Heart of Lies

by Jill Marie Landis

  Maddie was anxious to leave. She started for the door, paused. “So can I use your horse?”

  “ ‘Course. The old nag’s not very fast but she’s steady.” Anita chuckled and added, “Kinda like me.”

  Maddie saddled up the swaybacked old mare and almost felt sorry for her as she mounted up. Anita handed up her shotgun and then told Maddie to wait while she ran back into the house and brought out a felt hat that had seen better days. The brim was so tired it flopped up and down.

  “At least it’ll keep the sun off your face,” Anita said.

  “Thank you again. And I’ll bring the mare back as soon as I can,” Maddie promised.

  “No hurry,” Anita assured her. “You just watch out for yourself.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The wide canopy of oaks draped with hanging moss formed an emerald tree tunnel that awed as much as welcomed. At the end of the lane, a two-story home with ground-to-roof columns gave the illusion of a Greek temple. Built during the 1830 boom years, Langetree’s grand structure was a testament to all the South had been before the war.

  Tom put his heels to his horse and headed up the oak-lined drive toward the sumptuous forty-year-old mansion resurrected by Yankee money. As he drew nearer, he saw the outbuildings beyond the house—offices, kitchen, servants’ quarters. A traditional garçonnière and a pigeonnier, twin round structures, flanked the main house.

  The front door was draped in black crepe, and black curtains were drawn over the windows. A drapery across the glass sidelight beside the front door shifted when Tom dismounted. A moment later, a servant stepped outside onto the portico. Dressed in black livery, the man nodded and came forward to take the reins of Tom’s horse.

  “Mister Perkins is expectin’ you,” the man said in a deep drawl. “Go right on in.”

  Tom thanked him, took off his wide-brimmed black hat, and walked through the open door. Inside, the house was quiet as a tomb. The wide central hall bisected the structure from front to back. Fifteen-foot doors opened into rooms with impossibly high ceilings on each side of the hall. Tom took in the long, winding staircase that ascended from the center of the hall and wished he was anywhere but here facing a grieving family.

  As he waited in the foyer of the mansion at Langetree trying to shake off his melancholy, a door to his right opened. A man well over six feet with dark hair and a handlebar moustache that met his wide muttonchop sideburns stepped out. He smoothed the front of an amethyst brocade vest and offered his hand in greeting.

  “Mr. Perkins? I’m Tom Abbott, a Pinkerton Agency detective.”

  “I’m happy to make your acquaintance. Frank Morgan sent word that you’d be coming. I took the liberty of wiring Allan Pinkerton in Chicago. He recommends you highly.”

  The two men, both of equal stature, shook hands.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”

  “Our son was stillborn not quite a month ago. My wife has yet to recover from that blow, so you can imagine what she’s suffering knowing Penelope is out there somewhere in the hands of criminals. Or worse.” The big man, brought low, choked on his words and fought to collect himself.

  “I’ve gone through all the information the police have, but perhaps you have some details that might help,” Tom told him. “The sooner the better.”

  “Of course.” Peter Perkins indicated the opulently appointed sitting room behind him and ushered Tom in. “Come. Have a seat.”

  The servant who had taken Tom’s horse slipped silently into the room. Perkins turned to him. “Armand, have Sally bring in a tray of coffee and refreshments for Mr. Abbott.”

  The man nodded and left without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Thank you, sir.” Tom took a seat on a settee upholstered in a rich blue silk.

  “Have you been a detective long?” Perkins asked.

  “I was hired on as a Pinkerton operative during the war,” he said.

  “It was brilliant of General McClellan to appoint Pinkerton as his personal spy. I assume you carried out similar duties?”

  Tom nodded. “I played many roles in order to infiltrate Southern society to gather vital information for the Union. After the surrender, I opted to stay on in New Orleans.”

  There was something about the Crescent City that haunted and seduced him, something that kept him here despite the fact that all of his family resided in Michigan.

  “The local sheriff is useless. For that matter, so are the New Orleans Metropolitan Police. I haven’t had much help from that quarter.”

