Missouri Magic

by Charlotte Hubbard

  The man beside her was truly distraught, and she hoped no one else came into the post office before she heard his whole story. “What made you summon him, then?” she demanded in a low voice. “She was adjusting fairly well to Justine’s—”

  “Ambrose saw the obituary in the Courier Post and contacted me,” he replied. “Suspicions of foul play were in the air—you were accusing Damon Frye of driving your aunt over the cliff—so I sent an urgent telegraph to him, under his assumed name. Had I known he’d start for Hannibal so quickly, I would’ve warned you.”

  Celesta glanced toward the window, considering his confession. “So he came charging in during the storm, hellbent on catching me with my hands on the bank accounts. He knew it was Justine who put a stop to my visits when Grandfather died, and he assumed I was getting even by killing her—or having Damon do it. I don’t suppose he had any way of knowing that his sister had come to love me?”

  “Probably not. Correspondence was risky, so I only notified him of important events, like Rachel’s passing, and mentioned that you were living at the Manor,” he replied ruefully. “I should’ve told him later about how well the three of you ladies were getting on—how lively Katherine was, and how even staid old Justine was loosening up because you and Damon gave them something to live for. But I doubt Ambrose would’ve believed his women were faring so well without him.”

  A smile twitched at her lips. “Proud to a fault, isn’t he?”

  Thompkins let out a mirthless laugh. “So proud he was ready to die of gangrene rather than live as a one-legged man. But I’m not much better. I found myself wishing I’d have let him rot, for the cruel way he was deceiving his wife. I’ve often regretted that I didn’t remain aboard the Phantom, as any responsible captain would’ve, so I might’ve died with honor rather than living to have a hand in such a scheme. One mistake led to another, and once I agreed to keep Ambrose’s secret, I doomed myself to carrying out his lies. It was a coward’s way out, Celesta, and I can understand why you’d detest my very presence.”

  Bill Thompkins’s abject outpouring shed new light on the tale she’d heard only from her uncle’s viewpoint. Well she knew how domineering Ambrose Ransom could be, how determined he was to maintain his powerful position and reputation, at other people’s expense . . . and Bill Thompkins, as an employee who’d jumped ship, was the handiest man to sacrifice.

  “You couldn’t have foreseen his treachery, Bill,” she said softly. “The way Ambrose tells it, you saved his life—twice—which more than compensates for fleeing a boiler that would’ve blown anyway. And your concern for Katherine has certainly been genuine.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said with a wistful shake of his head. “Indecent as this may sound, I was praying for the day your uncle would pass on so I could court her—as you apparently were prompting me to do—yet I had a feeling this scheme would backfire. At least her reputation’s intact.”

  Celesta patted his arm. “From what I can tell, so’s yours. No one’s mentioned your part in keeping my uncle’s existence a secret, or in keeping him alive.”

  “A crumb from the table of the almighty Ambrose,” he commented wryly. “When the Phantom went down, we crewmen lost our livelihoods for a while, so at least the hush money bought food until I landed this postal job. Since then I’ve banked the cash he’s sent. Can’t stand to look at it.”

  “I’d say your earned it,” Celesta said firmly, “and as far as I’m concerned, you owe no one an apology. You saved my uncle’s life and then accepted terms he wouldn’t let you refuse. Who could’ve done any differently? And who would’ve believed you, had you exposed Ambrose for the scoundrel he was before he showed up in the flesh?”

  He grinned shyly. “You’ve got a point there. But I’m still concerned that Katherine’ll hate me when she learns—”

  “I won’t tell her,” Celesta insisted, “and you can be sure Ambrose won’t admit needing your help, after all his ballyhoo about buying three new steamers. Confessing your part in the story would do Katherine no earthly good, that I can see ... and if you want to tell her when she’s recovered, I guess that’s your business.”

  Bill’s eyes looked more liquid than usual as he adjusted his spectacles. “Thank you. You’ve been very kind,” he murmured.

