Steam Me Up, Rawley

by Angela Quarles

  “I know, Loki. I know,” she countered, raising her voice to be heard above a passing steam car’s wheeze and honk. “This could be it, though. I need an exciting story. Now that I think about it, this one on the Neptune is background stuff. No zing. I need zing to get this job. Zing.”

  She jumped aboard Miss Smarty Pants and plopped Loki into his wicker basket attached to the front.

  He looked up and winked.

  “Hang on, Loki.” She cranked the small electric cell engine and pulled into the traffic on Government Street. Smarty Pants being more mobile, she was able to zip in between steam autos and donkey carts and make good time. She’d be at the site in minutes.

  She approached Fort Condé, and, of course, Smarty Pants did her thing, the whir of the motor lowering in tone until it grew quiet. “Argh, no! Not now.” She pounded a fist against the steering handle. “You worthless piece of unladylike gadgetry.”

  She jumped off and popped the small wicker hood in the back. As always, one of the wires had come loose from the electric cell. She twisted it back into place, kicked the hood shut, started the engine, and careened down Church Street to Royal, Loki screeching and waving his fist.

  Theatre Street lay ahead and already a large crowd had gathered. Overhead, sightseers hovered in rented Balloon Carriers, their shouts audible as they maneuvered around each other, careful not to get their directional sails tangled. Wouldn’t be too hard then, finding the body’s location.

  At the crowd’s edge, she sputtered to a stop and parked Miss Smarty Pants under a live oak’s sheltering arms. Loki climbed onto her shoulder. She swiped away the bothersome tendrils of Spanish moss dripping from the tree limbs and weaved through the crowd. “Pardon me. Excuse me. Watch it, mister.”

  Finally, she broke through and stumbled—blood. Great pools of it soaking the green grass. Skirts askew, tattered. A pale hand gripping the earth. Police blocked the rest from view.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and half-turned away, hand clamped over her mouth. She took a deep breath. Mistake. The harsh smell of blood and gore assaulted her nose. She pulled out a handkerchief, covered her face, and breathed through her mouth, elbows tight against her sides, a hand on her stomach.

  She could do this. She had to. Turning away now at the first big story would reinforce what everyone thought of her—unable to stick to anything. She couldn’t turn away at the first sight of blood.

  But Holy Mary Mother of God, there was a lot of blood.

  Suppressing a shudder, she swallowed and edged closer.

  Chapter Seven

  Wherein The Denizens Of Mobile Are All Aflutter

  Not the doxy from earlier. Relief washed through Adele, buckling her knees.

  But, God, still. Her hand whisked through a quick sign of the cross at the grisly sight. Prickles danced up and down her spine. Who could commit an act so gruesome, so horrific?

  She pulled out a notebook and noted the lone familial tattoo on the poor woman’s neck.

  “Too late, Miss de la Pointe. I’ve already got the scoop,” came a clipped masculine voice beside her, containing a smidgeon too much glee for the occasion.

  Adele met the cold eyes of Mr. Peterson, another reporter from the paper. Most folks’ mouths tended to the horizontal, but Peterson’s was round and, combined with his overly large eyes, gave the impression of pop-eyed surprise, no matter his mood. She always wondered if it helped or impeded his investigations. Her eyes narrowed at such an unseemly lack of respect for the poor girl. Loki shifted; no doubt he was giving his best don’t-mess-with-the-lady glare.

  Peterson’s round mouth poked upward, like an inverted Q, although he probably fantasized it resembled a sneer. “Besides, this is no place for a lady. I heard you want to try for the beat reporter position. What rubbish.” He shook his head. “Stay out of it, it’s mine.”

  “Oh yeah? You can’t stop me.” Criminy, she sounded like a kid.

  “I don’t need to.” He stepped forward, readjusting his bowler hat. “You won’t get this position. I will.”

  “We’ll see about that.” And...still sounding like a kid. Sometimes her mouth spouted witty comebacks. This was not one of those times.

