Steam Me Up, Rawley

by Angela Quarles

  “You know what I mean.” And she waved her hand in dismissal.

  She loved Molly, but sometimes she could be overly dramatic and vague.

  “Well, I’ll need more evidence than what you’ve given before I suspect him. He’s a guest in our home, no matter how much I dislike his presence here.”

  Molly’s eyes rounded, and she set down her iced tea. “Why? What has he done?”

  “Oh, nothing. And everything.” Now look who’s being dramatic and vague.

  Molly nodded. “Well?”

  Adele took a deep breath. How to articulate? “He’s, he’s...he’s in my space.” And he’d also proposed before knowing her.

  Molly wrinkled her forehead. “Has he made improper advances?” Her eyes sparked as if hoping that were the case.

  “No!” Adele clasped her hands in her lap. She wouldn’t tell Molly of the proposal, however. If she did, it would be all over town and wouldn’t reflect well on her or Dr. Rawley. “He’s rather dashing and handsome, to be sure. Though he puts on airs that he’s anything but. No, he’s just...large.” Again, like other times when she allowed herself to think of it, she flushed at the memory of him pressed against her back as he caught the vase that night in the hallway. And his heated stare that day in the rain when he rescued the lady on the horse, how he lingered on her face, her lips. A warmth unfurled in her lower belly—no, no. Dangerous. He was not for her.

  Unlike how naive she’d been with Pascal, she would not allow herself to be sweet-talked by another charming physician.

  “Large?”

  Criminy. Adele wanted to slap herself, because for someone who wanted to make a living with words, she was pathetically at a loss for them. “His presence is large, I mean. He takes up more space with it than his body does. And it unnerves me. I need to concentrate on my career.” Ever since the proposal, he’d been acting aloof, which made sense. She had rejected him. But it grated that she held no lasting effect on him, unlike how she always felt around him. It was just—gah—she didn’t know. Something about his polished exterior, so at odds with what she felt lurked beneath, intrigued.

  Molly cocked her head, eyes glinting with too much speculation. “Hmmm.”

  “Hmm, what?”

  “Nothing.” She smiled and flicked at a speck on her skirt.

  “Well, all I’m saying is I hope the housing shortage is alleviated soon, so he can remove himself from our household.”

  “As you say, dear.”

  “Molly, what are you implying?”

  “Nothing. I’m only happy to see you take an interest in someone again. After Pascal—”

  “That puffed up dandy.”

  “—and your broken engagement, I worried for you.”

  “Whatever for?”

  Molly gave her a get-serious stare. “You put on a splendid act for everyone, but I know you. He hurt you—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “—he hurt you deeply.”

  “So I fancied myself in love with him.” She waved her hand. “The follies of youth.”

  “The follies of youth? Adele, you’re all of nineteen.”

  “No matter.” Adele straightened. “I have learned my lesson.”

  She refused to explore what Molly said. Emotions were messy things—if she indulged herself and pulled on a thread, she might never stop and find herself too entangled.

  Water drips from an eave. Drip, drip, drip. A whisper, no two whispers. A muffled giggle. He eases around the corner and watches his prey, the faint light from the quarter moon glinting off his blade. She bids goodbye to her latest client. Her last one.

  The traitor will pay. Soon. Once he finds her.

  Her fault. Her fault.

  Had she not betrayed him, he would not have become so angry. He would not have killed that other one.

  But she did, and he had. And discovered his own cowardice. All that blood...

  He looks at his hands. They shake. A reedy breath trembles through him. He can do this. He can do this. He must do this.

  But the blood.

  He winces.

  Bile chokes his throat.

  Coward!

  He clenches his hands and unwraps the scarf, ready to muffle. And his hands, his hands. Yes. Deep breath.

  This is her fault too. If only she would reveal herself.

  His hands are ready to strangle. It was necessary. Vital.

