Taking the High Road (12 page)

“Not gonna go throw yourself off a bridge somewhere, Miss Powell?” he asked whimsically, acting upon that spark.

She shook her head.

“Nor hunt up a hangin’ tree?”

Another small shake. And this time he knew, he just knew, that the little indentations at each corner of her mouth betokened mirth, held firmly in check. This was a woman to be reckoned with.

“Well, then,” said John, with a shrug, “he failed, didn’t he?”

“Whaddya mean, he failed?” Gabe demanded. “Our little Cecie’s heart is near cracked in two, and it’s—”

“Not so much that I can tell. It’s pretty obvious he’s hopin’ for that, your—uh—your former intended. He’d be very happy if you went into a decline because of his treatment, if you took to your bed and never got up again. But you ain’t about to do that, are you, Miss Powell?”

How could he understand her so well, this man whose intrusion into her life was of such short duration? Her dignity, her pride, her spirit, her independence—of course she wouldn’t let meek, mediocre Josiah Kingsley gain the upper hand! Break their engagement, would he? Be damned to him. She was only sorry she hadn’t broken it first!

“No, John Yancey,” Cecelia affirmed clearly, with a burgeoning smile. “I’m not about to do that.” She glanced over at Gabe, still concerned and showing it, then to Bridget, still kneeling beside her chair. “I knew I’d have your love and support, whatever happened. But I’m fine, I really am. In fact—” the flutter of a laugh, “I’m actually quite relieved to have it over and done with.”

Another “Harumph” from Gabe. “A fresh start.”

“Although…there’s still that annoying little detail in the will.”

John put forth an interested query. “And what detail would that be, Miss Powell?”

“Why, nothing major. Just that—“ she essayed a what-will-you half-shrug, “—in order to receive my inheritance, my parents stipulated that I must be wed within a year of their deaths. And that year will be over in—”

“Less than a month,” supplied Gabe unhappily.

“Less than a month. I’m ashamed to admit, Mr. Yancey, that that deadline was part of the reason for my hasty acceptance of Josiah’s proposal. I’m not the criminal you think I am, but perhaps I’m not as—as honorable, or as ethical, either.” Grimacing a little, she sighed.

John cleared his throat. “Dunno that I could ever see you as—as not honorable, Miss Powell. Your reasonin’ makes perfect sense t’me.”

“Does it? Does it, really?” Another blaze of blue eyes, like bright sunshine after rain.

“Yes, ma’am. Seems anybody woulda done the same.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Yancey. You’re very understanding.” Momentarily shelving that, she turned to the maid. “Bridge, I wonder if you would mind asking Mrs. Liang about what time we’ll be having dinner. And please ask her to set an extra plate. Mr. Yancey will be staying to eat with us. Won’t you, Mr. Yancey?”

“Uh. Well.” Feeling as if his middle had been scooped out and tossed away, after this long and wearying confessional on all sides, the agent rose to his full height and considered. “Yes, Miss Powell, I will. I’d like that very much.”

As Cecelia rose, with all the grace of a grand ballerina, her pretty honey-yellow skirts flowed and swooped around her. “Will you walk with me to the dining room?”

“I’d be right proud to, ma’am.”

“Good. And now I can return this to you.” Smiling, she handed him the monogrammed handkerchief, freshly washed and folded and ready for pocket use.

The next day dawned, as usually sunny and clear with San Franciscan optimism, upon a hard-won decision.

Dinner at the Powell/Finnegan household had been an entertaining, captivating affair. The gooey richness of chocolate cake had followed several courses of good tender roast beef and fresh vegetables and spritely conversation that touched upon no topic unpleasant, personal, or upsetting.

A professional connection between Gabe’s law office and John’s Pinkerton cases kept interest humming; besides that, Cecelia talked about hopes for the future of her academy, and Bridget’s intensifying romance with Max Shaw provided fresh fodder.

Afterward, after a brief re-gathering in the parlor for final back-and-forth tidbits, after an even briefer sojourn on the front porch for the men to enjoy a couple of expensive cigars as an end to the evening, Gabe had hitched up his little surrey and returned John to his hotel room.

By then, the Bay breezes had blown away what remained of the light rain, and John could park himself next to the open window to partake of the scenery below and meditate.

John considered himself to be, not a religious man, in particular, but a spiritual one.

