Perfect Romance

by Duncan, Alice

  # # #

  “Come along with me, Marjorie.” Loretta took off at a fast clip, her shoes making sharp smacks on the polished parquet tiles of the Moorish hall.

  Taken by surprise, Marjorie, who had with great relief turned back to look more closely at the suits of armor, had to hustle to catch up with her. “But . . . wait! Loretta, I thought we were going to view the Moorish artifacts.”

  “We are. Only we’re not going to do it today. We have work to do.”

  “What work?” Marjorie sounded as skeptical as only Marjorie could when faced with one of Loretta’s more outrageous plans.

  “You’re going to study everything you can find about Moorish artifacts, and I’m going to secure a Moorish knife from somewhere.”

  Her voice considerably weaker, Marjorie said, “I? Moorish artifacts? Good heavens.”

  “Buck up,” commanded Loretta. “You’re going to be a wonderful student. I’m sure of it.” She strode briskly into the museum’s gift shop and spoke to the gentleman behind the counter. “Do you have a booklet that explains the Moorish exhibit more fully than this?” She flapped her flyer at him.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the young man said politely. His expression held admiration for the two young women who’d invaded his shop. “We have a pamphlet that gives quite a detailed account of the expedition and the artifacts recovered.”

  “Thank you.” Loretta dug in her handbag and produced a dollar, which she handed over to the young man. Marjorie gasped when Loretta waved a hand at the man, who had cranked his cash register open in search of change. “Keep the change. I’m sure the museum can use it.”

  Although she had worked for Loretta for two and a half years, Marjorie had yet to get used to the way her employer flung money at every library, museum, or cause that came her way. She scurried after Loretta. “I dinna know how you have any money left, you’re so free with it.”

  “Pshaw. I have more money than I can spend in three lifetimes. The museum needs it.”

  “That young man will pocket your twenty-five cents, Loretta Linden. You know he will!”

  Loretta gave her secretary a pitying look. “Have faith, Marjorie. If he steals my two bits, perhaps it’s because he needs it.”

  Still hurrying, Marjorie rolled her eyes and shut up. It never did any good to argue with Loretta Linden. Loretta didn’t know why she persisted in so futile an occupation.

  “Anyhow,” Marjorie persisted. “I shallna be able to concentrate on your precious booklet, because I’m starving to death.”

  It was difficult to stop Loretta once she got a notion in her head, but another person’s suffering generally did the trick. She stopped walking so abruptly, Marjorie had already sailed past her before she realized it. She turned, frowning, and walked back to her employer.

  “You’re right,” Loretta said. “We should eat lunch before we go to the library.”

  “We’re going to the library?” Marjorie said weakly.

  Loretta gave her a stern look. “How else can you learn about Moorish artifacts?”

  Since Marjorie had no answer, she didn’t reply.

  “Let’s go to Chinatown. It’s not far off, and maybe we can pick up Jason on the way.”

  Marjorie gave an honest-to-goodness wail of distress. “Och, Loretta, nae! My day is already ruined. Dinna add Dr. Abernathy to torture me along with Moorish artifacts!”

  “Fiddlesticks.” Loretta laughed, although she knew Marjorie wasn’t joking. Jason Abernathy teased Marjorie abominably. But Loretta would just tell him not to, and that should solve the problem. “Come along, Marjorie. I shall hail a cab.”

  “Thank the good Lord for wee mercies.”

  Over lunch in a small café near Jason’s office on the corner of Sacramento and Grant, Loretta told him about their scheme.

  “Your scheme,” Marjorie corrected her glumly.

  “Very well, my scheme.” Loretta couldn’t understand how anyone, and especially a woman in today’s society, could be so poor-spirited. Since she’d been pondering the same question as regarded Marjorie for more than two years already, she didn’t bother to ask the question aloud at the luncheon table. “What do you think, Jason?”

  “Well, as usual, I think you’re crazy.”

  Loretta huffed into her tiny teacup, and some of her fragrant Chinese-blend tea slopped onto her skirt. “Blast! See what you made me do?”

  “I didn’t make you do anything, Loretta. Don’t blame me for calling a spade a spade.” Jason peeked at Marjorie, who had been trying to avoid looking at him all during luncheon. “Isn’t that right, Miss MacTavish?”

