Into the Flames

by Multi-Author

  “And the Boston Herald the day before that.” She plucked the papers from their racks behind the sales counter. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “You could call me Eli, like I’ve asked you to a hundred times.” She blushed and he relented, as usual. “Any other news I should know about?” He knew she scanned the headlines as she set out the papers in the morning so she could make recommendations.

  She shrugged. “President Coolidge is sending troops to control the looting in Miami after the hurricane. They’re saying there could be thousands of people dead by the time the numbers are all in. I’m sure glad we don’t get those here on Lake Michigan.”

  “No, just tornados, blizzards, and ice storms.” He laughed lightly, noting that today she didn’t chuckle with him. He watched her hands, noting a small bruise that circled her left wrist. Damn it, her father had been knocking her around again. Why didn’t she move away? He knew she was of age. She’d gone to grade school with his younger sister Diana.

  “And fires.” She gave him a polite, professional smile and tugged down the sleeve of her prim white blouse. “We should have the new Conan Doyle novel, The Mists of Time in sometime next week. I’ll be sure to save you a copy.”

  “You do that.” After paying, he gave her a wave and left the shop, having come up with no more reasons to linger.

  What did it say about him that picking up his newspapers was the highlight of his day? As he walked down the street, quiet now that it was September and most of the lake tourists had gone home, he waved at Stan Glenn, who was washing the town’s brand new, state of the art pump and ladder engine in front of the fire hall.

  Eli smiled. About the only thing that made his blood pump like Nettie Price was fighting fires. Someday, Carstairs would have a professional, paid fire department. For now, they were all volunteers, except for Stan, the mechanic who looked after the equipment and manned the station house night and day. Eli supposed it was a good thing that he was able to volunteer, but still earn his living as a lawyer. If his banker father thought Eli had shamed the family by going into law, the elder Lawson would have had a heart attack to see his son as a professional fireman instead.

  * * *

  Nettie watched Eli as he walked away from the bookstore, down Main Street toward his law office. Did he know he’d burned off most of one tawny eyebrow? He probably didn’t care. Unlike most rich men who made a big show of donating money to charity and giving nothing of themselves, Eli was the heart and soul of Carstairs’ growing fire department. He’d donated the pump and ladder truck, which was so newfangled, it had to be shipped from the east coast. He’d also volunteered to be the driver, traveling to Chicago for a week-long training course. Based on the frequent burn marks he seemed to ignore, he didn’t stay in the truck while the others worked, either. Brave, foolish man. The town was lucky to have him.

  “Everything all right, Nettie?” James Webster, the owner of the bookstore and Nettie’s godfather, emerged from the back room, his spectacles perched low on his nose.

  Nettie straightened an already perfect stack of Chronicles. “It’s a beautiful morning, sir.” She unintentionally parroted Eli’s words. Her mind was still on his face, ruggedly handsome and framed by short golden brown hair that had a tendency to wave. Even his eyes were a bright amber-brown, and she couldn’t help but imagine him as a lion, brave, strong, and intent on protecting his pride—which in this case was the entire town.

  “Nettie? You’re sure you’ll be all right handling the store on your own? I can get Walt to come in and help after school and on Saturdays.” Walter Pratt was the teenager who did deliveries for the shop. Her godfather glanced at Nettie’s wrist and frowned. “I really wish you’d stay at our house for the week. You’d be doing us a favor, watering Muriel’s flowers and such.”

  Nettie tugged down her sleeve. “I’ll stop by and check on the flowers every day when I bring in the mail. If he doesn’t mind, you can have Walt stop by for an hour each afternoon to help with shipments, but other than that, there’s no need to worry. You and Aunt Muriel enjoy your vacation.” They’d offered before to have her move in with them, but they understood. Nettie had responsibilities at home.

  “Well, if things get bad, you have a key.” James lifted her hat and hand bag from the shelf behind her and held them out. “Now go on home. We’ll send you a postcard from Pittsburgh.”

