Uncharted Waters (Ravenwood Mysteries #6)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Riot took her hand. “I don’t think you uncaring.”

  “My mother has been nagging me to have a proper church wedding at St. Mary’s.”

  “Do you want that?” he asked.

  Isobel squeezed his hand, then let go, reaching for her blouse. “I’ve had one. It was dreadful.” She paused at her buttons. “Are you religious?”

  Riot glanced at the tangled bed sheets. “Do I strike you as such?”

  “That doesn’t stop most people from claiming they are. Does a church wedding matter to you?” she asked.

  “I’ve investigated too many murders and attended too many inquests to consider the buildings as divine. I’m sure Tim has a preacher friend in his pocket who’d marry us for a bottle of whiskey.”

  The idea clearly amused her. “We could marry here,” she said. “A drunk preacher marrying a crazed convict and a gambler in an asylum. It’d almost be worth it just to see the look on my mother’s face.”

  Riot took his time answering as he dressed. “It may not be the best for Sarah and Jin.”

  Isobel frowned.

  “Our reputation affects them, Bel.”

  Concern furrowed her brow. “I see. Then we’ll marry as soon as I’m free. We can march to the closest courthouse and be done with it.”

  Be done with it. Riot frowned at her words.

  “Riot?”

  He looked up.

  “Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean anything…”

  Riot shook his head, focusing on threading a cufflink through its hole.

  “You want something more, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Silly, isn’t it?” he said. “But I think I do.”

  Isobel stepped up to him, and touched his temple, smoothing the streak of white hair over a deep scar along his skull. “What do you want?” she asked.

  “You,” he whispered.

  “You have me,” she said.

  Her fingers dropped to his wrists, and she helped him with his cufflinks, letting him gather his words. Isobel might be impatient with others, but she always gave him time.

  “I’ve never done anything proper in my life, Bel,” he finally said. “For this, our wedding, I’d like to do it right.”

  Isobel glanced pointedly at the bed. “I think we’re doing things a bit out of order.”

  “I’m only a man.”

  “A very good one.” She kissed his cheek. “You will have your proper wedding. When I’m free. I’ll even wear white. But it doesn’t matter to me, so long as I do it with you.”

  Riot started to draw her closer, his hand curling around her waist, when a bang jerked him out of the moment. A door. Footsteps hurried across the cottage sitting room, and Riot yanked his revolver out of its holster on the chair. Vision narrowed, ears thrummed with a rush of blood, and every nerve in his body prepared for a fight.

  Isobel put a hand over his. Her touch said everything, and his body trusted her instincts. Riot lowered his revolver.

  “Isobel!” Sarah’s voice called through the door. “Are you in there?”

  Riot started for the door, but Isobel yanked him back with a hiss. She gestured at his attire. He wasn’t fit to be seen, especially in a lady’s bedroom.

  “One moment,” Isobel called lightly. “I was just resting.” She gathered the remainder of his clothes, and shoved them into his arms. “What is it?”

  “I couldn’t find Atticus, I’m sorry. Jin’s gone off to find the bear. She intends to tame it. It’s all my fault. I told her about a neighbor boy who used to ride his pet bear.”

  Riot paused at the sill, one leg out, one leg in.

  “I’ll be right out. Wait in the sitting room.” Isobel turned to him, and hurried over, reaching to close the shutters. “I’ve changed my mind,” she whispered. “I do have a request: that we send our daughters to my mother’s for our wedding trip.”

  Day 57

  On The Fringe

  Thursday, August 2 1900

  “It’s just ’round this way,” Tim said.

  Riot followed the spry old man out of the financial district towards meaner streets. They passed Steed and Peel, Riot’s tailor, and walked one street farther, flirting with the Barbary Coast.

  The street was drab and sleepy, but that would change at night.

  Tim stopped at a corner and proudly gestured towards a rundown brick building. It was flanked by a cobbler and a hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant. Riot looked down the next street.

  “There’s a whore house on the next block,” Riot said.

