The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1)

by Carolyn Haines

  My fingers reached for the door lock when half a dozen books tumbled off the library shelf and hit the floor. The Book of Beloved slid from its hiding place and landed on top, the page open to a photograph of a young man in a rough cotton shirt. “Tom the slave. Brand on right shoulder. He can pick a sack of cotton and still pleasure the wenches. Two dollars.”

  The young man in the photo was handsome, with light skin and the features of his white ancestors. He was a child of mixed race, and apparently he’d been sold into prostitution. How a father could pamper and raise one child and sell another was beyond my comprehension. Blood and race.

  A breeze fluttered the curtain near me, and I looked out to see Caleb standing now four feet from the window.

  The pages of The Book of Beloved ruffled but didn’t turn. Tom looked out from the page. He was a handsome man with carefully schooled features that revealed none of his thoughts or personality. The book fluttered again, and the photograph of Tom slipped free and fell to the Oriental rug.

  After picking up the photograph, I took it to the kitchen with the shirt. Winona had worked for my uncle almost since he’d bought the house. Her family and friends worked for and among the elite of Mobile. She might have more answers.

  I paused at the kitchen door and watched her. She stood at the counter chopping onions and celery for a large bowl of chicken salad. She’d already deboned the boiled chicken and diced it.

  My hand trembled slightly as I held out the photograph of the half-naked male prostitute named Tom. “What do you know about this man?”

  The knife never missed a slice as she chopped the celery. “Tom was a legend in Mobile. I thought all evidence of him had been destroyed.”

  “How was he a legend?”

  “He was the son of a prominent Mobile businessman, born into slavery. His father thought it amusing to sell him into prostitution when he was little more than a boy. As the war was ending, he escaped from his master, along with my ancestor, Caleb. Caleb came for Eva and the children, and Tom went north.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Winona stopped chopping. “No one knows. He was never heard from again.”

  “Do you think he was killed? Like Caleb?” If he’d been at Caoin House when Eli arrived, he would likely have been killed, too.

  Winona stopped her work. The knife blade rested on the cutting board. “I don’t know. I hope he made it north and began a new life.” She took the photograph from me and held it. “His features were white. His hair was straight. If he made it away from the South, he could have passed.”

  “For white?”

  “Yes. A few were able to pass. Maybe he was one of the lucky ones, but I suspect his bones are somewhere in the swamp south of Caoin House. Folks around here don’t care for mixed-blood boys getting out of line.” She stared without blinking. “You know that well, don’t you?”

  “I do.” I held the shirt out to her. “Can you get this stain out?” I asked.

  She returned the photograph and took the shirt. “It’s only champagne. Bleach will remove it.” She shook the shirt out, eyeing the missing button and the bloodstain. “This shirt is ruined.” She examined it more closely. “How did you come by Mr. Carlton’s shirt?”

  “I, uh, found it.” I struggled to keep my face calm and my voice steady. “How do you know it’s Carlton’s?”

  “Sometimes when he stays for the weekend, I launder his clothes. His shirts are made from a special cotton they grow in Egypt. I take extra care with his clothes. Mr. Brett isn’t so fussy, but Mr. Carlton likes everything just so.”

  “Thank you, Winona. If Reginald and Framon return, please tell them I’m waiting in the library.” When I walked away, I kept my posture straight, even though I felt unsteady. Winona’s innocent words had shattered my world.

  When I reached the library, I closed the door and leaned against it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I had to take action, and quickly. I put the shirt, photograph, and The Book of Beloved away, tidying the library to hide all traces of what I’d discovered. I used the simple chores to keep my panic at bay. I prayed that Framon and Reginald would return before Carlton did.

  When everything had been put back in place, I took the key to Carlton’s car. I would drive to town and speak with Isabelle. Now that I feared Carlton was behind Robert’s murder and very likely my uncle’s abduction, Isabelle was the only person who might be able to help me figure out where Uncle Brett was being held. Isabelle knew Carlton and the men who ran the city.

