The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (18 page)

Slowly, on the stream of that gently sounding low D, the instrument floated toward my book,
Fingering and Embouchure Technique for Flute and
Recorder.
It waved airily over the cover, blowing it open, the pages ruffling softly back and forth, back and forth. I watched as the yellowed sheets flipped, accompanied by that incessant D tone, until they lazily fluttered to a stop.

It was page one of the fingering charts, and there was the D—the round, open note hanging just below the staff. Beside it, the diagram of the six tone holes blackened.

But wait . . . beside it, the finger numbers were listed: 123/123, indicating that all three fingers of both hands should be covering the holes. I grabbed a pencil and paper and wrote out the fingering numbers without the slash—123123—six in all.

“What if . . .” I began, as I rewrote the sequence, adding a space between every two digits:

12–31–23? The flute shrilled an ear-piercing high note and then soared like a seabird, tootling the familiar tune, ornamented with trills and turns galore.

“That's it!” I tore the paper from the tablet, scooped up the flute, bolted from the cabin, and hurtled down the hallway. Javan and Walter looked up as I flew past into the chart room, yanking the door shut behind me. Knelt before the safe once again with sweaty hands. I paused, closed my eyes, and swallowed, sending a prayer to Mother, Father, to Aunt Pru. Please, please, let this work. Guide my hands. Open . . . please open!

Right . . . 12.

My mouth filled with a metallic taste. Gritted my teeth.

Left . . . slowly on to 31 . . . there . . .

I laid my fingers on the brass handle. It felt cool to the touch.

Carefully, carefully, right, steady on to . . .

23.

There was the slightest jolt as the knob slid luxuriously toward a soft but certain
CLICK.

Like magic, the handle yielded, and the thick, heavy door swung slowly open.

O
n hands and knees, I leaned headlong into the cool, dark chamber. I swept my fingers across the shelf inside. Nothing!

Nothing?!

For a moment I sat back on my heels in disbelief. Had Quaide somehow beat me to it? I crawled forward until I was inside the safe, up to my shoulders. Walked my fingers deeper and groped around, slid my open palms across the smooth surface. Stretched, splayed, reached . . .

There—in the back right corner—I felt the accordion-folded edges of a cardboard folio leaning against the side wall. Seized it, and pulled it out. Tried to untie the cord wrapped around the middle that held the envelope-like flap in place. Anticipation made my fingers clumsy. As I fumbled, my heart began to race.

But wait. This wasn't a good idea, to open the folio here, the safe open and gaping, the door to the chart room unlocked. I thought of Coleman's note. I stood, clutching the precious booty protectively against my chest. Bent and gently pushed the thick armored door of the safe closed, spun the knob several times, and checked it. Locked solid.

I slipped out of the chart room, Walter and Javan still keeping watch. When Walter caught sight of the folio in my arms he broke into a grin. “I'll walk you to your cabin,” he said.

“Need me to stay here, Miz Lucy?” Javan asked.

“No need,” I said, anxious to get back.

“Looks like ya got what ya come for. Back ta work, den.”

“Thank you, Javan!”

“Any time, Miz Lucy!” We waited as he scrambled off.

As soon as we were alone Walter turned to me. “You got it open! How did you do it, and what did you find?”

“Shh!” I said, patting the portfolio. “I didn't open it yet!” We hurried toward my cabin. Just as I placed my hand on my cabin door Quaide burst through the companionway, a large white bandage on his forehead. My other hand, of its own accord, rose to my chest, instinctively protecting the folio.

Quaide stopped short, staring from the folio to the chart-room door and back. He chewed the inside of his cheek, glaring at us through hooded eyes. Then he slowly retraced his steps to the companionway, glancing back once, and disappeared.

Realizing I'd stopped breathing, I inhaled deeply. “Come on,” I said. “No time to lose. Maybe you should keep watch.” Walter nodded. “I'll be right outside.” I slipped in and locked the door, just in case.

