Steam Me Up, Rawley

by Angela Quarles

  “What description did you have?”

  She waved a vague hand. “Dark hair, average height, eyes too close together. I have a photograph, but it doesn’t help much. You can’t really see his face. And Jenny made a sketch, which I traced.”

  “Can you show me?”

  “Yes, I’ll be right back.”

  Adele returned a few minutes later, and Rawley took the sketch from her, his blunt fingers holding it carefully by the edges. He tilted it toward the ambient light from the window, and his features took on a grim cast. He examined the photograph and sighed. “Yes, unfortunately you’re correct. Even the clothing is nondescript. No distinguishing items.” He flung the photograph onto his desk. “I still think you should leave town.”

  “If he suspects me, won’t my sudden departure confirm his suspicions?”

  He crossed his arms. “I don’t care. You need to be kept safe.”

  She could tell arguing with him was useless. “I promise to think about it.” For two seconds. She wasn’t certain it was necessary. How could she learn more about this killer?

  “It occurs to me we may know a little more about him.” He ran a hand through his hair, making several tufts stand straight.

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, he’s trying to sell top-secret government plans. He’s a spy. There’s a good chance he’s not American. You said Jenny didn’t want to see anyone of Spanish descent. Obviously he could be a traitor, but the likelihood, while not small, isn’t overwhelmingly possible. Perhaps we could direct our inquiries in that direction? Find who is new in town and Spanish?”

  She growled in frustration. “Right now this town is overrun with people not from here. Granted, most of them are from upstate who came here for work on the government contracts...”

  “Exactly. Perhaps we can focus just on the Spaniards.”

  “I may have a name as well.” She filled him in on her theory and her hopes Madam Sophie could confirm it.

  “Have you told the police?”

  “No, I just had the hunch this morning and rushed to Madam Sophie’s, and...well...”

  “Right, right.” He took a deep breath. “So we can tell them your suspicions, and we can inquire at the boarding houses for this fellow.”

  “But those are numerous.”

  “It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

  “You’re right.” She tapped her fingers against her lips. She looked at him askance. “See, you protest to be a milksop, but here you are, proposing we pursue a cold-blooded killer instead of leaving it to the police.”

  The blood drained from his face so fast and thoroughly, it highlighted a heretofore unseen freckle on his left cheek. “I... Well... I just want to feel like we’re doing everything possible to keep you safe. And if that’s discovering who this bastard is so the police can take care of him, then so be it.”

  She smiled. “Whatever you say, Rawley.”

  A knock on the open door interrupted them. Camilla stood there, hands on hips. “You had a telephone call. Mr. Tonti wants you at the newspaper right away.”

  Rawley insisted on accompanying her to the paper for protection, and she found she didn’t care to argue. They hopped onto Smarty Pants, and his large frame, expertly clad in a dapper seersucker suit, loomed close. He draped an arm across the seat back, enclosing her in his space, but not touching. A flush crept up her cheeks.

  His presence felt right. No effort required—no, that wasn’t right. It was like she could vibrate, be herself, without conforming or worrying about fitting in, or feeling like he had a leash ready. Well, except for that big leash—marriage, but he’d made it clear she wasn’t suitable. There was a freedom in that knowledge. Was there a way to fit him into her life without sacrificing her independence? Would he be willing?

  Whoa. Where had that thought come from? No. Not the time to be thinking about that possibility. She needed to find the murderer and bring him to justice. Then she’d have time to sort her feelings.

  Soon, she led him into the bustling newsroom.

  “Ah, Miss de la Pointe,” her boss said, intercepting her by the copy desk and sticking a pencil behind his ear. “I have an assignment.”

  Her heart rate quickened. Had he finally relented?

  “As our society reporter, you will be the perfect person for this. I’ve already secured your passage.”

  “My passage?”

  “Yes, for you and a chaperone, on tomorrow’s maiden voyage of the Waterman Steamship Company’s new luxury cruise submarine, The Neptune.”

