The Best Bad Things Read online

  “L’intérieur ici, s’il vous plaît.”

  The woman shows Alma into a parlor that, after the austere hall, feels lusciously inhabited. The windowless room is warmed by a hearth, its firelight gilding red-papered walls. Crimson roses spill over the lips of china bowls. Two yellow birds, fitted with tiny bells, hop and twinkle in a delicate cage. And a well-remembered smell sets Alma’s heart thudding: jasmine and vetiver perfume. She closes her eyes.

  Behind her, the door ticks shut. As if summoned by the sound, a tall woman rises out of a chair by the hearth.

  “Delphine,” Alma says, almost laughing, in part because it is so good to see her and in part because of what she sees. “What the devil are you wearing?”

  The belle of San Francisco, famed for her beauty and bejeweled gowns, is swathed head to toe in black. Her dark hair is tied with somber ribbons. The pearl buttons on her dress have an inky sheen. Yet she is not wholly unadorned. Her dress is fashioned of velvet and silk—a wealthy woman’s mourning clothes. Bits of gold sparkle at her wrists, her ears, her neck. Alma’s gaze catches on these points of light. Even in widow’s weeds, Delphine Beaumond is dazzling.

  “I could ask the same.” She dabs her eyes over Alma. “I hope you didn’t bring in any fleas.”

  From anyone else the barb would not have stung. Alma regrets her shabby costume, her powdered face. She likes to be with Delphine while in Camp’s clothes. Once she’d caught Delphine watching her as, dressed as Camp, she unloaded a stolen case of whiskey. Alma will never forget that look.

  “You wanted discreet,” Alma says.

  She walks to the chair next to Delphine’s and waits for her to sit. A pot of tea steams over a spirit lamp on the table between them. Cookies glitter on a silver dish. Alma bites into one without ceremony. Its insides are slick with a layer of marzipan. Her favorite.

  “I assume from your late arrival that you’ve been making good use of your time.”

  Delphine’s words are unhurried, delivered in a lush bayou drawl. Silk rustles as she pours a cup of tea. Her ruby ring burns a slow red arc as she takes a sip.

  “I have.” Alma wants to read the cookies as a good omen, a sign that Delphine remembers her tastes. Remembers her talents. This is Alma’s chance for a promotion—a chance to show she’s outgrown the San Francisco operation. But not if she’s chosen the wrong man.

  “Who is it, then?”

  “Can I have a drumroll?”

  “Don’t be foolish, Rosales,” Delphine says, but she is smiling, teeth white against her smooth brown skin. The enameled cross at her throat winks in the firelight.

  “You’re glad to see me,” Alma says.

  Heat blooms in her abdomen. The harsh welcome had her worried—more than worried, because there’s bad news to deliver, too—but now she feels the old bond between them weaving back into being. She can still make Delphine laugh. And Delphine still calls out her rougher edges: Alma’s voice drops in pitch, her shoulders widen, her thighs sprawl apart in the hot confines of her skirts. She notes these changes and does nothing to correct them. It is a relief, of a sort, to expand this way despite her clothing. To be in the company of someone who does not require her to wear so many masks.

  “Of course I am,” Delphine says. “Though you do look bloodless as a hant. You gave me a fright.”

  “I had to cover some bruises.”

  “Brawling again?”

  “Always,” Alma says, grinning. And then, because she can’t wait any longer: “The man running your operation here is Nathaniel Wheeler.”

  Delphine blinks, but that is her only response. She has admirable control of her face.

  “Are you sure?” she says.

  Alma is not. But she wants to be. And she wants to prove she’s now the best Delphine’s got in Port Townsend. Delphine’s assignment for her dovetailed nicely with Pinkerton’s: find the man running the local opium trade. But Delphine is not interested in helping the law. She wants to know that her smuggling business is airtight under investigation.

  “Yes,” Alma says.

  “Why?”

  “I found three promising leads,” Alma says. “Men moving just a little too much cash on the waterfront. Barnaby Sloan’s got tar on him, but he’s too busy mucking around in girls and sailors to give it his full attention. The railroad promoter Dom Kopp has deep pockets, but he’s devoting them entirely to poker. And then there’s Wheeler.”

