The clamor of half a dozen feet stomping down the stairs and hallway had awakened Blanche from a sound sleep. Worried about some emergency on board—a problem with the engine? A sandbar?—she had pulled on the dressing gown that covered her completely and followed the noise down the hall.
The hubbub centered in Ike’s cabin. Policemen crawled through his belongings like ants covering an ant hill, together with several men she had never met—and Bart Ventura. She almost coughed on the miasma of cigar smoke and sweat-soaked bodies and something else she couldn’t identify.
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with, ma’am.”
Blanche wished she had taken the time to dress. It was hard to exert authority while wearing bedclothes. “Let me be the judge of that. You are?”
“Captain Benedict Mason, ma’am. There is no need to be alarmed. I’ll have one of my officers escort you back to your cabin.”
When a dark-haired officer laid his hand on her arm, she shook him off. “If there is a problem with the boat, I want to know. I am the new owner.”
Too late she caught Ike’s frantic gestures.
Captain Mason’s eyebrows rose. “You are?”
“Blanche Lamar. Captain Lamar’s daughter.”
The man’s eyes darkened. “Were you aware that your—Mr. Gallagher was selling illegal whiskey to customers?”
Blanche looked at the decanter in the captain’s hands. Whiskey must have been the odor she couldn’t identify.
Ike pushed his way forward. “Captain, there is no need to distress Miss Lamar.”
“No, I want to hear your answer.” She wouldn’t let Ike send her away.
“I brought a bottle to ease my friend in his time of grief. No money has changed hands.” Mr. Ventura joined their circle.
Blanche reeled as the revelations poked more holes in her innocence in the ways of the world. “We don’t have a license to sell liquor.”
“No, you don’t, which is why we were concerned when we received word about this evening’s gathering.” Captain Mason had toned down his belligerence.
A cry from one of the officers announced his discovery of a stack of money. He handed it to Captain Mason. His belligerence returned in full force. “If no money exchanged hands, why does this paper say ‘IOU’?”
Gambling.
Mr. Ventura and Ike exchanged a long look. Ike gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders before speaking. “We were playing a friendly game of chance. I, um, wrote out the IOU until I can bring him the rest of the money. And that’s not against the law.” He cast an apologetic look in Blanche’s direction.
The policeman shifting through Ike’s trunk straightened. A shake of his head indicated he had found nothing.
The lines on Captain Mason’s face deepened into a scowl. He turned on Blanche. “I’m surprised that a lady such as yourself would allow drinking and gambling aboard your boat.”
Blanche slammed her mouth shut, jarring her teeth.
During the course of their conversation, two strangers had slipped through the door. Mr. Ventura stuck his right hand out and clasped Captain Mason’s palm. “I wish we had met under different circumstances, but I trust there is no lasting ill will.”
Did Blanche imagine it, or did he slip a bill to the captain?
“No.” The word lacked the captain’s earlier anger. “But the next time I board this boat, I trust I won’t find any illegal refreshments?”
“No, you won’t.” Blanche took control. “I guarantee it.” She decided to take it one step further. “And Mr. Ventura, I believe it’s best if you make your future travel plans with a different company.”
“Now, wait a minute—” Ike barreled forward. “Bart, don’t pay any attention to her.”
“Do we have an understanding, Mr. Ventura?” Blanche extended her hand the way he had earlier.
He bowed over her hand, all of his earlier charm evident. “We will not be seeing each other again.” Straightening, he shook Ike’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure.” He wasted no time walking out the door.
Captain Mason bowed over Blanche’s hand. “I wish you the best on this new venture.” He nodded in Ike’s direction. “Mr. Gallagher.”
“Captain Mason.”
They could have been two men about to walk six paces and duel at dawn. Ike walked him to the door and watched his departure. “They’re gone.” Grabbing a shot glass in his hand, he raised his arm as if he was going to throw it. Instead he placed it on a clear spot on his dresser. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?’
“Do you remember your promise?” she shot back.
“Ventura’s one of our best customers. We have no way to make up for losing his business.” Ike stalked the room. “There’s a reason why the captain left me in charge of day-to-day operations. We need his business.” He tossed things in his chest, not bothering to fold his clothes.