  “Morgan is sparing what manpower he can. He has a suspect in custody.”

  “So I heard. But the man in custody still hasn’t confessed. He would if I could have five minutes alone with him.” Perkins poured a whiskey from a crystal decanter on a side table and offered it to Tom.

  “No, thank you.” Tom shook his head. “Hard liquor and I parted ways years ago.” He only drank on occasion, or pretended to when his cover depended on it.

  He watched as a maid entered bearing a silver tray covered with a tea service, a plate of sweet bread slices, and cookies. She set them down, poured Tom a cup of tea, and silently slipped out of the room.

  Tom drew a small notebook and pencil out of his pocket. He opened the notebook, licked the lead tip, and watched Peter Perkins sink into a wide armchair opposite the settee.

  Tom nodded toward a large portrait in an oval gilt frame above the fireplace mantel on the wall opposite him. “Is that Penelope?”

  He studied the portrait of the beautiful child with black hair, violet eyes, and a mouth that formed a perfect bow. Her hair was drawn away from her heart-shaped face. He wondered if the impishness in her smile was a facet of Penelope’s personality or simply a charming addition by the artist.

  Perkins nodded. “Yes. That’s our Penelope Charlotte. She’s only eight, nearly nine now, and very precocious. Very well-spoken for her age. She’s a lovely child when she wants to be.” Perkins’s hand holding the brandy snifter began to shake. He finished off what was left of the liquor in one swallow. Tom watched him closely.

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “When I put her in our private coach and told her good-bye. I was sending her off to my wife’s sister, Gail, in Kentucky.” He gazed around the room, indicated the crepe-covered mirror over the fireplace and the heavy curtains at the windows. “I thought it would be better for the child to get away for a while. My wife rarely comes out of her room, and Penelope has been extremely upset. She blames herself for her mother’s sadness. Nothing she did could cheer Mary.”

  He paused and a deep sigh shook his heavy frame. “If I hadn’t sent her away, she’d be here safe and sound.”

  Tom knew words of consolation would do little to salve the man’s guilt.

  “Could your driver or the child’s nanny have been in cahoots with the kidnappers? Given them the route or schedule?”

  Perkins set the brandy snifter down on a table beside him. “Absolutely not.”

  “How do you know for certain?”

  “I’ve made it my business to handpick my staff. I pay them generous wages and provide housing. My wife has even set up a school on the property where all who wish may attend and learn to read, write, and cipher. I know my driver, Jeb, to be a good, honest man. And as far as Nanny is concerned, she treats Penelope as one of her own.”

  “From what the girl’s nanny told the police, the kidnapping sounds like a robbery gone sour,” Tom said. Then he asked Perkins a few questions about his business dealings and if there was anyone who might be seeking revenge.

  “That’s always possible, Mr. Abbott. I’m a wealthy man and I didn’t get this way by mincing words. I’ve stepped on a lot of Southern toes, but there’s no one in particular I can think of offhand who would do anything this dastardly.”

  Tom gave him details about finding the twins, the shooting, and Terrance’s arrest. He added that he was sorry there’d been no confession.

  Perkins asked if he cared fo
r more tea. Tom had just declined when there came the soft rustle of silk, and a young woman walked through the drawing-room door. She was draped in black from her neck to the tips of her shoes. An oval mourning broach of gold and glass with a wisp of dark hair encased inside was pinned to the fabric at her throat. Her hair was braided and swept up into two coils pinned on either side of her head. She was petite, not much taller than five feet and a few inches. Violet shadows stained the skin beneath her eyes. She was pale as a wraith, thin to the point of emaciation — a grown-up, sadder version of the lovely child in the portrait.

  Tom quickly stood the moment she entered. He nearly went to her aid, doubting that she could make it across the room, but her husband moved quickly, rushing to her side, helping her to the nearest chair.

  She never took her eyes off of Tom.

  “Are you the detective?”

