"Very well. You drive a bargain as hard as you drove spikes, but I will not lose a good man. Shake, Mr. Mullins, shake hands with your new partner."
The General held out his left hand. Mullins swung around in bed and thrust out his good hand.
"A deal," Augustus Mullins said. "And you can call me Lefty from now on."
The Parisian Dagger
"They should all die. Horribly." Claudette Dupree crossed her arms over her chest, stamped her foot and lifted her chin high. The combination of all her disapproval caused the seventeen year old to stumble. She caught herself against the wall, rebounded and tried to regain her anger and defiance as she faced her mother.
"Now, dear, your papa says it is very important for the entire family to attend this gala."
"I want to go home."
"You are home," the woman said, an edge entering her voice. "We will not see Paris again for many years."
"If ever!" Claudette stamped her foot again. The click of her heel against the Spanish tile floor sounded like a gunshot. "I don't like this terrible place."
"New Orleans isn't so bad. We might have gone to New York. At least here are Acadians who speak our language."
"What they speak is not French. It . . . it's a bastard language! It doesn't even sound like cultured French. And they're all from Canada. Metis!" She made that into a curse.
"Claudette! You are a lady. It is not their fault they are mostly half-breeds. You can be so impudent. But your place is to support your father, your family and our business. This is a great opportunity for us. Shipping fees alone will restore our wealth."
"We wouldn't be here if the business wasn't going bankrupt. He should never have allowed Jacques to talk him into opening a trade route with those pirates." She pushed back a strand of her brown hair from her eyes and glared. "The British East India Company was on the verge of dissolution. He trusted the British not to steal our ships and money and they went bankrupt."
"Your father and your brother both did what they thought was in the company's best interest. They had no way to know that stock dividend redemption act would dissolve the company."
"To deal with the British was foolish. They still impress seamen. How is that not slavery? At least this country freed their slaves."
"Be in the great room for the ball. And do take care to put your hair straight." She reached out to her daughter's errant hair, only to have the hand pushed aside.
Claudette recoiled as her mother slapped her. She touched the hot spot on her cheek and tried to rub away the finger marks.
"You will obey me and your father, and you will not discuss such things at a social gathering. Not where others can hear, not to me or anyone in the family. It is not your place, and I swear, you will fulfill your obligations without so much as a murmur."
Shock passed and Claudette sucked in a deep breath, released it slowly and said in a level voice, "What other truth is forbidden to speak?"
Her mother started to slap her again. Claudette waited for the blow, daring her, but her mother reconsidered as she realized she had struck her daughter for the last time.
"The party will begin soon. You will be there, and you will be respectful."
"And if I choose not to be there—or respectful?"
"There is a devotional cell in the Ursuline convent on Chartres Street waiting for you."
"You wouldn't!" Claudette felt light-headed when she saw the determination on her mother's face. "Papa would never . . ." Her words trailed off. Her mother would never make this threat if such a fate had not already been discussed and approved.
"I am sure you will enjoy the music, the dancing," her mother said, as if she had never made such an horrific threat. Forcing her only daughter to take a nun's vow seemed as incidental to life as saying that it was raining or especially warm on this June evening.
"What more is there?" Claudette's heart accelerated. Even worse was to come.
Her mother smiled insincerely and said, "You will enjoy the company of Monsieur Clarke. I understand he is an excellent dancer."
For a moment Claudette couldn't place the name, then her eyes went wide in shock.
"That gross, ancient toad? He must weigh three hundred pounds!"
"He has a great deal of money to invest in your father's company." The woman smiled and said, "You will find the evening surprisingly pleasant, I assure you, Claudette." She touched her daughter's arm, trying to be restore amity. Claudette pulled away, refusing to be mollified.
Without another word, the older woman left amid a swish of crinoline and lace, her fancy ball gown showing off her trim figure to great effect. Claudette watched until her mother disappeared, then spun and went to her bedroom window and looked out. The sun had set and the evening rain—drizzle—reflected her mood. Dark. Miserable. Stifling. The day's heat lingered and caused sweat to trickle down her temples. She swiped at it, then realized how pervasive the perspiration was. The tiny stream working its way down between her breasts tickled and made her all too aware of how the scoop neck revealed so much of her cleavage. Her mother had insisted on this revealing dress.
Claudette understood why now. She expected her daughter to become a whore and lure Jonah Clarke to open his wallet to rescue Dupree and Son Shipping from its own folly. She gripped the wrought iron bars over her bedroom window and leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the warm metal that kept her from leaping out of the second story window into Royal Street and running away. This part of the French Quarter endured great crime and was the reason for the protective bars. Or had her papa realized how far he had pushed her and installed the bars to imprison his rebellious daughter?
But the bars protected her from everyone except her father. They held her in a prison, a lovely, expensive one in the middle of the French Quarter, but still a prison. With the reluctance of the condemned mounting the gallows, she turned and went to face the guests as they arrived. She would be pleasant to them, even Jonah Clarke, with his bulging belly and insincere laughter that made his jowls jiggle.
