Gulf Storm ~ Opening and Links

 "Gulf Storm"

• A Novelette that continues the Courting Trouble series
• Publishes on August 23
• Pre-order Available Now!

Courting Trouble titles ~ "Spanish Moss", "Texas Sun", and "Gulf Storm"

Bribe. Conspire. Die.

A hurricane threatens to disrupt the wedding festivities of Nedda and Hank.

With the approaching storm are a whirl of human crimes, and an accusation of a past misdeed rages from the shadows.

Will the hurricane’s landfall shred Nedda’s dreams, or will Death wreak its lethal destruction?

Read on for the Opening to the Story. Links follow.

~ 1 ~

Nedda dangled her legs off the sun-silvered dock. Her toes grazing the water, she exchanged glances with the alligator floating yards away, its yellow eyes and armored crown skimming the surface.

She sat in tree-cast shade, on the edge of the blazing sunshine. Two bands of greyish clouds filled the southeast horizon. Birds barely sang through the heat. A heron crept forward on her right, the bank of the bay marshy there and filled with stiff cattails.

She didn’t look away from the `gator. Fresh in memory was its supper last evening, an unwary spoonbill. The frantic flapping wings before the alligator submerged to drown its victim still gave her chills.

A sweet soprano drifted over the bay waters. She leaned forward and spotted the canoe on the inland edge of Back Bay. Mr. Culpepper rowed while his wife in her wide-brimmed straw hat sang “Alice Blue Gown” to the silent birds. Nedda smiled, for her bridal gown looked like some depictions of that. Tomorrow evening she would wear the champagne gold frock. Pearl beads adorned the gossamer lace attached to the chemise bodice. Beneath a silk banded waist, the gossamer lace repeated in decorative scoops over the gathered skirt. The sheer lace and light silk were perfect this late summer season.

Bare feet struck the dock, coming toward her. The alligator sank. She lifted her legs onto the hot dock, the heat quickly drying her skin.

A lanky figure in a white shirt and baggy cut-off khakis dropped beside her. “You’ve missed another argument,” Colfax said.

Draping the pleated skirt of her tennis dress, Nedda wrapped her arms around her knees and scanned the youth. He’d changed over the summer, less skinny boy and more wiry young man. The sun had kissed his blond hair to flax and tanned his pale English skin. The weeks in west Texas had changed him mentally as well. Attempted murder of someone in a close circle had sobered his childish bents. His grandfather’s death in the late spring hadn’t really registered with Colfax until Rhode Tabbert was shot. His enthusiasm for pranks had vanished then.

She leaned her head on her knees, blocking the sun from directly entering her eyes. “Another argument?”

“You missed the one at breakfast?”

“I returned upstairs,” she reminded him. “I had to change. I didn’t think we would play tennis this morning.”

“Too hot for this afternoon.” He glanced at the Culpeppers. “Too hot for boating. This shade’s nice.” He stretched out beside her. “It’s as hot as it was in Oman.”

“Who was arguing this morning?”

“Same as who’s arguing now. Hank and Ray.”

“Two arguments in the same day?”

“Yep. And one yesterday. Makes me wonder if they’re truly friends.”

She eased out a breath, hunting a diplomatic way to relate her fiancé’s assessment of his old friend. “Hank did say Ray could be difficult.”

Colfax snorted. “Did Hank forget what difficult truly means?”

He had wisdom beyond his peers. Had traveling the world granted that discernment? Or had he aged in his scant two months at the Sacred Heart Academy? He was a stranger there, his classmates and masters completely unknown to him, the culture of a Catholic boarding school in northern Louisiana alien to an English prep-school boy.

A splashing caught her attention.

Mr. Culpepper was rowing out into the bay, avoiding the marshy bank to avoid tangling in the cordgrass and saltgrass and duckweed. Mrs. Culpepper leaned over the canoe, peering into the water.

This weekend would be a moneymaker for the Bells, owners and hosts of the Back Bay Inn. Nedda, Hank, and Colfax had arrived late Thursday afternoon. Waiting on the porch, watching them unload suitcases, was Ray Anderson, Hank’s best man. The men had attended university together. Their friendship deepened in war. Yet her whiskers twitched as she shook his hand, limp ice. His yellowed eyes and the heavy bags that sagged onto his sallow cheeks betrayed dissipation.

Ray sidestepped Hank’s question about his early arrival at the inn. In west Texas, a saboteur had avoided answers by asking more questions. Nedda learned from her late employer never to trust a man who wouldn’t answer a direct question.

Ray had then introduced them to his date for the wedding, one Pearl Lawrence, a brassy blonde whose scooped blouse and tight skirt displayed her assets. Hank had taken a deep hissing breath, but he held his tongue. “I work in Galveston,” Pearl announced then introduced them to her employer at the dance club, one Al Rogers, natty in a slim-fitting pin-striped suit with narrow lapels. Rogers offered a jolly smile that didn’t crinkle his eyes. A diamond flashed on his finger as he shook their hands.

Watching from the corner was the quiet giant “Mr. Jerry Phillips. He drove us. He was a boxer,” Pearl added, a bit of pride in her voice.

Mr. Phillips’ broken face testified to his years in the boxing ring. He wore a dark double-breasted suit that strained over his broad shoulders. He measured Hank and Colfax then dismissed Nedda with a single glance, not knowing her Webley weighted her fold-over clutch.

The first argument between Hank and Ray started at dinner. Ray claimed that Hank said he could bring a date; Hank declared that he’d never promised that. The petty dispute ended with the arrival of the dessert when both Mr. Rogers and Mr. Phillips vowed they didn’t expect an invitation to the wedding. “We plan to fish, isn’t that right, Phillips?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Rogers.”

Silent throughout the argument, the Culpeppers shared over coffee in the parlor that they were happenstance guests. “We booked our cottage in May. We never expected a wedding. I’m excited about it.”

“Thank you. We hoped to have a small wedding,” she shared with the couple. “Hank found this inn when he came to Chambers County for his work.”

“You’re English,” Mrs. Culpepper gushed, and Nedda had to answer a multitude of questions about the royal family and the future monarch. Eventually, the woman asked the reason Nedda had chosen a wedding at the Back Bay Inn rather than in Houston.

“My only requirement for the wedding was tranquility. Hank promised that this was the perfect place. It is beautiful here by the bay, everything green and lush.”

Now Mr. Culpepper allowed the bay’s current to catch the canoe. It pivoted and skimmed toward the inland shore. His wife resumed her dreamy song, muted by a gust of wind.

Nedda returned to Colfax’s talk of arguments before her thoughts had distracted her. “What started the second argument? I saw the bruise on Hank’s cheek. I never expected fisticuffs.”

“What? Oh, that.” He stirred. The sun had cast over enough to burn his foot. Colfax levered up his leg and rubbed his reddened toes.

“You did bring up the arguments.”

He grinned and returned to his supine position. “Something about Texas Petroleum and Refining. I didn’t stay to listen.”

“But Hank receives a bruise on his cheek.”

“You should see Ray’s black eye.”

“I thought you left.”

“I stayed for the fisticuffs.”