  “One of the more discreet ones,” Tim defended. “And there’s a post office, cafe, and telegraph office the other way. Look, A.J., you wanted cheap. I found you cheap.”

  The doorway was boarded up, and the remnants of adverts for whiskey, bawdy shows, and plays were plastered over the broken windows. “A saloon?” Riot asked.

  “Eh.” Tim tilted his hand this way and that. “They sold liquor.”

  “It was a brothel,” Riot concluded.

  “It’s been awhile,” Tim said. “Ol’ Bessy was renting out rooms, and stashed enough to retire to the country somewhere. I got a steal on it.”

  Small wonder judging from the state of disrepair. It wasn’t a large building, but Ravenwood Agency didn’t need large. Only practical. Riot walked to the front door, and Tim handed him a key, but there was no lock, only boards. Riot tested a corner, and pried it easily away. “There’ll be squatters inside,” he surmised.

  Riot set the board aside and a stench assaulted him: musty stillness and rotting food with a dash of human waste.

  Tim placed a hand on the bowie knife sheathed at his waist. He’d have a sawed-off shotgun under his long coat, too. Riot ducked under the boards, and stepped inside. A patch of sunlight shone through the makeshift door, but the rest of the room was dark.

  “Hello there,” Riot called, holding the neck of his walking stick loosely. Noise echoed in the hollow space. Skittering, and a shift of wood. Rats. Not promising with the plague threatening the city. “Let’s contact Doctor Kellogg at the Health Department. See if you can get one of his crews to disinfect.”

  “Will do,” Tim said. Riot listened to his companion’s light footsteps, then a moment later heard paper rip. Light streamed in from where Tim had peeled away an advert.

  Sunlight proved too frightening for the bolder of rats as they skittered towards the backroom. It appeared that the establishment had been the scene of a roaring brawl, and the owners had simply abandoned it rather than setting things right. One lone chair stood victorious amid broken glass and wreckage.

  Tim moved to a wall. “Maybe I can get one of these to work.”

  Riot eyed the ancient fixtures. Most had been ripped off the wall and likely salvaged. The only remaining one was bent at an odd angle.

  “Doubtful.”

  Tim grunted, and Riot thumbed his handheld light. A weak beam shone over a battered counter. His image, dimly reflected in a broken mirror behind the bar, was splintered into a thousand fine cracks.

  Tim grabbed a broken table leg, wrapped a kerchief around the end, and doused it with his flask.

  “Try not to burn the city down.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Tim cackled.

  “The problem is, I’m not sure if you’re jesting or not.”

  Tim struck a match. “No faith in your elders, boy.” An explosion of flame singed the man’s beard, and he thrust the torch away, patting out the flames with his hand.

  Burnt hair didn’t help the stench.

  The two moved down the hallway.

  “So, uhm, when are you and Miss Bel making things official?” Tim asked.

  Riot turned away from a lavatory tucked under a stairway.

  “Looking forward to it that much, aye?” Tim asked, noting the look on Riot’s face.

  Riot pointedly closed what was left of the door on the source of the stench. Squatters weren’t particular about working plumbing. “Is this really the time, Tim?”


  “Just wondering.”

  “Bel won’t be released until September.”

  “And?”

  “And… she’s in an asylum serving jail time.” The back door was boarded up, and he pulled at the wood, but it proved solid.

  “Testy, ain’t you?”

  Riot clenched his jaw. Thrown into yet another case, he hadn’t seen Isobel in the nearly two weeks since she’d gone sprinting after Jin, who was heading for a bear cave. (What other woman would race miles to catch a child about to confront a bear?) Riot missed her quick mind. Her insight. Her energy. Her body. Yes, he was testy. Maybe he ought to move the offices to Calistoga.

  “Bel was dealt a bad hand.” He stifled an urge to kick the wood until it splintered. Injustice always got under Riot’s skin. Instead, he moved upstairs.

  “She was,” Tim agreed. “But it’s nearly over, and it could have been worse. Are you having a church wedding?”

  “I don’t know,” Riot admitted. Time was dwindling, and he hadn’t come up with any plans. There hadn’t been time, and he still hadn’t decided on a ring. “I doubt a church would take us.”

