Taking a deep breath, she drew back her shoulders and, with confident strides, entered what appeared to be the main door of Holmes’s building, sending the copper bell overhead to ringing. Spying shelves of glass bottles, gauze, and medical paraphernalia, she paused yet again, surprised to find herself in a pharmacy. She smiled at the woman behind the counter. “Excuse me? Do you know where I might find Doctor Henry Howard Holmes? I have an appointment with him, and this is the address he gave me.” She withdrew the card from her reticule and handed it to the pharmacist.
The woman’s bun was drawn so taut that it lifted her wrinkles to an unnatural height, and the rouge smeared onto her pale cheeks did nothing to aid in the youthful glow she was attempting. “You’ve come in the wrong entrance. I’ll show you to the second-floor landing, but only this once. You need to take the side entrance to reach his apartments and staff on the second floor. Mr. Holmes’s office and hotel are located on the third floor. His housekeeper will have to fetch him for you.” She motioned for Winnifred to follow her behind the counter and up the back stairs, mumbling to herself, “I keep telling him to add a note to his business card so I don’t have to keep doing this nonsense.”
Gathering her skirts in one hand, Winnifred followed the pharmacist, pausing at the second-floor landing while the woman fetched the housekeeper.
“You Miss Swan?” a middle-aged woman with an ebony complexion asked, wiping her hands on her apron as the pharmacist brushed past Winnifred with nary a glance.
Winnifred nodded, her throat parched. She would have to do better if she wanted to fake her way into this position. Give me courage, Lord. “Yes, ma’am. I have an interview with Dr. Holmes.”
“I’ll show you to the parlor and find Mr. Holmes. He likes to go by Mr. Holmes around here. Thinks the title of doctor makes him stand out too much. Come along.” She led Winnifred down the hall. By the creaking of the floorboards and a baby’s piercing cry coming from down the hall, she could tell the second floor was poorly built, with paper-thin walls. The dingy parlor was decorated simply with an old Persian rug that had seen far better days; an overstuffed, faded velvet settee; and a wingback chair, all directed toward a fireplace with dried bits of branches left in the ash-filled corners.
Knowing that she needed to appear collected, Winnifred perched primly on the edge of the settee and attempted to loosen her grip on her purse strings. She reminded herself yet again that she had her muff pistol tucked inside if she had need of it, but her heart still raced. She attempted to calm herself with the thought that Mr. Holmes would not be brazen enough to try anything with the housekeeper right there and the drugstore below. Hearing someone enter from behind, she rose, dropping her reticule in her haste.
“There you are, Miss Swan. I am so glad that you were able to come today for your interview.” He extended his hand to her, palm up.
She placed her hand in his and gave him a slight curtsy. “I wouldn’t miss our appointment for the world, sir.”
“Please, have a seat and tell me a little more about yourself.” He waved her to the settee and bent to retrieve her bag.
Her heart stopped. If he feels the barrel … this is over before it begins. With a smile, he handed her the bag and joined her on the settee, sitting entirely too close. “Thank you,” she whispered, and refrained from scooting into the corner of the couch. He was not a particularly handsome man with his strabismic left eye, thick mustache, and lean form, but he smiled at her as if expecting her to be charmed. What makes women trust you, Mr. Holmes? Winnifred summoned a blush as she dropped her gaze demurely to her lap. “I appreciate the opportunity to interview with you, Mr. Holmes. It’s been a few weeks since my tutoring position was terminated, and I’m greatly in need of funds.”
His brows rose. “Terminated? Were you fired?”
“Oh no. You see, the young lady I was teaching decided to attend tutoring sessions with her best friend on Lakeshore Drive, and I couldn’t compete with a French tutor.” She dipped her head again. “Unfortunately, her father decided to release me even though I’d traveled across the state to come here.”
He shook his head, his gaze never breaking away from her own. “Such a shame. Did you leave your family behind?”
