On her sixth pass, Calista had started for the door of the café when she saw a small bag fall to the ground. It looked like a money sack—wrinkled and mostly empty, but valuable to someone, and that someone was probably the miner sauntering by.
“Excuse me,” she called. She stood over the bag. “Sir, you dropped this.”
He turned, but before he could react, a woman swooped down, snatched the bag off the ground, and made to flee.
“Hold up, sister.” Calista grabbed a handful of tattered skirt, stopping the woman’s escape.
“It’s mine. I found it.” The woman tried to tuck the money bag into the bosom of her dress, but as it was already full, there wasn’t room.
The miner patted his empty pockets. “That’s my money,” he said. “It’s all I have left until Saturday.”
Calista tried to wrestle the bag from the woman’s hand. “It isn’t yours. I saw it fall, and you were nowhere near it.” If she’d meant to stay inconspicuous in Joplin, she was failing, but she couldn’t help herself. “Give it back to him.”
With timely intervention, the miner pried the money bag free with blackened hands. “I did an honest day’s work,” he said to the bedraggled woman. “Go on and earn your own.”
“If I had honest work available, I would,” she huffed. Then, with a sneer toward Calista, she stalked away.
The miner paused only for a grateful nod before ambling off in the other direction.
Calista dusted off her white gloves. That had been gratifying. Equally gratifying was that her dress hadn’t been mussed in the unexpected tussle, but she couldn’t delay any longer. It was time to confront the House of Lords.
Through the windows, a shiny soda bar was visible along one wall, with electric lights reflecting in the mirrors behind it. Ladies and gentlemen crowded around the square tables, and it looked as proper as the Harvey House restaurant her cousin Willow had worked in. If one didn’t know the owner’s association with the activity upstairs, they wouldn’t find anything untoward with the café.
Calista reached for the long brass door handle, but a hand appeared from behind her, pressing the door closed and blocking her path.
“I beg your pardon!” She fumed at the young man who positioned himself between her and the door. “I did not request your assistance.”
He stood coiled, shoulders tense like he was prepared for battle. “You don’t belong in this restaurant. It’d be better for you if you kept on moving.”
She did a quick assessment of his plain workman’s clothing. His eyes were clear, and his jaw was thrust forward as if expecting a strike. A glance from him to the three suit-clad men waiting to enter showed that he wasn’t likely to be a customer. What, then? Some kind of tough hired to watch for trouble?
Excusing himself, he allowed the men to pass but didn’t offer Calista the same courtesy.
“Don’t be concerned for me,” she said. “I was deciding whether to shop first and eat second, or eat first and shop second. Picking out a button hook for my boots is a serious matter. I wouldn’t want to do it when I’m hungry, and I’ve heard the chicken salad at this restaurant is superb. On the other hand, a full meal often makes me drowsy, and making such an important decision should only be done when one is alert.” According to Calista’s experience, talking about shopping was guaranteed to lull the masculine mind into a stupor. She could only hope the stupor would be deep enough that he would forget about her.
Sliding his hand beneath his broad-brimmed hat, he brushed his sandy-brown hair out of his eyes. His glance did a swift sweep from the top of her plumed bonnet to the double-ribboned hem of her skirt. “Whatever instinct is keeping you away from this place, you should heed it.”
Was that a threat? Calista’s eyes glinted. Thus far, her youth had served her well in her profession. She’d never been challenged this early in an investigation. People found it easy to believe she was a feckless young girl who had stumbled unintentionally into whatever trouble they caught her in. She’d have to play it out, especially if this man was connected to the House of Lords.
“I’m very hungry, and being hungry makes me cantankerous, I’m afraid. Now, I’m determined to eat here, especially since you’re teasing me like this.” She braved a generous smile at the unsmiling man. “So if you’d excuse me . . .”
He tilted his head as if listening for a signal, then grimaced like he’d been stabbed in the gut. “I reckon I have to go in with you.”
