"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?
~ 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.”
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.
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