Cora (Southern Hearts Book 3) Page 2

  "You don't drink? How can you be a good Irish lad and not drink?"

  "I never said I was Irish." Making her voice gruff was causing throat soreness. She would spend the rest of the night hovering over a pot of steam in hopes of relieving the pain.

  "Not Irish? B-but how can that be?"

  "Because I'm not."

  "Then why are you here? At the fish house, I mean."

  "I may not be Irish, but I still have to eat."

  "Yes, but couldn't you work somewhere, umm, better?"

  Not without risking detection. The under-lit warehouse helped conceal her identity and it was imperative she not be discovered. If that happened she might never find more work.

  "I like my job."

  Michael chuckled, stopping suddenly. "You're serious?"

  "Yes," she said, forcing herself to walk farther away from the alley.

  "Hey, Michael, are you coming?"

  Michael stepped toward the voice but yelled over his shoulder, "Are you sure you don't want to join us, even if you aren't Irish?"

  "I think I'll pass." She lifted her lips in a half-smile.

  "Suit yourself." Michael joined his friends, and Cora waved goodbye.

  She slowed her pace until they disappeared. Cautiously she backtracked to the alley. Cats meowed as she thrust garbage aside in search of her sack.

  "Where is it?" she muttered under her breath.

  Burlap brushed her knuckles and she sighed with relief. Quickly she changed then grabbed her filthy work clothes and stuffed them into the bag.

  At the end of the alley, Cora searched both sides of the street. No one seemed about so she stepped out and headed home.

  Dawn clawed at the sky as she stepped onto the dusty street, barely missing a milk delivery cart. Only a few people rambled through the city at such an hour. Steam ferries floated along the river, their lanterns swaying in the cool morning breeze. Cora quickened her pace.

  The apartment building's front door creaked opened. Pain radiated along her legs as she ascended to her room. First thing, she placed wood in the cast iron stove and boiled water. When heated she filled a pot with the hot water and a sliver of her last bar of soap and placed her work clothes inside to soak. Shedding her other clothing, she fell into bed.

  Although tired, sleep remained elusive, and she rolled onto her side. Wind blew through the open window and fluttered the pages of Amelia's letter. Cora thrust the bedclothes aside and got to her feet. The letter drew her like a siren's song, and she plucked it up.

  As she read it, the paper felt warm against her palm, almost as though it were alive. Tears clouded her vision as she imagined Amelia writing the words. Wages from the fish house barely paid for her board. Her second job at the church helped purchase groceries. Extra funds were a myth, something she knew existed, but never experienced.

  She swiped at her cheeks and sniffed. What was she going do? Disappoint her entire family or find another way to reach home?

  ****

  Frederic tugged his hat lower over his eyes.

  Whistles sounded and workers filed into the streets. Happy to have finished another night of work, they practically skipped to the tavern. Very few went directly home to their wives; fewer still went home to an empty house.

  Coat collar pulled up, Frederic blended with the crowd walking toward the tavern. Outside the entrance one man yelled.

  "Hey Michael, aren't you coming?"

  Michael Doyle, a twenty-three year old Irishman, had entered the country precisely one year ago. Unmarried, no family, dock worker. Dossier details ran through Frederic’s mind, yet he couldn't place Michael's companion. The boy looked young. Reed thin and short, the kid must not eat much.

  The two of them said goodbye, and Michael joined the rowdy group. No one seemed to notice that Frederic didn't belong. Dock workers suffered high turnover so seeing a new face every day was to be expected.

  "Hey, Michael, didn't Cory want to join us?"

  "Not today."

  Back-slapped in welcome, the two men found seats at a table and ordered. Frederic sat within earshot. Nursing a mug of beer, he stared over the rim.

  "Wonder if the lad felt bad about Mr. Jeffers."

  A clean-shaven worker slammed his mug against the tabletop. "What did the jerk do this time?"

  The burly, bearded dockworker, named O'Malley, motioned to a barmaid. The barmaid refilled O'Malley's cup and he took a swig. "What he always does, pick on the kid."