“What?” Calista felt a zap of anxiety rush through her. What had she done wrong? Did they know she was coming? Had someone followed her from Chicago? She gripped her handbag. Was this how Lila Seaton had felt when someone approached her at the haberdashery before she disappeared? “I’m not accustomed to eating with strangers,” she said.
“If you’re entering this establishment, I’m going to insist that you do so under my watch.”
Part of her wanted to turn and run—this was a dangerous and unexpected complication—but she would hold to her role of a young lady coming to Joplin to look for work. Not a particularly wise young lady, nor a particularly respectable young lady. A young lady who might just think it an adventure to eat with a good-looking stranger, no matter how stern his expression.
Calista tried another smile. “If you insist, although you shouldn’t think this gives you leave to be familiar.”
If she’d thought her flirtation would win him over, she was mistaken. He dipped his chin and gave her a dour look that would be more at home on the face of a bloodhound.
She pulled the door open, surprised when he followed her in silence. The maître d’ showed them to a table. Calista noticed that the café host was careful not to acknowledge any connection to the stranger.
She picked up a menu and hid her face behind it while trying to think how a normal, sane woman would act in this circumstance. Flattered? Annoyed? Shocked? She’d set the gauge at eighty percent annoyed and fifteen percent inconvenienced. She might as well leave five percent available for flattered, just in case she found a weakness to exploit in him.
Calista perused the listings of soups and beef cuts before remembering that she’d already committed to chicken salad. At least she hadn’t previously expressed a preference for dessert. That would allow her some choice. She lowered the menu as the waiter approached and turned to her fuming companion for their order.
“I’m not buying anything,” he said. “Only the lady will be eating.”
“Yes, sir. And what will she be having?” Every stitch of the waiter’s uniform was perfection, showing that the management here let no detail go unchallenged.
This rube hadn’t been to many fine dining establishments, because he should’ve known that the gentleman always ordered for the lady. He squirmed in his seat as Calista and the waiter both stared at him. “How would I know what she wants to eat?” he said.
Calista cleared her throat. “I’ll have the chicken salad plate and an iced tea, please. That’s all for now.”
The waiter smiled in sympathy as he took the menus and carried her order to the kitchen. Calista folded her hands in her lap. The situation wasn’t a total loss. If she was searching for unusual activity that might point to criminality, she’d certainly found it. This man might be the first string to unravel in the mystery. It was up to her to do some picking if she wanted to find a loose end.
“We haven’t been properly introduced,” she said. “My name is Calista York.”
He grunted. His eyes never stopped roving the room. “Matthew Cook.”
“You’ve already had dinner, Mr. Cook?” She spread her napkin on her lap and tipped her face up to look at him.
“No, but I’m not going to eat right now. Not while I’m working.”
“What exactly is your purpose at the House of Lords?”
“That depends on you.” His gaze landed sharply on hers.
She chuckled lightly, but beneath the table she gripped the side of her chair. “I don’t understand how my actions could i
nfluence your job.” Taking stock of the ladies next to them, Calista decided they were respectable, wealthy, and unconcerned with the implications of where they were. More than likely, they had just concluded their charity meeting and were coming to eat. The fact that this establishment profited off the exploitation of girls didn’t seem to bother them in the least. God forgive them. And Calista had to pretend to be just like them.
“You aren’t here for the chicken salad,” Mr. Cook said.
“What other possible reason could I have for sitting down to dinner?” she asked, wondering why he had to be so insightful.
“I don’t know, and that’s why I’m keeping an eye on you.”
Prying her fingers off her chair, she touched the dark curls that had been caught in an upsweep. Since her eyelashes shared the same abundance as her hair, she performed a copious amount of fluttering as she lowered her eyes to her plate. He was demanding an explanation.
“It seems you are correct,” she said at last. “I have another purpose for being here. I’m looking for employment, and I thought this place might need my services.”
He flopped back in his chair as if the distance gave him a better view of her. “Exactly what kind of services do you offer?”
She wouldn’t disappear like Lila. Robert Pinkerton knew where she was and expected her to check in regularly. She had the security of the Pinkerton Agency behind her. And if they failed, the entire Kentworth family would come to her aid. But she still felt chilled by his tone.
