And his cocky grin tempted her to smack it off his face.
He looked like an action movie villain. But there was something remarkable about him. Had she seen his picture somewhere? Probably posted on a wall at the Napa post office. Wanted: Buccaneer.
“Qui es-tu?” His tone was more challenging than demanding.
She skipped trying to communicate in French, mainly to annoy him, and went straight to English. “United States Army, Captain Wilhelmina Penelope Malone, service number 44868756.” She decided to omit the part about being retired.
He barely flinched. “You’re a spy and a liar. There are no women in the United States Army.”
She was tempted to mirror his body language and cross her arms, but she stood at attention instead. “You’ve been living in this make-believe world for far too long. Women make up fourteen percent of the active-duty Army.”
He ignored her. “You are accused of spying, mon Capitaine Malone. That’s a death sentence on Barataria.” A low rumble of a laugh erupted. “But I’ll give you a reprieve. My men want a taste of you before you’re hanged. If you please them”—he lifted powerful shoulders as if to play down what was coming next—“you can live…until you don’t.”
11
New Orleans—Rick
David swung the light twin ACH135 helicopter over Lake Pontchartrain toward New Orleans Lakefront Airport airspace, its lights blinking against the underbelly of the dark clouds hugging the airport. Rick sat in the copilot’s seat, and Pete was buckled in behind him. The helo’s sound footprint was markedly lower than other aircraft in the same category and was McBain’s favorite to fly. His grin hadn’t dimmed since the beginning of their two-hour flight.
Rick studied the cloudy sky and composed a few lines of description that he jotted down in his pocket diary. He forced himself to write something every day, even if the snippet was crap. But at the rate he was writing, he’d never finish his next novel. He lacked inspiration.
David didn’t write much anymore. It had been several years since he last published. Rick guessed that whatever motivated him to write fiction no longer did, but Rick didn’t want to lose his motivation for writing. The problem was, it went hand in hand with inspiration.
Sophia claimed she needed time travel adventures for inspiration to paint. Going back two hundred years wouldn’t inspire Rick. He needed more than a change of scenery. But what exactly did he need? He didn’t know. Something unsettling was getting itchy deep inside him, and it was too deep to scratch.
David came in horizontally while descending, flying into the wind, and then the helo hovered until the tower instructed him to taxi to the corporate hangar, where the skids touched down. He rolled the RPMs down to seventy-five percent and proceeded to secure all three controls. Once done, he reviewed the checklist for shutdown procedure, spooling down the blades, until finally turning off the master switch and key.
Rick gathered up his gear. “Smooth ride. Thanks for driving.”
“Anytime,” David said. “We got what we were looking for. Let’s debrief when we get back to the rental house.”
The flight had given Rick a bird’s-eye view of the battlefield and the ruins of Fort Livingston on Grand Terre Island, which, according to his guidebook, was constructed after the pirates were booted off the island in December 1814. It commanded the western entrance from the gulf into the bay of Barataria. It was all mapped in his mind now, even though he didn’t plan to be anywhere near the battle on January 8, 1815.
But based on past adventures, the rescuers always landed near the missing traveler. If Billie had found her way to Andrew Jackson, she’d be smack in the middle of preparations to defend New Orleans.
Pete climbed out of the helo ahead of Rick. “How was the view up-front?”
“I’ve got everything laid out in my mind. What about you?”
Pete nodded. “I’m good. I just hope we can get in and out before the battle. Sophia won’t like that. She’s gotten it in her mind that it’ll be like the first battle of Bull Run, when senators, wives, and children took picnic baskets to watch a Union victory through their opera glasses.”
“Yeah, the picnic battle turned out well for the Union.” And the only reason Rick knew about the First Battle of Bull Run was that Jack Mallory enjoyed sharing Civil War stories. If he knew about Billie and the likelihood that she’d gone back to the Battle of New Orleans, he’d be in the city right now, demanding to go with them. He’d probably turn the battle into another one-act Broadway play.
“Where’s the damn car?” Rick asked.