  “My friends are precious and few these days. Can’t afford to lose any to grudges and petty misunderstandings.” A sigh escaped her, and then there was another awkward silence until Celesta brightened with a sudden idea. She grinned at Thompkins. “What’re you doing Halloween? Eula’s hosting a birthday party for me, and I’d love it if the Troubadours would provide the music.”

  He chortled. “No one misses a Perkins party if he can help it. We’d be pleased to play—but are you sure Patrick’ll go along with this? Rumor has it he’s after your hand.”

  “What he’s after is the main reason I want him to be holding a bass fiddle that night,” she replied with a wink. “Eula will see it that way, too, so we’ve got him outvoted.”

  Thompkins returned to his post behind the counter, chuckling, while Celesta quickly took the envelope addressed to Lester Montgomery from her mailbox. Now that the air between them was cleared she felt much better about buying the cyanide crystals Eula sent her after. Somehow she would solve Mama’s murder, and somehow Patrick would figure out that marrying her wasn’t the solution to his financial problems—if indeed he had any. She would rely upon herself, as she always had, and the pieces of her life would someday fall back into place.

  A brisk wind from the river made her hurry along Broadway and into Hoskins Drugstore, where Eula always did business. She nodded to people she knew and stepped up to the counter, where Robert was counting little pink pills into a vial. When he glanced at her, Celesta reminded herself to sound firm rather than fearful. “I need some cyanide crystals, please. Eula saw a mouse in the kitchen, and she won’t rest until it’s dead.”

  The druggist smiled and handed her a fat paper packet. “Must be the weather, ’cause folks’re sure buying me out of this stuff. I’ll put it on her account.”

  She thanked him and turned toward the door, but was stopped by a familiar voice. “Are you sure the rat’s name isn’t Ransom, Miss Montgomery? I hear you and Ambrose haven’t spoken a civil word since my visit to the Manor with you.”

  Celesta pivoted, aware that the store had become extremely quiet. Police Chief Jones was watching her, awaiting her answer. “I think that’s our business rather than yours,” she replied in a low voice.

  Jones looked her over with a smirk. “The way Ambrose tells it, you and that Frye fellow were in it together, working your way toward the family fortune a little early.”

  “And you’d believe a man who’s been playing dead for more than a year?” she challenged. “If Katherine could talk, she’d tell you what’s really gone on, and—”

  “Like you say, Miss Montgomery, that’s Ransom business,” the chief stated with a sardonic chuckle. “Just consider yourself warned before that poison gets put where it shouldn’t be. I get paid to keep watch.”

  Celesta gripped the small sack to keep from smacking him with it. “And I bet Ambrose pays you well,” she muttered, and then she whirled around and strode out the door.

  Chapter 30

  As the hour of her birthday party approached, Celesta felt anything but happy. All week she’d cooked and cleaned because Eula didn’t hire any other help. Only the cake came from the bakery; the elaborate canapés, petit fours, and punch were her own creations. And now, as the three of them draped black and orange streamers between the ballroom sconces, Mrs. Perkins was even flightier than usual.

  “Have we forgotten anything?” she fretted. “I haven’t entertained in ages, and I’m so afraid I’ve overlooked something or failed to invite someone, or—”

  “My concern is that we have no unpleasant encounters,” Patrick said, eyeing Celesta pointedly from his perch on the ladder. “Harlan Jones anticipates a squabble, and ever since you behaved so brashly
at the druggist’s, he’s been asking about you. If you can’t call a truce with your uncle, I hope you have the sense to stay across the room from him tonight.”

  ‘It’s not my fault he’s such a bully!” Celesta insisted. “Every time I check on Aunt Katherine, he hovers about as though I’m going to walk off with the family silver.”

  “He’s been terribly rude,” Eula chimed in. “I wouldn’t have invited him if Katherine weren’t so fond of parties. Lord knows she needs an outing, so I hope Ambrose behaves himself.”

  “Well, you didn’t help matters by asking the Troubadours to play,” her son snapped. “How am I supposed to intervene if he gets hostile? I’d hoped to be dancing with Celesta instead of playing that damned bass all night.”