Under the stern eye of his father, and occasionally a pious aunt, weekly attendance at the local church and strict observance of its holidays, fundamentals, and decrees had provided the bedrock foundation of his boyhood. Dutifully, he had absorbed gospel lessons handed down from the pulpit by their fire-and-brimstone pastor, along with teachings from various Sunday School volunteers. He grew up knowing that a vengeful God was sitting in the Judgment Seat, watching his every move, just waiting to punish him for any mischief with the flames of hell.

Maturity painted a different picture.

Now, he wasn’t sure about the existence of an afterworld or an underworld, or even of the Almighty, merciful or otherwise. He was quite sure of his own character, however. Thanks probably to that staunch upbringing, John possessed honor and integrity, courage and intelligence and compassion. It was to be hoped that those sterling qualities would hold some influence on the final day of justice, when the wheat got separated from the chaff.

So John believed mainly in himself and what he might accomplish. He also believed that everything happens for a reason, and that to fight against the powers of the universe is futile. Acceptance of the inevitable is not always a bad thing.

So he had ruminated, as night wore away into early morning, and stars blinked and shimmered and faded with the coming of new pinkish dawn. Finally, having reached a decision that would change his life forever, either way, he betook himself to the cool clean sheets of his waiting bed.

Seven a.m. found him washed, shaved, dressed, and ready to go.

“Good mornin’,” he greeted the sleepy-eyed clerk at Hotel Alexandria’s front desk. “Nice day out there.”

“Aren’t they always?” grumped the clerk in return. “Can I help you somehow?”

“And you’re—?”

“Harley. Harley Brookings. Some reason you need to know that?”

“Just bein’ friendly, Mr. Brookings.” The agent reached out to shake hands. “John Yancey here. Now, sir, I’m sure enough hopin’ you can help me. Lookin’ for one of your guests…Noah Harper.”

Brookings’ stubby finger moved slowly down over the lined page of the hotel registration. “Harper. Harper. Ah, yes, there he is. Now I remember him.”

“Ahuh. Any chance he’s around?”

“At this hour of the morning?” Skepticism crinkled the clerk’s pudgy features. “Still in his room, I’m sure—packing.”

“Packin’. Huh. He’s headin’ out somewhere?”

A raised eyebrow now. Where was the cheerful hospitality for which this hotel was known? “And if he is, what business is that of yours?”

“Sorta thought that might come up. Maybe this will change your point of view.” Smoothly John slipped the small case containing his Pinkerton credentials from a vest pocket and placed it on the counter. Easily seen. Easily comprehended.

If the clerk were impressed by this sudden show of authority, he gave no indication. “I see. Well, after breakfast Mr. Harper plans on checking out of the hotel. Booked himself passage on the King Neptune, which is due to depart the docks tomorrow, about noon, heading east to New York. Is there a problem?”

“Could be.” 
And damn well would be, if the son-of-a-bitch didn’t climb on board that ship, first chance he got.
“Thanks. I appreciate the information.”

John’s next port of call was a friendly visit to the local hoosegow. Or, more rightly, to the sheriff running it. He was already several up on Noah Harper, whatever shenanigans he might try to pull. And this would be one more.

He had called upon William Goddard shortly after his arrival, several weeks ago, to introduce himself as a fellow member of a law-serving establishment. Long ago, John had learned to collect and accumulate credits, from every source possible, in case he ever needed a favor from someone able to do one. (Of course, the same held true in reverse.)

At any rate, he and Sheriff Goddard were now on cordial terms, swapping stories and pleasantries and the occasional jigger of rye.

“Hiya, John,” William greeted him above the jangle of the bell overhead. “You’re out and about pretty early, young man.”

“Yeah, got some business to take care of, so I thought I’d stop in to say hello. Anything new happenin’ in town?”

Over a cup of hot coffee, freshly made, and therefore semi-drinkable, the two men sprawled comfortably into wooden chairs, kicked back, and shot the bull for a while.

“Naw. things’ve been pretty quiet recently,” drawled William, in reply. “Ten years ago, when the gold rush first took hold, the whole dockside was teemin’ with drunken miners, drunken sailors, and drunken harlots. Hell, I needed a pack of deputies to deal with crime, tryin’ to keep the streets safe for decent hard-workin’ people. But not much of that any more.”

“You prob’ly miss all that excitement.”

