“Heads will roll, Mother.” He pushed away from the table and tossed his napkin onto the offending tabloid, effectively hiding the headline that all of San Francisco had most certainly seen by now.
“Surely you exaggerate, dear.” She reached beneath the lump of cloth to retrieve the Gazette. Once again her brows rose, this time as her gaze scanned the front page, only to stop on the bold print of the day’s headline: HENRY HILL BELIEVED RESPONSIBLE FOR JULY 4TH DEATH OF WEALTHY BUSINESSMAN FRANK BYNUM.
“Oh my.” His mother carefully folded the paper in half and set it aside before lifting her gaze to meet his. Brown eyes blinked hard, and it seemed as though a tear fought for escape. “Oh my,” she repeated.
“Indeed.”
Henry took a deep breath and fought for composure. He forced a weak smile, then reached into his vest pocket to snap open his pocket watch. While he didn’t give a fig for what time the blasted thing said, he hoped the action might make her believe he considered the morning’s upset to be finished. A woman so delicate and dear need not be unduly troubled.
Nor did she need to know he planned to right this wrong posthaste.
Better for her to believe he intended to spend his morning like all the others, hard at work rather than berating some editor for a misprint that could very well have cost him the election.
Slipping the watch back into his pocket, Henry turned his attention to his mother. “If you will excuse me, I’ll be off now.”
Mother frowned. “Promise me you will think before you act and pray before you think.”
“If only I had a vote for every time you’ve spoken those words, I should truly prevail as mayor.” Henry gathered up the newspaper, then leaned down to kiss the top of his mother’s head, inhaling the soft scent of violets. “Perhaps you should do the praying for me.”
“For you and for the poor soul you intend to unleash your wrath upon at the Gazette.” Her words chased him out the door and into the dreary San Francisco morning.
“Surely she doesn’t think I would—”
“To the office, sir?” The aged driver, one of Mother’s many “rescue projects,” turned as best as his arthritic back would allow and narrowed his dark eyes. His wrinkled face offered no expression until he lifted a bushy brow. “Or did you have business elsewhere this morning?”
He’d obviously read the Gazette. “Where else would I go this time of morning, James?” he asked as he climbed into the buggy.
James turned about to grasp the reins with gnarled hands, then set the horse in motion. “The office it is, then.” In short order, he began whistling the first of many hymns that made up his morning concert.
Most mornings Henry either barely tolerated or completely ignored the musical stylings of his driver, but today he found both most difficult to accomplish. Was he wrong, or had James intentionally raised his volume higher than normal?
As the buggy bounced along, Henry cast a glance at the folded paper on the seat beside him. Most citizens of San Francisco were acquainted with the murder victim, if not personally, then by reputation. Bynum’s money came from sources both unknown and seemingly unlimited in their nature. His style was often bold and brash, and his largesse was not limited to the tawdry taverns and bawdy houses he was reputed to own. He was known to place large sums of cash or bags of gold on the doorsteps of the local orphanage or bawdy houses or in public spots around town, then laugh along with his cronies as children fought adults for a portion of the stake.
Some found this game amusing, while others offered the donations as proof of the man’s soft heart and sterling character. Henry was not among either camp.
Asa once mentioned the possibility of Chambers and Hill representing the Bynum fellow in a series of real estate deals. Henry felt it would never do for the future mayor of San Francisco’s law firm to represent such a character, especially when people like Frank Bynum were the very ones Henry intended to run out of town should he be elected. Thankfully he had a friend as well as a partner in Asa Chambers. The representation was never offered, and nothing further had been spoken on the subject.
Henry tucked the offending paper under his arm and climbed out of the buggy, then gave a cursory wave to the driver and turned toward his office. When the rig clattered out of sight, Henry whirled about and headed for the newspaper office.
As he strode toward his destination, he forced out the occasional greeting to future constituents, including an elderly gentleman who grasped hold of Henry’s arm and waxed poetic on the rough political waters in the States for the better part of ten minutes. After assuring the man he would look into his concerns, Henry finally wrenched free and continued on.
