The Topaz Brooch

by Katherine Lowry Logan

  A light rain drizzled on his hat and shoulders.

  Beat feet, O’Grady.

  Time to find his friends and shelter before the deluge wiped him out. But where was the square? And where were the iconic blue and white tiles spelling out street names at corners throughout New Orleans? Assuming he was in New Orleans, he could be several blocks below or above the square.

  The men Rick passed, whether they stood, sat or walked, chewed tobacco and sprayed the sidewalk with their spittal. He avoided them and stopped the first non-chewing man he reached.

  “Parlez vous Anglaise?” Rick asked.

  “Un peu.”

  Un peu? A little? “Name. Of. This. Street?” He enunciated clearly, hoping it would make it easier for the man to understand him.

  “Ne comprend pas.”

  “Street?” Rick asked, pointing his finger back and forth in a game of charades. “Street?” Then he remembered a word that might help. “Rue?”

  The man nodded. “Rue? Royal.”

  Royal Street. “Good. Let’s try another one,” Rick said more to himself than the man. “Place d’Armes?”

  The man pointed in the direction Rick was walking. “Sept blocs.”

  Rick mentally counted to ten in French. “Sept?” He held up seven fingers. “Seven?”

  “The man nodded. “Sept.”

  “Merci.” Now he’d exhausted all the French he knew.

  Oh, except for one more phrase. Chez toi ou chez moi? Although he’d never had a chance to ask a woman, “Your place or mine?” he’d kept it in his vocabulary, just in case.

  Scanning both sides of the street for Pete, Remy, and Sophia, he weaved in and out among the folks hurrying along the narrow sidewalks—which were little more than planks of cedar with uneven surfaces—to reach their destinations before the storm hit.

  Running alongside the sidewalks were open gutters carrying the excessive rainfalls and the city’s sewage to adjoining bayous and canals that led eventually to Lake Pontchartrain. At least that’s what he read in his recent web searches about New Orleans in the early 1800s.

  The drizzle had turned into heavy rain by the time he reached the end of the block, so he ducked under the eaves of a doctor’s office to wait out the deluge. The downpour quickly flooded the muddy street, turning it into an obstacle course only an insane person would try to cross.

  There was no reason to hurry to the square. Remy would hole up in the first tavern he came across, and Pete and Sophia would find a location where they could sit out the storm while Sophia sketched the city and its people. The tavern idea suited Rick. He could nurse a whisky while listening to local gossip, but he’d better find one that catered to English-speaking patrons.

  In the middle of the next block, two musket-toting men wearing drab-colored hunting shirts and trousers with black and white cloth cross-belts stood on a covered porch guarding the entrance to a three-story brick building. Based on research he’d done, the men looked more like Jackson’s Tennessee militia than regular soldiers. If they were Jackson’s men, they’d know where to find the general.

  When the downpour slowed back to a drizzle, he left his cozy corner and slogged across the street with rain cascading off his hat, creating a watery veil in front of his face. He stomped on a loose board that could easily trip someone and approached the men. “Are you in the militia?”

  “Tennessee,” the man with an iron-gray beard and a wad of tobacco in his cheek said. “Why ya askin’?”

  “I’m looking for the general’s office. Figured you’d know.”

  The bearded soldier spat, barely missing the toe of the other man’s boot.

  “Gawd’s sake. Shift that wad t’ tother cheek! Spit on his boots,” the other man said, pointing to Rick.

  “What fer?” The first soldier shifted the wad in his mouth. “What fer do ya want ta see the general?”

  Not that it was any of the man’s business, but no point pissing him off. The soldier’s smoothbore musket was within easy reach, and what looked like a butcher knife in a simple belt sheath was even handier.

  Rick didn’t want a fight. And he especially didn’t want to end up on his ass in the street, soaking up the mud.

  Rick’s veiled attention fastened on the man who looked determined to spit on Rick’s boot. “I’m familiar with the area. Might be able to advise the general.”