Laughing, William took a hearty sip from his mug. “Gettin’ too old for that nonsense, my friend. I like the peaceful life. Besides, with San Fran becomin’ respectable, most of the criminal element has taken off for other parts.” Another quaff must have sparked memory. “Oh, I heard some Eastern dude got himself rolled in an alley late yesterday afternoon.”

“Did he now? Huh. Any damage?”

“Just word on the grapevine, John. Never heard a name, nor got the circumstances. Reckon if the fellah wanted, he could come talk t’me, and we’d take action.”

John shrugged. “Maybe he was too embarrassed to report bein’ waylaid.”

“Maybe. Say, looks like you hurt your hand, there, son. You get caught in a meat grinder?”

“What, this? Nothin’ serious, Will. Just scraped the knuckles on a chunk of cee-ment.”

From under his bristly brows, the sheriff sent a significant glance from his companion’s bandaged injury to his companion’s stoic, expressionless face. “Did you now?” he asked with casual interest. “Well, serves you right for gettin’ caught up against a—chunk of cee-ment…”

John grinned. “Couldn’t agree with you more. Well, thanks for the coffee, Will. Guess I’d better be on my way—got places to be and people to see.”

“Busy man,” murmured William, sending him off with a smile and a wave.

The last stop, and by far the most important, meant a long trudge through town and up the hill to the Powell residence.

“Why, Mr. Yancey,” said the housekeeper, answering his knock with some surprise.

“Yep. It’s me all right.” John couldn’t keep the bounce out of his step or the grin off his face. He was feeling pretty good about life in general, and yet a little apprehensive at the same time. One wrong word, and this whole thing could turn upside down. “Miss Powell around?”

“She is. The whole family is. They’re eating breakfast.” Her slightly cool tone indicated that, if John had any sense, he’d be eating breakfast somewhere, too, instead of bothering honest householders at this hour of the morning.

He nodded. “Fine and dandy. I’ll just head on in and join ’em. All right by you?” Too impatient to wait for an answer, he attempted to slip on past and inside, but Mrs. Liang wasn’t moving.

She stood with arms folded across her breast, implacable as Buddha. “You stay here. I will go inform Miss Powell of your presence.”

“Great idea. I’ll go with you.”

“Incorrect, Mr. Yancey. You’re not about to be barging in, unannounced. Weren’t you raised with any manners?”

“Sure was,” said John cheerfully. Reaching forward, he picked her up by the waist, forcefully set her aside from blocking the doorway, and took off down the hall like a hightailing camel. At the dining room entrance, he skidded to a halt long enough to send a wide dimpled grin around the table.

“Mornin’,” he offered a greeting.

“Mr. Yancey!” Cecelia was puzzled, but smiling. “How—uh—where—uh—” 

“Nice to see you, too, Miss Powell. Lovely day. Lovely.”

Those charming indentations at each corner of her mouth had appeared again. Exchanging an amused look with Gabe and Bridget, both of whom appeared as astonished as she, Cecelia put down her fork, rested one elbow on the table, and surveyed their unexpected guest.

“I’d like to join you. Mind if I join you?” Hastily plopping down on an empty chair, John leaned back with a happy sigh, feeling like the king of the world and all that lay before him.

“By all means, join us,” murmured Cecelia. “Mrs. Liang, another plate, if you please.”

Gabe finished his cup of coffee and studied this brash young man who had just invaded his household, uninvited, for the second time in as many days. “I’m thinkin’ there must be a reason for this visit?” he asked mildly.

Silence for a minute, while John dug hungrily into scrambled eggs and toast spread lavishly with butter.

“It’s not starvin’ you’ve been,” observed Bridget, on just a tiny edge of sarcasm, “when I saw you put away plenty of roast beef and potatoes just last night at this very table.”

John’s expression couldn’t have been sunnier. “Was it just last night? I’m right sorry, ma’am, excitement sharpens my appetite. And you do have the best cook.”

“Hear that, Mrs. Liang?” Gabe asked of their housekeeper, as she appeared in the doorway with a fresh pot of coffee that was steaming no more than she was. “He likes your cookin’.”

“Oh, happy day,” said Mrs. Liang, unmollified. Much more sarcasm to her reply than just the edge to Bridget’s.

Cecelia, head tilted slightly as if she were examining some specimen alien to life on earth, was pursuing her own line of thought. “And the excitement?”

“Huh?” Blithely ignoring the cool atmosphere surrounding Mrs. Liang, John lifted his own cup to her to be filled.