“Very well. Let me get some preliminary information from you.”
Camille listened as Archie asked several questions which she assumed would be client information for his file. Once he stopped writing, he leaned back in his chair and gave a nod. “Now, do start from the beginning. When did you first notice that bodies were being stolen?”
“After the fever hit Lantern.”
“Fever?” Camille exclaimed along with others. A shiver raced down the center of her back and spread goosebumps along her skin. Not again.
She leapt up and away from her chair as if running from an invisible assailant.
“Miss Bradford?” Marianne came over to her. “What’s wrong?”
“He said fever.” Images paraded in front of her like a macabre army of ghosts. Mother lying on the bed, doused in the smell of death. Her soul’s color dissipating in vibrancy as it began to leave her body.
“Oh no!” A violent shudder wracked her limbs at the memory.
“What is it?”
Rounder’s voice penetrated the whirlwind of chaotic thoughts and emotions. She stared at him. Feeling a clamminess come over her. Mere!
“My mother… when I was young…died from the fever,” she croaked out of dry lips.
The fever had run in cycles in the West Indies but, perhaps foolishly, Arabette Grove had thought they had escaped its grasp…until it came to their island home years ago.
How she’d prayed and prayed for her mother to live but it was not meant to be.
Her older sisters had not been at the sugar plantation so neither of them had felt the impact of her mother’s death as Camille had. Danielle and her father had seen the wasting away, the chills, and the listlessness.
Of her mother’s soul itself, no one had any comprehension of how it paled each day. The color eked away as it lifted from its earthen shell day by day, and then hour by hour until, like a shaded blast of wind, it left.
She’d suppressed these memories but at the utterance of the single word, they surged forward like a flood.
Her body trembled as a heavy silence draped the room.
“Maybe it wasn’t a good idea for you to be here then,” Rounder said in an odd, gentle voice.
Camille bit her bottom lip until it hurt. Then, with a will she wasn’t aware she possessed, gathered herself together.
“No, no, please. I’ll be fine. I want to be here.” She sat back down again, and patted Marianne’s lingering hand on her shoulder in reassurance that she’d regained her composure. “Please, continue.”
Cyril looked uncomfortable. He swallowed audibly and then went on. “We’d just finished havin’ our town annual Thanksgiving fair and rodeo event. Folks come for miles ‘cuz the rodeo event tends to have a nice fat cash prize.”
“Ain’t too many who gonna turn down a chance to win $500 dollars,” Perky added.
“A mighty hefty sum to lure people to town,” Archie remarked.
“Aww, you ain’t gotta worry about any shenanigans from outlaws and such.” Cyril scratched the side of his narrow nose. “Our sheriff takes care o’ them. Well, after the celebration, a few days later, one of the men who had come to Lantern and had decide to put down stakes come stumbling into Doc Honor’s office.”
“Doc Honor?” Rounder asked.
“Yeah, she’s the town doctor. She did her best to treat ‘im but he died a few days later. W
asn’t too long before the man’s eldest came down with it and then his widow.”
Perky tugged on his beard. “More folks started comin’ down with whatever it was. Now, strange enough, not everybody died. Some folks survived while others didn’t even get it.”
“Right. So, and don’t think bad of me for sayin’ this, but for me and Perky here, business was real good. Then about a week after the first deaths, we noticed some of the graves had been disturbed.”
“In what way?” Rounder leaned forward from his seat next to Archie. Though his face had no expression, Camille sensed anticipation under the surface.
“Like someone had been diggin’ at them.”
The last of Camille’s anxiety seeped away. “Digging at them?”
“Yeah.” Perky turned toward her, his face scrunched in a frown. “We first thought it was some sort of wild animal going at ‘em but we bury the bodies deep enough. But then realized that ain’t no animal clawing at the earth with a shovel.”
Rounder waved an impatient hand. “What happened next?”
“Well, we tried to guard the graves. Didn’t want folks to know that someone was tryin’ to take their loved ones but we kept fallin’ asleep and we wanted to keep it quiet like so didn’t say nothing. Just kept watching. A few days later, although folks was dying, the graves weren’t being disturbed like.”
Archie lifted a brow. “Is the fever still rampant?”
Cyril rolled his neck. “It is but Doc said that it’s run its course, whatever that means. For a few days, even when somebody died, the graves weren’t being disturbed no more. Now, it’s happening again. And we need to find out why.”
CHAPTER THREE
The dying sound of a woman’s scream jerked Rounder awake. Cloying perspiration soaked his body underneath his nightshirt. His chest thudded with the frantic beat of his heart, reminiscent of a caged animal desperate for escape. Sweat trailed in rivulets down his temples. A few drops fell onto his eyelashes, and with shaking hands, he slicked his wet hair away from his face.
An Agent for Camille Page 2