  I’d opened the front door when Travis and Carlton braked at the front of the house. The lawyer was out of the car before it came to a full stop. He charged up the stairs, striding over the place Robert had been pushed to his death—and I had no doubt now that Carlton had pushed Robert to his death—without even looking down. I had no time to linger and ponder Carlton’s cruelty or his reasons.

  I dashed to the parlor and hid in the lush velvet draperies that puddled at the windows. Carlton charged through the front door.

  “Raissa! Where are you?” Without waiting for an answer, he ran toward Reginald’s empty room.

  The minute he was out of sight, I slipped out the door. Travis slowly pulled the car away from the house, and I jumped on the running board. “Drive,” I said, cowering down so that the vehicle blocked me from the view of the house.

  “Miss Raissa.” Travis depressed the clutch, and the car began to slow.

  “Drive, Travis. Away from the house. To your cottage. Please!”

  The car shot down the drive. After he’d turned down the path that curved away from the main drive and led to his cottage, he slowed to a stop.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Where did you look for Uncle Brett?”

  “We searched the ground where the wreck happened, but we couldn’t find any tracks except for a place where it looked as if a body had been dragged toward the road. Maybe put in a car. We looked around the docks in Mobile, where Mr. Brett’s boats are located. We got some of the stevedores to help search, but we couldn’t turn up a thing. The sheriff said he’d spoken with all of the men involved in the lynching, and none of them knew anything about Brett’s accident. They all have alibis for their time.”

  “Did you go to Carlton’s law office?”

  Travis frowned. “No. Why would we?”

  “Did you see Isabelle?”

  “Mr. Carlton stopped by, and she came to the curb. She’s sick with worry. News of the wreck and Mr. Brett’s disappearance is all over the city.”

  “I need the vehicle,” I said, jumping down and walking to the driver’s side. I still had Carlton’s key, which meant he didn’t have access to a vehicle, except Travis’s, which I meant to take. That would slow Carlton down.

  “What’s wrong, Miss Raissa?”

  “I’m relying on you to pretend nothing is wrong, but Carlton is behind Brett’s abduction.”

  His face reflected horror, then doubt, and finally outrage. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. He wants to marry me. I’m Uncle Brett’s only heir. I don’t know if he means to kill Brett or simply ingratiate himself with me by abducting my uncle and then somehow saving him.”

  “Maybe I should beat the answer out of him.” Travis flexed his hands on the wheel.

  “No. Act as if you know nothing. Brett’s life depends on it. Now give me the car. If anyone asks, just say you left the key in it and someone took it—you assumed one of the searchers.”

  “Where are you going?” Travis was rightly suspicious. “Mr. Brett would never forgive me if I let you get hurt.”

  “Carlton is stranded here at Caoin House.” I held up the key to his car. “Keep this just in case you really need it, but do not give it to Carlton.”

  He nodded as he pocketed the key. “Where are you going?”

  “To speak with Isabelle.” She might be the one person who could help. “I’ll be safe. I promise. Keep Carlton here and in your sights.”
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br />   “And if I have to use force?”

  “Do whatever is necessary.” I signaled him out of the car. I slid behind the wheel and took a moment to study the way the car operated. I’d only driven the car Brett had wrecked, but I had no choice but to learn quickly.

  The car bucked a bit as I set off, but by the time I was on the main road, I’d learned to operate it. I was headed south toward Mobile, and what I hoped would be the answer to my uncle’s location. I had no way to warn Reginald and Framon about Carlton’s deceit. I had to trust that the two men would guard their tongues.

  As the now-familiar scenery of pecan orchards, groves of oaks, and the darker forests of pine flashed by me, I finally had a moment to think. I couldn’t be certain of Carlton’s motives, but I had suspicions. Carlton killed Robert because I’d shown an interest in him. Carlton’s plan all along had been to woo me. Robert was an unexpected inconvenience and therefore had to be dispatched. The shorts set, the typewriter, the support to become a writer and independent person were all part of Carlton’s plan. He’d calculated every step, even the séance in New Orleans. I don’t know what he’d hoped to accomplish, but Reginald had become an unexpected impediment, too.

