by L. A. Kelley
His voice rang familiar. I fumbled to open the penknife, but to my horror the blade snapped in half. I jammed the broken pieces in my pocket.
“The boy’s a murderer who kidnapped the girl for ransom,” said the cop. “Someone contacted the girl’s guardian with a tip they were spotted in Atlanta. He’s on his way here now.”
I blanched. A few hours of freedom and we were already made. Next to me Esther trembled.
“What is this world coming to?” responded the man carrying the carton. “Although now I recollect, a boy and a girl boarded the bus to Macon.” To the untrained ear his tone was shocked and in earnest, but the lie screamed to me. As the squad car peeled away, the man shouted, “I hope you catch the little criminal.” He pitched the box aside and strode directly to our hiding place. “You’re safe now.”
Before I could stop her, Esther stood up. “I know your voice,” she announced smartly. “You’re the hobo from the rail yard.”
I recognized him now. He flashed a pearly white grin. “C’est bon, mademoiselle. My name’s René Marchand, Renny to my friends, and folks who save my bacon from the rail yard bulls are definitely friends. We best get moving before the police catch up with the bus to Macon and realize Renny played them a good one.” He motioned to me. “I’ll give you a boost first over the wall, then lift the girl and dog—” He bowed with a cheeky grin. “I mean, Mrs. Hart, to the other side. You help them over.”
“Wait a minute.” I gave him the eye. “Why should we trust you?”
“Is he lying, Peter?” said Esther. I had to admit he wasn’t.
Renny reached into his jacket and retrieved a newspaper. He opened to an article on an inside page. I sucked in my breath. We’d been made all right.
“What is it, Peter?”
“You may as well see, Esther.”
I couldn’t feel a thing, but knew she now perused the same news story. Renny scratched his head as I held the paper so Mrs. Hart could read, too. The article concerned the hunt for a boy murderer. The story came complete with photographs of me, Esther, and Honey Bun, including a detailed description of our clothing. My photo was taken from a class picture Chief Edwards must have gotten at the school. Mrs. Hart slicked my hair down that day despite my complaints I looked like a mama’s boy. In spite, I scowled at the camera. The photo made me appear to be an undersized lunatic gangster, exactly the sort of person who torches buildings and kidnaps little girls. What chilled my blood though, was the last sentence. Pike posted a ten thousand dollar reward for the capture of Peter Whistler dead or alive and the safe return of his ward, Esther Roth. Apparently, he didn’t give a hoot about Mrs. Hart.
Renny crammed the paper in his pocket. “I overheard a police officer questioning people downtown about two kids and a dog. I’ve been searching for you ever since.”
“We were headed to the bus depot,” said Esther, “but Peter got lost.”
“Dry up, Esther,” I sputtered.
“The police are already there by now,” said Renny. Nearby, a train whistle sounded. “I’m hopping the express. Y’all are welcome to tag along.”
I narrowed my eyes. “How do I know you won’t lead us into a trap for the ten thousand dollar reward?”
“Don’t be insulting. Marchand’s never betray friends.”
The truth…I relaxed. “We’ll go,” I told the others. “He’s not lying.”
With a quizzical grin, Renny boosted me over the wall. After the four of us dropped to the other side, I insisted Mrs. Hart take point with Renny. Simply because he wasn’t lying, didn’t mean I trusted him completely. Her sharp senses would keep an eye out for both the bulls and our new companion. Renny must have been here before because he led us directly through a fence to the rail yard assuring us bulls were few and trains slowed enough to board safely. We hid in the bushes to wait.
A rumbling roar signaled an approaching freight. As the locomotive passed, Renny yelled, “It’s the express!”
We scurried from our hiding place and kept a jogging pace with an open boxcar. I had a momentary worry getting Esther on board again, but Renny easily hoisted her into the opening. I passed off Mrs. Hart next and then Renny and I vaulted inside.
CHAPTER FIVE
Where Did You Find the Crazy Children?
Renny slid the door shut. In the rear several hay bales had been stacked against the wall. I laid them flat to give Esther a comfortable place to sit.
“Well, isn’t that nice, boy,” said Renny. “You built a little fort for the young lady.”
