Taking the High Road (7 page)

Early one morning, he followed her, like Mary’s little lamb, from her comfortable frame house on top of a hill to the school building some distance away. She didn’t notice his presence in the background, being too occupied with several children who had decided to accompany her partway. The sound of their cheerful voices and casual laughter put a nice start to the day.

He couldn’t help wondering if she were always this cordial, this engaging. Again, an attitude that did not quite fit the picture he’d been drawn. Where, exactly, did her half-brother come into all this?

Another excursion took him at some distance behind her to the dressmaker’s—nothing exciting going on there, unless you enjoyed seeing someone ply a measuring tape and unfold fabric. At her next stop, a general store, he actually went inside, deliberately hanging around the outer walls to examine merchandise that he had no intention of purchasing. All the while keeping an eye on his suspect.

Damn, she was pretty. So much for the half-brother’s opinion; John Yancey, Pinkerton agent, was right on the mark. Congenial, too. Her interaction with the store’s proprietor, and with several customers milling around, couldn’t have been more pleasant. Miss Powell browsed, shopped, chose items to be delivered, and paid immediately instead of charging the whole amount.

Of course, John reflected, if she truly had taken possession of that gold mine, and money was pouring out of it hand over fist, of course she’d be able to pay up front…

Lost in his musings, he didn’t duck aside quickly enough. She caught a glimpse of him, as she was leaving, offered a slight nod and a small smile, and slipped away.

“Were you interested in buying that, sir?” asked one of the clerks, with a simper.

“Huh?” In one hand he was holding what appeared to be a female’s corset, all white lace and bonings. “Hell, no!” As if the offensive thing were on fire, burning his fingers, he flung it back onto the counter and sprinted out through the door.

A third attempt at shadowing led him from the house on the hill to Gabe Finnegan’s downtown law office. A bit taken aback, John settled onto a bench across the street for a while, to observe. So much of detective work is simply boring observation: of the quarry, of the area, of the weather, of whatever happens to be going on. He watched clients entering and departing. He watched a spritely red-haired young woman bounce inside and back out again, arm in arm with the old gentleman who ran the place. He watched a shrunken little widow in black pass by, reconsider, and creep in.

And just when he had finished watching, and was about to end his vigil for the day, the lady in question appeared.

She, too, strode into the office, past the bell clanging lightly on the door. Soon she emerged with Gabe in tow.

To John’s surprise, and consternation, both of them crossed the street, avoiding precipitous wagon and foot traffic, to approach. Caught? Silently he rose, straightened his black coat, and waited again. He was getting damned good at waiting.

“Sir,” said the old lawyer.

John acknowledged their presence with a slight, formal nod.

“Gabriel Finnegan, attorney at law. This is my ward, Cecelia Powell, for whose welfare I am responsible. You have the advantage of us, sir.”

“My apologies, Mr. Finnegan. John Yancey.”

Gabe stretched an inch or two taller and lifted his chin in challenge. “And may I inquire as to your business in San Francisco, Mr. Yancey?”

John offered a cool smile. “You may.”

A moment of consideration, man to man: one younger, one older; one muscular and fighting-weight fit, one given to excess and paunch. “I see. Well, then, Mr. Yancey, we’ve got us a little problem here. Miss Powell tells me you’ve been followin’ her.”

In another time, another place, this sort of confrontation would have subsided into mere fizzle. John admired a foe, worthy of the name, who stepped forward to meet any problem head-on. Now, however, he saw that the better part of valor would be retreat. And probably a flat-out lie.

“Much as I hate to disagree with a pretty lady, I’m afraid Miss Powell would be wrong.” He tried out his killer Lothario smile again, just to see if it would work. It didn’t. “I admit to almost bumping into her recently, at the—what is it, the San Fran Emporium? And here, today, well, this is just coincidence.”

“Coincidence?” the pretty lady repeated, with one eyebrow sardonically lifted. “I hardly think so, Mr. Yancey.”

She was wearing something in cream and shades of light brown today. Cut lower than her other dresses, to show off an expanse of skin begging to be touched and a bountiful bosom begging to be caressed. Forgetting himself, John ogled.

“Yancey!” snapped Gabe, infuriated.

