He’d spent half the night trying to come up with a plan to rescue those girls in Duluth, which would also put a stop to Josie’s trips, but he knew nothing about going up against mobsters. Ty had told him to hang tight for a couple of days, give him time to investigate a bit more, and that left Scooter feeling as if he was sitting on a gas can in the middle of a ring of fire.
Scooter grabbed the bucket he used to wash windows on customers’ cars and carried it to the water spigot to fill it for the day. He’d just wet the rags he hung to dry each night when a car pulled into the station.
He filled the gas tank, checked the oil and tires, washed the windows and made small talk with the owner, then did the same with the next car, too. Customers pulled in regularly, as was customary, for the next hour or so. Willard Ralstad had just driven away in his old Model T when Dac Lester pulled up in his one-ton stock-hauling truck that doubled as his shine runner. Yellow and black, the GMC was a brute of a vehicle, with a box longer and taller than all others around. The painted wooden slats on the sides were nailed close together. Nothing but a hump of hair could be seen of the big black bull Dac hauled with him everywhere he went.
Scooter cranked up the gas pump again, preparing it to fill the stock truck, when the phone in his station rang.
As Dac cut the truck’s engine, he leaned out of the window. “Go ahead and answer that, I’ll get the gas.”
Scooter acknowledged Dac with a wave before jogging through the door he’d propped open. The phone hung on the wall next to a set of shelves full of oil cans. He rested one arm on the top shelf while grabbing the earpiece and speaking into the mouthpiece attached to the wooden base. “Scooter here.”
“Scooter, it’s Maize.”
He grinned. Norma Rose had called yesterday and offered Maize a job working at the resort.
“Shouldn’t you be working, not talking on the phone?” he asked teasingly. Deep down, he was glad she’d accepted the opportunity. Maize had rarely left the house for the past three years, and she had been very excited when she’d driven away this morning.
“I thought you’d want to know something,” she said.
The concern in her tone had him standing upright. “What? What is it?”
“Dave’s car is missing.”
“Where’s Dave?”
“He’s here, but no one else is. Norma Rose and Ty took a load of things to Twyla, and Roger went with them.”
Scooter had noticed Ty’s truck go by earlier and assumed the load in the back had been for Twyla. “Where’s Josie?”
There was a noticeable pause before Maize said, “At her Ladies Aid meeting.”
Scooter cursed. He hadn’t told Ty to find a way to make Josie stay at home. He hadn’t thought it was necessary. The tingling of his spine told him all he needed to know, yet he asked, “Is her car there?”
“Yes,” Maize said. “It’s in the garage. Dave says it won’t start.”
Scooter cursed again under his breath before he said, “Let me talk to Dave.”
A second later, he heard the man say, “Hey, Scooter.”
“When did your car come up missing?” Scooter wanted to tell Dave to start taking the keys out of his car. Twyla had stolen it a couple of weeks ago. He’d been the one to call Forrest that morning and tell him Twyla was heading to town. But a car without keys wouldn’t have stopped Josie.
“I just noticed it was gone a short time ago,” Dave said. “I was out late last night and slept in this morning. I’ve gotta be back down in St. Paul in an hour.”
Josie had been the first thing Scooter had thought of this morning, but that wasn’t unusual. He’d realized it was a Tuesday, too—Josie’s day for Ladies Aid meetings—but also recalled he’d never reconnected the ignition wire on her car. “You can take Josie’s car,” he growled into the phone.
“It won’t start.”
Scooter proceeded to tell Dave how to reconnect the wire and then hung up. Kicking the brick away that propped open the main door, he turned the sign to Closed and then locked the door, exiting the building through the repair bay door.
Dac eyed him curiously as he rounded the building. “Closed? Why?”
“I think I need your help.” Scooter’s mind was going a hundred miles an hour. In a circle.
“You think?”
“Hold on a second.” Scooter tried to focus, to come up with a plan to get Josie out of Duluth, alive, but wasn’t having much luck. He didn’t have time to waste, either. The sick feeling in his gut said she could be in trouble. Serious trouble. “Yeah, I need your help,” he said. “We need to go Duluth.”