He wouldn’t care if the driver was an hour late or never arrived. Next on the agenda was the ground tour of Jackson Square and holding his shit together during a thunderstorm. Thunderstorms usually never bothered Rick, but Remy had built this one up to be terrifying, and Rick wasn’t keen on experiencing it.
A shiver rippled from the base of his skull to his ass as heavy clouds rolled in, and a blast of wind carrying the earthy scent of rain drove across the tarmac and flattened the surrounding grass into a sea of green.
“We should have driven ourselves,” Rick snapped.
“Sophia just texted. They should be here…right…now. And there they are.” Pete pointed to the black stretch limo heading in their direction, carrying Kenzie, Sophia, and Remy. The driver slowed to a stop, and Kenzie opened the door.
“Perfect timing. How’d it go?” Kenzie asked.
David approached the car, still smiling. “As good as it gets up there. I need to take care of business. Did ye go shopping?”
She held up a large Massey’s shopping bag. “Of course.”
“Good. Be right back.”
As soon as he walked away, Kenzie’s glance ricocheted between Rick and Pete. “How was his flying? Okay? That’s the first time he’s been up in months.”
Before Rick could answer, Sophia stuck her head out the door. “Could you see the layout of the battlefield? Is there a position high enough to see the action but safe from cannon fire?”
Remy scooted up next to Sophia. “Did you see any good hidin’ places for Lafitte’s treasure?”
Rick rocked back on the heels of his well-worn cowboy boots, chuckling at what looked like a rehearsed campy comic routine. “Yes, yes, no.”
Remy’s face soured. “Guess that’s no for me.”
“Scoot over.” Pete climbed in next to Sophia and swung his arm along the back of the seat, letting his hand caress her shoulder. “If your idea is to sit on the sidelines and sketch the battle while it’s in progress, I’ll disabuse you of that notion right now. The Mississippi is on one side of the battlefield and a cypress swamp on the other. There’s no safe spot. Is there, Rick?”
Rick climbed into the back seat, ignoring Sophia’s look of challenge. “Nope.”
“I’ve studied the old maps and Google Earth, and I think there is one,” she said.
Pete gave her a look of warning—not to be messed with—which was almost comical. As far as Rick knew, Pete had never denied his bride anything. Rick bit back the smile tugging at his cheeks before Pete knocked it off for him.
“I have to see the battlefield in person. If you don’t want to go, Remy will go with me as soon as the rain stops.” Sophia shot her challenging attitude not only at Pete, but Rick, too, and it took some major cojones to resist her.
Remy put in his AirPods and ignored them. He was smart enough not to get in the middle of Sophia and Pete.
Pete blew out a frustrated puff. “Okay. But it’s going to rain all afternoon. I’ll take you tomorrow.”
David climbed in and signaled the driver, who breezed off the airstrip. “We’ll debrief when we get back to the house.” He squeezed Kenzie’s hand. “How was the art hunt?”
“Sophia worked on that project while I shopped.” Kenzie pulled a black rain jacket and pants and rubber boots out of one of several shopping bags. “These are for you unless you want to skip the storm.”
“Are ye still planning to go?�
�
She pulled out another set of rain gear and rubber boots and passed it to Rick. “As long as Rick’s going, I’m going too. I got a wrap for my cast so it won’t get wet.”
“That was smart, but galoshes? That was dumb. My combat boots are just fine,” David said. “Take those things back.”
“Mine too,” Rick said. “I’m not trading in my cowboy boots for rain boots like my nephews wear.”
“Safety first, O’Grady,” Kenzie said.
“Always. But I’m not wearing those boots.”
Pete held his pair out for Kenzie. “I appreciate the time it took you to pick these out, but there’s no way in hell I’ll wear them either.”
Kenzie rolled her eyes and shoved the boots back into the shopping bags. “Just you wait. One day you’ll beg for them.”
“God, I hope not,” Rick said.
David rubbed a jacket sleeve between his hands. “This doesn’t have that trademark crinkly jacket sound.”
Kenzie’s mouth spread into a slow smile. “I was going for cheap. If I’d been shopping by myself, you’d have gotten the crinkly jacket. Remy was more particular.”
