by Martha Hix
“I trust your word. Do go about your business, Burke.” She started to pass him, but stopped. “Um, there’s something—”
“I’ll be dipped in snuff if it isn’t my nephew.”
Great. Aunt Phoebe coming up behind him.
He started to do as Susan suggested and get gone, but Pippin Paget shot from around the corner of the prow. “Momma, Momma! I’ve looked—” He skidded to a stop upon getting a gander at her companions.
“Hello, sprig, Mrs. Paget.” Aunt Phoebe charged into Burke’s side view. She waved at the lad. “Can y’all beat it? Our captain has at last surfaced from the vitals of this beast.”
“Gotta go.” Pip did what Burke wanted to do, took off.
“Pippin, wait.” Lifting her skirts an inch or two, Susan brushed by Burke and his aunt, saying, “Please excuse me.”
The Hornet jacked up a brow. “Something’s fishy.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know what? Wouldn’t Phoebe Louise O’Brien love to meddle in it? In the words of Susan Paget, please excuse me.”
Six
Burke attained the wheelhouse and got an eyeful of a broad, tipped-up behind. Throck relaxed over the piloting wheel. No need to reproach. Even though the Yankee Princess had drifted to an uninhabited stretch of the river, the first mate’s sharp eyes were on search.
“Been any activity?” Burke inquired.
“Coupla barges passed, and the Lucky Lady at two bells of the afternoon, ’tis all. Making quite a head of steam, the Lady. She’ll beat us home, she will.”
“Don’t remind me.”
They were in no race, the Yankee Princess and the passenger boat, but Velma Harken was on the other riverboat. Or was supposed to be. Velma, a professional sleuth who’d lost her younger brother on the Delta Star.
“Lloyds of London is what ye be worrying about, ain’t it?”
“I was thinking of Vell. And Teddy.”
“Was a fine lad, Teddy Harken.” Throck caressed the piloting wheel. “Teddy would’ve loved the Princess.”
The Harkens had been part of Burke’s life for over a year, even though he’d shopped at Velma’s whoring delights beforehand. Tiring of the world’s oldest profession, Velma later took a new one. Sleuthing came easy to the buxom blonde who did everything well, including a trick that could have sucked the sap from a propeller.
The river came easy to her towheaded brother. Burke had been grooming the young man to become a skipper.
Then the disaster. Burke had held a grieving Velma as they laid her brother’s torso—all that could be identified—to rest in St. Louis Cemetery. She had sobbed against Burke’s coat, vowing to find Teddy’s murderer.
It had been difficult to leave New Orleans a month later. There were grieving widows and children to comfort, and a helluva lot of problems to solve.
The joy of steaming the Yankee Princess from her home berth dulled for Burke. Before his leaving, Velma Harken proposed a working arrangement. Rufus West being a sap for women, she handling herself well under intrigue, Burke agreed to it, but reluctantly.
Since then she’d apprised him on two matters. She’d written when the man from Lloyds arrived, and she found the trail of an elusive Rufus West. The Eel was plying the riverboats now, earning his keep with a head for numbers and sleight of a hand.
“Vell will get the goods on West.” Burke nodded once. “We’ll have our proof by the time we reach home. This time I’ll go to the police. The Eel may not go to jail for embezzling my money”—it had been a big mistake, not turning him over to Remy Cinglure of the Metropolitan Police in the first place—“but the Eel will pay for downing the Delta Star.”
The first mate stretched his stance, then rotated a beefy arm to unkink muscles. “What proof have ye? None. He might not be guilty. Stealing money to pay his dying ma’s doctor be understandable.”
“Hogwash. You know better than that.”
Throck took a different tack. “Stealing don’t mean murdering. Blimey, what could Rufe know about firing a vessel? I was her cap’n. I ne’er seen nothing of Rufe. ’Twas a firecracker lobbed from a raft what set the first fire.”
Burke eyed his first mate. This riverman had played a large part in drying his captain out and getting him back on sea legs. In truth, it was Throck who kept the steamship company afloat in the dark days. He’d coaxed Burke into reality. More people would be hurt by the demise of a steamship company than by wishes on a magic lamp.
