Steam Me Up, Rawley

by Angela Quarles

  Yes. There her brother stood. On the other side of the threshold.

  The whole room, everything in it—lumps, pots, tools—seemed to lean back, hold its breath, unable to believe she was about to do this. A table fan sat wide-eyed, whooshed back and forth, as if shaking its head.

  A last little sliver of something—fear? self-doubt?—poked her, but she swatted it away. No. She had to do this. She clutched the drawing to her chest. “Rex, do you have a moment?”

  He startled, obviously so deep in his studies he hadn’t heard her approach. His eyes lit, and a stab of guilt pierced her. She fought the urge to turn and leave.

  He stood. “Of course. Please, come in. Have a seat.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How can I help you?” That was Rex—he truly wanted to know. The guilt thickened her blood anyway. Of course she’d want something, since she’d sought him out.

  “I’ve come across something unusual, and I was hoping with your engineering background you might be able to shed light on this.” She spread the drawings on his desk and told him about her investigation so far, and specifically about these drawings. She left out nothing.

  After she calmed him about the danger she was in, and promised to take everything to the police, he picked up her large rendition and studied it. “Hmmm, curious.” He consulted various reference books on the other side of the room, alternating between them and the drawing.

  “I may be mistaken, but I believe this is a detailed drawing of the top-secret military submersibles currently being built in the bay. It’s all been kept secret, but it’s definitely a submersible. I keep in touch with some of my engineering friends, and I’ve heard talk of this.”

  “Why would someone kill for these?”

  “I think that’s obvious. Whoever had these planned to sell them, probably to investors in another country. If Spain got hold of these, for instance, it would hurt our armament to war significantly. For there is no doubt war is on the horizon with Spain over Cuba and we will be invariably pulled into the conflict.”

  “So what will he do now that he didn’t find the plans in her spy-pouch?” Her stomach curdled.

  “Hard to know.” He set his good hand on her shoulder. “You promised to take this to the police. They will know how to proceed.”

  “Argh. You’re right of course, but that is still so galling I can’t do it myself.”

  Relief showed in Rex’s eyes. “You’ve grown, Adele. I fully expected you to charge on out of here and personally wrestle this fellow to the ground.”

  Guilt lashed her again. “And well you might think that.” She glanced at his left hand, which right now was a whisk brush he used to dust his artifacts. She gulped. “Rex, I...I want you to know how sorry I am. For everything.”

  He frowned and cocked his head. “What are you talking about?”

  She pulled away and crossed to the other end of the room. “Your hand, of course. If it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t now be a cripple. It was my reckless behavior that caused this.”

  “Is that how you think of me?” His voice was curious. “As a cripple?”

  She looked away. “Well, yes.”

  “Is that why you’ve pretty much avoided me since then? Does it repulse you?”

  “No!” She whirled back around. “No, it’s not that at all. I just can’t bear that I’m the cause of your pain. That you’re not whole because...because of me.”

  Rex’s eyes softened. “Let me tell you a secret. Sit.” He perched on the stool’s edge and held her gaze until she complied. “I don’t regret it at all.”

  “What? How could you not?” Her heart sputtered. Hope wrestled with disbelief and settled into shame that he still humored her. For all his talk about her growing up, he didn’t truly believe so. “Because of me, you don’t possess a normal hand.”

  The grin that lit his face was so at odds with how she figured he’d react to her statement, she held still. Held her breath.

  “That’s true, but that’s the reason I’m grateful.”

  That stopped her. Hope began to crowd out resentment. “What can you mean?”

  “Adele. I love being able to switch my hands. I’ve got all kinds now, tailored for whatever task is at hand.” He spun around to his cluttered work table and held up several in triumph. “It gives me so much more control and flexibility than a normal hand.” Another grin. But his features turned into one of concern as he held her gaze.

  He blew a breath and ran his good hand through his short-cropped hair. “To be honest, I didn’t always think this way. I was terrified, and when you stopped interacting with me?” He looked away, muscles tensing in his jaw. “It hurt. I won’t lie.”

