Huckleberry Finished by Livia J. Washburn Read Free Book Online Page B

“He seemed very calm and levelheaded to me.”
    There went my idea that maybe the captain wanted to fuss at me because one of my clients littered the deck or something like that. Calm and levelheaded meant that Williams wouldn’t be sending the head of security to fetch me unless something important had happened.
    â€œIf there’s anything I can do to help…” Mark went on.
    I didn’t want to burden him with my problems. Besides, I didn’t even know yet what the problem was. So I shook my head and said, “No, that’s all right. But I appreciate the offer from a famous man like Mark Twain.”
    Just then, Logan Rafferty came into the salon. He moved with a brisk efficiency that said while he wasn’t hurrying, he wasn’t wasting any time, either. He spotted me and started across the salon toward me.
    I put my hand on the sleeve of Mark’s white coat for a second and said, “Maybe I’ll see you later. Congratulations again on your performance.”
    Rafferty wore a pretty grim expression as I went to meet him. “Ms. Dickinson,” he said. “Please come with me.”
    He kept his voice pitched low. I could tell that he didn’t want to attract any more attention than he had to. That was sort of difficult to do, though, as big and tough-looking as he was.
    â€œWhere are we going?” I asked as we started toward the door of the salon.
    â€œCaptain Williams will explain everything to you.” He paused, then added, “And you’ve got some explaining to do, too.”
    â€œHey, I may be a redhead, but I’m not Lucy Ricardo.”
    He didn’t as much as grunt. I don’t know if he didn’t get the reference, or if he just didn’t have much of a sense of humor. Of course, the comment wasn’t really that funny to begin with, I told myself.
    I expected Rafferty to take me up to the pilothouse, since that’s where Captain Williams would normally be. Instead, when we reached the stairway, he headed down toward the main deck. But he didn’t stop there. He opened a door and revealed some stairs that led below decks. Down there was the belly of the boat, the engine room and the boilers and all the other things that made the Southern Belle go.
    â€œWhere are we going?” I asked, suddenly feeling even more nervous than I was before. “Are you sure Captain Williams is down here?”
    â€œHe’s waiting for us,” Rafferty said.
    Short of turning and running, which he hadn’t really given me any reason to do, my only other option seemed to be to follow him down those stairs. With plenty of misgivings, I did so.
    Since the boat was docked, the main engines were off, but I could still hear the rumble of the generators that provided electricity. The riverboats in Mark Twain’s time hadn’t been equipped like that, of course, but there were only so many creature comforts modern tourists would give up in the name of authenticity. Folks wanted to be able to flip a switch and have lights and air-conditioning.
    When we reached the bottom of the stairs, Rafferty led me along a narrow, metal-walled corridor. We turned a couple of times and then went around a corner to see several men standing in front of a small door set into the wall. The door was partially open, but I couldn’t see through it because of the man who stood in front of it.
    He was tall and slender—lean was actually more like it—and wore a white uniform with gold braid on it. A black cap sat on his head. He was in his sixties, I estimated, based on his white hair and the weathered look of his face. Dark eyes stabbed at me as he snapped, “Ms. Dickinson?”
    I recognized his voice. “Captain?”
    â€œThat’s right. I’m Captain L. B. Williams. You’re the head of Dickinson Literary Tours?”
    â€œYes, sir, I am. If you don’t mind, can I ask what this is all about?”
    Evidently I