The man was astute.
“What about your employment fails to meet your expectation?”
He’d opened the door. She would walk through it. Pulling in a breath of fortification, she met his intense gaze and spoke honestly. “I’m disquieted by the number of children I see working the factory floor. Children, in my opinion, should spend their daytime hours beneath a schoolhouse roof and their nighttime hours sleeping.”
Mr. Dinsmore had the audacity to chuckle. “You are opinionated.”
Caroline didn’t smile. “I have reasons for my opinion, sir.”
“And I have reasons for hiring children.”
Although she didn’t mean to, she snorted—a short, derisive grunt. “Yes. It’s to your financial advantage.” Aware she was treading on dangerous ground—the man could terminate her employment and thereby end her investigation with one word—she couldn’t seem to hold back once she’d started. The captive audience proved too convenient. “With children drawing a quarter of the wages of a man, anyone can see how crowding your employment log with youngsters results in greater profits for the factory. But at what cost, Mr. Dinsmore? I’ll tell you—the cost of these young people’s childhoods. And a childhood is not something that can ever be regained.”
He gazed at her, his expression as bland as a sated cat holding the tail of a mouse for the sake of frightening it. “You’re mistaken, Miss Lang. In my factory every worker is treated equally in regard to compensation. Men, women, children … Their wage is dependent upon the job performed and their years of service.”
Caroline stared in disbelief. Such bald lies he’d delivered with a straight face and glib tongue. Did he think she possessed no sense? “My co-craters, all men, find double the pay of my earnings at the end of the week. The children receive only half of what I draw.” She pursed her lips disdainfully. “Unless you count the bag of imperfect candies sent with them each Saturday as a bonus.”
His eyebrows descended. His fingers tightened on the head of the cane, seeming to strangle the poor horse. “You speak untruths, Miss Lang.” His voice turned hard, his gentility slipping. “Dinsmore’s has welcomed workers of all ages and genders, treating them equally in every fashion, including compensation. Many of my adult employees began as children, learned to perform a task with precision, and advanced to more skilled—and therefore higher-paying—positions over time. My factory has been a school in and of itself, meeting the needs of countless young people and their families over the years.” His green-gold eyes narrowed into slits. “I advise you to silence your offensive surmising lest you meet with unpleasant consequences.”
A chill attacked Caroline, completely unrelated to the brisk breeze flowing through the carriage. Had he just threatened her?
The carriage stopped, and the driver glanced over his shoulder. “We’ve reached the Troubadour, sir.”
Mr. Dinsmore turned a regal smile on the man. “Thank you.” Then he faced Caroline, and the steely glare returned. “Employment at Dinsmore’s is a privilege, young woman. Do not abuse it. Now”—he sat back in the seat and smiled as though there’d never been a cross word between them—“enjoy your dinner with your friends, Miss Lang. It was a delight to have this brief time to become acquainted.”
Caroline clutched her shawl closed with one fist and pulled herself to the edge of the seat with the other. “Yes. It has been … enlightening. Good day, sir, and thank you again for the ride.”
The driver assisted Caroline from the carriage. She remained at the edge of the street until the conveyance rolled away, then she darted for the hotel’s front doors as quickly as the rain-slick cobblestones allowed. She could hardly wait to tell Noble what she’d learned.
Letta
Two plump raindrops landed on Letta’s head, and she looked skyward with a scowl. The clouds had started rolling in midday, bringing a chill air with them. But she’d hoped no rain would come.
She pocketed Lank’s knife and began tossing the fillets of catfish she’d stripped from their bones into the lunch bucket. She’d learned to clean fish—something she wouldn’t have thought possible a few days ago—but she hoped she wouldn’t have to learn to eat the fish raw. She shuddered at the idea. But they had no stove in their shack, and not even Lank, who’d proved to be amazingly skillful, could keep a fire going in the rain. Hopefully, the rain wouldn’t last long. They’d collected a good supply of sticks and would have dry fuel ready when they could move outside to build a fire.
