The Law and Miss Mary (3 page)

Chapter Four

M
ary looked down at the young boy clutching her basket and smiled. “And thus, we are left on our own. Where is Mr. Simpson’s store—” She shook her head and gave a little laugh. “I cannot keep calling you ‘young man.’ What is your name?”

The boy stiffened, his nostrils pinched slightly, his eyes narrowed and his mouth firmed as he stared up at her. Had she looked that wary when Captain Benton questioned her? No wonder he knew her answer was an evasion. She kept silent as the boy studied her. After a few moments, he relaxed a little, gave a small shrug. “Name’s Ben.” He pointed a bony finger down the street. “Yonder is the grocer’s.” He lowered his hand and gripped the basket handle. Probably to hide his trembling.

Mary started walking, letting out a quiet sigh of relief when Ben fell into step beside her. He had looked poised to run, and if he decided to do so, she could not stop him. Her lips twitched at the idea of her raising her long skirts and darting among the shoppers on the walkway chasing after the boy.

A puff of wind swirled up from the river, lifting a sour odor from Ben. She held her breath, waiting for the gust to cease, and glanced down. Tears filmed her eyes at the close sight of Ben’s grimy skin, the clumps of dirt and straw in his matted hair, his dirty and torn clothes. She guessed him to be nine, perhaps ten years old. So young. And so horribly thin. Had he no one to care for him?

Thoughts of the homeless children brought to her aunt Laina’s orphanage in Philadelphia crowded into her head. The tears in her eyes threatened to overflow. Was Ben an orphan? She blinked the tears back, released her breath and focused on the situation. Ben needed help, not pity. And she needed information. It was possible he had parents—though his unkempt, half-starved condition made it seem unlikely.

She stole another look at the silent boy. He was so easily frightened, so ready to run. How should she start?
I always mask my questions with friendly conversation.
Of course! How many times had she heard her aunt Laina say that? Mary smiled, looked down. “I like the name Benjamin.” She made her tone of voice light, friendly. “Is it a family name? Perhaps your father’s?”

No answer.

She tilted her head to get a better view of the boy’s face. His lips were pressed together and he was blinking rapidly. Her heart seized. “Ben—”

“This is the store.” He shot across the walkway, stopped by a store’s open door and looked back at her.

“Go away, you
ragamuffin!
” A woman loomed out of the darkness of the store, pausing in the doorway. “Urchins like you are not welcome around decent people! Go away, I say!” She made shooing motions with her hands, then drew her long skirts close so they wouldn’t touch Ben before she started out of the store.

Ben cringed away from the entrance.

If that woman makes Ben run…
Mary rushed forward, placed her hand on Ben’s shoulder and pulled him to her side. She could feel his bones through his shirt. And his shaking. She straightened to her full height and gave the shorter woman her haughtiest look. “Ben is with me, madam. And he is very welcome.” She ignored the older woman’s gasp and, holding tight to Ben, brushed by her into the store.

The interior was cool and dark. Mary halted to allow her eyes to adjust to the loss of sunlight and to get her bearings. Silence fell. She swept her gaze around the room, met varying degrees of shock or disgust on the faces of the store’s patrons and lifted her chin. “Come along, Ben.” The click of the heels of her shoes against the wide plank floor echoed through the hush as they crossed the room. She stopped in front of the grocer cutting meat on a chopping block at the far end of a long counter in front of the back wall.

“Good day, Mr. Simpson.” She gave him a cool nod. Gave another to the waiting customer who had backed away at their approach.

A scowl drew the grocer’s thick, black brows together. “Get that thief outta here. I don’t—”

“Ben is here to carry my purchases, Mr. Simpson.” There were startled gasps behind her. The grocer’s scowl deepened. She ignored a flurry of whispers and stared straight into the man’s angry eyes. “And I am here to open an account. My brother and I are new in town and must establish our trade somewhere.” She watched his scowl dissolve to the level of a frown. “My brother is the new manager of the Mississippi and Missouri steamer line. Of course, if you would prefer we take our custom elsewhere…” She turned away.

“No need fer that. My wife’ll serve ya.”

The words were low, reluctant. Mary turned back. The grocer inclined his head at a stout woman behind the middle of the counter and went back to his work.