  “A submersible?” Now her heart raced, but for a reason other than excitement. No. More like it had already started running away and labored at still being stuck in place.

  “Yes. The latest in submarine technology, but fitted out on a grand scale. They tell me it can hold 1100 passengers. I booked you in a first-class cabin.” He whipped the pencil out and pointed it toward her in one emphatic push. “I want a complete story on its marvels, as well as the passengers and the on-board entertainment.”

  She clenched her fists, feeling bombarded. “But, sir—”

  “Many of the best families will already be on board, so you will not lack for acquaintances and companionship. I’ve heard there’s a full orchestra for the balls in the evening. It should be grand. A plum assignment.”

  Water... A submersible... She couldn’t do it. “Isn’t there someone else who can do this?”

  He crossed his arms. “You’re my only society reporter. You know that.”

  “Yes, sir, it’s just I’m in the middle of investigating the murders. I have another story to file.” She couldn’t tell him the other reason she couldn’t do this. Getting on a submersible was out of the question.

  His brows drew down, and his face flushed a deep red. “Forget that. I told you I don’t want you covering those stories. My timeline had been a smokescreen to deflect you anyway. Your writing for that position hasn’t been up to par, so you’re out of the running as of now regardless.”

  She felt the world tilt, suddenly conscious of the others in the newsroom listening, especially Rawley. Not up to par? “But, sir, I’m so close.”

  “Do you know who the murderer is?”

  She hesitated. No. To spread speculation would be wrong.

  “You hesitate. You have your suspicions.”

  “But that’s all they are—suspicions.”

  He stepped forward, his bulk and proximity emphasizing his opinion. “What are they? I can have Mr. Peterson write it up.”

  She locked her knees to prevent herself from stepping back. “No. It’s my story, and I won’t be a party to blatant speculation.”

  “What does it matter? The only thing that matters is selling papers.”

  “What about integrity? Truth?”

  “Pshaw. Ideals don’t sell news.”

  She stood straight, skin flushing hot. This was the right thing to do, she knew it. “I’m not telling.”

  He glared for a spell, then slashed a hand through the air. “Never mind. This article on The Neptune is important for the paper. Important for the city, actually. The city council is adamant we cover it properly.”

  “The city council? We’re covering stories at their command? That makes us just a mouthpiece for their agendas.”

  The look he gave was equal parts pitying and condescending, which made her want to take his equal parts and shove them back in his face.

  “You have a lot to learn about how the world works. Yes. They hold the power. If they want a story that reflects well on this city, we’ll print it.”

  “And does this help with the circulation?” She knew her voice held a little too much sass for being directed at her boss, and she braced herself for a stern reaction, but it just puffed against him. Proving he didn’t take her seriously.

  “It’s an exception. It helps the paper in other ways. The Neptune promises to bring lots of trade to Mobile. Many people stand to become rich, if it’s successful. Or stand to lose much.
I’m depending on you. These tickets are hard to come by, but the city council secured these for us. Be at the Waterman Wharf at 8 a.m. sharp, packed and ready. If you are not, or if you don’t turn in a spectacular piece, you can consider yourself out of a job completely.” He whirled around and marched back into his office.

  Numb. Her whole body, mind, numb. She dragged in a breath. It was such a new feeling, shying away from an adventure. Anger seeped into the numbness—of all the high-handed actions her boss could’ve pulled. And the complete lack of integrity...

  Taking the story from her felt like the ground had disappeared beneath her, followed by a flash flood of fear.

  And, oh God. Water. Water-water-water. Too much. Just the thought of it was as if it swamped her, drowned all her other concerns. How could she face it? How could she deal with it at all?

  A warm hand caressed the small of her back. “I will help you.” Rawley, his voice sympathetic, understanding.

  She blinked to keep the tears of frustration at bay. “How, Rawley?” she whispered. “I can’t stand being in water, much less in a submarine.”

