Tainted Fortune

OneSan Francisco. Saturday night, July 9, 1870 Aristide Laurent stared at the girl—woman, he corrected himself, she was all woman—across the table from him, and his fluent tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His irresistible French charm had successfully romanced a dozen pretty girls, but tonight when he needed it most, it deserted him. The voices of the 119 other guests who filled the cocktail bar at San Francisco’s Occidental Hotel faded. He didn’t hear the rattle of ice in cocktail supremo “Professor” Jerry Thomas’s shaker as he turned out another gin fizz. “Gin, lemon juice, sugar, and ice,” he advised his patrons. “Shake it until your arms fall off to get the proper fizz, then strain into a glass, top with club soda and a slice of lemon.” Aristide might have been on a deserted street corner, or a mountaintop, instead of attending the charity fundraiser for the Alycia Stockton Educational Trust with the cream of San Francisco society. The only thing he was aware of was the warning beat, low and soft at first, but rising, coming from deep within. That, and the caramel-skinned Hawaiian who sat a white linen tablecloth away. There it was again. A tom-tom flutter in his throat. “Mr. Laurent? I believe we’re both seeking Bully’s good graces?” Her dark brown almond eyes flickered to acknowledge the black-bearded giant who sat at his right elbow. Bully Pike was one of the city’s most powerful and respected factor men, trading in everything from wine to sugar, from coffee to silk. Any enterprise wanting entry to the American Union’s Pacific or Atlantic coasts sought out Bully’s networks. The man himself, knife dug deep into his steak, appeared deaf to Leilani Manolo’s playful goading. Her attention returned to Aristide. She’d half-extended her hand, though it was impossible to reach him across the table, and she drew it back again with a quick quirky grin, as if to say “Silly me.” Beneath the sparkle, her dark eyes were quiet pools of reflection, watching, assessing. When he didn’t respond, she continued, “Am I right in thinking that? You’re into wine?” Aristide was a spaniel emerging from a deep pond and shaking himself vigorously, all wagging tail and keenness to please. I’m a Frenchman. Mon Dieu, I know how to charm women. I seem to have lost it with this one. He drew his hands up under his rib cage, as if the gesture would quell an inner longing he couldn’t recognize or understand. “Yes, I am in wine. I run Sir John Russell’s Vino d’Oro estate in Sacramento County.” He glanced to the neighboring table, where his boss sat with the night’s senior dignitaries, including one of California’s representatives in Washington, Senator Hector de Vile, and Alycia’s bereaved husband, Basil Stockton, all of them shakers and movers in California’s rising status as a powerhouse. “We’re looking for an agent to handle our exports to the East Coast and Europe.” He hesitated. “I’m not sure I know what your interest is.” “Sugar. Some molasses, some pure cane.” She glanced a couple of places away, where an Adonis of a young man with a warrior’s stature and long hair tied neatly at the back of his neck was talking to Candy. “My brother Kaleo and I. We’re hoping Bully will agree to import our family’s sugar.” She gazed back at him, her deep brown eyes solemn. “A lot of lives back home depend on it.” Candy Meadows wasn’t so captivated by the Hawaiian prince beside her—he had to be a prince, she told herself, with those magnificent eyebrows framing sculpted cheekbones, the massive shoulders, the quiet grave dignity—that she didn’t notice how mesmerized Aristide was by the prince’s sister. What was her name? Leilani or something? Leilani Manolo. That was it. Candy always liked to keep the competition well pegged. That was how she’d become her father’s most valued confidante, and how Meadows Wines had become one of the most successful vintage houses in California, not only bottling their own wine but processing for a dozen other smaller concerns. No one else would have noticed, but she spotted it immediately. Aristide’s unusual quietness. The slightly distracted, mechanical tone to his responses, as the islander wittered on about the family’s plantations. He wasn’t taking much of it in, she could see that, but it wasn’t because he was bored. Quite the contrary. He was enraptured. Her ears burned. She’d put in a lot of work to lure Aristide and his boss John Russell and their Vino d’Oro