  The truth had been all she feared. The shame she’d carried mixed with dread that she’d never be able to fix this, fix their relationship. Misery kept her mute and rooted to the stool.

  He continued, “But I realized my future, my situation and what I made of it, well, that was up to me. Fiddling with engineering had been my way of trying to come to terms with it, but I was limiting myself to my circumstances. I always knew I wanted to be an archaeologist, so I thought about how I could still do that, and how my circumstances could be an advantage in my profession. And it is. Why, you saved me the trouble of lopping it off myself.”

  She searched his eyes, his face, and her chest tightened. Could he possibly be telling the truth? He’d said before he enjoyed having a mechanical hand, but she’d always dismissed it as him putting a happy face to his loss for her sake.

  Only truth and warmth and delight danced in the depths of his eyes. Was it possible? Could she trust he spoke with sincerity?

  “Honestly, Adele. In fact I think my fellow archaeologists look on me with envy when I can switch it and do tasks they’re unable to perform. It makes me a more valuable team member, that’s for certain.”

  She gawked at him. “I believe you’re telling me the truth.”

  He cocked his head. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  A lightness spread within, dissolving the shield that had slammed into place ever since the accident. And the truth and how he arrived at that acceptance humbled her. Now, before her brother, she finally felt fully herself with him. Long suppressed affection bubbled up in the shield’s absence. She’d gained her brother back. But he’d never left. It was her stupid fear of facing him, facing the pain, that had kept her at a distance.

  Her throat tightened. She gulped, rushed to him, and enveloped him in a big hug. He wrapped his arms around her, the action and sensation transporting her back to when she was a little girl and he was her hero of a big brother.

  She rubbed her cheek against his linen waistcoat, and his familiar scent washed over her—brother—mixed with a new one, his aftershave, Caswell-Massey’s No. 6. He was an adult now. She’d missed him so much.

  And it hadn’t been the ravenous maw she’d feared to open up, examine her feelings, hash them out. And she’d done it twice. In one day.

  A lightness suffused her.

  She hadn’t become a babbling mess.

  Well, this time, at least. Wonder permeated her, at this reunion, and with the fact she’d sobbed on Rawley’s shoulder and he’d been so accepting, uncritical. And afterward? Whoa.

  “I’m glad to have you back, sis.”

  His familiar voice flooded her memory with the escapades they’d had as children. And the escapades they could have had after the accident but for her cowardice. Hot tears choked her throat and welled in her eyes. Oh no—can’t get all weepy. She swallowed hard, pushed away, and smiled, the first true smile she’d been able to give him for far too long. “Me, too.”

  “I’m...I’m glad you came to me with this. When Maman died shortly after my accident, I felt completely helpless in how to reach you. You’d closed off so completely, I didn’t know what to do.”

  She took a deep breath. “A rough time for both of us. I didn’t react well to your accident or to her death. I’m...I’m
glad we talked though.” She pulled out her pocket watch, ducking her head and blinking away the stupid wetness. “I better get going if I want to turn this into the police.” And have time to make another copy of the drawing. “Thanks again for helping me with it. I owe you.”

  “No, you don’t. I was happy to do it.”

  She blew him a kiss, grabbed the plans, and bounded out the door, Loki jumping on her shoulder as she passed him.

  Adele’s investigation didn’t end with handing the evidence to the police. After the authorities grilled her at the station, she used the darkroom at the paper and developed those plates she’d taken that day by the river. Since a story on The Neptune had never panned out, she hadn’t bothered before. A chance existed the murderer was on one of them.

  However, the image proved fuzzy at best, the exposure having been too long. Still, she dropped off a copy with the police. Of concern was that they would not alert the press about her discoveries. They extracted a promise that she wouldn’t write a story yet. They wouldn’t even let her run one on Dr. Rawley’s innocence; they wanted no indication to reach the killer that they were closing in on him.

  But when they identified the perpetrator and nabbed him? The story was hers.