“Right now?” Dac asked.
“Yes, right now,” Scooter snapped.
“Okay. What for?”
“Open your tailgate so I can load my motorcycle in the back, and I’ll explain on the way.” Turning to retrieve his bike, Scooter spun back around. “Nobody, and I mean nobody, can know about this.”
Eyes wider than normal, Dac nodded. “All right.”
* * *
As always, when she rolled into the outskirts of Duluth, Josie pulled into a fueling station. The young man that appeared at her window looked nothing like Scooter, yet he was on her mind. He had been ever since she’d left home. All night actually. All day yesterday, too. He’d told her not to go, but not making her regular run would look suspicious. She’d made other runs since getting arrested and they’d gone just fine. Today would, too. In fact, today would be better. She would not leave until she’d learned something significant.
The attendant took her money for the gas and she drove to the back of the station building. Grabbing one of the two large bags from the seat beside her, she climbed out of the car and entered the powder room. A few minutes later, dressed as Anita Weatherby, she opened the door a crack to make sure no one was around before she hurried to the car. As quickly as possible, but not so fast it would draw attention, she drove around the building and back onto the road.
Traffic always lined the streets in Duluth, and the steep hills made her nervous, even after all the times she’d successfully maneuvered them. In truth, she was edgy today. Her stomach had been churning since she’d stolen Dave’s car. With Twyla living at the Plantation, there was no option to swap vehicles. Norma Rose never loaned her car out to anyone, and Josie certainly didn’t have the courage to take her father’s. She had considered taking the one that had been Ginger’s, but it hadn’t been driven since Ginger had run away and she couldn’t take the chance it wasn’t in good running condition.
Dave’s car was. He had Scooter check it regularly.
Turning the final corner that would take her to the dock area, she drew in a deep breath in an attempt to quell her quivering insides. This was no different to any other Tuesday.
The US Steel parking lot was always the busiest. Hoping Dave’s Chevy would blend in with all the other cars, she chose that lot to park in. Maneuvering the Chevy between a Buick and Model T, she made note of the other vehicles to help her find the car again later.
Lifting her supply bag off the seat, she tucked the other one that had held her disguise under the passenger seat, since there was no backseat like in her car. She left Dave’s pile of stuff—a shirt and several brochures—on the seat. Removing the key from the ignition, she climbed out. After she dropped the key in the deep pocket of her long paisley print skirt, she shut the door and headed across the gravel parking lot. It was a long walk to the area the girls knew she’d be at, and she used the time to scan the area. The warehouse she’d tried peeking into was over near the stockyards, a farther distance yet, but that wasn’t to say any one of the buildings wasn’t being used to hide the young girls.
The docks were noisy. Ships blew their horns as they floated beneath the huge bridge connecting Duluth to Superior, Wisconsin, gulls screeched and men yelled instructions. She heard the buzz of saw blades from the lumberyard, cattle mooing, trucks making deliveries, train whistles, the hissing of steam and other sounds mingling in with
all the rest. The area was a hub of activity.
No matter how many visits she made, the smells of the docks still assaulted her. They were as prevalent as the noises and, to her, more overwhelming. Josie kept her head down, never making eye contact with anyone, yet stayed alert as she made her way to the long pier that visitors to the area liked to frequent. Crewmen from the ships used this long dock, too, but mainly to connect with the many prostitutes that walked the boards day and night. The port was busy with boats arriving and departing around the clock.
The thud of heels that echoed behind hers as she stepped onto the wood confirmed there was someone behind her. Pulling her face into a tight frown, Josie stepped to the side and waved an arm.
“Go on, you’re much younger than me,” she said in her best old-woman voice. “I don’t need you stepping on my heels.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the sailor said, hurrying past.
Josie made her way halfway down the pier, where there was a bench near the shore-side railing. There, she settled herself on the seat and dug a loaf of bread out of her bag. In less than a minute, a young woman sat down next to her—a familiar one who’d visited her before. Unfortunately it was one who never said a word.
