Kathleen Y'Barbo (49 page)

“So,” he said as he reached up to adjust the valves. “Where would you like to go?”

“Surprise me.”

“All right,” was her fiancé’s cheerful response. “But I should probably warn you that I have implemented the fuel adjustments you suggested. By my calculations, we are in for a long night.”

Millie’s laughter echoed in the starry sky. “Fly me to the moon, then. Or maybe just around the Gulf of Mexico and back.”

Mildred Hebert sat in the courtyard of the home on Royal Street long after Silas left to find Millie and make amends. Julian had long since been put to bed, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She could only marvel at the events of the day.

Though she ought to be halfway back to Memphis by now, as she had been every other year, the choice to stay for a while set well with her.

“What a Valentine’s Day, we had, didn’t we, Lord?” she whispered. “Thank You for the miracles and the grace, and for the words my Julian—”

Laughter from overhead stopped her in midsentence. Looking up, Mildred saw what appeared to be an exact copy of that infernal flying machine Kyle Russell insisted on parking on the roof of the house on Adams Street.

It flew on past, taking the giggles and sweet snatches of conversation along with it but leaving thoughts of the inventor and Mildred’s namesake. Silas had told her of the engagement, of how Mr. Russell’s grandmama’s ring likely sat on Millie’s finger by now. And of the dress that man had fixed up just to fit Millie for their wedding.

“Oh, yes indeed, Lord, You are good. So very, very good.”

She leaned back against the chair cushions, this time in the spot where Julian normally sat, “I wonder what that girl will do when I tell her where to find the treasure.”

Mildred chuckled. “Even Sophie didn’t know what happened to the rest of it. Old Lafitte accused her of taking it, and she turned right back
around and claimed he’s the one who took it.” She got the giggles then, laughing until she started coughing.

When Mildred caught her breath again, she said to herself, “I’d like to
see it found in my lifetime.” Again she closed her eyes. “It’s just a pity none of that treasure’s been seen in more than fifty years. Not since Sophie took it all down to the Bank of Louisiana back in 1837.”

She paused only long enough to look up toward the heavens, toward the moon that was just one day shy of being full, and winked. “And I took it all out the next day and put it where neither of them could find it. You know I intended to make sure it would go to Julian’s baby, Lord, but he didn’t turn out all that nice. I’m so glad instead it will go to his sweet granddaughter.”

Closing her eyes, she let the tired sink into her bones. Still she made no move to go inside. “Indeed, those Union and Planters bankers have been good to me. And when the time is right, I will help Millie Cope figure out that what she’s looking for isn’t in that old lockbox anymore.”

Mildred laughed softly. “But then, treasures are not that hard to find, are they, Lord? Not with Your help.”

If you loved
Millie’s Treasure,
you won’t want to miss Book 3 of The Secret Lives of Will Tucker series,

Sadie’s Secret

Chapter One

May 10, 1889

Louisiana State Penitentiary

Detective William Jefferson Tucker of the Criminal Investigations Division, London Metropolitan Police, stepped across the threshold of the sewer pit known as the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola with one purpose in mind. To see his brother, also named William.

William John Tucker.

His identical twin. His polar opposite.

With his first order of business being an explanation of exactly what John had done this time, Jefferson turned toward Major Samuel James’ office. When in doubt, go to the top, that was his motto. And Major James was the top dog around here.

“Hold on there,” someone called, and he turned to see a uniformed guard hurrying toward him, one hand on his holster and the other pointing in his direction.

“Just paying a visit to the warden,” Jefferson said with all the Texas charm his mama had taught him. “Nothing to get upset about.”

“We will see about that,” the guard said, nodding back toward the other end of the dimly lit hall. “Just come on back here and sign in, and then we will see if the warden’s interested in visiting today.”