“Is Ray with Texas P & R?”

“I don’t think so.”

The oil industry had more dry wells than gushers and mineral licenses that they let lapse, but the companies pumped vast amounts of cash into the pockets of its owners, investors, and workers. Nedda had worked with Hyatt Ingram, a global venture capitalist in petroleum, and she inherited enough shares in his company to stay abreast of the industry. In her home of England, the status line divided blue-blooded nobility from red-blooded workers. In Texas, that line divided the booming oil industry from everyone else. Background didn’t matter; oil did.

For its proximity to the famous Spindletop gusher, Houston had boomed, but the state’s entire east coast had had a roaring economy for over two decades. West Texas had lagged behind the east, but the Buzzard No. 3 well in Hartman County promised to kindle a boom out there.

Was his old friend Ray pushing Hank about Texas P & R? Did he have any fingers in the petroleum pie. If not, he would backpedal into obscurity while his friends rolled in black gold. Those friends headed here, a groomsman for Hank named Paul Jackson, married to Hank’s sister, and Boone Galvin, a war buddy who served as TP&R’s president.

Had Hank considered any of that when he asked Ray to be his best man? No. He remembered the war, when they had each other’s backs during battle, and he harked back to their college days, when their futures shone brightly.

One worked for the black gold. The other aimed for fool’s gold.

That drove Ray’s resentment.

“No doubt,” she offered mildly, “we’ll hear the reason for both arguments before dinner.”

Colfax grunted. He threw an arm over his eyes. “Let me nap, Nedda. Haven’t played tennis in months.”

The sun peeked through a wide arc of clouds and glinted on the bay waters. A dragonfly buzzed over the youth. He didn’t stir, and the flyer passed over. A spoonbill flew past, white wings widespread as it soared above the waves, restless as the tide came in. Oaks on the distant shore created a lush green backdrop. Nothing moved, the bay waters tranquil, a stronger breeze cooling the perspiration on her arm, all quiet and peaceful. The atmosphere she wanted for her wedding. After four years of global jaunts with her former employer Hyatt Ingram, this settled peace lured her.

Hank had known the perfect spot for their nuptials.

She closed her eyes and remembered the long drive here. Only in the last few miles had the land drawn her. Piney woods enclosed the hard-packed dirt of the road to the back bay area. A planked bridge crossed a little silver creek that separated the island from the country propre. Their tires had rumbled across the bridge, sending birds into the air at the unusual thunder. When the road swung away from the bay waters, the trees opened back to reveal the white-washed Back Bay Inn. Columns supported three stories of porches. A riotous garden bordered the front porch and framed wide steps. Nedda had sighed at the glory of star pentas, zinnias and salvia, backed with globe amaranth.

In the cooler shadows inside the inn, zinnias graced the check-in desk of the entryway while three bouquets decorated the long dining room table, open to the hallway. She discovered later that the host’s wife Mrs. Bell freshened the flowers daily while her two daughters-in-law ran the maids and the kitchen.

Bootsteps hit the planks of the long dock. She lifted her head and gave a smile to the younger of the Bell sons. “Hello, Eddie.”

Colfax stirred, proof that he hadn’t been asleep. He sat. “Going fishing in the twilight?”

Eddie grabbed the line for a dinghy bobbing alongside the dock and began towing it to shore. “Bringing the boats in. Storm’s coming from the Gulf.”

Wide bands of clouds swirled to the south, white and puffy in the outer bands, greying toward the southeast.

The wedding! “When is the storm expected?” Nedda rolled to her feet and brushed off her tennis dress.

“Landfall’s tonight or early Saturday. The wee hours.”

Landfall was an odd term to use for a storm.

“Will it be gone by Saturday evening?”

“Should be pushed through by then. Dad has better answers for you, Miss Courtland. I need to get these boats in.” He dropped into the water’s edge and began towing the red dinghy onto the bank.

“I’ll give a hand,” Colfax volunteered. “All these boats, Eddie?”

“All of them. Thanks for the help. We need to get them past the trees.”

The youth measured the distance from the dock, a good 30 feet although the bay’s bank was only six or so feet. “That’s high.”

“Might have a storm surge twice that. Grab this.” He tossed a rope to Colfax then reached for the blue dinghy nudged in the cattails at the bank.

Nedda waited until they had wrestled the blue dinghy up the bank then started for the inn.

An engine’s putter drew her attention to the road.

Bright yellow flashed through the piney woods then emerged. A new Cadillac Phaeton rolled slowly over the dirt so it didn’t stir up dust. Two people sat in the front seat, and Nedda added a spurt to her step to meet them at the inn.

The Cadillac stopped before the steps as the inn door opened. The senior and junior versions of the Bells came onto the porch. The engine cut. A man slipped out and headed around the hood as Nedda reached hearing distance.

“Welcome to the Back Bay Inn,” Mr. Bell said. “Junior, help them with their luggage.”

The man opened the passenger door. A woman slid out. Her hat came into view, a cream-colored cloche with a dark ornament. She wore a cream dress covered with polka dots. The man offered his hand then led her up the steps while Junior opened the trunk, American for boot. He lifted out a valise and two suitcases.

Mr. Bell ushered the couple inside. “My wife will assign your room. What’s that? Oh yes, they arrived late yesterday,” and Nedda realized who this couple had to be. “Mr. and Mrs. Paul Jackson” was the name she’d written on the envelope, but Mrs. Jackson was Hank’s sister Flo, and the man had to be his groomsman and work colleague Paul Jackson.

She bypassed the luggage and approached as the man bent to sign the desk ledger. “Florence Jackson?” she ventured, extending her hand. “I’m not quite certain where Hank is. I am Nedda Courtland.”

The woman turned. Only then was Nedda certain, for she looked upon a feminine version of Hank: tall, slender rather than lanky, with those startling blue eyes and high cheekbones. “Call me Flo.” Her handshake was firm but gentle and quick. She had Hank’s drawl, and humor sparkled in her blue eyes. “I’ll have words with my brother later. He is an atrocious correspondent, and his telegrams are worse. He never mentioned that you are English. Or how you met. Or the reason he didn’t bring you to visit. One telephone call from a god-forsaken place in west Texas, then in another call he’s tells me that he’s found his woman and she wants me to be her maid of honor.”

“Hartman County in west Texas,” Nedda supplied, “and it is god-forsaken. Less so now that oil’s come in.”

“Buzzard No. 3,” her husband added, joining their conversation.

“You men do not know how to name oil wells. Miss Courtland, this is my husband Paul.”

“Hello. Flo, I do regret that we had no time to visit. Until Monday we were in west Texas. Tuesday he spent at Texas P & R headquarters—.”

“Yes, Paul saw him there. And that’s all they did, see each other in passing.” She gave a wry grimace.

Her husband’s eyes twinkled. “He was in meetings with Galvin. I was meeting with our engineers.”

“Men have no accounting of what is most important. My brother’s fiancée is more important than test patches and drill samples! But Hank could have brought you to me on Wednesday.”

Nedda shook her head. “That was not at all possible. You see, I needed a bridal gown.”

