Heaven in a Wildflower (30 page)

“You had no business leaving her at the Hembrees last night. You should have put your foot down and made her leave when you did.”

Harshly, Raymond said, “I’ve only got one good foot, but it wouldn’t matter if I had a dozen. Nobody tells Claudia what to do, but I’m not concerned with her right now. It’s Anjele I’m worried about.”

“And I’ve lost my best friend,” Vinson snapped. “Maybe it’s good the infernal Yankees are here. They can get out and try to find the bastard responsible. I’ll talk to them as soon as I see what I can do for her.” He instructed Wilbur to send Kesia for water and towels so he could wash off the blood and get a good look at the wound.

A scream ripped through the house.

“Claudia,” Raymond dully proclaimed. “I’d better get down there.”

When Kesia finally brought the water, Vinson got to work, and at last was able to see the gash. From his bag, he took needle and silk thread and began to stitch, relieved Anjele was still unconscious and couldn’t feel the pain. When the sutures were secure, he took a bottle containing a mixture of crushed horseradish leaves and vinegar from his bag. As he packed the solution on the wound, he instructed Kesia to tear the bedsheet into strips for bandages.

Finally, Vinson knew he’d done all he could. “Stay with her. I don’t want her left alone for a minute. I’ll be downstairs, and if she starts to wake up, come get me.”

As he descended the steps, Vinson felt anger at the sight of the crowd gathering in the foyer. Through the still-open door, he could see more horses and wagons coming up the drive. Word of the murder was apparently spreading rapidly.

Spotting Wilbur standing to one side, Vinson took it upon himself to order, “Let’s get these people out of here and close that door. We don’t need a parade through this house.”

“I have business here, Dr. Duval.” Major Hembree stepped forward. “A murder has been committed, and I need to ask Miss Sinclair a few questions.”

“Miss Sinclair is unconscious. When she awakens, you’ll be the first to know. Till then, why don’t you send your men out to search for the killer?”

“They’re already looking around, but it’s rather difficult, when they have no idea who they’re looking for.”

“Do the best you can,” Vinson said, coolly sweeping by and hurrying along in the direction of Claudia’s hysterical sobbing.

She was in the study, staring at the afghan-covered body, and Raymond was having no success in getting her to calm down. Vinson sat down beside her, opened his bag, took out a bottle of opium, and forced a dose on her. A few moments later, she became docile, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Everyone seemed to be wondering what to do next. Ida eagerly took over once Claudia was no longer a distracting problem. Quickly she set up the parlor at the front of the house as a receiving area, briskly instructing the stunned servants to get themselves together and prepare refreshments.

Elisabeth Hembree arrived and insisted on taking Claudia back to New Orleans with her, and no one protested, not even Raymond. Elisabeth also condescended to say she’d send back a supply of coffee and tea, then stood around waiting for someone to fawn over her for her generosity. When met by only hostile stares from neighbors and friends of Elton Sinclair, she huffily lifted her chin and breezed out of the house, deciding she wouldn’t send anything.

Raymond returned to the study and went to the safe. The contents were on the floor. No doubt, after stabbing Elton and attacking Anjele, the villain had left without taking time to gather his loot.

He was picking things up, putting them back, when he saw the envelope marked,
Last Will and Testament
.

Raymond could not resist and opened it. Scanning the few pages, he smiled.

Ida reluctantly told Vinson it was time to do something with the body. Deep in thought, he nodded absently. She took over, ordering wide-eyed, frightened slaves to come inside and carry it to the laundry house in the rear. There, she supervised the bathing and preparation.

Weary of the way, despite his orders, the house was rapidly filling with people, both the bereaved and the curious, Vinson shut himself up in Anjele’s room, keeping vigil at her bedside.

Millard DuBose came to inquire about her, visibly shaken by what had happened. “I wonder what the robber was after,” he said.

Vinson shook his head. “Who cares? We’ve lost a fine man.”

The hours passed. Anjele made no move, no sound.