  From Adele’s bedroom window, the creeping mist obscured the backyard and coiled like snakes around the azaleas and mimosas, mist and nature alike tinged a milky silver by the quarter moon. Well past midnight, she couldn’t help but equate the familiar but shrouded landscape to her current situation, how a way forward felt within reach if she could only see it. She rubbed her face, fighting to stay awake. She had to figure out a plan for securing the job. Loki dozed on his pallet in the corner; she’d scrubbed him clean over his vocal protestations.

  She blinked and yawned wide, her pen poised. First, a list of influential people to consult, to see if they might have any leads for a story. Next, potential subjects of inquiry.

  Drama. Mr. Tonti wanted drama. She scribbled that down and underlined it. She tapped her pen on the desk. She lifted the pen, circled the word three times, and sat back.

  She could approach the recent murder in a different way, leave the obvious and sensational angle to Mr. Peterson. She could interview Madam Sophie and get her perspective. Find where the victim worked. Adele circled that idea three times.

  She stretched, the worry, stress, and late night dulling her mind’s edges. She dropped her pen and flexed her fingers, rubbed the callous on her middle finger from holding a pen so much. A cup of coffee. Yes, that would do nicely. God, and she had another party to cover tomorrow night. Competing against Mr. Peterson while performing her regular assignments was proving harder than she’d imagined. But she could talk to the attendees and see if they had any leads. She hadn’t forgotten Mrs. Tuttle’s advice and had been talking to at least two people a day, more if she was covering a society party, but so far nothing.

  Cotton robe cinched tight, she stole downstairs to the butler’s pantry off the kitchen. As she passed the griffin in the hall, the one Dr. Rawley had fussed with the first night, she turned it back to the wall. It had become a little game—whenever he straightened it, she moved it back.

  In the butler’s pantry, a creak made her jump, the flame guttering in her gas lamp for a second. A warm spark of panic flared in her chest.

  “Walter! You scared me.” She put a hand over her pounding heart, willing it to slow. He stood in his niche in the wall, the gaslight’s glow undulating across metallic skin as she crept past. She pulled out the French press and prepared herself a cup. Just the rich aroma of the grounds with a dash of chicory helped invigorate her. She stirred in cream and sugar.

  A noise by the front door stopped her spoon mid-stroke, her heart beating faster again. A key scraped in the lock, but who could be returning at three in the morning?

  She slipped into the dining room and held her breath, hands clasped around her coffee mug. Footsteps echoed down the wide hallway. She pressed her back against the wall and positioned her face so she would see the person as they passed on the way to the main staircase.

  Dr. Rawley.

  He whipped around at some noise she must have made, and their eyes locked. A jolt of awareness seared through her. He changed direction and stepped toward her, eyes inscrutable. Shadows played across the planes of his handsome face, blended and curled with his black hair, added to his mystery. Energy sizzled in the surrounding air, a current seeking its ground. Now she was fully awake. In fact, parts of her tingled down there. And they were so scandalously alone in this darkened hallway—just the two of them and the whispering shadows to bear witness. She straightened her spine. Behave, traitorous body—he was the enemy, Elizabeth Bisland in masculine form to her Nellie Bly.

  Now several feet away, the moonlight illumined him fully, and she gasped. The dis
tinctive smell of copper seared her nose, and dark liquid glistened on this shirt. “Dr. Rawley. You’re...you’re covered in blood.” The energy fizzing through her morphed and amped into a new emotion—fear. She stumbled backward.

  He stopped in mid-step and looked down at himself, his face puzzled as if just realizing his state. Chin still down, he looked up with his eyes only and took a step back, his hands adjusting his cravat. “Yes. Somehow I always manage to be disheveled in your presence.” He sighed. “I didn’t mean to give you a fright. It’s an unfortunate side effect of the business, to be sure.”

  A chill went through her. Was he Jack the Ripper? Father had never come home late at night covered in blood.

  “The business? You mean being-a-doctor business?”

  He cocked his head. “Of course. What other business would it be?”

  She shook her head. Stupid Molly and her wild conjectures. Except, he was a cosmetic surgeon, which generally didn’t entail late night bloody operations.

  “I have given you a fright. Please forgive me. I shall retire now. It’s been an exhausting evening.”