“Oh, yes! What did you—?”

“Flo, honey, let’s delay this a bit,” her husband interrupted. “Once you start talking about the wedding, an hour will pass.”

“Oh, Paul! But I am that interested. An hour on the wedding, an hour on your first meeting with my brother, a third hour on his proposal. Give me fifteen minutes to freshen up, Nedda.”

“Would you like tea? Or lemonade? We can have it in the parlor.” She glanced to Mrs. Bell for approval.

That woman was avidly listening. She tapped the desk bell four times. “Lemonade and cookies, yes?”

“Perfect, Mrs. Bell.”

“Find that brother of mine,” Flo urged. “I need to bend his ear about the proper treatment of his bride.”

“Clarrie.” Mrs. Bell handed a key to her oldest granddaughter. “Second floor, Room H.”

As the Jacksons started behind Clarrie, Junior Bell came with a suitcase in one hand, a valise tucked under his arm, and a train case in his other hand.

Nedda leaned over the desk. “My key, please, Mrs. Bell. I should freshen up before tea with my future sister-in-law.”

“Lemonade and cookies will be waiting in the parlor when you come down, Miss Courtland.”

 . ~ . ~ . ~ .

 Although the windows were opened to admit the breeze, the plantation shutters were closed, shadowing the parlor. The slats were angled to diffuse the light. Remembering dreary summer days of her childhood, Nedda gloried in the Texas sunlight, brighter than London’s had ever been.

The promised tray—with a pitcher, glasses, and a tray of cookies—rested on the coffee table before the lengthy Chesterfield sofa when Nedda reached the parlor, fresher through the swift use of soap, water, powder, and a slimming handkerchief frock with a diamond print. She entered as the sleek-suited Al Rogers swiped cookies from the tray.

At her appearance he smiled. His eyes still didn’t reflect anything. “Caught with the goods.”

“Please, help yourself to some lemonade, too. I can ring for more glasses. Mr. Phillips,” she knew he was there but she had to look over her shoulder to spot him in a dimmer corner, “do have some cookies. Do you want lemonade?” She rang the metal bell resting on the mantel. A crewel-worked bell pull hung to the mantel’s left, but she doubted it still connected to the servants’ call board. “Shall I bring you a plate of cookies?” She laded four onto a plate as she asked.

“No, ma’am. Miss. None for me, Miss.”

“A shame. These are lemon, too, I think. Quite refreshing in this heat, don’t you think so, Mr. Rogers?”

He dusted cookie crumbs from his fingers with an embroidered handkerchief. “Quite refreshing,” he echoed, mimicking her accent.

Nedda gave him a sharp look.

Mrs. Bell appeared. “These gentlemen would like lemonade and cookies as well, Mrs. Bell. Is that possible?”

While she shot a glance at Mr. Rogers, the older woman avoided looking at Mr. Phillips’ ruined face. “Of course, Miss Courtland.” She retreated, and in seconds they heard the desk bell ring out several times.

“A ring for each grandchild?” she mused aloud

“That would account for it. Did I hear you right, Miss Courtland? Your wedding is Saturday?”

“Yes, that’s correct. Rev. Thomas—he dined with us last evening—.”

“Before Ray Anderson stuck his oar in.”

“Um, yes? Rev. Thomas will perform the ceremony.”

“And Anderson’s still best man?”

“Yes.” Nedda elongated the word, her whiskers twitching again. She glanced at Mr. Phillips, but he remained stolidly stoic.

“Know what you’re in for, marrying an oil man?”

“I do not have on blinders, Mr. Rogers.”

“You like horseracing?”

The question almost seemed a non sequitur, but a wary whisker warned that it was not. “Steeplechases.”

“That’s where they jump.” He nodded. “Higher risk. Higher bets. Your bet must be pretty high on your man. He’s got secrets, though. My friend Anderson knows what they are. It’s dangerous when somebody knows your secrets. Even more dangerous when those secrets get shared with a loose-mouthed girl like Pearlie.”

Voices stopped him, then Flo entered the parlor, talking over her shoulder to her husband.

And Hank.

Hank was here, scowling when he caught sight of Al Rogers and Jerry Phillips. Does he know these two men from Galveston, or is he merely displeased at their presence in the parlor?

Nedda hated herself for wondering. Tomorrow she would marry Hank. Critiquing his acquaintances before she’d had more than a couple of hours in their presence seemed disloyal.

Mr. Rogers stood, buttoning the slim-fitting jacket with its bold pinstripe. “Good day to you, Miss Courtland.” He walked out. Jerry Phillips followed.

Flo cast herself onto the sofa. “Tell me everything! How you met my brother. When you met him. How he won your heart. How he proposed. When he proposed. When you decided on this weekend for your wedding. How you planned a wedding from all the way over in west Texas! And how you bought a bridal gown in one day. One day! I took weeks to decide on my gown. I want to know everything!”

Her husband groaned. “Beware, Miss Courtland. My wife will ask questions until she has all the answers.” He palmed several cookies. “Where’s your roadster, Hank? I didn’t see it.”

“Needed more space. I’m in the Packard Touring Car.”

“The green one? Nice. Come see my new Phaeton.”

Hank swiped a handful of cookies and left with Paul Jackson.

“How you met my brother,” Flo prompted. “When and where and how and why.”

Nedda launched into the story that began in New Orleans with poison and death.

She didn’t remember her conversation with Al Rogers until much later.

Find your copy of "Gulf Storm" at these links~

Texas Sun ~ Opening and Links

 Texas Sun ~ Means. Motive. Opportunity

The grime of a working oil field draws together people at odds with the summer heat and with each other.

In the heady flush of a new romance, Nedda tries to ignore the blazing tensions, yet troubling shadows have gathered.

Then Death makes his entrance, and the grim pressures erupt.

LINKS Below.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Opening ~ 1 ~ Means

The morning blasted, bright white.

Colfax Ingram grabbed Nedda’s arm and jerked her behind the cab of the big Army truck as a second explosion shuddered the oil patch.

Shouts erupted. Debris rained onto the steel truck hood. She cowered against the mud-caked wheel as pings and clangs and clunks broke over them. Colfax crouched beside her until the debris stopped pinging on the Liberty truck. Then he leaped to his feet and ran toward the yelling men.

Nedda straightened and braced a hand on the steel heated by the Texas sun. She dreaded looking toward the drilling floor.

Her tall Texan, closer to the explosion and danger, remained upright.

The oil derrick remained erect, ninety feet into the blue sky, not yet hazed with summer heat. Leroy clung to the top and shouted down.

Her Hank deflected questions from Denny, the youngest roustabout. Colfax loped toward them.

The motorman Fuller levered up from the engine. He had flung himself across the equipment that ran the bit chipping deep into the ground. Centered under the derrick, O’Hara swung a chain to release it from the pipe.

Beyond the planked drilling platform, the job foreman Rhode Tabbert and the driller Witt straightened from their crouch. They’d been shack-side of the platform, closest to the explosion, and the shockwave had rolled over them first. Tab brushed dirt from his shoulders. Witt spat on the ground then peered at the derrick’s top. He gestured at Leroy then turned back to Tab.

