Taking the High Road

by Morris Fenris

  Cecelia drew in one long deep inhalation of San Francisco’s night air, a colorful mixture of damp and wood fire and pungent garbage from someone’s back yard.

  “Cecie.”

  Gabe’s voice pulled her from discontented musings.

  “I need to talk t’you about somethin’, honey.”

  “Mmmm. Now? I was just about to get ready for bed.” Tactfully, delicately, she hid a yawn behind the back of one hand. “You sound quite no-nonsense; is anything wrong?”

  A puff of the cigar sent fragrant smoke upward and outward, as he shifted position as if to better elucidate. “Dunno about wrong, s’much, as information I’ve been keepin’ from you.”

  “Information. What kind of information?”

  “I didn’t tell you before, b’cause I thought the matter would never come up, you and me movin’ clear ’cross the country like we did.” Gabe shook his head with frustration. “I blame myself, Cecie. Guess I shoulda realized what might happen, though. Ain’t that always the way of it, how things just sorta pop up when you haven’t planned for ’em.”

  “Gabe. You’re worrying me.” Feeling faintly alarmed as much by what wasn’t being said as by what had been, she reached over to lay her hand upon his. “What is it? What didn’t you tell me?”

  He looked up, frowning, and sucked in a breath. Might as well lay all his cards on the table at once, and get this over with. “You got a brother, Cecelia. He’s found out about you, and he’s snoopin’ around to find out more.”

  Her beautiful blue eyes dilated until only black pupil showed, and the high tinge on her cheekbones intensified to brilliant peony. “I don’t think I—quite heard you…”

  “Oh, yeah, sugar, you heard me just fine. But, there, that’s the worst of it. So let me explain.”

  Now it was he holding her hand, in reassurance and support, as he told the tale of her father’s loveless, thankless marriage, and the birth of his son, early on. “His name is Noah Harper, Cecie. He’s about eight years older’n you.”

  Paul’s only son. His legitimate heir.

  Paul had willed the bulk of his estate to his widow and their child. Plenty of money, plenty of savings, plenty of investments, plus a thriving corporation, to keep both of them in an extremely comfortable lifestyle. But apparently that wasn’t enough.

  “I got friends back in Boston,” Gabe explained, after a minute. “I asked ’em to keep an eye on young Noah, and his doin’s, and let me know what he was up to. He’s sniffed out the fact that The Catherine Syndicate was left to you—prob’bly thanks to that—ahem!—high-and-mighty mother of his, and he’s on your trail.”

  “But—but—” Cecelia was bewildered, “I don’t understand. Certainly he and I would never be best friends, under the circumstances, but Paul Harper was my father, too. Surely I deserve some assets from his estate?”

  “Darned tootin’ you do, honey. And any good lawyer in court would agree. But put it down to greed. The two of ’em want every last penny they can get.”

  His grip had tightened, but Cecelia, staring off into space while details slowly clicked into place, was unaware. “It’s that important?”

  “Sure as hell is. Also—well, pride. Bad enough your paw was messin’ around on the side, accordin’ to Elvira Harper; but you even bein’ born was a real slap in the face for her. She’d want nothin’ more than to see you cut down to size, laughed at, pulled off that pedestal Paul put you on. Even if you are three thousand miles away.”

  “Distance,” she murmured. “How foolish. We thought so much distance would solve any problems.” Her troubled gaze returned to his. “What am I to do, Gabe?”

  He sighed. “For now, honey, there ain’t nothin’ you can do. We just gotta wait to see what might happen. And be prepared.”

  It wasn’t at all clear exactly how they might be prepared. Cecelia only knew that somehow she must keep all this information to herself. Neither Josiah nor his snobbish, social-climbing mother could ever find out the truth about her inheritance and about her very sketchy background. Armed with such knowledge, who knew what damage they might cause?

  V

  It had been a long and tiring journey, enough so that John Yancey felt mightily relieved to finally alight on the shores of San Francisco Bay. Of course, he had traveled as the crow flies, in almost as straight a direction west as possible. Far from the luxurious, leisurely cruise taken by Gabriel Finnegan and his party, with stops at major ports for siestas and sightseeing.