“Figured you woan sit out in a storm crinklin’ with every move you make.”
“As long as I don’t sound like I’m wearing a plastic bag.”
Pete accepted the lightweight pants and jacket from Kenzie. “We’ll probably get arrested because we’re all dressed alike. Rick, David, and I get enough stares when we’re together. Add Remy, Kenzie, and Sophia’s roving eyes, and somebody will call the cops.”
Remy’s forehead creased. “Sophia doan have roving eyes. She’s only lookin’ at you, supercop.”
“I don’t mean she’s checking guys out. She’s just scoping, taking it all in, deciding what elements to put on a canvas.”
Now Sophia laughed. “Don’t let him kid you, Remy. He accused me of doing just that not long after we were married. It took him a while to figure out that I see everything as a painting.”
“Great,” Rick said. “Sophia will be scoping out the square, holding a pretend camera at eye level in the middle of a thunderstorm. We’ll get arrested just because cops think we’re nuts.”
“Nah. N’Orlanz has a reputation for goose-bump-inducing tales of unexplained phenomena. Six tourists standin’ around in a thunderstorm will just be another one.”
“I haven’t spent any time in this city, so I’ll take your word for it. But I’ll take it lightly.” Rick unzipped the pants’ side zips that extended from cuff to calf and tugged on the pants, not easy to do in the back seat of a limo. He and Pete almost bumped heads. David managed it smoothly, lifting one cheek and then the other as if he always put on his pants while riding in a limo.
Rick chuckled to himself. How many sisters had McBain screwed in the back seat of the limo he drove for Elliott twenty years ago? He’d been a man-whore with indiscriminate taste until he fell hard for Kenzie. But he didn’t talk about those days or his previous feelings for Charlotte. Compared to his Scottish bro, Rick was a piker.
“The worst that can happen is we’ll get soaked,” Pete said.
“Or struck by lightning,” Kenzie added. “And if you don’t wear rubber-soled boots, it just might happen.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Rick said.
David zipped up his jacket, smoothing down the front, and snapped off the tag attached to the zipper. “This says breathable and waterproof. Guaranteed to keep the wearer dry in a deluge.” He tossed the tag into the empty shopping bag, then tightened the hood’s drawstring.
“You look silly, McBain.”
He pushed back the hood and kissed the tip of her nose. “Where’s my ball cap?”
She dug into another shopping bag and passed out Patagonia water-resistant caps. “Guaranteed to shed water just like a duck’s back.”
He put on the cap, adjusted it in the front and back, then nodded. “Okay, now I’m ready.” He turned his attention to Sophia. “Did the program I wrote help ye at all?”
Sophia closed her journal and stashed it in her backpack. “It’s brilliant. I got hundreds of hits. The application picked out the shape of the torc in buildings, wallpaper, flowers, furniture, pottery, jewelry, even hats. And it takes just a few seconds to review each one and move on to the next.”
“How long do ye think it’ll take?”
“At this rate, a couple of days. I could go faster, but I don’t want to miss anything. If the torc is out there, we’ll find it.”
“You still believe you’ve seen it before?” Pete asked.
Sophia’s mouth curled into a wry smile, and her gaze was both warm and open. “I do, but it sure would help if I could remember whether I saw it in the past or present.”
David tapped his fingers on his thigh. “I might be able to tweak the program to search the centuries ye visited, but since ye’ve been to so many…” He let the thought hang there unfinished.
“I could have seen a painting or a piece of sculpture in one of my early adventures that didn’t survive the centuries. If that’s the case, we might never find it.”
“We’re assuming it’s hiding in plain sight when it could just as easily be in a chest of drawers in a Highland cottage,” Kenzie said.
“Maybe my mind is playing tricks, and the only torc I’ve seen was in David’s vision.”
“Ye just started the search. Don’t get discouraged,” David said.
