snorted. “In the book of Jonah.”
“It could happen. And Papa’s planning to get rich off it.”
Portia smiled. “He’d have a long way to go before—”
Camilla stamped her foot. “He’s financing this—this fish boat, to sell to the government so they can blow up Yankee ships.” At Portia’s quizzical look, she began to walk again. “I know it sounds incredible. They built it in New Orleans, then sank it when the Yankees took over. Now they’re going to rebuild it right here in Mobile.”
Camilla had half expected Portia to pooh-pooh the idea, much as Jamie had. But the housekeeper’s broad, smooth brow puckered. “Men and their all-fired gadgets,” she muttered. They reached the flagged walkway in Lady’s flower garden. Portia abruptly stopped and handed Camilla the hamper. “Take this to your brother, and tell him I said happy sailin’.”
“But what should I do? You know, about the boat?”
“You ain’t a baby anymore. You heard more than’s good for you, so keep your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open. Don’t you do anything.” Portia’s fierce gaze speared Camilla. “You hear me?”
“S-so you believe me?” Portia’s belief was infinitely more frightening than Jamie’s amusement.
Portia’s shoulders lifted. “I believe you heard your papa gettin’ up to some shenanigans. We’ll see how important it is.”
Numb, Camilla watched Portia head back to the kitchen. Eyes and ears open would be no problem. Mouth shut was another story.
Chapter Three
Gabriel shoved through the swinging doors of Ingersoll’s Oyster Bar and stood in the baking afternoon heat swinging a newspaper-laden canvas bag against his leg. Sooner or later his quarry was bound to surface.
Last night he’d returned to the riverboat with Delia and, while she went to her room to bathe and change, conducted a discreet search of the hold of the boat. This canvas sack—discovered behind the barrel he’d been sitting on as he waited in the dark for his courier—might or might not be a clue to the imposter’s identity, but it was all he had.
Embarking early this morning on a search, he’d put on his overanxious-relative face and questioned the proprietor of every establishment on Water Street. Downtown Mobile abounded in oyster houses, lagerbier and wine shops, and gambling and drinking saloons. Women were plentiful in those places, but no one admitted to harboring one dressed as a man.
He was about to start over on another round of the search when a violent tugging on his coat sleeve caught his attention. He looked down.
A scrawny little man in a red knit cap danced at his feet, beady pink eyes glinting under bristling eyebrows. “N—now—” The man’s head stretched and retracted as he struggled for words. “Now—where’d you get that?”
Gabriel stared at him. “Where’d I get what?”
The little man snatched at the newspaper bag. “You got it! I give it to Missy, and you stoled it!”
Gabriel swung the bag out of reach and found himself pummeled in the stomach by surprisingly potent punches. “Hey!” Instinctively he hooked his attacker around the neck and secured the skinny arms. He looked around panting. Shoppers and vendors watched with varying degrees of curiosity and disapproval. “If I let you go,” he said through his teeth, “will you settle down and listen to me?”
“Gimme back my bag!” howled the little man.
“I’ll give you back the blasted bag. Just shut up and let me ask you some questions.”
Forced to concede to Gabriel’s superior size and strength, the little man relaxed.
Gabriel released him. “No use asking if you’re crazy,” he muttered, straightening his clothing. “What’s the matter with you?”
The malevolent red-rimmed eyes fixed on his face. “You said you’d gimme the bag.”
“I will, I will. Come on, and I’ll buy you a meal.” Gabriel led the way back into the oyster bar and ordered coffee for himself and his bizarre guest.
The man slugged down his steaming coffee in three great slurps.
Gabriel waved away a waiter offering to refill the cup. “What’s your name, old man?”
The hot drink seemed to have taken some of the starch out of the man’s ire. He leaned back against the wooden booth. “Name’s Byrd. Virgil Byrd.”
How poetic. “What makes you think this bag is yours?”
“Is mine. It’s marked.”
“Marked? How?”
“Candy took a bite out of it one day when I forgot to feed her.”
Gabriel looked at the bag. Sure enough, there was a ragged hole in the bottom about the size of a half-dollar, through which he could see the rolled newspapers. “Who’s Candy?”
“That’s my mule. Candy.”
Gabriel had seen no evidence of any such animal. “You gave the bag to the mule?”
Byrd screwed up his face. “Naw. Candy just tried to eat it. Gave the bag to Missy. And you stoled it.”
“I didn’t steal it,” Gabriel said patiently, rubbing his aching forehead. “I found it. I suppose Missy’s some other animal in your menagerie.”
“Don’t know nothin’ about no na-jer-ee.” Pride and slavish devotion lit Byrd’s rheumy eyes. “Missy’s my friend.”
Gabriel had no idea if this was going anywhere, but what did he have to lose? “Missy’s my friend, too,” he said with an encouraging smile. “Pretty little thing with a curvy figure—” Byrd nodded cautiously. “Wearing a man’s outfit, smells like lily of the valley?”
Byrd cackled. “Yes, sir, that’s her! Smells better ’n a per-fume shop!”
Gabriel leaned forward. “That’s right. We were having a most interesting conversation last night. She had to leave before I could give her something. Could you tell me where I might find her?”
“Naw. Onliest time I see her is late at night when she comes to borry my bag.”
“You work for the newspaper?”
Byrd nodded. “And the railroad, too.”
Something popped loose in Gabriel’s recent memory. Somebody caught a couple of darkies with the Birdman last night. The two guards at Confederate headquarters this morning, discussing a load of moonshine. The Birdman may be crackers…
Clues came together as he scrutinized the wizened face across the table. When Byrd longingly eyed a tray on the shoulder of a passing waiter, Gabriel waved him over. “Mr. Byrd, would you care for some oysters?”