  “You do that. And give your new grandson a kiss from me.” Nettie kissed Uncle James on the cheek and left. It was a beautiful early autumn day, so she dawdled a bit, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine and the friendly smiles from other pedestrians on the quiet streets. Carstairs was like most other places on the Lake Michigan shore—a three-ring-circus in the summer, but now that the tourists had gone home, it was just another small town—much more homey and inviting.

  Homey. Not a word that could be applied to the tiny bungalow on the outskirts of town where Nettie lived with her father. She paused in the driveway and inhaled one last breath of fresh air, wincing as she stretched the bruise on her ribcage from the night before. Putting on her best fake smile, she walked in the side door and hung her gray felt cloche on a peg.

  “You’re late.” The surly voice called from the living room and Nettie breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t slurred. He wasn’t drunk—not yet.

  “Sorry, Pa. I had to stop at the post office for Mr. Webster.” She didn’t call her boss Uncle James when she was at home. Alfred Price, her father, didn’t like to be reminded that the well-off Websters were Nettie’s godparents. Aunt Muriel and Mama had been the best of friends, and Pa didn’t much like anything that reminded him of Mama. Mostly that meant he didn’t like anything about Nettie.

  “That penny-pinching bastard better have paid you overtime, then.”

  “He did.” Nettie rolled up her sleeves and took the pot of stew she’d made the night before from the icebox. She’d have to give Pa an extra quarter from the housekeeping budget this week, but the leisurely walk had been worth it.

  “Did you stop at the drug store?” Pa appeared in the doorway, wearing nothing more than a filthy undershirt and a pair of patched-up trousers. Why she bothered doing his laundry was beyond her.

  “I stopped,” she lied, mixing a batch of biscuits to go with the stew. “Mr. Murphy said he’ll have your medicine in tomorrow, Friday at the latest.” Everyone in town knew Murphy’s connections in Chicago sent him another batch of whiskey every Monday and Thursday nights, but somehow Pa could never seem to remember that and used up his “prescription” before another shipment was due.

  “Bastard.” Pa wasn’t particularly creative with his profanity. He frowned, scratching his forehead with his damaged right hand and she watched him carefully. Although he’d lost three fingers in a mill accident five years earlier, he could still make a terrifying fist.

  Nettie sighed as he turned to leave. For once he hadn’t decided to take out his frustration on her. She finished cooking in silence, desperately hoping he didn’t mind beef stew for the second night in a row. He’d been getting less and less careful about where he left the bruises.

  At least she wouldn’t be home much for the next month. With the Websters off to see their new grandchild, Nettie would be busier than usual at the shop. She enjoyed any part of the day when she was away from home, but her job was special. She loved books. When she was younger, she’d dreamed of being a writer, someone like Jane Austen or Louisa May Alcott. Later, she’d decided she’d rather read books than write them so she was doubly lucky that her godparents had hired her. She could support her father, and still got to spend her days surrounded by words. She crossed her fingers that he wouldn’t do something criminally stupid and somehow get her fired.

  * * *

  The fire bell rang at six Friday morning. Eli had trained himself to listen for it, even in his sleep, so he woke and hurried into the clothes he kept beside the bed every night—heavy duck trousers and shirt. His leather helmet, thick rubb
er boots and oilcloth coat would be waiting at the fire hall. The helmets were another innovation he’d introduced to the squad after his training in Chicago. Wearing headgear could protect a fireman’s life if a roof or ceiling caved in, so Eli had made sure there was one for every volunteer.

  The fire proved to be a small one, a tipped over lantern in a barn. It could have been worse, but the farmhand who’d knocked it over had started putting the flames out, even as his coworker had raised the alarm. Other than a few timbers and part of this fall’s hay crop, there wasn’t much damaged. The chemical extinguisher pump on the new truck worked like a charm.

  Eli got home with barely enough time to wash and change before dashing downstairs to his office for his first morning appointment. That meant he had to wait until lunch time to get his newspapers.

  Needless to say, the morning seemed to drag on forever.

