Destiny's Magic (23 page)

 

 

In a rented shotgun shack along Barataria Bayou, a trio of conspirators occupied the stark front room. A brace of tallow candles lit the area, the sizzling lard mixing repulsively with freshly peeled garlic and the remains of a cabbage and corned beef supper. West twirled his cane and stomped, shouting insults to Newt Storey as well as to the sallow-faced, sulking cook, Angela Paget.

Storey, his teeth crunching into a pod of garlic, was up to the gills with Rufus West's insults.

West whipped around to the brunette. “Don't you know how to cook anything but Yankee food? My gut has had enough of your cooking, you ignorant slut.”

“Why don't you just suck it up your big old hooked nose and out your skinny ass?”

West drew back the cane and slammed it against her face.

“Now you're cookin', honey.” Her pleasure deriving from pain, she moistened her flabby lips and gave up sulking for her idea of fun. “I'd favor you strike my butt. If we had money for drinks, we could go out tonight and see if we can get something together with a few gents.” Her expression took on its usual sour cast. “But you're outta money, of course.”

“Then sell your favors instead of giving them away, trollop. Then you can have all the fun you want.”

“If I sell anything, it won't be for your benefit.” Small eyes cruised from one man to the next. “And you can forget hookin' me into another threesome with Newt. Garlic gags me.”

Storey was to the gills with orgies too. “You both gag me. I want out.”

“This is not about what Newt Storey wants. This is about what Rufus West pays for.” Anger boiled in a hawklike face. “I paid you to scalp Velma and get rid of her corpse. Where's the scalp? I want it, and I want it now. Get it, dog crap!”

It was all Storey could do not to fly at the bastard. “Slur me one more time, and I'll break your other hand.”

“Get the scalp, please, sir.”

“ 'Tis in a safe place.”

“I told him not to bring it here,” Angela put in. “This place is disgusting enough without having to look at dried blood and blond hair.”

West spun around. “You're not the boss. And if you don't watch your mouth, you'll end up like Velma Harken.”

“Kiss my ass.”

Garlic turned end over end in Newt Storey's stomach. “There'll be no more killing women. You even suggest it again, West, and the next death will be yours.”

The venomous West shook his cane at Storey. “You do one thing against me, and Angela will run for the gendarmes and turn you in to Cinglure.”

“Don't count on it,” she huffed. “I don't know why in the world you gave O'Brien so much time to get money together. Here we sit, nothing to do, no money to buy anything good. Spent everything we had on that damned old fishing boat for Newt.”

“Shut up.” West again whapped the end of his cane on her face, which almost provoked Storey out of his chair. “We'll have a thousand. By Wednesday.”

“When we do, get prepared, Rufus. That money is mine. It's payment for my boy. I want every cent. I ain't waiting for the rest of it. I'm getting the hell away from you.”

Storey's sentiments exactly. He'd had enough of this deal. He didn't give a damn if he never saw another penny of O'Brien money.
I should've set sail on that four-rigger, like rumor says I 'ad.
But he hadn't set sail. And he had a hunch he'd never set sail again.

In hindsight he wished he'd never agreed to partner with Rufus West. Bad mistake. Yet West caught him at his most exposed. At the start, he'd promised enough money to buy an old shrimp boat so that Storey could be his own boss. 'Twas a temptation not denied.

Back then, ambition had burned, only to be doused at every turn by Captain Burke O'Brien. The final insult? When O'Brien, planning to put the
Yankee Princess
into service, had named that numskull Throck as captain of the
Star,
Storey to remain second mate. The kid Teddy Harken had ranked above Storey.

He'd tried his best to send Throck to the bottom, along with the kid. The idiot floated up, hard as a whale to drown. But it was then, in the middle of the Mississippi last April, when Newt Storey got an eyeful of floating body parts, that he'd realized the extent of what he'd done.

He ought to have known one crime would lead to another.
Numskull
described Storey too.

“I'm going for a walk.” He got to the door. “Going to sand the shrimper.”

“At night?” West argued.

Storey nodded. “At night. 'Tis no light I need to make love to the 'ull of a vessel.”

“You're sick,” Angela, a landlubber not understanding at all, put in.

“Sick is right.” They all were depraved. Birds of a feather did flock together.

