The Empty Mint Mystery: Blood, Guns, and Gold

By Gordon Parker

Darcey Anderson crouched in the bushes trying hard to be invisible. She hoped the man in the pickup truck wouldn't see her but held the small, silver-plated revolver ready as insurance. Two innocent people had already been murdered. She was determined she wouldn't be the third. How did she get here? It was only a few days ago that she was working in her San Francisco office. When her mother called asking for help, Darcey hadn't hesitated to fly home to northwest Louisiana. Now she was fighting for her life. Where was her mother? Was she still alive? Where was Trent Marshall? The man Sheriff Jack Blake called the best investigator he ever knew had led the search for a long lost fortune. Finding it would clear Darcey's family name. But was he still alive? Would he arrive in time to save her from the man circling the parking lot? Darcey clutched the revolver and prayed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publication Consultants
• Release date: Jul 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781594337994

Gordon Parker

Gordon Parker's novels draw on a lifetime of interesting places and unusal professions. He parlayed his first career as a broadcast journalist into successive positions as chief staff officer of a trade association, a senior executive in a telecommunications company, and, finally, as a lobbyist in Washington, D.C. Born in Louisiana, he grew up in Alaska. His experience has allowed him to witness the machinations of politics at both state and national capitals. Gordon calls Anchorage, Alaska, home but in recent years has divided his time among Alaska, Louisiana, Washington, D.C., and California. His novel's fascinating, fictional characters are created from a life spent observing the best and worst in people.

Book preview

JULY

MONDAY, APRIL 19

Betty Anderson stood on the porch of her home, supporting herself with one arm wrapped around a column. She watched the nasty little man drive away, his tires throwing up swirls of dust in the otherwise still Louisiana morning. Claiming to be an agent of the Treasury Department, he had for the second and, he said, final time warned her to cooperate. His agency knew, he said, that she was in possession of valuable property belonging to the United States government.

She tried to make him understand that he was referring to events that had occurred in 1862. Events of which she knew nothing. If she could give him what he sought she would do so.

That only infuriated him more. If she refused to comply with his demands she would suffer for it, he threatened. And, he said, her daughter would suffer. Everything they owned would be jeopardized. His agency would not hesitate to take it all.

Betty Anderson was not a weak person. She was a scion of the Belmonts, a proud family prominent in their parish for generations.

She didn’t scare easily.

Today she was scared.

With trembling fingers she dialed her daughter’s phone number.

2,000 miles away Darcey Anderson was focused on the document in front of her. It was the final invoice for her design firm’s billable hours on a large house now completely remodeled and full of very expensive furniture in San Francisco’s elite Pacific Heights. When added to the commissions due on the furnishings, it meant a lot of money for her company. It was important.

The ringing of her mobile phone broke her concentration and irritated her. She would have ignored the call but it was her mother.

Hey, there she answered. I didn’t expect to hear from you this morning. Are you all right?

I don’t think so, Darcey. Her voice sounded shaky.

What’s going on, Mom? Tell me.

Well, a man with the Treasury Department in Washington, D.C., has been coming around here. It concerns that old story about missing Confederate gold. He says it’s the property of the U.S. government. He says they have information that it’s hidden somewhere here at the Pines and if I don’t turn it over the government will seize the farm.

What? They can’t do that. Nobody even knows if that story is anything but a legend. Did you talk to your lawyer? What did he say?

He said if the gold exists it is the property of the U.S. government. He said they can make a lot of trouble for us. We can go to court to stop them from taking the farm. He thinks we would probably win but the government could tie us up for years and it would cost a fortune.

What about the sheriff? Did you talk to him? Darcey inquired.

Jack will help us any way he can. But unless this treasury man threatens me physically or breaks a state law there’s not much he can do.

Has he threatened you? Darcey asked, alarmed.

No, not directly. He’s only talked about taking the farm. But he’s a mousy, nervous little man. He’s very unpleasant. I’m scared, Darcey. Can you come home for a few days?

Darcey quickly scanned her calendar for the next three weeks. There was nothing that demanded her presence.

Of course, Mom. I’ll fly down tomorrow. And don’t worry. We’re not going to lose the farm. She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

She took the invoice next door to her executive assistant’s office.

Looks good to me, she said as she handed it to Miles Diaz-Douglas. Send it. The sooner Mr. Wagner gets the bill the sooner we get our money.