  Tim chuckled. “You two don’t seem the type to scrape and pay for forgiveness.”

  “There is that.”

  “So what’s the hold up?”

  “Have you gone deaf, Tim?” Riot took the stairs two at a time. Tim kept up easily. The man was uncanny for his age.

  The second story was small, two rooms for entertaining and—

  A shadow in the corner stirred, a heap of rags climbing to its feet. Livid eyes pinned Riot, and a snarl struck him a second later. “Git out! Git out!” the creature screeched. The rags charged him, steel flashing. Riot stepped to the side, catching the blade on his walking stick. With a twist, he sent the knife skittering across the room. He stuck out his foot, and the ragged creature fell back to the floor.

  It scrambled up, snatching at the knife, and prepared for another charge.

  “Whoa, now!” Tim leveled a sawed-off shotgun at the squatter.

  The heap of rags froze. Riot could just make out a snatch of gray hair framing a grimy face.

  “We bought this place. You’re trespassing,” Tim explained.

  “It’s my home!” The voice, the build… Riot surmised it was an old woman. A rat scurried out of a corner to climb up her leg and perch on her shoulder.

  “Worked for Ol’ Bessy, did you?” Tim asked.

  The woman spat. “I ain’t no whore.”

  “Damn straight. No whore would keep herself in such a state.” Tim’s words earned him a hiss and the wave of a blade.

  “Madame, we’re not here to hurt you. We just want our property vacated,” Riot said.

  “Prettified gentry.”

  Riot sidestepped a wad of spit. “Most call me Atticus Riot,” he said with a tip of his hat.

  The vagrant paused, then squinted. She looked back to Tim. “Think you’re so high and mighty with that stubby little gun.” The woman stepped towards Tim, pressing her forehead against the end of the barrel. “Go on, then. Blow what brains I have left.”

  “We ain’t here to kill you,” Tim said.

  “I’m good as dead if you drive me out.”

  Tim cursed under his breath, and tucked his shotgun back under his overcoat. Clearly the woman wasn't intimidated by it.

  Riot inspected the room with a sweep of eyes. Unlike the rest of the place, it was relatively clean. “Have you been chasing off the other squatters?” he asked calmly.

  “I told you. It’s my home.”

  “The deed I bought from Ol’ Bessy says otherwise,” Tim said.

  “That dirty, rotten, double-crossing whore took my share and ran off.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t a whore,” Tim retorted.

  “I ain’t!”

  Before the two could get into a lengthy argument—Tim would argue with a mule—Riot asked after her name.

  She told him he could leave in the crudest of terms.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Off,” Riot said, unfazed.

  The woman gave a laugh. The kind that skimmed madness.

  “There’s three ways we could proceed,” he continued, raising his fingers. “I’ll give you five dollars to vacate the property. We’ll summon the police.” Another wad of spittle. “Or, I’ll pay you five dollars a week, plus room and board, to clean our office and guard it at night once you make yourself presentable.”

  Tim rolled his eyes at the offer.

  “Give me the money,” Miss Off demanded.

  Riot got out his billfold and handed over a bill. She snatched it, gathered her meager belongings without complaint, and they watched her scramble out onto a fire escape.

  “Are you mad?” Tim asked.

  Riot swept his stick towards the vacated room. “Say what you will, but she kept this room clean.”

  Tim stroked his beard. “It wouldn’t live up to Miss Lily’s standards.”

  “Neither do you, but Miss Lily still lets you inside the house.”

  “I know how to clean up,” Tim huffed.

  “Miss Lily’s trained you well. Never thought it would be possible for an old dog like you.”

  “God’s bones, don’t talk like that, boy.”

  “That’s more like it,” Riot said.

  “So what do you think?” Tim asked.

  “It has potential,” Riot said. “It’s well situated. Welcoming to the fringes of society like ourselves, and yet not too far out of respectable territory.”

  “Not the office. That’s settled whether you like it or not. I’m asking after your wedding.”