  Mr. Peterson’s gaze flitted from her to Loki and back, all of his face’s round parts twisting into a grimace. He glanced at her familial tattoos. “The only reason you’re tolerated at the paper is because of your family’s position in society.”

  That came like a punch in the gut. How humiliating. So even where she was now wasn’t due to her own merit? Her ribs squeezed, and her skin grew warm. She took a deep breath. “Well, at least I have a respectable father.” Too late, she remembered Mr. Peterson’s no-good, alcoholic father had died in the last Yellow Fever epidemic. Oh, God. Horrible. She was simply horrible. His eyes went from cold to arctic.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said in a rush. “I have no control over this mouth. That was uncalled for. I’m terribly sorry.”

  “It’s your mouth, Miss de la Pointe. I think you could control it.” He spun away and stalked to the policemen conferring and taking notes.

  It was her mouth, but at times it didn’t feel connected to her brain. She sighed. When would she learn to think before she spoke? It had caused no end of trouble in the past. And probably would again. Usually she was more successful in repressing her impulsive tongue like she tried to do with her behavior, but when she failed, she failed spectacularly. A deficiency in character she was heartily ashamed of.

  And she did try to curb her impulsiveness, but she’d become resigned to her defect of character. She suspected Pascal had become wise to it, so she’d panicked and called it off. No sense being saddled with someone for life who found you defective. Yes, better to forge her own path.

  “C’mon, Loki. Let’s go. Nothing more for us here.”

  She mounted Miss Smarty Pants, adjusted the red parasol attached to it by a brass pole, and headed back to the paper to file her boring story. It had been so brilliant earlier. Guilt lashed her for not reining in her impulses with Mr. Peterson.

  She puttered along the streets, her limbs and mind feeling attenuated, having mentally ceded the murder story to Mr. Peterson to assuage her guilt.

  Adele spent several hours the next day interviewing dock workers. Waste of time, all of it. Either they were too scared to say anything, or they wouldn’t spill to a woman, or nothing untoward was happening with the government contracts for the military submersibles. She trod up Water Street, Loki perched on her shoulder picking at his fur, the breeze from the river ruffling her skirts and holding a faint trace of rain.

  But what else was there? It stuck in her craw to ask Father to keep an ear out for leads. If she didn’t prove herself, was she fated to be like Claire, good for nothing but throwing parties and perfecting recipes? She rubbed at her familial emblems on her neck. Did everyone dismiss her as a spoiled socialite?

  She set her jaw. Who else did she know? Informants, she needed informants. Just like Mrs. Tuttle had said. Determination tightened her muscles and quickened her stride.

  The afternoon paper boy’s shout on the Dauphin Street corner pierced the rain-tinged air. A crowd gathered while he hustled papers as fast as he could collect their coins, darting furtive glances at the darkening clouds.

  What had everyone worked up? She detoured, crossing the street to the paper boy’s corner, Loki swatting at anyone who got in their way.

  The boy’s squeaky voice cried out again: “Is Jack the Ripper in Mobile? Read all about it, folks! Jack the Ripper in downtown Mobile. Grisly murder and mayhem!”

  She tossed the kid a nickel and grabbed the paper. “Let’s see what we have here, Loki.”

  She stalked away from the crowd and leaned against a gaslight post, disturbing a seagull, which cawed and flapped into the air. Adele quickly scanned the article.

  Indignation bubbled in her gut. Peterson had completely sensationalized the story. He spared no detail. He even indulged in blatant speculation! Jack the Ripp
er? Please.

  She pushed away from the lamp post and squished the paper between her fists. The public should be told facts, not frothed into a lather. People and events should be seen for what they are, not skewed by the person viewing or reporting. Was this the kind of reporting Mr. Tonti expected? It seemed irresponsible.

  She crumpled the paper and tossed it into the closest trash can. Loki leaped from her shoulder and onto the paper, stomping up and down and screeching.

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have ceded the story to Mr. Peterson. What did guilt matter when it came to going after what she wanted? Everyone was right—she was scatterbrained. This proved it.

  And if she were honest with herself, hadn’t she felt a little relief at having ceded that story? To not have to commit herself so fully to the task? People found her foolish already, but what if they found her more so when she put her full heart and soul into it?