Storey would be back, of course. He was too guilty of too many sins to cry off. But for now he wouldn't tend the boat that had finally become his, thanks to the money gained from preparing a scalp. He had another shotgun shack to see to. He went there to take the edge off his conscience.

Tuesday arrived. The day before Burke had another appointment at the St. Louis Cemetery. He managed to dress and shave. He was downstairs by seven and found his wife sitting in a chair, sewing a peasant blouse. He wished it were that shirt she'd promised him what seemed like a lifetime ago.

If she heard his approach, she took no notice. His eyes took their fill. Again, her fair hair had been fashioned into a single braid. She wore a cream-colored blouse and a brown cotton skirt with ecru lace above the hem. Bittersweet desire thrummed through Burke. He yearned for her, craved her attention, needed to make love with her. It might be the last time. If he couldn't make her understand.

This afternoon Burke would tell Cinglure and Sir Joshua the whole truth.

Nothing could have stopped Burke from walking to her.

His Black-eyed Susan blinked, then put the project aside. “You seem quite recovered, husband.”

He took her hand and guided her to her feet. The sling between them, he brought her to him. She didn't fight his touch.

His voice low, he whispered, “You smell of strawberries.”

“Breakfast. Had them for breakfast.” She drew away.

“Don't go. Hug me. Kiss me.”

“No. You're injured.”

“There are ways . . . where it won't hurt.”

She feinted from the left hand that tried to settle at the small of her back. “Remy Cinglure and Sir Joshua will be here this afternoon. You should preserve your strength.”

“This is morning. I want to make love with you.”

“While your mind works to betray my son, you have the nerve to try to spend your lusts?”

“I have lust for you, aye. Lust and respect, and much more.” He crooked his good forefinger to lift her chin. Their gazes met. Whispering the words he should have admitted weeks ago, he said, “I love you, Mrs. O'Brien.”

He had said those three words that Susan had waited to hear. But why did they have to come now, after Burke had anguished over Antoinette et al?

His loving meant a step to the queue at the tail of his heart. Yet his expression bore the same gentleness that had drawn her to him on the
Yankee Princess
. She loved him.

He and Pippin had her heart. Burke and Pippin alone.

A prudent woman would bid this heart-to-bursting man good-bye, Susan told herself. Yet this woman would not say adieu. She yearned to accept the scraps of his heart.

She lifted her hand to stroke his jaw; he moved his lips to center a kiss on her palm. Her thumb caressed the line of his mouth. Why deny the urge to discover how lovemaking could satisfy them both and not worsen his broken bones?

But the breakfast strawberries jumbled her tummy. Everything of late settled fractiously, but that morning seemed worse. Air. She needed air, for her stomach churned once more.

“Don't you want my love?” he asked, puzzled as she dashed to the window to suck in gulps of air.

She didn't know what to answer, even though she felt better. Turning her eyes to the street indicative of New Orleans, she concentrated on a pushcart spurred by a fruit vendor and followed by an organ grinder and his monkey. To hell with streets!

Susan spun around. Burke, his face troubled, his arm in a sling, stood in the middle of the drawing room, waiting for her to accept rations of his love.

“How big is your heart?” Taking a step toward her husband, she asked, “Do you love me enough to keep quiet about Pippin this afternoon?”

The fingers of his left hand raked his head, upsetting the groomed black hair. “All right. You win. I'll say nothing.”

She couldn't smile. How could she? She had forced a sacrifice that gave a glimmer of hope for Pippin, but jeopardized all that Burke had spent his life building.

“Susan, I'll need help tomorrow. By myself, I can't ambush him, or Storey, or whoever he sends to pick up the money. The pickup person must be taken alive, has to be made to confess. If not, the future doesn't offer any of us much.”

“I've an idea—”

“There's only one man I trust, beyond my kin, to help me. Throck. He's not here. Where is he?”

“Conducting your business. One of your skippers took ill in Vicksburg some days back. He's up there. Should be back in a few days.”

“Did you send your best wishes with him?”

She flushed. “Yes, of course.”

“That's good.”

“Burke, you interrupted a minute ago. Please listen to me on something.”

“I'm listening.” He took a seat.

She paced, her hands gesturing as she outlined her plan. At the conclusion she stopped in front of him. Gazing down into wary eyes, she asked, “Are you willing to give it a try?”

He nodded, slowly.

“Wonderful!” She knelt at his shins and rested her cheek against his knee. “Thank you.”