business to her father’s agency, and she wasn’t about to see it threatened by some upstart who should be a steamship ride away on the other side of the Pacific Ocean. Aristide had worked for them for several years before he’d joined Sir John, and his departure still hurt. D’Oro was one of the state’s rising wine companies, and multi-millionaire Sir John was a powerful figure in industry and commerce, so it had been a great opportunity for Aristide. But it was humiliating for a woman desperate to secure the business relationship with a marital one. Create a wine dynasty, that’s what her father wanted, with a charming, talented vintner filling the gap for the son he’d never had. His move to Sir John had been a shock, but she wasn’t about to give up yet. In fact, there were advantages to it. With Aristide now in control at d’Oro, he was perfectly positioned to bring one of the state’s up-and-coming houses under the Meadows canopy. She couldn’t imagine a nicer wedding present. Her father had made an enticing offer for the d’Oro agency but, infuriatingly, she had no real sense of how close Aristide and Sir John were to accepting it. He was still dallying with Bully, trying to push through some special deal. Well, good luck with that one. Everyone knew Bully had an exclusive arrangement to represent the Buena Vista Cooperative, rumored to be linked to Hector de Vile, although the senator never openly acknowledged any connections. And Russell and de Vile never saw anything eye to eye, so that wouldn’t be happening in the near future. She wished Aristide would admit he was chasing rainbows, and settle for the inevitable—the Meadows as d’Oro’s official representatives. She placed her left hand on top of Kaleo’s right one, positioned by her bread and butter plate, and gazed up at his profile, angling to catch his full attention. He was breathtaking, no doubt about it. Cloakroom chatter reported he was some sort of water god too, one of the hallowed fellows who rode the surf back in Hawaii. Imagine that! Too bad she wasn’t risking losing Aristide off her hook. She glanced to where the winemaker sat, strangely isolated as the chatter flowed around him, lost in thought, and the anger bubbled deep inside. He hadn’t even noticed her bid to capture the water god’s attention. “Misty told me you twins were coming to town. How is my little angel?” Bully Pike leaned over Leilani. His lips grazed her cheek in a haze of whiskey and tobacco. The face she’d last seen shining with sea spray, fresh and tanned, was fuller, and flushed an unhealthy pink. In the lull between dessert and coffee they’d found a quiet corner on a settee to catch up. Around them the other guests mixed and mingled, seeking out those they hadn’t seen yet as they waited for the evening’s formalities to begin. Bully Pike was still a mountain of a man, but something about her Uncle Bo had withered since the long-ago days in Lahaina when he’d led her into the Maui waves, she an intrepid ten-year-old wanting nothing more than to learn how to surf like the boys. Silver glints showed in his straggly black beard. His eyes peered out of wrinkled pouches. As he gazed at her fondly she noted a tightness, a tiredness, about his mouth. But the midnight eyes she’d once believed detected every fib she’d ever told still flashed with black calculation. She knew better than to underestimate the man who together with Cyrus and Misty May had been her and Kaleo’s closest “family” after her mother and then her father died. She’d been too young to remember either of them. Bully was no blood relation, but he’d been a supportive “uncle” in the Hawaiian way. However, she knew his reputation when it came to business. He might still have a lingering affection for the orphaned twins of more than twenty years ago, but he’d be reluctant to make any concessions for old times when it came to profit. And she needed concessions. The Civil War boom in sugar, when Hawaiian cane had been in high demand after the North refused Louisiana exports, had ended with the Peace, replaced by sugar tariffs which made it even more difficult for struggling island growers. She brought her arms up around Bully’s neck and returned his kiss, her lips brushing the smooth skin above the whiskery line of his beard, close to his ear. “We’ve only been here a couple of days. I’m just getting over two weeks of seasickness.” She grimaced. “But we’re great now, Uncle Bo. Kaleo’s missing the surf, but he’ll