  The soldier spat again. Just missing his target. “Old Hickory’s got plenty of advisors. What he needs is fightin’ men. He’s taking everybody who can hold a rifle.” He gave Rick a head-to-toe appraisal. “Looks like ya know how to handle yerself in a fight. Ain’t sure ’bout most of the men here in New Orleans.”

  “If there’s an invasion, New Orleanians will fight for themselves and their community, but I’m not so sure they’ll be motivated to fight for the United States. From what I hear, the Creoles will mobilize when and if the danger is imminent.”

  “Why not?” The soldier shifted his wad again.

  “They’re not interested in playing soldier in the face of a nonexistent threat. Their motto is ‘eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow will be just as gay and free of worry as today.’”

  He mentally thanked Remy for that tidbit. “So, can you help me or not?”

  The soldier stepped aside a foot or two and thumbed over his shoulder. “Old Hickory’s office is on the second floor.”

  “Thanks.” Rick squeezed between the two men guarding the door, entered the building, and slammed into the stink of cigar smoke that could whack the horn off a charging rhino. It made him gag. The stink combined with a wet wool smell made his nose twitch. He sneezed.

  Spitting into a spittoon in the corner of the entry didn’t slow the soldier. He was right on Rick’s heels, stopping abruptly when Rick’s bootheel clicked on the bottom step.

  “But he ain’t up there,” the soldier said.

  Rick pivoted on the step, squeezing the railing instead of the man’s neck. “Do you know when he’ll be back?” He channeled his best down-to-earth, streetwise coolness while ignoring the tension tightening his shoulders and back. Just because it was raining and the brooch had separated him from his friends was no reason to take his frustration out on one of Jackson’s men, who might simply be thick-witted instead of intentionally pissing Rick off.

  “Saw him ride off about an hour ago. One of his aides-de-camp might know. But I don’t think they’re up there either.”

  Rick removed his hat, dripping water on the already wet, muddy floor, realizing he wasn’t going to get anything helpful from Mr. Wadmouth. He might as well leave, but then he remembered a note in his research about one of the general’s aides-de-camp.

  “Is that the lawyer Edward Livingston?”

  The soldier furrowed his bushy eyebrows. “Yep, he’s one of ’em. Ya know him?”

  “Heard of him.”

  “Does he know ya?”

  “Nope. I try to stay away from lawyers.” Rick could always drop some humor when he had to lighten things up.

  The soldier spat before he bellowed with a laugh, showing his missing teeth. “The general’s a lawyer.”

  “Yeah, but he’s a general, so he’s okay.”

  The soldier withdrew a dirty handkerchief from a pocket and removed the traces of tobacco from his nostrils and lips. “He’s brave and steadfast. Yeknowwhatahmean?”

  “Sure,” Rick said, “But I heard he could be violent. I wouldn’t want to cross him.” Rick headed for the door. “I’ll come back later.”

  The soldier spat again, missing the spittoon this time. “Suit yourself, but the general’s got another aide-de-camp. Might be upstairs. Might not. Ain’t seen him leave.”

  There wasn’t a damn thing wrong with the man’s mind. He was jerking Rick around. He’d give him one more chance to be a bigger asshole. Then Rick was out of there.

  “Have you seen this woman?” Rick showed the soldier a sketch of Billie. “She’s my…cousin Wilhelmina. I promised her ma I’d visit her.”

/>   “Why it’s a gin-u-wine portrait.” He took the sketch and held it up to the dimming light. “Drawed from life looks like. Nope. Ain’t seen her. Ask the general’s aide-de-camp. He knows everybody in town.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Don’t know. Somethin’ French.”

  Great! Rick hoped the aide-de-camp spoke passable English. The others wouldn’t mind waiting for him if he showed up with a lead on Billie. “Where’s his office? I’ll go up and see.”

  “Top of the steps, turn right.”

  At the top of the staircase, there was only one way to turn. Rick chuckled as he turned right.

  He wandered down a hall with closed doors except for the last one. Inside, four men wearing blue wool coats and gray or blue wool trousers stood two on one side, two on the other side of a table covered with maps.

