My Heart Belongs in Galveston, Texas

by Kathleen Y'Barbo

  “I prefer to think that is merely all you plan to tell me right now.” He paused. “So let me guess. You’ve probably found some obscure story about Lafitte that you’re convinced that nice Smith lady can corroborate. Am I right?”

  “No comment,” she said sweetly, unwilling to let him know how close he was to the truth.

  The vessel shuddered while the sound of thunder echoed in the tiny cabin. “When you’re working on a story, where do you get your research, Madeline?”

  The question startled her. Madeline swung her attention from the plate in front of her to the Pinkerton detective. “What an odd question, Jonah.”

  “I’m just curious.” Jonah shifted positions and pushed his plate away. “As a Pinkerton agent, I am trained in investigative technique. I have been taught to deduce and to look beyond the obvious to uncover the facts. I learned this from my training. I’ve seen you work but I never asked, ‘Where did you learn it?’”

  The full answer would have been that she learned at her father’s knee. She learned by following her father and brother, and not always with their permission. She read case files by candlelight when all the other family members were fast asleep, and then she practiced her skills on cases her family turned down. She hounded her brother relentlessly until he would share the details of whatever matter he’d been assigned to handle. Finally, she used those same relentless arguments to convince Papa that she too could work just fine in the family business.

  “Madeline?”

  She shook her head and reached to touch the chain at her neck. “Anything I have learned since convent school was simply absorbed by watching others or asking questions.”

  Jonah chuckled. She had always been curious, and he’d been on the receiving end of those persistent questions for as long as he had known her. “Those are the basis of the Pinkerton’s observation skills as well.”

  “Well, there you have it,” she said as she forced a smile. “I suppose I should have become a Pinkerton detective instead of a reporter.”

  Jonah chuckled. “Now there’s a good idea. It is never too late to change your ways. The agency is always looking for women to join our ranks.”

  “I would think so,” she said. “Considering it was a woman who saved President-elect Lincoln from assassination in Baltimore before his inauguration.”

  “That is true,” he said. “I have found when I partner with a female agent, I can send her into a situation and get a successful result when a man going into that same situation would likely not succeed.” He paused to lean against a trunk. “I suppose that the Lord created men and women distinctly different for a good reason.”

  Madeline allowed her smile to show him she agreed. “Is that why you asked Madame to send me on this trip?”

  “No,” he said quickly. “In fact, I argued against bringing you along. The last thing I need on a fact-finding mission is a woman without training following me around and ruining my investigation.”

  “I see.” She paused, her feelings a little hurt. “And yet you’ve just complimented my skills as an investigator.”

  “While I said you might make a good Pinkerton detective, I did not mean you were ready for the work just yet.”

  She shrugged. “I fail to see what preparation I need. We’re going to Indianola to look for clues to help Madame find her granddaughter’s current whereabouts. I know how I would handle this as a reporter, and it likely isn’t any different than how you plan to handle it.”

  “All right,” he said slowly. “Tell me your plan, Madeline.”

  “I would begin by looking for any public records that might exist.”

  “The city was nearly wiped out by a hurricane five years ago,” he said with a shrug. “There are no records prior to then, at least none that are legible.”

  “All right,” she said slowly, “then I would start by asking questions of anyone who might have known her.”

  “What about a description?”

  “In the story I recorded yesterday, Madame comments on her granddaughter’s dark hair. Unlike fair-haired children whose hair darkens with age, a woman who started life with black hair will very likely still have black hair as she ages.”

  “Agreed,” he said. “And owing to the fact of Mrs. Smith’s Louisiana background, there is probably a strong French influence in her features. At least that is what I was assuming. As a Pinkerton, that is.”

  “And as a reporter, I would agree.” She shook her head. “So what do you suggest? We find all the dark-haired women and interrogate them for their names and backgrounds?”

