The Forgotten Daughter

by Lauri Robinson

  “I know,” Clyde said. “The rooms those girls were in were despicable. Some of them were little more than babies, and not one of them had any clothes.” After cursing, he said, “They’ll be returned to their families as soon as possible.” The man gestured toward a long hallway. “It gets better up here, just hold your breath.”

  Scooter was already holding his breath. The smell of urine was stronger than in Dac’s dairy barn on a rainy day. His nose and eyes were burning. “What is it you want me to see?”

  “You’ll see,” Clyde said. “I’ll verify the information if you need me to.”

  A shiver rippled Scooter’s spine. What on earth would he need verified? And with whom? The police? He hadn’t done anything illegal. Ever. Other than speeding, namely on his motorcycle after whisking Josie away from the docks, the closest he came to breaking a law was fueling up tanks and revamping bootlegger’s cars. There were no laws against either of those things. He’d purposefully kept his nose clean. He’d encountered enough problems in his life and had never warmed to the idea of some foolish mistake taking away all he’d worked for. The temptation had been there a time or two, especially when he saw the kind of cash Dac collected from running shine. Stuffing old Humphrey had cost Dac plenty of jack and though Scooter would have done it for free, Dac had paid him well to mount the bull in the back of his truck. Dac had called it an investment. Scooter had called it foolish.

  Who was the fool now?

  Clyde pushed open a door. Scooter paused on the threshold, taken aback by the luxury. Thick carpet covered the floor, silk curtains framed the windows, oil paintings hung on the walls and the room was full of fancy white-and-gold furniture. The place put him in mind of Nightingale’s Resort, apart from the police officer sitting behind the desk. His blue uniform and shiny brass buttons were as out of place as Scooter always felt amid the glitz and glamour of Nightingale’s.

  “Eric, this is Chief Reinhold, Duluth’s finest,” Clyde said. “Chief, this is Eric Wilson.”

  “I recognize him from the photos,” the chief said, rising to his feet. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Wilson. Thank you for coming.”

  Not sure why the man would be thanking him, Scooter asked, “What photos?”

  The man pointed to a scattering of newspaper articles and photographs laid out on the desk. One finger narrowed in on a specific picture.

  Scooter picked it up. “This is from the Fourth of July,” he said. “People were snapping pictures left and right. Babe Ruth was there.” The photo had been taken when Roger had introduced his family to the crowd. A hard ball formed in his stomach. He was standing next to Josie in the picture. Someone had drawn a circle around her face.

  “So was Francine Wilks,” Clyde said. “Have a seat, Eric. The chief will explain.”

  Picking up a newspaper clipping, the officer handed it across the desk as Scooter sat in one of the available chairs, Clyde in the other. The chief sat down, too.

  “That is Ray Bodine,” Chef Reinhold said, indicating a man’s picture in the clipping. “A mobster from New York. Bodine’s gang and the one Francine is connected to have been at war for years.”

  “It started over neighborhoods,” Clyde added, “and has continued on to bigger things. Operations they’ve created across the nation.”

  The chief nodded. “It seems Francine followed Bodine from New York to Detroit, then Milwaukee, Chicago, St. Paul. The difference was she set up prostitution rings while Bodine was focused on bootlegging whiskey from Canada.”

  Scooter’s guts turned sour. Not showing any reaction, he said, “Says here Bodine was arrested.”

  “Yep, recently, in Wisconsin,” the chief said. “By an undercover agent the feds keep well hidden. Even Prohibition agents don’t know the man. What we do know is Bodine was after the Minnesota Thirteen trade. The finest bootlegged whiskey in the world.”

  The chief’s gaze, slowly moving from Clyde to him, had the air on Scooter’s arms rising even before the man said, “And everyone in this room knows where that comes from.”

  Scooter once again refused to let any reaction show. If they thought they could weasel information out of him about Roger Nightingale, they were shopping in the wrong place. Both men were looking at him carefully, cautiously. Lifting his chin, he shook his head, “Sorry, but that’s got nothing to do with me. And it’s going to stay that way.”