Lank and Lesley came running from the rise beyond the shack, dragging something that looked like a large blanket. She snatched up the bucket and trotted to meet them. “What’cha got there?”
Lesley beamed, showing off the gap where he’d lost a tooth yesterday. “Found an old busted-up wagon down yonder in a gully. We was hopin’ there’d be somethin’ good in it, but there was only mouse nests. But this cover was still there. It’s chewed up some, but we peeled it off an’ brung it home anyway. Lank says we can use it for … somethin’.”
The wet plops from overhead came faster. Letta ducked inside the shack, gesturing for her brothers to follow. “Well, leave it out there for now, an’ get in here before you get soaked.” Maybe the rain would wash away some of the mouse droppings clinging to the rough fabric. After all the cleaning she’d done—as best she could with a broom of stiff reeds gathered from the creek—she didn’t want to bring that filthy thing inside.
She closed the door behind them and crossed to the corner they’d deemed the kitchen even though it didn’t have a stove, a table, or even shelves. She put the bucket of fish next to the cluster of rusty tin cans holding wild onions, watercress, and a few walnut meats. When Lank had found the battered cans in the weeds behind the shack, Lesley had wanted to line them up and throw rocks at them. But Letta had taken them to the creek, rubbed them as clean as possible with sand, and used them as her cupboard. The cans might not be much, but they were better than nothing, and it made her feel warm inside to know she was taking care of her brothers.
Turning from the corner, she spotted the boys hunkered in the middle of the floor tracing a tick-tack-toe game in the dirt with a stick. They looked so happy, relaxed. A smile threatened, but she couldn’t smile at them. They’d disobeyed her by wandering so far from the shack. Even though they’d found something useful, she had to make it clear to them to stay close. If somebody spotted them, they’d have to leave.
Balling her hands into fists, Letta gathered her indignation and stomped over and planted her foot in the middle of their game.
They both looked up, eyes wide. Lank exclaimed, “Huh-hey!”
Letta put her fists on her hips and glowered at the pair. “Listen, you two. I told you to stay close, an’ you didn’t do it.”
They lowered their heads like a pair of whipped pups. Pa had made them cower that way. Letta’s heart turned over. She crouched down beside them and gentled her voice. “I’m glad you’re tryin’ to find things we can use here. I know you’re just tryin’ to help. But it ain’t safe to go traipsin’ off that way. We’re far from town. There’s critters out here—wild ones that might see the two o’ you as a mighty good dinner. Then again, you might come across some folks who don’t take kindly to us makin’ use o’ this shack. They could run us off, right back to Sinclair, where the sheriff’ll put us on a train an’ send us to Aunt Gertrude.”
To her relief, they listened instead of arguing. She cupped their shoulders with her hands. “From now on you gotta do what I say an’ not go by yourselves any farther’n the creek behind us or the scrub brush at the top o’ the rise. An’ never, never go toward the railroad tracks.” Somebody would spot them for sure if they went in that direction. She tightened her grip on their skinny shoulders. “Do you promise?”
The two exchanged a look. A guilty look.
Letta gave them a little shake. “What’samatter?”
Lank chewed his lower lip, ducking his head. Lesley squirmed beneath her hand. He bobbed his head at Lank. “Tell
her.”
Lank slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a fistful of wrinkled, marble-sized, pinkish-yellow lumps. He held them out to Letta, a sheepish look on his freckled face. “Wuh-we was guh-guh-gonna get a bunch muh-more o’ these an’ suh-suh-s’prise you.”
Letta plucked one of the lumps from Lank’s hand. It felt squishy between her fingers. She pinched it hard and discovered a large seed—a pit—taking up most of the space underneath the wrinkly skin. Juice dribbled across her hand, and she licked it. Sour! She made a face and wiped her hand on her skirt. Plopping the smashed lump back with the others in Lank’s dirty palm, she coughed a short laugh. “Glad you was thinkin’ of me, but that’s not the nicest surprise I ever had.”
“That’s only part o’ the surprise.” Lesley bounded upright, nearly dancing in excitement. “Them little things don’t taste all that sweet, but we know how to sweeten ’em up.”