  He stepped around and faced her, his voice pitched low so no others could hear. “There’s an afternoon of daylight left. Let’s go to the river and work through this.”

  She took a shaky breath, touched he so readily assessed the situation and had a solution. She didn’t see how that would work, but she followed him anyway. If he had a solution, any kind of solution, she welcomed it, because right now, all she could feel, all that crawled up her throat, was a choking, can’t-deal-with-anything-else fear.

  Chapter Seventeen

  How Water Can Be So…Energizing

  They detoured home to pick up a change of clothes, for Rawley intended for them to get wet and would need a dry set afterward. The idea of getting in the water again filled Adele with dread, and she was close to quitting altogether, except she was loath to admit as much to Rawley. Plus the idea of giving in to Mr. Tonti was intolerable. She had the distinct impression he’d been making things difficult on purpose, to force her to quit. And she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  But now she was out of the running for the new position? Should she have caved and told him her suspicions?

  No. That had been the right decision.

  But how disappointing to see how Mr. Tonti conducted the paper. So willing to parrot what those in power wished. Was there room at all for her at the paper? Was there room for objective reporting?

  Now that she’d failed to get the new position, that meant she had to face Father’s threat that she marry Rawley. Father didn’t have to know of it yet, though. Besides, it wasn’t like he could force Rawley.

  But getting on this submersible? The water? For seven whole days?

  Wait. Seven days.

  A new hope wiggled into her. She had seven days on that submersible. Seven days to figure out how to best Mr. Tonti.

  Okay. She could conquer this stupid fear of water, get on that submersible, pen a stupendous article on The Neptune, and at least be still working at the paper and possibly working her way up at a later date. But what about the story on the killer? She made a tight fist—if he wasn’t found when she got back...

  “Meet back in the hallway in five minutes?” she said to Rawley as they stepped inside the house, a new determination lacing her tone.

  In less time than that, she was back in the hall, towel and change of clothes in hand, and she wrote a note for Molly to keep Loki a little longer and come by for supper. She gave this to Camilla for delivery. As she came down the hallway, Rawley was watching her approach. She couldn’t resist; she faced the griffin back to the wall, suppressing a grin.

  “So you’re the culprit. I should’ve known.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?” She made her eyes go wide and sauntered past. Would he be able to leave without straightening it?

  She headed for Smarty Pants, and his footsteps followed. Apparently he could. She grinned.

  Ten minutes later at the river, she waited on dry land while Rawley rented a small punt. He tied it to the post at the end of a quiet pier, climbed onto the dock, and marched down its length to where she waited. Could she do this?

  He stopped directly in front of her and took both her hands, enfolding her fingers in his strong, warm hands, their gloves rasping. He caught her gaze, his beetle blue eyes sparkling in the late afternoon sun.

  “All right. We’re going to take this slow.” He squeezed her hands. “I know this is easy for me to say, but all of this, your fear and anxiety around water, it’s all mental. And for good reason. You had quite a traumatic experience at a young age. We’re going to take this a step at a time, all right?”

  She nodded and swallowed her first taste of panic, which went down hard. You can do this. You’re an adult now.

  Everything else in her life filled her with excitement, not fear. Why not this? It was just another adventure. His hands, so warm and reassuring, grounded her, made her feel safe.

  He continued, “I think you need to look on this as one of your adventures.”

  She smiled.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I was thinking the same thing.”

  He grinned, and the easy smile tugged at her. It told her something, but she wasn’t quite sure what, or if she wanted to know. He turned to her side, wrapped an arm around her waist, and walked her slowly down the length of the pier. The feel of his arm—the weight of it—anchored, sheltered.

  “Right now, we’re walking down a man-made structure. A strong dock that will not collapse. You are completely safe.”

  She felt silly, hearing these words, because of course he was right, but this fear pulled at her gut, screaming not to take another step. She tensed.

