Blessed Assurance

by Lyn Cote

  A murmur of agreement flowed around Meg. This woman, who evidently wanted no change in the still-new century, must be Gabriel St. Clair’s mother.

  “It is a foolish law,” Sands said with quiet authority. “How the U.S. government expects to enforce this law with the vast borders of our country and without spending money on a sizable enforcement fleet, is beyond me. It is not only a foolish law. It is a bad law.”

  “You speak like a lawyer,” Meg commented.

  “Until my riding accident before the war, I had an active law practice.”

  Meg nodded. “My father, though a teetotaler, says bad laws make honest men criminals and law-breakers rich.”

  “Well said,” Sands agreed.

  From the dining room doorway, the black butler announced, “Mr. Gabriel St. Clair.”

  Hearing the name brought Meg instantly alive. St. Clair strode in, wearing impeccable evening dress. The phrase, “devastatingly handsome,” slipped through Meg’s mind. He bowed over his hostess’s hand, then glanced up.

  Concealing the shiver of recognition, Meg lifted her water glass to him. Round three was about to begin.

  Chapter 3

  Forced to smile, inside Meg flared with animosity. Of all the people in New Orleans, she’d be eating dinner with Gabriel St. Clair!

  “How dreadful you had to work late again, son,” his mother said.

  He turned and bestowed a light kiss on her unrouged cheek. “Sorry. I’ll make it up to you and Emilie.”

  From her place at the head of the long damask-covered table, Emilie waved gaily to him. “Gabriel, I must present to you Miss Meg Wagstaff from San Francisco.”

  Meg read no sign of recognition on his face. He wouldn’t deny meeting her earlier, would he?

  But unbelievably, he greeted her as though he’d never seen her before and took the chair beside his mother.

  “Gabe,” his sister claimed his attention, “Miss Wagstaff was in France.”

  “Very interesting,” was his only comment.

  Dulcine greeted him. Although the young blonde betrayed no partiality, Meg sensed the other woman’s interest in him as clearly as a spoken word. Dulcine, you’re welcome to him.

  St. Clair chatted with his mother, Dulcine, and teased his sister about a beau. If he intended his denial to put her at a disadvantage, he’d failed. Meg toyed with the idea of embarrassing him by recounting his refusal to help her, but she couldn’t put her hostess in an awkward position, and in the end, it would do Del more harm than good.

  The highly polished silver gleamed in the candlelight. The gilt-edged china was obviously old but treasured. Emilie certainly knew how to set the mood of elegance and ease and Meg’s own deep fatigue threatened to take the edge off her alertness. She pondered the enigma of Gabriel St. Clair. Finally, she decided to stir the simmering situation and see what floated to the top. She leaned against the table. “Mr. St. Clair?”

  Both men looked at her.

  She smiled. “Yes, I might as well address this to both of you. I’m looking for a good defense lawyer.” She observed St. Clair closely, but he didn’t show a flicker of recognition.

  “Why do you need a defense lawyer?” The senior St. Clair appraised her with a sharp glance.

  Emilie replied before Meg could, “That’s why I invited you, Sands. I thought you and your son might advise her. She’s come to get her old nurse’s grandson out of some trouble here.”

  Meg nodded. “Yes, after being mustered out of the infantry, Del decided to come here to learn more about New Orleans jazz.”

  Mrs. St. Clair murmured in a disapproving tone, “That awful jazz.”

  Ignoring this, Meg leaned forward, folding her hands under her chin. “He’s been arrested for robbing and murdering his boss at the nightclub where he played piano.”

  Dulcine paused with her fork above her plate and smiled archly. “Not a very appetizing dinner topic, Miss Wagstaff.”

  “No, indeed,” Mrs. St. Clair agreed.

  “I agree, but I need to find Del counsel. He’s obviously been framed and I need someone who can prove that in a court of law.”

  A lull came over the table as though everyone waited for a response to Meg.

  “A most unfortunate incident,” Sands murmured. “Are you positive he’s innocent?”