I am all over that, girl.

And I’ll be gone for a few days. Mom has asked me to come home to help her with a problem. I don’t think there’s anything on the schedule that you can’t handle without me.

Don’t worry about anything here. And tell your mom it’s time she paid us another visit.

The Brazilian born Miles was the first employee she had hired when her business began its rapid growth. He was a nice looking man. Two inches taller than her 5’ 6", he wore his dark hair cut short and was clean shaven. They were a good team and, when she needed someone to accompany her to an important social event, a handsome couple.

Why don’t you come with me, Miles? I’ll teach you to ride a horse, she said, mischievously.

Are you out of your mind? Miles responded, pressing his hand to his chest in a gesture of mock horror. Me? On a farm? Riding a four-legged animal?

Darcey laughed. By the way, the Wagners will be holding an open house. I’ll need an escort. Will you be available? she asked.

Certainly. Has it been scheduled?

Not yet. I’ll let you know. Are you sure Scott won’t mind? she teased as she left his office.

Girl, you can have any man you want, the imperturbable Miles replied. Any man but me. Scott’s not worried.

Back in her office, she booked a flight to Shreveport for the following day. Her mother had offered to pick her up but she preferred to rent a car for the drive to the Pines, an hour and a half south of the airport.

That evening Darcey poured a glass of Chardonnay and walked out onto the terrace of her condo. She had purchased it two years ago. It was high in a building on Nob Hill, near Grace Cathedral and Huntington Park. From here she had a view of the entire city. The lights of the Golden Gate and Bay Bridges. She could hear the clang of the street cars on Powell Street.

The evening fog was rolling in. She watched as it closed over the city below her like an oyster protecting its pearl. This pearl of a city.

Her thoughts returned to her family farm in Louisiana. She thought about the conversation with her mother. It was hard to believe that old rumor about an unsubstantiated event in 1862 had come back to haunt them again after all these years. In the past it had been treasure hunters snooping around. The government had never inquired. For that reason her family had decided it was nothing but legend.

APRIL 29, 1862

Shameful. Simply shameful.

From where he stood atop the levee Lieutenant Henry Belmont could see a dozen Union gunboats lying just off New Orleans. Union Flag Officer Farragut had steamed past the fortifications downriver at Forts Jackson and St. Phillip five nights ago losing only one vessel in the process. The pathetically small, under-manned Confederate fleet was no match for Farragut.

The young man in Confederate gray took off his forage cap and ran his hand through his wavy blonde hair. It was a warm spring day. His hair was damp. As he stared out at the victorious Union fleet he was angry. The Union fleet had been met by twelve lightly armed Confederate vessels, two of which were immobile. All because some idiot in Richmond had sent the bulk of the Mississippi River fleet up to Vicksburg, leaving the south’s largest port undefended. Eight of the Confederate vessels now lay on the bottom of the river.

Major General Mansfield Lovell commanded an ostensible army with which he was expected to defend the city. An army of 3,000 farmers. Few uniforms. No training. Armed only with whatever they had brought from home. Mostly shotguns, and precious little powder and shot for those. The Union now controlled the lower Mississippi River and New Orleans. Lovell’s army couldn’t do a thing about it.

He put the cap back on his head, pulling the brim down low over his eyes. They’d have to fight, he reckoned. He was assigned to General Lovell’s personal staff. The only action he’d seen was when the general and his staff were riding into New Orleans. Four red-legs fired at them from the trees along the road. The general himself led the five members of his staff in a counter attack. One of the ambushers was killed. The others ran.

Belmont didn’t remember much about the fight. He had no idea whose bullet killed the man. It all happened so quickly. When it was over his hand was shaking. He laid his pistol across the leather of his saddle. He didn’t trust his trembling hand to get it back into the holster. He remembered what his father had told him.

Being brave doesn’t mean you’re not afraid, his father had said. That’s means you’re stupid. Being brave is doing what you have to do when you’re scared. Just don’t let anyone know you’re scared.

He didn’t think any of the others noticed his shaking hand trying to holster his pistol. What worried him was they had fought four red-legs. Not soldiers. Bandits. How would he react in a battle against well-trained soldiers? That’s what worried him.

He looked again at the Union fleet floating just off shore. His father had been right. This war was insanity. The south had no chance to win. No chance at all.