  “Oh, yes, it does,” the chief said. “More so than you realize.” Lifting a sheet of paper off the desk, he held it out for Scooter to take. “One of Francine’s main men wasn’t captured tonight. We think we know where he went.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Josie’s head was pounding and she truly couldn’t take much more. Time was being wasted. They’d already eaten supper and had spent far too long bowling—something Twyla insisted everyone had to do.

  “It’s almost midnight,” she muttered, when her sister insisted everyone had to go upstairs to see her and Forrest’s apartment.

  “Do you still have a headache?” her father asked, placing an arm around her shoulders.

  “Yes,” Josie answered. If she hadn’t had one before, she did now. Francine Wilks and her men knew where both she and Scooter lived. She had to get back to the resort and talk to Gloria. There was no reason the society couldn’t drive up to Duluth and rescue those girls just like they had with Maize. It had worked then and would work now. She’d mulled over it all evening. They could use Colene’s big car, no one would recognize it. The only problem was she still didn’t know exactly which warehouse to target, but with several of them looking, they should be able to find it. Ultimately, they had to put a stop to all this before someone was hurt.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” Twyla asked. “I have headache powder. I’ll get you some.”

  “No,” Josie said. “It’s not that bad.” Headache powder not only soured her stomach, it put her to sleep. That she didn’t need. Pulling up a smile, she added, “Lead the way.”

  Twyla led them toward the front door of the Plantation. The building was huge and the front boasted white pillars that stretched three stories high. Once a nightclub catering to gangsters from all over, the place now hosted a bowling alley that was quickly becoming more and more popular.

  Once on the second floor, Twyla graciously threw open a door. “We put most of my things across the hall.” Smiling, Twyla glanced up at Forrest, who stood by her side. “Until I have time to rearrange things.”

  Josie followed the others, including Forrest’s mother, into a clean but rather small apartment filled with furniture that had seen better days. Josie made note of that fact only because of all the girls, personal possessions—and the quality of them—meant the most to Twyla. But her mind was mostly focused on getting back to the resort. Maybe she could borrow Twyla’s car. That way she could stop at Scooter’s place, just to make sure he and his family were safe.

  “This is the living room,” Twyla said, “as you can tell. Over here is the kitchen and...”

  Josie’s gaze had gone to the far wall, where two windows overlooked the back of the building. A painting hung between the windows, and she moved closer as if interested in it. She wasn’t, she wanted to see if Twyla’s car was parked out the back or not.

  “I’m so glad Twyla found that picture in the basement,” Karen Reynolds said, stepping up beside her. “It was one of my father’s favorites.”

  Josie shifted her gaze from the parking lot, where the moonlight revealed Twyla’s car was parked, to the painting depicting an Indian brave, knife drawn as he rescued a maiden from a huge white bear. “Kis-se-me-pa and Ka-go-ka,” she said offhandedly.

  “You know the story?” Karen asked.

  Anyone who had grown up in the area or lived here for any length of time eventually heard the legend of how White Bear Lake had got its name. Mark Twain had even referred to it in one of his many books. “There are several legends with different endings,” Josie said. The brave killed the bear. The bear killed the brave. T
he bear killed both the brave and the maiden. All three died—the bear, the brave and the maiden. No matter which ending, the legend of the great white bear had given the lake its name.

  “They were from different tribes,” Twyla said, having joined them near the window. “He was a Chippewa brave. She was the daughter of a Sioux chief, and they were in love.” Twyla sighed heavily. “Her father was about to attack the Chippewa and she went to warn him. His brave act of saving her from the bear proved his love and they lived happily ever after.”

  “Where’d you hear that version?” Josie asked. Her sister’s tale was an idealistic mixture of all three popular tales.

  “That is the correct version. The most romantic,” Twyla said, moving forward to straighten the picture. “I don’t know why it doesn’t want to hang straight. It’s always tilting to one side, as if that side is heavier than the other.”

