Tory’s heart plummeted. “Everywhere I have lived? Everything I have done?”
O’Dell smiled. “Come, come. You are not that old. How much can it be? Now, where were you born?”
Tory squirmed and stalled.
“I assure you, Miss Washington, I have seen and heard it all. Nothing you say can shock me—nor will an iota of what you have spoken in confidence leave this office. You have my word.”
Tory nodded. “Well . . . I suppose I might tell you I was born in Jefferson Parish, Louisiana.”
It was nearly evening when they finished. O’Dell sat back, both enlightened and saddened by what Tory had recounted.
“Do you have any hope to offer me, Mr. O’Dell?”
“In Christ there is always hope, Miss Washington.”
She smiled. “Thank you. I suppose I needed to hear that.”
“You are welcome. More to the point of your question, the answer is yes: I have hope. You have lived in five towns: New Orleans, St. Louis, Denver, Corinth, and Philadelphia—although we would be prudent to count Denver twice. What of New Orleans?
“My problems cannot arise from New Orleans,” Tory protested. “I was . . . quite young when I left that city, not old enough to have earned anyone’s enmity.”
Tory almost said, “I was only a child when I left that city.” Then she stopped herself.
I will not speak of Bastiann Declouette or how I fled his pursuit. I am of age now, and he can have no legal hold on me or any purpose in hounding me. He can have no bearing on my present troubles.
“St. Louis, then? From what you have told me, Charles kept you too cloistered for you to have made personal enemies there, except for this Mitchell Waring?”
“He has already extracted his pound of flesh from me,” Tory murmured.
O’Dell nodded. “You say you had no conflicts you know of with anyone in Philadelphia? Corinth? The men who held you captive are, themselves, in prison—with the exception of Dean Morgan, whom you have never met. I might, therefore, surmise that your problems arise from someone here in Denver—but that does muddle the question of who was spreading rumors about you in Philadelphia.”
He thought a moment. “I shall contact Pinkerton offices in the cities where you have lived. They will make inquiries to ensure we have not missed something important.”
O’Dell added a note, then addressed Tory. “We shall leave no stone unturned, Miss Washington. You have been back in Denver since April last year?”
“Yes.”
“So, ten months. In that time, have you had any unpleasant or tense encounters?”
“I do not think so.”
“Have you encountered anyone you knew from your previous stay in Denver?”
“Only Emily Van der Pol, her friends, or Joy Thoresen. I hardly count them dangerous.”
“Any dissatisfied customers?”
“That is part of what is curious, Mr. O’Dell. I know of no dissatisfied customers prior to the onset of the rumors. If a client had expressed displeasure, I would have expended the greatest of efforts to assuage the situation. Nothing is worse for business than a discontented client who, whenever the subject of Victoria’s House of Fashion arises, will talk of nothing but her unpleasant experience with us.”
“Hmm. That leaves your time at the Broadmoor Hotel.” O’Dell stared at Tory. “I know the hotel, and I know of Charles Luchetti. Now it is time for you to trust me to do my job. Can you do that?”
“I-I suppose so.”
“Then I will contact you when I have unearthed anything of note. In the meantime, I wish you to exercise great care. Do not walk outside alone and do not travel alone. Did you come by trolley?”
“Yes.”
“I shall see you home myself.”
“If-if you think it necessary.”
“I think it more than necessary—I insist. Mind my advice, Miss Washington, if you please.”
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, O’Dell reviewed his notes, amazed at Tory’s story, astounded at the evident thread of God’s grace running through her life, even during the months she suffered under Roxanne Cleary’s control. He made many notations in the margins, then stopped to think over his plan of action. It had come to him in the night, after he had spent an hour praying for Tory Washington.
“Lord, please guide my steps and my tongue today,” he prayed. “According to 2 Corinthians 5:9, I make it my goal to please you in all things—knowing that you have Miss Washington’s best interests at heart, rather than my sense of justice. Please help me to remain true to your goals at all times.”