Claudette stopped at the end of a long, narrow corridor. Several women in brightly colored dresses swirled past, out of her field of vision. Her heart almost stopped when a corpulent man waddled into view. Hands clenched so tightly her nails bit into her palms, she walked forward, head high, using an ivory fan to cool herself as she entered the large room where a string quartet played softly at the far end and tables laden with foods from all over the world lined two walls. The fourth held a row of chairs for the wallflowers, but Claudette knew she wouldn't be allowed to simply sit and seethe at her father's injustice tonight.
"My dear, come meet Mr. Clarke." Her father Pierre, short and dapper with a neat pencil-thin mustache, every move precise, caught her elbow and steered her toward the man she had come to hate.
"Claudette, you are gorgeous," Clarke said. His voice was low and level and flowed like oil. She felt slimy simply listening to him.
"My father's new business partner," she said, curtsying.
Clarke laughed and her father's expression hardened.
"Not yet, not yet. There are details to work out, but I am sure we will come to some agreement soon."
"Not if you insist on a controlling interest in our venture, Jonah."
"Oh, Pierre, there is a reason you are called the Parisian Dagger. Your concentration on business matters is always to the point, dagger sharp and penetrating to the heart. From the greeting given by your lovely daughter, it is a family trait." Clarke laughed until his dewlaps bounced.
Claudette heard no humor in his laughter.
"We come to your magnificent house for an evening of pleasure, not business."
"I see you have your board of directors with you, Jonah."
"My friends, all. I am sure your directors are here, also."
"My son and I only." Pierre drew himself up to his full height and looked around for Jacques. He waved to his son across the room. Jacques didn't notice. He was engrossed in intimate talk with a woman
Claudette considered to be a whore, no better than any of the broken blossoms from the brothels on Basin Street.
Clarke bowed slightly in Claudette's direction, looking ridiculous. "And your lovely Claudette. No man can overlook her loveliness." Clarke tried to take her hand and kiss it in what he thought was a continental fashion. She drew back just enough so his lips missed and found only air. Such a slight did not deter him. "Please, my dear, allow me to introduce you to my son."
Claudette had been uneasy before. Something in the man's tone froze her inside. Her father moved behind her and kept her from retreating.
"My son, Ezekiel." Clarke half turned and motioned for a younger version of himself to come over.
Claudette watched the youth waddle to join them. His tailcoat lacked tailoring, stretched in the wrong places and hung slack in others. Permanent wrinkles made it look as if he had slept in it more than once. The closer he came, the more overwhelming a fish odor reminiscent of what washed up on the Mississippi bank became. She stifled a cry of fear when he smiled. It was the most terrifying look she had ever seen, combining avarice and lust and outright evil into one expression.
She backed away only to have her father wrap his arm around her waist and hold her in place.
"I am sure you and Ez will get along well, especially since your nuptials represent the merging of our two fine companies." Clarke threw his arm around his son's shoulders, squeezed, then shoved him in Claudette's direction.
"Nuptials?" Claudette swayed from the shock of this revelation.
"We can plan for a proper wedding in the fall, when it is cooler. I know the priest at the St. Louis Cathedral. He will be delighted to perform the ceremony," Clarke said.
Claudette stared in horror at the elder Clarke and his smirk. She forced herself to look at his son. It took all her willpower not to vomit. Somehow, she spun and got away from her father's grip, running wildly, not knowing where she went as long as it was away. She crashed through a heavy wooden door and found herself in a room with lingering tobacco scent overpowering the cheerful flowers in a vase on a sideboard. Her mind refused to cope. Hibiscus. Her favorite. But the delicate pink flower mocked her now in her father's study. The pistil pointed accusingly at her. She swung her arm in a wide arc and sent the flower-laden vase sailing across the room to smash into a display cabinet.
She stared at the cabinet's contents. A silver dagger, decorative and worth a small fortune, gleamed in the room's pale light. It had been a gift to her father, a joke by a minor functionary in Paris years ago, celebrating his appellation. The Parisian Dagger. She went to the cabinet and fumbled open the catch, her fingers closed around the hilt and she whirled about, ready to strike out when she heard the study door open a few inches.
"I'll kill you," she cried out. "Then I'll kill myself before I ever marry that pig!"
The door closed without her seeing who had started into the study after her. She stood alone in the center of the room, feeling foolish with the weapon clutched in her hand. Suicide was not the answer. Claudette cast the ceremonial knife away. It clattered across her father's desk, spun about once and stopped, its point aimed at her.
She stared at it in horror, then slumped with both hands on the desk and her head bowed. Suicide was a mortal sin, but death and eternity in hell could not be worse than having Ez Clarke claim his husbandly due.
"How dare you!"
Claudette looked over her shoulder as her father stormed into the room. His face contorted into rage—and she was the object of his wrath.
"I won't marry him. You can't make me!"
"You must. It is the only way Clarke will give me the money needed to keep the company in business. Our company, the family company."
"You and Jacques give us nothing! I get nothing!"
"There is a fine house to live, your food is unparalleled in this city, and your clothing! All of Continental design. I could go on," Pierre Dupree said, "but why should I? You are an ingrate. It is my right to tell you whom to marry, and you will marry Ezekiel Clarke."
"I will kill myself first!"
