“I know what I’ll do,” Delta mused aloud when they neared the capitol. “I’ll interview the governor.”
“That might be more difficult than you think.”
“Never hurts to try,” Delta quipped, already planning what questions she could ask that might help Brett. “Politicians are always hungry for press coverage, especially in election years.”
“Usually,” she amended in a whisper after the governor’s secretary refused to consider such a thing.
“St. Louis Sun, you say?” the woman responded to Delta’s request. Gowned in lavender print voile, her white hair pulled into a loose topknot, the secretary’s appearance belied the starch beneath her soft Southern exterior. “Now why would our good gov’nor want to waste time with a little ol’ paper way up yonder? His constituents don’t read St. Louis newspapers.”
Delta glanced around the small office, which she suspected served as an anteroom to the governor’s office. Was he even now sitting at a massive desk behind those ornately carved doors?
“I thought perhaps, this being his tenth year in office,” Delta persisted, “Governor Trainor might have higher political aspirations for the future.”
“Higher political office? Young lady, what could be higher than servin’ as gov’nor of this great state for ten years?” With the obvious intention of dismissing the intruders, the governor’s secretary picked up a stack of papers, adding, “If you write about us after the election, say he’s entering his second decade of service.”
“What about the Voodoos?” Delta inquired without prelude.
The woman’s head snapped around. “What about ’em?”
“I understand Governor Trainor is running on a platform to expel the Voodoos from Louisiana.”
The woman’s eyes glared from behind wire-rimmed glasses. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Don’t you come in here, tellin’ us how to run our state. Hear me? You outsiders don’t understand the tribulation those natives have caused us.”
“Natives?” Delta questioned.
“From Africa, same thing.”
On the way back to the showboat, Zanna explained. “Voodoo queens, called Voodooiennes, are generally free black women.”
“Then how could—?” Delta stopped before revealing what Brett had told her about his mother. “I heard about a white woman who’s called a Voodooienne.”
Zanna shrugged. “The term is bandied about rather loosely sometimes. Voodooism is a religion from Africa. Supposedly the first practitioners in Louisiana came over from the West Indies in the early part of this century. Since then they’ve grown into a fairly organized cult.”
“I wonder why the governor is determined to run them out of the state?”
“He’ll have a run for his money,” Zanna predicted. “Whether they practice the religion or not, a lot of folks in this area rely on the Voodoos—or Hoodoos, as some say—for help in everything from regaining a lost love to placing a hex on an enemy.”
“Have you ever heard of a woman called Crazy Mary?”
Zanna shook her head. “Is she a Voodooienne?”
Fighting back a rising sense of despair, Delta responded, “The governor thinks so.” She would find a way to help Brett. She would.
Albert, Frankie, and Stuart had the set erected by the time Delta and Zanna returned to the docks. Delta had planned to go straight to her cabin—thoughts of that cabin had teased her all morning—but as time for the matinee was nearing, Zanna persuaded her to sell tickets.
Everyone was there, talking, working, and eating sandwiches and fruit from large trays. Gabriel stood on the outskirts, near the gangplank, playing his fiddle. She watched him put his heart and soul into the unfamiliar tune. And his body, as well, she observed. He never stayed still. If his feet weren’t tapping, they were shuffling, or he was hopping around the dock with his hips swaying and his shoulders dipping. Even his hair got into the act, wisping in the breeze like his free-flying bow strings.
She wondered how he and Brett had become friends. Was Brett ever so free and uninhibited? He hadn’t been since she’d known him—not even in her dreams. Since she’d known him, Brett had been continually surrounded by an aura of melancholy.
But what was he like inside? What had he been like before the governor decided to brand him a criminal?
Suddenly a great wave of poignancy rose within her, bringing tears to her eyes. She turned away so Gabriel would not see, a vow on her lips. She would set Brett free. If it were the last thing she ever did, she would set Brett free.