  With that, he bowed, his movements hitching when he caught sight of the griffin. He straightened and kept his gaze averted and proceeded up the stairs, his tread slow, weighted.

  Any number of doctor-like things could have occupied him. Right? Perhaps he’d come from the office, and Father was still there. Did she dare ask him? Yes.

  She marched to the front door and opened it. She peeked around, but the light was off in the office at the end of the porch. On the porch steps, clearly limned by the moonlight, were muddy steps. Coming from the street.

  Her gut tightened. She looked down at her coffee, now cooled. Just as well—now she was not only wide awake, but desirous of the numbness of sleep. Good God. What if the most horrifying story was here, in her house?

  Chapter Nine

  In Which Our Heroine Follows Our Hero And Overhears A Bit Of Unpleasantness

  Adele stood on Madam Sophie’s stoop, hoping she could get her reaction to the recent murder. She rapped twice on the door.

  A hulking but disheveled man answered. He looked her up and down, and his eyebrows shot up. “What do you want?”

  “I was wondering if I may speak to Madam Sophie?”

  He squinted at her, taking in her neck tattoos. “What for?”

  “I’m a reporter for the Mobile Register, and I—”

  “Reporter!” His brows slammed into a solid line. “One of her poor girls has been found dead not twenty minutes, and already you people are sniffing around?” He stepped back and began swinging the door shut.

  “Dead? Wait!” She slapped her hand against the door, the red paint, hot from the sun, stinging her palm. “Someone else has been murdered?”

  “Yes. Young Lizzy. Now off with you.”

  “Please, one more question!” She stepped forward. “Where did they find her?”

  He crossed his arms and looked her up and down again. “You honestly didn’t know?”

  “No.” She scrambled for a story topic. She didn’t dare mention the other murder to this man. “I was hoping to do an exposé on the lives of, of...” What was a polite term?

  “Whores?” But his stance shifted, became less belligerent.

  Her cheeks heated. “Yes.”

  “Hunh.” He scratched his blotchy cheek and assessed her again. “At the corner of Conception and St. Anthony.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t ‘sir’ me.” And he shut the door in her face.

  The news counteracted the rudeness, though Loki shook a fist at the door.

  Another murder? Adele spun around and bounded down the steps. At the bottom, she paused as the image of Dr. Rawley covered in blood flashed through her mind.

  No. Impossible.

  She hopped on Miss Smarty Pants, placed Loki in his basket, and sped to the scene.

  The crowd was smaller this time. She swept her gaze around—yes! She’d beaten Mr. Peterson. She threw Loki on her shoulder and headed to the knot of policemen.

  “Morning, Miss de la Pointe,” a couple of them said pretty much in unison.

  “Morning, fellows. What have we here?”

  Chief Maguire, a Liberated Gentleman, waved at the crumpled body she studiously avoided looking at. “Another whore, cut up like before.” His mahogany-colored skin pulled into a tight frown.

  Heart racing, she pulled out a pad and pen from her reticule. She was going to scoop Mr. Peterson. “Any leads?”

  “Nothing,” said one of the sergeants, earning him a glare from the chief.

  “What Sergeant Coles is trying to say is, nothing we can tell the press.”

  A little thrill tripped through her to be referred to for the first time as a member of the press.

  She stepped closer, and the victim came into full view. She caught a glimpse of rumpled skirts, blood, and limbs at wrong angles. She turned slightly away. The poor girl. Her plight ignored and unseen by society, her life had been hard enough. But to die like this? She shuddered and swallowed a taste of bile.

  “We are pursuing leads,” he continued. “That’s all we can say at this point.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “Elizabeth Teague.”

  What else? What else to ask? She tapped her pen against her pad and finally forced herself to look at the unfortunate girl’s body. She had to be sure. Relief and revulsion washed through her in equal measure. Not the same doxy she’d seen the other morning. But a curious fact struck her.

  “What about the similarity of the two victims? Are you pursuing that angle?”