  Rick knocked on the door, but no one paid any attention to him. The twelve-by-twelve-foot sparsely furnished office had three open windows that carried away some of the thick cigar smoke. If the British had a spy in town, he could walk right in. Rick sniffed and rolled his shoulders, getting a read on the room’s vibe.

  A man in civilian clothes stood at the head of the table, his back to Rick, his palms flat on the surface, and spoke above the clinking horse traces and raised voices from the street below. “The river provides the city with maximum protection from the west.”

  “And from the south?” a soldier asked.

  “Fort St. Philip is sixty-five miles downstream and garrisoned by regular troops manning twenty-eight 24-pounders,” the civilian said.

  “And what about Fort St. Leon?”

  “It’s here,” the civilian continued, pointing with a walking stick. “Close to the city. It watches over a sharp-looping bend on the Mississippi known as the English Turn. Sailing ships have to stop at the turn and wait for the wind to change directions so they can navigate the bend. Any warships reaching the turn will be directly within range of the heavy guns at the fort.”

  One of the soldiers stepped back from the table as if to get a bird’s eye view of the area. He stroked his chin. “Appears the city is most vulnerable from the east and north.”

  The civilian held the walking stick in both hands, then laid it down on the table with a clack. “That’s correct.”

  “Don’t forget the pirates,” Rick said.

  The men all turned toward him, and he snapped his mouth shut, surprised that he’d vocalized his thought. Crap.

  “What do you know about the pirates?” one of the soldiers asked.

  Now you’ve done it, asshole.

  Rick dropped his duffel by the door and strode toward the table, swaggering to project confidence he didn’t particularly have. He studied the old maps and took a moment to get his bearings. “Lafitte and his men control an area west of New Orleans to Bayou Lafourche and south to the Gulf of Mexico. Their ships sail out of Lake Barataria.”

  One of the soldiers glared at him. “We’re aware of that.”

  Rick flipped a chair around and straddled it, folded his forearms over the back of the chair, and tapped his fingers against his elbows, using the distraction to give him time to pull facts from memory. Then he picked up the walking stick and used it as a pointer. “The mouth is protected from the Gulf by two islands: Grand Terre and Grand Isle. Here and here. The entire district is about forty miles due south of the city. It’s become the center of smuggling activities for privateers operating throughout the Caribbean.”

  “We’re aware of that as well. What we don’t know is how many privateers occupy Barataria.”

  Rick put down the stick and cracked his knuckles, mentally reviewing the pages of notes on Lafitte and his men that Remy had assembled. “Eight hundred to a thousand. They’re commanded by, as I’m sure you know, the Lafitte brothers.”

  “Pierre is locked up in Calabozo,” the civilian said, and then he hiked up his brows and cocked his head. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Captain Rick—”

  For the first time since entering the room, he got a good look at the civilian’s face, and he froze in mid-sentence.

  What the hell?

  It was a bursting-out-of-your-skin moment. If the man standing in front of him wasn’t Philippe Fontenot, it was his doppelganger, although a little grayer and with a few more wrinkles.

  “O’Grady.” Rick worked his jaw side to side to keep from grinning. “United States Marine Corps.”

  “Why aren’t you in uniform?” one of the soldiers demanded.

  Aw, shit. Think fast, or they’ll throw me in the Calabozo with Pierre.

  A decade ago, when he was an undercover cop, he infiltrated a bribery/extortion gang. He drew on that experience now. For effect, he glanced toward the hall, then leaned forward, lowered his voice. “I was on special assignment to recon Barataria for the secretary of war. I just got back. That’s all I can say right now.”

  “Secretary Johnson?” the civilian asked. “That’s odd. The secretary should have mentioned your mission to the general.”

  “That’s why I’m here.” Rick silently thanked David for listing the president, vice president, secretary of war, governor, general, and aide-de-camp on a list of notable people they might encounter.

  He stood and turned the chair back around. “I need to find the general or Mr. Livingston.”

  “They’re both out. I’m the general’s second aide-de-camp, Mr. Fontenot.”

  Talk about pinpoint confirmation.

