Magnolia (23 page)

And then it came to him. Claire had an automobile. Pray
God she could get it running and had enough gasoline. That was going to be the swiftest way to tie all these loose ends together. It was highly unlikely that Calverson was armed, or that he would resort to violence, so he wouldn't be putting Claire at risk.

He had the carriage drop him off at Mrs. Dobbs's apartment house. He found Claire upstairs in their apartment, a charcoal pencil poised over a large drawing pad.

“I need you,” he said quickly—and with a blinding smile that set her heart racing. “Can you get Chester running in a hurry?”

Claire threw down the pad, on which a dress was being sketched, and jumped up, her eyes bright with excitement. “Me? Why—why, I certainly can!” she exclaimed.

“Calverson is about to make a run for it in a freight wagon. I expect he's trying to ship himself to Charleston, along with the money. God, I hope I'm right!”

She didn't stop to ask questions. It was more than enough that John needed her. She grabbed her long cotton-duck duster and her goggles, then ran out the door that John was holding open. “I don't have one of these for you. I'm sorry,” she said over her shoulder.

He chuckled. “I don't mind a little grease and dirt, Claire. Let's go!”

She cranked the car, thanking providence that she'd been tinkering with it just the day before to make sure it would run. She backed it into the road and put it into gear, with John holding on to his hat.

“Where to?” she asked him, shouting to make herself heard over the engine.

“The Morrison Hotel. We have to pick up Matt Davis to make the arrest.”

“I can have you there in no time!”

She drove like a madwoman, racing over the rutted roads onto Peachtree Street, which was a little easier to traverse because the near end had a hard surface. She laughed at the sheer exhilaration of the experience, glancing once at her husband to find the same reckless light in his eyes. Yes, he was like her, she thought. He had the same passionate spirit. If only he could love her as he loved his Diane, what a pair they would make!

She pulled up at the entrance to the Morrison Hotel, frightening a carriage horse nearby. She grimaced and called an apology to the irritated driver as John leapt over the door and rushed into the hotel. Scant minutes later, he came out with Matt Davis running right behind him.

Davis skidded to a stop at the car, his black eyes wide with surprise. “I'm not getting in that thing!” he yelled.

“Oh, yes, you are,” John said firmly. He dragged the taller man to the other side and almost pushed him into the seat. “Go, Claire. Go as fast as you can!”

John had jumped in, too. The three of them barely fit, but they managed to hang on as Claire raced the little car to the train depot a few blocks away.

“You can't mean that Mr. Calverson really intends to go to Charleston in a trunk!” Claire called.

“I certainly do. I saw the trunks and the freight wagon
with my own eyes,” John called back. “Claire, drive around behind the depot, behind that warehouse, and stop the car. We'll wait here until he turns up.”

“What if he's already here?”

John scanned the freight wagons. “I don't see him—”

“Wait!” Matt interrupted, pointing. “Here comes another one.”

“That's it,” John replied, recognizing it immediately. “I saw it at his house, where that little weasel was loading the trunks on it. Claire, you stay here, out of harm's way,” he said firmly, holding up a hand when she protested. “You've done your part. Now we'll do ours.”

“Let me handle this,” Matt said firmly. “I haven't forgotten your temper.”

“I'm a changed man. I only want five minutes with him.”

“Not on your life,” came the droll reply. “I want him in one piece.”

“Pity,” John remarked as he followed the detective around the side of the building.

Claire didn't stay where she was told. She got out of the car and followed at a discreet distance. Along the way, she picked up a couple of big rocks and stuffed them in the pockets of her duster. She didn't think Calverson would put up a fight, but it was impossible to predict what a desperate man would do, especially one carrying large sums of cash.

Matt stopped the agent who had two men helping him get the trunks out of the wagon.

“We have reason to believe that stolen money is hidden in these trunks.” He showed his identification to the man, who shrugged and stepped back, as if to say,
This isn't my problem.

Matt instructed the two strong men to break the locks and open the trunks.