His actions reminded Blanche that she was alone with Ike in his cabin, wearing only her dressing gown. “This isn’t over. We will discuss it”—she glanced at the clock in the corner—“in a few hours.” Keeping her eyes dry and her back straight, she whirled around and headed back to her cabin.
Effie sat in the rocking chair, knitting needles clacking in the silence. “What happened?”
Effie would have to know sooner or later. “Police raided the boat.” The words came out in clipped syllables. “They accused Ike of selling liquor without a license.”
“Ike would never do that.” Effie didn’t appear in the least bit upset.
“There was liquor.” Blanche still thought she might be physically ill. The smells in that room had overwhelmed her senses. Dry heaves shook her shoulders now. After a couple of unproductive bouts, she poured water into a basin and splashed her face.
“Ike doesn’t drink. Maybe a glass every now and then. But he does provide refreshment for his guests.”
Effie couldn’t understand the effect of such simple words on Blanche. Her mother, her pastor, her church, were all teetotalers. Her background taught her a single drink always led to drunkenness. But that bothered her less than gambling—an activity she had expressly prohibited. “His marks. Isn’t that the word they use? They were playing poker.”
At those words, Effie’s knitting needles stopped clacking. “I was afraid he would continue.”
“He promised.” Blanche choked on the words. “I thought I could trust him.”
“Oh Blanche.” Effie folded the yarn back into the bag. “Come here.” She patted the berth next to her chair.
“I can’t sleep.” Blanche plopped down on the pillow and unbuttoned her dressing gown. Even if she couldn’t rest, she could be cool.
“You can trust Ike to do everything he considers in the best interest of the Cordelia and Lamar Industries and you.”
“But he promised not to—”
“He promised not to do anything that would get you into trouble. Not the same thing.” Effie lifted a single finger. “The police raid will weigh heavily on his conscience.”
“He twisted my words.” Blanche rang her hands. “You’ll have to teach me how to knit. It might relax me.” When she picked up a ball of yarn, it rolled across the floor. That brought a giggle to her lips. “Maybe that’s not a good idea. I never was all that good with thread and needle.” The giggle turned weepy. She lay on the bed without climbing under the covers.
“There’s nothing more we can do about it until tomorrow morning.” Effie patted Blanche’s shoulder before she climbed back into bed. “I’m praying about it.”
Lately prayer felt like a wasted effort. Was prayer going to make up for the difference between Ike’s promise and his betrayal? She had prayed and prayed and still had no clue what she should do for her future. Had she traded the sure friendship of the people of Roma for the passing regard of Effie and Ike? She never should have left home. She should have known nothing good would ever come of living on a steamboat.
If she had never boarded the Cordelia, she never would have met her father.
Once Effie’s breathing had settled into a steady pattern, Blanche took her place in the rocking chair and stared at the door. Staying or leaving, she had to decide.
Ike didn’t bother cleaning his cabin. He cleared off his bed and lay down. Guilt-plagued dreams that had police locking him in jail while he was awash in a river of whiskey troubled his sleep. After tossing and turning for a couple of hours, he awoke, his head splitting, leg sore where it dangled over the side of the bed.
The whiskey decanter stood on his table, taunting him, inviting him to drink a shot, to take the edge off the terrible day ahead. He had done what he must to protect Blanche’s inheritance. That’s why the captain had made him the director of daily operations. Wasn’t it?
Ike had never used alcohol as a crutch and he wouldn’t start now. No amount of alcohol or coffee would answer the central problem: would Blanche decide to direct Carver to sell the Cordelia and split the profits? Would his actions deprive himself and his sister of both a means of support and their home?
Whatever the day might hold, he would greet it with his usual savoir faire. A single glance in the mirror revealed dark stubble on his chin that made him look more sinister than daring, and dark circles emphasized the harshness of the night. Nothing could remove the dark circles, but he would allow himself the luxury of a hot shave. While he waited for the water to heat, he checked the suit that Dame Agatha had returned to him yesterday, freshly pressed. His hand wandered over his tie rack, settling on his red tie. Red always made him feel better.
Once he had his basin of hot water, he sudsed soap with his shaving brush and lathered his face. The bristles fell into the basin, and the brace of aftershave woke up his skin. He added pomade to his hair. Now he could face the day. With a tip of the hat he pretended he was wearing, he left the cabin with a swagger.