Letta looked at Lank. He grinned at her. She bumped him with her elbow, teasing a little. “You got a bag o’ sugar hid somewhere, Lank? It’s gonna take a whole lot to make them things taste good.”
Lank giggled.
Lesley shook his head. His hair fell over his forehead, and he pushed it aside with a thrust of his hand. “No, but he found honey!”
They’d been messing around with a beehive? Letta jumped up, her heart firing into her throat. She got angry all over again. “You better not’ve been pokin’ at some bees’ hive! Those things’ll sting you somethin’ fierce!”
Lesley waved both hands at her, and Lank rose, his wide eyes expressing innocence. Lesley said, “We just found it. Didn’t bother it. Not even a bit. Lank wouldn’t let me.”
Letta could imagine Lank holding Lesley back.
Lesley chattered on, his voice shrill. “But Lank knows how to get the honey without us gettin’ stung. That’s why we brought that cover with us. Lank wants to throw it over the hive, then light a fire inside it. Smoke the bees out. Then we can get at the honey.”
Letta gazed at Lank in amazement. A slow smile pulled on her lips. She let it grow. “Lank, you know how people wanna call you dummy an’ such?”
Lank hung his head. Plump tears quivered on his lower lashes.
Letta grabbed his chin and made him look at her. “You ain’t a dummy, Lank. Not even close. An’ don’t you ever let nobody call you that again. You’re the smartest person I know.”
The tears spilled down Lank’s cheeks, but he smiled so big his whole face lit. “Thuh-thuh-thank you, Letta.”
“An’ ya know what?”
The boys chorused, “What?”
Letta grinned. Her mouth watered, thinking of mixing the fruit, walnuts, and honey together. “Soon as this rain stops, we’ll go honey gatherin’.”
Caroline
“At the least,” Caroline said, cradling a steaming cup between her palms in lieu of sipping the tea Annamarie had poured for her, “there is a large gap in communication between Gordon Hightower and Fulton Dinsmore. At the most, someone is a liar. But at this point I can’t figure out who deserves the title—Hightower or Dinsmore.”
It pained her to speak ill of Ollie’s father, yet the man had chilled her with his veiled threat. Had Dinsmore played a role in Harmon Bratcher’s accident? And, even more difficult to consider, did Ollie know of his father’s participation, and had he misled her regarding his reason for being at the factory? What if, instead of gathering information to build his leadership abilities, he was actually there to make sure his father’s deeds remained hidden?
She needed to share all these concerns with Noble, yet to do so meant breaking her promise to Ollie to keep his identity a secret. So she hugged the warm cup and kept her deepest worries inside.
Noble stroked his chin whiskers, apparently deep in thought. In the ensuing quiet, the patter of raindrops on the windowpane became a lullaby, soothing some of the disenchanting thoughts rolling through Caroline’s brain.
“There’s really only one way I know to uncover the truth, and that’s to look at the financial records.” Noble spoke softly, as if in deference to the sweet melody of the rainfall. “Hightower, as the bookkeeper, will have detailed reports of incoming and outgoing funds. Although the compensation issue is unrelated to Harmon’s death, as far as we can tell, discovering who is being untruthful about the payment workers receive at the factory might lead us to another clue. So we need to find a way to look at the records.”
His serious tone reactivated the uneasy feelings Caroline had briefly set aside. Her hands began to tremble. She set the teacup on the table next to her chair before she spilled the liquid. “I might have an opportunity to do that tomorrow.”
Noble raised a brow. “Oh?”
Her mouth felt dry. How odd to plan to sneak into the factory with a man who could be working against her rather than with her. She quickly informed Noble of Ollie’s invitation to meet her at the factory’s back doors after all the night-shift employees had vacated the building so they could examine the elevator’s workings without fear of someone seeing them and reporting them to Hightower.
Noble frowned. “How is he able to enter the factory when it’s closed?”