  “Tim, I’ve explained it. Bel’s incarcerated.”

  Tim flicked the back of Riot’s hat. “In a damn pleasure resort.”

  Riot readjusted his hat, and stepped away.

  “Look, I know a preacher who’ll marry anyone for a bottle of whiskey.”

  Riot knew Tim too well. It was exactly what Riot had told Isobel. “Why are you so eager to marry me off?”

  Tim scratched his beard. “Just want to see it done.”

  “Afraid I’ll get cold feet?”

  “No, I’m afraid I’ll get cold feet in a grave, boy.”

  “You’re too stubborn to die.” It was said lightly, but Riot had to force his tone.

  “Afraid it’s not entirely up to me, now is it?” Tim replied. Riot took the question as rhetorical. “But what is up to me, is getting this place in order and seeing you married. What I don’t get is why you’re waiting.”

  Riot tapped his walking stick against his shoulder. “I don’t have a ring,” he admitted. “And… I want to do right by Bel. I want to do something halfway decent for once. She deserves more than a soaked preacher in an asylum.”

  “Then make it happen, boy. Shanghai a damn priest and a wedding party if you have to.”

  Shanghai. The word stuck in Riot’s mind, nudging his memory. An idea began to form as Tim stomped off to explore the rest of the building.

  A head poked from the rear window, gray hair hanging down like a wire brush. “Ain’t that just so sweet, dullard. If you want my opinion, that woman would be better off running from a shaney like you.”

  “Then why haven’t you run?” Riot asked.

  The woman dug in her bodice, and dropped the five dollar bill on the floor. “I changed my mind. I’ll take your third offer.”

  “If we’re going to do business together, I’ll need your name,” Riot said.

  “Miss Off. Lucky Off.” It was close enough.

  Day 20

  Saying Goodbye

  Sunday, September 9 1900

  Sunlight streamed through a window at the end of the attic. Swirling dust motes danced in its light, but the air smelled of stale memories. The floorboards creaked under Riot’s feet as he weaved through the detritus of life—journals and personal belongings that had never been returned to their crates after the harried events of past months. Ravenwood’s life had been stuffed into a
n attic, and now it was about to be placed in a basement or end in a rubbish bin.

  Riot frowned at the darkness. So foreboding. Was it right to stuff a child up here? Even though Jin had readily agreed to moving into the attic, Riot was having second thoughts now that he stood in the dark space.

  Sarah breezed past him with a bucket. A kerchief kept her black hair in place, and an apron protected her dress. She walked on her tip toes, something she did whenever she was excited. She headed straight for the window, dunked a rag, and started cleaning the glass. Sharp scents of lemon and vinegar chased away the staleness in the air. New life. And fresh light as the grime was washed away.

  “I wouldn’t mind staying up here,” Sarah said as she worked. “Jin can take the other room.”

  “You can have my room. I’ll take this one. We don’t even have to clean it,” Tobias said, from where he leaned against the railing.

  “You’re just trying to get out of cleaning,” Sarah said.

  “No matter who gets the attic room we’re still cleaning it,” Riot said, rolling up his shirtsleeves. A part of him wanted to sort Ravenwood’s things alone, while another part was glad for company.

  Riot lit the lone gas lamp as Tobias dragged broom and dustpan across the planks like a soldier marching to his doom.

  Light chased back shadows and Sarah opened a pane in the attic window to let in fresh air. The small opening, and the flickering gas lamp brought an uncomfortable thought to Riot’s mind—fire. The attic was a good four stories high. Anyone up here would be trapped on the roof. Riot opened the roof hatch, and climbed up a short iron ladder.

  He stepped onto a small flat section of roof that was ringed by an iron-wrought parapet that barely reached his knees. Tobias poked his head out the hatch, and started to climb onto the roof. Riot held out a hand. “Stay back. We’re a good four stories up.”

  Tobias ignored him, and climbed out anyway. “I’ve been up here before.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about.” Riot tested the short railing. It was anchored securely. He could hang a rope ladder from it for emergencies. It would be safer than the drain pipes.