  He whistled on his way to the shop, as usual. He couldn’t have said what it was about Nettie Price that made him smile, but every day she did. She wasn’t anything like the girlfriends he’d had, whether in college or since. He’d always been drawn to tall, elegant blondes, the more modern the better. Bobs, cigarette holders and rolled-down stockings were the norm in his circles. Nettie still wore her straight dark hair in a thick knot at the nape of her neck—and the simple style suited her softly pretty features. No crimson lipstick or kohl eyeliner adorned her face, her skirts fell nearly to her ankles and she wore her fingernails short and clean. She should have been an unmemorable mouse—if not for her quick smile and quicker mind.

  At every other shop in town, the clerks looked at Eli as if he were nothing more than his wallet or his position on the city council, always trying to sell him something more, something he didn’t need, or hoping to influence his opinion on this or that. Nettie saw the man beneath, and spoke to him like a person, and damn if every book she suggested wasn’t a good one. Best of all, he’d watched her with other customers. She was thoughtful to everyone who entered the shop, rich or poor. She was even polite to the ones who spoke rudely about her drunken father.

  It was on that thought that Eli entered the shop so he’d momentarily lost his cheerful mood. It disintegrated completely when he got a look at Nettie’s face. Her left cheek was a mass of bruising, the eye swollen nearly shut.

  And still she smiled. “I wondered where you were today. I’ve saved you a Washington Post.” Her bright tone never wavered.

  Eli lost all pretense of civility and stalked to the counter. “Your father?” He pitched his voice low, so it wouldn’t carry through the open door.

  “I tripped.” She winced as she tried to smile again. “Fell down a couple of stairs into a wall.” Her fingers clenched on the counter, wrinkling his copy of the local paper.

  Not that he gave a damn about that. He laid his hand over his. “You’re not a very good liar, Miss Nettie. Why’d he hit you this time?”

  She shrugged. “I forgot to pick up his medicine on my way home last night.”

  “Medicine, my Aunt Gertrude. You mean his booze.” Everyone knew Murphy the pharmacist sold bootleg liquor out of his shop, and gave a cut of the profit to Doc Rollins, the disreputable quack who prescribed it for a wide variety of ills.

  Nettie pulled her hand away. “It doesn’t matter, Mr. Lawson. I won’t forget it again.”

  “Why do you stay with him? You’re of age. You have a good job here. There are several boarding houses in town that would be happy to have you, especially with a reference from the Websters.” Hell, he’d get her a letter of reference from the city council if it got her to leave her home.

  “I can’t do that, sir. My father needs me.” She moved to the cash register and rang in the price of the two papers. “But thank you for your concern.”

  “At least talk to someone.” He handed her a dollar bill and wished he could tell her to keep the change, but he knew her pride wouldn’t allow it. “Maybe one of the ministers could talk to him…”

  “Not necessary.” She counted out his change and slid it across the counter, avoiding contact with his hand. “It’s kind of you to worry, but it’s better to leave things alone. Have a nice afternoon, Mr. Lawson.” She didn’t even smile as she dismissed him.

  Eli took the long way back to his office, circling the three-block radius that made up downtown Carstairs. Near the end of his walk, he stood on Shoreline Drive and stared out at Lake Michigan, the water calm and sparkling in the sun. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. He loved his town when it was full of summer vacationers, but he loved it most on days like this, when he could stare out at the lake without seeing another living soul. After a few minutes, his fury had died down to embers, and he turned the corner onto Second Street, where his home and office stood, half a block past the shops of downtown.

  “Damn and blast it.” Just when he’d settled his temper, there stood Al Price, leaning against the wall of the drug store, taking a swig from a brown glass bottle, a couple of his cronies on either side of him. Eli told himself to look away and keep walking. Nettie was an adult, and there wasn’t anything the law could do since she willingly stayed at home and supported the man.

  Unfortunately, Eli’s body had apparently stopped listening to his brain. He stalked up to Price and glared down at the older man. Both of the other bums scurried away—Eli wasn’t a small man and he’d broken his nose twice. He knew he could be a scary-looking bastard, even in his Brooks Brothers suit. “Price, a word?”

  “What do you want, shyster?” Price took another swig. “All legal. Got a per-scription and everything.”