The woman took off one shoe as if her foot hurt. The signal for one box.
Josie took a small box out of her bag and set it on the bench between them. The woman put her shoe back on, slid the box into her pocket and walked away.
This happened several times within the next hour or so. When an older woman, not of great age but older than most of the prostitutes, sat down next to her, the hair on Josie’s arms quivered. The woman wasn’t familiar. She wasn’t dressed like a tourist, either.
Going with her gut instinct, Josie tossed the final few pieces of her loaf of bread over the rail to the gulls and then picked up her bag as she stood. The woman stood, too, and before Josie could take a step the other woman latched on to her arm.
“That’s right,” the woman hissed. “We are going to take a walk. Real slow so we don’t draw attention.”
* * *
Scooter was second-guessing his plan, and cursing himself for not gathering more information before he and Dac had headed to Duluth. He’d never visited the shipyards, and had no idea the area was this large. Having unloaded his motorcycle near the stockyards, he’d zipped in and out of half a dozen parking areas, spotting several blue Chevys, none of which turned out to be Dave’s.
Warehouses went on for what seemed like miles, and he hadn’t even reached US Steel’s property. That alone was massive. He had no idea which dock Josie used to pass out her condoms. She hadn’t been at the three he’d already jogged up and down. Changing his tactics, he’d decided to find the car first, figuring that at least would tell him she was in close proximity.
He headed for the last lot. Working his way back might be his best bet. Maneuvering around and through the automobiles, his heart skipped a beat at the sight of a blue Chevy. He’d recently started selling tires at his shop, and recognizing the ones he’d put on Dave’s car a short time ago was all the proof he needed, yet he rode closer, hoping, yet doubting, Josie would be in the car.
She wasn’t, but a man was in the Buick next to it. It was a Master Six model touring car, dark green with gold trim, including the wheel spokes. The car was a beauty, and Scooter wouldn’t have minded looking under her hood, if he had been in his normal state of mind. Right now, cars, although his one true love, weren’t foremost in his thoughts. As unusual as that was.
The man climbed out of the Buick to stand beside the passenger side of Dave’s car as Scooter stopped near the front bumper. Though tall and broad, the man was older, perhaps middle-aged, judging by the graying of his short sideburns. The rest of his hair was as dark brown as the three-piece gold-pinstriped suit he had on.
Scooter cut the engine on his motorcycle. “You see the driver of this Chevy?”
Leaning back against the side of his Buick, the man asked, “Who wants to know?”
If he’d gotten a look at the person who’d thrown the fireball or whoever had locked him and Josie in the boathouse, he’d know if this man was a foe or just a nosy stranger. As it was, all he had were his gut instincts. This man had been sitting next to Dave’s Chevy for a reason. “I’m just looking for a friend, mister,” Scooter said.
The man glanced at the Chevy. “There’s a brochure sitting on the seat of this car. It’s from Nightingale’s Resort in White Bear Lake.”
“So?” Scooter asked. “What’s it to you?”
“Just curious,” the man said. “I knew a woman named Nightingale.” After a sigh, he added, “Once.”
The pit of Scooter’s stomach turned cold. “Once?”
“Years ago,” the man said. “Her name was Rose.” Letting out a longer more wistful sigh, the man unfolded his arms and walked forward. Stretching out a hand, he said, “Clyde Odell.”
“Eric Wilson,” Scooter replied, before he had time to wonder if he should have used an alias.
“I met her out east, years and years ago.”
Scooter shook his head. “That wouldn’t be the same Rose Nightingale,” he said. “Not as the one related to Nightingale’s Resort.”
“Why do you say that?” Clyde asked. “The one I knew was from Minnesota. White Bear Lake, Minnesota.”
“Could be more than one,” Scooter said. “But the Rose Nightingale I knew never went out east.”
Clyde was rubbing his chin. “She died several years ago, during the flu epidemic.”
