Alias Mrs Jones

by Kate McLachlan

  Alias Mrs. Jones

  Copyright © 2016 by Kate McLachlan

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Other Titles from Kate McLachlan

  About the Author

  Visit Us On Line

  Also by Kate McLachlan:

  RIP Series

  Rip Van Dyke

  Rescue At Inspiration Point

  Return of An Impetuous Pilot

  Other Books

  Hearts, Dead and Alive

  Murder and the Hurdy Gurdy Girl

  Christmas Crush

  Ten Little Lesbians

  Alias Mrs. Jones

  by

  Kate McLachlan

  Quest Books

  by Regal Crest

  Tennessee

  Copyright © 2016 by Kate McLachlan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The characters, incidents and dialogue herein are fictional and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN 978-1-61929-282-6

  eBook ISBN 978-1-61929-283-3

  First Printing 2016

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover design by Acorn Graphics

  Published by:

  Regal Crest Enterprises

  1042 Mount Lebanon Rd

  Maryville, TN 37804

  Find us on the World Wide Web at http://www.regalcrest.biz

  Published in the United States of America

  Acknowledgments

  1996. That’s when I finished the final draft of the earliest version of Alias Mrs. Jones, which at the time was titled The Wrong Track. That was back in the day before electronic submissions, email responses, or e-books. In 1996, you still had to write and mail a query letter and wait four weeks, six weeks, sometimes eight or twelve weeks, just to find out if you would be allowed to submit your manuscript, or even a bitty piece of it.

  I kept the responses I received, twenty-nine of them, nearly all form rejections. As often as not they were scrawled on top of my own query letter returned to me in my SASE. For those too young to remember, SASE is a Self-Addressed Stamped Envelope, without which your letter would be promptly thrown into the trash. I received one of my query letters back with a red-inked stamp on top reading (I think), “We a-----ate your qu---- and ---- our inability to re---- this material at this time.” I received a very friendly letter that asked to see my manuscript along with “$38 to cover handling.” Sometimes, stunningly, I’d receive a response that said, “Please send first 50 pages& SASE” or “We would be pleased to look at the first three chapters and synopsis. Please remember to enclose a SASE large enough for the return of the material.” And occasionally, very occasionally, I’d be asked to send in the entire manuscript (with SASE, of course.)

  When that happened I would run to Kinkos and print a copy, or sometimes two, of the manuscript, double-spaced and single-sided, package it up in a manuscript box, and mail it off. By this time, just to get my book into the hands of someone who would read it, I would have invested $25-$30 per submission! And then I would wait again--eight weeks, three months, six months, once more than a year, for the rejection slips to trickle in. I kept them all. There are twenty-nine of them.

  I did manage to get one literary agent interested enough to ask me to rewrite the entire book, which I did. But through bungled miscommunication (which occurs with excruciating slowness when writing letters through the mail to New York literary agents), I decided she was a flake, and I’m pretty sure she decided I was a flake too, and we abandoned each other.

  Shortly afterward, I started law school, which effectively ended my writing career for a while. When I started up again a few years later, I wrote a new book (Rip Van Dyke) and sent it off electronically to lesbian publishers that I didn’t even know existed in 1996. It was published in 2010, and I’ve published six books since. Last year, I picked up The Wrong Track, renamed it Alias Mrs. Jones, and rewrote the thing from beginning to end.

  It’s a historical mystery. Rewriting it sent me back in time, not only to 1902, when the events of the story take place, but also to 1996 and the early years of my writing. How excruciating it was to have to wait! wait! wait! wait! for someone to read what I wrote! I wanted feedback. I craved feedback. I needed feedback!

  For that reason, I want to acknowledge the many people who read, seemingly with pleasure, my early versions of this book. After all, I wrote it for them. Oh, sure, I wanted everyone to read my books. I still do. But back then I really had no idea if anyone would read what I wrote except my family and friends, and it was them I thought of when I wrote it.

  So thank you for keeping me writing, my sisters, Theresa, Joyce, and Jo (always listed in descending order of age or, as Jo claims, descending bra size.) They read everything I handed them and acted as if they liked it. Thank you to the Riverside Middle School crew, who read my books and asked for more— Linda, Jodie, Steve, Sue, and if I forgot anybody, I’m really sorry but it was a very long time ago. Thanks to Patricia, of course, my personal writing buddy and cheerleader.

  And thanks to Tonie, of course, for supporting me through the excruciating rewrites that occurred simultaneously with packing, moving into a new house, and learning a new job. Maybe now we can hang some pictures!

  Dedication

  For Patricia, my first writing partner and best friend forever.

  Chapter One

  THE STEAMING ENGINE of the Great Pacific lurched into the St. Paul depot. The depot clock read six o’clock, but that February morning of 1902 was still black as night. I peered out the window, but all I could see was a blurred string of electric lamps on the platform, a reflection of the bright interior of the car, and me. I didn’t look as tired as I felt, nor as frightened.