I dumped the contents of the folio on the bed, rifling through a stack of official-looking documents. Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, Union Pacific Railroad, Marconi's Wireless Telegraph Company, Cumberland Coal & Iron Company, Bath Iron Works, Britannia Mining and Smelting Company, Edison General Electric . . . most bearing the words
Certificate of Share—Capital Stock
and numbers on each—
one hundred shares, two hundred and fifty shares, three hundred and seventy-five shares . . .
Some indicated how much each share was worth—
One Hundred Dollars per Share
or
Sixty Dollars per
Share.
Stock certificates! I didn't know much about them, but I was sure they were worth a good deal of money.

This would be helpful, for sure, but I was disappointed. None of them provided any indication as to Aunt Pru's whereabouts or a single clue about the Simmons family curse.

At the back of the pile there was a large envelope, creased in the middle. I unfolded it and my heart nearly stopped. There was Father's name and our address back in Maine, scrolled in Aunt Pru's ornate hand. Quickly I withdrew the contents, sat down on my berth, and began to read.

Dear Edward,

My research into our family's past and the mystery of the alleged curse continues to yield results! Now, I can well imagine you shaking your head, that famous smirk playing on your handsome face! Humor me if you must, but please, I beg you, read on. . . .

I paused for a moment, remembering my aunt's face, stubborn, smart, and strong. I imagined her, pen in hand, earnestly scrolling this warning. And Father, setting it aside, not paying any heed. A flame of anger flickered in me. If he'd only listened . . . I shook my head and took a deep breath, trying to prepare myself for whatever else she had to say.

I have been to Ireland and have located the pub that once belonged to our grandmother, Molly O'Malley Simmons! It is a rough-and-tumble establishment, with a motley clientele. Some older folk still remember her and our grandfather, Edward the First, and let me say, upon inquiries about him, many an eyebrow was raised! They corroborated rumors I'd uncovered of his dubious reputation—his carrying-on the stuff of local legend.

I have learned that the grandfather we believed to be a much-respected sea captain was actually a privateer—hired by the government (and anyone else with the money to pay!) to hunt down pirates and other unsavory sorts who made an unlawful living at sea. He was, apparently, quite successful in these endeavors, until he began to skim off the top of the bounty, amassing great sums of money and treasure for himself.

Records prove that he did not flee Ireland from a criminal element seeking vengeance, as we had originally thought. No! He took flight to Australia as a fugitive, the law on his heels!

And, if this weren't enough, there's this: I have also discovered that, while married to Grandmother, he had a liaison with a woman of questionable repute. A child was born to the two of them out of wedlock. Grandfather's getaway to Australia was, apparently, as much about distancing himself from this second family as it was about escaping his fate in Ireland.

I covered my mouth with my hand, then forced myself to read on:

After much red tape and many dead ends I have traced his steps across Australia, from Port Lincoln along what is now the Stuart Highway to his substantial landholdings near Alice Springs. I found his homestead—run-down, but habitable—tended by a caretaker who has welcomed me in. The deed had been transferred to our father, and is in my possession. An adjacent property—pasture land—is also deeded in the Simmons name. I am sending the deed to you, so that, upon seeing it, you might begin to believe that what I am telling you is true.

My plan is to fill in the missing pieces of our family tree—to discover who this woman was and what became of the child. With any luck, he or she might still be living, and this unlikely relative of ours might know something of the curse.

As always, be careful, Edward. I do not want you to continue the tragic legacy that Grandfather began, following him, and then our own father, to the depths of the sea. I will write as soon as I learn more.

Your loving sister,

Pru

Oh, Aunt Pru, I thought, you were
so
right! At that moment I felt such respect for her, such regret that her concern was disregarded. And a powerful love and admiration for her that nearly took my breath away. I fell back against my pillow, the stock certificates strewn about me. The information was shocking—my great-grandfather, who by all accounts had been a heroic figure in our family lore, was actually a thief? That the family fortune—perhaps even these valuable stocks—were bought with stolen money? I felt a flush creep up my neck and to my cheeks. My face burned. My great-grandfather—a cad and an outlaw?

I gathered up the stocks—dirty money, I thought, and slapped them into a pile. Slipped my aunt's prophetic letter back in its sleeve. But there, in the back of the envelope, was another paper, yellowed with age. I slid it out, anxious about what else I might find.