survive.” “What brings you to San Francisco? I thought you were so devoted to your grandpa you’d never leave Honolulu.” Leilani’s heart gave a hollow thud. “Now that Grandpa’s dead it’s up to Kaleo and me.” “Yes, I was sorry to hear Archie had gone to Lua-o-Milu.” The Hawaiian place for the dead. His fingers were warm on hers. “But why does that bring you to the Bay?” Lani shot him a teasing smile. “Intelligence not as good as it used to be, Bo? I thought you’d have heard.” Bully gave her a censuring tongue click and she laughed out loud. “I’m not a baby any more, Bo. And you haven’t ridden Waikiki in a long time.” Bully nodded kindly assent, and then his craggy face drew serious. “I did hear whispers. Union Sugar bought by that New York outfit when Archie was hardly cold?” His eyes softened as he gazed at her. “So what? Is Diamond changing the rules on you?” “Changing the rules? Worse than that. They’re dumping us. It doesn’t make sense. They buy an agency and then get rid of one of their most profitable suppliers.” Her brow contracted in worried ripples. “I don’t understand what’s going on, Uncle, but we have to find new agents if we want to sell into the United States. And that’s the only place we can sell.” The hectic pink that flushed his cheekbones deepened to a warning red. “I hope you’re not expecting me to help, Leilani.” He took in a big breath, as if preparing to deliver bad news. “I can’t get involved. My arrangement with Diamond is exclusive. In return for not dealing with anyone else I get favorable margins for my clients.” Lani’s breath hissed indignation. “An exclusive deal?” She glanced around and saw waiters were delivering coffee. Guests were resuming their seats. She plunged on. “Who’s behind Diamond anyway? We can’t even find the right people to talk to. We get fobbed off by middlemen. It’s been impossible.” Like a cloud looming up on a clear horizon, Bully’s eyes darkened with what she could only interpret as guilt. “If Diamond doesn’t want your business, you can’t do anything about it, Leilani. You’ll have to find somebody else.” “What? What is it you’re not telling me?” Her voice was sharp, accusing. Bully shook his head. “Nothing. It’s nothing. It’s business, Leilani. I know you’re a very accomplished young woman, but this one is beyond your fixing.” “Uncle Bo . . .” She hated that it came out sounding like a wail. “What’s wrong? Is it something Archie did?” Her grandfather, Archie Arnold, has been a legend in the Hawaiian kingdom, adviser to three Kamehameha kings, a former missionary turned statesman and fix-it man who had been a steely power behind the throne for decades. It was inevitable he’d make enemies. Bully’s brow was shiny with sweat. “I can’t help, Lani. I won’t intervene. It’s not something I can fix. Simple as that.” Her jaw dropped and she gaped. Too hard for Uncle Bo? He got up to walk away and she stood up with him, reaching for his arm. “But Uncle Bo, our family . . . Ani’s getting old. She needs special care. And there’s Malia’s failing health and Kaleo’s hopes of marrying. We need our sugar income to take care of everything.” “Archie should have thought of that a long time ago, Leilani.” Bo’s voice was gravelly and testy. She became aware they were attracting attention. She’d grown taller since she’d last stood this close to him, or he’d shrunk. Maybe it was a bit of both, because she didn’t have to look up into his eyes any more. She dropped her hand from his arm, but she didn’t step back. They stood, shoulder to shoulder, two iron-willed people, their eyes shooting daggers. “I don’t even understand how this ancient thing got started.” Her voice was a mournful whisper. “If only you’d give me a clue to what’s going on.” “Drop it, Leilani.” His black eyebrows drew into a warning dark line, and his full lips curled up. Was he snarling at her? “It’s not my business to tell. It’s your grandfather’s doing. But let me make one thing clear—you’ll get no help from me.” He wheeled on his heel and strode away. A sharp acridness pierced the fuggy tobacco cloud he carried away with him. If Lani didn’t know better, she’d say it was the smell of fear. But what Bully, ever the dominant male, had to fear, she didn’t know. The party was breaking up. “Professor” Thomas had replaced his cocktail shaker with a coffee machine, his ruby-ringed fingers flashing as he poured the thick black brew into tiny cups. The murdered Alycia’s husband, railway and real-estate magnate