The first lid was pried open. Matt had his pistol in his hand and he nodded to John to draw the clothing out.

It was evening gowns, quite a few of them, and shoes. John plowed through them, but there was nothing hidden in the trunk under the clothing. No Eli, and no money.

Cursing, he moved to the other trunk. The depot agent shrugged and used the crowbar once more. The lock was sprung, the trunk opened.

“Something has to be in here,” John muttered. He reached in. Yes, there was a bag. His heart began to race. He moved the dresses and undergarments aside and pulled out a gray bag. But inside it was an old quilt—and wrapped in that was a priceless Waterford crystal vase. John cursed viciously as he repacked it and put it back inside.

“Nothing!” he raged. He hit the lid of the trunk. “Damn it! He got away!”

“What about the driver?” Matt asked. “Maybe I can catch him if I hurry. He might be able to tell me something.”

“But what about Eli?” John asked angrily. “And why are so many of Diane's gowns here in these trunks?”

The answer was that Diane must be thinking of going with her husband—or why would she ship her gowns to Charleston? Perhaps her husband was already safely out of
town. With the very large sum of money missing from the bank, the Calversons could live handsomely for the rest of their lives if they got on a ship and sailed down into the Caribbean or to South America.

“And now here we've busted these locks for nothing,” the station man said irritably. “You'll have to pay for this.”

“I'll do it,” John said. “It was my idea.” He reached for his notecase, irritated beyond measure. He counted out several bills and handed them over. “Mrs. Calverson knows me. She can contact me if that isn't enough.”

“Where is he, do you think?” John asked Matt Davis when they were walking back toward the automobile.

“God knows! Damn the luck! How many trunks were there?”

“I saw only two,” John said angrily. “But there might have been a third that he sent on later or earlier. God knows how he managed it! The only thing I'm certain of is that he's on his way to Charleston.” He let out a long breath. “And that's where I'm going right now. I'll be damned if he's getting away with it!”

“I can't help you,” Matt said, with concern. “I've got to leave in the morning, back to Chicago. But I can wire one of our men in Charleston to meet you at the depot.”

“Do it,” John said tersely.

“Meanwhile, I'll try to find that driver and see what I can shake out of him. What about your wife?”

As he spoke, Claire came around the corner with her duster pockets bulging with rocks.

“Where is he?” she asked, and pulled one of the rocks from the coat.

John's eyes twinkled. God, she was game! “On the train, we presume,” he said. He moved forward, his voice soft as he spoke to her. “Listen, Claire, I'm going to Charleston after him. You take your automobile back home—”

“I will not!” she said firmly. “I'm going with you.”

His eyes widened. “What about the automobile?”

She turned to Matt Davis. “I know it's a presumption, but could you go around to Kenny Blake's men's shop and ask him to take it home for me? He and a couple of men can put it on a wagon and take it there. The shed's open—and he can close the lock afterward. And if you could also tell Mrs. Dobbs at our apartment house…and John's parents at the Aragon Hotel where we've gone?”

John chuckled at her efficiency. “She seems to have it all organized. Do you mind?” he asked his friend.

Matt smiled faintly. He didn't like white women as a rule, but this one had spunk. “I'll do it,” he said, agreeing.

“Thank you, Mr. Davis,” she said genuinely.

John shook hands with him. “If you'll have that man alerted to meet us at the depot in Charleston when we arrive, perhaps we can find Calverson before he makes a clean getaway with the loot.”

“Nobody escapes the Pinkertons,” Matt said, with tongue in cheek.

“Nobody escapes the Hawthorns, either,” Claire assured him. “John, look! The train's getting ready to leave. We must fly!”

She grabbed his hand and spirited him toward the ticket office. He went with her, more elated and excited than he'd ever been in battle. The chase was on, the game was afoot, and he felt like a boy on a snipe hunt again. Except that this time, he wasn't looking for some mythical bird. He was hunting big game, and his whole future depended on finding it.

THEY MANAGED, JUST, TO GET SEATS IN A
compartment that was empty. Claire took off her duster and put it aside, using her handkerchief to remove some of the grime from her dark dress and her face.