His first step was to place trunk calls to Pinkerton associates in Louisiana, Missouri, and Pennsylvania. When he finished his calls, he told the agent at the front desk, “I will be out for a while.”
O’Dell hailed a cab. “Broadmoor Hotel, please.”
Minutes later he strode into the lobby and to the front desk. “I would like to see Mr. Luchetti.”
“May I help you?” The lean, angular woman hovering near the front desk interrupted him with an air of authority.
“As I said to your desk clerk, I wish to see Mr. Luchetti.”
“I am Miss Visser, the Broadmoor’s hostess. May I be of assistance?”
Having learned of Miss Visser’s role in Tory’s suffering, O’Dell recognized her—and was not in the most charitable frame of mind toward her.
“Only if you are Mr. Luchetti.”
The woman stiffened under his gaze. “I shall see if Mr. Luchetti is available. Whom shall I say is calling?”
O’Dell, without taking his eyes from her, removed a card from his pocket. “Edmund O’Dell. Pinkerton Detective Agency.”
Miss Visser shifted in discomfort. “I see. One moment, please.”
She returned moments later, still discomposed. “This way, Mr. O’Dell.”
She showed him into an office where a man of weary demeanor slumped behind a desk. The man lumbered to his feet and extended his hand. “Mr. O’Dell? I am Charles Luchetti. How may I be of assistance?”
O’Dell turned and looked at Miss Visser, who had remained in the room. “I would prefer to conduct my business with you in privacy.”
Charles nodded. “That will be all, Miss Visser. Mr. O’Dell, please have a seat.”
As Miss Visser departed, she left the door ajar. O’Dell smiled at Luchetti, walked to the door, peered around the threshold, and encountered Miss Visser.
“As I said, Miss Visser, I prefer privacy.” O’Dell closed the door on her startled expression.
“Why, you make yourself quite free with my staff, Mr. O’Dell! What is this all about?” Luchetti demanded.
“It’s about Victoria Washington.”
Charles Luchetti sank into his chair. “Tory! Do you have news of her? Is she all right?”
Lord, set a watch on my mouth today, O’Dell prayed. He took a seat and answered, “She has recently returned to Denver.”
“The devil you say! Tory is here? In the city? But why has she not contacted me? Sh-she left here nearly three years ago without even saying goodbye. I have not had a line from her in all that time!”
When O’Dell did not answer, Charles whispered, “May I see her?”
“I do not think it wise at present.”
Luchetti breathed heavily, his face awash with sorrow and . . . regret? “Mr. O’Dell, I love Tory. I-I did not realize how much so until she disappeared. I care for her as though she were my own daughter.”
He studied his hands. “I acknowledge that I allowed my determination to marry well—all to save this blasted hotel!—to shunt Tory aside. I wounded her deeply—and that is why she left without a word. Please. Would you speak to her for me? Would you tell her I would like to see her? That I wish to ask for her forgiveness?”
O’Dell studied the man across from him. He may have once been a card sharp and a charlatan, but no longer. What O’Dell saw was discouragement and defeat.
“Mr. Luchetti, I had heard that you were a savvy gentl
eman, and I would have thought you smart enough to have figured out a few things by now. Namely, that if your foster daughter left without saying goodbye—contrary to her normal behavior—she did not do so willingly.”
Charles paled. “What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that the charming Miss Visser told Tory that you had no wish to ever see her again. That Miss Visser and your wife saw Tory as a threat and conspired to rid themselves of her—and destroy her into the bargain. Shall I tell you how?”
Charles’ head moved slowly side to side. “I do not think I can bear to hear it.”
“For heaven’s sake, be a man, Luchetti!” O’Dell jeered. “For once in your miserable marriage, be a man.”
Charles stared at his hands again. “You are right, of course. I-I have allowed Belinda to take over this hotel, to promote that harridan Trudy Visser above my wishes, to manipulate me and run me into the ground—because she controls the purse strings.” He blinked and set his jaw. “What did they do to Tory? Please. I-I must know.”