  John was a detective, after all. And a Pinkerton, at that, one of the most famous agencies of his time. He had gotten to be quite adept at tracking those he sought. Right now, through the behest of her half-brother, he was on the trail of one Cecelia Powell, an apparently charming thief who had taken no pains to disguise herself or her plans for the California trek.

  Odd behavior, John considered. Anyone else fleeing the law would have at least changed their name and destination, as they worked their wiles on others as easily hoodwinked. Unless she had thought distance alone would keep her unfettered and at large, since so few would trouble themselves to follow her across the continent.

  Cecelia Powell could think again.

  While John might not resemble a bulldog, his tactics were similar. Once caught, he hung on and wouldn’t let go. Miss Powell had no idea what a force she had unleashed by stealing away a man’s rightful inheritance. Time to face the music.

  “Well, hello, there, honey,” crooned a sultry voice at his elbow. “Just off the boat, are you?”

  John was standing at the corner of Fillmore Hotel’s lengthy bar. An hour before, he had registered, settled his huge shabby carpetbag in the room allocated, and sponged off the grime of travel before joining what seemed like the rest of humanity in Fillmore’s inappropriately named Oak Tree Lounge.

  “I am, indeed,” he answered amiably. “And you are—?”

  The saloon girl snuggled up against him, resting the weight and warmth of her substantial cleavage against his arm. “My name is Lurette. What part of the south do you hail from, stranger?”

  A glance and a gesture brought the barkeep over with a shot glass full of brown fluid for John’s newfound companion. It wouldn’t be the whiskey he was paying for, John realized, but lukewarm iced tea. One more way to bamboozle the patron. For now, however, that was all right. He needed information, and what better place to acquire it than at one of the local watering holes?

  “Want to join me at a table?” he invited.

  Of course she did. And would, flouncing her short red petticoats with every step of high-heeled black boots. “Well, now, this is nice,” she approved, as he pulled out a chair for her and waited politely until she was seated. “You’re quite the gentleman, Mr.—?”

  “John. John Yancey.”

  “Well, good meetin’ you, Johnny. I’ve always said—”

  “John.” His molasses-smooth drawl had gone cold as an Alaskan night, and his hand closed on her wrist with surprising strength. “Just plain John. And I’m from Charleston.”

  “All right, all right. Just Plain John.” Carmined lips pulled awry, she rubbed at the faint mark left by his fingers and reconsidered her prospects. “And you’re from Carolina.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, Lurette, if I caused you any discomfort. It makes me a little cross if someone misnames me. Now,” John leaned back with one of his famous head-turning smiles, “tell me all about yourself. What’s a beautiful lady doin’ here, anyway?”

  Several drinks later, having unobtrusively switched Lurette’s watered-down version for the real hard stuff, he had absorbed enough of her history to feel everything had been fully paid for, twice over. The bawdy-house girl, brought from New Orleans to the Gold Coast by her pimp, and then eventually abandoned for greener pastures: the only difference, in this case, being that the pimp was no sly shyster, but…

  “…a real gentleman, like you, John,” said the girl with a soft hiccup. “Dressed so nice, sounded so good. We had fun together in N
’yawlins, but after he got me here, he didn’t know me anymore. Tryin’ to be upper crust, I reckon…one of those nabobs.”

  “Yeah, I’ve known a few of those,” agreed John, with unaccustomed grimness. So might the same story go for his Boston quarry? In fact, they were probably sisters under the skin.

  Lurette was feeling comfortable enough around this soft-spoken man to trail her fingers up his sleeve to the elbow, and back down again over his hand. “So what’s your background, Just Plain John?”

  “Oh, the usual, I reckon. Got me nine older brothers scattered across the country. And with all the unrest back east, I think there’s a war somewhere on the horizon.”

  “War? Really? Glad I’m not there, then, to be in the thick of it.”

  “Kinda thought the same thing myself, Lurette. So I lit out for the north and got hired on to an agency there.”

  “Agency?” she scowled. “What kinda agency?”