Caroline experienced a twinge of conscience as she answered, knowing it was only a partial truth, given Ollie’s identity. “He’s a janitor.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” Noble sat forward. “Caroline, you’ve been an agent for six years now—sufficient time to hone your skills and develop your instincts. I trust you to know your job, so please don’t misunderstand what I’m about to say.” He fit his hands together, gripping so tightly his knuckles turned white, offering mute evidence of his inner turmoil. “This case is different. Your investigations have always involved possible breaches of safety issues, never the possibility of a murder. If someone in that factory deliberately ended Harmon Bratcher’s life to protect himself and his illicit dealings, he won’t be averse to taking a second life, especially when he believes it’s only a nosy factory worker.”
Caroline nodded slowly while a thousand spiders raced up and down her spine, sending chills of trepidation through her extremities.
“If you’d rather I continue in your stead, no one in the commission, including me, would look askance at you or lose respect for you. You can walk away right now, Caroline. It’s your choice.”
Noble’s offer proved how much he cared about her well-being. But she couldn’t accept. She wanted to complete the investigation, and, even more, she wanted to discover if she’d erred in trusting Ollie. Her own self-worth depended upon her findings. With a smile she reached across to Noble and placed her hand over his fists. “I love you for being willing to replace me. I understand your concerns, and I assure you I’ll be very cautious in proceeding. But I started this investigation, and I want to finish it. With your blessing, of course.”
Noble turned one hand and gripped hers. Hard. Assuringly. Confidently. “You have my blessing. And more than that, my dear, you have my prayers.”
Caroline nodded gravely. If some of her worries proved valid, she might very well need those prayers before tomorrow came to a close.
Oliver
Oliver checked his timepiece, frowned, then made another pacing journey back and forth behind the row of garbage cans near the factory’s service doors. Hadn’t he and Carrie decided on seven o’clock? It was already ten minutes past seven, and no sign of her.
He’d watched her clock out, just as they’d planned, and leave with the other workers a little more than an hour ago. When she’d scurried up the sidewalk in the direction of her boarding hotel, he’d expected her to take a detour, work her way around the block, and return. But instead she’d completely disappeared in the early-morning mists. Had she changed her mind about meeting him?
Yesterday’s rain had created more puddles in the graveled patch where wagons pulled in to receive the crates of chocolate. Oliver eased around them, mindful of the difficulty of washing muddy spatters from the bottom few inches of his pant legs.
Odd how being forced to perform the rudimentary chores himself had awakened a sense of diligence. When he returned home, he would express frequent appreciation to those who saw to his laundry.
He reached the loading-dock doors and perched on the damp edge of the hip-high dock, sending another glance up the alley. Still no Carrie. He’d give her twenty more minutes, and then he’d go in alone. Even if she’d lost interest in investigating whether or not Bratcher could have accidentally fallen to his death, he wanted to know. He wanted to be able to tell Father. Because if his suspicions were correct, and Gordon Hightower had orchestrated the man’s death, his first act as the new owner of Dinsmore’s World-Famous Chocolates Factory would be to search for a new manager.
Or maybe he’d just fill the position himself.
He paused, considering the feasibility of such a plan. Father had always remained president of the company while allowing others to oversee the actual operation. Oliver wouldn’t criticize Father for the choice. His philanthropic endeavors, made possible by his freedom from the duties of management, had benefited many over the years. But Oliver toyed with the idea of being a more hands-on owner, so to speak. He’d enjoyed mingling with the workers, learning their names, and becoming acquainted with their concerns, both work related and personal.
His ideas went against the societal separation that he’d been trained to follow, yet the thought of working alongside his employees rather than keeping a distance gained in appeal the longer he remained among their ranks. Perhaps he could continue Father’s tradition of philanthropy but focus it more on his own employees. The mantle of leadership began to feel more comfortable on his shoulders as he considered the option.
The patter of footsteps on cobblestones captured his attention. He darted to the edge of the building and hid himself in the shadows, squinting through the rays of dawn. A woman approached, her skirts held above the ankles of her boots and her head down, revealing an explosion of auburn corkscrew curls. A smile burst across his face. She’d come.
Echoes of Mercy: A Novel Page 28