  “Clear your mind,” his soothing voice continued. “Pull up the rational, calm part of yourself, and look upon this objectively. Keep hold of that feeling.”

  As he talked, his voice working into her, she relaxed by degrees. It was just a dock. When her feet neared the edge, she startled. The end. She’d reached the end and—she did an internal check—no waves of panic.

  “Now let’s just sit.”

  They did so, and his warm, reassuring presence calmed her further. His hand clasped hers. No words. No judgment, no demands or attempting to push her further.

  And then, after a time, she stopped being anxious. Anxious about what he would make her do next. She leaned against him and kept imbibing the sense of calm he’d helped her achieve. She took in a slow breath and let her gaze travel past her lap and their clasped hands, to the water. At her feet, the rowboat he’d procured rubbed against the pilings, giving little squeaks. Beyond, the river gently rolled, the sun causing shifting slashes of silver on the dark gray surface. A mullet splurshed into the air. Farther out, a pelican swooped down and surged up with a great flapping of wings, a fish dangling from its beak.

  She remembered standing on a dock similar to this with Rex while on vacation on the Eastern Shore of Mobile Bay, both trying to outdo the other in how many skips they could accumulate throwing rocks. She’d been desperate to master the technique, feeling sorry as only an eight year old could for the rocks that sank on the first or second throw. She wanted to make them skip as much as they could, experience a long trip bouncing across the water before they dropped to their watery demise.

  This. The life, a whole world teeming under that gray surface—she took in a deep breath—as a kid, she couldn’t get enough of it. One by one, she recalled all the happy memories and let those emotions wash over and fill her, pushing out the one fearful memory.

  She could do this.

  “I’m ready.” Thankfully, her voice sounded confident. Letting Rawley see her like this—not animated—she thought would be embarrassing. The exposure of such vulnerability, of her in need, felt like it would be a soft, squishy thing, there to get trampled, but instead, he cradled it, accepted it. No judging.

  She was not lesser for sharing, but stronge
r.

  He squeezed her hand, let go, and gingerly stepped into the punt bumping against the pilings at their feet. He turned and held up his arms, eyes dancing with determination and pride.

  She swallowed and gripped her skirts. A trickle of fear threatened her calm, but she ruthlessly shoved it aside, crowding it out with the reclaimed memories. She locked her gaze with his and leaned down. His warm hands grasped her waist.

  “I have you.”

  Now a new sensation flooded her. Awareness of him. Sparks flared down her spine and pulsed deep in her lower belly. She latched onto the feeling and let it feed inside herself and grow. It was like she was voracious, hungrily gobbling up any emotion that wasn’t fear. Letting it shine and beat loudly inside her.

  He lifted her effortlessly, and she gripped his shoulders, eyes never leaving his. The same arms, the same body that had pressed her so passionately against the wall for that kiss, that had held her so delicately when she’d sobbed out her horrid memory, now provided strength, confidence, shelter.

  Her feet touched the wooden hull, and he didn’t let go. Her breaths came faster, and a thick coil of desire stirred. She moved her hands on his shoulders, and his eyes drank her in, shifting darker. His head tilted closer, and his gaze dropped to her mouth. He closed his eyes and cleared his throat. He stepped back and opened his eyes, now clear.

  “All right, so far?”

  She nodded, though her unsteadiness was due to more than standing in a rocking boat. He’d almost kissed her; she was positive. They settled on opposite ends, and again he waited, his eyes now patient. Excitement was one of the threads beating within, and she seized it. This was an adventure.

  Energy pumped into her system. She smiled. “Next?”

  His eyes flashed with pride. “I must confess, I’m surprised you’re letting me assist you. You’re usually reluctant to ask for help and seem uncomfortable when others offer.”

  She started at that. She’d never thought about it, but he was right. She shrugged and looked over the water. “I’m not used to it, I guess. I’ve always felt too guilty to ask my brother for help.”