It was the deed to the property. One thousand acres, south of Alice Springs, Australia. There was our name, Simmons, across the bottom. The bit of good news in this was that the deed would serve as our compass—by locating this property we would discover the homestead where, hopefully, my aunt was still residing.

“Aunt Pru,” I whispered, waving the deed. “Finally the clue that will lead me to you! Then we can solve this, together!”

The face cards in my pocket flipped up and out, landing in a row across my blanket. The queen of spades smiled wickedly. The king of diamonds shrugged. Cupping her mouth with a chubby hand, the queen of diamonds whispered conspiratorially, “You're getting warm. . . .”

“Warm?” I said. “No, I'm hot! Nothing can stop me now. Nothing!”

I took my stash, rolled back the Oriental carpet, and lifted a floorboard—the one that creaked every time I entered the room. Wrapped the folio in a piece of canvas, tied it securely, and tucked it out of sight.

T
he report of my findings spilled out as Walter and I headed toward the galley. There would be time for a steaming cup of java before Marni and Addie returned.

The galley was empty, the coffee perking merrily on the cast-iron stove. I got the mugs and Walter poured. Thick black brew, like oil, bubbled into the cups. “Cream and sugar?” I asked.

Walter nodded. “Can't drink the stuff plain.”

I turned toward the counter where the fixings normally stood. “Hmmm,” I said, “Rasjohnny must have stowed them away.”

“Maybe over there,” Walter said, pointing toward the shelves. We rummaged through this cabinet and that. Nothing. Maybe in the hinged chest near the corner. I knelt before it, threw back the lid. Pawed through bags of flour and cornmeal, salt, rice . . . pinched several black-shelled weevils disturbed by my searching. Felt a smaller parcel beneath all these. Grabbed and pulled, the back of my mouth filling with saliva just thinking about the sweet, brown granules.

But what emerged was not a bag of sugar.

“Got it?” Walter asked, carrying the two mugs. Then he froze, staring over my shoulder. “What's that?”

We gaped at the stuffed effigy in my hand. A thick torso, sausage arms, a bulbous head. Grains of rice glued on created a pair of blank eyes. Felted fabric gathered tightly created the look of two generous lips, the bottom one protruding insolently. Even without the blotch of red on the right shoulder where the pin was stuck, and the ankles tied together with twine, anyone could see it was Quaide. I held it for a moment before I dropped it back in the chest. My heart was racing.

Footsteps behind us. Walter spun around, the coffee sloshing over the rims of the mugs.

“Rasjohnny!” I exclaimed. My voice sounded strange to me, thin, airy. He stared at us, blinked, glanced up at the ceiling and back.

“You's needin' somethin' you can't find,” he said softly. “And you's findin' somethin' you wasn't lookin' for, dat right?”

“That's for sure,” Walter said.

I held up the voodoo doll. “Quaide.”

Rasjohnny chewed his bottom lip. Nodded. I thought of how Marni had sensed that Quaide had stabbed himself and how he'd inexplicably tripped over his own two feet outside the chart room.

“So, this is how he got
stabbed?
And how he fell and whacked his head?”

“Voodoo only work when da spirit's open. If he didn' have no evil in 'im, da magic most likely wouldn't touch 'im. But he's evil, yes he is. So's dis offers pr'tection fer da rest. We's talked 'bout magic before. Ain't no power in it, less da spirit's open. Like joins wid like.”

Walter shook his head. “You're saying you caused all this? Quaide getting stabbed, then tripping in the hall . . .”

“No! I's not sayin' dat. I's sayin' dat Quaide, he invite evil on hisself. And me—I's only led by da magic I be feelin' 'board dis ship. Pow'ful magic it is! You know dat, ain't dat right?”

Walter and I exchanged a glance. Powerful, indeed. We left without a sip of java or an ounce of peace of mind. It was time for another family meeting, that was for sure. We headed up top to watch for Marni and Addie. In fact, the water taxi had just pulled up, and Javan was lowering the ladder.

“Let's meet in Marni's stateroom,” I said. “I'll go ahead.” I needed a few minutes to gather my thoughts.