  Rick studied the man. “Philippe Fontenot?”

  Fontenot folded his arms and studied Rick’s haircut and clothes, down to his boots. “That’s right. What can I do for you?”

  Rick shouldered his duffel and beckoned Fontenot to step across the room. “Sir, may I have a word with you? In private?”

  Fontenot said to the soldiers, “I’ll be back shortly.” He picked up his cane and followed Rick out into the hall.

  Rick held out the drawing of Billie, his hand shaking slightly. This meeting was just like running into Amber Kelly on the street in Leadville. Must be the luck of the Irish.

  Nice and easy, O’Grady. The shock after all this time could give Fontenot a heart attack. Give him clues but let him make the connection at his own pace.

  Rick took a breath to calm his excitement and handed the drawing to Fontenot. “I’m looking for this woman and wonder if you might be able to help.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Wilhelmina Penelope Malone. She goes by Billie.”

  “Strange name for such a beautiful woman.” Fontenot returned the drawing. “Haven’t seen her. How long has she lived here?”

  “Not sure. Days maybe or”—Rick shrugged—“could be years. How long have you been here?”

  “A decade.”

  Rick choked, pounded his chest. “I’m sorry. Did you say a decade?”

  “Ten long years.” A sad smiled crossed Fontenot’s face, and Rick could read the loneliness in his tone and expression. “Some days it seems like half a century.”

  Rick was almost afraid to ask, but he did. “And your wife…?” He held the question on bated breath before continuing. “How is she?”

  Fontenot grimaced. “She’s not well. I haven’t told many people, but we believe she has cancer. There’s nothing that can be done for her here.”

  “Is that what the doctors are telling you?”

  “They don’t know what’s wrong with her. She wants to go home, but I have no way to get her there.”

  Rick took a deep breath as he glanced back into the room. At least one of the men was listening to their conversation. “The rain’s stopped. Let’s go outside. We can talk about your wife and how I might be able to help her.”

  Fontenot grabbed his hat off the coat-tree and led the way down the stairs. “Are you a physician?”

  Rick clapped Fontenot on the shoulder. “No, but in this situation, I might be even better than one.”

  22

  Barataria (1814)—Billie


  Billie woke to the sound of scuffling bootheels and clanging scabbards inside the manor house and men shouting from the beach below. Is there a fire? She sniffed. No smoke. Maybe the cops are raiding Barataria.

  She shot straight up. Was that even possible? Surely she couldn’t be the first person to complain about this community full of violet wannabe pirates.

  She could finally go home, and this back-and-forth between reality and surreal events would even out, and what she wanted most would come true. The moment she thought about Napa, she could almost smell a wine bouquet coming from aging wine in new oak barrels.

  She threw back the covers and rushed to the French doors, expecting the men to be loading their asses into the pirogues and heading into the swamp, but not these idiots. They were gathered on the beach, armed with their antique weapons. Her shoulders slumped. “Damn.”

  The police weren’t coming. The idiots were still playing war games and living in a make-believe pirate world.

  The crush of disappointment was almost too much.

  She turned away from the beach scene, running her fingers through her hair until they tangled in some crusty knots. She picked at the knots.

  What is this shit in my hair?

  She glanced in the mirror.

  Caked blood and…

  Her stomach roiled with nausea and something akin to dread. She threw open the French doors to let the fresh air wash over her while she breathed deeply.

  Blood and brains and gore.

  It had happened to her again, just like Afghanistan, just like what happened at Chalmette Battlefield, but this time the attacker was even more violent and more revolting.

  If one of her men hadn’t pulled the terrorist off her and slit his throat, he would have succeeded and slit her throat instead. That was war, and she’d been trained to handle it. She did and moved on. Until the experience exploded in her brain again, ignited by the recent trauma.

  Her therapist might need therapy after Billie told her what happened on Barataria. She suggested to Billie once that staying married to Franklin had been a safety net because his disinterest put no sexual pressure on her. After what happened, how in the world could she ever enjoy sex without worrying that someone would barge in and reduce her lover to a splatter of blood and brains?