He wished he was at home riding horses through the woods with his brothers, Richard and Benjamin. Richard was with Lee’s army in Virginia. Henry didn’t know if he was still alive. Benjamin was the youngest. He was home helping their father run the farm.

Henry, he heard a deep voice calling. A voice with the hard accent of north Louisiana. Neither the musical Cajun nor the diversity-honed New Orleans accent. Henry Belmont. Over here.

He looked toward the Café du Monde, the coffee house that had opened only weeks prior. His spirits rose as he saw a familiar face from home. He strode quickly down the levee toward the sound.

Rube, what are you doing here? Belmont said as he shook hands with the scruffy, laughing man sitting at one of the iron tables in the open air of the coffee house.

Just brought down a load of freight for a feller. Sit down. They make passable coffee here ‘cept they put milk in it, Rube laughed. But with the war and all it’s mostly chicory anyway.

No one knew how old Rube was. Or where he came from. He showed up one day when he was boy. He told folks he was the only one in his family who had survived a tornado that hit their farm. When they asked him where it happened he just pointed northeast. He didn’t know for sure. Or how old he was.

The Belmont family took a liking to the orphan boy. They figured he must have been about eight years old. They saw to it that he had a warm place to sleep and plenty to eat. Formal schooling was only a sometimes thing in that part of the country in those days. But Rube was allowed free use of Andrew Belmont’s large library. He proved to be a voracious reader. A young man hungry to learn. And even as a boy Rube was not afraid of hard work.

His hair was dark. Almost black. His face was tan and leathery from a lifetime spent working outdoors. He was not a big man, standing three inches below Henry’s six feet. But he was known for his great strength. Strength that came from hard work.

As he grew to manhood he developed a special way with mules. He made a decent living doing anything needing a mule. He handled the animals that were used to drag logs out of the tangled forests of the eastern edge of the Big Thicket country. Sometimes he got work hauling freight up to Shreveport or down to Baton Rouge or New Orleans.

When Henry was younger he loved to help Rube tend his mules. The muleskinner treated his animals like babies. Henry asked him one day why he favored the mules over horses.

Mules are smarter than horses, Rube told him.

That surprised Henry. I never heard that before.

Look here, Rube patiently explained you can work a horse to death. If you push him he’ll just keep going until he falls over. A mule won’t do that. When a mule gets tired he stops. There ain’t a thing you can do to get him moving again. A mule thinks for himself.

Henry sipped the café au lait that had been set before him and bit into the beignet Rube offered him.

What are you doin’ down here anyways? Rube asked. I figured you’d be up in Virginia fightin’ with old Bobby Lee.

Richard’s up there with Lee. I got assigned as an aide to General Lovell, Belmont said. Lovell’s army is here. Not that it’s much of an army.

Have you heard anything from your brother? Rube asked.

Not a word, Henry said, but the mail isn’t exactly reliable these days.

Richard’s a smart man, Henry, Rube said, and he’s tough. He’ll do all right.

Henry nodded, hoping Rube was right.

The Union is taking over New Orleans, Rube, Henry said. If I were you I’d get out.

That’s exactly what I’m gonna do, Rube said, just as soon as my wagon’s ready. Got me a brand new Newman & Cooper freight wagon. Built up in Iowa. It’s a doozy. And I got six of the finest mules you ever saw. I ain’t about to hang around here and let’em get drafted into the Union army. But got to finish packing the wheels with grease before I can leave. It was a rough trip comin’ down here.

See many Federals? Belmont asked.

They’re every place you look up around Baton Rouge, Rube answered. I had to slip off the road and hide in the woods twice to let Yank horse soldiers go by. They’d have taken my wagon, mules, freight, everything if they’d seen me. Now I guess they’ll be all over New Orleans.

Yeah, Belmont agreed. New Orleans will be in Union hands by tomorrow.

Lieutenant Belmont?

Henry turned to see General Lovell’s orderly standing by their table.

Yes, sergeant? Belmont said.

General Lovell wants to see you in his office immediately.

All right, sergeant, Belmont replied. Rising, he shook hands with Rube. Be careful going home, Rube. Tell Mother and Father that I’m well.

I’ll do that, Rube said. See that you stay that way, Henry.

Belmont followed the sergeant to military headquarters where General Lovell waited with his distinctive mutton chop whiskers, which Henry thought made him look a little clownish. In reality he was a fine officer currently handed an impossible assignment. The general motioned Henry into his private office and closed the door behind him.

