“Think of how much easier your life would be with some money for a change.”
“Not like this,” she warned. “Not by kidnapping an innocent child.”
“We could all move back to New Orleans, to the old place.”
“I won’t go back. I like it here.”
His expression darkened instantly. He touched the handle of the knife sheathed on his hip, but she refused to back down and met his cold stare.
“You’d hate for anything to happen to her, wouldn’t you, Mad?”
She stared at him in disbelief. Was it an idle threat, or could he possibly be serious? “Even you wouldn’t stoop so low as to murder a child, would you?”
Silent seconds ticked by as they stared at one another across the shadows.
“Don’t test me, Maddie. Just do as I say.”
“Fine,” she said grudgingly. “I’ll look after her.”
Across the room, Lawrence was already snoring like a bear.
“Then turn out the light and get some sleep,” he ordered. “Mornin’ will come sooner than you know. Me and Lawrence will be headin’ back to the city to wait for word. Hopefully her folks will offer a reward soon. The longer we keep the girl hidden, the more likely the amount will go up.”
Maddie glanced at the dark-haired child asleep on her cot. She didn’t mind sharing the narrow bed with a little one. She’d done it often enough with her own, but this time both her heart and soul protested. She’d hoped she was done living on the wrong side of the law. She didn’t want to survive this way anymore.
Especially not like this. Not by stealing a child.
CHAPTER 2
Pinkerton agent Tom Abbott left his rented, sparsely furnished rooms in the French Quarter and made his way across the narrow cobblestone drive in the courtyard below. He passed through the open iron gates and walked along streets filled with noise and motion, the clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestone, ribald shouts, and high-pitched laughter. The occasional gunshot punctuated by strains of music drifted on the night air. New Orleans was a city that never slept, and because of his profession Tom was no stranger to long days and late nights.
He pulled his collar up and his hat down as he made his way toward Royal Street. He had dressed in worn clothing so nondescript as to render him nearly invisible as he moved through the dangerous streets of the city. He pushed back his brown wool jacket out of habit to expose the holstered Colt riding his hip. New Orleans boasted one of the highest murder rates in the country; a wise man took advantage of the law that made it legal to openly carry a gun or a knife.
When he neared Jackson Square, he slowed his pace and paused in the shadows of the imposing St. Louis Cathedral. Across the street from the huge church, a quartet of missionaries had set up an outdoor soup kitchen. There was a piece of pine tacked over the door of an empty storefront with the words Jesus Is Your Savior hand lettered in white paint. Outside the open door, two long planks of wood rested on sawhorses — a makeshift table for the small knot of the city’s destitute who had gathered for a bowl of soup and a crust of bread.
Tom studied the missionaries carefully before he approached them. An elderly woman dressed entirely in somber gray with a matching poke bonnet kept time on a tambourine while the older man beside her read from an open Bible. Nearby, a woman in her early forties ladled soup from a deep pot at one end of the table. She smiled as she handed a full bowl to a prostitute.
Tom let his gaze scan the crowd. They were orderly, thinning out now. When the line finally dwindled, the younger woman began to walk around and collect the empty soup bowls. As Tom approached her, she paused to take in his faded coat and battered hat before her gaze shifted to his gun.
“We’re a peaceable people,” she told him.
He nodded and gave his hat brim a tug. “I understand, ma’am.”
“If it’s soup you’re after, it’s my husband’s turn to serve.” She smiled in the direction of a man who had paused at his task to watch them.
“I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time. I’ve a few questions. It won’t take long.”
“Pastor Bennett would be happy to counsel you.” She turned her gaze toward the older man holding the Bible before continuing on to the table carrying a stack of thick ceramic bowls.
“It’s not counseling I’m after. I’m a Pinkerton detective.” He opened his jacket just far enough to reveal a badge pinned to the inside. He didn’t want to advertise his identity to those lingering nearby.
“A detective?” He saw a flash of panic in her eyes. A second later she calmed. “What is this about?”
“I’m working on a missing person’s case and I was hoping that since you work the streets you might have some information, anything that might help me find the woman I’m searching for.”
“Oh. Well, then, yes. I’d be happy to answer a few questions.”
“Is there somewhere we can sit and talk? Or, if you’d prefer, I can speak to your husband—”
“I don’t mind.” She set down the stack of bowls, walked over to her husband, and spoke to him in a barely audible voice. He looked across the table at Tom and nodded. The woman gestured. “Come inside with me. We’ve not much in the building yet, but there is a bench where we can sit and chat. I can’t be long, though.”
“I understand,” he told her. “It will just take a few minutes.”
Inside, she lit a lamp and carefully replaced the chimney. The room was cast in a warm yellow glow. “We’ve not the funds to set up our ministry office yet. Feeding the hungry takes most of our time and money.”
She indicated a long bench standing against one wall. “My name is Elizabeth Henson. My husband is Pastor Bennett’s nephew. We’ve just returned from five years in Singapore.”
Tom was disappointed to hear they hadn’t been in the city all that long. He doubted she could help, but since he had no solid leads, it was still worth a try.
“Will you sit?”