His comment rankled. He spoke as if I was some kid making sandcastles at the beach. He wasn’t much older than I—early twenties, maybe. He had no cause to come off so superior. I was a dognapping arsonist gangster and he was simply a hobo. “I don’t need your approval. I’m not a kid, you know.”
“I know.” Renny plunked against a hay bale. “You’re a dangerous wanted fugitive.” He didn’t display the slightest concern.
His attitude ticked me off. “Well, I am.”
No reaction.
“I’m armed.” I pulled out the broken penknife.
He yawned. “Don’t cut yourself.”
“Hey—”
Esther jumped in. “Mrs. Hart says thanks for your help, Mr. Marchand.”
“Renny,” he corrected with a twinkle. “Traveling companions should always be on a first name basis.”
“Okay. My name is Esther Roth. He’s Peter Whistler.”
“Who says you’re a companion?” I scoffed. “We don’t know you.”
“Maybe I’m a fugitive, too.”
Esther shook her head. “Mrs. Hart doesn’t think so and she’s a good judge of character. She says to tell us about yourself. If Mrs. Hart thinks you’re a proper traveling companion, she’ll let you stay. If not, you have to go as soon as the train slows enough to jump. Fair warning, though, Peter can always spot a lie. So be truthful or Mrs. Hart will bite.”
Renny shook his head. “You three are the damndest group of hobos I’ve ever met.”
Mrs. Hart growled. “No cussing,” warned Esther. “Mrs. Hart is a lady and doesn’t approve. We aren’t hobos, either. We’re…” She paused, waiting for instructions. “Oh, I like that. Mrs. Hart says we’re adventurers.”
“You’d best begin,” I warned him, “before Mrs. Hart loses her patience.”
Renny threw up his hands in surrender. “Fine, but I have a feeling your story is a hell of a lot—excusez moi—much more interesting than mine. If I pass Mrs. Hart’s approval, you must promise to tell me yours.”
Esther nodded vigorously, but I grunted, “We’ll think it over.”
“All right, then.” He settled comfortably against a hay bale. “I hail from New Orleans, though I haven’t been home in several years.”
“Run out of town?” I jeered.
“You do have a suspicious nature, mon ami. No, I left of my own accord.”
Mrs. Hart yipped and Esther translated. “She said you had to go, not because you wanted to.”
Renny gaped at her. “Cher, I cannot wait to hear your story.”
“Why did you leave?” I demanded.
Renny shifted position, obviously unsettled. “An expensive brooch belonging to my father’s wife went missing and then reappeared in a shop off Canal Street. The owner said I sold it to him.” His eyes flared. “I didn’t.”
Esther wrinkled her brow. “Your father’s wife isn’t your mother?”
“No.” His jaw clenched. “My mother died several years ago. My father remarried. I refuse to call Delphine my stepmother.”
“Why did they believe the store owner and not you?” I said.
Renny cleared his throat. “I was not unknown to New Orleans’ constabulary.”
“You’re a thief.”
He dismissed me with a wave of a hand. “Such a tawdry word. My father had many wealthy friends who played poker badly. Occasionally, I would hear a complaint when collecting on the debt.”
“And a card che
at.”
“Mon Dieu. You sadly lack in social graces, Peter. I would be happy to provide a few tips.”
“I don’t need—”
“Renny,” said Esther, “Mrs. Hart would like to know why you left New Orleans instead of staying to clear your name.”
“Delphine interceded with the police. The charges were dropped, but my father found out.” Renny scowled. “He was furious. There’s no talking to Jean-Baptiste Marchand when he’s like that. We argued. He threw me out. We haven’t spoken for two years, but lately I believe he may have had a change of heart.”
“Why?” she asked.
“My sister Amelie and I keep in touch. I write and tell her where I’m headed and she sends a letter to me in care of General Delivery at the post office. I found one waiting in Atlanta post-marked nearly two months ago. Amelie informed me Father had been preoccupied lately. When she asked what was on his mind, to her surprise he wondered where I was. Amelie encouraged him to write, but he refused and quickly changed the subject. However, she believed Father was softening and would be willing to speak again.” Renny plucked a piece of straw out of his hair and flicked it away in disgust. “I’m willing, too. You would be surprised how quickly a carefree existence on the road loses its charm.”
