Sweet Words of Love

by Betty Brooks

  "Captain Brannigan, sir," the man said. "This is Thornton Lassiter from the Lassiter Shipping Lines. He's come to report a death."

  The man behind the large desk cluttered with paperwork pointed to a chair. "Please be seated, Mr. Lassiter. I'm Captain Brannigan." He looked at the sergeant. "You can go now."

  He waited until the man left before he spoke again. "Now, what is this about a death?" he asked. "Who died?”

  "His name was Gustave Larson," Thorne replied. "He lived in the bayou."

  "I know of him," the captain said. "He's known as a hermit. Was it foul play?"

  "No. The old man was bitten by a cottonmouth. He died shortly after I arrived at his home."

  The captain frowned. "If it wasn't foul play, why did you come here?"

  "To report the death. I buried him beside his wife and daughter."

  "He probably would've wanted that." The captain sighed heavily. "You were right to report his death. Someone would have wondered about him eventually." He shifted some papers around on his desk.

  It was obvious the man felt harried, that he wanted to get back to work, but he would just have to wait, Thorne thought. "He had a granddaughter," Thorne said. "She happens to be my half sister and I would like to notify her myself."

  "Quite right, too. But I fail to see what that has to do with the police."

  Thorne frowned at him. "There's a problem with notifying her since I don't have the faintest notion where she is."

  "You lost track of your sister?"

  Thorne grimaced. "That seems impossible to you maybe, but the fact is, I have never met my sister." He settled himself more firmly in the chair and began the story that would hopefully, lead to finding Eulalie.

  The other man listened politely, then said, "What do you expect me to do about it?"

  "I thought you migh t check on Eulalie's whereabouts," Thorne replied.

  "Mr.Lassiter, this police department is drastically undermanned, and our funds are limited. If we pulled men off their beats to look for everyone's missing sisters, then trouble would break out over the entire city." He favored Thorne with a disgusted look. "Do you have the least idea how many men it requires to keep this city safe for decent citizens?"

  "Not the least," Thorne admitted. "It's been years since I visited New Orleans and it's more than doubled in size since then ."

  The other man grunted. "My point exactly. The city has doubled in size but its police force has not. We have too small a force to contend with the murders, rapes, robberies and whatever else goes on in this fair city of ours. We most certainly do not have any time left over for finding lost sisters. Hell, she ain't in trouble anyway, from what the old man said. She's safe enough, working for one of the prominent families. But if you want to find her, the best way to go about it is to hire a detective."

  "A detective," Thorne said musingly. "I never thought of that."

  The captain grunted. "If you need me to recommend one, then we have the names of several good men on file."

  "If you don't mind."

  "Why in hell should I mind? It gets you outta here quicker." He went to the door and yanked it open. "Harvey!" he shouted. "Get a list of all the detectives we have on file and give it to Lassiter!" Leaving the door open, he returned to his chair and began shuffling the papers on his desk again, obviously meaning for Thorne to leave.

  Thorne did.

  It didn't take Thorne long to realize the list he'd been given was slightly out of date. The first name on the list, Sloan Brown, was no longer at the address listed, and none of his neighbors seemed to know anything about where he'd gone.

  ''He was there one day, and the next day he was gone," the clerk at the nearby grocery said. "He never was one for talkin' much, but you'd of thought he'd tell somebody where he was going. We get inquiries about him all the time. People Iookin' to hire him. Guess he wasn't needin' work very bad, or he'd of left a new address behind."

  The clerk was right, Thorne decided. The man must not need work very bad. And if that was the case, then he wasn't the man Thorne was looking for. He consulted the list again, went to the second address, and found the detective in his office.

  A bleary-eyed man looked up from his desk as Thorne pushed open the door. "Whatcha want?" the man asked sourly.

  Thorne's nostrils twitched at the stale smell of liquor, even before he saw the bottle on the desk. "It appears I came to the wrong place," he replied.

  "Shut the door on your way out," the man growled, hefting the bottle unsteadily.