  He laughed at her suggestion. “Hardly. We start with the town doctor in the hopes he’s been there long enough to deliver a child the age of the woman we are looking for. Then we find out who else has been in town that long and speak to them.”

  “Then we interrogate the dark-haired women?” she added with a smile.

  “Exactly. So, your necklace,” he said as he nodded toward her. “What is the meaning of the key?”

  She grasped for the chain that had obviously been exposed when she took her tumble and tucked it back into her bodice. “It was a gift from my father,” she told him truthfully. “It has no meaning beyond a kind remembrance from parent to child.”

  “I see,” Jonah said, although his tone gave Madeline reason to suspect he did not.

  Climbing to her feet, Madeline surveyed the damage her clumsiness had caused. “I have a length of toweling in my cabin. I’ll just go get it and clean up this mess.”

  “Leave it,” he said. “I’ll alert the porter and have him take care of it.”

  She collected her plate and utensils and put them away then used her napkin to dab at the remains of the mess she made of her skirt. “If you’re certain, then, I will say good night.”

  “I am certain,” he said, bidding her good night.

  Madeline hurried back to the seclusion of her cabin. What was it about Jonah Cahill that never failed to put her on her guard? Perhaps because he could be kind and he could be ruthless, often in the same conversation.

  Realizing she would have to share yet another meal with the Pinkerton agent before the steamship arrived at Indianola, she opened the crate and filled a plate with enough food for her own breakfast. Closing the hamper once more, she carried it to Jonah’s cabin door and knocked.

  He opened the door and looked down at her, a bemused expression on his face as he glanced at the hamper in her hand. “Still hungry?”

  Madeline thrust the hamper toward him. “I thought it would be easier for both of us if I brought this to you tonight. That way you can have your breakfast whenever you wish.”

  “And you?” he asked with a quirk of his dark brow.

  “I’ve set my portion aside,” she said. “So this is all yours.”

  She hurried back to her room before he could respond. With the door latched behind her and the possibility of sharing a breakfast with Jonah Cahill now gone, Madeline breathed a sigh of relief.

  As she undressed and donned her nightgown, Madeline thought back over their conversation. She retrieved her notebook and writing materials and padded over to the desk to make notes.

  When she was done, Madeline sat back and looked over the information. That task accomplished, she climbed into her bunk and curled beneath the blankets.

  On the other side of the wall was the most frustrating Pinkerton detective in the employ of the agency. Why then did she dream of the two of them in a garden somewhere, Jonah digging holes and her covering them up? Stranger still, Madame sat in a garden chair covered in roses supervising the entire hopeless endeavor.

  Madeline sat bolt upright, trying to decide whether to laugh or hurry to record the silly dream in her notebook. A knock at her cabin door interrupted her debate.

  She wrapped the blanket over her nightclothes and hurried to the door. “Yes?” she called.

  “We’re docking soon,” Jonah said. “Were you sleeping?”

  “No,” she said as she shifted her b
lanket. “But thank you for letting me know.”

  She hurried to dress and perform her morning tasks, taking bites of the delicious breakfast Cook had prepared in between attempts at taming her hair and tying the ribbons on her dress. Finally, as the steam engines shuddered to silence, Madeline was ready to depart.

  While Jonah made arrangements to store their things for their return trip, Madeline wandered out on the deck to take a look around. Indianola appeared to be much more of a bustling port city than she expected.

  More than a dozen ships—among them several from the Morgan line—lay at anchor near the two massive wharves that stretched out almost as far as she could see. A smaller wharf, populated this morning by a fishing boat and a small craft of some sort, had been situated some distance away down the beach.

  Madeline turned her attention to the city itself, a jumble of buildings hugging the coastline and sprawling off both to the east and to the west of where she stood. A salt-scented breeze kicked up, and Madeline held tight to the rail beside her. The morning was warm, and yet many of the men and women who pressed past her, recent arrivals from a vessel of Bremen registry, wore several layers of garments.