John stared at her from across the compartment on the seat facing hers. He smiled. “Why is it that you seem to be sewing all the time, yet you wear the same things over and over again? And don't tell me it's for Macy's. That really was a tall tale, Claire.”

She looked up with lifted eyebrows. “I never lie. You know that.”

He scowled and leaned forward. “You mean that it's true? You actually have sold gowns…to Macy's?”

“Indeed I have,” she replied, ruffled. “I know that you wouldn't have heard of my gowns, but they're quite popular. A buyer from Macy's has just employed me to design a collection for the store. I also sew gowns for society ladies in Atlanta, notably Evelyn Paine and her friends. And I have
been commissioned by your mother to sew Emily's coming-out gown for the spring debutantes' ball in Savannah.”

He looked perplexed. “How long have you done this?”

“Since just after we married,” she confessed. She toyed with the handkerchief. “I had plenty of time for such pursuits, and I wanted an independent income.” She looked up. “After all, it seemed for a time as if you would divorce me and marry Diane at your earliest opportunity. I felt it would be politic of me to become self-sufficient as soon as possible.”

He felt a sense of shame that he'd made her so insecure. “Well, at least it explains all that sewing,” he remarked.

“Kenny introduced me to the buyer from Macy's. I had a sundae with him while we arranged for the designs to be sent to New York.”

He let out a breath. “I see. So that's why you were in town with him. And I suppose it's why you met him the day of the bank riot and the fire?”

“Exactly. I took him some sketches to send to Mr. Stillwell, the buyer at Macy's.”

“And you didn't feel you could explain this to me, even when I charged you with infidelity?” he asked gently.

She shrugged delicately. “It hardly seemed the time to tell you that I was on the verge of becoming well off in my own right.” She lifted her hands. “You must see that I had every reason not to trust you.”

He grimaced. “I do. But that doesn't make it easier.”

“It disturbs you that I shall be independent?” she asked, fishing.

He leaned back and crossed his long, powerful legs. He stared at her across the coach. “Not really. It's a good idea for you to have your own income. Not because I plan to divorce you,” he added firmly, “but because you would be able to support yourself if anything happened to me.”

“God forbid,” she said, and felt a chill.

He smiled. “Really? At times it seemed to me that you wouldn't mind if I fell off a cliff. In fact, I feel certain that during our brief marriage, you were ready to push me off one a time or two.”

Her eyes lowered to her long, dusty skirt. “I would mind, though.” She lifted her eyes again. “You searched the trunks, didn't you? And neither Mr. Calverson nor the money was in them.”

“You saw that?”

She smiled ruefully. “I was peering around the corner. I had rocks in my pockets, so that I could wade in and help if you needed me.”

He chuckled with pure delight. “It's nice to know that you have my interests at heart.”

“You are my husband, after all.” She studied his face for a long moment. “What did you find in the trunks?”

He didn't want to tell her that just yet. He looked away. “Just some clothing. It seems that Eli plans to spend quite a lot of time either in Charleston or abroad and hopes I take his punishment for him.”

She grimaced. “You thought better of him, I'm sure. I'm sorry.”

“I'm not really surprised, you know,” he said. “Eli was always one to put profit above friendship or compassion. Money is so unimportant in the great scheme of things, Claire. I've had money and I've been without it. I don't notice any real difference, except that I feel more comfortable making my own way in life, depending on my intelligence and my wits to keep me on the right track.” He searched her eyes. “Yes, you understand that, don't you? Because you've never had money.”

“That's so. I had Uncle Will and not much more. Except the automobile.” Her face broke into a grin. “Your friend Matt Davis is afraid of automobiles!” she said, with pure glee.

“Yes, I noticed,” he said, chuckling. “If you knew anything of his true background, you might find it even more amusing.”

“Do tell,” she coaxed.

He chuckled. “One day, perhaps, not now.”

“You said that he was Sioux.”

“He is.”