  Thorne closed the door behind him and crossed off the first two names and addresses. Moments later he was crossing off the name of Shooter Crawford, who'd been overeager to talk to a prospective client. There had been something about the man-a less than trust-worthy look in his eyes-that had made Thorne keep silent about his reason for needing a detective.

  He was mounting the steps at the fourth address, wondering if he should give up the whole idea of hiring a detective, when a big, burly, copper-haired man shoved rudely past him. He opened the door marked Tyler Duncan, Private Detective, entered the room, and slammed the door behind him.

  Thorne's brows drew together in a heavy frown. If the new arrival was the detective, then Thorne had probably struck out again. His knuckles rapped against the door.

  "Come in!" a voice barked from inside.

  Pushing open the door, Thorne entered the room. The man who'd shoved so rudely past him was seated behind a large desk, pushing papers around as though searching for a particular one. He extracted a single sheet and perused it for a moment, then grunted and slid it into a drawer. Then he looked up at his visitor.

  "Are you a prospective client or a salesman?" the man growled. "If you're a salesman, then you might as well know I'm not buying. That'll save us both time." The man's green eyes were piercing as they studied his visitor.

  Thorne looked down at himself, then pointedly at the man again. "Do I look like a salesman?"

  "Most salesmen around here take great care to wear the look of prosperity. You have that look. But if you're not a salesman, then you just might be what I'm setting here waiting for ... a client."

  "And if you're setting here waiting for a client, then you can't be a very good detective."

  "You won't find any better than me," Tyler Duncan growled. "And that's no brag, just a fact." His heavy brows raised slightly. "If you're staying, then take that chair." He pointed at a heavy wooden chair, which looked decidedly uncomfortable. "And if you're leaving, there's the door."

  Thorne's lips curled in an amused grin. "You appear not to care ifI go or stay, but from the looks of thisplace-" He broke off and looked pointedly at the threadbare carpet on the floor. "-you can't be getting all that much business."

  "I'll admit it's slow at the moment. But it will pick up later . . . I hope." The last words were barely distinguishable, having been uttered slightly above a whisper. But Thorne had heard, and his grin widened into a smile. "I suppose I'm staying," he said. "You look big enough to handle most anything that gets in your way. How tall are you anyway?"

  "Six foot five inches," Tyler replied. "And, before you ask, I weigh two hundred fifty pounds."

  "Thought as much."

  "About handling whatever gets in my way. . . . What did you have in mind?"

  Thorne told his story to the detective, ending with his attempt to gain the help of the local police.

  "The captain is right about not having time or manpower to search for your sister," Tyler said, reaching for a cigar box on his desk. The detective offered one to Thorne, who shook his head no, then bit off one end. A moment later he puffed on the lit cigar, then spoke around it. "It appears to be a simple enough job," he said. "Finding the girl might take a few days, though. New Orleans is a big place."

  Thorne nodded abruptly. "That's why I'm hiring a detective. I don't want Eulalie going to her grandfather's house and finding his grave. It would be a hell of a way for her to find out he's dead."

  "You think
it's going to be easier if you tell her?"

  "At least she'll know she's not alone in the world." "She apparently knows that already, since she's black-mailing your father. She appears to be a greedy, little bitch, doesn't she? Wanting everything your father has worked so long to build up. I hardly think a woman like that would shed too many tears when she discovers her grandfather is dead."

  Thorne studied the detective's face but could not read his expression. "I have a peculiar notion in my head,'' he said. "And I just can't let go of it. Why would she send her cousin to deal with my father? Why not go herself? She's supposed to be interested in the shipping lines. Wouldn't she want to inspect them, to see what she's bent on acquiring?"

  "Perhaps she couldn't face your father."

  "No. I don't think that's it. A woman who could do a thing like that would surely want to gloat. If I had been treated that way, then I'd want to face the son of a bitch and make him look me in the eye and admit what he's done."

  "You think she might not know what her cousin is doing?"