“You’re headed home to see your family?” I asked.
“Mostly Amelie.”
“And tell your father you’re sorry?” My skepticism was obvious.
“If my father is willing to talk,” Renny grumped, “then I might be willing to listen. He has to apologize first, though. I have nothing to be ashamed of. The man threw me out of the house on the say-so of a stranger.”
Esther crossed her arms. “Mrs. Hart says if you had been a better son to begin with, your father would never have felt the need to ask you to leave.”
He narrowed his eyes. “For a cute little pooch, Mrs. Hart is rather harsh with her criticism.”
“She says you have loose morals, a blatant disregard for the law, and are not as charming as you think you are.”
“Don’t be silly, of course I am.”
“She also says being on the road forced you to grow up. You’re not spoiled like you once were.” Obviously confounded, Renny opened his mouth to say something but Esther jumped in. “If Peter agrees you’re not lying, you can stay.”
Renny appealed to me. “What do you say, mon ami? Take pity on a fellow traveler down on his luck. Save me from the harsh judgment of Mrs. Hart.” He patted the newspaper in his pocket. “I know you of all people understand what it is to be falsely accused.”
He had me there. “He’s not lying,” I reluctantly conceded.
“Bon! Everything is settled. I will share your spacious quarters for the next day. The train won’t stop until we reach New Orleans. Now you must tell me your story. How did such a ruthless band of fugitives come to cross the path of Renny Marchand?”
“Tell him, Peter,” Esther urged. “You’re a good talker.”
“He won’t believe me. He might try to turn us in for the reward.”
“Mrs. Hart doesn’t think so and a deal’s, a deal.”
I ceded the argument. If I didn’t spill to Renny, Esther surely would. So I told him the whole story starting with Esther’s remarkable sight and my gift for lying and ending with our escape from Pike.
When I finished, Renny cleared his throat. “You spun some fine tale.”
I bristled. “You see, he doesn’t believe us.”
“We’ll prove it, then,” insisted Esther. Renny watched in amused silence as Mrs. Hart, Esther, and I argued back and forth as to the best method. Finally, Mrs. Hart suggested Renny try to lie to me. She reckoned he was good at it. He was, but he couldn’t put one over. Next, Esther had Renny read a newspaper article silently. She followed along with his eyes repeating word for word. Convinced of a trick, his doubts wavered when he held the paper to Mrs. Hart. Her paw pointed to a word Esther nailed every time. They died completely after the terrier calculated a series of square roots. Renny muttered a startled curse. After a disapproving yip from Mrs. Hart, he quickly apologized for the impolite outburst.
“Y’all got a conjurer on your tail, for sure.”
Esther wrinkled her brow. “A what?”
“Conjurer…witchdoctor…traveler on the dark road—a very dangerous person.”
“Why does he want me to open the door? What’s inside?”
“That I cannot say, mon petit, other than I’m sure it is nothing good.” He rubbed his chin. “Perhaps I know someone who can help. You need to speak with Odile, my old Cajun nurse. She’s a shaman.”
“What’s a shaman?” I asked.
“A shaman travels the white road and knows the ways of healing magic. Odile’s family goes way back to the very first shamans who found sanctuary in the bayou. Maybe she knows what’s behind the door.”
“A witch doctor worked for your father?”
“A shaman,” he stressed. “It’s no big thing. In New Orleans, all the best families engage one when a child is born. We live in a dangerous world and parents can’t watch over a baby all the time. Odile is one of the best.”
I snorted. “She didn’t keep you from becoming a thief.”
Renny regarded me severely. “That was a choice—a bad one, granted, but not the result of black magic. Moreover, I’m reformed.”
Esther broke in before I argued the point. “Where do we find her?”
“I’m not certain. Odile retired once my sister reached school age, but my father knows how to reach her. He knows everyone. I guess I will talk with Jean-Baptiste Marchand sooner than I thought.” Renny clapped me on the back. “Once I have cleared things with my father, I swear I will help you find Odile.”
Esther bubbled over with excitement. “I’ve always wanted to meet a shaman.”