  “Maybe the wire on the back needs to be tightened,” Josie offered, uninterested, while attempting to come up with a logical excuse to borrow her sister’s car.

  “I never thought of that,” Twyla said, lifting the picture off the wall.

  “I didn’t mean right now,” Josie said.

  As Twyla spun the picture around for Josie to examine the back, the cardboard backing became separated from the frame. Acting quickly, Josie grabbed the bottom before it fell all of the way out.

  “Here,” Forrest said to Twyla. “I’ll take it.”

  As he lifted the picture, Josie tried sliding the cardboard back into place. “It’s stuck.”

  “Set it on the table,” Karen said, “before the glass falls out.”

  Josie held the bottom until Forrest lowered it onto the table in front of the couch. Then she stepped back to give him room to work. Leave it to Twyla to make the story of killing a bear romantic.

  Scooter had rescued Josie several times lately, but it hadn’t been a romantic gesture, and he hadn’t done it because he was in love with her. He’d done it because he had a family to feed. A family he loved so much he’d left school and all his friends behind in order to make enough money to keep everyone fed and clothed. He’d hate her forever if something happened to any one of them. She wouldn’t blame him, considering it all would be her fault.

  “Something’s under the cardboard,” Forrest said.

  Josie considered pointing out that it would be the picture, but didn’t. Her mind was focused on too many other things. Including how she could get Twyla’s keys.

  “Forrest! That’s it!”

  Karen’s shout had everyone looking at her, including Forrest, who’d just pulled the backing all the way out of the frame.

  Snatching up an envelope that had been exposed, Karen opened the flap and started crying. “It’s them, Forrest. It’s them.”

  Confused, Josie glanced around.

  Everyone looked baffled. Twyla asked, “What are they?”

  With hands shaking, Karen pulled out several pictures. “These,” she said, sifting through the pictures.

  “Who are they of?” Twyla asked.

  Karen glanced up at Forrest before she handed him one of the pictures.

  He took it and examined it thoroughly before he showed it to Twyla. “Pictures of my real father.”

  Josie took another step backward, near to where Norma Rose stood. Twyla had told all the girls that Galen Reynolds wasn’t Forrest’s real father a while ago. That his mother had been pregnant when she’d returned to Minnesota from New York. Norma Rose’s shrug said she didn’t know any more than that.

  “Oh, Forrest,” Twyla said, wrapping an arm around his back and lying her head against his shoulder. “You look just like him. Except his hair is darker and you’re more handsome.”

  Josie wanted to groan. Once again she felt an inkling of jealousy toward the love her sisters had found.

  “What’s his name?” Twyla asked Karen.

  “I don’t know,” Karen said sadly.

  Josie wouldn’t have had to pass out condoms to prostitutes to know how sex worked, and she couldn’t fathom how a woman could not know a man’s name after they had completed that act. Those thoughts also brought her mind right back to Scooter. An immense sense of dread was filling her stomach. Francine’s men could be at his station this very minute. She tried to quell her growing fears by telling herself Scooter was well aware of that. He’d said as much on Sunday when he’d told her to not leave the resort, and again today.

  “We never told each other our real names,” Karen said. “It was a game to us. We were young and...” She sighed longingly. “So young and so in love.”

  Once again Josie felt like an outsider, a bystander, but this time she didn’t mind. While the rest of her family was engrossed in the tale of Forrest’s long lost father, perhaps she could sneak away. She wouldn’t get far without car keys, though.

  Everyone had gathered closer around the table, and Josie took a step backward. She didn’t have keys, but there was a phone in Forrest’s office downstairs. She could call Gloria, or even Scooter.

  Norma Rose then let out a little gasp. “I’ve seen this man.” Spinning around, she held the picture up. “You have, too, Josie.”

  Josie glanced at the picture. Her throat locked up in time to cover her wheezing.

  “When? Where?”