  Other travelers milled about, speaking what sounded like German or Czech. Owing to the vast amount of laughter and animated embraces, some seemed to be meeting long-lost friends or family.

  Jonah appeared beside her and nodded toward the city. “Shall we?” he said as he led her down the wharf.

  Their first stop was the doctor’s office, where they discovered that the current physician, a Dr. Hardy, had only been practicing in the city since the previous fall. His slight stature, obvious youth, and pimpled complexion gave away the fact before he admitted it.

  “I have the address of the former resident of my office. Please just wait one moment, Detective Cahill,” he told Jonah as he went back to get the information.

  “This appears to be a dead end,” Madeline said while they were left alone. “So I suppose we’re off to the preacher next?”

  “We are,” Jonah said. “Unless you have another idea.”

  “Off to the preacher it is,” she said as she watched the bustle of traffic out the doctor’s front window.

  “Well, isn’t that nice?” Dr. Hardy said as he handed Jonah a slip of paper. “You two off to the preacher. I do hope you’ll be staying in the city. Perhaps your wife might want to trust me with whatever ails her,” he said as he eyed Madeline with a less than medical interest. “Should the time come that I am needed, that is.”

  “I assure you it will not,” Madeline said as she thrust the door open and departed, leaving Jonah and the disgusting doctor in her wake. Two steps onto the porch, Madeline heard a bullet zing past.

  Jonah hauled her against him and ducked back inside. “Is there another exit?” he asked the doctor.

  Dr. Hardy seemed befuddled for a moment. “Is she hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” Madeline said.

  “An exit,” Jonah repeated. “Is this door the only one?”

  “Oh,” he said as he recovered. “No, there’s another back in the exam room.” He cast a furtive glance at Madeline then hurried to show them the way out.

  Jonah stepped out first, his gun drawn. At his nod, Madeline followed. A moment later, the doctor slammed the door shut and the lock sounded as he barred the door.

  “Did you see who fired the shot?” Jonah asked as they crept around the side of the building.

  Madeline tried her best to recall anything—or anyone—suspicious. “No,” she finally said. “But there were plenty of people out there who might have taken aim at us.” She paused. “Or maybe the shot was meant for that doctor. He’s not exactly a man I would trust whatever ails me to.”

  Despite the gravity of the situation, Jonah smiled. “That’s certainly possible. It’s also possible the shot was accidental.”

  “True,” Madeline said just as another shot sounded.

  The idiot shooting at them had best be wishing today was his last day, because once Jonah found him, it would be. He looked over at Madeline, obediently waiting in her hiding place behind a water barrel, and then took another step forward.

  He was now able to see into the alley, the only place the shooter could have ducked into after firing. Though there were several cats yowling and a child peering at him from behind a washtub, he found no one who could have fired the shot.

  “Did you see a man with a gun?” he called to the child, who nodded. “Where did he go, then?”

  The little one calmly pointed directly at Jonah. “Me? You mean you only saw me?”

  The child nodded as Jonah stifled a grumble. The shooter was likely long gone now. Still, he called to the child. “Go inside, now. It’s not safe out.”

  “What are you hollering for?” a woman said as she stepped out onto the porch.

  “Someone is firing shots,” Jonah said to her. “It’s not a place I would want my child to be playing.”

  She was young, almost too young to be the mother of this imp, and yet the woman’s face wore the aged look of someone who had seen more than her years should have allowed. She focused weary brown eyes in Jonah’s direction.

  “They shooting at you?” she asked as she hauled the child up onto her hip.

  “It’s possible,” Jonah said. “Me and my companion, that is.”

  “Then you’ll be needing a way out of that alley. It don’t go much farther before it turns and dumps you off at the water. Ain’t nobody going to get out that way if someone’s shooting at you.”

  She disappeared inside, and Jonah thought he had seen the last of her. Then she reappeared and waved to him. “Come on in here, you and your companion,” she said. “But if you get shot at, don’t blame me.”