  His question didn’t anger Meg. He didn’t speak condescendingly. “Del’s no murderer.”

  Sands accepted her answer by nodding.

  Gabriel leaned back in his chair and challenged her with his glance. The flickering shadows of the candlelight wavered over the contours of his face, giving him a mysterious quality. Meg resisted the pull toward him from deep inside her. He was just the kind of man she couldn’t respect. He had no social conscience.

  “What if you’re wrong? Do you know what evidence there is against him?” His blunt words weren’t unexpected, but they hit Meg hard.

  His mother spoke up, “Perhaps you could call on Gabriel tomorrow for advice. Let’s talk about the social season. After all, this is Belle’s year to come out.”

  Maisy, Emilie’s granddaughter, exclaimed, “Miss Wagstaff, you’ve come to New Orleans at just the right time. It’s Carnival!”

  Meg tried to look interested.

  “Carnival starts each year with January’s Twelfth Night Ball and ends the night before Ash Wednesday. That’s Mardi Gras,” Gabriel said, watching her.

  Emilie smiled. “Yes, you must come to our cocktail party tomorrow evening. I’ll be one of the first hostesses in New Orleans to give one! A pox on Prohibition!”

  The facts of the New Orleans social season were of no interest to Meg, but she made a polite rejoinder. With any luck, she and Del would be long-gone before Mardi Gras. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted Belle’s young face. The girl looked close to tears. Why would talk of parties depress a young debutante?

  Meg sat back as the remainder of the evening flowed by. Beneath her unruffled surface, dangerous currents swirled and eddied. She must find a willing and competent lawyer, then visit Del at the jail. Recalling his mangled face, she gripped the arms of her chair.

  Later, at Emilie’s request, Gabriel offered the Yankee his arm, escorting her to his Franklin touring car to drop her at her hotel. The air was thick and chill. He watched his parent’s car as their chauffeur drove them away. His sister’s underlying unhappiness had been evident to him. He drove down the short lane to the street, glancing at Meg from the corner of his eye.

  Beside him, she lay back against the seat. Her sensuous posture mocked him. “So why didn’t you want anyone to know that we had met earlier?”

  Her mocking tone scraped his taut nerves. “I have better manners than to discuss legal business at dinner. Ladies aren’t interested in law.”

  She had the nerve to chuckle. “Where do you get these Gothic notions?”

  He tamped down his rising irritation. This woman may have popped up three times in his day, but she wouldn’t last in New Orleans for long. She’d find out all too soon she couldn’t wrap every man she met around her little finger even with her “come-hither” look. “My mother has always requested that my father not discuss legal matters at dinner.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” The ivory lace of her collar shone in the darkness, casting faint light onto her face.

  Her implied criticism galled him. “My mother is a wonderful woman—”

  “Your mother is a wonderful nineteenth-century woman.” Languidly, she pushed her bobbed hair behind her ear.

  Her presence worked on him even as he resisted it. “Well, isn’t your mother?”

  “Heavens, no.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand our ways,” he asserted.

  “Yes, I’m just a Yankee.” She stretched like a cat. “Now why didn’t you let on that we had met earlier?”

  He gave no answer. Reading Paul’s disturbing letter about Marie, then tedious hours of courtroom detail and duty. After an hour of trying to get a phone call through
to the American Embassy in Paris in vain, to find her at the table in the midst of friends…He’d been through too much today.

  Meg ran her fingers through her bangs. “You’re angry with me because I wouldn’t do what you told me to do.”

  His exasperation burst. “You are the type of modern woman I dislike the most. You say you are the equal of men, but you don’t hesitate to use feminine wiles to get your own way.”

  She taunted him by angling her body toward him using all her feminine attraction to mock him. “If you’re honest with yourself, you’ll recall I was frank with you until you began acting like a medieval lord. If you don’t fight fair, I don’t feel compelled to either.”

  How dare she tell him how he should behave? “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” You don’t know me at all.

  She sniffed audibly.

  “That boy is guilty. The evidence proves that.”

