Blessed Assurance (48 page)

Outside the hotel with the sounds of giddy laughter and the syncopated jazz band still around them, Meg pulled against Gabriel. The cool night air and her fear made gooseflesh zip up her arms. “Where are we going?”

He hustled her into his car. “I told Jack I'd see you home.”

Meg studied him, a sick feeling tightening her stomach. “Is it Del?”

“Sorry.” He gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “This has
nothing
to do with Del. I received a telegram today from France.” She touched his sleeve to comfort him, to urge him to trust her. His words came out in a thick, edgy voice, “Her name
was
Lenore. But I was kissing you.”

He trusts me.
Clenched in the wintry fingers of loneliness and loss, Meg slid across the seat close against him.

“Stay close,” he murmured roughly.

“I will.”

Soon Gabe led Meg to his father's home office. There, he switched on the green-shaded desk lamp. Meg curled up on the sofa.

Unable to hit on a graceful way of bringing up Marie, Gabriel knelt in front of the green-marble hearth and busied himself making a fire.

Meg asked, “How did you meet her?”

“A surveillance flight over Argonne.” His voice sounded wooden in his own ears. “I was hit but still managed to land the plane in a field. It put me in a hospital. Lenore was a French nurse there.”

He began building a tiny pyramid of sticks and wadded newspaper to ignite the charcoal. “Her husband, a doctor, died of pneumonia.” He breathed easier with each word—each weight deducted.

He struck a match and touched its flames to the paper.

“I'm glad you found her. I'm sorry you lost her.”

The fire lit, crinkling up the paper into orange flame. He rose, staring down at her. Her white skin contrasted against the black of her dress and her short brown hair. She held out a hand to him. Crossing to her, he took it, nestled down beside her.

“Tell me.”

Her two words acted like a cork drawing from a bottle. Lifting her hand to his lips, he branded it with a kiss of appreciation. “I loved her, still love her.”

She squeezed his hand. “I knew.”

“Yes,” he acknowledged. He recalled her question, “What was her name?” Words began to flow from him, “She was like you…strong, passionate…a woman who understood things without having to be told.”

His words played in her aching heart, evoking memories, linking him to her. Meg shifted her weight on the sofa, leaning into him. “It was the war. Such naked inhuman suffering….” A remembered image—a field a day after battle, an up-flung hand frozen in entreaty. She shut her eyes; the image remained. She'd whispered, “Heaven, help him, help us all.”

“I knew I would be expected to kill people. I thought I understood that. But knowing and doing are poles apart. Firing a machine gun at an enemy flyer—in the air.” He pursed his lips. “We had to fly so close. I always tried to shoot the pilot, not the plane. A bullet in the gas tank turned a plane into a blazing coffin. The screams—I could hear them even over the engine noise—”

Meg wrapped her arms tightly around him.
Comfort ye. Comfort ye, my people.

“I loved to fly, but I grew to hate it,” his vehement voice shook. “The Germans, English, and French pilots had parachutes—not the Americans. Our brass said if we had them, we would bail out too quickly and wreck too many planes,” he railed at the injustice. “Easier to train more fliers, than to build more planes.”

She wiped away one lone tear on his cheek, then drew off her sheer, black gloves. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck. “I know,” she whispered. “What did Lenore look like?” Meg tilted
her head back to watch emotion play across his finely chiseled features.

“Tall, a Gallic brunette. Her beauty came more from who she was, what she did.” He groped for words. “Undaunted…smiling…she knew my heart.”

Bracing her hands on each side of his head, Meg bent his head forward and pressed her brow against his. “I felt the same with Colin. When we met, it was like we had known each other all our lives.”

Words exploded from deep inside him, “We didn't have time to waste—”

“On getting acquainted,” she finished for him. “We went from ‘Hello' to ‘I-love-you' in one evening.”

“Facing death alters perspective, strips away—”

“Everything but the essential.”