Shaking his head, Jefferson tried not to show amusement at the man’s pompous behavior. While he had seen the other side of a jail cell on many
occasions, it had always been in the position of arresting officer and not prison guard. To spend day after day in this place would cause anyone to own an ill temper.

When the papers were produced, Jefferson signed them. “Anything else you need?” he asked as politely as he could manage.

“Any kind of proof you are who you say you are would be appreciated,” the guard said in a tone that just barely toed the line between polite and sarcastic.

“Gladly.”

“Oh, and I will be needing your weapon.”

Routine procedure in prisons, and yet he hated it. Reluctantly, Jefferson removed his Navy revolver and handed it to the guard.

“That all you got?” He gave Jefferson a sweeping look. “Nothing else you can hurt anybody with?”

“Just a pocketknife.”

“Hand that over too.”

Jefferson offered up the knife and then reached for his identification, carefully selecting the papers that would not give away his current undercover role in London. Until the Metropolitan Police gave him clearance to speak on the real reason he had returned to the United States after almost five years away, he could not offer up those credentials.

Placing what he had on the rough slab of wood that served as a desk between them, he stood back and waited while the guard checked the documents over.

“From Texas, are you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what brings you here?” The guard took in an exaggerated breath and then pretended to cough. “Sure can’t be the fresh air and sunshine.”

Jefferson played along, pretending to find the gag amusing. “I am here to see my brother.”

“Your brother?” The guard clutched the papers as he looked up at the detective. “And just who might your brother be?”

“He would be John Tucker.”

“John Tucker,” the guard echoed as he opened an oversized leather book that sent a cloud of dust into the already rancid air.

The odd idea that this process was beginning to feel very much like checking into a hotel occurred. Jefferson decided he would keep that thought to himself.

“Don’t see any John...”

“
William
John,” he amended, irritated not for the first time that his father had insisted on the ridiculous family tradition of giving both sons the same first name and then calling them by their middle name.

His grimy finger paused below a line of scribbling. “Tucker. Well, here we go. William J. Tucker.” He looked up at Jefferson, his face now unreadable. “Wait here.”

Without another word of explanation, he hurried off down the hall with Jefferson’s credentials still clutched in his hand. A door shut somewhere off in the distance and then hurriedly opened again.

“Initial for your property here,” he said when he returned.

Jefferson noted the date and the items he had just surrendered and then placed his initials on the line beside them to indicate agreement.

“All right. Come with me, Mr. Tucker,” the guard said, not quite making eye contact.

Detective
Tucker, he almost said. Instead, Jefferson kept silent.
Better not to make early enemies of anyone in this place.
“Yes, of course.” He followed the guard past the warden’s office and around the corner, finally stopping at an unmarked door.

“Right in there,” he said as he used a key from his vest pocket to open the lock.

The room was dark, but the lamplight in the passageway sent a weak shaft of light across what appeared to be a table and a bench. “I would be much obliged if you would turn on a light in here,” Jefferson said, the last of his hospitable temperament disappearing fast.

“Just go on in and the light will come on.”

He was about to protest when the guard shoved him inside and turned the lock.

“Open this door!” Jefferson demanded. “This is not funny. I demand to see either my brother or the warden immediately.”

“You just wait right there, Tucker,” the guard said. “And you will see the warden for sure.”

He felt along the edge of the wall, his fingers sliding across a combination of dirt and slime held together by something so foul smelling he refused to contemplate its source. Finally he found the bench and managed to sit.

Outside the door two sets of footsteps approached and then halted. He heard two sets of voices arguing, their words indistinguishable through the thick walls.

Finally the door opened and a man whose attire told Jefferson he could only be the warden stepped inside. The guard shadowed Major James, as did another underling of some sort.

“Look,” Jefferson said, “all I wanted was to see my brother. Is this how you treat all your visitors, Major?”

“The major isn’t here today, but I am the man in charge. You can call me Butler. You won’t need any name other than that. And as to your question, no. But this is the way we treat those who might belong inside the cell.”