  Smooth-face beat on his chest and expelled a loud belch. "Cory must be desperate."

  O'Malley's lips turned downward as he stared into his mug. "Why do you say that?"

  Clean shaven leaned forward and folded his arms on the table. "Because every day Jeffers comments on his performance or hassles him over his clothing, or laughs at the boy's hat. I wouldn't put up with that."

  O'Malley eased closer. "'Course you would. We all would. Irishmen in this town don't have many options."

  Michael frowned in his cup.

  "You ain't talking much tonight, brother. Did you get picked on as well?" The men poked fun and Michael's frown deepened.

  He placed his mug on the counter with a thud. "I think I'll go home."

  "Aw, Michael, you don't have to leave."

  "I don't feel well. I'll see you tomorrow."

  Michael left, and Frederic was torn. He'd followed the fish house workers for two weeks and still he had no solid leads. But the other man was moving fast and if Frederic rose to follow, he'd draw too much attention to himself. He settled back in his seat and sipped his drink. The men swapped stories for hours before exiting the tavern and going their separate ways. Still, Frederic hung back. Tonight he would follow Chance O'Malley.

  O'Malley had been known as a loud mouth, overbearing, spineless jellyfish who preyed on innocent females. He'd never been formally arrested for a crime, but with a notorious and unsavory background, Frederic favored him as ring leader of the opium ring.

  The morning sun rose over rooftops and struck the road as Chance staggered home. Frederic blew out a breath. O'Malley hadn't deviated from his path.

  On the off chance O'Malley went inside and came right back out, Frederic found a spot across the street and waited. Passersby stared and he tipped his hat in a friendly greeting.

  An hour passed. Frederic grew weary, his eyelids drooped. A cat squalling nearby roused him. He rubbed his eyes. Focusing on O'Malley's window, he noted the closed drapes. Counting the night as wasted, he left his position and headed back to the office.

  Chapter Three

  A slamming door woke Frederic and he rolled off the sofa and landed in a crouch.

  "Preparing for attack, are we?" asked Josh.

  A groan slipped out as Frederic stretched. "I'm getting to old for this."

  Josh laughed. "No worries, brother. Tonight is my turn."

  With a noncommittal grunt, Frederic nodded and resettled on the sofa.

  "Did you discover anything last night?"

  "Not much. Cory is Jeffers’ newest pick, and Michael wants to defend him. The lad ignores the bullying, and O'Malley thinks he knows why. And for all the rumors about O'Malley's skill at abusing women, I don't think he is the mastermind we're looking for."

  "Wonderful. How many are left now? Three, four? Maybe we're looking in the wrong place entirely."

  Frustration drove Frederic's fist into his opposite palm. "No. The leader is there. We've followed the trail this far." The sensation of having nails driven into his temple was turning his stomach, and he massaged his temple to ease it.

  Two weeks earlier a man had shown up at their door. Swathed in a dark coat, his face half hidden by his hat, he had settled into a chair…

  "Hello," said Josh, arching a brow at the newcomer.

  The man crossed his legs and removed his gloves. "I want to hire you."

  One of Josh’s eyebrows shot up and he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. "No pretenses, just I want to hire you?"

&nb
sp; "The world is a dangerous place, Mr. Woods."

  "Ah, yeah, sure."

  Calmly, the man said, "The job requires effort for which you will be handsomely rewarded."

  "I'm listening."

  Frederic huddled in the corner and listened with rapt attention as the unknown man laid out the job. The explanation lacked certain details, but he accepted the assignment anyway. After all they had to eat.

  The man left and Josh asked, "What were you thinking? He didn't even give his name!"

  Frederic’s pulse escalated. This is what he'd been waiting for, the case to make him feel needed again. He split his mouth in a wide grin and grasped Josh's upper arms and shook. "This is it! We always dreamed about the good ole days and making it big again, well here is our chance. Even if this fellow doesn't pay, this case will take us to the top."