  I had no doubt that the men who struck him in the head presumed that he was dead or so close to it that he would die before help arrived. Carlton had orchestrated sending Uncle Brett and Reginald alone. He’d made sure I was safe in his company. If Uncle Brett had been killed, Carlton would have been the hero who stepped in to help me with the burden of Caoin House and Uncle Brett’s estate. However the accident played out, he would be the person who saved the day. He would be my hero, my white knight.

  The idea sickened me.

  I passed the site of the wreck. Uncle Brett’s car remained on its side. I wanted to get out and look around, but I didn’t dare waste the time. I had to get to Isabelle and hope she could tell me a place of special significance to Carlton. One that was isolated. I drove as fast as I dared.

  Mobile was a changed place. Gone were the indolent mothers pushing prams around Bienville Square. The docks were busy, but a hush had fallen over the rest of the small city. I couldn’t say if it was John Henry Marcum’s murder or my uncle’s disappearance, but the sunny ease of a normal summer day had vanished. The park was empty, and so were most of the streets. It was almost as if the city held its breath, waiting for something to happen.

  I drove to Isabelle’s house, but I parked several blocks away at the end of an abandoned alley so that the car was hidden. When I hurried down the sidewalk, I had the sense I was being watched, but whether by the living or the dead, I couldn’t say.

  Isabelle’s door knocker hammered loudly, and when she opened the door, more than a little surprised, I pushed past her into the house. “I don’t want to be seen,” I said.

  “Why ever not?” She grabbed my upper arm. “What’s wrong? Is there news about Brett?”

  “No, he’s still missing. No word.”

  “Why isn’t Carlton with you? Surely he didn’t send you to town by yourself.”

  “No, he didn’t send me anywhere.” I had to break the news to her in a way that allowed her to accept it. “I think Brett is alive, but Carlton is handling all the details. He’s excluded me.”

  “He’s trying to protect you. Don’t be so touchy about these things. Carlton believes in equal rights for women—I assure you.”

  “How do you know?” What I really wanted to ask was how anyone truly knew the heart of another.

  “He’s spoken up for women many times.” She frowned. “Come and sit down. I’ll get Mara to make some coffee or tea.”

  I shook my head. “Does Carlton own any property, like a hunting club? Something away from downtown?”

  She moved me to the parlor and almost pushed me into a chair. “Why are you asking these questions?”

  “Please, Isabelle. It’s important. Brett’s life may hang in the balance.”

  “Carlton has some property in the south part of the county, about ten miles from here.”

  “Have you ever been there? Can you draw a map?”

  “There’s a hunting cabin. I’ve been there once or twice, for breakfasts or parties. I can draw directions, but I want to know why.”

  “Brett may be there.” I had to get word to Reginald and Framon. They would be able to find Brett if he was a prisoner in the cabin. “Is there anyone you trust to take a message to Travis?”

  “Yes. Carlton has an assistant—”

  “No!”

  “Raissa, what’s wrong with you? You’re acting . . . unhinged.”

  I had to win Isabelle’s help. “You’ve known Carlton a long time.”

  “I have, and I don’t like what you’re implying about him. He would never harm Brett. He’s helped your uncle since Brett first moved to Caoin House. It was Carlton who mentioned that Caoin House was for sale to Brett. They’ve been inseparable.”

  I had no solid evidence and no time. “My uncle’s life is in danger. I know you love him. Do this for Brett. If I’m wrong, I will do everything in my power to make it up to you and Carlton. Now I can’t trust him. I need to send word to Travis where we’re going. Reginald and Framon, Winona’s son, can meet us. No one else can know. If you have any regard for Brett’s life, please listen to me.”

  Isabelle read the anguish on my face and put her arms around me. “Okay, I’ll trust you. I can get Rolley Mose to take a note to Travis or Framon, whomever he sees first. Rolley can’t read, so there’s no danger he’ll interfere.”

  “Thank you. How do we find Rolley?”

