* * *
Sunday dawned with a mantle of lavender and gold. October was closing out, and the beach—normally filled with tourists and surf lovers—was empty in the chill morning. Graf had fallen asleep on the sofa, and I had left him there. It hurt me that he hadn’t come to share my bed, but Cece had given me a primer on the subject.
Cece Dee Falcon, my friend, knew more about body image than most psychologists. She’d once been Cecil. Only her strong will and intense self-knowledge had given her the strength to fight family and often her community in a quest to become the person she was meant to be.
“Graf feels diminished,” Cece had warned me. “Don’t push intimacy. He has to see himself as sexually desirable before he engages. Let him come to you, Sarah Booth. And don’t take it personally. This isn’t about you. It’s all about him.”
So I tiptoed past him with Sweetie and Pluto following, and we went out on the sand so I could smoke a cigarette. I didn’t do it often—had in fact fought and beaten the demon tobacco for years. Now I was cutting myself a little slack. Graf and I would both recover our strength and put this behind us, including the smokes.
A child’s laughter caught Sweetie’s attention, and she bounded over the sand dunes and disappeared. She was a gentle dog, but I didn’t want her size to intimidate a kid. I stood up and followed with a disgruntled Pluto at my side. The cat was not a fan of early mornings either. The tang of salt in the air only made it worse for the water-disdaining feline.
I stopped on top of the dune. Down the beach, Sweetie Pie ran circles around a child with flowing brown curls that hung to her waist. She looked to be eight or nine. When Sweetie paused, the child spun cartwheels in the sand. She was too far away for a clear view, but her delight in the beach and water was obvious.
I’d been happy at her age. Endless laughter and adventure. The joy of sun and sand and movement. Shading my eyes with my hand, I searched for an adult. The surf could be dangerous, and the girl was far too young to be outside alone.
A slender woman with long blondish curls waved a scarf, and the child skipped to her and took her hands for a swing. Mother and daughter, I thought. They knelt side by side and lavished affection on Sweetie. One day Graf and I would have a child that beautiful. Two. A girl and a boy. Or two girls. Or two boys. It really didn’t matter, as long as they were healthy.
Fear had kept me from starting my own family. I lost everyone I loved, and I didn’t believe I could recover if something happened to my child. So I’d run away from the possibility. I’d held Graf off, postponing wedding dates and potential children. My miscarriage hadn’t helped. Now, though, I was done with fear and running. Graf and I would build a family. I was strong enough now.
Not to mention the thing Jitty kept a countdown on—my biological clock was ticking away. This week, while my fiancé and I were on the beautiful beach, I would commit to Graf and a bicoastal life that included children, movies, horses, travel, and a deep and abiding love for my husband. And Jitty, of course.
The mother and daughter raced down the beach, and Sweetie returned to me, ears flopping and tail wagging with delight. Pluto, on the other hand, stared at me with golden-green eyes that seemed to say, “Look at that stupid hound. There is nothing more pathetic than a dog.”
“Let’s make some coffee,” I suggested. “Graf and I have a guided tour of Fort Gaines at ten. Time to roust him up and get him ready for the day.”
* * *
Fort Gaines was built for people much shorter than my height, and poor Graf had to stoop to pass under some of the arched entrances. The group for the Sunday morning tour was small, a handful of fall beachcombers taking advantage of the October weather. In the summer, I could imagine the fort would be crowded with tourists.
Our tour guide, Angela Trotter, was a slender young woman with navy blue eyes and a love of the old fort and its checkered history. Originally used as a port and defense point by the French explorer Iberville, the barrier island, which has shifted and changed shapes and locations as a result of hurricanes, played a role in the development of the Gulf Coast rim. Military strategists had used Dauphin Island to defend the vulnerable—and valuable—inner waterways. The island had also been a waypoint for pirates, and Angela Trotter brought the past to life.
“One of the most colorful pirates to sail these waters was Jean Lafitte. A French nobleman by birth, he attracted the best sailors, some of them French nobility who were more in the model of anarchists than Black Beard pirates.”