“I’m a designer,” she said, surprised, as always, how easy it was to slip into character once she determined it was necessary. “I’ve heard that the rooms upstairs are in need of updating, and I’d like to offer my services.”
If she’d thought he looked stern before, his face was a thundercloud now. “What exactly do you know about what goes on upstairs?”
“I’m no prude, I assure you. But my interest is in providing for myself, not in passing judgment on anyone.” A bigger lie she’d never told. Calista was intensely judging all the customers in the café as a trio of ladies walked into the building and toward the staircase in the back. If it weren’t for the addition of rouge and ostrich-plumed hats, they wouldn’t have looked any different from the society ladies at the next table. Calista searched each face, looking for the missing girl, but found nothing.
Mr. Cook’s demeanor toward her had changed. He didn’t look as threatening—just sad. He took his hat from the table. “I misjudged the situation,” he said. “You aren’t who I thought you were.”
Why was he disappointed? And how dare he make her feel guilty? His own conscience had to be as black as coal. “Who exactly were you looking for?” she asked.
“Someone I could help.” He stood, pulled his hat low over his sorrowful eyes, and strode away, leaving Calista unsettled and wary.
two
It had seemed so simple back home in Pine Gap. Matthew Cook had heard the call of God since he was young. It wasn’t until he was fifteen and watched his uncle waste away from a poisoned liver that his calling had taken a specific bent. It was then that he discovered where he wanted to serve.
Matthew stopped at the corner and marveled at the busy street as he waited to cross. Main Street was as wide as the auction barn in Pine Gap. No narrow paths through the forest here. The only trees left standing downtown were the naked telephone poles bearing thick black lines in tangled masses at their tops. Instead of a squirrel scurrying across the road, Matthew saw horses, streetcars, and numerous liquor wagons making their deliveries to the saloons and whiskey dens on Main Street.
From the altar of his country church, Matthew had promised God to go to the darkest, most desperate place on earth. There were Mohammedans in the desert, witch doctors in deepest Africa, and idolaters in the Orient. Surely God wanted him in one of those places. And that was what he’d thought, until family matters alerted him to another place darker and more desperate than anywhere else.
Joplin.
Finding a gap in the parade of vehicles, Matthew jogged across the street and continued toward his apartment behind the flower shop. Grandpa Cook would be leaving in a few hours, now that Matthew was settled in, but Matthew could tell he was loath to go. Grandpa Cook had already watched Joplin destroy his son, and he had misgivings about leaving a member of the next generation. Truth be told, Matthew had half a mind to go back home with him. What if he hadn’t heard God clearly? He’d thought he was supposed to come to Joplin, but he’d also thought he was supposed to intervene with that Calista York.
He’d wanted to warn Miss York that the House of Lords was no place for a lady, but instead he’d learned that she was looking to join their godless endeavors. He had to stop her. He had to stop her and the other pampered, rich people profiting from selling women. He had to interfere with the businesses that traded the miners’ wages for whiskey instead of vittles. But if he was going to accomplish anything, he had to toughen up.
If he couldn’t stand up to a thoughtless woman like Miss York, how was he going to preach in this town? He might not have another chance to set her straight, but he should be better prepared when he ran into her kind.
On the other hand, the battle-weary miner stumbling down the road needed his help more than the likes of Miss York. Matthew paused as the miner passed him on sore joints, barely able to keep the bottle from slipping from his hand and breaking on the sidewalk.
Out here was where Matthew needed to be, but not just out here on the street. He needed to be in the ore fields. That was where the spiritually hungry were. In the two days since he’d arrived in town, he’d learned that the well-off denizens of Joplin weren’t looking for help. Like Miss York, they’d found that crime did pay, and they were willing to sell their souls for the sparkle of gold that the dirt-covered miners could bring them.