Her fingers moved along his britches-clad thigh, eager . . . A rush of desire caused her to press her lips to his knee.

He brushed her away. “I'm not interested in thank-you-sir favors.”

“Burke, I want you. I thought you wanted me too.”

“Then why didn't you want me before I gave in to your blackmail?”

“But I didn't mean to—Well, I guess it sounds that way, but I honestly—”

“Let's do be honest. Bartering doesn't fire my innards.” He got slowly to his feet. “If I took you, I'm afraid I might start closing my eyes and thinking of England.”

 

 

Of course Burke regretted his words even before he reached the courtyard. But he wouldn't turn back. Dammit, she had blackmailed him. What sort of marriage was theirs? His admission of love hadn't sent her spinning with happiness, much less into a declaration of her own. Everything was for her boy.

For once he'd like to think that he was the most important thing in her life.

He pivoted around. She was at the staircase. “Susan, I don't like your idea about West, but I will go through with it. I'll call for the carriage at one sharp. Dress for the occasion. No peasant clothes.”

She nodded, then carried on.

He went to the kitchen, where Pippin, Zombi coiled around his ankle, was helping Keep Smile polish shoes. “Pip, if your momma says one thing about taking you to England, you throw the fit of your life.”

“That's what I was planning to do anyhow. Unless she says something 'bout that Loch Ness monster, then we'll have to fetch Granddaddy. I promised.”

“You keep that in mind.” Burke ruffled that stubborn cowlick, his heart squeezing with love.
I won't
let
anything happen to you. God as my witness, I won't.
“I'm sorry you've been cooped up here lately. Won't last much longer.”

“I don't mind. The aunts and Granddaddy visited often enough, and you got all kinds of fun stuff to meddle in, and I love ole Keep Smile here, and Zinnia too. 'Cept, I ain't interested in no preacher.”

“Teacher,” Burke corrected the boy. “I think you'll like school. Lots of other youngsters to play with. Lots of fine things to learn.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That's good, Dad.” Eyes disappeared into a freckled smile as Pippin grinned upward. “I sure do love you and Momma.”

It was worth it, taking a chance for him. “I love you too, lad.”

There was no denying, Burke had started out by seeing himself in the displaced urchin. Pip afterward became atonement for a babe in Ohio who never lived to know family, playmates, or snakes. Burke didn't know where he'd crossed the line, but he had. He loved Pip for Pip.

Keeping custody of the boy? Burke banked on Marcel Duval signing adoption papers forthwith. Tomorrow he would call at the Cabildo.

He again disturbed Pip's cowlick. “Once I'm able to climb the roof again, we'll get back to stargazing.”

“I'd sure like that, Dad.”

Everything would work out. For now, though . . . “Keep Smile, don't let my boy out of your sight. And remember, son. You need me—throw the fit of your life. I'll come running.”

When the man from Lloyds and the detective from the Metropolitan Police called that afternoon, Burke said nothing of blackmail, even though a hitch had developed in Susan's plan.

The prospective helper wasn't where he was supposed to be, so they had slipped a message under his door, requesting his presence at the Absinthe Room, nine sharp that night.

For now, though, Burke had to get past four o'clock. Sitting at the courtyard table—Susan being prudently upstairs with Pip and the servants—Cinglure and Tate drank coffee and eyed him suspiciously.

“Do you know something you are not telling us?” Cinglure pretended to study a cuticle, but his sharp eyes covertly assessed Burke.

“How could I know anything? I've been half dead here lately. Haven't left the house.”

“I say, O'Brien, I cannot stay in New Orleans forever.” Sir Joshua chomped down on his pipe. “This West theory of yours rings false, even though I do believe he killed Miss Harken. Albeit, such as the latter happens all the time, whores being murdered by amatory partners turned foul-tempered.”

“Monsieur, enough!” Remy Cinglure would take no slur against the woman he had loved in vain. “Take care of what you say of the dead.”

Dueling might be outlawed, but if Sir Joshua said another word, there might be a glove in the face. Thankfully, the Lloyds man read the detective's frame of mind. “No insult meant, sir. Didn't realize you and the lady were close.”

Cinglure eased back.

“Tate,” Burke said, intent on returning to the purpose of this meeting, “West killed Miss Harken because she spied for me. It all ties together.”