  Take that, Mr. Peterson.

  She also received telegrams from the ports she’d contacted, but the news was no longer relevant. As she expected, they had no similar murders to report.

  The next morning, she headed to Madam Sophie’s on a hunch. She’d reviewed the plans yet again, hoping to learn something new, and her gaze had snagged on the names of the engineers, foremen, and others associated with the project. Specifically one name: the draftsman Don Diego Albardo-Castenada. And she remembered Rex’s talk of a war with Spain and how Jenny didn’t want to see anyone of Spanish descent.

  So she’d ask Madam Sophie if this Don Diego had ever been a customer. Excitement hastened her trip—she might have discovered the killer! On the way, she dropped Loki off at Molly’s, for she intended a long visit, and Loki had proved to be far too enthralled by all the shiny and dangly items in Madam Sophie’s parlor.

  She turned onto the street housing the brothel and sharply braked Smarty Pants. A large crowd congested the space near the entrance. Police swarmed. Feminine sobs floated above the crowd’s murmurs.

  Her heart punched against her rib cage. Not another.

  She bumped Miss Smarty Pants onto the sidewalk and rushed toward the crowd.

  “Who is it this time?” She received only shrugs and utterances of “Someone’s been murdered again.”

  The police chief stood in the thickness talking to one of the girls. Adele waited off a ways, not wanting to disturb them and hoping to re-cage her heart which pounded so hard, it felt like it had become the entirety of her person. When he dismissed the doxy, Adele caught his gaze. Two fingers beckoned, her evidence yesterday apparently keeping her in favor. She approached him. “Afternoon, Chief Maguire. Who was it?”

  “Madam Sophie.” He pulled a pipe from an inner pocket, his face grim.

  A wave of nausea slapped her. She stumbled back a step and swallowed hard. “Oh, no. No no no.”

  He looked up from tamping the tobacco. “You knew her?”

  Breathe in. Breathe out. “Not well, but I visited her a couple of times while I was pursuing this story. She was the one who passed on Jenny’s information.”

  He shook his head, mouth pinched. “Well, it appears she paid the price for that. We can’t go inside as yet to fully investigate until the gas clears—”

  She’d been pulling out her notebook to take notes, fingers shaking, but at that, she interrupted. “Gas?”

  “Yes, from what we can tell, the killer came in during the early hours this morning, after business had died down, and caught Madam Sophie unawares.” Chief Maguire sucked on his pipe with quick draws until it lit. He tossed the quick-strike match onto the cobblestones, the sulfur smell spiking through the tobacco’s mellow scent. “He gassed the interior with a sleeping agent and ransacked the place. Presumably, he wore a mask to keep from succumbing himself. We can only conjecture that when he couldn’t find what he wanted, he pulled Madam Sophie from her room and carried her to the carriage house. We found her there, tortured.”

  Adele scribbled furiously, a double dose of guilt assailing her—that she was the cause and now she was taking notes for the story. Could she do this? She tightened her grip on her pencil, her handwriting jerky. And now her one lead was gone.

  The police chief took another draw on his pipe and continued, “We can only assume her death was accidental, or he didn’t get what he desired, for he tore that room up in a rage. Not at all like the house, where he methodically searched. In the carriage house, it was pure destruction. One of the day maids arrived later and found the house in disarray, with Madam Sophie out back.”

  “Oh, God, the poor woman.” She pulled in a shaky breath. “This is so horrible. And all because of me.” Too much. This was too much. She gathered her strength and resolve, let it punch through her, dispersing the horror, the guilt. She must be detached, objective. For Madam Sophie.

  Chief Maguire’s kind brown eyes held hers. “That’s not true. You happened to be the recipient of Jenny’s information, but you were not the cause of what Jenny did, or the fact this person is hell-bent on getting it back.”