“You’ve never heard of one until today,” I snidely pointed out.
“It’s not much different from wanting to meet a princess and I always wanted to meet one of those, too. So there, smarty-pants.”
To my surprise, Mrs. Hart was all for the plan. Then I remembered she was a dog. Perhaps a shaman might have an idea or two on how to return her to normal. Funny how quickly Esther and I got used to Mrs. Hart being a dog and all. The peculiar situation didn’t seem to bother Renny. Of course, considering how nonchalant he was about having a voodoo nurse as part of the household staff, swapping bodies with an animal might be downright ordinary.
We settled in for the rest of the trip. Renny didn’t grasp the concept of sit quietly and wallow in your own thoughts. He regaled us with stories of New Orleans, most of them involving him. Esther was enthralled. I tried not to pay attention except every now and then felt compelled to interject a comment.
“That’s a lie. You didn’t steal a streetcar.”
“Technically, no. I borrowed it for an hour or two.”
I gaped at him. “Why?”
“Mon ami, the streetcar was there, and Magnolia LeBlanc bet me a kiss I wouldn’t.”
“Mrs. Hart says a bet is a stupid reason to do anything,” chirped Esther.
“Mrs. Hart is quite right, but…” He winked. “It was a very nice kiss.”
We had no time to purchase food before leaving Atlanta, but once the sun set Renny cheerfully shared what he brought with him. We dined on a can of Vienna sausages and a loaf of hard crusty bread he swore tasted like sawdust next to the baguettes available in New Orleans. I remarked the statement was a lie. He argued it was merely an exaggeration and, therefore, completely allowable under Mrs. Hart’s rules.
Finally, I caught Esther stifling a yawn and insisted Renny shut his trap long enough for all of us to get some sleep. I wrapped my jacket around Esther and she curled next to Mrs. Hart. Renny made himself comfortable on a couple of hay bales and wished us all bonne nuit.
“He’s mighty full of himself,” I noted to Mrs. Hart. “Are you sure going along with him is a good idea?”
“We have to,” Esther whined. “I want
to meet the princess.”
“Shaman—not princess. What does Mrs. Hart think?”
“She doesn’t know if Odile can help, but thinks we should try. She believes Renny is sincere, but agrees he is full of himself.”
Renny propped up on one elbow. “I can hear every word. I’ll have you know, I’m considered quite good company by the most cultivated ladies of New Orleans—and you can tell Mrs. Hart to mind her own business.” He rolled over in a huff.
Late morning sun streamed through the boxcar when Renny roused us from sleep. By the sound and movement, the train had slowed considerably. “We’re on the outskirts of the city,” he said. “I know a place where we can jump.”
I gathered our meager belongings. Renny pushed the door wide open. I was hit in the face by a buffet of warm, moist air. Everything about New Orleans smelled different, earthy and damp with a faint undertone of decayed vegetation.
The brakes hissed. The train lurched and slowed to a crawl. Renny jumped first. I helped Esther to the edge of the boxcar and he lifted her to the ground. I tucked Mrs. Hart under my arm and followed right behind.
Renny threw back his head and breathed in a lungful of air. “Ah, I missed the smell.”
Esther inhaled deeply. “I just smell train and Mrs. Hart.” Always mindful of her appearance, Mrs. Hart appeared insulted.
“I’m afraid everyone could use a bath and a change of clothes, mon petit. Come, a streetcar stop is near. Once at my father’s house, we can all get cleaned up and a hot meal, including Mrs. Hart.” Those words were the first out of his mouth sounding pretty good to me.
An hour later we stood on St. Charles Avenue across the street from the Marchand home. The white mansion was the swankiest house I’d ever seen. A deep front porch supported by massive wooden columns ran along the entire front. The balcony off the second story mirrored the porch below. An inlaid brick walkway led to a mahogany front door flanked by shiny brass entrance lights. Around the house was a meticulously landscaped garden enclosed by an ornate black wrought iron fence. The old carriage house was three times the size of the one at Little Angels. The building had been converted to a garage and a big black car was visible in an open bay. The driveway ran to St. Charles Avenue. Positioned inside the wrought iron gate was a small guard house large enough for one man.