With effort she suppressed the ugly head of reason. One woman could do little, she knew. But people spoke of the power of the pen, and she possessed that. And her family. Kale and Carson were in New Orleans, or would be soon. They would help her; she knew they would. After they heard her side of the story, they would help.
By the time Frankie and Iona began their opening routine, the area of the dock roped off for the performance had filled with patrons sitting on benches from the showboat, on barrels and bales of hay dragged up by neighboring merchants. A theatrical performance on the docks brought in money for all the businesses in the area.
Elyse had just ended her ballad and Albert had jumped on stage when the thunder of horses’ hooves echoed down the road, stopping within feet of the roped-off area. Turning at the sound Delta caught her breath at sight of several mounted, uniformed men. Fear coiled inside her at the arrogance of their stride when they dismounted and strode toward the showboat. Since she was the closest person to where they had drawn rein, they stopped in front of her.
The leader flashed a badge—Captain J. Robb, Louisiana State Trooper. “Who’s in charge here?”
“Sh,” she put a finger to her lips. “The performance isn’t over.”
To her relief the men, four of them, quieted down. “Where’s the captain of that boat?” Robb questioned, this time in a near whisper.
The fear inside her tightened. She knew better than to hope the troopers might be after someone other than Brett.
What could she tell them that would send them away without arousing their suspicions? She glanced helplessly toward Gabriel, whose eyes were fastened on the uniformed men like a fly on a spider’s web. Dear God, she thought, why were her images always filled with wicked portent?
On stage Stuart had just confronted Albert. Delta watched him give what had become his customary aside to Zanna. Those two were obviously smitten with each other.
When the troopers began shifting feet beside her, she whispered, “The show’s almost over. I’ll go on board to see if the captain is available as soon as the curtain falls.”
“Where’s the curtain?” one of the men questioned.
“A figure of speech,” she replied, her lungs constricted by a fear that grew larger and heavier by the moment. After what seemed like an eternity, but was in reality only a few minutes, the drama ended, the audience applauded, the actors bowed.
Delta inhaled a quivering breath. “Wait here,” she told the troopers. She started toward Gabriel who still stood his ground, staring at them. If she could get close enough, she could whisper to him to warn Brett. Before she had taken more than a few steps, however, Stuart bounded off the makeshift set, reaching her side in a couple of leaps.
“What’s the trouble?”
“Are you the captain?” Robb asked, coming up beside them.
Delta glanced again at Gabriel. With the performance over, patrons flocked around the actors. Some of them approached Gabriel, talking, examining his fiddle, his bow, obstructing her view of him.
“I’m with the Pinkertons,” Stuart was saying as he led the troopers toward the gangplank. Delta quick-stepped to stay close enough to hear them. Gabriel separated himself from the crowd and fell in behind her.
Behind her? Why didn’t he dart around the group and warn Brett?
“Maybe you can help us,” Robb told Stuart. “We’re looking for a fellow by the name of Dupré, Anatole Dupré.”
Delta’
s toe caught on the board connecting the gangplank to the boat. Anatole Dupré. Nat had mentioned that name the night he confronted her outside her cabin. When she stumbled, Gabriel caught her from behind. She turned anguished eyes to him. “Warn him,” she mouthed.
He grinned. Grinned! Desperation flowed through her veins like ice water. Gabriel kept grinning. Suddenly she recognized his expression—the same unconcerned expression she had seen on his face the day Brett’s stateroom caught fire.
Captain Kaney met them on the main deck. “No one by that name on my passenger list,” he assured the troopers.
“Could be using an alias.” Robb proceeded to describe this man called Dupré—tall, dark-complected, black hair and eyes, of French extraction.
Delta felt faint. Again she looked to Gabriel. Why didn’t he warn Brett?
“Sounds like that damn gambler who run out on me,” Captain Kaney was saying.
“Run out on you?” Robb questioned.
“He was engaged to play poker, nice little afternoon games with the ladies and more serious engagements with the gentlemen at night. Two, three days back I got word he wouldn’t be traveling with me the rest of the way.”
Delta held her breath, waiting for the troopers to buy the ruse that Brett had left the boat.