“It has something to do with General Custer's death, doesn't it?”

“Something,” he said. “Because there was so much bad feeling toward his people after the event, for some time after he left South Dakota, Matt was sensitive about any reference to his race. Most people who know him are savvy enough not to take the risk of mentioning it. But in some ways,
he's still sensitive about his identity. The accepted facade of the dumb Indian or the untamed savage infuriates him. He's a very educated man.”

“I noticed that. But he doesn't seem to like women.”

“White women,” he said. His eyes went toward the coach window. “No, he doesn't.”

“Why?”

“I don't know,” he said honestly. “We served together in different units in Cuba, and although we were friends, Matt was a private person. He kept his background very much to himself. I've never heard him called anything except Matt Davis, but I'm certain that it's an invented name, that he has another name altogether on the reservation.”

“Do you have other friends besides him and your friend in the military who came to visit?”

“Quite a few. Some live in Texas, some in Florida, some in Charleston, and some in New York.”

“Were they all in the military?”

“Not all. A few were friends I made at college.”

“I just had a thought,” she said. “If you were at the Citadel for a time, you must know Charleston fairly well.”

He smiled. “Yes, I do. However, that isn't going to help us find Calverson.”

“We could search the train,” she suggested.

“How would we explain that to the porters? I have no credentials as a lawman.”

“You could say that you were a Pinkerton man.”

“And they'd telegraph the nearest office and discover
that I was not. Modern communications make life hard for robbers, and that's a good thing.”

She glowered at him. “While we sit here talking, Mr. Calverson is no doubt hidden—with his ill-gotten gains—somewhere on this very train!”

‘I'm afraid that may be true,” he replied. “But we'll have to wait until we get to Charleston to find out.” He leaned back again. “You might as well rest while you can. Stretch out on the seat, if you like.”

“It's rather chilly.”

“Here.” He took off his overcoat and handed it to her. She took it gingerly.

“It won't contaminate you,” he said sharply.

She looked up. “I know that.” Her shoulders moved. “I was just thinking about how it will be for Diane when she discovers that her husband has run away and left her behind to be gossiped about even more.”

He didn't tell her what he suspected about Diane—that she was, in fact, running away with Eli. His lips pursed thoughtfully. “Yes. It will be bad for her, for a time.”

She searched his eyes, but they gave nothing away.

He reached out and touched her cheek gently. “You care so much about people,” he said slowly. “Even rivals. I never realized how warm your heart really was until we married. Warm, and very fragile.”

The heart of which he spoke jumped sharply in her chest and began to beat recklessly.

He smiled. “And you still find me desirable, even though
you can't manage to confess it,” he added in a deep whisper, bending. “I find that…reassuring.”

As she formulated words, his mouth gently settled on her own. She was too surprised to fight, or protest, she told herself. But that didn't explain her sudden desperation to be close to him, to incite him to ardor.

Her arms reached up blindly and pulled him down to her on the seat. He wrapped her up close, turning her so that she lay across his lap with the duster and his overcoat in a pile on the floor. He kissed her hungrily, with no thought for consequences or the unshuttered glass of the compartment, through which they could easily be seen.

“I can never get enough of your mouth,” he said against her lips, his breath ragged. “I could die kissing you and die happy. Come closer!”

She kissed him back with a rough little moan, remembering the pleasures they'd shared in his bed in the darkness, the hunger of his body, the yielding submission of hers, the aching pleasure of ecstasy.

He lifted his mouth just a little, and his eyes were black with hunger. “I want you,” he whispered unsteadily. “Here, on the bench, on the floor, anywhere! Oh, God. Claire!”

His mouth ground into hers again. His hand went between them to the soft curve of her breast and covered it. His thumb and forefinger traced it, teased it. She gasped and then moaned, and her fingers covered his, pressing them even closer to her aching flesh.