  Eula let out an airy chuckle. “I’m sure you’ll find a way, son. You always manage to get what you want.”

  Patrick glared after her until her footsteps were echoing in the hallway, and then turned to Celesta. “Mother’s right, you know,” he stated in a low voice. “Tonight you’re mine, so don’t try to avoid me by accepting offers for every dance.”

  Whose party is this? Celesta bit back her retort as she handed him the last of the black and orange candles for the sconces. First Eula had heaped all the preparations on her, and now Patrick was telling her not to enjoy herself. What a fine twenty-first birthday she was having! And to make matters worse, she had a nagging feeling that something far more ominous than a squabble with Uncle Ambrose would turn the masquerade into a crashing fiasco.

  She dressed carefully that evening, unable to shake the sensation that irrevocable events would follow each other like falling dominoes tonight . . . and that Patrick would start the chain reaction. He’d been watching her closely, like a panther analyzing its prey—and Eula had been observing them as though she, too, expected dire consequences if things got out of hand at the party.

  It was enough to make Celesta wonder if the cake’s candles were loaded with dynamite ... or if the punch in her cup would somehow get spiked with cyanide.

  Celesta ran her hands over her luxurious crimson velvet gown, the indulgence her New York uncle had paid for. Its fitted bodice followed her curves down to a peaked waistline and a full, bell-shaped skirt that whispered lushly when she turned in front of her mirror. The elongated cuffs, which closed with ten tiny buttons, hugged her forearms and then flared into huge leg-of-mutton sleeves. A scalloped neckline daringly displayed the ivory hollows of her collarbone, and Patrick’s choker was the perfect accessory, even if she wished it had come from someone else. She’d never looked lovelier, yet she couldn’t seem to smile.

  As Celesta sat in front of her vanity to arrange her hair, she pondered another unsettling circumstance. She’d been the first person downstairs this morning—or so she’d thought, until she heard a rustling in the pantry.

  “Eula?” she’d called out as she walked through the kitchen. “May I get you something? If you can’t sleep, I’ll fix you some—”

  She swung the door open to an empty pantry, and the sight of a fat mouse lying belly-up on the counter made her yelp. Were those footsteps retreating outside, or the beatings of her own heart?

  When she opened the outside door she saw no one, and only when she turned back inside did she notice the sack for the rat poison lying on the floor. She and Eula had dusted the crannies of this room and the kitchen, yet Celesta could’ve sworn at least a third of the poison was left. All appetite for breakfast vanished as she picked up the empty sack.

  The first thing she checked was the sugar bowl she alone used now . . . the bitter almond aroma she sought wasn’t there. Or did the sweet spiciness of the little cakes and cookies for the party mask the tell tale scent of the cyanide? Reason told her that neither Eula nor Patrick would sprinkle the refreshments with the lethal powder, but all day she’d been wondering where the rest of it went . . . and who took it.

  Now, as she put the last pin into her elaborate hairstyle, Celesta fought the tightness in her stomach. It was very hard to celebrate a birthday she feared would turn into a death day—there’s your runaway imagination again, she chided herself.

  The Perkinses weren’t brazen enough to do her in while Hannibal’s upper crust looked on. Were they?

  And they certainly had no motive for getting rid of her . . . did they?

  “Enough of this,” she muttered as she stood up. From her window she saw a wagon pull up and Bill Thompkins directing his musicians as they unloaded their instruments. Soon there would be music and dancing, gaiety like none of them had enjoyed since before Mama’s passing. You’ve got to go, for her, she thought staunchly. You must pretend this is the happiest night of your life while you figure out what’s happened to that poison.

  Celesta donned her mask and managed a subtle smile: the vixen in the mirror looked every bit as brazen as she’d hoped. The red velvet mask, edged in rhinestones, covered just enough of her face to render it provocatively mysterious. Everyone would know who she was, and she’d be highly visible, which certainly played to her favor tonight.

  She took a deep breath and went downstairs.