Her blood pulsed at his leading question. “My family is originally from Michigan. My mother passed away last year, and my father has been gone since I was a child. I have no siblings.” She smoothed her skirt. “My beau is not happy that I left, but I wanted to see a bit of the world, starting with the world’s fair. However, if I don’t get this position, I’m afraid I won’t be able to afford to do so on my own and I’ll have to return to Michigan to marry him after all.” She blinked at Holmes through her long lashes in what she hoped was an alluring manner and not like she had dust caught in her eye. “What else is there for a girl to do if she doesn’t have a position that enables her to provide for herself?”
“I see.” He stroked his fingers over his thick mustache before folding his hands over his crossed knee. “I’d like to do whatever I can to help you. I have almost exclusively employed young women as my secretaries. I am attempting to open the third floor as a hotel, but the fates are working against me. I have had to fire contractor after contractor, and I have lost two good secretaries back to back. Once the hotel is up and running, I’d like you to keep track of our visitors. But until it is at full capacity, I’d like you to take dictation, type up any notes, and generally keep me better organized. I think from your manner of speech and obvious education, that you’ll be a good fit for us.” He rose, extending his hand to her. “Would you like to work for the Campbell-Yates Company? I can only offer you half days for now. When the hotel is up and running, we can talk about you coming in full-time.”
“Thank you. I won’t let you down, sir,” she gushed, placing her gloved hand in his as she too rose. “When would you like me to start?”
He cupped his other hand over hers, giving her a benevolent smile. “I’m going to be in Wilmette for the rest of the week, so let’s plan on you coming in first thing on Monday morning next week. And in the meantime, you can fill out the necessary paperwork to set up your insurance policy.”
“An insurance policy?” Her brows rose along with her voice.
“Oh yes, I always set up an insurance policy for each of my new employees. Now, if you’ll follow me to the third floor, I can show you to my office, where you will be working. Are you staying nearby? A long commute will not be easy or financially responsible.” Without waiting for her to reply, he climbed the stairs, adding, “If you are interested, I rent out rooms here in the building. I have a few houseguests already, a Mr. Beardsley and his wife, but they have only been staying with me for about a week. I think they will be staying with me for at least a month longer. Then there is Dr. Lawrence and his wife and child. And you met Auntie Ann. She’s my housekeeper and cook.” He opened the door to his third-floor office and crossed the room to where a briefcase was tucked beside a worn leather chair. Riffling through it, he withdrew some papers, handing them to her. “I always keep extra insurance papers for new employees and friends. It’s sort of a side business of mine.”
“I see,” she said, cracking her knuckles in her anxiety before she could catch herself.
“Of course you can look over the papers before signing if you wish, but it’s a standard document. Take your time filling them out and then bring them back for my lawyer to verify and file through the insurance company.”
He spoke so fast her head spun, but she nodded and accepted the small stack of papers as she took in the large room with two desks. The larger one must be Mr. Holmes’s desk, she assumed, judging by the papers scattered about it. The smaller one stood under the lone window and bore only a typewriter sitting neatly on top, devoid of paperwork.
“I can give you a good rate on a room,” he said, going back to the matter of her housing, causing her heart to lurch.
It was one of the few points that she and Jude had not discussed. Winnif
red acted as though she were studying the papers and nodded absentmindedly, all the while scrambling for an answer. “Oh?”
“One of my last secretaries, Miss Emeline Cigrand, roomed nearby with a pastor and his wife for a dollar and a half a week. I can give you a room for a dollar and a quarter a week, which I must say is a more than generous rate with the world’s fair so close by.”
“Why, thank you. That is most generous of you, but, uh …” Unsure of what to say, she floundered. Her father would certainly forbid her from staying here, and she wouldn’t dare risk it. “I will have to check with my landlady and let you know as soon as possible,” she answered noncommittally, and prayed he would leave the matter be.
With every tick of his pocket watch, Jude’s gaze followed the length of the building, searching for Winnifred and thinking about the file on his kitchen table. Victor’s research was inconclusive. He had found something, and it was that something that got him murdered.