  But that didn’t encompass it fully. She had also felt relief because it left her options open.

  Gah! How maddening. She’d backslid. Saying she was committed and finding she hadn’t been? Not fun. From politeness and guilt, she’d taken the easy way, and now this sensationalist story was the result.

  All right. She’d messed up. But there was time. She’d chosen this course, and she’d see it through, no matter what. To show she could. No matter what obstacles or politeness barriers were thrown her way. And a good portion of this resolve was to prove it to herself.

  She picked up Loki from the trash can and repositioned him on her shoulder.

  Let Peterson keep writing swill. She’d show him how to report a story. And she’d stick to the facts.

  Argh. But finding the interesting facts—that was the problem. She didn’t have a story, or an inkling of one, and now there was one day less before her deadline. A deadline that had felt like endless time to realize her potential, but now felt like approaching Judgment Day.

  Adele roared Miss Smarty Pants into the carriage house behind her family’s home. She’d stopped by the paper after Sunday Mass with the family to see when her Neptune article would appear, and Mr. Tonti had promptly replied it wouldn’t. She grabbed Loki, his armor’s roughness snagging on her gloves. Oh, if only she could have her monkey wreak havoc in Mr. Tonti’s office.

  “He wants drama, huh?” she said to Loki. She strode up the path, the oyster shells crunching under her black kid boots. “I’ll give him drama.”

  Loki bounced on her shoulder. Pew, he needed a bath.

  Mr. Tonti had been quite emphatic about the article. “Boring. Not fit to print. The writing is tolerably executed, but has no soul. No point to it. No drama. Give me drama if you want that job. I’m selling newspapers. Keep that in mind.” She’d left his office with his parting advice chasing her—“stick to society columns.”

  She marched to the back porch, legs stiffening, hands balled into fists.

  Okay. She blew a breath and rubbed her hands. A new story idea—no problem. She snorted—yeah, right. She’d give Loki a bath, take one herself, and review her options. Mrs. Tuttle had held to her promise and given her some names, and she’d already met with them. Perhaps the effort would lead to a story or two. She would not let the knot of worry in her stomach define her. She’d think of something. Hopefully she could accomplish all this without running into their boarder.

  “Hello, sis.”

  She stopped and whipped around, hand to chest. “Oh, Rex. I didn’t see you.”

  Her brother stepped from the gazebo, a thumb holding his place in a book, and gave his quirky smile. “Well, that seems obvious.”

  As always, she avoided looking at his left hand. Well, what now comprised his left hand. Too painful to contemplate. In place of a normal human hand, he sported the latest mechanical implant. As a devoted archaeologist, he owned half a dozen different kinds he could snap into place, depending on the job required. Guilt for her role in its necessity was a familiar, tight layer over her skin.

  “I was on my way inside,” she murmured, pushing past him.

  “That seems obvious, too,” he teased.

  Oh, confound him. Talking with him was never easy. Unlike when they’d been children and inseparable. He’d been the fun, doting, older brother. He was still fun and doting and older, but it wasn’t the same. Never would be.

  As always, she shoved any niggling feelings into a dark corner and kept her inner self vibrating with purpose, unencumbered by pesky emotions. No need to dredge old emotions, or any at all if she could help it.

  “I wanted to give you this.” He held out a badly wrapped box, with a big limp bow.

  “What is it?”

  “Well, you’ll have to open it to see, won’t you?” His teasing voice and mischievous eyes, showing the pleasure he had in the moment, walloped her with a memory of their Maman, a thoughtful gift in hand and joy in her eyes. Lord, Rex was so much like her. As always, when an errant memory of their deceased mother invaded her mind, she shoved it out of the way.

  She leaned her parasol against the nearby fountain and tore open the wrapping, Loki balling up the paper and tossing it in the air. Nestled inside was the latest Edison Cylindrical Recorder and Dictating Machine.

  “Oh, Rex!”

  “I thought it might come in handy with your new job.”