  I gave myself a tiny nod of encouragement and directed my scrutiny to the reflection of the passengers entering the car. Single men, some in pairs, husbands and wives, one small family, and a few ladies traveling alone like me. All seemed more interested in securing a seat than they were in me. I silently urged a single lady to choose the backward-facing seat across from me, but a man stopped beside me. He dropped his bag onto the opposite seat and lowered himself beside it. I tucked my feet back to allow room for his legs, though he was not a large man. A quick glance showed him to be about forty years old with a neatly curled mustache, freshly pressed suit, stiff white shirt cuffs, and nails that were polished and buffed. He met my eyes, and I returned my gaze to the window.

  I felt experienced and jaded beside the freshness of the new travelers settling in, for I had been riding already for a day and a night. I was just starting to breathe easier when, through the glass, I saw movement on the station platform. Three figures emerged from the darkness of the station into the artificial light cast on the platform. Glints reflected from something shiny on the lapels of two of the men. I eased back, reached a hand to tilt the brim of my hat, and peered through my
fingers. A third man walked between the other two, his arms held unnaturally behind him. They escorted him to a car behind us and disappeared from view. Moments later the two lawmen returned, laughing this time, and walked off the platform into the darkness. Their prisoner was now incarcerated on the train.

  My heart thudded. I couldn’t help but imagine myself in the place of that unfortunate prisoner. How would it feel to be escorted onto a train, or anywhere else for that matter, handcuffed and in full view of the public? Sweat pricked my forehead and I closed my eyes.

  “Excuse me, ma’am? Are you all right?” It was the man from the seat facing me. He leaned over me with a concerned look on his face. “Are you all right? May I get you some help?”

  “No.” I let out my breath, only then realizing I’d been holding it. “No, thank you.” I opened my handbag and reached for my handkerchief, closed the bag awkwardly, and dabbed the linen to my forehead. I felt the stranger move away. I hoped he would find another seat, but a moment later I felt a light touch on my shoulder. He stood beside me again, a cup in his hand.

  “It’s a clean cup,” he assured me when I hesitated.

  I lay the handkerchief in my lap and reached for the cup. The water was cool and fresh, having just been replenished by the porters.

  “Thank you.” I handed the cup back.

  The stranger noticed that I used only my left hand. He frowned at my right arm, which I cradled in my lap, and moved his gaze to my swollen lip.

  I turned to look out the window once more. “Thank you,” I said again, dismissing him. There was a time when I would have welcomed a stranger’s concern, craved it even, but it was too late for that now.

  I felt him move away again to replace the cup. Before he returned to his seat, the whistle blew and the train chugged forward. I was relieved. The noise from the engine precluded conversation. I could close my eyes and feign sleep.

  It was ironic that I’d captured a stranger’s attention now, when it was so unwelcome. I’m not the sort of person who is noticed much. My hair is muddy blonde, my eyes a pale gray, my lashes indifferent. I am not fat or thin or tall or voluptuous, though I am rather on the small side. Often, like a child, I am neither seen nor heard.

  I dozed. A shudder woke me as the train lumbered to a stop. It was bright daylight, and a peek out the window showed a sign that read St. Cloud. We were still in Minnesota.

  A few of the passengers gathered their belongings. I glanced at the man opposite me, and he slid his eyes behind me. He made no move to leave, and I wondered how far he was traveling. My own ticket would take me as far as Seattle, the end of the line. I had no plans after my arrival there. When I purchased the ticket, I only intended to get as far from New York as possible. If the stranger was traveling as far as me, we might spend the next day or so avoiding eye contact with one another. I wished I hadn’t fallen asleep. The porter must have checked the man’s ticket. If I’d been awake, I might have heard his destination.

  I was hungry. At the start of my journey, I’d tackled the grand dining car, but with my right hand out of commission, it was more effort than it was worth. I had since subsisted on the snacks and drinks peddled by boys at the frequent stops. I saw one enter the car with a tray of meat pies and a bag of fruit. I opened my handbag for some money.

  “Allow me, ma’am,” the stranger said. “Over here, boy.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t let you—”

  He handed over the money while I still fumbled with the clasp on my coin purse. A moment later, he held a fragrant pie and an orange toward me.

  “Thank you.” I took the pie, and he placed the orange beside me on the seat. He had purchased a pie for himself as well, and we ate in silence. The pie was pork, and it was delicious.

  The orange is what finally broke down the barrier of etiquette that held us apart. There was no way I could peel the orange with one hand, and there is something intimate about a man peeling a lady’s fruit for her. He handed me a juicy morsel and took one for himself. He popped his into his mouth. I ate mine gingerly, mindful of my sore lip, but we both ended up with juice on our chins, and that made us laugh.

  I blinked, as the cut on my lip opened, and winced as the acidic juice found the wound. The stranger stopped laughing. He jumped up and went to the back of the car to fetch another cup of water.