Then Stuart spoke up. “I have my doubts about the man not being aboard.” He turned to Gabriel. “He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he? Goes by the name Brett Reall?”
Delta held her breath. Gabriel shook his head.
“I’ve seen the two of you together,” Stuart insisted.
Gabriel executed a slight bow. “Me, I talk with many passengers, my frien’. Tha’ is what the good captain engaged me to do.”
“You work on this boat?” Robb quizzed.
Gabriel nodded.
“Show us your cabin.”
Delta felt her knees begin to buckle. This was it.
“Certainement.” Gabriel scooted around the little group. “This way, please.”
Stuart caught Delta’s eyes. He could see her fear; she knew he could. He reached for her arm. “Leave this to us, Delta. Run find Zanna.”
She pulled away. “I’m coming with you.”
That was the least she could do—be there when they apprehended Brett. What she would do later, she had no idea. But she must be there when they found him. He must see her and know she would never give up.
Gabriel led the way at a sprightly pace that caused Delta to question his allegiance—until they arrived at his stateroom where he ushered them inside, allowing them to inspect every nook and cranny. Not a thing inside linked him to Brett Reall, Anatole Dupré, or for that matter to any other soul, living or dead.
“Nothing,” one trooper said. Delta heard anger in his voice. Or had she imagined it? Her fear was all encompassing.
Robb addressed Captain Kaney. “We must search the entire boat. You understand, this man is wanted for murder. We have reason to believe he has been traveling aboard your vessel.”
“You’re welcome to search where you like, but do not disturb my passengers.”
“We will need you to lead us,” Robb told him.
Captain Kaney obliged, albeit grudgingly. “I tell you the man isn’t aboard.”
By the time the troopers left empty-handed, Delta had begun to wonder whether Brett’s nighttime visit to her cabin had been a dream. Or had he left while she was in town arguing with that persnickety secretary? Whatever the reason, he hadn’t been caught, this time.
She and Zanna watched the state troopers ride away from the docks with just enough time left to change for dinner. When Delta revealed her intention to take dinner in her cabin, Zanna refused to allow it.
“I know this episode upset you, Delta, but no good will come from brooding alone in your cabin.”
Zanna was right, she decided. Especially since, if Brett had somehow managed to remain aboard undetected by the troopers, he couldn’t come to her again until the dead of night. She shuddered at her involuntary choice of words.
“Don’t be late to dinner,” the captain advised them, upon returning from seeing the troopers off. “We have a special guest, aide to Governor Trainor.”
An hour later Delta found herself sitting beside a rather handsome gentleman whom Captain Kaney introduced as Mr. Luis Gerard, aide to the governor. While the captain fawned over such an honored guest, Delta ate her meal in silence, trying to decide how she could instigate a conversation that would help Brett.
Finally as a waiter cleared their entree plates, Luis Gerard turned to her. “The captain tells me you’re a journalist, Miss Jarrett.”
Suddenly it occurred to her that she hated this man. She didn’t even know him, yet she hated him—not for himself, but for what he and his cohorts were doing to Brett. “Yes,” she managed to reply, watching a waiter set a dish of chocolate mousse before her.
“Perhaps you’ll find the time to write something about our governor’s race while the boat’s in town,” Gerard suggested.
Thinking of the many things she would like to write about the governor’s race, and none of them positive, she took a deep breath before responding. “I requested an interview with Governor Trainor this morning, but his secretary assured me he wouldn’t want to waste time with a St. Louis newspaper.”
“He’s a busy man,” Gerard justified. “I’ll see what I can do for you tomorrow. I arrange most of his appearances.”
“You’re his publicity manager?”
“By title, no. Jack-of-all-trades more nearly fits my job description.”
“Then perhaps you can explain something, Mr. Gerard.”
“I’ll try.”
“What is the governor’s complaint against Voodoos?”
Luis Gerard choked on the wine in his mouth. After blotting his lips with his napkin, he spoke into his plate. “It’s legitimate.”