  After studying him closely to ascertain whether or not he was serious or intent upon making fun of her—at least that was Loretta’s interpretation of her suspicious look—Marjorie said, “Aye. I think you’re right, Dr. Abernathy.”

  “You two!” Loretta had wet a napkin and was dabbing at the tea stain on her rust-colored skirt. “It’s a perfectly logical plan. While Marjorie engages Mr. Tillinghurst in conversation, I’ll plead some slight indisposition and go outside to take the air. Then I’ll look around for any sign of a hiding place.”

  Jason shook his head. “Loretta, I love you like a sister, but I still think you’re crazy. For one thing, do you think Tillinghurst is hiding stolen treasure under a camellia bush in his backyard? He’s more likely to have the stuff stashed in his basement or in a separate storage place far, far away. If he has it at all, which is unlikely.”

  “It is not!” Loretta was always hurt when her friends denounced her schemes.

  “Is, too,” said Marjorie under her breath.

  Loretta chose not to engage with Marjorie, since Jason was plenty all by himself. “Even if you’re right, it won’t hurt to look. I’ve been to Mr. Tillinghurst’s estate. There are several out buildings that would be perfect for storing stolen art objects. And don’t forget that other missing seaman!” She herself had only that second recalled Malachai’s second lost sailor. What was his name? Jackson? Johnson? Jones?

  After glancing at the ceiling and shaking his head, a gesture Loretta took amiss, Jason said, “And that brings up another point. I seriously doubt that you’re going to fool Mr. Tillinghurst into believing that Miss MacTavish is an expert in Moorish artifacts, especially if she’s only going to have an hour or so to study up on the subject.”

  “Aye, my thought exactly,” said Marjorie, this time speaking at full volume. “I dinna think I could make him believe I was an expert even if I were.” She furrowed her brow, evidently pondering her sentence and wondering if it made sense.

  “Well, you can at least claim to be a student. After browsing books about Moorish art in the library, that will even be the truth.”

  “I’ll be a student under duress,” Marjorie pointed out sourly.

  Jason laughed. “Every student I’ve ever met has been under duress, Miss MacTavish.” He threw up his hands. “But discussion is fruitless. You know as well as I do that once Loretta gets a bee in her bonnet, there’s no dissuading her. I’m sure you’ll be safe, at all odds, especially given that Mr. Tillinghurst is the last person on earth whom I’d suspect of stealing from his own expedition.”

  Loretta shared her frown equally between her two friends. “That’s not so. He’s an unprincipled, greedy so-and-so, and he might well have wanted more than his fair share of the findings. It was the university who divided the spoils, according to the booklet we picked up.”

  Jason downed the last of his tea. “Sounds mighty unlikely to me, but I won’t argue with you any longer.”

  Loretta said, “Huh!”

  With a laugh, Jason rose from his chair and bowed. “But I need to get back to work. The tongs are acting up again, and I’ve been stitching up wounds all day.”

  “Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Jason.” Jason’s words flung Loretta out of her schemes and plots. She was honestly worried. Warfare between Chinese social clubs, or tongs, in San Francisco was nothing new, but she knew Jason’s feelings about the
problem, and she knew he suffered deeply. He’d been married to a lovely Chinese woman who had been victimized both by her Chinese kin and by evil white men, and his feelings, however much he masked them with humor, ran deep.

  “The tongs?” Marjorie clearly wished she’d not spoken as soon as the words left her lips.

  “I’ll explain it all to you,” Loretta said hastily, not wanting to give Jason the opportunity to embarrass Marjorie. “Thank you for your candid opinion about the stolen artifacts, Jason, even though I know you’re wrong.”

  “I know you do, Loretta.” He bent and gave her a brotherly kiss on the cheek, handed the Chinese waiter some money, and waved at the ladies as he left the restaurant.

  “Drat him! I had intended to pay for his lunch.”

  “Aye, I’m sure you did, but he beat you to it,” muttered Marjorie. “He knows you too well.”

  Loretta eyed her keenly. “You don’t look very enthusiastic about this venture, Marjorie.”

  “No. Really?”