  Her voice was so very soft he had to strain to hear her. He moved to the edge of the settee and leaned forward. She looked so in need of comfort that he was tempted to take her hand, but she held them clenched in her lap.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “This is Tom Abbott, Mary. He comes recommended by Allan Pinkerton himself,” her husband assured her. “Mr. Abbott, my wife, Mary.”

  If Mary Perkins had one tear left in her, it was impossible for her to shed it now. She mirrored Tom by leaning toward him. Her voice was barely a whisper, almost as if she were unaccustomed to speaking anymore. She didn’t ask the usual questions clients wanted answered: Did he think he could find their daughter? When did he think the kidnappers would contact them for a ransom? Should they offer a reward and how much?

  She merely stared deep into his eyes with all the anxiety, fear, and daring it took for her to hope and said, “Bring my daughter home, Mr. Abbott. Whatever you do, please find Penelope and bring her home. She’s all we have.”

  Tom reached into his pocket, held out his hand, and opened his palm. “Is this your daughter’s, Mrs. Perkins?”

  The silver comb sparkled on his palm. Mary Perkins leapt to her feet. Her hand flew to her throat and lay there limp as a pale, fallen dove. Her eyes met Tom’s.

  “Where did you find that?” she whispered.

  “Is it hers?” he asked.

  “Yes. She was wearing two of them when she left.”

  Shaken, Mary slowly listed to her right. Her husband’s arm went around her waist, and he lowered her back into her chair. She sank onto the brocade upholstery.

  “Where did you get that, Abbott?” Perkins’s expression was a study of a man grappling with anger tempered by fear.

  “In a cabin on the bayou not far from New Orleans.” Tom was dealing with his own reaction to the verification, forced to accept that Maddie was an accomplice. She was part of the scheme causing these two good people so much pain.

  “Penelope wasn’t there,” Tom told them. “But this is proof that she had been. I’m going back to find her. I wanted to make sure I was on the right track first.”

  Perkins’s pent-up frustration exploded. “I want my daughter found. If you know where she is, where the perpetrators are, spread the word. I want everyone in Louisiana looking for her.”

  “If we panic the kidnappers, Penelope could end up — “ He glanced at Mary and stopped. “We could place Penelope in very grave danger. Not only that, but you would open yourself up to a host of extortionists demanding money for false leads.”

  Tom knew it was up to him to convince the man to let him see this through on his own. He didn’t want Maddie panicked. He didn’t want everyone in the state breathing down on her.

  “These are desperate times.” Tom hoped the man was listening. “People will do anything for money. If I knew exactly where she is right now, that would be one thing. But I don’t. I only know where she was, but now I have a solid lead to follow.”

  “Listen to me, Abbott. If I have to, I’ll contact Pinkerton himself and—”

  “Stop it. Both of you.” Mary Perkins’s voice might have been weak, but there was underlying strength in it. “Please.”

  Tom and Peter both turned to her. Her gaze drifted to Penelope’s portrait before she eyed both men with a preoccupied detachment.

  “Peter, Mr. Abbott knows what he is doing. Let him do his job. I want my daughter back, and the sooner you let the man be on his way, the sooner he can find her.”

  Perkins’s anger still radiated but he held his silence.

  Tom bowed to Mary and then offered his hand to Perkins. The man was slow to take it, but after a strained moment they shook hands.

  “Thank you for understanding.” Tom turned to Mary. “Thank you, Mrs. Perkins, for your confidence.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Abbott. Only faith has gotten us this far. I pray God will guide you to our Penelope.”

  “I do too, ma’am.” Tom bowed again and made his way out of the house.

  It wasn’t until he mounted up and was halfway down the drive that he realized instead of handing over the silver comb, he had slipped the proof of Maddie’s guilt back into the watch pocket of his vest.

  Penelope’s fate might still be unknown, but one thing was now certain: Maddie Grande was involved. There was no way he could let her walk away now.

  The handful of buildings that made up the hamlet of Clearwater lined the road that ran along the banks of the bayou. The homes were modest, some fashioned in the old Spanish style of moss and mud, others weathered, gray shanties or more substantial raised cottages surrounded by shady galleries.