Burke might have threatened a keelhauling in Natchez, but that would never come to pass, no matter what the future held. He relied on Throck as if he were a father, and certainly as most-trusted friend.
But Throck had been the Eel’s pal too. He’d first brought him to Burke and suggested the four-eyed mathematical genius was the best person to handle the firm’s money.
“Or coulda been a gas leak from those bottles,” Throck continued to speculate. “Prob’ly killed the culprit, if there was one, is what methinks. Told you ’twas dangerous, shipping flammables. Told you before you sent us up to Pennsylvania to get that shipment. Lucky, me and Storey were, surviving.”
Burke had to bite his tongue not to make a remark about the captain not going down with the ship. He was pleased Throck survived. And the second mate too, of course. Sole survivors.
“Come on, Throck. You said yourself you heard an explosion from aft. The gas bottles were forward. You and Storey both said the bottles blew second. Something other than Pennsylvania gas sent the Delta Star down. I think it was a charge of dynamite. I believe someone had a detonator placed where he could set the first blast, then jump overboard before fire reached the gas.”
“Do ye reckon yer pal Seymour taught Rufe how?”
“That’s the bothering part. Horace Seymour brought Alfred Nobel’s invention to America, but he hasn’t showed it off.”
“Did to me and ye. Suppose he coulda showed it to West.”
“That I doubt.” Yet a nasty doubt edged into Burke’s mind. Could Throck have been in on the crime? No! “Seymour’s assistant might’ve taught the Eel. Or West may have paid someone to set the charge.”
“If ye’re wanting me vote, ’tis still for a gas leak. Or the firecracker. If ye mouth off to people about dynamite, likely fingers’ll be pointing at ye. Or me.”
True. “We’ll see what Vell finds out.”
The tension broke as Throck chuckled, his belly rolling. “Velma’s a fine one to bring things outta a man.”
“That she is.”
Throck yawned. “Me stomach thinks me throat’s been cut. Going down to check out the bill of fare.”
“Do that. It’s ham, corn, and mashed yams.”
Throckmorton was already headed for the companionway.
Burke folded into a chair, tilted it back, and exhaled. Damn, he’d be glad to reach home. He itched to get to the truth. He itched to relax. But they were still many river miles from New Orleans. And this flagship was becalmed. St. Francisville loomed ahead.
Fobbing Susan and her boy off on brother Connor didn’t sit as well as it had at the onset.
I’ll take her on to New Orleans. Make certain she’s safe in her father’s hands. Between now and then he’d find out if she had an interest in divorce . . . and a possible interest in Burke O’Brien.
For now, though, he needed to take care of business. He set the chair forward, made notes in the logbook, and gave thanks his writing hand wasn’t injured. In a flash, something came to him. Susan’s fingers on that injured palm. Susan . . .
Burke dropped the writing pen.
She didn’t wear a wedding band.
Why not?
Then footsteps echoed through the wheelhouse.
Burke swung to his feet. “What can I do for you, lad?”
“Oh, nuttin’.” Pippin hid a brass rod, hooked at the end, behind his back. Chin lowered, he shuffled his feet. “Just lookin’ around, just lookin’ around.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“Don’t know.”
“What’s the hook for?”
“Nuttin’.”
Typical lad. Typical lad with something to hide. The boy searched under the map table. What’s he looking for? Mother and son both had their secrets, it seemed. Burke smiled widely, slyly, at Pippin. He wasn’t too good to lower himself to the old if-you-want-the-truth-ask-a-child.
“I understand you have an appreciation for licorice. So do I. I just happen to have a few sticks in this jar right here.” Burke reached for the container. “Want one?”
“No. I mean, no, sir.”
“Why not?”
Pippin tugged on an ear. “Su-Momma says I shouldn’t take candy from strangers.”
“I’m not a stranger. I’m the captain.”
“Well, I’m not sure I like you.”
“Why is that?”
“You’re crabby. July people are that way. And I don’t like people who get mad and hit other people.”