Angela outlined Lafitte’s colorful career—the island stronghold he built off the coast of Louisiana on an island in Barataria Bay, and how he declared the island a free state, where slaves kidnapped from the cotton, rice, and sugarcane fields were given the full privilege of citizenship.
“One such highborn lieutenant of Lafitte’s was a pirate named Armand Couteau,” Angela said. “It’s rumored he hid a treasure worth millions on Dauphin Island. Many have hunted for the lost gold using all types of equipment, but nothing has ever been found. Most believe the hiding place is now underwater. Savage storms have shifted the island’s contours too many times to count.”
Unfortunately, I couldn’t give the tour my full attention, because I was worried about Graf. He’d gone for a long walk up and down the beach before we came to the fort, and now his face was pinched with exhaustion and fatigue. He was trying too hard, another thing the doctors had warned me about.
When the guide moved us along the barricades that gave a glorious view of the Gulf, Graf lagged behind. I dropped back to walk with him.
“Go with the group,” he urged me. “My leg is hurting, and I’ll take it slow for a little while. Make notes so you can tell me all the stories.” His smile was more grimace.
“Let’s head back to the cottage. I’m tired, too.”
“Don’t mollycoddle me.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just spoiling it for you. Go listen to the tour. I’ll catch up in a bit.”
“I came to spend time with you,” I said. “The tour isn’t important. Look”—I pointed to the south—“This is the place where Union naval commander Admiral David Farragut tried to navigate the mine-salted Mobile Bay and declared, ‘Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.’”
Movement across the fort’s yard caught my eye. The blond woman from the beach disappeared into one of the old powder buildings. If she was on the tour, she’d dropped out to pursue her own interests. Maybe she was a local who already knew the history. I was about to ask Graf if he’d seen her when footsteps alerted me that someone approached.
The young tour guide joined us. “You guys okay?” she asked. “I haven’t bored you into a coma, have I?”
“We’re just enjoying the view,” I answered. “My fiancé is a little tired.”
“We’ll wait for you in the hold.” She didn’t give us a chance to decline. She hurried away to catch up to the group.
“Ready to rejoin?” I asked.
“Let’s see this to the end. Then I’m going to need a hot soak in that lovely bathtub and a long nap.”
“You’ve got it.” I turned to follow him and saw the blond woman. She was half in shadow behind the powder house, and her attention was directed at Graf.
I wondered if she recognized him from one of his films, or if she was wondering what injury he’d sustained. With any luck, he’d heal perfectly before the Hollywood gossip machine found out he’d ever been hurt.
2
It was lunchtime when the tour concluded, and Graf and I headed to the parking lot.
“Want to grab something to eat in Mobile?” I asked. “You could nap while I drive.”
“I’m more tired than hungry. Why don’t you run into Mobile and look around a little. I’ll clean up, have a rest on the sofa, and cook dinner for us when you return.”
His limp was more pronounced—he’d really pushed himself. “Sounds like a plan. What shall I pick up to cook?”
“Excuse me!�
��
Angela Trotter’s long, purposeful stride held a natural grace that made others stop and watch her. “I’m sorry, but I was just concerned. Is everything okay?”
“We’re fine. My fiancé is recovering from an injury, and while walking is good for him, it’s very tiring.”
“I could arrange for a scooter if you’d like to come back. No charge.”
“That’s very generous.” Graf looked uncomfortable. “I’m healing. Walking is exactly what the doctor ordered.”
“You missed a lot of the tour.”
In her quest to be kind, she was only pointing out Graf’s disability. “You’re very thoughtful,” I said. Pulling a business card from my pocket, I handed it to her. “I’d love to come back. When you set up another tour, could you give me a call?”
“Will do.” She pushed the card into her jeans pocket. “Have a great stay on the island.” And she was gone.
“Why does everyone feel they have to make special allowances for a cripple?” Graf asked.
“She’s really proud of the history of the island. She just wants to share her enthusiasm.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. It’s just hard when all people see is my injury.”