Claudette grabbed for the dagger but her foot caught the edge of the Persian rug, she slipped, then slammed forward. Her head crashed into the edge of the desk. She slumped, clutching her head. Her vision blurred, but she saw her father's legs coming toward her. She tried to get away, but her head felt as if it would explode and her body refused to move. Then his weight crashed down atop her.
They rolled over and lay on the rug. Claudette moaned and rubbed the bleeding wound on her forehead. The torrent of blood got into her eyes and blinded her. She pushed away, felt her father and grabbed a handful of his dinner jacket. Using the lapel, she wiped furiously at her eyes to get the blood out. Vision returned slowly.
She sat up and started to protest again his decision about her future husband. Then she gave a small cry. Her father lay flat on his back. The dagger had pierced his chest, skewering him through the heart.
"No, no!" She grabbed the dagger and pulled it free. "Papa, don't be dead!"
Claudette scooted around and stared into her father's colorless face. The blood had drained along with life. She looked up as the study door opened. Her brother Jacques came into the study.
"Claudette, what have you done?" Jacques rushed to their father's side and looked up at her accusingly.
He was the mirror image of their father, only twenty-one years old and possessing a nervous nature that made him jerk about constantly. But now he was strangely collected as he stared into her brown eyes.
"I did nothing. It was an accident!"
"You murdered him. I cannot believe it. My own sister killed our father!"
She dropped the dagger. It made no sound as it landed on her father's chest. The blood from the wound flowered out, first bright red and then darker as it dried on his starched white shirt. She tugged at his lapel to cover the fatal wound. His weight pinned the cloth down. His dead weight.
"Jacques, it was an accident. I never meant to harm him." She wiped her bloody hands on her gown, then stared at the palm prints in shock.
"Everyone knows he pledged you to Ezekiel Clarke. The way you ran from the room angered Mr. Clarke."
"He should be the one dead, not Papa."
"Claudette," her brother said sharply. "They will hang you for this terrible crime. You must run. I have a horse out back, saddled and ready. Take it. Ride as far and fast as you can."
She looked up at him, her mind tumbling like a drunken acrobat.
"You have his blood on you, too," she said. She reached up but he grabbed her wrists to prevent more from smearing on his fine jacket.
"Hurry. Someone else must have heard the commotion. And Mama will come to find why you and Papa left so suddenly."
"What'll I do?"
"Hide somewhere far away. Here, take this." He thrust a wad of greenbacks into her bloody hands.
The notes felt odd to her, then she realized the blood that had drenched her hands now caked and cracked as it dried. She clasped the money to her bosom.
"What will you do?"
"I will keep the police from your trail as long as I can. And I can manage the business." A note of boasting came into his words. "Papa never understood what it takes to run the company, but I do. I will prosper."
"I'll never see Mama again. Or you."
He caught her arm and shoved her toward the door leading to an enclosed inner patio. She looked back and saw her father casting her out—her brother had assumed the position of family patriarch now.
"Jacques, I—"
"Now. You must go now. The horse!"
She opened the French doors and burst out into the courtyard, stumbling as she clutched the money to her chest. Claudette ignored the gasps of the guests who had stepped from the ballroom into the courtyard for a more quiet moment. Couples shied from her as she ran pell-mell. One man tried to stop her, but she fiercely batted away his hand, and then she caught the smell of the stables and saw the saddled horse waiting
for her and mounted and rode and never stopped until the horse began to stagger from exhaustion.
Only then did she gather her wits and realize the extent of her trouble.
She had killed her own father.
It had been an accident, but who would believe that? Even her own brother thought she had killed their father because of business, because he intended to marry her to that—
Claudette tugged on the horse's reins and pulled it under the broad limb of a banyan tree. The dangling Spanish moss formed a curtain to shield her from anyone passing along the road that led out of New Orleans.
She sat with her back to the rugged trunk, drew up her knees and buried her face, sobs wracking her until she was exhausted. Limp and defeated, she stretched her legs out and looked at the horse nibbling at tasty grass under the tree.
"Why?" The question slipped past her lips as a whisper. Then she sat straighter and frowned.
Nothing made sense. Why had Jacques had this horse saddled? Like the rest of the family, he had been caught up in preparation for the party. She held out the blood-soaked wad of bills he had thrust upon her with the admonition to run and hide.
"The blood. On your shirt."
She closed her eyes and relived the horror of seeing her father dead again, the dagger thrust through his heart then she saw Jacques come into the study and rush to her side. Blood stained his shirt and coat. Fresh blood.
"How did you get blood on yourself before you came to Papa?"
Her head spun. Giddy, she clutched the soft earth as if she might fall upward through the banyan. When the dizziness passed, she went through all that had happened again. And again. Every time caused her stomach to tighten a little more until she reached the conclusion that she had not killed her father.
"Why, Jacques?"
She pulled herself to her feet, gathered the greenbacks she had dropped and stuffed them down her bloody bodice. The horse tried to bolt at the idea of another headlong gallop but calmed when she mounted and only walked back toward the Dupree house. The entire way she tried to build a logical story how Jacques had the wet blood on his shirtfront that didn't entail him using the dagger to kill their father.
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