LITMIR.BIZ

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heck couldn’t have written a thesis on him and his work like Vince Mallory had talked about doing.

      But the people who had signed up for the tour didn’t have to know that. I’d done enough research on Twain so I could talk about him with enough enthusiasm and knowledge to satisfy most people with a casual interest in him.

      “I’m really looking forward to the performance on the boat tonight,” Louise went on. “That man who plays Mark Twain looks just like him, don’t you think?”

      I agreed that Mark Lansing bore a strong resemblance to the man he portrayed. “I plan to be there, too,” I told Louise, remembering the promise I had made earlier that afternoon. I hoped nothing interfered with that plan.

      I didn’t expect anything serious to come of it, since I’d be back in Atlanta in another day or two, but I wouldn’t mind spending some more time in Mark Lansing’s company. Will Burke and I dated fairly often, but we hadn’t gotten to the point where either of us wanted the relationship to be exclusive. Heck, after having a twenty-year-plus marriage end in divorce, I wasn’t sure I ever wanted anything that committed again.

      I left Louise Kramer poring over the furnishings in the boyhood home and her husband Eddie looking bored. My next stop was the museum and gift shop next door. I described Ben Webster to the clerks behind the counter in the gift shop, but none of them remembered seeing him.

      “But we have so many people coming through here, you know,” one of the women said with an apologetic shrug.

      “I know y’all do,” I told her. “I appreciate your help anyway.”

      While I was there I took a quick walk through the museum. Under other circumstances, I might have enjoyed it, but worrying over the Webster situation kept me from concentrating on what I was looking at. After a few minutes I gave up on trying to see the sights for myself and headed across the street to the Becky Thatcher House.

      There was a gift shop there, too, but that clerk didn’t remember Webster, either. The same thing was true at the nearby Twain Interpretive Center and the restored building that had served as the office of Sam Clemens’s father when he was justice of the peace in Hannibal. No one recalled seeing Webster, but because of the amount of tourists that came through all these attractions, nobody could be sure.

      It was time to give up, I told myself. I had done what I could. But even though I knew that was true, logically, worry nibbled at my brain as I walked back to the riverboat. Dusk was settling down over the town. It was going to be a warm night, and we were far enough from St. Louis that the air was fairly clean, without the sort of pollution you get in a big city. Having lived in Atlanta as long as I had, even relatively clean air tasted a little like wine when you took a deep breath of it. I should have been enjoying this gorgeous early evening, instead of worrying.

      Tell that to my nerves. They were as tight as piano wires as I went back on board.

      A reception was scheduled in the salon before dinner. People could come and go as they pleased, of course, but I expected a fairly good turnout. I went to my cabin and traded my slacks, blouse, and blazer for a simple dark blue dress that I thought looked elegant without being flashy. Low heels replaced the comfortable walking shoes I’d been wearing earlier as I tramped around Hannibal. I ran my fingers through my short red hair to fluff it out. I thought I looked good enough to sip a little champagne at the reception and then eat dinner.

      A few of my clients were already in the salon when I got there. I greeted them and asked them how the tour was going for them so far. Everybody seemed to be having a good time. I started to relax, telling myself that the whole business with Ben Webster would blow over without any more trouble. Sure, I didn’t know where he was, but he was a grown-up and it wasn’t my job to keep track of his every move. As long as he wasn’t on the boat, his whereabouts weren’t any of my business anymore.

      I became aware that a man sitting at the bar was watching me. Not to be vain about it or anything, but I’ve had a few men eye me in bars over the years. Not as many as when I was younger, maybe, but it still happened. This man wore jeans and a sports jacket and had dark blond hair over a pleasantly rugged face. When I caught him looking at me, he didn’t jerk his eyes away or look guilty. He just gave me a friendly smile and lifted the glass in his hand like he was saluting me.

      That interested me enough that I went over to him. “Hello,” I said. “Have we met?”

      “We have, Ms. Dickinson,” he said.

      “I’m sorry. Normally I remember ruggedly handsome men—”

      “And I always remember pretty redheads.” His voice changed, took on a slight quiver like that of an older man. “I quite fancy redheaded women, you know.”

      “Well, Mark Twain, as I live and breathe!”

      Mark Lansing grinned. “That’s right. You didn’t recognize me at all without the wig and the mustache and the make-up, did you?”

      “No, you look totally different,” I told him. “Bigger, even.”

      “That’s a trick. You stoop over a little and draw your shoulders forward, and people think you’re smaller than you really are.”

      “What are you doing here? I’m surprised to see you out of costume. It must take a long time to get ready, and you’ve got a performance tonight.” I checked my watch. “In a little more than two hours, in fact.”

      “It only takes about thirty minutes to get the make-up and the mustache on,” he said with a shrug. “The wig and the clothes take only a few minutes. I can’t wear the getup all the time. It’d drive me nuts. I’d rather take the time and trouble to take it off and put it back on every now and then.”

      “Well, I reckon I can understand that. Pretendin’ is fun, but deep down everybody wants to be who they really are.”

      “Pretty profound for a redhead.”

      I gave him a mock glare. “The last fella who said something like that to me got pitched overboard.”

      “How about if I buy you a drink to make up for it?”

      “I think you just wanted an excuse to buy me a drink.”

      He grinned again. “Now that you mention it…”

      “Champagne,” I said to the bartender.

      “Ouch,” Mark Lansing said.

      I ignored him and went on, “I’m Delilah Dickinson.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” the bartender said. “I’ll fetch the bottle I’ve been using for your party.”

      “What, I’m not paying?” Mark asked.

      “And give a glass to my friend here,” I told the bartender.

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      Mark shook his head. “Great, now I feel like a gigolo.”

      “Shut up and drink your champagne,” I said.

      It felt good to relax and flirt with a good-looking man for a few minutes. That’s all it was, just some harmless flirting, but I was glad that I’d run into Mark Lansing without his Mark Twain garb on.

      We sipped champagne and talked a while longer, the sort of small talk that a man and a woman make when they think they might be interested in each other and want to get to know each other better. I mentioned my divorce but didn’t go into detail about it. He said that he’d never been married but had come close a couple of times.

      “Cold feet?” I asked.

      “Jobs got in the way,” he said. “I’m attracted to successful women, I guess. The ones I was thinking about asking to marry me got good job offers on the other side of the country. I didn’t want to leave St. Louis, and I wasn’t going to ask them to turn down the jobs because of me.”

      “You’re from St. Louis?”

      “Yeah.

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