  “Indeed.” She carefully pulled out the contraption, its base about double the size of a cigar box, its brass and polished wood parts glinting in the afternoon sun. A filigreed horn adorned one corner to capture the voice, while on top sat a brass cylinder amidst tiny scoring pins to record a person’s voice mechanically. This would come in handy. She carefully ran her fingers along the brass prongs, careful not to snag her cotton gloves.

  Rex reached into the box. “It also comes with a tripod, in case you need a steady surface when one is absent.” He pulled it from the box and demonstrated the clever way the brass and wooden legs telescoped to varied heights.

  “Ingenious. Thank you so much, Rex.” Guilt warred with gratitude—this could help her investigations. She reached up on tiptoes, paused a second, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

  At this affectionate display, Rex looked down and shoved his normal hand into a trouser pocket.

  Her gaze lit on his mechanical hand, and her inner equilibrium tilted, unsettling her. She thanked him again, gathered up her present and parasol, and hustled inside, Loki running along beside her to catch up.

  “Breakfast is served,” intoned Walter, its metal feet clomping down the entrance hall’s gray-painted pine floors.

  Had the automaton ever functioned properly? Father had accepted it from a patient in lieu of payment and ended up feeling sorry for it, refusing to send it to the metal recyclers.

  The knocker on their front door rapped smartly. Adele detoured from the staircase and answered it, replacing Loki on her shoulder.

  “Molly,” she said in surprise. Her closest friend’s chest was heaving, and her smattering of freckles was lost in the blush of her round cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

  “I saw you pull up and came straight over.”

  Adele recognized the gleam in her friend’s green eyes. Gossip was afoot. Must be juicy to have hustled as fast as her labored breathing and flushed cheeks suggested. Molly lived a few houses down on Government Street.

  “Surely, you’ve heard the rumors?” Molly asked.

  Here we go. “I hear many rumors. To which do you refer?” Hmm. Molly would be a good source to tap for stories. Her father was a member of the Order of Mystics, Mobile’s elite Mardi Gras society, and so hobnobbed with many of the movers and shakers.

  “About Jack the Ripper, of course. What else is anyone talking of?” She pulled off her gloves and tossed them and her hat on the marble-top entrance table. She patted her dark locks and glanced around.

  Adele groaned. Damn that Peterson, scooping her and making such a harum-scarum claim. She ushered her friend into the parlor and motioned for her to sit. “What have you heard?”

  M
olly’s gaze probed the room, head moving sly-like, hand on neck, as if she were subtle. She leaned toward Adele and lowered her voice. “Why, that your Dr. Rawley might be he.”

  “Might be who?”

  “Jack the Ripper, silly.”

  Chapter Eight

  And Wonder, Just Who Is The Ripper?

  Adele froze and stared at Molly. Dr. Rawley the Ripper? No way could she picture someone so kind to animals as a cold-blooded killer. He’d squatted in front of Loki and humored him on their first meeting. “Whyever would they think that? Talk about silly.” She set Loki on a beaded cushion and sat next to him on the settee.

  “Well, back in London, they suspected a doctor committed these horrors, someone intimately acquainted with sharp physician’s knives and the human anatomy.”

  “There are plenty of doctors in Mobile.”

  Molly sat forward. “Yes, but none are straight from London. Two days after he arrives, what happens?” She mimicked a knife to the throat.

  Camilla breezed in with a laden tray, and Molly changed her hand motion to scratching her neck.

  Camilla had undoubtedly heard, for she rolled her eyes. She was quite familiar with Molly’s imagination as it was what had solidified Adele’s friendship with her in grade school at St. Mary’s Catholic School.

  Adele suppressed a smile and returned her focus to Molly. She forbore from pointing out the victim had her stomach sliced open, not her neck. “That’s ridiculous,” she replied instead. “Pure conjecture and happenstance.”

  She handed Molly a cool glass of tea and sipped her own. Refreshing and bracing after such a trying morning.

  “Nevertheless, that’s what everyone is whispering.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “And you, the only female in the house.”

  “Have you forgotten my great-aunt and Camilla? All hearty and hale?”