  Palmettos and willows lined the banks as well. Beyond, silent cypress stood surrounded by jutting knees poking up through the water. Water hyacinths bloomed in floating lavender blankets.

  A small sugar mill, abandoned since before the war, showed signs of neglect. Weeds grew around the doors. Boards that had once barricaded the windows now hung broken and rotting, showing the holes that gaped in the windowpanes. Maddie slowed the mare and glanced up and down the road. There was no one in sight, so she rode around to the back of the building and tied the mare’s reins to a broken-down wagon.

  She walked to the nearest window and looked inside. Shafts of sunlight sifted through holes in the roof. The place was empty, but Maddie knew plenty about hiding and hoisted herself in through the window. She carefully listened for any odd sound, searched every possible hiding place before she gave up. There was no sign of Penelope anywhere.

  A few minutes later she was back on the road, headed for Smythe and Co., Inc., the one and only store in Clearwater. It was the place folks gathered to buy, to barter, and to chew on gossip. Three old trappers, permanent fixtures, lounged on the front porch. They fell silent when Maddie rode up.

  Under their watchful eyes, she tied Anita’s horse to the hitching post and paused to wipe her muddy shoes on the iron scraper beside the step. She didn’t know the men by name, but she’d seen them most every time she’d come to the village. Nodding in greeting, she lifted the wide brim of her borrowed hat and smiled.

  “Don’t suppose you gentlemen have seen a little girl around anywhere? About so high.” She held out her hand. “Eight years old.”

  All three of them shook their heads in unison. One spat a stream of tobacco juice off the side of the porch. Finally the one in the middle volunteered, “'Nita was asking around. Already told her no.”

  “Thank you kindly,” Maddie said.

  She forced a smile and walked into the dim interior of the store where Gilbert Smythe was in the process of lining up tins of peaches on a high shelf. He turned when he heard Maddie’s footsteps against the plank floor and smiled down at her from his perch on a tall ladder.

  “Hey, Miss Grande. How you doing today? What brings you to Clearwater? You bring any pelts with you?”

  “None today. I have a few that will be ready soon, though.” She paused, pretended to be interested in a bowl of buttons. She sorted through them, shuffling them around with her fingertip, trying to appear casual, hoping her nervous impatience didn’t show. “I’m help
ing Anita look for her niece.”

  Gilbert set the last can in line, turned it left, then right. Finally satisfied, he climbed down the ladder.

  “No one’s seen her far as I know. I’ve been asking folks when they come in. Told them Anita’s nigh onto frantic. It’s a shame. I hate to think —”

  With his unfinished thought hanging in the air between them, Maddie silently cursed Terrance. Because of him, Lawrence was dead and a child was lost somewhere in the bayou.

  “She couldn’t have gotten very far on foot,” Maddie said, thinking aloud.

  “'Bout all you can do is follow the road to Stonewood. Ask at places along the way.”

  She thanked him and left the store, walked past the men on the porch, and stepped out onto the deserted road wishing she had an inkling of where to look next. She tried to keep her jumbled thoughts focused on finding Penelope and collecting the reward, but the image of the child’s heartsick mother kept coming to mind. She knew the ache of Mrs. Perkins’s empty arms, knew the suffering of a woman’s longing for a child she had nurtured, cradled, and lost. She knew it all too well and wished she didn’t.

  Don’t, Maddie warned herself. Do not remember.

  She tried to shake off her dark thoughts as she unhitched Anita’s nag. Heading north, she followed the road toward Stonewood, an abandoned sugar plantation a few miles away. It was as good a place to search as any, though she’d never been that far herself.

  She rode past the village blacksmith’s barn. Clement Stanton, bent over a sorrel’s hoof, smiled at her around a mouthful of nails, and waved. She rode closer but didn’t dismount as she asked if he’d seen Anita’s niece. She described Penelope. He shook his head no and shrugged.

  “I’ll sure keep an eye out,” he mumbled around the nails.

  Maddie turned the mare onto the road again, leaving behind the sounds of Clement tapping a nail into a horseshoe.