Matthew opened the door to Trochet’s Flowers and was surrounded by the smell of . . . well, he couldn’t name all these flowers, but they sure smelled pretty, and there were more colors than he’d known existed. He waved at Mr. Trochet as he passed through the shop toward the back. The tall, narrow back door stuck at the corner. With an extra shove, Matthew got it open and stepped into Mr. Trochet’s garden. This courtyard connected the shop to the greenhouse, and tucked between the two buildings was a small gardener’s cabin, where Mr. Trochet’s father had spent his last years. Now that the senior Mr. Trochet had passed on, the flower-seller had been pleased to have a young preacher lease the cabin. Matthew, in turn, was pleased to have a spot of green amid the brick walls and piles of gray chat that littered the mine fields.
Matthew went into the one-room cabin and dropped his hat on the wooden table, his eyes alighting on the faded hydrangea in the vase. That would have to be remedied immediately. Besides keeping a live bloom, the cabin didn’t require any maintenance. Matthew hadn’t used the little stove yet, but the kitchen table was adequate for meeting with people if they were willing to ignore the rumpled bed in the corner. If only Mr. Trochet would get his father’s things out of the wardrobe. Matthew felt like he was imposing every time he pushed the aged outfits aside to reach for his own clothes.
He tossed the wilted bloom into the bin and picked up a pair of shears on his way to the garden to await his grandfather’s return. The best part of his new little home was this spot of green. Although just a few hours of train travel away, this city seemed far removed from the forests of his Ozark Mountains. He couldn’t amble undiscovered for hours. He couldn’t lose himself in leafy branches. But at least he’d found a spot where green things grew, even if it was in the shadow of the Keystone Hotel.
He walked the paving stones through the rosebushes and the lilies and knelt at the hydrangea. This one was blue. He snipped the stem and stood.
“If you keep at that, you’re going to put Mr. Trochet out of business.” Isaiah Cook could be a formidable man, but Matthew only knew him as his grandfather.
“Mr. Trochet’s father always kept a live bloom in that vase for his
wife,” Matthew replied. “Just because they’re both gone is no reason to let the tradition die.”
“It’s no wonder you were always your grandma’s favorite.”
Matthew brushed his hand over the petals and let them tickle his palm. “She’s the reason I’m here,” he said.
Grandpa popped his cane against his leg. “You can’t bring her back. Or your uncle, either,” he said, “but you have a purpose. It’s a good purpose. And you aren’t going it alone.”
“I know.”
“All of us back home are praying for you. It’s not going to be easy, starting new in a place like this, but you’ll do fine. You have your grandma’s determination and spunk. Just be prepared for a rocky start. She’d tell you the same.”
It was nearly time to take his grandpa to the train. Matthew didn’t want him worrying on his account. He motioned about them. “You say a rocky start, but it seems I’ve landed in clover. You tell Ma and Pa that after years of cleaning out their stinky barn, I’ve found somewhere sweeter.”
“I’ll tell them, boy. I’ll tell them. But don’t you forget that those stinky smells have a purpose. Without the barnyard, there’d be no bacon. Without the fertilizer . . .” He waved his hand over the garden before turning again to Matthew. “Don’t be afraid to deal with the mess, son. The sweetest moments come from the most offensive fertilizer.”
If that was so, Joplin had the potential to be a virtual Eden, because Matthew had never known a place as rotten.
Now that the bothersome man had fled, Calista could survey her prospects and choose her strategy.
Her end goal was to question the women working at the House of Lords and see if Lila was there, but she didn’t expect her presence would be tolerated without a pretense. So, how to proceed?
Calista requested her bill, then eavesdropped on the table of matrons next to her. Did any of them know her aunt Myra? How about Granny? Calista’s presence in Joplin wouldn’t go long undiscovered, but she had a few things working in her favor. One was that Aunt Myra was an invalid. She wouldn’t be about town. Of her two daughters, Willow had just married and was on her honeymoon, while Olive generally stayed home to care for her mother. The rest of the family lived on the ranch west of town. Granny Laura was well-known, but she didn’t waste her time in town. And since Calista’s parents and siblings lived in Kansas City, they didn’t have many connections in the area.
Broken Limbs, Mended Hearts Page 9