Late in the evening, Major Hembree came to ask if there was any change.

“None,” Vinson flatly told him, not wanting to encourage conversation.

Nonetheless, the major proceeded to describe how his men had combed the area all around the plantation as much as possible. “They got one of the slaves to go with them, and they didn’t see anybody who doesn’t belong here. Nobody suspicious. Nobody saw anything or heard anything. Whoever it was got away, and we’ve no hope of catching him unless she”—he nodded to Anjele—“can tell us something when she wakes up.”

“
If
she wakes up,” Vinson corrected.

“You think she’ll die?”

“I’m surprised she’s still alive. It was apparently a savage blow. All we can do is wait, but I do plan to talk to a few of the other doctors in town and maybe get them to take a look at her, get their opinion.”

Hembree turned to go. “Well, send a messenger if she starts to wake up. I’ve got to get back to town now.”

“So do I.” Vinson stood, stretched, then turned to Kesia, who was sitting in a corner, ready to do whatever was asked. “I don’t want her left alone. Not for a second. If there’s any change, any change at all, send someone for me. Otherwise, I’ll be back out first thing tomorrow.”

Raymond was keeping his own vigil in the hall and protested when his father said he wanted him to go back with him to talk to Claudia about the funeral arrangements.

Raymond winced and looked through the door to where Anjele lay so very still.

Dear God, he prayed, let Elton’s funeral be the only one.

Leo crouched in front of the mausoleum.

Damn it, he hadn’t planned for it to turn out as it had, but Sinclair shouldn’t have tried to jump him.

Finally, wanting to get it over with, he took a deep breath and hoarsely called, “Hey, it’s me. You in there?”

The sound cut through the sepulchral stillness. “Where are the engraving plates?”

Leo ran his fingers through his hair and gritted his teeth. “I couldn’t find them. There was an accident. Sinclair jumped me. Yanked my mask off and recognized me. I had to kill him. His daughter came in, and I had to kill her, too. But I couldn’t find the plates.”

Long moments passed, while Leo waited for reaction. He hesitantly prodded, “Did you hear me?”

“I heard you.” The Voice was cold, hard, ringing with searing anger. “Tell me exactly what happened. Everything.”

And Leo did, from beginning to end, assuring that he had searched thoroughly for the plates, but they were not in the study, and he couldn’t take time to search the whole house.

“Of course you couldn’t. You say he wasn’t dead when his daughter got there?”

“No. I thought he was, but when she ran in, he started moanin’ and trying to tell her something. That’s when I decided I had to take care of her, ‘cause I couldn’t take a chance he was telling her who stabbed him.”

At that, The Voice sharply asked, “What was he saying? Could you hear?”

“I don’t know. She was having trouble hearing him, herself, ‘cause I saw her lean over and put her ear against his mouth.”

“You made a mess of things, Leo.”

“I know, I know.” Leo’s head bobbed up and down, and he felt sick to his stomach as he thought once more of all the jewelry he’d had to leave behind. Such a waste.

“The girl isn’t dead yet.”

Leo’s head snapped up as he stared at the tomb and cried, aghast, “That can’t be so. I hit her with a poker. I bashed her head.”

“I assure you, she is still alive. Someone in her family told me so. How long, is anybody’s guess. I understand she’s badly hurt.”

“Did…did she say it was me?” Leo started shaking again.

“She’s unconscious. She may die without waking up.”

“I hope she does,” he cried in a rush. “Then she can’t tell about me.”

The Voice became angry. “Oh, shut up, you fool. Did you ever stop to think maybe Elton told her in his last breath where the plates were hidden? Or that maybe he’d already told her, and she can lead you to them? Stop worrying about yourself and start worrying about finding those plates, because that’s the only way you won’t be charged with murder.”

Leo cried, “What you talking about?”

“You try to leave town, Leo, and I will see you are charged with Elton Sinclair’s murder. He was a prominent man. Not only in his parish but the entire state. His death will be thoroughly investigated by the Union forces responsible for law and order in this area.”