The white pillar of Meg's neck arched within a fraction of his lips. Unable to resist, he pressed his lips to her soft skin.

His touch made her breath catch; she kissed the lobe of his ear.

The touch of her lips suspended his faculties—as though she had released him from the constraints of time and space. Their intimacy made his pulse pound at his temples. Cradling her silken hair in both hands, he bestowed a kiss to each of her closed eyes, and with his lips, pushed back her bangs.

A red welt crossed her forehead—her shrapnel scar. “Meg, my poor sweet girl—”

“No, don't.” She put up a hand to prevent him from touching the wound.

He captured her hand and held it. Her resistance gave way. Along the angled red crease, he pressed one kiss, two, three kisses. He rested his forehead against hers, warm skin against warm skin. “Colin died?”

Trembling, she rubbed her forehead against his. “Shot by a sniper two months before armistice.” She swallowed tears. “Lenore?”

He forced out the words, “The field hospital bombed…an accident.” He folded her into his arms against the past and its agonies.

She whispered a sigh into his ear, then relaxed against him, trusting. The charcoal fire glowed on the hearth. His father's mantel clock ticked-ticked. He drew in a deep breath. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I haven't had anyone to share this with.”

She pulled from his embrace yet stayed curled beside him on the sofa—his sleek cat had returned.

With his index finger, Gabe traced the line of her cheekbone. Then, exhaling, he reclined against the soft leather back of the sofa and stretched his legs toward the fire, crossing his ankles. The clock chimed the hour.

Meg looked to him. “Your parents will return home soon. You need to drive me to my hotel.”

He hadn't come to the main point yet. Gabriel sat up. “I need to ask you for advice…for your help.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

What more did he have to reveal? “What do you need?”

Gabriel stood and walked to the mantel. “Lenore had a little daughter, Marie—only three years old from her first marriage. I adopted her.”

The desire to weep squeezed her breast. Another child in that war that had spawned so many tattered waifs. “Where is she?”

“I thought she was with Lenore during the bombardment,” he railed at himself. “Lenore's grandmother, her only blood relative, often brought the child to eat lunch with Lenore at the hospital.”

She understood his sudden anger. Children shouldn't be in danger of bombs. She clung to the hope his words offered. “But Marie wasn't there?”

Gabe had been right to talk to Meg. “No, Lenore and the grandmother died. Marie's body wasn't found, but she was so small…”

Gabriel didn't have to explain. A German shell could obliterate a little girl. Meg folded her arms around herself. “Where is Marie now?”

“A neighbor, another old woman, had Marie in her care that day when the bombardment came. When this old woman died a few months later, Marie was sent to an orphanage. I would never have
known she was still alive except that Lenore's first husband's brother, Paul, kept searching for Marie just in case a mistake had been made. He couldn't give up on the chance that his only brother's only child had been spared.”

“Is Marie with him?”

“Only briefly. France is so depleted because of the war, Paul is sending Marie to me. In fact, he telegraphed me that she is on her way to New Orleans with a nurse now.”

Meg sat up straighter. “How soon will her boat arrive?”

“Three weeks.”

“But your mother said nothing to me.” She stared at him.

“She doesn't know.” His eyes wouldn't meet hers.

Meg gasped. “But why? Surely she'll be delighted to have Marie—”

“I never told my parents about my marriage to Lenore. We married so quickly. I meant to tell them…” He stirred the fire with the poker.

“Why didn't you?”

Gabriel began pacing. “Did you tell your parents about Colin?”

“No.” Suddenly restless, she rose and walked over to stand by the desk. “The loss…cut too deep.” Each word stabbed her.

He nodded, resting a hand on the mantel. “How could we explain how it was in France?”

“And why?” she agreed, stepping nearer him. “They would only ask questions we wouldn't want to answer.” Meg drew in a ragged breath, recalling her father's worried expression whenever he had looked at her. “But it makes it harder now…on every one of your family.”

