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“Miss Welch wants our help with something we dare not refuse, or we go to prison,” Hazel said.
Raven stiffened.
The Pinkerton swung angry eyes Hazel’s way.
“Why are you so upset?” Hazel asked in response. “Was that supposed to be a secret? That is what you threatened us with, is it not? Nosense in making a silk purse out of sow’s ear. Am I right, Harrison?”
“Absolutely, love.”
Love?Raven studied the two. Another surprise.
“I’m not your love,” Hazel countered.
“At one time you were, and I was yours.”
Hazel snarled a warning. “Harrison.”
Raven found the exchange fascinating. She didn’t remember her mother ever mentioning a man named Steele. She gave the son a quick glance, as if he might somehow hold a clue to the mystery of their parents’ connected past, but saw only the hostile dark eyes of before.
Pinkerton Welch brought the conversation back around. “Let’s get on with this, shall we?”
Hazel, simmering, settled back and crossed her arms.
Harrison viewed the detective with contempt.
Raven walked farther into the room and took up a position on the other side of the hearth. Her skirt and blouse were damp from doing the Pollards’ wash and she needed to change into something dry. However, she wanted to get to the bottom of whatever this was first. There’d never been a Pinkerton in the house before.
“You Moreaux are a very interesting family,” Welch began. “Grifters. Counterfeiters. Gamblers. Swindlers. Imposters. You name it, and there’s a Moreau that fits the description. Myagency has been receiving reports for years about some of the most well-planned and elaborate cases of theft we’d ever seen. The perpetrators have never left any evidence behind, but there was a common thread. Colored people were always involved. Many of our agents dismissed that factor because they refused to believe your race could be that clever. They insisted a White person had to be in charge of the ring. But during the war I worked with Miss Tubman and she was the most intelligent, cleverest, and most resourceful woman I’d ever met, so I wanted to investigate the crimes from that angle. I have to admit, though, had Mr. Steele not given me your name, the agency would still be chasing its tail.”
Hazel spun to Harrison and snapped, “You betrayed my family again?”
“I had to give her a name, Hazel. She threatened our freedom. I was hoping you were no longer in the business or still living in New Orleans.”
She appeared unmoved by the regret in his tone. The son’s angry eyes were riveted on the Pinkerton.
Raven wondered what type of cooperation the detective was after. Threatening people’s freedom was no way to initiate a partnership.
Welch reached into a black leather valise and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “After my talk with Mr. Steele, I spoke with the police here in New Orleans and a few other places, and found outyou were sent to prison in Detroit ten years ago for the possession of counterfeit money, Miss Moreau.”
When Raven didn’t react, she continued. “So with that in mind, and going back through the cases, I’ve concluded that the Moreau family had to be the source of the crimes.” She glanced down at her notes. “There was an incident in Philadelphia with a mulatto man posing as a priest who vanished with a very expensive jewel-encrusted broach. Then we have a young Colored singer claiming to be a queen from Africa, who promised nights of pleasure to men in New York, Miami, and Denver, only to disappear with the deposits the men laid down.” She turned cold eyes on Raven. “I’m assuming that was you, and that you also pretended to be the princess who recently swindled a jeweler in San Francisco.”
Raven held the accusing gaze easily and let the detective think what she wanted. In truth, the priest had been her cousin Renay, and the singer, her cousin Lacie. Like all the Moreaux, Raven knew better than to confess to any illegality real or imagined. “Why do you need the forced assistance of people you consider so disreputable?”
“To recover a stolen copy of the Declaration of Independence.”
“From?”
“A state senator in Charleston, South Carolina.” Welch reached into her valise again and withdrew a rolled-up parchment. Raven noted how fragile it appeared as Welch placed it on the small table beside her and unfurled it carefully. “This is a copy of the Declaration of Independence most Americans are familiar with.”
Raven walked over to study it. The Steeles moved in for a closer look, too.
“Notice how on this version the signatures at the bottom are aligned by state. On the stolen one, states aren’t listed, and the signatures are randomly placed, making it both rare and valuable.”
Because she was from a family of grifters, Raven mulled over the possibility of making a counterfeit copy after finding it and holding on to the authentic version to sell off later. Would the Pinkerton be able to tell the difference? She’d discuss it later with her mother. “So how do you plan to retrieve it?”
“By sending you into his home.”
“Alone?”