“Believe me, I’ve never hit a woman or child in my life.”
In hindsight Burke wasn’t too proud of breaking Rufus West’s fingers. Should’ve let the law deal with him. That might have saved lives.
“You never hit nobody?” Pippin asked.
“Never a child or a woman.”
Burke understood why the thrashed boy had asked such a question, but he couldn’t understand why a mention of “July people” had come up. “What makes you think my date of birth has anything to do with how I am?”
“Carmelita says people’s ways are set by the stars.”
“Carmelita?” Burke took a guess. “Sounds like a fortuneteller. Did you visit the carnival in Natchez?”
Pippin whitened. “No, uh, naw. Don’t know nothing about no carnivals.”
Why was the lad lying? “I know a lot about the constellations,” Burke announced. “You enjoy studying them?”
“What’s a consultation?” Pippin didn’t give time for an answer; he asked, “Cap’n . . . where’s St. Something-or-the other? That place you’re gonna leave me and Momma.”
“It’s St. Francisville. We’ll reach there in a couple of days.” Provided that rod assembly cooperated.
“Momma and I really need to get on to New Orleans.”
“Why’s that?”
“ ’Cause we really do. Papa Legba! Will you promise to take us on to New Orleans? I gotta be the man for Momma, so I need to know if you’ll do that for her. Willya, Cap’n, willya?”
“Ever been to New Orleans?”
“No.”
Strange. A grandson had never visited his grandfather. “Looking forward to seeing old Granddad again?”
“I don’t have any gran—I mean, sure. I’m lookin’ forward to it.” Pippin backed up. “I gotta go.”
“No need to rush. How about that offer of licorice? Will you have some?”
“Well, I, well, I better not.” Pippin’s line of sight cruised the deck. “I’m not finished lookin’ around.”
“Aw, now. You’ve got a couple days to explore the Yankee Princess, and this licorice sure is good.” Burke helped himself to one, then bit into it with gusto. “Yum, yum.”
Pip licked his lips. “Maybe I could take time for one.”
“There’s a good lad.”
By the time the boy consumed three sticks, he was much more talkative. In fact, he had quite a bit to say. Burke was learning more than he ever wanted to know about Black-eyed Susan. Still and all, a lot wasn’t adding up.
“Tell me about your father,” Burke prompted after a particularly riveting part. “How does he stay out of jail after assaulting people?”
“He don’t beat up nobody but ladies.” Pippin slipped his fingers into the candy jar again. “And me.”
“Why you?”
“He don’t like me.”
“You exaggerate, son. How can a father not like his child? You’re a fine young man. What made him strike you?”
There was no time for finishing the puzzle of Susan. A high-pitched scream pounded at Burke’s ears: “Snake!”
Seven
“You brought a snake aboard!”
The captain’s roar echoed along the narrow length of the brick galley. It caused Susan to stop pedaling the ceiling fan and drop the dull knife she’d been using to frost a banana cake.
She whirled about to clutch the table edges behind her for support. He filled the entryway. His booted feet were planted not too far away. His face had whitened, yet his expression appeared as black as his shirt and britches.
Burke, so lofty and menacing and enraged, his green eyes sharp as daggers, did ghastly things to Susan’s nerves. He’d never agree to New Orleans now.
Flipping the single braid over her shoulder and dropping her gaze to the floor planks, she could have kicked herself for not staying with Pippin on his search-and-retrieve mission. She’d drawn attention, combing the decks, so a cake for the weary captain had seemed a good idea. Not now. She waited for Burke to expand upon Snooky’s unwelcome presence in the hallowed balls of the Yankee Princess. Her wait did not prove protracted.
“You brought a snake aboard,” he repeated, this time evenly. “Why? Why do you let your son keep such a pet?”
“Snooky is old as the hills, defanged. Nonpoisonous.”
“Right. And my name is Jolly Roger.”
Yes, he was about as jolly. “Snooky may look like an African cobra, but he’s of a less treacherous family. Besides, he’s been cleaning up your mouse problem. That lad’s handy. You do know you’ve a problem with mice, don’t you?”