“You're telling me?” he asked with a dry twist. “How do I tell them about Lenore when Mother wants me to marry Dulcine?”

In her mind, Meg went over her recent conversation with Mrs. St. Clair. “Do you plan to marry Dulcine? What will she think about your having a child from a previous marriage—indeed, a child, not your own blood, one you adopted? Some people won't accept adopted children.”

He stared at her, then down into the lambent flames. “I thought I could marry Dulcine, but no. Talking to her is like talking to a…moving picture.”

Meg took hold of his sleeve. “You shouldn't lead her on.”

“I know.” He grimaced. “You're right. But how do I tell my parents, especially my mother about Lenore and Marie? It's my mother. I'm not worried about my father—”

“Your mother might surprise you.” Meg gazed down at the sisal carpet on the floor. “Don't delay. You must give them time to adjust and prepare. Little Marie has lost so much. She must feel welcome right away. She'll sense it if she isn't.”

He sucked in breath. “I panicked today when I got Paul's telegram. How will I manage to care for a daughter?”

“Your family will help you. Tell them tonight.”

Drawing up both her hands, he kissed the soft palm of each, then drew her nearer. She came without demur. Holding her so close somehow wrapped him in warm contentment. Though as frail as a feather, Meg Wagstaff was a strong woman, admirable. For the first time in many months, he experienced peace…desire.

His mouth became dry.
I want to kiss Meg—not out of need or affection, but passion.
“Meg,” he murmured, then he was kissing her as though her lips would give him life and hope. He deepened his kiss; she responded in kind, whispering his name against his mouth, pressing closer to him.

“Gabe!” Belle's shocked voice shattered their privacy.

Meg stumbled backward and would have fallen if Gabe hadn't kept his hold on her.

Meg took a deep breath. “It's all right, Belle.” She tried to make her voice sound natural. “Corby brought you home? Did you have your talk with him?”

Belle came in, closing the door behind her. “That's why I wanted to see you. Corby is impressed that I'm going on to Newcomb,” she announced with a defiant glance at her brother.

Gabe replied, “He seems to have good sense.”

“Belle,” Meg cut in, “where are your parents?”

“They said they'd be home soon.”

“Gabriel”—Meg touched his arm—“I think you should take me home before they return.”

He nodded. “Belle, would you tell our parents that I've taken Meg home and will be back very soon. I'd like them and you to wait up for me here in the office. I have something important to tell the family.”

“Important? What?” Belle stared at them in obvious bafflement. When she received no reply, she agreed, “Okay.”

“Come, Meg, I'll get you back to your hotel.”

He whisked her outside into his car. She didn't speak, but watched the play of street-lamp light over his face as he drove her to the hotel. After their first standoff in his law office, who would have thought that she and Gabriel St. Clair would share such similar experiences? Gabe parked across the street from her hotel. “Thank you…for everything tonight. I had no right to involve you in my affairs, but—”

She pressed her hand to his lips stopping his words. “I was happy to listen.” She lowered her eyes. “You helped me, too. Now, don't get out, just go home and tell your parents everything.” Quickly, she got out of the car without his assistance, and began to cross the dark street.

From behind Gabe's car, another car squealed away from the curb and curved around Gabe. A volley of gunshots exploded the silence.

Meg screamed.

Gabe bellowed, “No!”

The strange car roared away.
“Meg!”
Gabe sprinted to her. She lay facedown on the street. “Dear God…no.” Kneeling, he lifted her limp shoulders. She moaned.

“Were you hit?” He slid his panicky hands over her body, feeling for wet blood.

“No.” She threw frantic arms around his neck and clung to him. “Hold me.”

He crushed her to him—shock making him both fierce and weak.
I nearly lost her.

People at the hotel threw wide their windows and called down questions. Men burst from the hotel and surrounded them, shouting questions, yelling, “Police!”