  Patrick saw her, and his breath caught in his throat. She was carrying trays of food from the dumbwaiter to the long refreshment table, a scarlet vision that stirred something primal within him. Then he scowled. It was Celesta’s birthday, yet she was the serving girl—had received no help with preparations all week, now that he thought about it.

  His mother needed a good talking to, for trotting his intended out as the maid while they were entertaining Hannibal’s elite. It wasn’t as though they couldn’t afford a couple of girls to perform these menial tasks—Patrick’s throat went dry when he caught sight of his mother’s smug smile. She wore an elaborate, layered dress of brilliant blues, teals, and greens with a feathered headpiece that also formed a mask—a peacock’s head, complete with a golden, glittery beak and eyeholes. Sequins and spangles caught the ballroom’s low light and made her shimmer as she flitted from the dais to the arched entryway to greet the Troubadours.

  She was up to something. Eula Perkins assumed these moods when she was ready to manipulate people and events—he’d seen his father fall victim often enough to recognize the signs—and Patrick suspected that either he or Celesta would have to comply with her wishes tonight or be subjected to some bitter medicine.

  The sight of Celesta’s cleavage made him forget his unpleasant thoughts. God, she looked ripe in that dress, so richly attired that every man present would marvel at the transformation from the housekeeper to the host’s lady. The glimmer of the golden heart at her throat made him smile: Celesta had chosen the scarlet dress to wear with his choker. She was finally learning her place.

  “Put your tongue back in your mouth,” Thompkins teased as he walked by with the music stands tucked under his arms.

  Perkins chuckled and then grasped his elbow. “Start the evening with a couple of numbers I don’t have to play in, so I can greet our guests—”

  “You’ll be too busy gawking down her front to notice who comes in,” Bill grunted.

  “—and after the intermission, I’ll want to dance with her,” he added. “Status has its advantages, and I intend to take every one of them.”

  He clapped Thompkins on the back and rushed over to assist Celesta with a large crock of punch. “You look absolutely ravishing,” he murmured as he relieved her of the heavy vessel. “Your mystique would be ruined by a stain on this magnificent gown, so allow me to refill the bowls tonight. You’re the guest of honor, after all.”

  He couldn’t read the thoughts behind her deep green eyes, because the crimson mask, with its twinkling rhinestones, covered her facial expressions. “Thank you,” she replied, and went to fetch the last tray from the dumbwaiter.

  The Troubadours began tuning to Bill’s pitch pipe, and then the various instruments trilled through familiar passages from the ensemble’s repertoire. The candles were flickering above the gracefully draped streamers, a spicy scent of mulled
cider teased at his nose, and the refreshment table looked ready to collapse beneath the spread Celesta had prepared. All was ready, and his first time hosting his peers and competitors would be the most talked-about event in Hannibal for weeks . . . the hard, circular lump in his pocket assured him of that.

  He guided Celesta toward the doorway. “Let’s greet our guests,” he said with a pleased smile. “For the rest of the evening we’ll let them serve themselves so you can enjoy your party, darling.”

  Her hand felt clammy in his, a sign that she shared his excitement. Her ebony hair was braided around her head with strings of crimson glass beads, and her matching earrings dangled enticingly down her ivory neck. She was probably wearing his scarlet lingerie as well—perhaps had been inspired by the way it complemented her coloring—and he made a note to provide plenty of red for this splendid creature’s wardrobe . . . red that made his pulse pound for her.

  “... and of course you know my son, Patrick,” his mother’s voice cut into his thoughts. He greeted the couple clad as a gangly hare and a ponderous tortoise, and recognized them as one of Hannibal’s other lumber barons and his obese wife.

  “Bertram, Agatha,” he said as he clasped the man’s furry glove. “And in case you haven’t met our birthday girl, this is my dearest friend, Celesta.”

  Guests were gathering in the hallway now, admiring each other’s costumes and trying to guess who was wearing them. The most prominent doctors, lawyers, and lumbermen were here, men whose ranks he was about to join as he assumed his father’s social status—and they were all enthralled by the woman at his side. It was an auspicious beginning for the new era of Perkins Lumber, and Celesta deserved a reward for making it possible.