“Uh. Yessir. Sorry.” John blushed like a boy caught in mischief. Which, undeniably, he had been. “I’ve just been sittin’ here, mindin’ my own business, for—”

“For hours,” Cecelia said icily. She turned toward her guardian to report, “Bridget saw him on this bench, earlier, when she came to meet you for lunch, Gabe. And Mrs. Hancock saw him, still on this bench, when she stopped by to consult about her husband’s will.”

Hell. How had they managed to fill this town so full of spies? It was a veritable network.

At this point, he decided that a counter-attack was by far the best defense. “Does the city have some sort of ordinance against sittin’ on a park bench?” he demanded, in equally icy tones. “Do I need a permit to—uh—to take some time to—uh—reflect on my circumstances?”

Cecelia was glaring at him. From those eyes, those brilliant bedazzling eyes with the firepower of an erupting volcano, he could almost feel the scorch marks.

“Well, now, Mr. Yancey, I misdoubt we’re not gettin’ the whole truth about your doin’s in this town,” Gabe said mildly but stiffly. “So this is your warnin’: I’ll be watchin’ you. Best advice I have is that you keep your distance. Understood?”

“Keep my distance? I can hardly keep my distance if I don’t know where you—”

“Good day, Mr. Yancey,” said Miss Powell, in tones that might freeze a man’s marrow. And swished away.

“Son of a gun,” murmured the southerner from Charleston. Taken down by a woman and an old man, both of whom seemed to be quite practiced in the art of verbal swordplay.

Of course, distracted as he was by the woman herself, his own performance had been sadly lacking. She was a looker, all right. Too bad she was also possibly a criminal.

Or was she?

Damn. Time to send information to his client as to the suspect’s whereabouts.

John decided to seek out the local Pony Express office.

Noah Harper was a man with a mission. That mission had kept him going while he appointed a Power of Attorney to handle business affairs, a corporation surrogate, a guardian for Mrs. Harper, and whatever other necessary officials to manage his Boston life while he was gone. Making all those arrangements was the easy part. Explaining the plan to his dear mother was not.

“Excuse me. You are appointing a
guardian
to handle my affairs?” Elvira demanded.

“It’s customary, Mother. I’m leaving soon for California, to help track down that—that little tart whose name I hesitate even to speak. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, or what might happen to me while I’m there or en route. The most logical course for you and the estate is that a conservator be established to handle everyday matters.”

Her son’s soothing attempt at justification did nothing to calm Elvira’s umbrage. They were gathered in the large drawing room, a dark depressing chamber papered with the ugliest wall covering Noah had ever seen. When his mother passed on to her great reward, he planned to gut this house and change every detail of decoration she left behind.

She rose now, and swept herself in her immaculate afternoon gown to the window, peering out as if something important were happening on their side lawn. “So you consider me incompetent.”

“Not incompetent, Mother. Never incompetent. Say, rather—naïve…in business affairs, at least.”

The heavy draperies fell back into place with an audible snap. “Then I shall go with you.”

“No, for God’s sake, no! I mean…someone has to be here to make sure everything goes as it should. I need you here.”

“I’m hardly needed here when you’ve already arranged for others to replace me. I’m not needed on your journey west. Just where am I needed, Noah?”

Again. She was doing it again. What a talent for making him feel guilty! In her eyes, his every decision was questionable, his every act poorly reasoned.

“I already told you,” he answered coldly. “Here.”

Turning on his heel, he strode out through the tall double doors with all the dignity he could muster.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

From the deck railing where he had taken up position several hours earlier, Noah watched as his steamship Pecatonia hove into San Francisco Bay. The distant skyline encompassed what was known as “The Seven Hills”—Telegraph, Nob, Russian, Rincon, Mount Sutro, Twin Peaks, and Mount Davidson—along with wharfs, woolen mills, and the waterfront itself.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Harper.”

Noah glanced sideways. “Hello, Captain Fielding. Safe port at last, eh?”

“Ah, it’s a fine day to reach harbor. And you, sir…you’ve been a fine sailor throughout the voyage. I hope you found everything to your liking.”

“Both the food and the service have been excellent, Captain, thank you. As for the speed, I suspect you’ve beaten several records to get us here so quickly.”