  “Boy?” she retorted. “Del’s a man, a good man and he’s innocent. You and your vicious police have made a mistake. All I need is a good lawyer to prove it.”

  “Fine. Some people have to learn everything the hard way.”

  Today if Meg survived the search for a lawyer to represent him, she would finally get to visit Del. In the early afternoon, Meg smiled at the legal secretary, the fourth one she’d met that day, the last lawyer on St. Clair’s list. A night of worry had brought her no new ideas on how to find counsel for Del. Though outdated and narrow, St. Clair might be honest. If nothing else, she would eliminate the four names he’d suggested, then go on.

  The secretary showed her into the lawyer’s office. A white-haired man stood to greet her. Facing Del today without a lawyer would crush them both. “I’m interested—”

  “This is about that black boy charged with murdering Mitch Kennedy?” the man interrupted.

  This frankness threw Meg off her stride. “Oh?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to give you the same answer I’ve heard others have. I just don’t have the time to take on another case right now.”

  The room felt as though it was growing warmer, much warmer. Meg stood up abruptly, afraid she might begin to cry. Outdoors, she stood on the street corner, wondering what she could do now. The judge’s continuance gave her only today and tomorrow to obtain counsel for Del. How could she give Del hope if she couldn’t even hire him a lawyer?

  She knew a great deal about law, but not Louisiana law and she’d be no help to Del without a New Orleans lawyer. Hiring counsel shouldn’t be so hard. Del’s arrest had been a dreadful mistake. A good lawyer could unravel it and she and Del could get out of New Orleans. This thought fired her frustration twice as hot as the day before. She marched back inside the same office building. She scanned the list of lawyers and notaries public on it. An hour later and more rejections, she walked across the narrow street and into the first law office there. This office held no secretary. A very young lawyer greeted her himself. Interest flared in the man’s eyes. Using her most convincing helpless-female tactics, she told him she was a stranger in New Orleans and needed legal advice.

  “Please, Miss, do take a seat. Now how may I help you?”

  “I have a friend who needs a lawyer.”

  “What is the charge against him?”

  Meg was so weary of explaining, but she had to keep trying. She kept her eyes downcast demurely. “I’m afraid it’s murder.”

  “You mean that black boy?” The young man’s tone hardened.

  “Yes, Del Dubois.” She looked him in the eye.

  “That’s not the kind of case I’m interested in.” The man literally hurried her out of his office.

  What was going on here? First, she’d thought St. Clair had given her a list of the worst attorneys; then she decided to try his list. Finally, she’d gone hunting her own and been turned down by everyone she asked. Was it Del’s race? Was it the crime he was charged with—a black man killing a white man? What am I missing?

  Dread gnawed at Meg’s empty stomach. In 1917, she’d gone overseas plump. She’d come home without an ounce of fat. She barely ate at all these days. Food never seemed to be what she needed to satisfy her. Now, as she walked down the dingy corridor with others who had come to visit a friend or a relative at the Orleans jail, she was glad her stomach was empty. The scent of disinfectant, body odor, and cheap perfume sickened her. How could she face Del and tell him she had failed? Her knees weakened.

  Along with the others, she halted and listened to the deputy’s gruff practiced speech: “When you enter the room, go to the table of the prisoner you wish to visit. Sit down and put your hands on the table. Keep them there or you’ll be asked to leave. Are there any questions?”

  Aware of covert glances from the other visitors, Meg felt like replying to the unasked question that hung in the air around her: “That’s right. I don’t belong here and neither does Del.”

  The deputy unlocked the door and began letting them in one by one asking for the name of the inmate from each. Meg’s turn came. She murmured Del’s name. The deputy touched her arm halting her. “Who?”

  She repeated Del’s name.

  The man’s expression made the hair on the back of her neck prickle. “You’ll be sitting on the colored side of the room.” So Jim Crow lived in jail, too.

