My Heart Belongs in Galveston, Texas Page 3

  The truth of that shamed her. It would serve her right if he had uncovered the information.

  “Have you discovered my employer’s identity?” She lifted her gaze and knew he had. Of course.

  His smile was surprisingly gentle. “Surely you are not so foolish as to assume I woud not wish to know with whom my only daughter was spending her time.”

  “What do you know of Madame?” she said carefully. “I ask because after recording some of her memories, I am curious about certain aspects of her life.”

  “She is from an old and well-respected family. Hers was a love match that her father did not approve. He hired our firm to investigate, and no, you may not see the records. They were destroyed at her father’s request upon his death. I only recall because one of my first assignments when I officially joined the firm was to put them in the fire.”

  “Did you read them first?”

  Papa chuckled. “Oh, but you are your father’s daughter. No, I did not, but only because my father was standing there to see that I put the sealed papers into the flame.”

  Madeline sighed. “A pity.”

  “Indeed. We rarely have requests to burn the files, so I often wondered what might have been discovered had the documents been read. In any case, I have something for you.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key that had been threaded onto a thin gold chain. Papa placed it onto her palm and smiled. “This is yours now.”

  Madeline looked up into his eyes and saw love and kindness there. She glanced down at the key, seeing only the number fourteen. Carefully, her father wrapped her fingers around the key, allowing the chain to hang free.

  “My next assignment?” she asked him.

  “Eventually,” was his cryptic response. “For now, keep this close to you and never take it off, do you understand?”

  At her nod, Papa continued. “When the time is right, instructions will be given.”

  Madeline slipped the chain over her head and tucked the key into the bodice of her dress where it lay hidden from view. One more secret to keep.

  New Orleans

  One week later

  The elusive Miss Latour. Won’t you join me?” New Orleans Picayune editor Ellis McComb ushered Madeline through the newsroom and into his office. “Where is my article?” he asked as he closed the door on the noise outside.

  “About that,” she said as confidently as she could manage. “I am still developing leads.”

  His bushy gray brows rose. “So you’re here to beg more time and not to deliver my article?”

  Madeline squared her shoulders. “I am here to offer a choice.”

  “I am listening,” Mr. McComb said as he drummed his ink-stained fingers on the top of the papers that littered his desk.

  She leaned against the door and recalled the words she’d practiced all the way here. “If you absolutely need an article from me for tomorrow’s edition, I can turn in a sweet little story about an old lady who somehow manages to grow pink roses all year around before the end of the day today.”

  “Or?”

  “Or I can deliver the story of the century.” She paused to let that idea sink in. “A story that will change history.”

  Mr. McComb’s expression never changed. Instead, he lowered his bulk into the chair behind his desk and steepled his fingers. “When?” he finally said.

  “I wish I had a better answer, sir, but I can give you the story when I have all the details and can prove them.” She paused. “I have good hunches but nothing to back them up. I couldn’t allow the paper to print something so explosive without being absolutely certain of its accuracy.”

  “Explosive?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He seemed to be studying his hands. Then Mr. McComb looked up at Madeline. “All right, then. Get me the piece on the pink roses by three this afternoon. That gives you two hours.”

  Madeline let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Really?”

  “No. Of course not.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “Go get that explosive story, and do not bring it to me until you have the proof of whatever this is.”

  “I will.” She nodded and stepped out into the newsroom. “Thank you, Mr. McComb. You won’t be disappointed.”

  “I’m counting on that. And keep in touch,” Mr. McComb called over the noise as Madeline hurried to the door. “I want weekly reports letting me know you’re still working on this.”

  Madeline waved in response and then hurried to her final errand of the day where the clerk at the Caffrey Stationer’s Shop handed her the wrapped parcel containing a stack of bound journals that Madame had ordered. Though it had not been her true purpose in taking the position as assistant, Madeline had come to enjoy listening to and recording the old woman’s stories over the past few weeks.

  From tales of old New Orleans to stories of persons she loved being lost to hurricanes or other disasters, Madame had much she wished to be recorded. It had truly been enthralling to listen to the stories, and an honor to record them for posterity.

  “How many of these have you gone through already, mademoiselle?” the kindly stationer’s assistant asked.

  “Three since I began working for Madame on the last day of February,” she told him as she handed him the payment.

  “Perhaps I should offer a discount,” he said with a chuckle as Madeline tucked the package under her arm. “I pity you having to do all of that writing,” he said as she crossed the distance to the door.

  “Madame has led a most interesting life,” Madeline replied. “I am finding it fascinating to record it all.”

  And indeed the stories she had recorded in these journals had been fascinating. Every question led to another story and every story to yet another.

  Still, her employer had not broached the one subject that Madeline most wished her to speak about, namely, her suspected connection with the infamous Lafitte brothers. Perhaps today was the day to be more direct with her and ask.

  She thought about Papa’s news that Latour & Sons had become involved in Madame’s life many decades ago. Interesting how life had a way of turning about on itself to form twists and bends that led back to its beginnings. Madeline wondered if Madame knew of this investigation her father had ordered.