She sat down on the opposite end of the bench near the light and folded her hands in her lap. Even in the weak glow of candlelight, he saw that they were not the soft white hands of a woman unused to hard work.
She smiled and waited for him to begin.
“I’ve been hired by a woman in Texas to search for her sister,” he began. “The last time she saw her was here in New Orleans, twenty-three years ago. The missing woman was nine then.”
Mrs. Henson’s brow knit. “Are you even certain she’s still here? Or that she’s even alive?”
“Not at all, but this is where she was last seen. I’ve found no records of her having been buried in any of the New Orleans cemeteries.”
“She could be in a pauper’s unmarked grave.”
“She could, but I’ve not given up yet. The Lane girls lost their parents and shortly afterward were taken by their uncle and sold to a bordello somewhere in the French Quarter. They were separated within minutes of their arrival. The older of the two, the woman I represent, grew up there. She has no idea what happened to her sister, only that the girl was carried off by a man and never seen again.”
Tom couldn’t help but notice that Elizabeth Henson had gone very pale.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “I know it’s not a pretty tale.”
“Why are you questioning me, Mr. Abbott? Of all the people in New Orleans?”
“Like I said, because you are privy to things that happen on the streets. Because you have contact with women from the brothels. You do, don’t you?”
She closed her eyes and gave a slight shake of her head. “Yes, of course, when they come to us.”
He had the feeling there was something she was hiding.
“Would you rather I speak to your husband after all?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m the one who can help you. I grew up in the city.”
“Have you ever heard the name Megan Lane?”
Mrs. Henson’s face was completely impassive. Staring across the room, she fingered a sm
all wooden cross hanging from a thong around her neck. “I have no recollection of it.”
“Have you ever heard the name Dexter Grande?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. Her hand gripped the cross. She said nothing.
“Mrs. Henson? Do you know him? Do you know where Grande is?”
Tom had searched through years of orphanage, school, and cemetery records in his search for Megan Lane. He’d gone through adoption decrees and whatever relevant paperwork had survived the war.
“Where did you hear that name? Dexter Grande?” Elizabeth Henson whispered.
“From a woman who works in the archives of the office of the mayor. She helped me comb through the Records of the Disposition of Destitute Children. She had no proof, but she has heard tales of a man named Dexter Grande who ran a gang of street thieves. He was supposed to be a Fagan of sorts, straight out of the pages of Dickens.”
Tom noticed the woman’s hand trembling as she lowered it to her lap. “Dexter Grande is dead,” she said.
“You knew him?”
Her eyes had taken on a faraway look. “I knew him a long time ago. Before the war.”
“Can you tell me anything? Anything at all?”
“Dexter Grande fancied himself a mastermind behind a band of street thieves, small children mostly. There were a few trusted older boys, but when they were around fourteen, he sometimes forced them out. Most of them, anyway. Younger children were more malleable and ate less.”
“How did he come by these children?” Tom had a feeling he already knew but he wanted to hear it firsthand.
She shrugged. “Anywhere he could. There were so many orphans.” She sighed. “There still are.”
The records Tom had seen attested to as much. Yellow fever often struck the city with a vengeance. It had in the mid-fifties when Megan Lane disappeared. Relatives too poor to feed orphaned children often turned them over to institutions. From Elizabeth Henson’s reaction, Tom was certain that she knew even more than she was willing to say. He glanced out the window and lowered his voice.
“Did you belong to Dexter Grande’s street gang?”
She raised her eyes to meet his. Hers were wide, round, and very blue. Blonde curls showed beneath the brim of her hat. Laura Foster, his client, was a lovely woman too — fair-haired and blue-eyed. This woman could very well be her sister. Elizabeth Henson did not match the brief description Mrs. Foster had given him, but looks changed over time.
Was it possible that after meticulously combing through records and interviewing people all over New Orleans, he had inadvertently stumbled upon Megan Lane?
“Were you part of Grande’s gang of thieves?” he asked again.
“His tribe.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “He called us his tribe.”
Us.
“Did Grande find you in an orphanage?”
She started to stand, then sank back to the bench as if her legs wouldn’t hold her. She stared through the open doorway to the dark street beyond.
“No, I know exactly where I came from and I know who my people were. I’m not proud of where I’ve been or what I’ve done, Mr. Abbott. It’s not a story I will tell. Ever. Believe me when I say I’m not the one you are looking for.”
“Is there anyone who might know for certain that Megan Lane was in the tribe?”
“No. If so, they’re all gone now anyway. Disbanded. Besides, we all swore never to reveal anything about Dexter Grande or our lives. It was a blood oath.”
“That explains why there is so little information on the streets. You took the oath as well?”
She reached up to wipe her brow. There was no breeze tonight. The air was close and humid.
“I took the oath, yes, but now I am beholden to a much higher Power than Dexter Grande.” She smoothed her skirt, her calm smile back. She stood up and looked down at him. “I am reborn, Mr. Abbot. I don’t like to look back on those times or talk about them. That’s really all I can say.”
He got to his feet, still not convinced that she wasn’t the very woman he’d been searching for. But he was not willing to push her any further tonight.