Half an hour later the door to General Lovell’s office opened. The general stepped out, followed by the junior officer.

Sergeant, Lovell said, see to it that Lieutenant Belmont gets anything he asks for. Anything. Is that clear?

Standing to attention, the sergeant replied, Yes, Sir.

Lovell turned to Belmont. Good luck, Lieutenant. We’re depending on you.

Thank you, Sir, Belmont replied. He raised his arm in salute. Lovell returned the salute, then turned and strode back into his office, closing the door behind him.

Turning to the sergeant, Belmont asked, Do you remember the man I was with when you found me earlier today?

I think so, the sergeant replied.

His name is Rube. He has a wagon that he is preparing for travel. Find him, Belmont ordered.

Belmont followed the sergeant out of the office. He didn’t think anyone saw his hands trembling.

SUNDAY, APRIL 26

Not everyone liked chicken livers for breakfast. Trent Marshall did. Trent was used to being in the minority.

Marshall was just under six feet tall. His trim body showed evidence of a man who took care of himself. At 45 years his brown hair sported a touch of silver in it. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, which gave him that popular bad boy look. He was thinking about either shaving or growing a beard. It wasn’t that he disliked the stubble. He just didn’t like doing the popular thing.

It was Sunday morning. Marshall was at his favorite table in the Coffee Pot, the venerable restaurant that had been serving up breakfast on St. Peter Street in New Orleans’ Vieux Carre’ since the late 19th century. He had just finished his order of Eggs Conti. Poached eggs resting on a huge, fluffy biscuit, dressed with chicken livers and green onion sautéed in a light wine sauce.

Now his attention was on a bowl containing a rice ball swimming in maple syrup. The calas was a unique New Orleans pastry, once sold by street vendors in years gone by. Most often served with a dusting of powdered sugar, he preferred his with syrup. It wasn’t something Marshall would eat every day. Too rich. Too sweet. But it was a treat worth having occasionally. Sunday was always occasionally.

The first bite was the best. The sweet of the deep fried rice ball dripping from its maple syrup bath dueled with the lingering savory of the eggs and chicken livers. A most pleasant duel. No victor. No conquered. Only contentment. Sheer pleasure in a world not always pleasant.

He had noticed the woman sitting alone as she glanced at him several times, quickly looking away when she thought he might look up. He had not looked up. He was enjoying his favorite Sunday morning ritual and didn’t want to be disturbed. His mother worked here as a waitress when he was a boy. When she had to work on Sunday mornings she sat him at this table and brought him the sweet rice ball. Though she had been gone for many years he returned each Sunday. It was a way of holding onto the memory of her.

The woman made it impossible to remain undisturbed as she rose and walked the few steps to his table.

Excuse me, she said, are you Trent Marshall?

He didn’t look up. He took another bite of calas. He thought her accent sounded as though it might have started out southern but the drawl had been drained out of it. Probably born southern and moved to one of the coasts. A lot of young people in Louisiana did that. A lot of them came home eventually.

I don’t mean to be rude, she said, but I’m talking to you. Are you Trent Marshall?

He sighed. He wiped a bit of syrup from his lips with a white cloth napkin. Finally, he looked up to see the striking blonde standing at his table. It was a warm spring day. She wore a floral sundress and sandals. Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail. He tried not to be swayed but it was difficult. She was stunning.

Maybe, he replied. Who are you?

My name is Darcey Anderson, Mr. Marshall, she responded to his questions. I need help. I need an experienced investigator.

Why come to me? Marshall asked. I’m not a cop. Never been one.

No, but Jack Blake said I should talk to you.

Now why would old Jack send you to me? Marshall wondered aloud.

He said you were the best investigative reporter he’s ever known and if anyone could help me you could, Darcey said. Listen, I’m feeling a little foolish standing here in this restaurant with all these people watching. Would you mind if I sat down?

Marshall ignored her question. There was a time when he probably was the best investigative reporter in the business. Then he stumbled onto a story involving political corruption. Astonishingly bold theft of the people’s money in a state famous for stealing the people’s money. He unraveled the scheme thread by thread. The last thread ended at the Toledo Bend Lake fishing camp owned by his best friend, Josh Blair, a legislator representing suburban Baton Rouge. Best friends since they played high school football together.