“And I must tie ends together. From what I gather, West knows nothing of explosives. You do.” Sir Joshua squinted past another curl of smoke. “Dynamite, for instance.”

Damn. “If you know about dynamite, then you know Newt Storey bought it.”

“I know nothing of the sort. I've spoken with Mr. Beeton. In light of the honorable Horace Seymour's absence, I've drawn a conclusion. Those at Seymour Pyrotechnics and Inventions cover for you.”

“I'm privy neither to their minds nor their motives,” Burke said. “But I have reason to believe Beeton sold dynamite to Storey.”

“I believe, sir, you have a vendetta against the elusive Mr. West. You would shift the blame from yourself to a hapless former employee.”

Burke shook his head. “Not true.”

Cinglure cleared his throat. “Rufus West is a far cry from hapless. He is a murderer.”

The Englishman scoffed. “Be that as it may, Cinglure, homicide is your specialty. Fraud is mine. I've concluded several lies were concocted to spare Captain O'Brien.”

“You're wrong,” Burke objected.

“So you claim.” Sir Joshua looked down his nose condescendingly. “The sunken O'Brien riverboats are not the only cases on the Lloyds books. I must return home forthwith. I've booked passage on for next week.

“If you cannot find this Mr. West and his so-called accomplice by then, I shall have no choice but to report your vessels as wrecked under fraud. Lloyds of London will not pay your claims.”

The death knell of the O'Brien Steamship Company began its chime.

“What Cinglure chooses to do about you is up to him,” Sir Joshua was saying. “But Lloyds of London will petition that you pay to the full extent of American law.”

The underwriters' representative got to his feet. “Do give your lovely wife my regards, O'Brien. I must be off.”

Sir Joshua marched away from 21 rue Royale.

Remy Cinglure remained seated. Rearing back, he rested his elbows on the chair arms and steepled his fingers beneath his mouth. “He's serious, you know.”

“I never thought he wasn't.”

Cinglure picked up his cup, looked into the bottom. “Too bad this isn't tea. Even if it were, though, I couldn't read the leaves.” His line of sight parked on Burke. “But I know when I'm not getting the full story. You do know something, O'Brien. What is it?”

“Leave it be.”

“Impossible,
mon ami.
I cannot sit idle while I watch that Englishman ruin your business, reputation, and life. Besides, an interesting broadside reached my desk yesterday. From the sheriff in Natchez, Mississippi. West is wanted for a murder up there. The victim's name was Paget. When I tried to see you a few days past, I seem to recall your stepson saying his last name is Paget. I consider that too much of a coincidence.”

Burke gripped his cup. Pippin and his remarks! “Leave it be, Cinglure. Give me a few more days, then we'll talk.”

 

 

At eight-thirty Burke and his wife stole into the night and made their way to the Absinthe Room's upstairs chamber. It was the same room where Burke had rendezvoused with poor, doomed Velma.

A clock chimed at nine.

Half a minute later the summoned man climbed the staircase and pressed into the chamber. He was big. His description almost fit Throck. Or Storey. Jinnings had no hair, like Storey; gold teeth, like Throck. But this man's skin told a tale of Arabic origin. And he wore a golden earring.

He was the genie.

New to New Orleans, Eugene Jinnings would never be recognized. The jinn's sole voucher in Burke's book.

Jinnings was the instrument of 1864.

Bile rose as Burke forced a smile. “Glad you could meet with us, Jinnings.”

“Hello, sir.” Susan offered her fingers. “I am Susan O'Brien.”

“Enchanted.” The genie kissed her knuckles. “Allah be praised, you are lovely. Excellent work mine, finding you.”

Susan rushed to a topic never agreed to by her husband. “Sir, 1 know the magic lamp is no more. But you are still here, so that means something. Can you grant at least one wish?”

“Susan!”

Not to be distracted, she continued. “Can you, sir?”

“More requests are out of the question, milady. I am but part of a whole.”

“How are you at grave tending?” Burke asked, having heard enough of magic. “We need you at the St. Louis Cemetery. All day tomorrow, perhaps into the night. Act as if you're pulling weeds, or raking, or whatever. Watch for a ruddy fellow, thin. Wears glasses. Or anyone who might happen on the Harken crypt.”

“Ah, you look for Mr. West.”

How did Jinnings know?

Susan supplied the answer. “I told your grandfather everything,” she said to Burke.