  “He makes deliveries for Littleton’s Grocery. I’ll drive there and loan him my car so he can make the journey. He can drop me back here on his way. You stay here. I’ll get Mara to make some iced tea for you. You look like you’re about to drop.”

  “Thank you, Isabelle.” She was going against a longtime friend on my say-so. And because she loved my uncle.

  “Stay here. I’ll return as soon as I can.” She picked up her purse and ran toward the back of the house where her car was parked.

  I took a seat on a wing chair that faced the front window. From this vantage point, I could watch the traffic on Saint Francis Street. I would see Isabelle when she returned, and I would be ready for the drive to Carlton’s secluded cabin, where I hoped my uncle was being held hostage.

  Isabelle’s housekeeper, Mara, brought a tray with a tall glass of iced sweet tea and a plate of lemon confections. Mara was a grandmotherly woman with a serene face and an easy smile. I thanked her and drank thirstily. She was almost out of the room when I thought to ask her, “Mara, do you know Carlton McKay?”

  “Of course,” she said. Her smile was genuine. “He’s such a gentleman.”

  “Yes. He is.”

  “I hear he’s sweet on you.”

  “Why has he never married?”

  Her smile dimmed. “It’s a sad story, Mrs. James. Such a shame for a man as good as Mr. McKay to live alone. He was scarred as a young man. Marked by tragedy.”

  “Sit for a moment,” I urged her. “Help me pass the time until Isabelle returns, please.” I waited until she was settled on the edge of a chair. “I always felt there was great sadness in Carlton’s life, but he never talks about it. Men are so . . . stoic.”

  “Oh, he’d never let on about the pain he’s been through. Men like him, they don’t. His brother’s death changed him. He was still in school when his brother drowned in the Black Warrior River up at Tuscaloosa. Mr. Carlton was never the same. Took the joy right out of his life.”

  “How terrible. Were Carlton and his brother close?”

  Mara went to a hunt board and pulled open the big center drawer. She returned with a large photo album. “Carlton and Craig were like peas in a pod. There are some photos of Miss Isabelle and Carlton as young people.” She offered the album to me.

  “Thank you, Mara.” I put my tea on a coaster and set the book on my lap. The first photos were of Isabelle and Uncle Brett at v
arious social functions. The glossy black-and-whites portrayed them both as movie-star types in gowns and tuxedos. Seeing Uncle Brett with his dark, unruly hair, holding Isabelle in a dip, made me miss him with a bolt of intensity. He had to be okay. He had to return to me safe and sound.

  I flipped the page, studying the sneak view of Isabelle’s social life. Her work with charitable organizations, a few pictures taken at hen parties. There were also photos of happy gatherings with Pretta, Hubert, Dr. and Mrs. Martin, Carlton, and others. In each photo, Isabelle was stunning, as she was in real life.

  At last I found photos of Isabelle’s family, and older photographs of her when she was a young socialite. Carlton was easy to spot. He’d hardly changed.

  When I flipped the page and saw a beach gathering, my breath caught. Beside Carlton was a young man who looked identical to the photo of Tom the slave in The Book of Beloved. I took the photo album closer to the window so I could study the picture more closely.

  There was no doubt. The young man in the shade of a big umbrella on the sand could be the same person in The Book of Beloved. “Who is this?” I asked Mara.

  “That’s poor dead Mr. Craig,” she said.

  “Why did Carlton feel guilty about Craig’s death?”

  “He blamed himself, because he was supposed to be on the river expedition with all the young people.”

  “Why wasn’t he?” I fought to keep my voice level.

  “Oh, he was with that pretty young girl, Veronica Cartwright. That’s her right there.” She pointed to a beautiful blonde girl who sat across from Carlton, her gaze locked on him. “They were to marry, and instead of going to the river with Craig and their friends, Mr. Carlton went home with Miss Veronica to ask her father for permission to marry her.”

  “And Craig drowned while Carlton was away courting.”

  “And then Miss Veronica fell off while riding her horse. Broke her neck on the spot. After that, Mr. Carlton never let anyone get close to him. He’s led a solitary life since, and that’s a shame. Such a nice, handsome man living all alone.”