  “Pinkerton. Ever hear of it?”

  “Hmph. Who hasn’t heard of that place? Why, they were trackin’ some guy way back in—” She broke off, eyes widened and rounded with dismay. “So that’s it. You’re here huntin’ somebody down.”

  John smiled. And, oh, what an attention-getting, middle-roiling smile it was, engaging long-lashed eyes and facial muscles and a pair of provocative dimples. At the sight of it, Lurette could almost feel her bloomers begging to be loosened and possibly removed.

  “I am,” he admitted. Long fingers moved his whiskey glass around on the table top. “And maybe you could help me. My client is willin’ to pay for all good information.”

  “Pay, hmmm? Well, not that I’m such a gossip, but I do know lots goin’ on around here. So who are you lookin’ for, John?”

  “Cecelia Powell. Well…that was the name she went by, back east. Not sure what she’s goin’ by now.”

  Lurette pondered a moment, took another hearty sip, and pondered some more. Suddenly, spying a newcomer at the bar, she called out, “Jasper! Hey, Jasper!”

  The man turned. A miner, by the look of him, with flannel shirt sleeves rolled up over a soiled union suit, braces attached to wool pants, and heavy dust-beaten boots, he flaunted a flaming red beard and curly hair as if he were proud of both. “Hey, there, Lurette. How you doin’?”

  “I’m fine. C’mon over here a minute, will you?”

  In the time it took Jasper to shamble toward their table, John had risen and reached out to shake his hand with introductions.

  “John is lookin’ for a lady name of Cecelia. Didn’t you say you know somebody who knows somebody who—”

  “Oh, yeah, sure do,” Jasper grinned. “Friend o’ mine knows Max Shaw. Remember him? Anyways, he just started seein’ a girl who works for the lady. Cecelia Powell. You’ve heard of her, Lurette—she runs that school up on the hill. Some kinda academy.”

  “That’s the one!” Lurette nodded. “You’re right, Jasper. Thanks.”

  “I appreciate your help, Mr.—um—Jasper. Buy you a drink for your trouble?”

  “No trouble at’all, Mr. Yancey. But I will take you up on your offer of a drink. A man gets thirsty, out there, sweatin’ and slavin’ for gold.” Another easy-going grin, another handshake. “A coupla pards are over there waitin’ for me, Lurette, but maybe—later—maybe you and me—”

  Flashing him a come-hither smile, she allowed the cap sleeve of her dress to slip slightly down one shoulder, baring promises of treats to come. Somehow, she felt that John Yancey was out of the running. Her next best chance lay with this likable individual. “I’ll be around, Jasper,” she assured him. “You just hunt me up.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  From a long-distance sleuth, he became one closer to.

  Once he started looking, Cecelia Powell wasn’t hard to find. Her name was plastered all over the Academy she had established, part of various legal documents at the courthouse, and mentioned occasionally in the various eating-places he frequented.

  Very peculiar. Her behavior stood completely at odds with the criminal activity he’d been led to expect. Even this far from the scene of the crime, surely using a new name and background would have been imperative. But, no, everything she had and did was right out there, for anyone to investigate, mull over, and act upon. Very peculiar.

  Early one morning, he followed her, like Mary’s little lamb, from her comfortable frame house on top of a hill to the school building some distance away. She didn’t notice his presence in the background, being too occupied with several children who had decided to accompany her partway. The sound of their cheerful voices and casual laughter put a nice start to the day.

  He couldn’t help wondering if she were always this cordial, this engaging. Again, an attitude that did not quite fit the picture he’d been drawn. Where, exactly, did her half-brother come into all this?

  Another excursion took him at some distance behind her to the dressmaker’s—nothing exciting going on there, unless you enjoyed seeing someone ply a measuring tape and unfold fabric. At her next stop, a general store, he actually went inside, deliberately hanging around the outer walls to examine merchandise that he had no intention of purchasing. All the while keeping an eye on his suspect.