  Though she wanted to ask, she wouldn’t. Pretending not to be a Latour for the good of the investigation was bad enough. She simply could not speak of the Latours as if she knew nothing of them.

  By the time Madeline reached the stately residence on Prytania Street, she had made up her mind. If her question angered Madame, then she would apologize and try a different way of asking on another day.

  She found Madame in her sitting room, a sheaf of papers laid out before her on the tea table. “Oh, I am sorry,” she told her. “I thought I might leave these new journals in here in anticipation of this afternoon’s work.”

  Madame smiled. “I do prattle on, don’t I? Come and sit with me. I have news.”

  Madeline did as she was told, settling onto the settee and adjusting a flower-covered pillow to suit her before placing the bundle of journals beside her. “Perhaps I should get my pen and inks?”

  “No, dear. There will be time for that later. I have the most delightful news. These wonderful memories you’ve been recording have inspired me to find a dear one who was lost to me, my lost treasure, as it were.” She paused. “Her name was Trésor, and I failed her once. I will not fail her again.”

  “I’m sorry, Madame, but I don’t understand what that has to do with news.”

  “Oh, of course. You and I are going to find her. It will require travel, but my Trésor will be found.”

  Travel. Madeline forced herself to maintain a neutral expression. With Papa urging her to finish her work for Madame and Mr. McComb sending messages asking for updates on her article, this was not the time for travel.

  Then there was the question of whether Madame was making an informed choice to go searching for this Trésor.
At her age, was she thinking rationally or had her memories caused her to listen to sentiment over reason?

  Madame appeared to study her closely. “You’re smiling. Is that to cover your discomfort? Do you think I have lost my mind?”

  “Not at all,” she said quickly.

  “But you are concerned,” Madame said.

  “Perhaps a little,” she agreed. “This seems quite sudden.”

  “And impetuous?” She shook her head. “Perhaps it may seem so, but I have had this adventure in mind for quite some time, and I have hired the services of an expert to help.”

  “An expert? Well then, might I ask where this adventure is taking us?”

  “Oh, of course.” Madame grinned and leaned forward as if she was about to offer some secret tidbit. “Galveston Island.”

  “Galveston?” Madeline imagined the possibility of doing research on her Lafitte theory in the place where the pirate had been in residence some sixty years prior. “I think that’s a lovely idea.”

  Madame paused as if assessing her, dark eyes alight with what appeared to be excitement. “Do you?”

  “I do,” she said with enthusiasm. “How soon do we leave?”

  Her employer laughed. “Soon, but of course there are preparations to be made. You sound excited about this trip. Have you been to Galveston before?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Ah, recollections are funny things, aren’t they?”

  Madeline nodded as she calculated how to bring up the Lafitte brothers. “Will this be your first trip to the island?”

  “Oh goodness no. I consider Galveston like a second home to me,” she said as she picked up a rose and inhaled its scent. “But it has been far too long since I was there. You look like you want to ask me something.”

  Madeline’s heart raced. Now was the time to turn the conversation toward her reason for being in Madame’s employ. “I have heard stories of pirate treasure buried in Galveston, specifically Jean Lafitte’s treasure. Do you think those stories are true?”

  “Well of course you have heard these stories,” Madame said. “A person could not walk down a city street in New Orleans or take a meal in one of our fine dining establishments without hearing such tales. However, I am old enough to know that the truth has been lost in the telling and retelling.”

  She decided to be more specific. “So you don’t believe Monsieur Lafitte left treasure there? Or perhaps he went back for it much later after it was safe to do so.”

  Madame sat back and regarded her with an expression Madeline could not read. “Much is said of Monsieur Lafitte. Do not believe all of it.”

  Not the answer Madeline had hoped for. Not an answer at all, really. At least the topic of Lafitte had been broached.

  “Perhaps you might set the record straight on Monsieur Lafitte, then. Do you have memories of the pirate that you wish to be included in your memoirs?” She reached over to retrieve the bundle of journals. “Give me just a moment and we can begin.”

  “Oh my, you are quite curious, are you not?” Madame said with a chuckle.

  Madeline stilled her motions and then slowly placed the bundle back on the seat beside her. It would not do to become overzealous and show herself as a reporter in disguise.

  “I am. The topic is fascinating.” Madeline took a deep breath and let it out slowly, putting on her most contrite expression as she returned her attention to her employer. “I suppose the excitement of this trip is to blame. Please forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, my dear.”

  Madeline offered a smile. “I offer it just the same.”

  “Then I shall accept.” She paused. “You ask if I knew Lafitte, and yet you either must think me much older than I am or must not be aware of the history surrounding him.”

  “Neither, Madame.” Madeline knew that history quite well. “I only wonder if you might have some insight. What he actually did and the details surrounding his supposed death is the subject of much speculation.”

  “Ah, speculation,” she said slowly. “It is an interesting thing, is it not?”

  “Well certainly,” Madeline said. “But there is often a grain of truth in such speculation.”