The captain assumed a modest expression that fooled no one. He was the master of his craft, and he, and everyone else, knew it. “Well, Mr. Harper, you are the owner of our magnificent vessel. And once you told me you hoped to reach San Francisco in jig time…” He spread his hands, palm open, in a what-will-you gesture, “…of course I knew we would do our utmost to comply.”

“I appreciate that. With pressing business here to transact, time was of the essence.”

Pressing business. That of tracking down his bastard half-sister and reclaiming what was his rightful due.

Upon disembarking, Noah and his quantity of fine luggage were hauled by carriage to a place recommended by Captain Fielding, the Hotel Alexandria. There, after making sure that it was suitable for his needs, he registered and settled into a spacious room that was well-kept and clean, if not as extravagant as those to which he was accustomed. This place was the wild backside of an uncivilized nation, after all, and he was resigned to the premise of making do.

He took his dinner that evening in the hotel dining room, where actual linen cloth draped every table. The meal consisted of some sort of beef, cooked to the texture of his old steamer trunk, and vegetables that were not quite identifiable. A very good wine took the edge off his hunger, however, and the quite delicious fresh-baked bread filled up the hollows in his middle.

While he worked away at the entrée with what looked like the local carpenter’s hand saw, he formulated his plans for tomorrow. First, he would need directions to an address. Next, he would need transport of some sort. Then, at long last, then…he could confront his nemesis.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Although the date was early June, and sessions were likely finished until fall, Noah had decided that his first stop in tracking down Miss Cecelia Powell must be the Academy. His Pinkerton agent, though taking no concrete steps to apprehend the felon, had been able to provide plenty of information. If necessary, Noah could certainly contact the local constabulary for assistance.

Unpaved dirt passageways, each one flatteringly considered a street in this backward crazy-calico city, must surely be reduced to a sea of black mud during the rainy season, from late October through March. Noah fervently hoped to be long gone by then. God had never meant for him to suffer living like an ignorant savage amongst rubes and boors; he much preferred the amenities of his comfortable life in Boston, and was quite anxious to conclude his business and return.

A shiny black single top barouche carried him hither and yon from his hotel, until reaching their destination halfway up one of the famous hills. There, Noah climbed down, asked the driver to wait until he reappeared, and stopped in the shade of a plucky little manzanita tree to survey the building that he had come to see.

Surprisingly, he approved of its construction, if nothing else.  A narrow one-story structure built of brick, each wall held a number of windows; open now to light and air, with a small enclosed porch on one side to shelter those inside from uncertain weather. A whitewashed picket fence surrounding the property added a nice respectable touch.

Aggrieved, Noah gnawed at his lower lip. How many nuggets had been plucked from his gold mine to pay for all these niceties? And for
girls,
at that!

He plunged up the walk, laid out so neatly and compactly.

The door was, remarkably, unlocked. While this seemed to be a safe neighborhood, why take chances? More fool she, trusting not to be bothered—or even assailed—by some combative passerby.

“Miss Powell? Miss Cecelia Powell?”

“One minute, I’ll be right there.” True to her word, very shortly she appeared in the outer hallway, frowning slightly against the brilliant sunshine behind him. “Mr. Townsend? Welcome, sir. Please, do join me in my office, and we can discuss—Oh…” As Noah moved forward, to be identified, she backtracked just a little. “I do sincerely beg your pardon for the mistake. I’ve been waiting to meet with the father of one of my students, and I—But…wait…I know you, don’t I?”

All in the space of a few seconds, her voice had gone from confident to apologetic to uncertain.

A state of affairs Noah deeply appreciated. And could capitalize upon.

“You don’t know me, exactly. We nearly bumped into each other late one afternoon at Gabe Finnegan’s old office, in Boston.”

“Yes, of course, I remember now. But then—you—you’re…”

“I’m your half-brother, Noah Harper. And I’m here to retrieve the gold mine shares you stole from me and my mother.”

She had gone deathly pale, and he could see the sudden lift of her breast in the floaty muslin thing she was wearing. Another affront to the senses. Cheap, too; just what he would expect. The garment was more suited for her boudoir, not racketing about in public.