Basil Stockton, had made a speech thanking Senator Hector de Vile as a major supporter of the trust set up in his wife’s name. More young men of modest means and good character would get the education or training they needed thanks to the trust’s activities. Appetites sated, thirsts quenched, the city’s leading citizens had contributed their largesse, and were rising to go home with that satisfied sense of doing something for others while catching up on the latest gossip. “What was up with Bully Pike and that girl? That didn’t look good.” Candy cast a sidelong glance toward Aristide with barely disguised glee. “Did you have a good night?” “Fine, thanks.” He knew he sounded a little short, but he couldn’t be bothered moderating his tone. He had too much to think about. He too hadn’t missed the sharp disagreement between the alluring Hawaiian and the big man. Hardly anyone had. And, like probably everyone else in the room, he didn’t know what to make of it. Outside the hotel he found Sebastian Russell, the middle of the three Russell brothers, six foot two of sun-browned outdoors man, standing tall with the bearing of the military man he once was. An engineer, he looked after Basil Stockton’s business, as well as retaining close ties with Russell family interests. Sebastian approached. “Just looking for you. The carriage is around the corner. John’s gone home already. Pania needed to feed the baby.” Sir John and his wife Pania, once a star of the San Francisco stage, idolized their new son, Robert. Aristide and Candy followed Sebastian away from the throng, around a corner into the hotel’s side courtyard. The dark street was lit by a glimmer from the hotel kitchens, the slickness of light rain on the cobblestones picked up by the gas streetlamps. Candy threaded her arm lightly through his, a safeguard against slipping on the wet pavement. “Oh, no.” She stopped abruptly and pointed. He followed the line of her arm, and saw movement in the gloom. A brief glimpse of someone running. Maybe more than one person, vanishing into the darkness. And then others running toward them. No, not toward them, but toward the body of a man, spread eagled on his back, his form partly in darkness, a full dark beard catching the available light. “Isn’t that—?” Candy stared. “It’s that woman. The Hawaiian.” Before Aristide had a chance to reply, a high-pitched keening rent the air. Candy was right. Leilani Manolo was on her knees in the street, bent over Bully Pike’s mounded body. Standing over her was a second woman in a shiny red satin dress, her tousled black hair tumbling in disarray down her back. And it was she who was wailing, unintelligible words. He registered a lament in Louisiana French, but that was all. Leilani rocked back on her heels and wiped at her right cheek. Even in the night gloom, Aristide could see her skin was smeared with blood. “Oh my God! She’s killed him.” At the sound of Candy’s voice, Leilani looked around, her eyes glassy with shock. “He said . . . He said to meet him outside. When I got here, he was bleeding.” She stared with wild eyes. “Bully was like a father to me. I’d never . . . I didn’t do anything.” She struggled to get to her feet. Halfway through the movement she faltered. In one stride Sebastian was at her side, catching her as she pitched forward, insensible to everything around her. “Please. Step back everyone. Someone get a doctor.” In the bedlam that followed Aristide did what he could to assist. A doctor stepped forward. Leilani Manolo was carried inside. The doctor returned and pronounced Bully Pike dead. As Aristide helped Sebastian and a few others lift his draped bulk onto a gurney they were interrupted by a dapper, tweed-suited fellow with a pen and notebook in hand. “Felix Duchamp from Alta California. I’m their French correspondent.” Alta California was one of the city’s most-read newspapers. He paused and glanced around the circle, his eyes resting on Aristide for a few long seconds and then flicking back to Sebastian. “Are you in charge here? What happened?” Sebastian shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. Not now. It’s too early to say anything.” Aristide glanced to Candy, who was standing a few feet away watching. “I’ll be back directly,” he said. Then with lowered eyes he took a corner of the gurney and guided the husk of the man who had once been Bully Pike inside, wishing with every step he could escape from the grim cortege and vanish.