  Madame reached for the bellpull on the wall beside her and called for a servant. A moment later, the maid appeared with a curtsy. “Please make the usual preparations for my departure as we discussed. Mademoiselle will be joining me.”

  “Certainly,” the maid said. “And when will you return?”

  Madame Smith winked at Madeline, drawing her back from her musings. “One cannot merely put a closing date on a treasure hunt, can one?”

  Treasure hunt. Madeline smiled at the truth in those words, even if her employer was referring to a missing person and not missing coin or baubles. “No,” she agreed. “One cannot.”

  After the maid had gone, Madeline tried again to turn the topic back to Lafitte and Madame’s possible shared history with the pirate. “Madame, you did not say whether you wished to dictate any memories regarding Monsieur Lafitte.”

  “No,” Madame said in a most distracted voice. “I did not say, did I? You know, I believe I will have my nap now. Perhaps later we shall speak more of this.”

  Later. Not the answer she had hoped for but still enough of a promise to allow Madeline to get her hopes up.

  She wrote to Mr. McComb letting him know she would be traveling and that she hoped their travels would provide the documentation Madeline was hoping for in regard to her story. Then she made a plan for how she would break the news to her father.

  Madeline waited until the day before her departure to finally broach the topic of her upcoming trip with Papa. As expected, he was less than pleased.

  “Impossible! I cannot allow it,” he fumed as he stared down at Royal Street from his office above the apothecary’s. “Not now. Not after…”

  He turned around slowly. Madeline recognized his expression. “What, Papa?”

  Papa hurried to his desk and indicated for her to take a seat across from him. For a moment he shuffled papers until he apparently found what he was looking for.

  “There has been a report of questions asked in regard to Latour & Sons,” he said as his fingers drummed a rhythm atop the stack of documents. “I wondered at first what the cause might be.”

  “Perhaps someone heard you had forgotten to add your daughter to the company name?” she quipped.

  Ignoring the long-standing jest, her father turned his attention to her. “This is nothing to make light of, Madeline. Questions have been indirectly asked in regard to our business practices in general and our handling of cases in specific.”

  “But why? We are a good, God-fearing family who run a lawful business and have for a century. We do nothing illegal that would require investigating. All the authorities here in New Orleans know this, many by personal experience.”

  Papa chuckled, but his laughter held no humor. “Indeed, I brought this to the attention of more than one well-placed friend of our family since I discovered this.”

  “And?”

  He shrugged. “And I was told this was not a matter with which they could offer help, although every one of them did commiserate and offer to stand up in our defense.”

  “I do not understand,” she said. “Then who is investigating?”

  “It is assumed to be the Pinkerton Detective Agency. As yet I have not learned the name of the person paying for their services, but rest assured I will.” He paused. “So perhaps your trip with the widow woman is well timed. The Lord, He makes plans that we do not always understand, you know.”

  “I do,” she said. “But I am concerned for you and Phil.”

  “Do not be,” he said as he waved his hand over his desk. “Let them investigate. As you say, we have nothing to hide other than our client list. That list and the details of cases associated with it, we protect with our lives.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  Papa stilled his movements and seemed
to be contemplating something on the opposite wall. Slowly he began to nod. “Yes, of course. You shall go with this woman, Madame Smith. You have the key, yes?”

  “I do,” she said as she lifted the chain from its hiding place to show the key still attached.

  “Good.” He rose to come around the desk and then offered his hand to help Madeline to her feet. “I wish for you more than a life as a reporter and scribe to a widowed woman,” he told her. “I wish a husband for you.”

  His statement stunned her. “Whatever would you say that for?” she asked. “I am perfectly content working for the Picayune. Once Madame’s memoirs are complete, I will return to do more work for you. So no, Papa, I do not need a marriage.”

  Her father smiled. “So I said when the Lord brought me your mother.”

  She patted his hand and returned his grin. “Someday, Papa,” she said. “When I am ready.”

  “When the Lord is ready,” he corrected. “Now, go on and gather your things. Your mother will be planning a nice meal tonight to say goodbye.”

  Madeline thought of all the travel preparations that remained undone and stifled a sigh. A nice meal, as Papa termed it, meant hours of cooking, hours of eating, and a table filled with every Latour family member within twenty miles.

  Making a quick exit, she turned down Royal Street toward home. Papa’s warning about the Pinkerton investigation stalled her steps.

  She had seen Pinkerton detective Jonah Cahill not so long ago. It appeared he had been visiting his late grandfather’s home, but was Colonel Cahill’s death the real reason the irritating detective was in the city? Given their shared past history, he certainly had reason enough to cause trouble for the Latour family, but did he dare sink so low?

  As yet, she did not know, but Madeline Latour was not raised to let questions go unanswered.

  Galveston, Texas

  One week later

  Some sixty years after Jean Lafitte fled Galveston Island at the strong behest of the United States Navy, Pinkerton agent Jonah Cahill stood on the property that once held the ruins of the pirate’s home and waited to feel something. Anything.