He shoved his pocket watch in his waistcoat pocket and returned to not reading his newspaper, his eyes on the third-floor window. Even though he believed Holmes was only a two-bit swindler taking advantage of tourists, Jude couldn’t shake the feeling that Winnifred might find out something that would put her in danger just like Victor.
His mind raced with possibilities as to why it was taking her so long to reappear. Lord, protect her, Jude prayed. An hour was far too long for a simple interview. Unless Holmes hired her on the spot. But there was no way to confirm that Holmes had indeed hired her, without entering the drugstore. Jude attempted to spot her through the windows of the second and third stories, but as they were rather sooty and unkempt, he couldn’t see any movement. He had to get closer. Tossing his paper into the bin next to the bench he had been occupying, he crossed the street and stepped into the store, his gaze drifting to the stairwell in the back of the room.
The woman behind the counter looked up from her work of counting pills, lips pursed in concentration. “Can I help you, sir?”
He removed his hat and wiped his sleeve over his eyes, adopting a hazy expression. “Yes, ma’am. I’m looking for something to help me with my headache.”
“We’ve several options.” She lifted a binder from under the counter, opened it, and began rattling off which medicines were the best for headaches.
He nodded and replied as needed, but listened for the voices from upstairs. When she’d finished, Jude scratched the tip of his nose and pretended to be reading the binder upside down, stalling.
The woman slammed the book shut. “This is for a qualified pharmacist’s eyes only. You want something or not?”
Jude ran his hand over the back of his neck and gave her the smoldering look that he had found useful in the past to melt even the most suspicious of women. “Would you mind terribly reading it to me one more time, please?”
A tinge appeared beneath the layers of makeup as she sent him a pretty smile, revealing her yellowed, crooked teeth overlapping in multiple places, and obliged.
Just as he was beginning to think he needed to charge upstairs with his firearm drawn, he heard a soft footfall above and the tap, tap of heels that sounded like Winnifred’s. Snapping his fingers, he nodded. “That powder you mentioned is the stuff for me. May I have a packet?” He gave her a smile for her effort and dug out some change. With the medicine in hand, he slipped outside and waited on the street corner, wanting to catch a closer glimpse of Holmes if he escorted Winnifred outside. When he heard her light voice behind him, he dropped his packet to the sidewalk and bending to retrieve it, caught sight of Holmes bowing to Winnifred, his hands lingering too long on her own.
“Until next week, Miss Swan,” he said, pressing a kiss atop her gloved hand and churning Jude’s stomach in the process.
He didn’t even try to curb his unkind thoughts of the man as Winnifred looked over her shoulder at Holmes with a parting smile that would capture any man’s heart. She waved as she walked away from them both.
Jude crossed the street again and followed her a couple blocks behind, noting that she looked well enough, but her pace was brisker than normal. She was excited, nervous. Winnifred appeared not to notice him, but Jude knew she was aware of his presence as he trailed behind her to the next grip stop.
He kept an eye trained behind him for Holmes and stayed at the back of the line for the grip car. When he was certain she had not been followed, he joined her in line as the car pulled up to the station. “How did it go?” he whispered, his hand on her elbow, helping her up the steps and onto the wooden bench.
“Oh Jude. It was positively thrilling and terrifying, but I’ve got the position!” She dove into her tale, giving him an animated version filled with descriptions of Holmes’s Englewood estate that would rival an experienced detective. “And then he offered me a room,” she ended, breathless, as they hopped off the car.
“No. Absolutely not. I have no control in that situation, and I need to be able to get to you if there is trouble. Besides, your father would never allow it.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, half expecting her to protest in her excitement.
“Believe me, I would never willingly stay there. I was only telling you what he said. We will need to find an address for me to put down on these insurance papers, lest he track me down to my real home.”
“Good.” He nearly laughed with relief until he saw a carriage parked in front of her cottage. No doubt it’s that darn Percival Covington again. Jude scowled. He had seen the way her eyes lit with interest when she first met the man. He knew he should be happy Winnifred was distracted by Mr. Covington’s impressive presence. Covington could well be what would cause her to walk away from the case and stop putting herself in danger. But he didn’t like the fact that she would be staying safe with some man who wasn’t him. “Finding a new address is easy enough. I’ll get to work on it now. If you decide to go anywhere else today, call the office, and I’ll come by for you.” With a tip of his hat, he forced himself to disappear.