Marshall had been best man at Blair’s wedding. And he was there the night Josh was arrested.

Hands cuffed behind his back, Blair was being led out to Chief Deputy Matt Lorca’s vehicle. He stopped in front of Marshall.

You know my Daddy will have me out of jail by the time you get home, he said, with a smirk.

The smirk disappeared. Then we’ll see about you, Blair said.

Yeah, Marshall said softly. Then we’ll see.

Marshall watched his friend being led away. He was numb. Emotionally empty. But it was Blair’s ten year old son, Johnny, who made the reporter want to vomit.

Johnny threw himself at the man he called Uncle Trent. Striking out at him with his small fists. Crying. Screaming.

I hate you. I hate you. I hope you die. I wish I could kill you myself.

The boy’s mother pulled her son off Marshall, holding him in her arms. She stared at Marshall. No tears. Nothing in her eyes at all. She just stared at him.

It was quiet in the big SUV as Sheriff Jack Blake drove along the dark, narrow road winding through the thick northwest Louisiana woods. He didn’t say anything. Nothing at all. He’d been sheriff for a long time. He had been where Marshall was now. There was nothing that could be said that would help. He handed Marshall a bottle of water. He would rather have offered bourbon but it was an election year.

Marshall drove back to New Orleans the next day. He had seen this day coming for a long time. Josh was born into one of the state’s wealthiest families. From the day he was born he had anything he wanted. From the time he was born he was told he was the best. The finest. He was admitted to all the best schools. Got all the best jobs. He never had to work for any of it. He had no idea what it meant to have to work for a living.

He believed he was entitled to do anything he wanted. To take whatever he wanted from whomever he wanted to take it. Trent watched Josh humiliate people he considered less than him simply because he could. Trent sometimes felt the sting of Josh’s barbs himself.

Marshall knew Josh was a narcissist. He knew it wouldn’t end well.

Marshall had known all that for a long time. And yet Josh was his friend. He thought he had to stand by him.

But the price of standing by Josh became too high. Higher than Marshall could pay. He called Jack Blake.

That was ten years ago. Josh died after only three months in prison. Stabbed to death. Marshall hadn’t asked why. He didn’t want to know.

Trent didn’t attend Josh’s funeral. He was at the cemetery when they interred the body in the family mausoleum. He stood well back from the crowd. In the trees. Out of sight. He could see Josh’s wife and son. He could see her eyes still looked dull. Lifeless. He watched as she tried to comfort her son. He pushed her away. He ran from her. Marshall could hear his grief through the trees. He could feel it in his own chest.

I thought I might find you here. New Orleans Detective Jordan Baron had walked up quietly to stand beside him. It wasn’t your fault, you know.

I might have been able to help him before he got out of control, Marshall said.

No, Trent, you couldn’t help him. He was born out of control.

Six months later the story won Trent a Pulitzer Prize. The day he received the certificate and check he laid them on a table. He set a bottle of tequila and a glass on the table beside them. He stared at the certificate. He drank the tequila.

The next morning he tossed the certificate into the trash, cashed the check, and quit his job.

The young woman’s voice dragged him back from his thoughts.

The sheriff said you’re the best investigator he ever knew, Darcey said, anger creeping into her voice. He said you can be quite inconsiderate.

Marshall looked up, suddenly grateful to be pulled from the muddle of bad memories by the woman growing impatient with him. And he owed Jack Blake more than a few favors.

Well, I guess he’s right, Ms. Anderson, he said, though my mother tried to raise me to be a gentleman. He rose and held a chair for her. Please join me. Can I get you something?

Relieved to no longer be the center of attention in the restaurant, Darcey quickly sat. Maybe a café au lait, she replied.

Ivy, a café au lait for the lady, please, Trent called out to the cheerful black woman passing their table.

Coming right up, she replied, her smile disappearing as she cast a glance at the gorgeous blonde now seated at Trent’s table.

Moments later, Ivy returned with the cup of coffee laced with chicory, infused with hot milk. She placed the cup on the table in front of the lady. She stared at Trent. Marshall knew Ivy was curious and would pester him until she got the story. He told her a friend of his had asked him to help Darcey with something. That he had just met her.

Uh huh, Ivy said, rolling her eyes as she walked away.

Darcey smiled. Seems like she knows you pretty well.