  Adele bit her lip and looked at the scene, over-focused from the sheen of tears in her eyes as the dispersed emotion whooshed back inside her, knotting her up. “I suppose you’re right, but I feel awful.” Awful wasn’t even an adequate word. It felt as if a kick in the stomach morphed into a fist and rammed up her throat. She’d known the woman. Madam Sophie had been alive yesterday. She’d had plans. She’d been kind. She didn’t deserve what happened.

  “I think you need to be careful, Miss de la Pointe.”

  Her attention snapped back to him. “Of course.”

  “I don’t think you fully understand.” His voice low, measured. “We have no way of knowing if Madam Sophie told him you had a packet from Jenny.”

  “I don’t think she would have.” She pictured that indomitable woman, her forthrightness. Her strength.

  “Nevertheless, there is no way for us to be sure. Please be careful. I’d advise you to drop the story.”

  She gazed at him for a while and looked away. She only nodded, which could be interpreted in any manner the police chief chose. If he saw it as agreement, that was fine by her.

  Drop it? Hell, no. She snapped her pencil in half. This sick person, who found so little value in these women that he had no compunction in killing them, had to be found. He saw these women as disposable, but they deserved to be seen as more than their profession. She’d expose him. She’d make him pay.

  Chapter Sixteen

  How Our Heroine’s Plans Get Thrown Into Disarray

  Back at the house, Adele sought Rawley, who, not surprisingly, was in his office. Memories of their earlier encounter in the room washed over her, momentarily swamping her anxiety and guilt with warmth and anticipation. Her gaze lingered on the couch. Rawley cleared his throat, and she jolted. Madam Sophie’s horrid death reasserted itself in her thoughts.

  He scooted around the desk and held her by the shoulders. “What’s wrong? You look...” He tilted his head. “I’m not sure, but I’ve never seen you look like this.”

  She gazed at the top button of his dark green waistcoat, afraid to look in his eyes. That would make this all real. “Madam Sophie was killed early this morning.” She pulled in a deep breath and finally met his gaze.

  His face drained of color, and he sat on his couch. She joined him, feeling weak in the knees as well.

  “What happened?”

  She filled him in. As she related the story, he grew increasingly agitated, which for him initially consisted of a muscle jumping in his jaw, and graduated to jouncing a leg up and down. Finally, as she neared the end, he popped up and paced the room. When she finished, he spun around. “You are in mor
tal danger.”

  She slumped as much as her corset allowed. “I am a trifle worried about the matter.” Again, because of her need for thrills, innocent people had not only been hurt, but had died. But unlike before, she would not back down from doing what was right.

  “A trifle worried? I’m much more than a trifle worried.”

  “What should I do?”

  Had she just imposed on him like that? She tensed, waiting while he paced, his shoes making a tidy squeak each time he turned about. Why would her mouth blurt such a needy question?

  She didn’t expect help. Blech. She didn’t need it. So, why did she feel so exposed, so vulnerable like a huge big ball of...of...need?

  Had their earlier encounter on the couch caused this? Or had crumbling the shield between her and Rex exposed more of herself than she intended?

  She clenched her fists and stood. Enough of this. She’d overstepped, and it had been silly to ask for his advice, his involvement. Plus, her heart urged leaving now before she reached the end of his indulgence. She didn’t want to know it—the limit.

  “Adele, wait.” Rawley gripped her arm and motioned to the couch with the other. “We need to discuss this.”

  Something inside shifted slightly, and she knew, could see, in the set of his shoulders, in his gentle but firm grip, in the way his blue eyes held hers, that not only did this man take her seriously, but she could depend on him.

  In a daze, she sat down. He settled next to her and faced her, one arm outstretched on the couch’s back. This close to him, she could catch a faint hint of his unique scent—bergamot, starched linen, and something else, something that sent a wholly inappropriate tingle down her spine, considering the topic of conversation.

  He leaned forward. “I think you need to leave town.”

  “Won’t he follow me?”

  The hand on the back of the couch came down and thumped his knee. “Damn it, I don’t know, but there must be something we could do.”

  We. “Well, I don’t know what it is. I’ve given the police everything.”