Mary headed toward the woman, another spate of whispers accompanying her as customers moved out of her path. She didn’t have to urge Ben to come with her, he matched her step for step, his head bowed, his gaze darting about the room like a trapped animal.

“Come again, Mrs. Turner.”

Mrs. Simpson’s customer glanced at Ben, snatched up her parcel and rushed away. Mary stepped forward. “I should like to open an account, please.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Simpson smiled at Ben, looked back to give her a welcoming smile. “And the name?” She dipped her pen and poised it over a book.

Mary stared, taken aback by the cheerful attitude. She returned the woman’s friendly smile and let the hauteur slide from her voice. “James Randolph.” She placed the list Ivy had given her on the counter. “These are the items I need today. And also—” she took her basket from Ben, placed it beside the list and indicated the crushed bun in the bottom “—this bun and a thick slab of cheese.” She glanced down, caught Ben eyeing a large barrel, and looked up. “And two pickles from your brine barrel.”

Mrs. Simpson nodded, turned and began selecting the items on the list from the shelves on the wall. Mary took the opportunity to look around the store. She caught the customers staring at her and Ben and gave them each a sweet smile. There was a sudden bustle of activity as they returned to their business.

“Will there be anything more, Miss Randolph?”

Mary turned, looked down at the filled basket and shook her head. “Not today, Mrs. Simpson.”

The woman glanced toward her husband—who was wrapping a cut of beef in paper—then looked down at Ben, slipped her hand into a crock to pull out a piece of taffy. “I heard you tell Mr. Simpson that you and your brother are new in town, Miss Randolph. Welcome to St. Louis.” She dropped the piece of candy beside the roll and the piece of cheese and slid the basket across the counter. “I look forward to serving you again.”

“And so you shall, Mrs. Simpson. Thank you for the welcome, and for…everything.” Mary smiled, met the woman’s gaze in silent understanding, then handed the basket to Ben and headed for the door.

Sam turned the key in the lock, pulled the door open and stepped back. So did the man beside him.

“C’mon, Captain. It was only a little scrap.”

Sam shook his head. “You pulled a knife, Hogan.” He jabbed his thumb through the air in the direction of the cell.

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts. You know the rules here in St. Louis. You pull a weapon during a fight, you go to jail.” Sam placed his hand on the laborer’s beefy shoulder and applied enough pressure to move the man into the cell. He swung the door shut and shoved the key into the lock.

Hogan grabbed the bars. “C’mon, Captain. My boat leaves tonight. I gotta get to the levee and load cargo or Captain Rolls’ll have my job.”

“You should have thought of that before you pulled that knife.” Sam turned the key, yanked it from the lock and started for the outer room.

“How about we make a deal?”

“No deal, Hogan.”

“Not even to find out what happened to the
Swift Water?
”

Sam stopped, turned and stared into the bloodshot eyes in the scrubby, whiskered face pressed against the bars. “What do you know about the
Swift Water?
”

Hogan grinned. “You gonna let me outta here?”

Sam walked to the cell. “That depends on what you know and how reliable your information is.”

“I know one of the crew was paid to blow her up.”

“Sorry. Everyone has heard that rumor.” He turned toward the door.

“But they don’t know who.”

There was certainty behind the words. Sam looked back. “Who?”

Thick lips pushed a curved line through the grizzled beard.

Sam nodded. “All right, fair enough. How do you know? I’m not interested in rumors.”

“It ain’t no rumor. I seen him flashin’ money and braggin’ about it in a tavern. Tellin’ around what a big man he was an’ all.”

“Who paid him?”

Hogan scowled. “Don’t know. You’ll have to ask him that yerself.”

Sam nodded. The story had the ring of truth. “Do you know anything about the other destroyed M and M line boats? The
Clear Water
or the
Mississippi Princess?
”

“The
Princess
was an accident. Sawyer got her. Don’t know about the
Clear Water.
”

“All right.” He stuck the key in the lock, paused. “But the deal is this—if you ever pull a knife in a fight again, you’ll do double time for it. Understood?”

Hogan nodded. “Yeah.” He glanced down at the ring of keys. “The name’s Duffy. He’s a stoker.”

“I know him. Do you know what boat he’s working?”