  “There’s no need for sarcasm.”

  “Och, so you say.”

  Standing up and smoothing her skirt—she’d managed to blot the tea stain and it didn’t look bad at all—Loretta said with a sniff, “I should think you’d be happy to have a chance to rectify a grievous wrong.”

  Marjorie stood, too, and adjusted her hat. “Aye, and I would be if I believed there was a wrong, and didna feel such a fool. This is a blatherish plan of yours, Loretta. The only reason I’m going along with it is because you’re my boss.”

  This truly wounded Loretta’s feelings. She did not consider herself a hard task-mistress. Nor did she believe she was being unreasonable. “It’s not my fault you have no spirit, Marjorie MacTavish!”

  With a sigh, Marjorie said, “You’re right. It’sna your fault.”

  Feeling misunderstood and put-upon, Loretta didn’t speak as they left the restaurant and headed to the public library. She had no idea where to secure a Moorish knife, although she had a friend who owned an art gallery. She would consult Denise about her problem. Denise knew everything about Oriental art and artifacts.

  The Moors were Oriental, weren’t they? Or were they African? Or were they the product of an intermingling between the cultures? Good Lord, she didn’t even know that much about them. Perhaps her scheme was a trifle far-fetched.

  But that was defeatist thinking. Loretta would have no part of it. Tillinghurst was a villain, and she’d prove it, with Marjorie and Jason’s approval or without it. She’d show Captain Malachai Quarles who was an imbecile and who was not.

  She realized she’d clenched her teeth when Marjorie, looking worried, said, “I’m sorry, Loretta. I didna mean to be ugly.”

  Surprised, Loretta said, “You weren’t being unkind, Marjorie. I understand that you can’t help how you feel. It’s one of the reasons I wish you’d consent to see Dr. Hagendorf. I’m sure he could help you overcome your repressions and neuroses.”

  After pressing her lips tightly together for only a second or two, Marjorie said, “I dinna believe I want to overcome them. It’s my belief some things should be repressed.”

  Loretta sighed heavily. She was beginning to hold out little hope for Marjorie. But Loretta was no quitter. She wouldn’t give up on her secretary, and she wouldn’t give up on proving that Tillinghurst was a thief and a scoundrel.

  # # #

  At three-thirty that afternoon, Loretta and a very nervous Marjorie got out of the cab Loretta had hired in front of Mr. William Frederick Tillinghurst’s fenced and gated home, which was located just outside of San Francisco on acres and acres of forest land. A small house, much too small to belong to the millionaire Tillinghurst, could scarcely be perceived behind several dozen large trees. While Loretta paid the driver, Marjorie stared at what she could see of the almost-hidden structure. Tillinghurst’s entire estate was surrounded by a huge black iron fence.

  “Where’s Mr. Tillinghurst’s house?” she asked. “Surely he doesna live in that wee house over there.”

  Nodding at the cabbie, who was quite pleased with the tip Loretta had given him in exchange for a promise to wait outside the gates for the ladies’ return, Loretta said, “That’s the caretaker’s house. Mr. Tillinghurst’s house is behind the trees.”

  “How do we get in?”

  “There’s a gate keeper.” Loretta turned and surveyed the grounds stretching before her. “I’m glad it’s not dark yet. I’d rather not snoop around in the dark.”

  “It’s eerie, Loretta. I dinna like the looks of the place. I’ll be hag-rid for days.”

  “Fiddlesticks. It’s only a large estate. There’s nothing eerie about it.” She spoke bravely, but she didn’t quite believe herself. The place gave her the willies, even in broad daylight.

  Marjorie whimpered. “It’s a grand place for to find a gaste or a grapus or two, Loretta.”

  “What on earth is a grapus?”

  Marjorie shivered. “A de’il. A hobgoblin.”

  “Fiddlesticks,” Loretta said again, this time more firmly still.

  “Say what you will, Loretta Linden, I’m perishing nervous.”

  “Nonsense,” Loretta said in a bracing tone. “Think of this as an adventure.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Marjorie grumbled. “You dinna have to pretend to be an art student.”

  Pressing the buzzer on the gate, Loretta said, “Pooh. Students don’t know anything or they wouldn’t be students. You’ll be fine.”