Leo bristled. “You aimin’ to blackmail me?”

“Quite the contrary. I hired you to do a job, and you not only failed but also got yourself in a great deal of trouble. I’m offering a chance for you to redeem yourself.” The Voice went on to explain his plan. “If Anjele wakes up and doesn’t remember you, we’ll let her live for the time being. We will also assume there’s a chance she does know about the plates. It’s a chance we’ll have to take, and I’ll want you to watch her, just as you did Elton. In time, if she makes no move to retrieve them and get them to the Confederacy, you can force her to tell you where they are.”

“Yeah, that sounds fine and dandy,” Leo said, “but what happens if she don’t know, and all she does when she wakes up is scream it was me who killed her daddy? Where does that leave me?”

“It leaves you with enough money to get out of Louisiana as fast as possible. I will see to it. Otherwise, we both know you’re broke, and you don’t stand a chance of getting very far.”

“You didn’t leave me no money tonight. You owe me—”

“I owe you nothing. Because you failed, and this is your chance to make up for it. I want you to come by here every night. I will leave a white glove beneath the fence if I am in here. That will be your signal. And don’t get any ideas about trying to learn my identity. I have a gun, and if you try to come inside, I will kill you.”

Leo chewed his lower lip nervously. He didn’t see where he had any choice, but before he could agree, The Voice made yet another offer.

“If Anjele Sinclair lives, and you do get the plates, I promise to pay you a bonus. One thousand dollars.”

At that, Leo’s brows lifted, as well as his spirits. “You got a deal, mister.”

“Then go now,” The Voice sternly commanded. “And keep your mouth shut about what’s happened.”

“You ain’t got to worry about that,” Leo cheerily called, already on his way out of the cemetery. “You ain’t got to worry about that at all.”

Chapter Twenty

Claudia was enjoying all the attention.
Elisabeth Hembree had insisted she stay with her, much to Raymond’s annoyance. Wives of Union officers rallied to offer sympathy, while friends of her father instead gathered at the Duvals’, choosing not to call on Claudia where she was.

Raymond had stopped by when he returned from BelleClair to see whether Claudia felt like discussing funeral arrangements. She was lying on the divan in the sunny parlor. Elisabeth had assigned a little Negro girl to make sure she had everything she needed.

Sipping a cool lemonade, she listened as Raymond related Anjele’s condition but wasn’t really concerned. Actually, she was thinking how much simpler things would be if Anjele died. The way she was being accepted socially by the Yankees, she knew she’d have no trouble getting a patrol assigned to BelleClair to keep things running smoothly. She could go on as though nothing had happened, and when the war was finally over, she’d be among the survivors—a very wealthy survivor, she mused, a confident smile touching her lips.

“I know you don’t care what happens to her,” Raymond suddenly lashed out. “So let’s get to the real reason I came here—your father’s funeral. Or don’t you care about that, either?”

Claudia swept him with a frosty glare. “Watch what you say. Someone might hear you.”

His laugh was mocking. “Oh, we wouldn’t want that, now would we? I mean, look at you. Your Yankee hostess is treating you like a princess, but then the other women of New Orleans haven’t ingratiated themselves as you have. They haven’t passed along names of seamstresses and the like, who’ve gone out of business to keep from serving those people.”

“It’s for their own good. They need money and the Yankees can well afford to pay them. It’s not as if they’re ordering them to work for free, Raymond. So just calm down, because I’m not going to stand for your treating me this way.”

“What are you going to do? Scream? Ask your all-important hostess to send for soldiers to throw me in jail? I think not.” Leaning on his cane for support, Raymond struggled to stand. “I want you to know you’re an embarrassment to my family, the way you’re acting. Because of Anjele’s condition, mourners are gathering at my parents’ house, which is where you ought to be. This”—he waved his cane to gesture in disgust—“is an insult to your father’s memory.”