  “Well, that is comforting,” he muttered as he turned to indicate to Madeline that she should follow him.

  Wonder of all wonders, the frustrating female once again did as she was told and hurried to join him. He offered her a firm look.

  “See that porch over there?” At her nod, he continued. “I want you to follow me as close as you can, so close your hands are on my waist. We’re going to walk over there and go inside that door. If the idiot who has been firing shots goes at it again, I want you to get down on the ground then make for that alley again as fast as you can.”

  She shook her head. “You want me to lie down and crawl to the alley?” Madeline looked down at the silly white confection of ribbons and bows she’d chosen as her attire for this trip and then back up at him. “In this dress?”

  “You do have a choice,” he told her. “You could preserve your dress by keeping it off the ground but ruin it with blood when the bullet hits you.”

  “Oh,” she said, her eyes widening. “You do know how to draw a word picture. Maybe you ought to be writing Madame’s memories down instead of me.”

  “Madeline,” he said, his jaw clenched. “Stay focused. I am going on three. One. Two. Three.”

  Jonah stepped into the clearing, his gun drawn and his senses on high alert. Madeline once again did as she was told and grasped his waist as they walked down the alley. He kept his body between her and the direction the bullet had come until they reached the porch. Then he put her in front of him and sent her up the rickety back steps and inside.

  Spending another minute looking around for evidence, he located a bullet near the porch. Slipping the .45 caliber shell into his pocket, Jonah stepped inside with his weapon still handy.

  There he found Madeline waiting for him, the young woman and child now gone. “Out here,” the girl called, and Jonah followed the sound of her voice through the dark hallway and out into what appeared to be the first floor of a boardinghouse.

  The woman stood in the center of a small entry area. To her right was a room with a long table made of boards and a mismatched set of a dozen chairs and benches. To the left a door led to an interior room, possibly a kitchen. Behind them was a staircase, and straight ahead the door to the front of the buildin
g.

  “Annabelle,” she told them. “I’m Annabelle Lee, and this is Jordy.”

  Madeline tickled the little one under the chin and smiled. “Thank you, Annabelle,” she said. “And hello, Jordy.”

  The child giggled and kicked his feet, but his mother ignored him. Instead, she appeared to be preoccupied with the staircase behind Jonah and Madeline.

  “Yes,” Jonah said. “I do appreciate your kindness.” He reached for Madeline’s elbow and moved her toward the closed front door then paused to pull one of his cards out of his pocket and thrust it into Annabelle’s palm. “If you are ever in Galveston and need help, go to the Galveston Police Station and ask for Officer Pearson. Can you remember that? Officer Pearson. He will know how to reach me.”

  “Office Pearson. Sure.” She looked down at the card and then back up at Jonah. “A Pinkerton man, are you? Well now, how about that, Jordy?”

  Jordy gave Jonah a toothless grin. His gaze then went up to the stairs as well.

  “Let’s go,” he said to Madeline and then hurried her out onto the sidewalk.

  Keeping a tight grip on the reporter’s elbow, Jonah headed down the street, not slowing until he reached the sheriff’s office. He found the sheriff behind his desk, his feet resting atop a stack of wanted posters on the table behind him.

  “Somebody shot at you?” the sheriff demanded. “Did you shoot him back?”

  Jonah gripped the door frame. “No, but I know where he is.”

  Madeline gaped. “You do?”

  He nodded and turned his attention to the sheriff, a portly man of advanced years who had introduced himself as Pake Simmons. “You know the boardinghouse just down the road? The one where a young lady named Annabelle stays?”

  “She don’t just stay there,” the sheriff said. “Her mama owned the place. What about it?”

  “I have reason to believe whoever fired this shot is up on the second floor of that building right now.” He pulled the shell casing out of his pocket and handed it to the lawman. “If there hadn’t been women and a child with me down in that lobby, I would have gone up there and looked for myself.”