  Damn, she was pretty. So much for the half-brother’s opinion; John Yancey, Pinkerton agent, was right on the mark. Congenial, too. Her interaction with the store’s proprietor, and with several customers milling around, couldn’t have been more pleasant. Miss Powell browsed, shopped, chose items to be delivered, and paid immediately instead of charging the whole amount.

  Of course, John reflected, if she truly had taken possession of that gold mine, and money was pouring out of it hand over fist, of course she’d be able to pay up front…

  Lost in his musings, he didn’t duck aside quickly enough. She caught a glimpse of him, as she was leaving, offered a slight nod and a small smile, and slipped away.

  “Were you interested in buying that, sir?” asked one of the clerks, with a simper.

  “Huh?” In one hand he was holding what appeared to be a female’s corset, all white lace and bonings. “Hell, no!” As if the offensive thing were on fire, burning his fingers, he flung it back onto the counter and sprinted out through the door.

  A third attempt at shadowing led him from the house on the hill to Gabe Finnegan’s downtown law office. A bit taken aback, John settled onto a bench across the street for a while, to observe. So much of detective work is simply boring observation: of the quarry, of the area, of the weather, of whatever happens to be going on. He watched clients entering and departing. He watched a spritely red-haired young woman bounce inside and back out again, arm in arm with the old gentleman who ran the place. He watched a shrunken little widow in black pass by, reconsider, and creep in.

  And just when he had finished watching, and was about to end his vigil for the day, the lady in question appeared.

  She, too, strode into the office, past the bell clanging lightly on the door. Soon she emerged with Gabe in tow.

  To John’s surprise, and consternation, both of them crossed the street, avoiding precipitous wagon and foot traffic, to approach. Caught? Silently he rose, straightened his black coat, and waited again. He was getting damned good at waiting.

  “Sir,” said the old lawyer.

  John acknowledged their presence with a slight, formal nod.

  “Gabriel Finnegan, attorney at law. This is my ward, Cecelia Powell, for whose welfare I am responsible. You have the advantage of us, sir.”

  “My apologies, Mr. Finnegan. John Yancey.”

  Gabe stretched an inch or two taller and lifted his chin in challenge. “And may I inquire as to your business in San Francisco, Mr. Yancey?”

  John offered a cool smile. “You may.”

  A moment of consideration, man to man: one younger, one older; one muscular and fighting-weight fit, one given to excess and paunch. “I see. Well, then, Mr. Yancey, we’ve got us a little problem here. Miss Powell tells me you’ve been f
ollowin’ her.”

  In another time, another place, this sort of confrontation would have subsided into mere fizzle. John admired a foe, worthy of the name, who stepped forward to meet any problem head-on. Now, however, he saw that the better part of valor would be retreat. And probably a flat-out lie.

  “Much as I hate to disagree with a pretty lady, I’m afraid Miss Powell would be wrong.” He tried out his killer Lothario smile again, just to see if it would work. It didn’t. “I admit to almost bumping into her recently, at the—what is it, the San Fran Emporium? And here, today, well, this is just coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?” the pretty lady repeated, with one eyebrow sardonically lifted. “I hardly think so, Mr. Yancey.”

  She was wearing something in cream and shades of light brown today. Cut lower than her other dresses, to show off an expanse of skin begging to be touched and a bountiful bosom begging to be caressed. Forgetting himself, John ogled.

  “Yancey!” snapped Gabe, infuriated.

  “Uh. Yessir. Sorry.” John blushed like a boy caught in mischief. Which, undeniably, he had been. “I’ve just been sittin’ here, mindin’ my own business, for—”

  “For hours,” Cecelia said icily. She turned toward her guardian to report, “Bridget saw him on this bench, earlier, when she came to meet you for lunch, Gabe. And Mrs. Hancock saw him, still on this bench, when she stopped by to consult about her husband’s will.”

  Hell. How had they managed to fill this town so full of spies? It was a veritable network.

  At this point, he decided that a counter-attack was by far the best defense. “Does the city have some sort of ordinance against sittin’ on a park bench?” he demanded, in equally icy tones. “Do I need a permit to—uh—to take some time to—uh—reflect on my circumstances?”