“The one I knew did,” Scooter said, growing curious as to who this man might be. “And I know for a fact she never left Minnesota.”
“How do you know that? She’d have been a lot older than you.”
“Old enough to be my mother.”
Clyde’s eyes nearly popped right out of his head.
“Rose and my mother were best friends their entire lives,” Scooter said, a bit startled by the look on Clyde’s face...a face that looked almost familiar. “They grew up next door to each other. What one did, the other did. Trust me, my mother would have talked about Rose going out east if that had ever happened.”
“Tiny, about this tall—” Clyde held his hand next to his shoulder “—with blond hair and brown eyes?”
“Blue eyes,” Scooter said. “Sky blue, just like her daughters’.” Brought back to the mission at hand, he asked again, “You see the driver of this vehicle?”
Clyde was now frowning, but he nodded. “I sure did. I was wondering why someone would park in this lot when they clearly didn’t have any business with US Steel.”
“How would you know that?”
“It’s my job to know that. I’m the new manager. Just arrived last week. I’ve worked for J.P. for years. Mainly out east, but when things weren’t going as smoothly as they should here, J.P. sent me to see why.”
“J. P. Morgan,” Scooter said, to clarify. One of the richest men in the nation. The man had become an icon, who’d risen to power by eliminating the competition. Single-handedly, he’d created a vastly powerful empire when he’d bought Carnegie Steel Company for four hundred and eighty million dollars, and rumor had it he’d have paid more if need be.
“Yes, Mr. Morgan himself.”
Scooter couldn’t find it in himself to believe J. P. Morgan or Clyde Odell were connected with the likes of Francine Wilks, so he gave the man a nod. “I wish you well, Mr. Odell. I need to find the driver of this Chevy. Would you happen to know which direction they went?”
Clyde spread his feet a bit wider, like a boxer taking his stance as his face turned hard. “I hope you, Mr. Wilson, and that old lady that climbed out of this car aren’t involved in my dock workers being rolled.”
Scooter shifted the weight of the bike, giving his foot easy access to the kick starter. He wasn’t afraid of a fight, but getting in a brawl with a dock worker was not on his agenda today. “Rolled?”
“Yes, rolled.” Clyde popped the knuckles of one hand. �
�There’s a ring of thieves liquoring up my dock hands, plying them with whores and robbing them blind when they pass out. I’m here to put a stop to it.”
“Any idea who’s behind it?” Scooter asked, already convinced of the culprit himself.
“Oh, I know who’s behind it,” Clyde said, “and I know who’s behind her.”
Scooter took a chance. “Francine Wilks.”
Clyde merely lifted a brow.
“I’m not working with her,” Scooter said. “And neither is the woman who climbed out of this car. She’s not an old lady, she’s a young girl, one Francine is after.”
A surprised look crossed Clyde’s face, but he hid it quickly, as if not quite believing what Scooter had said.
Unable to think of anything to corroborate his story, Scooter said, “I’ve got to find her before Francine does.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Scooter almost shouted. Shaking his head, he said, “Josie, the girl I’m after, is trying to stop Francine from kidnapping Indian girls and putting them to work.”
Clyde let out an expletive. “Francine’s as nasty and evil as the rest of her family.” He waved a hand toward the lakeshore. “The girl you’re looking for is on the second pier, the big one, sitting on a bench.”
Scooter kicked the starter pedal. As he squeezed the throttle, something else crossed his mind, a flash of a memory that was insignificant, yet perhaps because the man had been helpful, Scooter felt inclined to say, “The only woman from White Bear Lake my mother ever talked about going east was Karen Reynolds. She does have blond hair and brown eyes.”
The gravel lot was rutted and he bounced left and right, but never let off the gas. He took a shortcut through the weeds separating the next lot from the shoreline, and almost laid the motorbike on the ground when he had to swerve around a concrete barrier that seemed to come out of nowhere. Righting the bike, and keeping his head lowered to keep his eyes from being stung by the wind his speed was creating, he kept his focus on the second pier, which was still some distance ahead.
The Forgotten Daughter Page 14