  The chief pushed his hand under his hat and scratched his head. “So our killer has a thing for blondes. Not much to go on, if you ask me.”

  “Do they have anything else in common? Did they work in the same brothel?”

  He drew himself straighter. “With all due respect, Miss de la Pointe, we cannot reveal anything else about our investigation at present. Your paper did a bang-up job with that last piece, whipping up the town. Don’t look like you’re too worried about facts there anyway.”

  Yeah. Way to go, Mr. Peterson. “What about the rumors surrounding Dr. Rawley?”

  At this, the chief’s lips compressed so tight only displeasure leaked from them. “Enough questions. We have a murder...two murders to investigate.” And he turned his back to her.

  She stared at his back, her knees locked.

  She took a deep breath. Buck up. All part of her new role as a reporter. She gripped her notepad and headed back to Smarty Pants for the trip back to the brothel.

  Dr. Rawley, the blood last night, the murder this morning, the coincidence. She shook her head.

  Despite the rebuff at Madam Sophie’s, she returned, determined to get in. The victim had worked there. Could she learn more? Enough for a story? At the door, she straightened her spine, readying her arguments. But when the surly man opened the door, he stepped aside and said, “The madam wishes to speak with you.” She followed him inside, and he showed her into the same room she’d been in last time. “Wait here.”

  “I told you,” came Madam Sophie’s voice from the door a few minutes later, “you can’t go undercover here.”

  “I know. I wanted to interview you or one of your ladies about your views on the first murder. Then I heard about the murder of your girl, Lizzy, and I was hoping to ask you questions in regards to that. If you don’t mind?”

  The madam raked cold eyes up and down Adele’s body, then she pursed her lips at Loki. Adele tried not to shift or give any indication of discomfort.

  “How do I know you won’t sensationalize the story like you did with the first one?”

  “That wasn’t me. That was Mr. Peterson.”

  “So. It’s the same paper, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But I assure you I was as appalled by that story as you. Reporters should stick to facts, not embellish so as to titillate the reading public. It’s irresponsible, in my op
inion. I assure you, I will be fair and stick to the facts.”

  The madam’s gaze seemed to penetrate, shuffling through Adele’s integrity and motivations. She gave a curt nod. “I suppose that will be all right.”

  “I understand Lizzy’s full name is Elizabeth Teague?” Adele asked once they were sitting.

  A look of growing respect suffused Madam Sophie’s eyes. “Yes, indeed.”

  “How long has she worked here?”

  “For only a year.”

  Adele noted this in her pad. “Did she know the other victim?”

  “Who? Cathy Pruitt?”

  A thrill shot through her. Adele scribbled down that name since it hadn’t been mentioned in Mr. Peterson’s article. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I believe they knew of each other. This is a small town, no matter it being a thriving port. But I don’t remember that they had any dealings.”

  “So Cathy didn’t work here?” Adele saw Loki edge across the settee, eyes intent on the beads hanging from a nearby lamp shade.

  “No. She worked for Madam Eglantine.”

  “Loki,” she said in a sharp undertone and glared at him. He sat back with a huff and hunched, head resting on his hands. She returned her attention to the madam. “Do you know if either of them had any enemies?”

  “I don’t know about Cathy, but Lizzy didn’t have any that I’m aware. A sweet girl, good to the clients.”

  All right. She’d ignore what that meant. “So no motive for their murders that you can think of?”

  “Except some crazy gentleman what has a thing against doxies?”

  Adele nodded. “And blonde ones of a certain build.”

  “I hadn’t realized that.” Her eyes grew wider. “Could your paper have the right of it? Could Jack the Ripper have come from London to wreak his vengeance on us honest workers?”

  “Come now, Madam Sophie, we’d agreed that was claptrap.” But, hearing that speculation, her thoughts jumped to her mysterious boarder. “Do you know Dr. Rawley?”

  Madam Sophie’s face remained carefully poised, but shifted to being somehow slightly...less. Less careful. Less Poised. Less Jaded Brothel Madam. Just...less. A scant in-roll of her lips and a quick glance to the left betrayed her.