Chapter Seven
“She preferred imaginary heroes to real ones, because when tired of them, the former could be shut up in the tin kitchen till called for, and the latter were less manageable.”
~Louisa May Alcott, Little Women
Recognizing the carriage, Winnifred hurried into the front parlor to find Danielle sprawled out on the settee with her feet up as she read. “Danielle! How on earth did you manage to slip away?”
Danielle’s gaze slowly rose from a Valentine book, and she blinked in the afternoon light. “I don’t know how this story could possibly end well.”
“I wouldn’t know either. I’m almost done with it, and you already commandeered my other book, so hand it over.” She flipped her palm open and wiggled her fingers.
“I brought it back ages ago. I’m not some monster who goes around borrowing limited-edition books and never returns them.” She rolled her eyes.
“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve tried to take my books.” Winnifred tossed her hat onto the piano stool and joined her friend on the lumpy settee that they kept in the corner of the room near the side garden window. Her aunt had attempted to replace it on multiple occasions, but as it was her favorite place to read on the first floor, Winnifred refused her aunt time after time. “Fine. You can borrow it, but only because you are my best friend.”
“Borrow? I’m going to be a bride on Saturday, and I should be given a book for a gift, at the very least. The bookshop said they won’t have any in stock for at least another two weeks, and I will be on my honeymoon for ever so much longer than that.”
Winnifred rubbed her hand over her eyes. “Very well. It is my gift to the future Mrs. Edward Fairfield, but this is the last time you can use that excuse.”
“Thank you!” Danielle squealed and tucked the novel inside her reticule as if to hide it away before Winnifred could change her mind.
“Now, tell me what brings you to my parlor when it is your wedding week.”
“My mother he
ard through the grapevine that you had a gentleman caller, none other than my brother’s university chum, Percival Covington!” She grasped Winnifred’s hands. “You have to tell me all about it.” She settled back into the settee, drawing her knees up to her chin as if they were girls again without a care in the world. “What did you think of him?”
Winnifred bit her lip against her smile. “I have to admit that he is the most eligible of all my suitors.”
“Eligible? Winnie, the man is a dream.” She giggled. “How did it go? Did he ask to see you again?”
Winnifred felt her insides turn. She had far more important matters at hand and here she was twittering over a gentleman. “He concluded our teatime by asking if he could escort me to the fair Sunday after church.”
“And?” She leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Don’t be so infuriating, Winnie, and tell me.”
“And I said yes.” She dipped her head, surprised to feel herself blushing. “I didn’t want to like him, but he was so kind and attentive.”
“And handsome,” Danielle added, lifting her gaze heavenward. “But what of Detective Thorpe? I thought I saw a spark of interest between you two?”
“We are working together, nothing more.” Winnifred shrugged. “Besides, you know Father’s rule as well as I.”
“No lawmen,” she quoted with a dramatic sigh. “Such a pity. Surely your father would reconsider if he knew you really were interested….” At Winnifred’s crossed arms and raised brows, she nodded. “I know, I know. He will never alter his stance.” The clock on the mantel chimed four times, and Danielle hung her head with a grunt. “Unfortunately, my time is up. I promised Mother that I’d only stay for an hour, and you were gone for so long.”
Standing, Winnifred embraced her friend. “I’m sorry. I’ll be sure to come over tomorrow and help you with whatever I can.”
Danielle leaned her head on Winnifred’s shoulder. “If only I didn’t have so many sisters, I could have had you as my bridesmaid and then you could have come over for every hour of every day and helped me through this wedding planning nonsense. I wish the ceremony and the reception to be over with and be married. Shouldn’t our marriage be the focus? And not society’s opinion on how much my father spent on the occasion?”
The White City Page 6