Gabe lifted Meg. Pushing through the crowd, he carried her into the lobby. His heart hammering his ribs, he laid her on the nearest sofa and knelt beside her. The bright lights hurting his eyes, he swiftly examined her. She'd come through with only scraped elbows and ripped black silk stockings.

Meg clutched his lapels, but her words were calm. “I'm fine.”

He framed her face with his hands. Her head trembled within his grasp. “Someone tried to kill you.”
And I was helpless.

She bit her lower lip. People flocked around them. Rising, Gabe urged Meg to remain lying down. “Where's the phone?” At the desk, he dialed police headquarters. Gabe didn't want to connect this attempt on Meg's life with Del's case, but he knew Meg would. In her position, he would too. But could it be a coincidence? But why here? Why now—if this shooting weren't connected to Del's case? This wasn't Storyville or Basin Street at two
A.M
. And the intent to harm or frighten Meg was monstrously clear. Rage flamed through him. He wouldn't let anyone sweep this attack under a
rug just because Meg was a Yankee who'd attached herself to an unpopular suspect.

The lobby clock chimed three o'clock. He returned to Meg and leaned forward so only she could hear his words. “You're coming home with me.” When she tried to object, he said, “I'm not leaving you here. Go up and pack an overnight bag.” He wouldn't expose her to any further danger or terror. He nudged her toward the staircase and saw her safely to her room, which he examined carefully—looking under the bed, behind the curtains, and in the bath, the closet. Leaving her alone long enough to pack, he stepped outside, and leaned against her door to wait. The memory of Meg in his arms made Gabe ache to hold her close again. But did he have the right?

He walked to the bottom of the staircase, but remained vigilant. His mind replayed the sound of the bullets slamming and ricocheting off the street around Meg.
I nearly lost her. I just found her.

 

Two days after the attempt on Meg's life, Judge Simon LeGrand sat down in the seat of judgment and began coughing into a white handkerchief held in his clawlike hands. Gabe stood, waiting for the first day of Del's trial to begin.

Gabe wondered where Meg was. Along with his father, he'd spent yesterday selecting the jury. Afterward, he attended a meeting with the chief of police about the attempted shooting of Meg, and then the ensuing evening had been filled with an unavoidable political dinner that stretched until the early hours of this morning.

He had also suggested that the chief review Rooney's competence. Gabe made the point that Rooney's behavior shouted untrustworthiness. The chief had seemed impressed with Gabe's argument.

But in all those hours, he'd only seen Meg in passing at his home. His mother, who had welcomed Meg, no longer pushed him toward Dulcine, and didn't appear to resent Meg. And he still hadn't had time to sit down and reveal that he had a daughter to his parents. His life was spinning out of his grasp. And Gabe was beginning to wonder whether Del was guilty or innocent.

Judge LeGrand put away his white handkerchief, staring down at Gabe. “Counselor, are you prepared to begin the prosecution of this case?”

“Yes, your Honor.” Gabe glanced over his shoulder. Meg and Jack still hadn't appeared in court. Why? Had something else happened? He'd ordered Jack not to let Meg out of his sight except when she was in Gabe's own home. Gabe would let no one hurt Meg. No one.

The judge barked, “Well, Gabriel, the court is waiting.”

“Your honor, the prosecution calls Patrick Rooney, the deputy chief of police, as its first witness.”

Rooney, in a tight-fitting suit, swaggered to the witness stand, was sworn in, and sat down.

Revulsion washed over Gabe. In a vague way, he'd never liked or trusted Rooney. Now without question, he disliked him and distrusted him. His voice colorless, Gabe asked, “Mr. Rooney, would you please recount for the court your official activities early on the morning of January second, nineteen twenty?”

“Me and two other officers were called to the scene of a murder around three o'clock. The body of Mitchell Kennedy had been found behind a Storyville club, name of Penny Candy.”

“How did Mr. Kennedy meet his death?”

“He had been shot twice in his chest.” Rooney shifted in his chair.