  Everyone watched her as she crossed from the area of white inmates to the black. As she negotiated a path around the many square wooden tables, her heart beat in her ears like the bass drum in a marching band. She sat down, placed her hands on the scarred tabletop, then looked at Del. The swelling had gone down from the day before, but Del still looked haggard. She longed to take him out of here to a doctor, a hot bath, and a good meal.

  He attacked without preamble, “Why didn’t your father come?”

  “He couldn’t leave Cecy so near the end of her pregnancy.”

  Del nodded, but his expression stayed stormy.

  Even under normal circumstances, he hated waiting. Now he had to kill time, powerless to get this sorted out. She wanted to touch his hand, to tell him she was taking care of everything, but she could do neither. Pointing out his helplessness would only make him feel more desperate. Her own failure caught in her throat. Finally, she said, “Tell me what happened. How did you get mixed up in this?”

  He hung his head. “You were right. I should have stayed in Paris. But I thought I could lose myself in playing jazz here.” He sighed. “I was wrong. This was the last place on earth I should have come.”

  “Because of the racial unrest?” Fear crouched inside her as she recalled stark newspaper headlines. The KKK was riding high even north of Dixie.

  “Black men serving in the war and returning home in uniform has upset the racial apple cart. We need to be reminded of our place. But the KKK didn’t get me arrested.”

  “Who did?” Her mouth went dry.

  “I decided to head north to Chicago. That’s where everyone’s going—Kid Ory, Jelly Roll Morton, Louis Armstrong. Jazz was born here, but the music is too free to prosper here. In Chicago and New York, they’re paying big bucks and even recording good bands. A few guys decided to head north with me. The boss didn’t like it.”

  Del never could leave anything alone. She pursed her lips. “He’s the man you’re supposed to have robbed and…”

  “And killed?” he supplied. “Yes, the four of us should have just left, but he was holding back our last two weeks’ pay. We couldn’t leave without it. So I asked him for it. We had words.”

  The last three words were spoken with deadly emphasis. Meg cringed inwardly. Oh, Del, the crusader and defender. Couldn’t you for once have avoided confrontation?

  “What happened then?”

  “In the early hours of the next morning, the police broke down my door, found cash and a gun under my bed, and arrested me.” He looked down. “Somebody must have put something in my last drink. When the police questioned me…it was like swimming up from deep water.”

  An awful dread sparked in Meg’s
middle. “You were drugged and someone planted the evidence in your room while you slept?”

  “That or they planted it before I got there, but I didn’t notice. I remember being really tired when I got to my room and fell asleep immediately.”

  Meg gazed at him. If Del had it right, someone had set him up. Ice slid through her veins. How could she tell him she hadn’t even found him a lawyer? And what if she couldn’t get a lawyer? She needed more information. Maybe a good private investigator could help. Too often in the past, Del had tried to protect her from the truth. He didn’t want her to worry about him and he might hold back facts she needed now for the same reason.

  She looked at him narrowly. She’d try to get enough out of him now to get an investigator started with. “Who were you playing with?”

  “Tommy Willis, LaVerne Mason, Pete Brown. Why?”

  “Where were you playing?”

  “A hole-in-the-wall in Storyville.”

  “Storyville?” she asked.

  “Yes, it was the district for legal prostitution before the war. But the police don’t make much of an effort, even now, to stop it if the girls stay in Storyville. It’s where all the clubs are.”

  Recalling the prostitute in court the day before, Meg nodded. “What’s the club’s name?”

  “Penny Candy…” He paused to give her a worried look. “Meg, you stay out of there.”

  “Del, I need to talk to people—”

  He cut her off: “Meg, I don’t even want you here in New Orleans.”

  “What?”

  “Get me a lawyer and then get out of this town.” His words struck her as fatalistic, not like Del at all.

  “Why do you say that, Del?”

  “Just get someone to represent me, then go home.”

  “I won’t leave until you’re free.” She stared at him.

  He scowled. “Meg, I know the Wagstaff is a family of reformers. But this is New Orleans. It’s a dirty city. Just give me a fighting chance. That’s all I can hope for.”