  Anyone in the room could have asked that question. Josie didn’t care who had spoken, but she wanted to know when Norma Rose had seen the man in the picture. It was of a younger version, but the picture held a striking resemblance to the man from US Steel who’d delivered Dave’s Chevy.

  “Years ago,” Norma Rose said. “Right after Mother passed away. He stopped at the house asking for her.”

  “He did?”

  The question came from several people.

  “You remember, don’t you, Josie? You and I were the only two home,” Norma Rose said. “I’m sure it’s him. He was very sincere and sad when I told him she’d died.”

  Karen was crying again. “I used your mother’s name to write to him. With Rose’s permission. I knew Galen would intercept any mail I received. All I knew for sure was that he worked for a carriage company, so I wrote to every one of them in New York. I gave a description of him, and asked that if he knew a girl from the school I had attended to please contact Rose Nightingale in White Bear Lake, Minnesota.” Wiping at the tears rolling down her cheeks, Karen looked up at Forrest. “And he did.”

  Josie took several steps back. She didn’t remember the man from years ago like Norma Rose, but the burning sensation in her stomach made her certain this was the man from US Steel she’d met today.

  “We’ll start searching for him,” her father said. “Put my men on it right away.”

  “Where?” Karen asked. “Where would we start?”

  “The pictures, Mother,” Forrest said. “You thought they’d give you clues as to where to look.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said excitedly. “I’m just so happy that my head is not working.”

  “Ty, come and take a look at these,” her father said.

  Josie’s head was spinning faster than the conversation surrounding her. She stepped farther back. Her internal struggle was tearing her apart. This man could very well tell her father all about the way he’d helped her and Scooter escape today, but this was also her chance to make sure Scooter was safe, which was far more important. “Call Scooter,” she said.

  The room went silent as all eyes settled on her.

  “He can tell you where that man is.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Scooter had never imagined his motorcycle could go so fast. His cheeks were on fire from the wind whipping at his skin, and Nightingale’s Resort had never looked so good. He was happy, too, to see lights on. It had to be close to three o’clock in the morning.

  Of course there were lights on. He’d called before leaving Duluth. Roger hadn’t been home, but Bronco had been. Scooter had told him enough that Bronco promised to send men over to his mother’s house and to scour the res
ort’s grounds.

  Scooter cut the bike’s engine at the same time he pulled it up onto its stand. Bounding off, he ran to the front doors while checking to assure the folded sheet of paper was still in his coat pocket.

  The stack of papers Chief Reinhold had given him had been ransom notes. For Josie. As far as he, Clyde and the chief could figure out, Francine had learned who Josie was the day she got arrested for speeding and had been planning her kidnapping ever since. The fireball and the incident in the boathouse had most likely been attempts to get her alone.

  It appeared Francine had been following the gangster Ray Bodine and his activities closely. With his arrest, she’d decided she wanted a piece of the bootlegging conglomerate Roger oversaw. The woman had penned several ransom notes. Some asked for money—large amounts of money—while others asked for shares of Roger’s business. One demanded the entire operation.

  Each one had stated stipulations and rather graphic details of what would happen if her instructions weren’t followed.

  The door swung open before he reached it. Recognizing Ty, Scooter asked, “Where’s Josie?”

  “In her bed, safe and sound.”

  Relief washed over him, yet he asked, “You sure?”

  “I’m sure,” Ty said. “Roger’s in his office, waiting for you.”

  Scooter crossed the threshold. Josie was going to hate him forever, but she’d be alive. Maybe someday she’d come to understand he’d done this for her own good. Forcing her to trust him, to let him help, hadn’t worked out, so he wasn’t counting on that anymore.

  Josie was so different from the other women he knew. When his father died, his mother and sister had immediately relied on him to make it all better. To take care of them. Josie wasn’t like that. She never would be. Unfortunately, that was just one of the many things he loved about her.

  The door to Roger’s office was open. Scooter didn’t pull it shut, knowing Ty was right on his heels.