“At the rate you’re improving, by the end of the week no one will even know you were hurt. You just have to build up your stamina again.”
He nodded. “You’re my private cheering squad. Thanks, Sarah Booth.”
When I was pulling into the cottage, my cell phone rang with a number I didn’t recognize. Angela Trotter was on the line. I signaled Graf to go on inside while I took the call.
“Your card says you’re a private investigator. I googled you. You have a remarkable success rate,” Angela said.
“Okay.” I didn’t know where this was headed.
“My father was murdered here on the island. I want to hire you to investigate his death.”
I wasn’t prepared for a job offer. “I’m on vacation. My fiancé is recovering from an injury—”
“Sustained when he was kidnapped because of a case you were working. I know the timing is awful, but I’m desperate.”
She’d done her homework, but that didn’t change the facts. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” The one thing I didn’t need to do was take on a case. Graf was my priority.
“An innocent man is serving a life sentence. He’s been in jail for over a year. I need your help to free him. Larry Wofford didn’t kill my father, but he’ll rot in prison unless you help me find out who did.”
Her tactics might not be fair, but they were effective. My father had been a lawyer in a rural Mississippi county. He’d stood up for the rights of the poor and those whose skin color set them up for mistreatment and injustice. He’d taken cases pro bono when he felt an innocent man was at risk of being railroaded. Unknowingly, Angela Trotter had pressed my hot button.
“Can we at least meet to talk about it?” she asked. “I’m parked on the road in front of your cottage.”
I glanced toward the road—a little blue compact idled beside the drive. Since she was already there, I didn’t see the harm in hearing her out. “Sure, the least I can do is listen.”
In less then a minute she was parked and standing beside me, the wind riffling her dark curls. “I realize you’re here to be with your fiancé, not take on a new client. But I’ve tried to work with the sheriff here, and with some local private investigators. I haven’t gotten anywhere.” Tears shimmered in her eyes, but she managed to control them.
“I have to put Graf as my first priority. He needs me now.”
“He’s hurting. I understand.” Her chin lifted half an inch. “But you could look into this in your off time. Just see what you can turn up while you’re here. Do it when Mr. Milieu is resting. I wouldn’t ask more than that.”
How to explain that an investigation deserved a hundred percent of my efforts and so did Graf. “I’ll be happy to find someone local who can help. I’ll only be here a week. That’s not enough time.”
“I want Delaney Detective Agency. It’s like fate brought you to me. I can’t help but believe providence is at work. Will you just do what you can? At the end of the week, I won’t ask more.” And then she added the killer. “Larry Wofford has already lost a year of his life. Every day that passes is another cheat against him. My father was brutally murdered on his own boat because he claimed to have found a pirate’s treasure. Someone killed him for a stupid legend that likely wasn’t even true.”
“Ms. Trotter—”
“Call me Angela. I’ll pay your full fee. No matter what you do or don’t find.”
I hesitated, and she jumped on it.
“Thank you. Can we get together later today so I can give you the full story? I’ll have a check ready for you, and I’ll give you all the information I’ve gathered. Thank you, Ms. Delaney. Thank you so much.”
She never allowed me a chance to say otherwise. She jumped in her car and drove away. I debated whether I should call her back and make it clear I wasn’t taking the case. Then I reconsidered. Everyone urged me to allow Graf to find his own path. Perhaps this was providence, giving me a focus that kept me from mother-henning him to death.
* * *
When I left the beach house to meet Angela, Graf was asleep. I’d told him about Angela’s request, and he’d encouraged me to at least explore the details of the case. We’d lunched on leftover curried shrimp salad, and Graf had taken a mild pain pill and conked out on the sofa. Because I was meeting Angela at the marina, I took Sweetie Pie and Pluto along with me. The marina might provide some interesting aromas for a bored kit-kat.
Angela was standing on the dock when I pulled up. Sweetie and Pluto brought up the rear as I walked down the wooden pier to a grand old sailboat, the Miss Adventure.
“She’s a beauty,” I said.