“You’re absolutely certain there is no one who might remember Megan Lane? It would mean so much to her sister in Texas to find her. Think of what it might mean to Megan herself.”
Again she closed her eyes long enough to take a calming breath. When she opened them she admitted, “The only tribe members’ names I’ve heard mentioned since I returned are Terrance and Lawrence, the Grande twins. If they are still in New Orleans, they may be able to tell you where to find a woman named Anita Russo, if she’s still alive. She used to care for the children when they took ill. They may know where Anita is, if they’re still here. She may lead you to others.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Henson.” Revitalized, Tom smiled as he waited for her to lead the way outside.
“Don’t get your hopes up, Mr. Abbott,” Elizabeth warned. “Tribe members lived in a shadow world, existing on the wrong side of the law. If you do find them, the Grande twins won’t be willing to answer your questions, so take care. Be very wary. They’re dangerous.”
CHAPTER 3
Maddie fell asleep sometime just before dawn and awoke with a start when the child beside her rolled over and kicked her in the shin. She lay there in silence as the sun’s warm yellow light crept through the east window. Curled on her side, she surveyed the room.
The twins were already gone, no doubt headed back to New Orleans to celebrate their previous night’s deed. She lingered in bed a while longer, thinking the child beside her was asleep.
“Who are you?”
Maddie nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt the whispered words against her ear. The girl was leaning over her, staring down into her face.
Still wrapped in her fine red cape, the child scooted over to make room. Her ink-black curls were a tumbled mess. Her eyes, an intriguing violet, were swollen from sleep and tears.
“Well?” the girl demanded. “Who are you?”
“I’m the one looking after you. Who are you?”
“I’m Penelope Charlotte Perkins. I’m eight and a half years old and I live at Langetree Plantation. At least I did until those two awful men stole me from my nanny. Where are they?”
The child certainly showed no fear. Maddie had expected her to start squalling for her mother.
“They’re not here.”
“Good. They kept telling me I was in danger. They told me to shut up too. Are they coming back?”
“Yes. Soon. But don’t worry. You’re safe.” For now.
Penelope looked Maddie in the eye. “My papa is going to be furious with all of you. You had better let me go.”
Maddie had no doubt about it.
The child had mentioned a nanny and her papa. What if there was no heartsick mother at home pining for her? Perhaps this lovely child’s father, too busy to be concerned with her safety, had handed her over to a nanny. Perhaps the man didn’t deserve her —
Maddie’s mind began to dart in dangerous directions.
“What about your mother?” she asked.
“Mama cries a lot. Ever since the baby died.” Penelope gave a heartfelt sigh. “She doesn’t come out of her room much anymore, either, but Papa says that she’ll get better. I was in the way so he was sending me off with Nanny for a while. Just till Mamma is feeling better.” She shrugged. “Who knows how long that will be though. She’s not been happy since the baby died. I don’t think she cares where I go as long as I’m not around. I was headed to Paducah to visit my Aunt Gail for a spell when those two kidnappers stopped our carriage and grabbed me.”
Maddie tried not to picture the already brokenhearted woman in mourning at Langetree Plantation. Surely she cared about this child too. Did she know her daughter was missing? Had word reached them yet?
“Do you have any other brothers or sisters?”
Penelope shook her head, and the ringlets that weren’t in tangles managed to bounce prettily. She sig
hed and leaned against the wall. If she was at all frightened, it didn’t show.
“Narry a one. We waited so long for the baby to get here, but then he was born dead. Papa said it was simply too much for Mama to bear. I couldn’t do anything to cheer her either.” She sighed. “It’s better I’m not there, I suppose. I’m just in the way.” She paused to look around. “I really don’t want to stay here though.”
Maddie tried to swallow around the lump in her throat and pictured her own little one, her firstborn. A daughter with blue eyes and ivory skin who’d lived no more than six hours.
The child would have been sixteen by now. Near old enough to make me a grandmother.
Penelope wrinkled her nose. “Why is this place such a mess?”
“I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
“Are you going to tell me your name?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you going to take me home?”
“Not today.”
“Then how about you take me to Paducah? That’s where I was headed. It will be a lot more fun at my Auntie Gail’s than at home, that’s for certain.”
Maddie had no idea when she would release Penelope, or how. She did not dare give Miss Penelope Charlotte Perkins false hope. The less said the better until she figured out exactly what she was going to do. She’d gone against Terrance a time or two in her life, with dark results.
“I’m starving,” Penelope announced, looking toward the stove.
Maddie rolled off the cot and shook out her skirt. She, too, was surprisingly hungry.
“There’s nowhere for you to run to and there are gators around,” she warned, “so you stay put while I go see to my morning necessaries. Then you can help me check the crab trap and the fishing line out on the dock if you do as I say.”
The girl gave her no trouble. Maddie helped her wash up and let her pull up the crab trap, then fixed a breakfast of fried catfish and grits.
“I need cream,” Penelope said, staring down at the pile of grits.
Maddie laughed. “You’ll have to settle for a cup of black coffee, missy. There’s no cow around here.”
Heart of Lies Page 2