To Gabe's right, his father and Del sat stone quiet. Facing his father in court made him feel like a first-year law student. He cleared his throat. “What evidence did you find at the scene?”

“We questioned a couple of Kennedy's employees, and they told us—”

“Objection,” Sands said. “Hearsay.”

“Sustained.” LeGrand stared at Gabe. “You know better than that.”

Acknowledging his fault, Gabe felt his neck warm. “Mr. Rooney, did you find any other physical evidence at the scene?”

“Physical evidence?” Rooney looked surprised. “No. Just a dead body in an alley.”

“What did you do next?” Gabe felt the judge's disapproving gaze burn into him.

Rooney grimaced at the judge. “Following a lead, we—officers Bergman and Destry and me—obtained a search warrant for Delman DuBois's room at eighty-three Canal Street, a colored rooming house.”

“Why did you go there?” Gabe proceeded with a growing uneasiness.

“To question Delman Dubois, who'd worked for Kennedy.”

“And what did you find there?”

“We found Delman—sound asleep. We found over two hundred dollars under the mattress—the amount of money subsequently reported stolen from Penny Candy's office—and a gun under his pillow.” Rooney spoke as though he'd memorized his testimony.

Who coached you, Rooney? I didn't
. Gabe grimaced. For the gun and money, Gabe followed the appropriate procedures for identifying and admitting evidence. “What did you do next?”

“We arrested Delman for robbing and murdering his boss. I called it a neat arrest and a good night.” Rooney grinned.

“This is no occasion for levity, Mr. Rooney.” Judge LeGrand glared at the deputy.

“Sorry, Your Honor.” Rooney looked unrepentant.

Judge LeGrand gave Gabe a brooding look as though he found him wanting, too. “Is that all for this witness, Gabriel?”

The door at the back of the courtroom opened, the barest swish of air alerting Gabe. He glanced over his shoulder and observed Meg and—his mother? She walked in beside Meg and sat down on the defendant side of the courtroom.
What is my mother doing in a courtroom
?

“Gabriel, is that all the questions you have for this witness?” the judge asked in an aggrieved tone.

“Yes, Your Honor.” Gabe sat down.

His father rolled around his table and approached the witness stand. “You found money and a gun in Mr. Dubois's room?”

“Yes,” Rooney sneered.

“How do you know this gun belonged to my client?”

“It was in his room, under his pillow,” Rooney declared. “If it wasn't his gun, why'd he have it?”

“Did Mr. Dubois claim ownership?”

“No.” Rooney gave a look of disgust.

“How did you connect the gun to this murder?” Sands asked.

“It's the right caliber,” Rooney snapped. “Everybody knew this Negro had it in for—”

Father cut him off, “By that you mean, it matched the bullets found in the deceased man's body?”

“Yeah.” Rooney's eyes bulged.

Unperturbed, Sands rolled his chair over to the evidence table. “How about the money? Had there been any record of serial numbers kept by Mr. Kennedy by which we can connect this cash to him?”

“No, nightclub owners don't keep lists like bankers.”

“So what you're really saying is this: Mr. Kennedy was shot two times with a gun of the same caliber as this gun found in Mr. Dubois's room?”

“Yeah,” Rooney growled.

Sands nodded. “And some money was missing from Mr. Kennedy's office and that you found some money in Dubois's room? That is your evidence?”

Rooney glared at Gabe's father. “It's enough. Down in Storyville some colors will kill you for two bits—”

“Some maybe. But not Delman Caleb Dubois—a graduate of Howard University. And a man who served his country bravely in France. Do you expect this jury to believe that Delman Dubois—who has enjoyed the patronage of the multimillionaire family who raised him—would kill a man for a few hundred dollars? Why would my client—who has several thousands of dollars of his own in a San Francisco bank account—commit murder for two hundred dollars?”

