The click of the heels of her shoes against the wide plank floor echoed through the hush as they crossed the room. She stopped in front of the grocer cutting meat on a chopping block at the far end of a long counter in front of the back wall.
“Good day, Mr. Simpson.” She gave him a cool nod. Gave another to the waiting customer who had backed away at their approach.
A scowl drew the grocer’s thick, black brows together. “Get that thief outta here. I don’t—”
“Ben is here to carry my purchases, Mr. Simpson.” There were startled gasps behind her. The grocer’s scowl deepened. She ignored a flurry of whispers and stared straight into the man’s angry eyes. “And I am here to open an account. My brother and I are new in town and must establish our trade somewhere.” She watched his scowl dissolve to the level of a frown. “My brother is the new manager of the Mississippi and Missouri steamer line. Of course, if you would prefer we take our custom elsewhere…” She turned away.
“No need fer that. My wife’ll serve ya.”
The words were low, reluctant. Mary turned back. The grocer inclined his head at a stout woman behind the middle of the counter and went back to his work.
Mary headed toward the woman, another spate of whispers accompanying her as customers moved out of her path. She didn’t have to urge Ben to come with her, he matched her step for step, his head bowed, his gaze darting about the room like a trapped animal.
“Come again, Mrs. Turner.”
Mrs. Simpson’s customer glanced at Ben, snatched up her parcel and rushed away. Mary stepped forward. “I should like to open an account, please.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Simpson smiled at Ben, looked back to give her a welcoming smile. “And the name?” She dipped her pen and poised it over a book.
Mary stared, taken aback by the cheerful attitude. She returned the woman’s friendly smile and let the hauteur slide from her voice. “James Randolph.” She placed the list Ivy had given her on the counter. “These are the items I need today. And also—” she took her basket from Ben, placed it beside the list and indicated the crushed bun in the bottom “—this bun and a thick slab of cheese.” She glanced down, caught Ben eyeing a large barrel, and looked up. “And two pickles from your brine barrel.”
Mrs. Simpson nodded, turned and began selecting the items on the list from the shelves on the wall. Mary took the opportunity to look around the store. She caught the customers staring at her and Ben and gave them each a sweet smile. There was a sudden bustle of activity as they returned to their business.
“Will there be anything more, Miss Randolph?”
Mary turned, looked down at the filled basket and shook her head. “Not today, Mrs. Simpson.”
The woman glanced toward her husband—who was wrapping a cut of beef in paper—then looked down at Ben, slipped her hand into a crock to pull out a piece of taffy. “I heard you tell Mr. Simpson that you and your brother are new in town, Miss Randolph. Welcome to St. Louis.” She dropped the piece of candy beside the roll and the piece of cheese and slid the basket across the counter. “I look forward to serving you again.”
“And so you shall, Mrs. Simpson. Thank you for the welcome, and for…everything.” Mary smiled, met the woman’s gaze in silent understanding, then handed the basket to Ben and headed for the door.
Sam turned the key in the lock, pulled the door open and stepped back. So did the man beside him.
“C’mon, Captain. It was only a little scrap.”
Sam shook his head. “You pulled a knife, Hogan.” He jabbed his thumb through the air in the direction of the cell.
“Yeah, but—”
“No buts. You know the rules here in St. Louis. You pull a weapon during a fight, you go to jail.” Sam placed his hand on the laborer’s beefy shoulder and applied enough pressure to move the man into the cell. He swung the door shut and shoved the key into the lock.
Hogan grabbed the bars. “C’mon, Captain. My boat leaves tonight. I gotta get to the levee and load cargo or Captain Rolls’ll have my job.”
“You should have thought of that before you pulled that knife.” Sam turned the key, yanked it from the lock and started for the outer room.
“How about we make a deal?”
“No deal, Hogan.”
“Not even to find out what happened to the Swift Water?”
Sam stopped, turned and stared into the bloodshot eyes in the scrubby, whiskered face pressed against the bars. “What do you know about the Swift Water?”
Hogan grinned. “You gonna let me outta here?”
Sam walked to the cell. “That depends on what you know and how reliable your information is.”
“I know one of the crew was paid to blow her up.”
“Sorry. Everyone has heard that rumor.” He turned toward the door.
“But they don’t know who.”
There was certainty behind the words. Sam looked back. “Who?”
Thick lips pushed a curved line through the grizzled beard.
Sam nodded. “All right, fair enough. How do you know? I’m not interested in rumors.”
“It ain’t no rumor. I seen him flashin’ money and braggin’ about it in a tavern. Tellin’ around what a big man he was an’ all.”
“Who paid him?”
Hogan scowled. “Don’t know. You’ll have to ask him that yerself.”
Sam nodded. The story had the ring of truth. “Do you know anything about the other destroyed M and M line boats? The Clear Water or the Mississippi Princess?”
“The Princess was an accident. Sawyer got her. Don’t know about the Clear Water.”
“All right.” He stuck the key in the lock, paused. “But the deal is this—if you ever pull a knife in a fight again, you’ll do double time for it. Understood?”
Hogan nodded. “Yeah.” He glanced down at the ring of keys. “The name’s Duffy. He’s a stoker.”
“I know him. Do you know what boat he’s working?”
“Last I knew he was up the Missouri on the Adventure.”
Sam twisted the key and opened the cell door. “All right, Hogan. Get back to the levee. And don’t forget—no more knives or I’ll put you back in here and throw away the key.”
Hogan nodded and hurried down the hall. Sam followed him to the other room, tossed his keys into the drawer, then grabbed his hat and dogged the man’s heels outside. Now all he had to do was locate Duffy. And find out if the man had any connection to James Randolph, or the new owner of the M and M line. Maybe he could do that through Thomas, and not tip his hand.
He cut across lots to Olive Street, where Thomas had lived since vacating the manager’s cottage, and knocked on the door of Emily Stanton’s boardinghouse. He waited, wondering about the sudden sense of disquiet in his gut.
The door opened. He smiled and touched the brim of his hat. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Stanton.”
“Why, Captain Benton!” Surprise widened the round eyes looking up at him. “What brings you here?”
“I need to talk with Mr. Thomas. If I could—” He stopped, staring down at her shaking head.
“You’re too late, Captain. He ain’t here.”
The disquiet grew. “Did he tell you where he was going? I can catch up with him if—” The gray head was shaking again.
“He