  Josh looked skeptical, his eyes flitting about the room.

  "Come on let's do it. What have we got to lose?"

  Josh moved from his grasp and ran his hands through his hair. "Are you sure?"

  "Of course! If we succeed we'll be touted as heroes in the paper. We'll be labeled as the best detectives in the city, no, the state, or maybe even the country."

  Outside the courthouse clock bell rang, announcing the noon day hour, and bringing Frederic back to the present. He had excitedly begged Josh to take the stranger's case, which brought them to their current situation.

  "I think you should follow Cory," said Frederic, leaning forward on this elbows and palming his chin.

  "Cory? But you said he was just a whelp."

  "Yes." He rubbed his stubbled chin and sighed. "I admit that at the beginning of our surveillance I thought the idea of Cory being involved was preposterous, but I remembered something you once said, 'Oft times the culprit is the one you least expect.'"

  "Well I'm glad I've said something useful." Josh grinned and Frederic threw a newspaper which Josh easily sidestepped.

  "Now that we have a plan I can work with I'm out of here." Josh jammed his hat on his head, and slipped from the office.

  Grabbing the pitifully thin blanket, Frederic pulled it over his shoulders as he curled into a ball and drifted back to sleep.

  ****

  Would the fish smell ever leave her body? Cora looked down at herself and grimaced. Most likely not.

  The few hours of rest between jobs was taking a toll. Black circles lay beneath her eyes. Her clothing hung on her gaunt frame. The hair she’d once been so proud of hung limp across her face. Making a sour expression, she tied it back with a shabby ribbon. She grabbed her reticule, entered the hallway, and locked her door.

  On the street she headed to her second job, making sure to stop in the alley and deposit fresh clothing for later.

  The one-room schoolhouse presided over a poor Irish neighborhood. Cora had been a teacher there since she had moved to the city. Kids laughed as they filtered in and found their chairs. Cora struck the blackboard with a ruler. "Attention."

  The children faced front like a group of automated soldiers. Books opened, paper, quills, and ink wells appeared. Silence ensured as they copied notes from the board. Cora dropped into her chair and leaned against the desk, fighting sleep. Words from the primer blurred, and she wiped her eyes and struggled to stay awake. The kids worked for a few hours then she dismissed for lunch.

  Meals were provided by St. Mary's Catholic Church, the same church that supported the school. The children rushed to a common room and grabbed the offerings. The bare wooden walls were lined with students and the few facility members. Volunteers stood behind a counter and slid over plates filled with food which were carried to empty tables. Cora waited her turn. Tray in hand, she found a table and collapsed into a chair. Children surrounded her on all sides clucking like a house full of hens.

  "You're good with them." The voice of Father O'Malley caught her off guard. Her chair teetered and he reached a steadying hand forward. "Sorry I scared you lass."

  Cora righted herself and rubbed her eyes. "No problem."

  "You look tired."

  "So do you," she said, hiding a smile.

  "All the extra hours at the fish house then witnessing at the pub is finally catching up with me." He turned a chair around backward and straddled it.

  "I know you've made mistakes, but working yourself to death won't make them go away," said Cora. Heat flushed her face from her boldness.

  He laughed under his breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. "True. My family forgave me, and those I hurt forgave me, and Christ forgave me, but still I push myself to remove the guilt."

  "I don't think that ever goes away," she whispered and averted her eyes.

  "Spoken like someone with experience." He folded his hands on the table and stared at her intently.

  "We all have past indiscretions. Some of us just hide them better." Cora refused to look at him, fearing he would see every sin she'd committed, like lying to him.

  A volunteer rang a hand bell, halting the children's and adults' conversation. She said her goodbyes and made her way back to her classroom.

  It was odd working alongside Father O'Malley during the day and Chance O'Malley at night. She saw him witnessing by his hard work and actions at the fish house and then how he related to those already a part of the faith at the school and church. Of course he didn't know of her secret identity so he wasn't aware she knew of his double life. All of which amplified her guilty feelings.