“Aye, I know. Even a new vessel isn’t without such nuisance,” Burke said, his tone hinting at conversational. “Pet or not, that reptile scared the piss out of Throck. Literally.”
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
Hands fisted at his sides, the captain stepped toward her. His tone held the chill of Snooky’s scales as he said, “Find and get rid of the snake.”
“Pippin will catch him.”
Burke’s teeth clenched, his upper lip curling in annoyance. “If my men find that cobra first,” he warned, picking up an apple from a bowl to pitch it down the galley and out an open porthole, “it’s a swim for your boy’s pet.”
How utterly compassionate, how supremely generous. How like Orson! “You do make the rules, Captain. But I pray you’ll think twice before crushing Pip’s feelings.”
“Cap’n! Where are ye, man?” Throck barreled into the kitchen. The placket of his canvas britches showed a drying stain. “The lad found yon slimy cretin! In a pile of yer auntie’s knickers is where. Had to put an arm around the lass, I did, to comfort her.” Wholly pleased at being a hero, he added, “She’s a bonny one, that Miss Phoebe. Always thought so.”
“Where’s Pippin and the cobra?” Burke wanted to know.
“Blimey, they got away again! Run for cover, the whelp has. He’s down in the engine room.”
Susan’s eyes begged clemency. For a moment he stared at her. “Are you certain it’s safe for him to have that snake?”
She nodded. “I’m certain.”
“Get back to your watch, Throck. Leave the lad be.”
A stout hand lifted in salute. “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
The heavy thump of boots echoed through the galley as Throckmorton lumbered away to perform his duty.
“Thank you, Burke, for the concession. It was good of you . . .” Never had Orson backed down. Her malevolence lessened momentarily. “You hide a gentle heart beneath your diatribes.”
“The question isn’t what I’m hiding. The question is—what are you hiding?”
“Not a thing in the world.”
“Right.” He lifted his injured hand to scratch his jawline. “You and I have a problem. More than one. None has anything to do with that snake.”
He advanced toward her. When she recoiled, her foot tangled with the dropped knife. She deflected Burke’s touch, reached for the fallen utensil, and heard him inhale before asking, “What are you doing, dresse
d like a tart?”
Mama Loa! This peasant blouse did expose too much of her bosom, with her reaching down like this. She straightened and pulled up the bodice as best she could, both to cover her flesh and the contusions that shamed her.
His heated gaze remained on her chest.
Refusing to cower, she said, “If you’ll put your eyes back in their sockets, Captain, I shall explain myself.”
He wasn’t interested in explanations. Leaning a shoulder against the brick wall and folding arms over his chest, he said, “You’ve got fresh bruises on top of older ones.” His gaze took a slow climb. “You stayed around for more than one beating.”
“It wasn’t by choice.”
“I’ve heard some women like that sort of treatment.”
How could he think any woman enjoyed fearing for her life? Susan parried, “Is that what you’ve heard? Or do you know it from experience?”
Burke ignored her query, his expressive eyes filled with demand. “What took you so long to get away from that man?”
You can’t avoid answering him, Susan. You might as well speak up. Saying Orson hadn’t been vicious at the onset rang hollow in reflection. Explanations would sound just as trite. She said nothing.
“I notice you don’t wear a wedding band,” Burke remarked, and toyed with the braid resting on her breast.
“I sold it.” A truth. Orson had bought a ring for the mockery of a wedding that he’d planned to stage. “Sir, the proceeds are all I have. I’d offer them to you, but I may need that money . . . if things don’t work out well in New Orleans.”
He elevated his left hand, then rubbed it with the other, as if to relieve pain. Susan, despite herself, studied the forearm exposed beneath a rolled-to-elbow sleeve. How she wanted to be clasped in his arms! Burke spoke to her sine qua non, shallow though she was.
“Tell me something. You suspect your father won’t be in New Orleans? Or you know he won’t be pleased to see you?”
“Why don’t you have a seat at table, Cap—Burke? I’ll brew a fresh pot of coffee. Or would you prefer tea?”