  As if by magic, the black iron gates—the word menacing popped into Loretta’s mind, along with the words hobgoblin, ghost, and devil, and she thrust them away with disgust—began to slide apart. They were well-oiled and made no noise. In fact, they made Loretta, who wouldn’t say so to Marjorie, feel a trifle spooky. She didn’t approve of mechanical devices that operated silently and without apparent human intervention.

  Because she’d sooner die that indicate in any way whatsoever that she was anything other than perfectly at ease, she said, “It’s a short hike to his house.” She saw Marjorie take a quick peek at her pointy-toed shoes and added, “But don’t worry. The path is clear.”

  “Och, I hate this.”

  But Marjorie followed her leader up the long, long paved path to William Tillinghurst’s mansion. Loretta felt happier when they saw Tillinghurst awaiting them at his mansion’s front door, and with a smile of welcome on his face.

  “Ladies, ladies,” he said, walking to the end of his porch to meet them. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Thank you so much for having us, Mr. Tillinghurst,” Loretta gushed. “I’ve been wanting someone to look at this knife for the longest time.”

  Marjorie stepped aside so that Loretta’s elbow couldn’t connect with her ribs after she uttered that brass-faced lie.

  Chapter Eight

  Malachai strolled through Tillinghurst’s rose garden, chewing on a cigar, his hands clasped behind his back, his head down, pondering the conversation he and Tillinghurst had concluded several minutes earlier. Malachai would have liked to continue it, but Loretta Linden and Marjorie MacTavish had arrived, and he didn’t think he could keep a straight face if he had to listen to Loretta chatter to Tillinghurst about Moorish knives.

  He grinned around his cigar as he pondered the wonders of Loretta. She was a minx, all right. And a true pain in the neck.

  Malachai had never cherished any illusions about women. He respected one or two of them, disliked most of them, and lusted after some of them, but he considered all of them to be manipulative and sly. They were like cats, women were. At least Loretta was an amusing one.

  She might also be dangerous to him. Malachai treasured his freedom, and Loretta was the first woman in a long, long time who might, if he didn’t keep his guard up, threaten it.

  “Freedom,” he muttered, wondering as he did so what was so wonderful about it. As a young man, he’d been so damned glad to get shut of the nuns in the orphanage that he’d cut loose with a vengeanc
e. It hadn’t taken him long to realize freedom and utter abandon weren’t synonymous, and he’d moderated his behavior significantly.

  Not for Malachai Quarles the life of a vagabond. He was willing to work for as many years as it would take, and work as hard as he had to, but he aimed to put down roots eventually. He wasn’t going to end his life alone and abandoned, as he’d begun it. Even if he only retired to the country to breed hounds, he would not be alone.

  His background was probably the main reason he was so protective of the men who worked for him. Even nutty old Derrick Peavey. The notion of abandonment gave him a pain way deep down in his soul. Malachai Quarles wouldn’t give up on a good man just because he had a delusion or two. He liked the fact that his men were his friends, too. In the absence of family, they kept him from the loneliness he’d experienced as a child.

  Of course, a good way to ensure not being alone in his old age was to marry and produce a bunch of brats, but Malachai wasn’t sure he was up to that. He’d had no experience of families, after all. And he sure as the devil wasn’t going to have any spawn of his growing up as he had: unwanted, unloved, and unsure of anything.

  No. He’d be damned good and certain that before he produced heirs, if he ever did, they’d have something to inherit besides money. His partner, Tillinghurst, had confirmed Malachai’s belief that money and security were two different things—although money, above all other attributes a man could bestow upon his tribe—meant the most after love.

  Love. Everything inside of him winced every time he so much as thought the word, although he didn’t suppose there was anything innately wrong with love. As a concept, love was a grand thing. Hell, the New Testament spewed love everywhere. The Old Testament was another matter, but Malachai was no theologian, so he didn’t care much.

  Love as modern-day Americans had interpreted it, however, was sappy and mushy and it gave Malachai a stomachache. Hell, what man wanted a woman swooning at him every five seconds? Or, perhaps worse, blackmailing him into doing her bidding by withholding her so-called favors.