  “What exactly do you have on him?”

  Here’s the sticky issue—where she has not followed instructions. Delphine does not like improvising, so Alma usually refrains from telling her when she cuts corners.

  “I know he’s got tar in his warehouse,” she says.

  “Have you seen the product?”

  Alma pinches the bridge of her nose, for a moment regretting her haste to report. She could have waited a few days more, made certain. But she hates to wait. She hates to think of Delphine doubting her.

  “No,” she says.

  “You’re basing this on conjecture alone.”

  “He’s got all the trappings,” Alma says. “A cover imports business, linked to a back office for dirty work. An unlisted warehouse that’s guarded like a vault.”

  Her mouth is dry. She looks down at her empty teacup blankly before remembering she must fill it herself. Delphine, as a rule, never serves others. She once smashed a champagne bottle onto the dining room floor when a guest asked her to refill his drink, then had him lick it up.

  Alma pours tea, takes a stinging gulp. Until last night she was ready to pin Sloan as Delphine’s man, despite his cathouse—a trade Delphine won’t touch. Now she thinks it’s Wheeler. But she’s not certain. She is starting to resent this grilling when Delphine could just come out and say yes or no. Not that Alma expected her to go easy.

  “I’m sure it’s Wheeler,” Alma says. “He’s up to something, and scared enough of blackmail to take me seriously. He thinks he’s going to kill me.”

  “Well.” Delphine picks up her tea, takes a delicate sip. “Let’s hope you’re right and he’s not.”

  The amusement in her voice is an answer, at last. Yes. Wheeler is Delphine’s deputy. Alma congratulates herself with another cookie, its sugar crust crackling sweet. She pictures Wheeler’s desk, her boots on the glossy wood, a glass of his fancy whiskey in her hand. She sniffed him out. And she’s first in line to replace him. She wonders what he’d do if she called him Nathaniel—Nate, even. What shape his face would twist into.

  “Should I be worried?” Delphine says, one brow raised, dark eyes sparking.

  “Not too worried,” Alma says. “Wheeler runs a tight operation for you. He almost had me fooled, but Sloan gave him away—Sloan has a man on the sly at the Madison warehouse. I know him; I’ll get him.”

  “Wheeler should get him.”

  “I haven’t told him who Sloan’s man is, yet. That’s my bargaining chip to join his crew.”

  “This is not the time for games.” Delphine leans back into the deep shadows of her chair. “Don’t make new problems.”

  “I’m going to Wheeler’s offices tonight,” Alma says. “We’ll take care of things.”

  “How did you do it?” Delphine says, her voice floating from the shadows. Firelight plays over the folds of her skirts, over her crossed ankles. She wears the same shoes she’s always favored, polished boots with raised heels that add to her already majestic height.

  “I never would have gotten to him as Camp,” Alma says. “He seems likely to shoot first when a man causes trouble. I went after him as a governess. A Scottish governess—I got the idea when I heard him speaking, and thought I’d throw in a link to the old country. Added some provincial innocence and an uncle connected to the Northern Pacific, and he was paying for my dinner the first night we met.”

  Alma recounts her initial shadowing of Wheeler, his attentions to her as she played Alma Macrae, his concern with joining the railroad trust. Delphine, hidden in the shadows, absorbs everything in sile
nce.

  “Poor Wheeler,” she says, when Alma has finished. “He thought he’d finally found a woman dull enough to live in ignorance of his business.”

  “Poor Wheeler nothing,” Alma says. “His boys put me through the wringer when they caught me out.”

  “But you’re all right?”

  “I’m fantastic,” Alma says, all teeth. “Now it’s my turn.”

  “Almost.”

  This is a nasty word. She wishes she could see Delphine’s face. In the silence the fire snaps and the yellow birds chitter. Alma’s head twinges, at the bottom of her skull, where the warehouse guard’s gun left a walnut-size lump. She reaches up to rub the knotty bruise.

  “You’ve completed your investigation successfully,” Delphine says. “I congratulate you. But there’s a second part to this assignment.”