“We’re almost to Jackson Square.” Remy unzipped the main compartment of his backpack and withdrew several sheets of paper. “David asked me to compile a list of buildings and establishments that were part of the early nineteenth-century culture.” Remy handed maps out to everyone. “The map is marked in order of walkin’ distance. Walkin’ out of Jackson Square toward Saint Louis Cathedral, the block-long Pirate’s Alley appears on the left between the Cathedral and the Cabildo. From there we’ll walk to The Arsenal, Creole House, and Jackson House, then Maspero’s Exchange on Canal Street, and the Old Absinthe House and Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop on Bourbon Street.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Rick said.
Remy zipped his backpack. “I doan have a plan. Not really. Only a few suggestions, and we can drive by the locations just as easily.”
“I’m not walking around Jackson Square or Pirate’s Alley in a thunderstorm,” Pete said. “If there’s lightning, Sophia and I will be inside a bar drinking to your good health.”
“Okay, here’s a suggestion,” Kenzie said. “We’ll start out at the Square. Get a taste of the battle during the thunderstorm. Then we’ll head to a bar for recovery drinks and lunch. If it stops raining, we’ll follow the map on foot. If it’s still raining, we’ll follow the map in the car.”
“If it stops raining, will we have time to see the battlefield today?” Sophia asked.
“We woan get there before the Chalmette Battlefield Visitor’s Center closes. Sophia will miss out on earning a badge with the Junior Ranger Program.”
“Ha. Ha,” Sophia said. “I think you’re commenting on my stature since I’m the only vertically challenged person in this group.”
“Well, you have to admit…” Pete said.
“Quoting Remy, ‘I woan admit to nothing.’ And being short has its advantages.”
“Like what?” Pete teased.
“Well, like our costume designer won’t need as much fabric to fashion a Regency-style riding habit for me along with a jaunty hat.”
Pete laughed. “A jaunty hat? What exactly is that?”
She pantomimed putting a hat at an angle atop her head. “I told you I lost my favorite hat when I was attacked at the Bastille. I want another one with a pretty feather.”
Pete kissed her, and from Rick’s vantage point, it seemed to sizzle, and he glanced away, embarrassed to be intruding on their moment. “I’m sorry you lost your hat, Soph. I’m sorry I didn’t arrive in time to rescue you from the mob.”
Sophia placed her hands on each side of his face and kissed him back. “Y
ou arrived when you were meant to arrive. No sooner. No later.”
Kenzie sighed heavily. “I’m not a believer in the brooches’ perfect timing. Sorry. If it was perfect, the uninformed traveler wouldn’t go through hell. But this time, I’m worried.”
“We’re always worried, Kenz.”
“I know. But this time, the brooch intended for Billie to stay there and the Fontenots, too. Why?”
“We may never know that answer,” Rick said. “And as for perfect timing, it could mean a few hours before the start of the battle, when General Jackson needs the best possible intel.”
“He’ll win the battle without Billie’s interference,” David said. “Ye just need to find her and get the hell out.”
“No,” Sophia said. “I have to sketch General Jackson—”
“You will, but not during the battle,” Pete said.
“What about a costumer? Did you have any luck?” Rick hurried to change the subject.
“I found one with an impressive resume, and she’s available,” Kenzie said. “She’s worked on several films and works on the Battle of New Orleans reenactment every year.”
“I checked out her work,” Sophia added. “I’m as particular about costumes as Remy is about rain jackets. No cheap stuff. Rich, authentic fabrics with hand-stitched detail. She’s good. I’d rather make the outfits myself, but the last one I made took a year.”
“We don’t have that kind of time,” Rick said.
“I know. That’s why we agreed to pay the costume designer a premium for a forty-eight-hour turnaround.”
Kenzie scrolled through the pictures on her phone. “One costume apiece is going to cost more than the rental house. Kevin will go nutso.”
“Not if we have Lafitte’s treasure,” Remy said.
“Braham never stopped believing in the Confederate gold. He searched for years and finally found it. Keep your eyes and ears open. It might be there somewhere.” Kenzie passed her phone to Rick. “Here’s a couple of pictures of her work. I thought about dressing you and Pete in Marine Corps dark blue wool dress coats, unbleached linen fall-front trousers, and black wool gaiters, or as Kentucky Militia.”
The Topaz Brooch Page 14