  "I don't know," Thorne admitted. "I'm just saying the whole thing is peculiar. Larson has been bleeding my old man for more than a year now. If Eulalie is getting any part of the money, then why is she still working as a maid cleaning somebody else's house? "

  The other man grinned across at him. "I was wondering if you'd realized the discrepancy of that fact."

  Thorne felt pleased with his choice of a detective. There was more to Tyler Duncan than what was apparent on the surface. "I suppose you suspected something fishy the moment I told you why I was searching for her."

  "I did."

  "Then, why did you say she was greedy?"

  "I said she appeared to be greedy. There's a difference, you know. And I said it because I wanted to see your reaction."

  Fury surged through Thorne. "The hell you say!" He glared at Tyler for a long moment, then the anger slowly faded and a smile slowly crept across his face. "You may be as dishonest as they come, Duncan. But I don't think so. There's something about you that inspires my trust."

  "Then I guess we have a deal."

  "We have a deal," Thorne agreed. "How soon will you start to work?"

  "I started the minute you stepped through that door, Lassiter. Now tell me once again exactly what GustaveLarson told you.''

  Sixteen

  Thorne returned to the hotel and was striding toward the wide staircase leading to the upper floors when he was hailed by the desk clerk.

  "Telegram for you, Mr. Lassiter!"

  Taking the telegram from the clerk, Thorne slit the envelope open. It was from his sister.

  Have you found her? (stop) Please reply. (stop) Eloise.

  "Will you be sending a reply, sir?" the desk clerk asked.

  "Yes," Thorne said. "Do you have paper and pencil?"

  The clerk handed it across the counter, and Thorne quickly penned his reply: No word yet. (stop) Will write tomorrow and report progress. (stop) Thorne.

  Handing the paper to the clerk, he said, "Please send that to Eloise Lassiter, in care of the Lassiter Shipping Lines in St. Louis."

  "Be glad to, sir," the clerk said, pocketing the money Thorne handed him. "And if I can be of further help, then please-"

  "Perhaps you can be,"Thorne interrupted. 'I’m looking for agirl-a woman really-who is a maid for one of the prominent families in New Orleans. Trouble is, I don't know which family she's working for."

  The clerk looked thoughtful. "I know some of the servants around here. Not many, mind you. But perhaps…what’s the girl’s name?”

  “Eulalie. Eulalie Lassiter. Or she might be going by the name of Eulalie Larson.”

  The clerk shook his head. “The name has a familiar ring, but that’s not surprising. Eulalie is a common name around these parts. You say she’s working as a maid?”

  “So her grandfather told me,” Thorne replied.

  “Most of the wealthier families belong to a local club, the Thespian Society. Someone there might be of help, might even be her employers.”

  “Where is the Thespian Society located?” Thorne asked.

  The clerk told him, and Thorne, having already turned toward the staircase again, altered his course and headed toward the front door. It wouldn’t take him long to make inquiries about his sister.

  On the second floor of the hotel, Rainey lay abed, staring up at the white ceiling. She’d been trying to sleep for the past hour, but so far had been unable to do so. She was restless, disturbed by Thorne’s continued absence. But she was tired too: her energy completely drained, as it had been since they had arrived in New Orleans. Even so, sleep eluded her.

  Perhaps it was the queasy feeling in her stomach that caused unrest? She turned on her side to try to alleviate that condition. When the queasy feeling only worsened, she turned on her back again.

  God, what was the matter with her? Had she eaten something that had gone bad? It must have been the fish. It was a fact that fish was quick to spoil if not kept cold enough. And in this heat…yes, it must have been the fish.

  She looked at the door, wishing it would open and Thorne would step inside the room. But it was a futile wish. The door remained firmly closed.

  Rainey sighed and sat up on the bed, fighting a fresh wave of nausea. Pouring herself a glass of water from

  the pitcher left beside the bed, she drank it down quickly, then lay back down. Her nausea deepened and she clamped a hand across her mouth. Oh, God, she was going to lose her dinner!