  A twitch of irritation. Alma wants her promotion—Wheeler’s desk and office given to her—not another hoop to jump through. And she wants Delphine to come out of the shadows. Come closer. Delphine is keeping things all business, despite the last time they saw each other. It’s been six years but Alma hasn’t forgotten the sharpness of Delphine’s nails, the gleaming skin of her long, muscled thighs. Alma had hoped they might pick up where they left off.

  “Keep an eye on Wheeler,” Delphine says. “He’s been slow to address problems lately: Sloan’s man at the warehouse; two of my shipments losing a few pounds en route to Tacoma. I will stop this leak from the top down. Find out if Wheeler is still trustworthy, or if he’s found himself a new employer.”

  “So I can’t tell him he works for me now? And we both work for you?”

  “He’s still my deputy here.” Delphine shifts in her chair. “Though I’m glad you’re eager to prove you’re more deserving of the post. Tell him who you are when you have to. Until then, see what you can see.”

  “The trick will be sticking close.” Alma reaches for her tea, tamping down a grunt as her corset boning digs into her bruised ribs. “Then I can keep him off guard. He’s awful bothered by the sight of me in trousers.”

  Delphine laughs, a high note of girlish delight.

  “Don’t have too much fun,” she says. “Remember what I’m paying you for.”

  Alma shrugs, clatters her cup onto its saucer. As far as she’s concerned, she’s now getting paid to harass Wheeler. Boasting about him to Delphine is a pleasure.

  “Speaking of trousers, I’d like to call on you in the proper clothes,” Alma says. “Since the day you left, you’ve been on my mind.”

  A catch in her breath while she waits for an answer.

  “How sentimental,” Delphine says. “But if I tell you I’ve missed you, too, you’ll be impossible to manage.”

  All the old spark and banter, all the old yearning comes flooding back. Why did you wait so long to bring me here? Alma wants to say, though she knows she was needed down in California. She put in years of work protecting Delphine’s business in San Francisco: the biggest city on the West Coast, with a thriving black-market opium trade. Also home of the Families, who own the Canadian refineries that feed America’s tar habit—and who supply Delphine directly, through a long-standing arrangement.

  “You used to tell me all sorts of nice things,” Alma says. “And I believe I still kept you satisfied.”

  Delphine uncrosses her ankles. Rustle of crinolines. The small nudge of one heel into carpet. Alma edges closer to standing, waiting for the invitation to approach the other woman’s chair.

  “I hear you left the city in a rush,” Delphine says.

  The room jabs into Alma with hard edges: her chair’s wooden bones, red embers from the hearth, her corset’s chilled seams. Here’s the bad news, brought up sooner than she wanted. And caught off guard, at that—too tangled in the thought of Delphine’s legs to think with any speed.

  “And in something of a shambles,” Delphine continues. “Deliveries not made. Borrowing cash and product from the dens in Chinatown.”

  “Yeah,” Alma says. “There was a hitch with Lowry.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I killed him.”

  Abruptly, Delphine sits forward into the firelight. Some bit of metal on her person glints, and Alma’s hand twitches toward the knife in her pocket. She grips the velveteen armrest to cover her movement.

  “You killed the Pinkerton’s agent.”

  “He was going to ruin that part of the plan,” Alma says. “He was going to come up here without me, and then where would we be?”

  “You’ve been in town for a week.” Delphine picks up her teacup, taps one nail against the china with icy little tings. “And I’m just hearing about this development?”

  Killing Lowry was sloppy—the kind of risk taking that makes Delphine furious. Mad enough to withhold Alma’s promotion, maybe. If discovered, Lowry’s death might have brought the law down on Alma, preventing her travel north. It could have endangered the San Francisco operation, or called the Pinkerton’s agents to Port Townsend too quickly, compromising the ring there. That’s how Delphine will see it: all the potential fallout. But Lowry’s body won’t be found, not in Alma’s hiding spot. Sloppy or not, killing him was worth the risk. That’s how Alma sees it.

  “I’ve got it under control,” Alma says. “Why make you worry over nothing?”

  Delphine rises from her chair. Alma starts to stand, too, but a wave of Delphine’s hand—her bloodred ring glittering—is a clear message. Stay.

  “I’m worried,” Delphine says. “Reassure me.”