Heart beating again, Nedda looked for the explosion’s cause.

Splintered planks, twisted pipes, and warped tin littered the ground beyond the derrick, flung outward from a churned-up crater in the desert floor. The tool shack had disappeared.

She came around the Liberty’s front and perched on the heavy steel bumper. Her movement caught Hank’s attention. He tapped his head then pointed at her. She sighed then fetched his battered hat from the cab and crammed it on her head. Then she picked her way to the derrick, watching the ground to avoid curled pieces of knife-sharp tin and shards of splintered wood.

The explosion had catapulted the drilling pipes stacked beside the tool shack. Twisted and bent, they littered the desert. None had landed near the truck.

As she approached, Leroy began his climb down. At 90 feet in the air, he more than doubled the distance from the truck to the destroyed shack, but he reached the drilling platform before she reached Hank and the others.

She stepped over a twisted and torn pipe, unusable. The drilling would have to stop now.

Hank McElroy shouted at the motorman. Fuller bent to the engine. It sputtered to a stop, leaving a strange silence.

Broken by raised voices. Tab and Witt, arguing. Again.

Nedda reached the men. Without looking, Hank stretched back his hand. She took it, and he drew her to his side.

Colfax started around the drilling platform.

“Stop, boy,” O’Hara snapped.

He stopped, but the twitch of his shoulders expressed disagreement. “The danger is over.”

“Let O’Hara go first,” Hank said.

“I’ll go with you.” Of an age with Colfax, Denny had revived with the excitement.

“Ain’t no reason,” O’Hara groused. “Ain’t nothing left.” They all looked at the cratered epicenter of the explosion.

Fuller wiped his hands on a greasy rag. “No more drillin’ without new pipe.” He nudged a warped pipe with his boot. “Can’t use nothin’ of what we had.”

“When does the next train run?” Hank asked, a question Tab should answer, but he was ensnarled in another argument with Witt.

None of the roustabouts looked at the two men who had charge of the oil patch. “Thursday,” Fuller said.

Hank wiped the sweat trickling down his temple. He gave a short nod, moving ahead without Tab and Witt. “I’ll telephone the office to send a shipment.”

“You do that.” The motorman rubbed his stubbly jaw as he looked over the debris field. “I guess we’ll clean up the mess.”

Denny groaned.

“I’ll be back to help after I contact the office.” Hank turned toward the truck.

“Wait.” Nedda dragged down his hand and dug her brogans into the sand of the desert. “What caused the explosion?”

Hank stopped. He gave no sign of the need for haste, only a willingness to accept her question as necessary. In the three weeks since they’d met in New Orleans, not once had he slighted her input, treating her like a partner as well as a beloved, a courtship that she preferred over flowery words.

O’Hara sighed heavily. He wiped his brow then re-settled his hat. “Might’ve been me. Weren’t no problems with the refining barrels this morning, but I might should’ve checked it closer.”

“How much oil had you refined?”

“Enough to run the engine for a week. The diesel we had were running low.”

“That’d account for the second explosion,” Fuller mused.

“Yep.”

“Then what the f—beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am.” Denny flushed under his work grime. The bruising sliding under his right eye flared purple. “What the heck caused the first explosion?”

“What indeed?” Hank sounded grim.

He had a right to be grim. The oil patch was nearly a year beyond the predicted two years of drilling. In the last few months one problem after another had plagued the roustabouts, troubles enough that Texas Petroleum and Refining had first sent Rhode Tabbert as foreman to speed up drilling and then sent Hank to determine if the patch was worth further investment.

And Hank had asked Nedda to accompany him. Curious about field drilling and pleased at his invitation, she accepted. Colfax came with her, off for the summer months from the Sacred Heart Academy.

“Tab, get over here,” Hank shouted.

The argument stopped.

The foreman came, trailed by the driller who ran the oil patch.

Nedda hadn’t determined the problem between the two men. Tab had a forceful personality and snapped his orders, but he worked alongside the men. He didn’t have the experience of Witt and O’Hara, but he knew engines and stringing pipe as well as Fuller. Witt’s nasal twang edged across bone, but he’d grown up drilling oil. What he didn’t know wasn’t worth knowing. He didn’t lay about with his orders. Tab irked the man, and Witt didn’t let a day pass without a handful of arguments.

She glanced around the gathered men. Luck had saved them from injury, but the explosion could have seriously harmed one or more of them.

Or killed one of them.

Cold ran over her, dissipating the summer heat.

While Hank spoke with Tab and the roustabouts, she turned to Colfax. “Are you coming to town?”

“I’ll stay here. Give them a hand with clean-up.” He grinned, a sudden shift of his oft-solemn face. His grey eyes had a curious gleam. “Maybe find out how crude oil is turned into diesel.”

“You do that.”

He gave an abrupt nod then turned away, punching Denny high on his arm. The two trotted away to gather ruined pipes.

Hank caught her hand. “We’re going.”

When her tall Texan moved, he dropped that slow drawl and went. She had to lengthen her stride to keep up.

Tab’s presence at the truck surprised her, but it made sense. The foreman would know the number of supplies the office would need to replace.

Hank boosted her to the driver’s seat and climbed up as she slid to the middle. Tab waited at the grill to prime the engine. He stared at the oil patch.

Hank fiddled with the gears. “Crank it.”

Tab gave three hard, fast turns. The Liberty’s engine sputtered then caught with a revving roar. As he came around the engine cab, Nedda opened the passenger door. He climbed in as the big motor sputtered then settled into a muted roar.

Hank leaned forward and unclamped the wind shield. He motioned, and Tab copied him. With the glass down, the wind from their movement would cool the building heat.

“What was it this time?”

Tab grunted. “Same old, same old.”

Nedda caught a breath, but Hank said nothing. He turned the army truck in a tight circle then headed for the track that aimed for the town. The Liberty bounced over rocks, jostling them on the hard seat. She leaned into Hank to avoid bumping Tab. The breeze tugged at her hat, and she dragged it off her head to hold in her lap.

Hank didn’t wait long. “Tell me.” He raised his voice over the motor and wind. “Or is he still on about giving Stevie’s money back?”

“That, too.”

“What’s first?”

Tab watched the scrub of the passing desert, wattle and mesquite, the tall blooms of agave cactus and clumps of creosote brush. A tall bird streaked from under a mesquite and ran across the track to disappear in burnt red rocks. “Witt thinks we’re drilling in the wrong place.”

“Now he agrees with you? Nearly three years on this patch, he’s argued that there’s oil in the hole, and now he decides you’re right?”

“We’re not as deep as we could be. We’ve had bad luck. Drill bit broken. Engine giving out or blown to bits. Pipes the wrong size. Other patches aren’t having these problems. We should strike soon.”

“Tab, what are you saying?” Hank shifted gears as the truck labored up a rise. “Now you think there’s oil here?”

Tab compressed his lips and looked back at the desert. “I think it interesting that Witt wants to find another patch on the same day that the shack exploded.”

“Sabotage?!”