Angela bit her bottom lip. “I spent summers on this boat with my dad, helping him hunt for pirate’s booty. He always believed he would hit the grand slam of treasures one day.” The softness that had touched her face hardened. “He believed he could make up for neglecting my mother and me. Like he could undo time and rewind all the recitals and field hockey games he missed. All the nights my mother worked a second job to pay the mortgage.” Her laugh was sad and bitter. “He never lost his dream. And the night he was killed, he called me to tell me he’d hit the mother lode. He’d figured out where Armand Couteau had hidden the great Esmeralda treasure.”
“Did he find it?” The idea of a real pirate’s gold excited me. What kid hadn’t read adventure tales and dreamed of finding fabulous wealth?
“He was killed before he could claim it. If someone else found it, they sure kept it quiet.” She shook her head. “One of the reasons I’ve stayed here, though, is to keep an eye out. The person who finds that treasure will be my father’s real killer.”
We stepped aboard the boat, Pluto with more grace than I’d ever attributed to him. For a porcine pussy, he could make an elegant leap when the mood struck.
“My father was shot in the chest in his cabin.” Angela led the way down a steep, narrow stairway. She stopped outside a door, her hand on the worn wood.
The boat shifted in the water, and I realized I’d need practice to gain my sea legs. Technically, I wasn’t a boat person. Given a choice between a boat and land, I would take mother earth every single time, but I needed to investigate the place where Mr. Trotter had died.
“Did you live on the boat with your father?” I asked.
“Only part time, when I was a kid. After my parents divorced, I spent the summers helping with Dad’s treasure hunts. During the school year, I lived with my aunt Molly. My mom died when I was sixteen. After I graduated college, I came to Alabama and went to work for the newspaper in Mobile.”
Angela had had a rough go of it, for sure. “Did you talk often with your dad?”
“At least once a week. Dad was independent. And he was obsessed with the Esmeralda treasure. He’d worked on
it, off and on, for two decades. It was a puzzle he could never walk away from.” She hesitated before adding, “Our relationship was a bit thorny.”
“So tell me about the treasure.”
She leaned against the closed door. “After the pirate Jean Lafitte moved down to the Texas coast, Armand Couteau became the most notorious pirate on these waters. He was a relative of Napoleon and, from all accounts, a handsome man with great charm. He’d attack the Spanish and French galleons headed into Mobile Bay or New Orleans, rob them of their riches, and send the shamed crews into port. Couteau wasn’t a ruthless man, but he was a pirate. It was said he entertained the wives and daughters of the Mobile and New Orleans ruling class right under the noses of their husbands and fathers.”
I could only imagine the appeal of such a man. “There’s something about a scoundrel that heats the blood.”
She laughed. “How true. At any rate, Couteau and his crew of pirates intercepted a Spanish ship that was bringing a young girl of noble birth to Dauphin Island. She was set to marry one of the fort’s commanders. With her was a huge dowry of gold and jewels.”
I saw how this story would go. “Couteau intercepted the ship and took the dowry and the girl.”
“Well, he was a man of honor. He declared a cease-fire and escorted Esmeralda to shore and into the arms of her betrothed. While he was onshore, the Spanish ship was burned. Some say the fort’s commander ordered the ship burned. Others blamed the pirates. But the treasure either sank or was taken by the pirates. My father believed Couteau brought the treasure ashore and hid it.”
“Is there any evidence the story is true?” I had to bring a little skepticism to the high-seas tale of romance and gold.
“My father searched the records, and one Jean-Jacques Baton, the fort’s second in command, was married to an Esmeralda Cortez about the time this would have occurred.”
So far, so good. “And what did your father tell you about the treasure.”
“He was so excited the night he called. I’d never heard him so over the moon. He apologized to me about the neglect. He told me he’d never loved anyone but my mother and that he would make up all I’d lost out on. He wanted me to finish my graduate degree. He intended to retire the Miss Adventure and buy a house, and he said he would be home every night, should I ever want to see him.” Her voice cracked, but she held it together. “He never got a chance to make any of it happen.”
Booty Bones: A Sarah Booth Delaney Mystery Page 2