“I’m sure. I just don’t understand it.”
The governor’s aide regained his balance quickly, Delta observed. The next time he spoke, he looked her straight in the eye. “What exactly do you not understand, Miss Jarrett?”
“I was under the impression that Louisiana politicians regularly consult Voodoos.”
Her statement was greeted by silence, while Gerard turned back to his mousse. “Some do, some don’t,” he said at last. “Trainor doesn’t.”
Delta let the conversation drop. She wasn’t interested in Voodoos. She wasn’t interested in Luis Gerard or Governor Trainor’s political or personal habits, unless they related to his animosity toward Brett. But that was one subject she dared not introduce.
Gerard did it for her. “I’ve been told you were friends with that passenger who escaped.”
“A passenger escaped?” she questioned.
“Dupré. Anatole Dupré.”
“I’ve never met a man by that name, Mr. Gerard.”
“He could have used an alias, but that isn’t the point. I thought he might have revealed his destination to you, inadvertently, of course.”
“If I’ve never met him, how could he have?”
Gerard studied her intently. “If?”
“I have never met the man you’re after.” Knowing she must redirect the conversation, she turned to her mousse, searching for a neutral topic.
“I hope for your sake, you never meet him,” Gerard replied. “He’s a cold-blooded killer. Murdered his wife and—”
The room began to spin wildly, like a giant chocolate top. Delta’s spoonful of mousse dropped from her hand, clattering to her plate.
“Sir, if you please,” Captain Kaney addressed the governor’s aide. “This is a dinner table, not an interrogation room. We should be discussing the beauty of your state, the new jetties Captain Eads is completing down at New Orleans. That’s our destination, you know. We’ll be among the first boats to travel through this marvelous new gateway to the Gulf, a passage that is sure to bring prosperity to your state.”
Luis Gerard ceased his questions and Delta excused he
rself before she fell face-down in her dessert. She must talk to Gabriel. She must force him to tell her the truth. She must tell him about the governor’s aide.
He answered her knock with a startled expression.
“Where is he?” she demanded.
He shrugged.
“Gabriel, please. Brett’s in grave danger on board this boat. An aide to the governor is even now at dinner below us. He won’t let up until he finds Brett.”
“Don’ worry, m’moiselle. He can take care of himself. Good night.” With that Gabriel closed the door in her face.
If Gabriel had intended to reassure her, he failed, she thought, returning to her cabin. Her brain tumbled inside her head in imitation of the relentless revolutions of the paddlewheel that propelled them down river. After dressing for bed, she tried to settle her thoughts enough to compose an article on the Princess Players to post to Hollis the next morning, but she finally gave up and went to bed. She didn’t have to post an article to Hollis tomorrow; she had done so today. They were scheduled to remain in Baton Rouge three days. Perhaps in that time she would be able to make some sense out of what was happening with Brett—
Or whoever he was. Murdered his wife? Her heart labored beneath the weight of such an accusation. Tears pooled in her eyes and rolled onto the pillow. Of course, he hadn’t murdered his wife. He was tender and passionate and he loved her. He loved her—
Like a crash of lightning Brett’s mercurial temperament flashed through her brain. He was quick to anger. She heard again the glass shattering against the wall of his stateroom. He was violent.
But he had waited until she left the room to unleash his temper.
Perhaps he had changed since—
No, no, no. Whoever he was, whatever he was, Brett Reall was not a murderer. He wasn’t. She would never believe such an accusation. Never. By the time she drifted into a troubled sleep, her pillow was wet from her tears.
It was a forest filled with ghostly shapes of trees with enormous trunks and masses of gray moss that dripped from their limbs like funeral sprays. The ground was damp beneath the woman’s feet, damp and soggy, with a musty odor that threatened to stifle all breath from her body. Although her breasts felt heavy, her stomach was flat, almost gaunt, and hair streamed over her shoulders and across her face, mimicking the moss that hung from the trees. It seemed an awfully long time since she had washed her hair.
Sunrise Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Three Page 25