Tab shrugged. “It’s a dirty word, but it fits.”

“Witt has brought in wells for us before.”

“I’m not accusing. Maybe it is coincidence.”

“You think Witt and O’Hara—.”

“I don’t know what to think, and that’s truth, Mac. My gut’s telling me, told me all morning, that we’re close. It’s deep and massive, and we just need faith.”

“Your gut’s telling you to keep the faith?”

Tab huffed a laugh. “Yep, exactly that. And for you to use the `phone at Doc Turner’s.”

“Not the depot?”

“Nor the grocer’s,” Nedda added, naming the most public of the three telephones in town.

She said nothing about the explosion. She kept quiet whenever Hank talked with Tab about the oil business. Conversation about Texas P & R didn’t concern her. She did question whatever affected Ingram & Son Investments, for she had responsibility and interest in that company. In her travels with her late employer Hyatt Ingram, she’d gleaned information about leases and mineral rights and contracts. She knew finances and the business side of petroleum. High up in Texas P & R, Hank knew both sides of the oil industry.

Convinced of oil in west Texas, Texas P & R used science and common sense to sink three wells in the vastness of Hartman County. The first well, close to the town clustered around the depot, had come in with a gush and enough oil to pay for its investment. It ran slow, though, and sputtered, promising a bust rather than a boom. Buzzard No. 2, dry for two years, was abandoned to throw all efforts at the third site. Buzzard No. 3 gave just enough oil to promise more further down.

If Buzzard No. 3 came in, it would be the first benefit the town had seen since its founding in the far-off dry past of the Chichuahuan desert. The land didn’t welcome them, producing nothing in soil baked by a blazing sun into dry rock and sand. The people depended on trucked-in food to survive. Only nocturnal animals and spiny or thorny plants thrived in Hartman County.

At Nedda’s warning about the gossip that spread when people overheard telephone conversations, Hank swore.

The Liberty truck jerked over a rock and ground to the top of the rise, offering a wider view of the desert.

He leaned forward, glaring at Tab. “What was the argument this morning?”

“Witt wants to move a mile to the south.”

“We don’t have a mineral rights agreement one mile to the south.”

“No, we don’t. And we’re not likely to get it. At least, I’m not. Land’s owned by Collier.”

“The railroad clerk?”

Nedda’s wince echoed Hank’s. Mr. Collier worked for the railroad. A lonely man with a lonely occupation, time had aged him early. He remained protective of the people in “my town”. When Hank had arrived, Mr. Collier approached him with complaints that the people who’d signed leases to Texas P & R had been duped.

“We can offer him an improved lease.”

“He won’t sign it.” Tab sounded sure, his gaze on a trail of Texas longhorns maneuvering through a thicket of mesquite. “He’s not an easy one to talk to.”

“If the oil comes in,” Nedda said quietly, “he’ll be a wealthy man. Have you pointed that out? It would matter to some.”

“Don’t see it mattering to Collier,” Hank rebutted. “He likes being cranky and lonely.”

She glanced at Hank. How had he missed—? She shook her head. Sometimes men missed the obvious. “He’s in love with Millie Donovan.”

“So?”

“She’s in love with the idea of leaving Hartman County. She knows an oil man will eventually leave a no-name town and take his new wife with him. Out of here. Gone for good.”

Hank paused the truck to pick the track down the rise. “Explain to a blind man, please.”

“Tab’s an oil man.”

Beside her, Tab stiffened. Hank looked around her at the foreman. “I haven’t seen you with Millie.”

Tab kept watching the cattle. “No, that’s over.”

Three words, but they confirmed what Nedda had guessed after a single evening of watching the young beauty interact with the oil men. Millie had ignored Tab the entire evening.

Hank looked confused. “She flirts with Denny.”

“That’s not serious. Denny isn’t important to her. He’s too young.”

Tab grunted. “She didn’t stop her brother when Stevie punched Denny.”

“Exactly. She didn’t care. She has her sights set on Leroy or Fuller. I haven’t decided which one. She may not have decided.” Tab shifted, uncomfortable with Nedda’s insights. She continued, undeterred. “Leroy might be more impressionable, but he’s a stubborn streak. Fuller’s steady. Or maybe she wants to make Mr. Tabbert jealous.”

Very carefully, Tab leaned away from her, pressing against the truck door as if she were a sybil to avoid.

“Witt would see all of that,” Nedda added, more certain now, “especially since he watches everything after he leaves the poker game. He sees how Millie serves Mr. Green without interacting with him, that she blushes whenever Mr. Collier compliments her, that she tries to coax Stevie not to risk so much during the game. She teases Denny, and she flutters her eyelashes at Fuller and Leroy. And Witt watches all of you.”

“Trouble all around,” Hank said and started the truck down the rise.

The big Liberty jolted and slipped over rocks, but gradually it crept closer to the distant cluster of buildings that formed the no-name town around the Hartman County railroad depot.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

“Texas Sun” is the second of three novelettes in this tie-in series to M.A. Lee’s Sailing Into Mystery stories and Into Death novels featuring the artist Isabella Newcombe Tarrant. Nedda Courtland enters 1925 America with these stories as she is Courting Trouble.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

LINKS

Zon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FH5VHQ4V

B2R https://books2read.com/u/4XM6k6

Spanish Moss / Opening and Links

 A Death, a Will, and a Way ~ "Spanish Moss"

“Poison” is one of the last words Nedda Courtland’s employer says to her.

Private secretary to a wealthy financier, Nedda has maintained a very British poise as she traveled the world. The New Orleans of 1925 brings it own unique flavor to her experiences. Yet nothing prepares her for Hyatt Ingram’s claim of murder in the hours before his death.

With no evidence as proof, she can only fulfill Mr. Ingram’s last wishes. Holding his absent son’s voting proxy and a new will, Nedda expects the murderer to emerge in the chaos she will create as executrix.

She never expects another murder.

“Spanish Moss” is the first of three novelettes in this tie-in series to M.A. Lee’s Sailing Into Mystery stories and Into Death novels featuring the artist Isabella Newcombe Tarrant. Nedda Courtland enters 1925 America with these stories as she is Courting Trouble.

Opening ~ The Death

In all her years as Hyatt Ingram’s private secretary, Nedda Courtland had disagreed with several of his decisions but never more so than when he was dying.

She’d returned from delivering his grandson Colfax to the Sacred Heart Academy and found him confined to his deathbed. He ignored his doctor’s advice to stay calm and quiet. He commanded his third wife to leave his bedchamber. He demanded that Louisiana Oil Company not delay the upcoming vote on investments from his company Ingram & Son.

His son Sheridan, though, was half-a-continent away, in California.

Had he contacted his son about his failing health? No. Had he notified his grandson Colfax or his secretary Nedda? No. He expected everything to follow the schedule.

Nedda did her job by restoring order to the swirling chaos. The maid stopped flapping about and hied to the kitchens to have a medicinal tisane prepared. The manservant came out of his corner and helped adjust the pillows and straighten the bedcovers, trying to make Mr. Ingram comfortable. The doctor drew Nedda into the suite’s central reception to convey his diagnosis. Then he retreated with a murmured “Matter of hours, Miss Courtland, not days.”