  “Better?” he asked when I had taken a drink.

  I nodded. “Thank you.” It seemed I was always thanking this man. I dabbed my handkerchief at my lip. There was very little blood.

  “My name is Talbot Stanfield,” he said.

  “Mrs. Jones,” I replied. “Eleanor Jones,” I added, though I normally called myself Nell.

  To my surprise, the next few hours passed pleasantly. Mr. Stanfield was a kind and humorous companion. He did not ask about my injuries, and I did not explain. Conversation with him lightened the tedium of the journey and helped me ignore my physical discomforts. The rumble of the wheels over the track that had prevented conversation earlier was now only a relaxing hum.

  “My wife is a great reader of novels and ladies’ journals,” he told me. “My older daughter is more interested in fashion and young men. She’s only sixteen, but I fear she’ll leave the nest soon. My younger daughter thinks her sister is silly. She likes to pretend she’s a lawyer, like me, and has set up a little office in her schoolroom. She keeps us laughing, that one. How about you, Mrs. Jones? Do you have children?”

  “No, I’ve not been so fortunate. Where are you traveling to, Mr. Stanfield?”

  “I’m going to Hillyard, a little town in Washington. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t be sorry. I’m not surprised. It’s just a little railroad town. I work for the railroad. Have you heard of Spokane?”

  “I’m really not familiar with western geography. Is it near Seattle?”

  “No, nowhere near it. Is that where you’re heading? Seattle?”

  I gave a slight nod. “Why are you going to Hillyard?”

  “I’m chiefly headed there for business reasons, though I hope to look up an old friend as well. They’re having a little trouble out there with incorporation.”

  I had no interest in or understanding about incorporation, but I encouraged him to go on. If he noticed that I steered the conversation away from myself every chance I got, he was too gentlemanly to say so.

  “The town wants to incorporate, you see, to generate taxes and provide services. Fire department, police, hospital, that sort of thing. It’s really necessary. They have nearly two thousand people there now, and it’s growing.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  Mr. Stanfield grinned and rapped the wall of the rail car with a knuckle. “My employer is the problem. The Great Pacific Railroad. That’s my job, to go out there and smooth everything out.”

  I raised my brows in encouragement, and he continued.

  “Like I said, Hillyard is a railroad town. The Great Pacific practically owns the town. That’s where its maintenance shops and materials yards are. Just about any work done on a locomotive west of St. Paul is done in Hillyard. So it’s a big business, you see, for such a little town. If they incorporate, the taxes generated by the Great Pacific alone would easily support the town. But GP doesn’t want to pay taxes.”

  “Oh, I see,” I said, and I thought I did. “So you’re going to stop the incorporation?”

  “Oh no, they need to incorporate the town. But they don’t need to include the Great Pacific in it. My job is to convince the town to incorporate without annoying its biggest employer.”

  “But then the town won’t get tax money from the railroad.”

  Mr. Stanfield shrugged. “It’s called a compromise. They can’t have everything. If they insist on including the Great Pacific shops, GP will just pull out, move its headquarters somewhere else. That would be expensive and they don’t want to do it, but they will. Then where would Hillyard be?”

  I co
uld see his point, but I felt a bit sorry for the little town of Hillyard. Everyone knew the railroad was hugely prosperous. It wouldn’t hurt the Great Pacific, would it, to pay taxes to support a little town that existed solely to work for the railroad? Of course, I knew nothing of business.

  By the time we entered North Dakota, the sun had set, and I could see nothing of the scenery but dark shadows. The porter entered the car and began folding down the upper sleeping berths. Passengers in the back of the car rose from their seats so the cushions could slide together to form lower berths. Curtains strung along the makeshift bunks above and below provided some privacy for each berth. There was no official rule, but the men moved toward the front of the car and ladies moved to the back.

  Mr. Stanfield rose and studied me gravely for a moment. He looked suddenly years older and reminded me of my father when I was young. “Mrs. Jones, you worry me. I’m not going to ask you to confide in me,” he assured me. “I only hope that if my wife is ever alone and in trouble, like you are, someone will look after her.”

  My face burned and I looked away. I was quite sure that if he knew what I had done, Mr. Stanfield would never place his wife in the same category as me again.

  Chapter Two

  THERE IS NO ladylike way to crawl into a sleeping berth. The floor of the berth, which was also the bed, was the same height as the seats that made it. I sat and swung my legs in, then scooted forward until I could pull the curtain closed. It created a tiny room barely large enough for me to sit upright, and I was glad I was not taller. A gas lamp installed on the wall of the compartment provided light, and I turned it up. The privacy provided by the curtain was welcome, though it was not complete. I could hear the rustling and banging of other travelers arranging themselves in their berths, and I knew they could hear me too. The noise was muffled, though, the details erased by the rhythmic sound of wheels on steel beneath us.