  “Pinkerton doesn’t know Lowry’s dead.”

  A drip of sweat tickles down the back of Alma’s neck. She rubs it away. Remembers too late that her skin is coated with talc. Now the back of her neck might be exposed, a smear of olive flesh showing dark against the powder.

  “I guessed that much.” Delphine crosses the carpeted floor, tugs the tasseled bellpull beside the birdcage. “You’re trying my patience.”

  “I memorized Lowry’s dossier.” Alma twists in her chair so she can watch Delphine and the door at the back of the room, wondering who has been summoned, and why. “Among other interesting things it had a cipher and an address. I sent my first coded letter when I arrived. This morning the reply came. The agency thinks Lowry’s up here, gone under deep cover—and they don’t know about our little falling-out. They still think I’m acting as his assistant, sending correspondence for him so he doesn’t risk exposure as a spy.”

  Footsteps in the hall. The knob turns, and the maid’s pink, wrinkled face peers in.

  “Oui, madame?” she says.

  “Mets le poulet dans un panier. Avec du pain sucré. Sois prêt à partir dans cinq minutes.”

  The woman nods, winks out of view. Alma’s French is patchy, but she understands enough to know she’s about to be dismissed. She doesn’t want to leave Delphine angry.

  “As long as I keep sending those ciphered letters, the Pinkerton’s agents will think Lowry’s alive,” Alma says, once they’re alone again. “They’ll think he’s up here investigating the tar trade, and I can feed them whatever information serves us best. This is better than the first plan—there’s no agent getting in my way while I look after Wheeler and fix our leaky pipeline. We’ve got plenty of time to cover our tracks now.”

  Delphine remains beside the birdcage, watching the little creatures chirp and rustle. In the pause, Alma considers her, the way she harnesses all the light in the room to make luminous her jewelry and quick obsidian eyes. There had been a time when Alma was jealous, so viciously jealous, of Delphine—not of her beauty, but of her fixedness, her certainty. Delphine is always herself. She was lovely and fierce and brilliant the day Alma met her, and so many years later she has only grown into these traits. But she could never creep unseen into a boatyard or pass unnoticed among a smuggling crew. She is entirely too striking: tall, voluptuous, her skin rich golden brown.

  Alma can be many things. She has learned to value this mutability: how she can shift her compact bo
dy into many shapes, powder herself pale or let the sun darken her complexion. She loves to see her costumes through other people’s eyes. Delphine watching her as Camp, cutting a deal over fenced diamonds in San Francisco. Wheeler watching her as a governess, timid and wilting. Hannah watching her as a rancher’s daughter, flirting in rapid Spanish with the Yuma vaqueros. Alma loves performance. What began as a thrilling trick in a Chicago saloon has become a passion. And now she’s back onstage before her favorite audience—though it’s hard work to win Delphine’s applause.

  “If there are any other … developments, make sure I’m the first to know.” Delphine traces her fingernail along the birdcage’s gold wires. “This is not the only iron I have in the fire, and I need to see what I’m dealing with at all times.”

  “I’ll take care of Wheeler.” Alma stands, slow, her body stiff in all its bindings. “He’s loyal to you, or he’s a dead man.”

  “I decide on any punishments.” Delphine’s voice is sharp. “I decide how they are doled out.”

  Alma clenches her jaw. It aches, deep in the bone, where she fell hard after Wheeler’s watchman downed her. She has her own ideas about punishments and how to serve them.

  “And, Rosales—be careful,” Delphine says. “Nathaniel Wheeler is a hard man. If you die, the cipher dies with you, and the Pinkerton’s agents will come swarming up here ahead of schedule.”

  Alma hadn’t thought of that. It’s a notch in her favor—she’s indispensable—but also a liability.

  “Have I ever let you down?” she says, lifting her chin.

  Delphine is a head taller, though standing apart as they are, the difference feels lessened. The gold cross at her throat catches the firelight as she breathes, shining, dark, shining. Alma thinks of shipwrecks. How a lighthouse is a warning and an invitation, both.

  “I have an appointment to keep.” Delphine smooths the folds of her dress. “You’ve been here too long already. The woman next door will think I’ve taken you captive for some ghastly ritual.”