“Last I knew he was up the Missouri on the
Adventure.
”

Sam twisted the key and opened the cell door. “All right, Hogan. Get back to the levee. And don’t forget—no more knives or I’ll put you back in here and throw away the key.”

Hogan nodded and hurried down the hall. Sam followed him to the other room, tossed his keys into the drawer, then grabbed his hat and dogged the man’s heels outside. Now all he had to do was locate Duffy. And find out if the man had any connection to James Randolph, or the new owner of the M and M line. Maybe he could do that through Thomas, and not tip his hand.

He cut across lots to Olive Street, where Thomas had lived since vacating the manager’s cottage, and knocked on the door of Emily Stanton’s boardinghouse. He waited, wondering about the sudden sense of disquiet in his gut.

The door opened. He smiled and touched the brim of his hat. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Stanton.”

“Why, Captain Benton!” Surprise widened the round eyes looking up at him. “What brings you here?”

“I need to talk with Mr. Thomas. If I could—” He stopped, staring down at her shaking head.

“You’re too late, Captain. He ain’t here.”

The disquiet grew. “Did he tell you where he was going? I can catch up with him if—” The gray head was shaking again.

“He didn’t tell me where he was going. Only packed up and left three days ago.” A frown deepened the wrinkles in the plump face. “Late at night, it was. I heard someone on the stairs, peeked out my door and saw him leave. Sort of odd. Most times when someone goes sneakin’ out the door in the middle of the night, it’s ’ cause they can’t pay their bill. But he didn’t owe me nothing.”

“I see.” Sam nodded, touched his hat brim again. “Thank you for the information, Mrs. Stanton. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Captain.” She started to close the door, then pulled it open and stuck her head out. “If you hear of somebody decent that needs a room, tell them I’ve got one empty.”

“I’ll do that, Mrs. Stanton.” Sam trotted down the steps and headed for the levee. Now he had two men to track down. Duffy and Thomas. Queer, Thomas leaving like that. Could there be a connection between that and James Randolph’s arrival? Seemed as if there might be. But why did Thomas
sneak
off? There was no reason for that, unless it was to keep his leaving a secret. And if that was so, who was he—

Sam’s face tightened. Could it be
him?
Could it be Thomas didn’t want
him
to know he was leaving town? Now why would that be? He tugged his hat down snug and let his mind play with that thought while he ate up the distance to the levee with his long strides.

“What is going on in here?”

Mary spun around, and gaped at her brother standing in the washroom doorway. “James! You are home.”

He nodded. “Yes. That is what I do when it is time to eat. I come home. Why the surprise?”

She laughed and hurried toward him. “I did not hear you come in the house is all. As small as it is, I was certain I would. I am sorry. I should have been waiting to greet you.” She touched his arm, gave a little push—a signal for him to leave.

He stood his ground, riveting his gaze on the scene behind her.
Botheration!
She had wanted a chance to explain before he saw Ben. Especially since the boy was wearing a shirt that had been in James’s dresser drawer when he left the house that morning. Her heart sank as he frowned at her.

“Mary, what—”

She squeezed his arm, sent him the silent “don’t ask questions” command with her eyes that she had perfected during their childhood years. Of course, that was when her demand usually involved keeping a secret from their parents. It was different now. He would probably ignore her signal. “I am finished here, James.” She gave him another tiny push, then looked over her shoulder. “Edda, if you will launder Ben’s clothes, please.”

“Ja.”
The plump woman turned, lifted the small pile of filthy garments off the floor and plunged them into the tub of Ben’s bathwater.

James’s frown deepened to a scowl. Mary gave him another pinch. “Shall we go into the parlor and chat while Ivy prepares our dinner, James?”

His gaze fastened on hers. “That is an excellent suggestion.”

This time he yielded to her pressure against his arm and stepped back. She sailed past him, hurried to the small parlor and turned to face him. The scowl was still on his face.

“All right, Mary. Why is our cook’s son wearing one of my shirts?”

“Our cook’s
son?
” She laughed and relaxed into one of the Windsor chairs. “Ben is not Ivy’s son, James. He is a boy from the streets who carried my basket home from the market. And as for your shirt…what else had I to dress him in while his clothes are being laundered? I could hardly give him one of my gowns.”