  "Children, turn in your primers to page three. Clare read the first paragraph, please."

  The long day ended and Cora headed home. Stone workers replaced uneven pavers and she stepped off the sidewalk and into the street to pass. Unlike when she arrived home from the fish market in the quiet of the morning, now neighbors leaned from their windows, waved, and yelled hello. Cora returned the action, without her usual amount of glee. She covered a yawn.

  "You look terrible," Mimee called from her front porch.

  "Thank you." The words came out with unrestrained sarcasm.

  "No, seriously. Are you coming down with something, because if you are I got the perfect cure."

  Cora shook her head. "I'm fine. I just need rest."

  Mimee rose to her full height and wobbled, grasping her favorite chair for support. "Wait! I almost forgot. A messenger came for you today."

  Cora turned. "A messenger?"

  "Yes, he left another letter." The paper shook in Mimee's trembling outstretched hand.

  Cora took it and checked it.

  "I didn't open it." Mimee placed one gnarled hand on her jutted hip, and narrowed her eyes.

  "Of course you didn't. I was just looking for the sender information."

  She pointed. "It's right there on the front where it always is. You aren't a very good liar."

  Cora tucked the letter under her arm and ignored the last comment.

  As she climbed the stairs, Mimee yelled, "Seriously, I got a cure."

  Shut up in her room, Cora opened the letter. She narrowed her eyes as she read.

  February 13, 1838

  Cora, I'm sure this letter has taken circuitous routes to find you. And since we both know I write letters only under great duress, I will get to the point. Father and Mother are worried about you. Amelia's letters arrive full of torment. You must attend the family celebration. After which if you desire to leave again, I'm sure mother and father will not protest...

  Millie's letter continued on for several pages. Cora laid it next to Amelia's. Together, they mocked her as she stretched on her bed, closed her eyes, and fell fast asleep.

  Chapter Four

  Tonight Cory was his quarry. Frederic wrung his hands and fidgeted fighting to control his ire. He was supposed to be at his apartment, snug in his bed, instead of here investigating, again. Why did he continue to let Josh skip out on his duties?

  As Frederic should have expected, Josh had dropped by the office just long enough to ask for a reprieve. He had a last minute dinner invitation that he couldn't neg
lect. Against his better judgment, Frederic had given in and offered to take the surveillance.

  As he studied the subject, Frederic gnawed at his lip. Perhaps he'd been wrong. Cory was just a kid. How could he be the mastermind of an international opium smuggling ring?

  Eyes half closed, Cory stumbled along with the workers. Frederic skirted the fringes and tried to blend.

  "You don't look so good," muttered Michael, covertly watching the crowd. Was he trying to hide his thoughts from his friends?

  "Tired," mumbled Cory.

  Michael bent lower and whispered, "Maybe you should go home. If you make another mistake, Jeffers might let you go."

  Small hands grabbed Michael's shirt as Cory gazed into the bigger man’s eyes. "He can't! I need this job."

  Eyes widened in an expression of surprise, Michael removed Cory's hands. "Calm down. Stick close to me. I'll protect you."

  The anxious moment apparently past, Cory relaxed, and they shuffled through the double doors.

  Frederic waited outside pondering what he'd heard. Cory appeared desperate for money. Why would a smuggler need money? Maybe Cory wasn't the ring leader but a lackey. Maybe Cory used too much of the product and the leader was ready to collect. Or maybe they were on the wrong scent and Cory was a tired kid struggling to survive.

  With the dawn, the workers emerged. Again, a group headed to the tavern and again Cory refused to join them. The kid headed toward the Irish section of town, but stopped short and cut through an alley. This route wasn't as familiar. Concerned that if he followed, Cory would discover him, he stayed put and hoped Cory didn't slip out the opposite side.

  Muted curses filtered through the opening and Frederic cocked his brow. Leaning in he heard a ruffling of clothing. He gazed into the darkness, but only saw a shadowy shape.