Soft piano music filtered from the salon as Ike approached. Effie must be doing better. The melodies flowed from one of Old Obie’s favorites into another. Sentiment washed over Ike, causing a hitch in his step. When Effie began a new melody, Ike began whistling “Yankee Doodle Went to Town.” The hand-clapping, happy song brimmed with the captain’s larger-than-life personality. She must be doing better.
Taking courage from his sister’s music, Ike pushed through the door. The room seemed empty, with only the crew and no passengers. Blanche wasn’t at her usual seat at the captain’s table. Relieved, he took another step into the room before he spotted the head of red hair at the long table with the rest of the crew. She talked and laughed as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened only a few hours earlier.
Two could play at that game. With a warm smile and a practiced air, he swept into the room. “Good morning, everyone.”
Blanche’s shoulders stiffened before she twisted in her seat. “Good morning, Mr. Gallagher.”
Mr. Gallagher. That didn’t sound friendly, not friendly at all. Ike headed for the opposite end of the table, but Blanche waved him back. “There’s a seat across from me. We have some matters to discuss.”
How did she sound so chipper? Ike took the seat she had indicated. Smithers poured a cup of coffee before he had a chance to say no. “I’ll take a glass of milk as well.”
Effie stopped playing and took the seat next to Ike. Blanche said grace over the meal. Conversation flowed around the three of them, sparing Ike the necessity of saying anything.
Under the cover of laughter, Effie’s voice intruded on his thoughts. “How are you this morning?”
She knows. Of course she did. She knew everything that happened onboard. “I’ve had better nights.” He kept a smile on his face for Blanche’s benefit in case she happened to glance in his direction.
After the crew members finished eating, Blanche stood to her feet. “I want to thank all of you for your patience and support through all that has happened in the past week. I’m sure some of you expected to be back in Roma by now.”
A couple of the crew looked at each other and nodded.
“Captain Bruce Pettigrew has agreed to pilot the Cordelia until we make permanent arrangements. I’m sure you will make him as welcome as you have made me.” She brought her hands together, and the others joined in clapping.
The salon emptied after she dismissed the crew. Ike tried to slip away, but Blanche motioned for him to stay. Effie remained as well. Elaine withdrew to the sink with the breakfast dishes. Blanche poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. “Let’s change tables.” She led them to a back corner, away from both the kitchen and the salon door.
“You’re going ahead with the return to Roma.” Ike decided to be direct. “So that means I’m coming with you.”
“I have to get back to Roma. So do most of the crew. This is the most reasonable way to do it.” Blanche’s lips thinned, but her voice remained steady. “It will be a straight trip, no stops at any of the towns, and we’re not carrying passengers. I trust that will limit your temptations of the games of chance you insist on playing.”
“We’ll lose money.” He blurted the words out.
“Nevertheless, that is my decision.”
Ike could swear she had tears in her eyes to match the wobble in her voice.
“I would rather be broke than be a stumbling block to others and take food out of the mouths of their families.”
Ike didn’t have a response to that. He hadn’t left anyone penniless that he knew of. As far as he was concerned, that was their responsibility, not his.
Effie ran her fingers along the table, humming to herself, the way she did when she was thinking. “I have an idea about how we might increase profits.”
Blanche widened her eyes and leaned forward. “Tell us.”
Effie shook her head. “I need to think it through. I’ll have something for you tomorrow.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Blanche settled back. “I’ll be spending as much time as possible with Captain Pettigrew, once he arrives.”
Ike started to speak, but she swept on. “In case I decide to stay, I will prepare to qualify as a pilot. I also want to look at the ship’s accounts. Let’s meet again tonight. In your cabin. It’s too public in here.”
“Is there anything you need me to do today?” He was prepared to crawl on the floor if she asked.
Blanche’s mouth screwed in concentration. “Go through the captain’s clothing. If there is anything that you can use, take it. Or if there are any personal mementos, set them aside to ask me. Effie, I need you to do the same thing.”
At her dismissal, they each went their separate ways. He and Effie had a roof over their heads for a few more days. Ike felt light-headed with relief, a prisoner granted a stay of execution.