Destiny's Magic (6 page)

Plates of drying lunch, delivered earlier by Pip Paget—he was earning his grub, true!—sat uneaten on a ledge near the gas tank that served the lighting system. “That's enough for now, men,” Burke ordered, finally cognizant that his crew couldn't work at top efficiency unless their own valves worked properly. “Rest up for the next attack. You too, Storey.” Burke yanked work gloves and exhaled at getting leather off his stitches. “I'll tell Cook to make an early supper.”

He did. Appleby had anticipated such an order, and had supper on the stoves. Burke went to his quarters. He washed, took an hour's nap, then ate a light meal at his desk. Afterward he checked on the engine room, finding Storey hard at work. They made their peace.

As six bells approached, Burke climbed toward the wheelhouse to work on the logbook. It was no accident that he made a detour by the main deck, where he found Black-eyed Susan near the bow, obviously restless.

“Captain, how much longer are we going to be stranded?”

Susan's coronet of braids was slightly askew. Her high-neck dress had perspiration at the collar. She'd made a fan out of an old newspaper. It snapped in front of her harried face.

Essence of heliotrope didn't cling to her. He caught the aroma of perspiration, as if she'd been running. That was a Black-eyed Susan of the garden variety, an off smell. Nonetheless, Susan's natural scent had allure to it.

“At midnight,” she continued, “it'll be forty-eight hours since my son and I came aboard this vessel. Every moment that passes frightens me more. Mr. Paget could find us. And what could we do? We're sitting ducks!”

“Calm down.” His hand at chest level, Burke patted the still, hot air and studied the distressed lady. He had his own queries, though he wouldn't voice them. Her poor excuse for a husband hadn't even bought her a Spanish fan to keep cool with. What kind of man was the one she'd given her hand? Not much of one. Black-eyed Susan should have had better taste.

“I'm safeguarding you and your boy. It's no hill for a stepper. Paget won't board. Granted, you don't know me, but if you'll ask around, I think you'll find I'm a man of my word.”

Shamefaced, she replied, “Of course. Forgive me. I suppose my fears got out of proportion. I am so very eager to reach New Orleans.”

“Why don't you go up to the main salon? It's much cooler there. Matter of fact, you'll find a newfangled contraption, a ceiling fan you can operate with a foot pedal. Fellow in New Orleans by the name of Seymour invented it.”

She glanced to shore. “How very clever of him.”

Burke offered an arm. “I'd be honored to escort you up there. Or perhaps you'd enjoy a visit to the bridge?” Anything to be with her. Just as he'd suspected on the evening they had met, he could not leave Susan alone. “You can see with your own eyes the watch officer's excellent view of approaching vessels.”

“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.”

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!”