Every word his father leveled at Rooney stung Gabe like a lash. But each word also slit the veil that had separated Gabe from the
truth. He'd been blinded by prejudice. A black jazz musician in Storyville—that's how he'd seen Del. He'd spent no time checking into the facts of the case, even when he knew the kind of man Rooney was.
God forgive me. What can I do now?

Judge LeGrand stung Gabe with a contemptuous glance.

Gabe couldn't disagree. His witness, this entire case, was worthy of contempt. Why had the chief of police chosen someone so biased, so inept, as Rooney for his deputy, and who had really killed Mitch Kennedy?

 

Dinner that evening at home was agony for Gabe. Belle had invited three friends, Nadine, Maisy, and Portia, over for dinner and an evening of…giggling. And Meg remained aloof from him. After dinner, Gabe escaped with his parents into his father's snug office. Finally he had a moment to tell his parents about Marie. His father sat behind his orderly desk, his mother on the chair, and Gabe on the old sofa opposite. Gabe fleetingly recalled the intoxicating sensation of holding Meg in his arms on the sofa two nights ago. He rubbed his forehead trying to erase that thought. The time had come for truth telling regardless of the cost. Marie was counting on him, her “Papa.”

“This isn't about Del's case, is it?” his father asked.

Gabe folded his hands and looked down. “No, it's about France…about the war.”

His parents' combined attention daunted Gabe, but he took a deep breath. “Things happened in the war that I never wrote you about.” His father nodded. His mother sat like carved marble. Gabe continued, “I regret keeping them from you.”

“What things, son?” Sands folded his hands under his chin.

“I married a French woman.”
I married for love, passion in the midst of carnage.

His mother gasped. “Where is she?”

“She was killed in a bombardment near the end of the war.” His heart twisted. A gale of giggling filtered in from the other room making his grief more stark.

“Why didn't you tell us? I knew something horrible had hurt you.” His mother's voice resonated with pain.

“She was Lenore Moreau, a nurse at the hospital I was taken to when I was shot down.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, drawing out the one small photograph Lenore had given him. “She was a widow. With a small daughter.” Gabe handed his mother the picture.

Jazz music from the Victrola tinkled in the background. A girl began singing along. His mother stared at the photograph, then up at him. “The child—you didn't leave her in France, did you?”

“I was told she was killed with her mother.”

“But she wasn't,” his father concluded.

“I've received a telegram from Marie's uncle in Paris that he had continued to search for Lenore's daughter just in case she'd escaped.” Gabe turned to his mother. “So many children just got lost or misplaced. And Marie's body was never found—”

“So the uncle found her? Is it what you're telling us?” Father received the photograph and studied it.

Gabe lowered his eyes. “Marie never knew her father. He died before she was born, so I adopted her. Four days ago, her uncle put Marie on a boat with a nurse. She's only four and due here within three weeks.”

“Oh, a child. My first grandchild.” His mother popped up from her seat.

Gabe stared at her. “You're not upset?”

“I'm sad you didn't tell us about Lenore.” Mother sat down beside him on the sofa and touched his arm. “Gabriel, I didn't know how to help you. I could see you were grieving, but I didn't know over what, over whom…dear, did you really think you couldn't tell us?”

Why didn't I trust them?
“I couldn't seem to put the news of my marriage into a letter. Then Lenore died, and telling you seemed futile. I thought it best to close the book and spare you my grief.” Both his parents gazed at him with sad faces. It cut Gabe to his heart.

“But you didn't.” Father spoke at last. “Both your mother and I
sensed your sorrow and didn't know how to comfort you. Don't do this again. This is what your family is for. You are a grown man. You don't need us for everyday things, but for matters like this, you do.”

Gabe nodded gravely. “It won't happen again.”

Mother sprang up again. “Let's tell Belle. She'll be thrilled.” The jazz song had ended, but no more giggling could be heard.

Gabe objected, “But she has friends over—”

“Excellent,” his father observed. “That will save us deciding who to tell about Marie first. We'll let the grapevine take care of that.”