In all his years, no matter how dire the situation, Mr. Ingram had never fretted. Perching on the side of his expansive bed, Nedda covered his writhing hands with her own. His skin felt dry, papery. His eyes were bleary and reddened. His extreme pallor and shortened breaths worried her more than the doctor’s diagnosis.

He looked up at her and swallowed, an effort.

“I will get you some water.”

“No.” His fingers tightened on hers. “Colfax?”

“Settled at the Academy.”

“Problems?”

“None, sir.”

“You’ll need to wire Sheridan.”

A wire rather than a telephone call. The old man knew his son would be difficult to contact. “I will have them bring a telephone into the suite. When he rings, you can speak with him.”

He huffed, lost his breath, then grabbed at it with rapid inhalations. When his breathing was steady, he asked, “You have his proxy?”

Mr. Ingram knew that she did. They had talked about the proxy numerous times on the train from San Francisco. He had discussed how she would need to vote for Sheridan in the investment meeting with LOC. She also had Sheridan’s power of attorney, for she had needed both documents to enroll Colfax in the Sacred Heart Academy. Nedda peered into her employer’s eyes and saw a vagrant confusion that she’d missed earlier.

And that’s when she knew the doctor’s diagnosis was correct.

“Mr. Ingram, what happened? You were not ailing when I left with Colfax, five days ago.”

He licked his dry lips. His eyes slewed sideways, to the manservant standing quietly.

“Bring Mr. Ingram a brandy,” she ordered with brisk efficiency.

“Miss Courtland, you’re in America now,” the manservant protested. Hired on their arrival in New Orleans, he thought he needed to explain the laws of the United States to these British visitors. “We’re under Prohibition here. Where in this town am I to find brandy?”

“I am certain you can locate a place. The concierge should know a source.”

“The doctor said—.”

“Given the diagnosis, I hardly think that a brandy will injure Mr. Ingram’s health.” She waited until the chamber door shut before checking his pulse. His heart fluttered rapidly, faintly. “Tell me.”

“Poison.”

The word shocked her, but she didn’t doubt it. In their travels for Ingram & Son Investments, they’d seen many odd and unexplainable things, especially in Arabia and the Orient. Mr. Ingram believed someone had poisoned him, and she didn’t question that belief. His body might fail him, but his mind was still sharp, still penetrating, still seeing traps and snares that other businessmen missed.

Hyatt Ingram had used those wits to amass a substantial fortune long before Nedda encountered him, and he had tripled it since the Great War ended, investing in the worldwide petroleum industry.

She did have one question. “Has the doctor—?”

“Didn’t believe me. Says my heart was weak. He listens to Giselle.” He had to pause between each statement and gather strength.

Giselle, his third wife—the new bride. A mistake in Arizona that Mr. Ingram had enjoyed making. He’d shared with Nedda that the marriage wouldn’t last more than three years. She hadn’t thought it would last a year. Giselle hooked him in San Francisco and spent her last dime to follow them to Phoenix where they married. He wanted to be her savior, yet he knew she loved his wallet, not him.

Nedda shook herself mentally. “Do you think she—?”

“Think it was that cicisbeo Clement LaFoy or the accountant or that lawyer LaFoy brought in or that wildcatter.”

His eyes drifted closed, giving her a chance to mull over his claim.

That tight little circle had formed since their arrival in New Orleans. The suave LaFoy represented Louisiana Oil, where Jamison Parker was chief accountant, financial advisor, and a guarantor with the local banks. Hank McElroy represented the other petroleum company, the wildcatter firm Texas Petroleum and Refining. The lawyer Henderson Beaumont III was intended to be a neutral party, overseeing the negotiations that would be presented at the LOC meeting where the owners and chief officers would vote on investments from Ingram & Son and from the Texas firm. Ingram had squeaked into LOC two years ago with a financial investment that stabilized the company after a boom-and-bust cycle, and now he had privileges to vote for his increased ownership of the company.

Sly man.

Not sly enough to anticipate a threat. Not savvy enough to avoid poison.

She looked through the open balcony doors. The suite on the top floor gave a view beyond the surrounding buildings. On a far street, the canopy of an old live oak peered above the roofs. Even at this distance, she could see the clusters of Spanish moss draping the boughs. A breeze drifted in, warm in these days of Spring although the natives claimed it was cold.

Nedda envisioned that aged live oak, its massive trunks braced on the ground, bent at crooked angles. The crimped moss looked like the hoary beards of old men.

And the ground underneath would be littered with blackened acorns.

LaFoy and Beaumont. Parker and McElroy. Were they the limbs of a conspiracy to drive Ingram & Son Investments out of LOC?

Or did one of the four men act alone?

Or was it Giselle and LaFoy?

Or someone she didn’t know to suspect?

They all received a black mark on the mental tally Nedda was keeping.

“Had a solicitor brought in.”

She quickly turned back to Mr. Ingram. His eyes still looked bleary, but his gaze was sharp, watching her, telling her what she needed to know. “A solicitor? Mr. Beaumont?”

“No, not that fool. Alexander Chatto.”

“A new will?” she guessed.

His clutch felt slippery, as if his muscles were sliding out of his control. “You have Sheridan’s proxy for dealing with Colfax?” he asked again. “You’ll have to act for me as well.”

“Where is this new will?”

“Chatto has it. He’s only to give a copy to you or my son.”

“And Giselle?”

The corner of his lip lifted, a simple indication that meant he’d set an unexpected trap. “She’ll have her portion, but she won’t be getting her fingers into my company.”

Voices in the outer reception reached them, a woman and a man then another man.

A knock on the chamber door. Mr. Ingram released her hand and touched a finger to his lip.

She nodded then stood and smoothed down her skirt.

The manservant came in with the brandy.

Mr. Ingram shot a hard glance at Nedda. “I’ll rest now. I’m tired.”

That dismissed her, but she didn’t intend to return to her own room on a lower floor. Five days away meant a backlog of work for her, correspondence and wires and more. Much would become unnecessary were Mr. Ingram to die.

She wanted to think more about this poison. If they knew what kind of poison, the doctor might save Mr. Ingram.

Or not.

She composed her face and went out to Giselle and Clement LaFoy, a convenient paramour since he had tight connections to Louisiana Oil.

One glance revealed the reason Hyatt Ingram had married Giselle Hampton. The platinum blonde was stunning even when her makeup was not immaculate. She wore a shimmering silk day dress in the current flapper style. With her hair coifed in a fluffy bob, her mouth shaped into a Cupid’s bow, mascara making her wide blue eyes dramatic, she was a porcelain doll that deserved her place on the shelf where her husband’s money would have kept her.

Two porters bowed as they collected tips from her for the dozen packages they had carried into the room. The name of a fashionable boutique was scrolled across several. Nedda said nothing, but Giselle sprang to her own defense. “Just fancy! They have styles direct from Paris.”

Clement LaFoy finished lighting a cigarette for Giselle. He placed it in a silvered holder and passed it to the woman. “I doubt Miss Courtland would recognize avant garde style, my dear.”