She tasted the coffee he'd had for breakfast on his mouth, breathed in the delicious scent of the bay rum cologne he
was wearing, savored the raspy warmth of his face under her fingers. Marriage was still exciting and new, and she had a secret that he didn't know. She carried his child under the heart where his hand lay. If only she could tell him! But she wasn't sure of him—not until Eli Calverson was caught and returned to Atlanta…not until John's true feelings for Diane were known.

Even as their hunger threatened to go out of bounds, the door suddenly opened and an elderly face gaped at the two young people entwined on the seat.

“Well, I never did!” the elderly woman in a black dress and hat and veil exclaimed. “Such carrying on, in public!”

“This is hardly a public place, madam,” John said, rising to his feet shakily but respectfully. “And the lady in question is my wife,” he added, with a mischievous smile, “from whom I have been parted for some weeks.”

The elderly face relaxed a little as it took in the young woman's red cheeks and demure glance. She smiled and made a little sound in her throat. “I see.” She glanced from one to the other. “Are you on your honeymoon, then?”

“We've been married for several months,” Claire responded.

“How lucky you are,” the old woman said wistfully. “I have my husband of fifty years in a coffin in the mail car. I am taking him to Charleston to be buried with my family and his, in the old cemetery.” Even through the veil her eyes were sad. “Forgive me for thrusting my sorrow upon
such a young and obviously happy couple, but this seems to be the only vacant seat left. The train is quite crowded.”

“Please sit down,” John invited, moving beside Claire to give the elderly woman a seat. He picked up the duster and the overcoat and put them aside. Without a qualm, he reached for Claire's hand and held it warmly in his. “My wife and I are on holiday,” he added untruthfully, and with a smile. “Charleston is a city I know well, having graduated from the Citadel.”

“Did you really?” the old woman exclaimed, pushing back her veil to reveal warm, dark eyes. “My son was a student there. Perhaps you knew him: Clarence Cornwall?”

John hid a grin. “Yes,” he said. “In fact, I did know him. He was in the class behind mine.” He smiled. “I am John Hawthorn, and this is my wife, Claire.”

“I am Prudence Cornwall,” the widow said, introducing herself. “How very nice to meet you both.” She sighed. “Clarence hated the Citadel, poor boy. He didn't graduate, I'm sorry to say. It was a great disappointment to my husband.”

“What is Clarence doing now?”

“He's captain of a fishing boat. Isn't that ironic?”

“Indeed it is.” John turned to Claire. “Clarence hated the water. He couldn't swim.”

“He still can't.” The widow Cornwall chuckled. “But he's very good at his job, and he earns his living from it. He married, John. He and Elise have six children.”

“How fortunate for him,” Claire said warmly. “He must be very happy indeed to have children.”

John moved restlessly. He hadn't thought about a family at all. “I find children a bit unnerving,” he remarked, without looking at his wife—which was, perhaps, a good thing. “It isn't something we have to consider right away, however.”

He sounded as if he were relieved about that, and Claire began to worry. If he didn't want children, what would she do? And what about Diane? As John and the widow spoke of Charleston and old times, Claire stared out the window with her worries like a knot in her soft throat. She had plenty of problems—and not one single solution in sight.

The widow Cornwall tucked her veil back in place. “I wish I had a happier reason for going to Charleston,” she said wistfully. “It is a sad trip for me. And for that other young woman, who refuses to leave the side of her dead husband. Poor dear. It must be so uncomfortable for her in the mail car. She did look well-to-do, but the coffin is only a pine box.” She frowned. “Her husband must have been a very large man. I must say, I have never seen a coffin of such size. Still—” she dismissed it with a wave of her hand “—the shipping cost should not be monumental.”

“Did the other widow board the train with you in Atlanta?” John asked, with unusual intentness.

“Why, no,” she replied. “I did not board the train in Atlanta, but in Colbyville, where my husband and I were visiting his sister when he died suddenly. Although,” she added, “at our stop in Atlanta, the young widow did have two trunks loaded into the mail car. But the coffin came aboard at Colbyville. That's why it has taken me so long
to look for a seat,” she added. “I did not feel comfortable leaving her there alone, even though she was anxious to be alone with the coffin.”