  Eli almost stepped back at the foul stench of the other man’s breath. He crossed his arms over his chest and held his ground. “I don’t care if you pickle your liver, and I’m not a G-man. I just want to give you a friendly little warning.”

  “Oh yeah? Warning about what?”

  “You touch your daughter again, and I’ll find you. She gets a black eye, you get two. Hit her with a fist, I hit you with mine. Got it?” Eli leaned closer, letting all the fury he felt show in his face. “It’s over.”

  Price laughed. “You’re sweet on my girl. Ain’t that something, Mr. High-and-Mighty city councilman? Well let me tell you something.” He poked Eli in the chest. “You better stick to sniffing around your own kind. I see you anywhere near my Nettie, you’ll be meeting the business end of my shotgun.”

  “I doubt you can see straight, let alone shoot straight.” What idiot had sold this man a shotgun? Or ammunition for that matter? He wasn’t right in the head enough to own a gun. But that was life in America. Only criminals could get liquor, but anybody could buy all the bullets they wanted. It took all Eli’s restraint to step back instead of landing a right hook on the man’s ugly face. “You remember that your daughter has friends in this town. More than you do. Keep your fists to yourself.”

  He strode away, ignoring Price sputtering behind him.

  Chapter Two

  “What did you say to him?” Pa threw another punch, this one catching Nettie in the solar plexus. The breath whooshed out of her and she fell to the floor. He’d blindsided her with the first one the minute she’d walked in the door after work. Tomorrow she’d have two matching black eyes. Meanwhile the pain made her dizzy and sparks of light glittered in her vision.

  “Nothing,” she tried to say, though it came out as a gasp and she had to fight not to vomit. She hadn’t told anyone anything. “Who?”

  “Been cozying up to that hoity-toity lawyer, have you? Planning to turn whore? That’s the only use a man like that would have for the likes of you.” He punctuated his insult with a series of kicks.

  Nettie curled in on herself so his boot caught her arms instead of her face or stomach. One particular blow caused a white-hot burst of pain through her wrist.

  “No, you know your place, girl. Right here, taking care of your old Pa, like you promised.” He caught her in the shin with one last kick that made her senses blur. “Now
get the hell off that floor and fix my supper.”

  Nettie groaned and tried to move. When she moved her left arm, she screamed and passed out.

  * * *

  Where was Nettie? She always had the store open by nine o’clock sharp. A handful of would-be customers milled around, looking confused. Eli checked his pocket watch again. It was quarter past. Something in his gut told him told him she was in trouble.

  City Hall was kitty-corner across the street, so Eli strode away from the store. Once inside, he went to the clerk’s office and asked for Alfred Price’s address. The clerk’s secretary, a middle-aged woman with a keen eye for gossip raised an eyebrow before pulling a card from a file labeled “Voter Registrations.” She wrote down the address on a slip of paper and handed it over. “Client of yours?”

  Eli snorted. “Not likely. Need to ask him some questions. Can’t talk much about it.” Let her think Price was a potential witness to something.

  “Better you than me.” With a delicate sniff, she returned to her desk. “I wouldn’t go near him if he was on fire and I had a bucket of water.”

  “Well, unfortunately, I’d have to, either way. Lawyer and fireman, that’s me. You have a good day now.” He tipped his fedora and left the office.

  Instead of entering his own, he ducked into the alley behind and climbed into his car. The address she’d given him was a bit out of town, away from the lake and into the woods where property values were lower. His slick cream-colored Chrysler roadster was filthy brown after a mile on rutted dirt roads, but it only took him ten minutes or so to get there. Still, that must be a nasty walk for Nettie in the rain or snow. Why didn’t she move to a boardinghouse in town?

  And why the hell was he so obsessed with Nettie Price? It was true that helping people was in his blood—something his father had never understood—but his concern for Nettie went deeper. He’d been trying not to admit it, even to himself, but he cared for Nettie—she was more than a friendly shop clerk. She was pretty, in a soft, old-fashioned way, but it went deeper than that. He’d become entranced with the caring, whip-smart, stubborn woman inside the outdated skirts and blouses.