Nedda managed to hide a wince, for she loved fashion. Her job enabled occasional indulgences, Chanel or Lanvin or Molyneux, as long as the clothes fit her taste and Mr. Ingram’s strict requirements for an unobtrusive secretary.

LaFoy dropped into a club chair and swung one leg over the other. He looked elegant in a silvery suit and mauve tie. He pomaded his black hair and affected a hairline mustache. From the beginning she found him slick as a cat and unconcerned as long as the world didn’t touch him. She had never liked cats.

He blew a smoke ring then asked, “How is Colfax? How much did he protest that school?”

Colfax was an English youth stuffed into a Catholic boarding school in an extremely rural parish of Louisiana. He should have been with his peers at Harrow or Eton, but his father had wanted time with the boy after returning from the war. Six years had now passed, and still Colfax traveled with the Ingram men. Yet his father was currently still in San Francisco and his grandfather, hale a week ago, was now failing.

A prominent bishop of San Francisco wrote a letter of introduction for the Anglican youth, but it was the substantial donation that won him admission into the Sacred Heart Academy, for even the half-year mark was well past. Colfax had been on his best behavior when introduced to the headmaster and a couple of the deans. He politely thanked her for her role in winning him entry.

She had misliked his bland expression.

When deeply bored, Colfax was known for pranks. She wasn’t certain the academy was prepared for him.

Yet neither Giselle nor LaFoy had ever considered Colfax. The question was meant to fill the air. Nedda gave it the response it deserved rather than the truth. “I think he will find it an interesting interlude.”

LaFoy tapped ash from his cigarette onto a crystal tray on a polished ebony side table. “He’ll enjoy himself, off his grandfather’s leash.”

Giselle was opening boxes, flinging the lids to the floor followed by the tissues that had protected the gowns. She lifted out a black silk shimmering with beads then dropped it to pick up a pale pink confection with a dropped waist fitted at the hip and lace overlaying the underskirt. “This one is for dancing tonight in the Blue Room. Have you danced there yet, Miss Courtland? Oh, you wouldn’t have, without an escort, would you? It is glorious.”

Nedda sidestepped a wafting tissue. “When did Mr. Ingram take a turn for the worse?”

Giselle peered into a rainbow beaded bag and didn’t bother to answer. LaFoy blew smoke toward Nedda. “He woke ill the morning after you left with the boy.”

If she closed her eyes, she could see the country roads she’d traveled to and from the Academy, with the hard-packed dirt, the oaks leaning over, branches intertwined into an eternal canopy, and ashy green moss swaying in the breeze. “Did you wire Mr. Sheridan Ingram about his father’s condition?”

“I knew you would do it upon your return,” and Giselle dismissed the question.

Five days. Two days to travel on narrow roads in a rattling touring car that she could walk faster than it drove, a day for all the paperwork to enroll Colfax and see him settled, another two days to return. “Mr. Ingram is gravely ill. The doctor said his condition will only worsen. And you did not think it vital to contact his only son? Mr. Sheridan could have been here by now.”

“I didn’t have his address” was her excuse.

Nedda narrowed her eyes. The wife obviously didn’t want the son here.

Did Giselle know about the lawyer Mr. Ingram had called in?

She could do nothing about the damage to his health that had already occurred. She could only prevent more damage.

Sheridan would need a wire this evening. Only God knew how long it would take to reach him.

Colfax, a youth alone among strangers, would need a warning wire. The wording would have to be delicate. And it might not reach him until morning. The academy had a strict curfew.

Nedda would send the wires before seeking her dinner. Then, although tired from travel, she would return to the suite and tuck into the backlog of work.

And hopefully have more conversation with Mr. Ingram, out of the hearing of his wife and the manservant.

The only problem with Nedda’s vow to safeguard Mr. Ingram was that he died in the overnight.

LINKS ~ Ebook Only

Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FF2PTG9W

Books2Read https://books2read.com/u/bPM11l

Red Mask / Opening and Links / Sailing with Mystery Collection

 Red Mask

Isabella receives a disturbing letter—only for it to be stolen before she deciphers it.

The letter claims that a spy is aboard the Garipoola, but is that the only person hiding their true identity and purpose on the passenger ship?

Read on for the Story's Opening ~ 

1

Isabella stopped at a cloth covered with carved bowls. The vendor had placed the bowls rim-down, to display the carvings of monkeys, elephants, and swirls. Intrigued, she knelt for a closer look.

The bowls spanned a wide spectrum of wood tones, light to dark. She touched a light-colored bowl with monkeys in palm trees. “What is this wood?”

“Sagwan.” He repeated it. When she touched a rose-colored wood with little carving but lovely arches, he said, “Sheesham, sheesham.” He hovered his hand over a series of bowls. “Nilambur” was a mandala. “Nagpur” had columns like a palace collonade. Tigers slinking through reeds was “Mango.”

“And cedar” she named the rust-red bowl.

He plucked the bowl off the ground cloth and turned it upright. Warmed by the sun, the redolent cedar reminded her of clothes presses and chests. Elephants with lifted trunks paraded around the bowl balanced on his hand.

“May I?” She extended her hand.

He bobbed his head. Dark hair fell over his forehead. “You look. You look good.” Like any merchant from ages old, he knew touching the product would often sell it.

Closer inspection revealed that each elephant wore a headband and a cloth over its back, this one ornamented with beads, that one with cross-hatches, a third with swirls, and all parading before a different background. The elephant with flowers marched before a temple; the one with cross-hatches walked through a jungle. Eight elephants in all, which the missionary Miss Harlow had claimed was a fortunate number.

Isabella hadn’t found anything that called to her like these elephants. Within a few minutes, she owned the bowl, and the vendor grinned from ear to ear. She had likely paid too much, but she had no taste for haggling over a price. Mindful of Col. Werthy’s advice at the market in Bombay, before they’d parted ways, she had halved the man’s amount. He countered, she paid, and they were both happy with the transaction. The vendor even wrapped the bowl in a vivid green cloth.

When she stood, a passerby knocked into her. She stumbled.

A hand from nowhere steadied her. “Missy good?” her vendor asked.

“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you,” she directed at the man, but he was gone.

The vendor settled cross-legged at the back of his cloth. Isabella stepped into the flow of the market and let the current take her forward.

The artist in her loved the vivid colors of the canopies over the booths and open shop fronts. Saffron yellow, emerald green and spring green, poppy red and persimmon, tangerine and heavenly azure, and peacock blue, the colors rioted along both sides of the street. The myriad objects for sale, the varied faces of the vendors, male and female, all started a longing to capture the market with its energy. She would need oils. Watercolors would be too diluted. She yearned for a faster paint than oils or the ability to take color photographs. In black-and-white snapshots, the market would look a crowded mess.

A man in pristine white loose jacket and trousers bumped into her. When she edged over, he remained plastered to her shoulder. “Are you on the Garipoola?”

His British accent surprised her as much as his knowledge of her ship. Isabella gaped at him.

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“You know Col. Werthy?”