Marshall shook his head. Yeah, she thinks she’s my mother. How did you know where to find me?

Sheriff Blake said if it was eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning you’d be in this restaurant at this table.

Marshall nodded. Blake was one of the few people he had ever invited to share his cherished weekend breakfast ritual

So what is it you think I can help you with?

A member of my family has been accused of stealing government gold, Mr. Marshall. A great deal of government gold.

How much? Trent asked.

$483,000, she said.

Well, that’s more than pocket change, Trent said, but as the theft of government money goes it’s not a lot. There’s probably a politician here in this city who stole that much before breakfast this morning.

It was in 1862 gold double eagles, Mr. Marshall, Darcey said. Today that would be more than $11 million. My uncle was innocent. I want you to help me prove that.

He stared at her.

Let me see if I understand you correctly, he said, finally. You want me to help you solve a crime that occurred more than one hundred fifty years ago and prove your relative was innocent.

That’s right, Darcey said, flashing a smile that had convinced other men to do things for her that seemed impossible. Things that seemed ridiculous. But this had to be the nuttiest one of all.

Lady, that’s the goofiest thing I’ve ever heard, Marshall said, with less sensitivity than he might have shown. Just plain goofy.

It is not, Darcey said, in that special voice that made Marshall think she would have stomped her foot if she was standing. Then in a quieter tone, Besides there’s more to it. A Treasury Department man showed up at my mother’s house. The government wants its money back.

This happened a century and a half ago and the government is just now getting around to asking for the money? Marshall laughed.

This isn’t funny to me, Mr. Marshall, Darcey said. I’m scared. My mother’s scared. We don’t know anything about this. Just some old rumors. But the government man threatened to take my mother’s home. We’ll fight them in court if we have to but it could take years and cost a fortune. Nobody has enough money to fight the federal government if they really want to get you.

The look on the young woman’s face told him she was serious. He could see the fear in her eyes.

This isn’t a good place to talk, Marshall said. Too many people around. Let’s get out of here.

Ivy put Darcey’s café au lait in a go cup and handed Marshall a cup of his own without being asked. Black with chicory and just a little sugar. She watched Trent walk out of the restaurant with the girl. She was protective of him. She knew how badly he had been hurt. She was worried. She hadn’t often seen him with a woman in the past ten years. There was something about this one that made her think she might see her again. She should be feeling happy for him. But she was worried.

He led Darcey out of the restaurant, turning right to guide her the short distance to Jackson Square. They threaded their way through the tourists, musicians, magicians, fortune tellers and artists, both portrait and con, all in the shadow of the magnificent 18th century St. Louis Cathedral.

Darcey pointed out that there were hundreds of people in the square. Far more than had been in the restaurant.

That’s why it’s a better place to talk, Marshall said. Wide open space. People paying no attention whatsoever to us. If you want to go unnoticed put yourself in the middle of a crowd. To quote Sherlock Holmes, ‘Hide in plain sight.’ If people don’t expect to see you, they usually don’t.

He guided her through the gate in the iron fence that surrounded the two acres of formal gardens. They passed tourists getting their pictures taken by the fountain at the entrance and on the statue of Andrew Jackson, the hero of New Orleans.

Was all this here during the War Between the States? Darcey asked.

That confirmed Marshall’s suspicion that she was born southern. Only southerners referred to the war in that way. Elsewhere it was called the Civil War.

Yeah, and the open air building across the street is the Café du Monde, which started serving beignets and café au lait about the time your uncle was here.

Marshall led her through the gardens until he found a bench that was relatively secluded. They sat and sipped their coffee.

Tell me your story, Ms. Anderson, Marshall directed. Tell me everything.

We really don’t know a lot, Mr. Marshall, Darcey began. "I am descended from the Belmont family, a family that has been prominent in northwest Louisiana along the Texas border for several generations. In 1862 my third great uncle was a lieutenant assigned as an aide to the general in command of Confederate forces in New Orleans.

The Confederates were greatly outmatched by the Union forces so the Confederate general withdrew from the city. But before he left he gave my uncle, Lieutenant Henry Belmont, a special assignment.

Call me Trent, Marshall said. What kind of assignment?

OK, Trent, she smiled. And you should call me Darcey. That’s so much better than goofy.

Marshall felt himself relaxing in her company. It had been a long time. He wasn’t