O’Dell told him. He left nothing unsaid that needed saying. He did not blunt the truth nor couch it in language less horrifying than the truth demanded.
When he finished, Luchetti was shaking in revulsion and rage, and O’Dell had surmised two things: one, that Charles Luchetti had nothing to do with Tory’s present troubles and, two, that Belinda Luchetti could expect a taxing conversation with her husband in the near future.
O’Dell frowned. What he still needed to ascertain was Mrs. Luchetti or Miss Visser’s culpability in the nasty rumors hounding Tory and the mysterious man stalking her.
The door to Charles Luchetti’s office swung open.
A woman considerably less delicate and less blonde than Tory had described, stood with hands fisted upon her hips. “What is the meaning of this, Charles? Who is this man and what does he want?”
“Ah, you must be the ineffable and lovely Mrs. Luchetti. I was just telling Charles how inventive you and Miss Visser are.”
The woman pulled her bottom lip under her top teeth. “Whatever do you mean? Of course, Trudy and I work together to, ah, manage certain aspects of the hotel.”
“I wasn’t referring to the hotel. I was referring to Victoria Washington. How you and Miss Visser conspired to get her out of your way.”
Belinda Luchetti’s mouth went slack. “Wh-what did you say? Such utter nonsense!”
Her words lacked conviction of any sort.
“Mrs. Luchetti, have you or Miss Visser been spreading ugly rumors across the city regarding Miss Washington?”
“W-what? I have not seen or heard from the woman since she left Denver three years ago.”
“Yes, three years ago—when you sold her to Roxanne Cleary. However, Miss Washington has returned to Denver. And, Mrs. Luchetti? She has told me everything.”
Belinda Luchetti’s eyes bulged. She swung her head back and forth. “No. Whatever she has said, it is a lie.”
Charles Luchetti stood. He fingered O’Dell’s card. “I may reach you at this location, Mr. O’Dell?”
“Yes.”
Luchetti extended his hand and then looked down at it. “Given what you have told me, I do not expect you to shake my hand, sir, but I offer it in humble gratitude of the difficult deed you have performed this day—confronting me with my own culpability in Tory’s humiliation and suffering. I am a cad and a coward, but you have my heartfelt appreciation for ripping the blinders from my eyes, for showing me how far I have fallen—and for exposing the woman I married for the unconscionable shrew that she is.”
“Charles Luchetti! Do not dare to use such tone or langu—”
“Shut up, Belinda.”
He had started to withdraw the hand he extended to O’Dell when O’Dell reached across the desk and took it in his. “It is never too late to begin again, Mr. Luchetti . . . or to make amends.”
“I . . . I shall think on how to do both, Mr. O’Dell.”
O’Dell picked up his hat and tipped it to Mrs. Luchetti. “Have a pleasant evening, ma’am.”
He was certain she would have anything but.
O’Dell was not finished at the Broadmoor. He left Charles Luchetti’s office in search of the sharp-tongued Miss Visser.
There. O’Dell saw her skittering across the lobby, away from him.
“Miss Visser!” O’Dell did not shout, but his voice boomed in the high-ceilinged lobby.
Miss Visser walked faster. She broke into a trot.
O’Dell bellowed, “Miss Visser! If you do not stop, I shall tell the world who you truly are and what you have done—beginning with your relationship with Roxanne Cleary.”
At least a dozen pairs of eyes in the wide lobby fastened themselves first on O’Dell and then on Miss Visser.
O’Dell tapped his derby against his thigh and growled, “Come to me, Miss Visser, or I shall recite your follies right here, before the Broadmoor’s guests.”
Miss Visser, considering the spectacle she was embroiled in and fearing the scene growing even worse, changed course. She crossed the lobby and approached O’Dell.
“What is it you want?”
O’Dell knew fear when he saw it, and the woman was oozing with it. “I am not here today about your past sins, Miss Visser, but about your present ones: Are you spreading gossip about Victoria Washington around Denver?”