  Throwing herself off the bed, she hurried toward the washbasin in the corner, barely arriving before she lost the contents of her stomach. She returned to the bed again and lay down, shivering and weak, damp with perspiration.

  When she'd regained enough control of herself to stop shivering, Rainey became aware of the smell. Forcing herself off the bed, she pulled the bell cord to sum­ mon the maid. The elderly woman who came took in the situation quickly.

  "Oh, you poor thing," she said. ''I'll just take this away and bring you a clean one." She picked up the soiled bowl and towels. "Do you need a doctor?"

  "No," Rainey said. "I think I ate some spoiled fish."

  "Not here," the woman said sternly. "The cook's real careful about the food." She looked uncertain. "Are you sure you don't want me to call the doctor?"

  “I’m sure," Rainey replied. "I just need to rest."

  "Of course you do. You go to sleep. I'll be real quiet when I bring another bowl and more towels. You won't

  even know I've been here."

  And Rainey didn't know. When she spread herself on the bed again, the sleep she'd been courting finally arrived. She woke more than an hour later, feeling rested and refreshed, every sign of nausea having completely disappeared.

  Rainey rose and went into the sitting room, hoping to see Thorne there, but he was still conspicuously absent. She seated herself on the settee, leaned back and closed her eyes, remembering the night she'd spent in his arms. That marvelous, fantastic night would live in her memory forever. Oh, God, it had been wonderful. Even though she'd been unfulfilled when it was over, the leading up to the culmination had been glorious. But it was an experience that would never be repeated, she knew, even though Thorne had told her if there were any consequences, he would-

  Consequences!

  A baby!

  Rainey sat bolt upright, perspiration beading her brow as a sudden thought struck her. Could she be carrying Thorne's child? Was it possible? After just the one night together?

  Oh, God, if it were only true!

  And it might he. It would certainly account for the queasiness that she'd been feeling, for the sleeplessness that she'd been enduring. She counted back and discovered that her body functions, which had always been regular in the past, were late.

  Was that the reason? she wondered. Was she going to have a baby? Thorne's baby? All the signs pointed to it.

  Just the thought of having Thorne's child excited her more than she'd like to admit. Yet, if it were s
o, then she must keep the news from him because he'd made it clear from the beginning that he would marry her if the need should arise.

  And she didn't want him like that! If Thorne were forced to marry her because he thought she was having his child, the marriage would never work. She'd already decided that, before she realized such a thing might actually come about.

  Oh, God! What could she do?

  Finding herself unable to sit still, Rainey rose to her feet and began to pace the floor. She felt more impatient than ever that Thorne hadn't returned. Yet, if he returned at that moment, a tute as he was, he'd be sure to know something was amiss.

  More than an hour later Rainey became aware that she was hungry. Since Thorne had not yet returned, she left the suite to find herself something to eat. As she descended the stairway, her gaze scoured the lobby for some sign of Thorne. The desk clerk stood behind the counter, speaking to a familiar-looking man. Rainey's gaze narrowed slightly as she realized the man was Cage Larson.

  What was he doing in New Orleans? she wondered. His presence struck her as undeniably peculiar. His turning up in the very hotel where they were staying could not be a coincidence. She was suddenly sure of that. Was he following them for some reason?

  She slipped behind a huge potted tree and waited until he'd left the hotel, then she crossed the lobby to the counter. "What did that man want?" she asked. "The one you were just talking to."

  The clerk smiled at her. "He was looking for Mr. Lassiter. I told him he was out. Should I have sent him to you?"

  "No. You did right to send him away," she assured the man.

  Now, what could Cage want with Thorne? she wondered.

  Thorne was admitted to the Thespian Society by a decidedly reluctant butler dressed in somber black. "The club is closed to nonmembers," he said.

  "I realize that," Thorne said pleasantly. "But I've been thinking of joining and I thought it wouldn't be out of order for me to look around first."