He had sherry brown eyes, a long narrow face, heavy eyebrows, and swept-back black hair. A beard had started on his defined jawline.

“You know the colonel?” he persisted.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He thrust a folded paper at her.

“He left the ship in Bombay, with his friend Richard Owen.”

“This is for you. Take it,” he ordered when she remained reluctant. “You must return to the ship. Hire a rickshaw. Here, I call one for you.”

Isabella clutched the folded note. Do I trust this man?

When he turned away, she faded into the crowd. As a western woman, blonde and pale, she would be quickly spotted in this crowd of natives. She cast to the other side of the street and hastened back the way she’d come. The current took her until she spotted a landmark that would lead out of the market.

Outside of the bustling market, she would be even more noticeable, and she hurried along the shop fronts. When she happened upon a rickshaw discharging a passenger, she crossed to the rickshawallah. “Harbor? The ship Garipoola?”

“Yes, Missy.”

“How much?”

He looked offended. “Pay at end.”

The rain started as she settled onto the wooden seat. She leaned back to stay under the umbrella canopy. The man picked up the iron bars and began pulling.

As the rain fell, cooling the heated air, his speed increased. Bare feet splashed through the forming puddles, undeterred while others sought shelter from the sudden monsoon rain. Streams poured along the streets and became freshet floods as the deluge continued. Thunder rumbled, but the rickshawallah never paused.

Her skirt was soaked when they reached the harbor. The man ran all the way to the Garipoola’s mooring. He offered to carry her up the gangway but didn’t seem offended by her refusal. By the time Isabella paid him and reached the ship, she was soaked through. Then, in a twist almost anticipated, as she climbed the gangway the rain stopped, God closing the tap.

From the ship, she looked back at the wharf. Her rickshawhallah was running back to the city, his rickshaw bouncing behind him. A woman had emerged from the port office. A western woman. Then raindrops peppered down, and Isabella hurried to her cabin.

She didn’t slip the note from her purse until she changed from her wet clothes, hanging them in her lavatory to drip dry. Then she unwrapped her bowl and added the green cloth to the shower rod. The elephant bowl fit perfectly on the tiny table jutting from the wall by the head of her bed. She tucked her little alarm clock under the shade of the bed lamp. Only then did she unfold the note.

It didn’t make sense.

A bottle of whisky should cover the cost. Bring it with you. The red man won’t expect the change. Better to have the switch ready. Whiskers shouldn’t delay. A cold clime awaits him if we don’t succeed. Dead men have skeletons.

At the last sentence, a cold chill ran over her.

A flourishing W was the signature.

Is a page missing? But no, the writing didn’t cover the sheet.

The man had used Werthy’s name. Is W my Col. Werthy?

Werthy was a spy—along with Richard Owen and Sheridan Ingram. Yet they had disembarked, Ingram in Muscat, Werthy and Owen in Bombay.

Other spies could still be aboard the Garipoola, traveling together to their assignments in the Orient.

Dead men have skeletons.

With that line, the note acquired sinister and lethal meaning. Had the note been meant for a spy? Did that man mistake me for a spy? Isabella wanted to laugh, but danger prickled over her. He had mistaken her for someone. A woman on the Garipoola. A blonde?

Savina Fremont was blonde, but that young lady could not be the spy. The divorcée Edwina Bridgewater was a platinum blonde from the bottle, with dark lashes and penciled eyebrows to highlight her eyes. Good sense ruled against the flirtatious Mrs. Bridgewater as a cool-headed spy.

Or would that be the perfect cover for a spy? A little frittery, a lot man-crazy, her conversation revolving around fashion and society gossip. Isabella would never have given any suspicion of spying a second thought.

The other blondes aboard were married. Lady Saunders. Mrs. Malcolm, a greying blonde. Mrs. Reynolds, bound to Australia with her family. At least three other women along with the women in third-class. Were the husbands a decoy? She found herself second-guessing everything she knew about several passengers.

This note was obviously in code. Did it talk about four people or three? The red man. Whiskers. The him avoiding a cold climate—Siberia? She’d heard the Bolsheviks sentenced prisoners to the frigid north. The fourth would be the skeleton. The him and the potential skeleton might be the same person.

The recipient made the fifth person—or fourth. Obviously, the red man was a contact—with a lead to the him. And did Whiskers assist the recipient, or was he a threat to keep the note’s recipient from delaying?

Ship’s bell rang off the time. She counted the strikes even as she checked the time on her little alarm clock. Dinner would be in a half-hour. Her stomach growled in response.

She could puzzle out this note for her evening’s entertainment. Mr. Fullerton had already told her that he would not be available tonight for their usual game of bridge. Since Clive Rexton had abandoned them in Bombay, a worthy third and fourth for bridge were hard to find.

As Isabella re-folded the note, she remembered the poison pen letter stolen from her cabin—oh, ages ago, it seemed. A single line had warned her not to encourage Col. Werthy. She had ignored that warning, and Werthy had turned into a good friend. (Too good of a friend, her heart reminded, but she ignored that, too.)

Stealing a letter twice on one voyage—that wouldn’t happen. Besides, Savina Fremont had penned the earlier letter then stolen it back. The young woman had remained in hot pursuit of Werthy throughout the voyage, but he hadn’t looked back when he left the ship. Savina didn’t have anything to do with this note.

Perhaps, just perhaps, she might find a clue about the intended recipient, a blonde woman on the Garipoola.

The ship would cast off late tonight and start its journey up the Indian coast to Madras where Isabella’s husband, Madoc, waited for her. That was a better focus than a cryptic letter she would never decode.

She refolded the note and placed it in the elephant bowl, weighting it with a piece of jade that Werthy had given her when they parted. Then she dressed and dawdled her way to the Dining Room. She was successfully late.

Dinner found her eying the several blonde women aboard from a new perspective. She dismissed the married couples. Lady Bernhardt and the Saunders commanded the best table, but Isabella hadn’t joined them since Bombay, preferring the Australia-bound Reynolds, solid working-class and eager for the opportunities in a new land. She’d introduced fellow immigrant Robin Kennedy to them. They talked so much about the next ship they would board in Madras that they didn’t notice Isabella’s distraction.

When she returned to the cabin, only the jade piece was in the bowl. The note had vanished.

Links to Purchase

Amazon ​https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CCGJC68M​

Worldwide ​https://books2read.com/u/bWpVKq​

“Red Mask” completes the Sailing with Mystery collection.

The short stories were great fun to puzzle out and write, and they brought new ideas and new people into Isabella’s world. I’m currently writing three novelettes with one of those new characters. I previewed the first of the three novelettes at Christmas. Look for all three to be officially published this summer.

Here are the Links for the entire collection Sailing with Mystery, available in ebook and paperback:

Amazon ​https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CJL28Z5W​

Worldwide, like B&N, Kobo and libraries ​https://books2read.com/u/3R5QJR​

View the Trailer ​https://youtu.be/csAe72b5X2I

If you want to start the series at the beginning, the most economical is the three-book bundle Into Death. Ebook only, I'm afraid.

Amazon ​https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09MRBNCH7​

Worldwide ​https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09MRBNCH7

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