Relief mixed with guilt washed the woman’s face. “Victoria Washington? Is she in Denver?”
O’Dell did not buy her feigned ignorance: The fashion pages of Denver’s newspapers had acknowledged Tory’s emergence as a Denver couturière. Luchetti might not read the fashion rags, but his wife and Trudy Visser likely did.
“I asked if you have been spreading gossip about her.”
She wagged her head with indignation. “No, I have not. I swear it.”
When she did not drop her eyes under O’Dell’s penetrating scrutiny, he believed that she was telling the truth. However, O’Dell had the disturbing sensation that she knew more than she was saying, that he had not asked the right question.
He placed his hat on his head. “We shall discuss what you did to Victoria Washington another time, Miss Visser. You shall answer for your crimes. You have my word on that.”
Chapter 37
Preparations for Tory’s fashion parade went forward. Every employee of Victoria’s House of Fashion labored from early morning to late evening every day but Sunday in the weeks leading up to the showing.
Tory, who scarcely saw her own bed during the race to complete her spring lineup, called Miss Tobin to her side midmorning. “I really must run to the bank this afternoon; please manage in my absence.”
“Yes, miss.”
Tory left the shop while the staff were having their lunch and crossed the distance to her bank in short order. The skies were leaden and drizzly and the temperatures bitter, so she carried the deposit under her cloak, hugged close to her person where it was unseen. She reached the bank without incident.
Relieved to have completed her task, Tory started back to the shop. The sidewalks were clogged with pedestrians shivering and hurrying to get out of the cold, and Tory did not see who shoved her: One moment she was at the outside edge of the crowded sidewalk—and the next moment she was sprawling in the street with an automobile bearing down on her.
Just as quickly, a strong arm grabbed onto hers and yanked her from the cobblestones into the gutter—a hairsbreadth from being run over. As the motorcar sped past her, its churning wheels splattered her with mud.
Not that the spray mattered much—considering that Tory was sitting in a gutter rank with running mud and trash.
Tory’s first thought was, I shall have to go home, bathe, and dress again before I can return to work—and I have so much to do.
“Oh, bother.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
Tory glanced up at the stranger leaning over her. “I beg your pardon?”
“You were nearly run down! I pulled you from
beneath the tires of that car, and all you can say is, ‘oh, bother’?”
A small crowd was gathering, men and women concerned and murmuring.
“I say, is the lady all right?”
“She was almost killed!”
“Why, I believe that is Victoria Washington—I saw her photograph in the Post.”
“I think you are right—it is her. My, but did you hear what is being said about her?”
As the comments reached her, Tory’s face burned.
“Don’t listen to the old crows.”
Tory lifted her eyes toward her knight in shining . . . wool. Combed, charcoal-gray wool, a nice weight for this bitter day. Her gaze went higher and discovered a pair of concerned green-flecked hazel eyes under a head of wavy brown hair.
“Dear me! I am . . .” Tory eyed the gutter with distaste. “Would you mind?”
“Not at all. You have been sitting in the gutter far too long.”
Tory frowned. Did his comment hint at humor?
He pulled her to standing, and Tory stepped onto the sidewalk, sore and disheveled but otherwise unharmed.
“Are you all right?” her rescuer asked.
“I shall be. I do not . . .” she looked around. “I do not know how I fell into the street.”
“You did not fall. You were pushed. I saw it happen.”
Tory started. “Yes. I remember now!” She stared at the crowed that was now breaking up. “Who? Who pushed me?”
“I did not get a good look at him—I was too busy pulling you from certain death. But come, you need to run home and clean up, yes?”
Tory examined her suit. “Ugh. Most certainly. I do not live far.”
“I shall escort you.”
“No, that is not necessary,” Tory protested. And I do not know you, she thought, recalling too late Mr. O’Dell’s stern warnings and how she had ignored them.
The man reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a card. He handed the card to Tory who read, Jack Monroe, Attorney at Law.
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