As he neared the Gazette, he straightened his shoulders and picked up his pace. No matter his mood, the campaign had to be foremost in his mind at all times. A bit of irritation at a misprint might not be remembered come election time, while a ready smile and the willingness to listen to his constituents would.
Or was it a misprint? Thus far, Russell Madison had kept the Gazette out of the political fray. Perhaps this was his subtle way of endorsing the opposition. Henry stopped short at the errant thought.
By the time he caught sight of the newspaper office, the thought had become a real concern, and he’d worked up quite a head of steam. Now to find the guilty party and unleash a bit of that steam, starting with the Madison fellow.
Despite the threat of rain, it was a beautiful morning. Helen had been at work nearly an hour, awakened well before dawn by the strangest of dreams. Someone chased her through the streets of San Francisco, some small unnamed and unseen person carrying a white object in his tiny hand and bent on an unidentified evil deed. Exhausted, she finally gave up on sleep and dressed for work, fearing her dream might end—and not happily—should she return to her slumber.
She’d arrived at the paper to find Mr. Madison bent over his desk, pen in hand. Being an absurdly early riser and generally the first on the job had its perks. Today the habit had caused her to be targeted for a special assignment: manning the front desk and attending to matters until Mr. Madison returned from yet another early morning meeting with the police chief.
Helen took to the task with trepidation. She tucked her receipts beneath her arm and reached for her stool. Perhaps she could get a bit of work done rather than standing about and merely looking foolish.
Teetering on the edge of the stool to keep from revealing her crinolines, she reached for the first of many receipts awaiting her attention. “Doesn’t he realize I have a mountain of receipts that have to be—”
The doors crashed open, and an enraged man stalked toward her. She jumped and almost fell backward. Receipts went flying about like leaves in a strong wind.
The politician.
Straightening her skirts, Helen reached for the edge of the counter to steady herself. Crash. She jumped and whirled about to see the stool where she had formerly perched on its side atop the debris, a victim of her swirling crinolines. A late-falling receipt from a supplier back East fluttered past her nose and landed atop her shoe as she pressed her hands against her sides to still the movement of her skirt.
With care, she returned her attention to the red-faced man on the other side of the counter. Had she actually found him attractive upon their first meeting? Perhaps a dose of kindness would counteract his ire. When she mustered a smile, he answered with a frown.
“May I help you?” came out in a series of squeaks.
The politician slammed a folded newspaper between them, and Helen jumped yet again. “I demand to speak to Mr. Madison at once.”
“He’s out,” Helen managed to say.
“Then I shall speak to the person in charge immediately.” He leaned forward, eyes narrowed, vein pulsing on his temple. “A member of this establishment has committed a grievous error that must be corrected at once.”
Something inside froze. Helen opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She tried again to no avail, then attempted prayer. Lord, please he
lp me, was all she could manage.
The politician pounded his fist on the counter and leaned closer. Helen took a step back and collided with the leg of the overturned stool. This time her attempts to right herself were a bit more successful and no more furniture or office receipts were sacrificed. Only her pride and her shin suffered.
“Madam, have you not heard me? I insist on speaking to the person in command of this enterprise at once.”
“It is I, s–s–sir.” She gulped, eyes closed. “What can I do f–f–for you?”
Silence.
Helen opened her eyes to see the politician smiling. The anger that contorted his face had abated slightly, although no one short of a daft fool would mistake him for a happy man.
“No, dear,” he said in a curt voice, “it’s your employer to whom I wish to speak. Now, run and fetch him.”
Of all the nerve. “I am in charge.”
A complete sentence. Thank You, Lord.
“Am I to understand that you are running this publication?”
Rather than risk further humiliation struggling with words that refused to emerge, Helen settled for a nod, then added a smile as a postscript. For a moment, the strategy seemed to work. The man’s tense features relaxed, he took a less threatening stance, and he even spared her what looked to be the beginning of a smile.
“Dare I ask? Have I not met you before?”
Quite the welcome shift in topic. “Why, yes, actually.” She nodded. “You see, my friend and I were attending the Fourth of July festivities, and at their conclusion, Penney left her handbag behind. You and your …”
“Mother,” he supplied.
“Yes, well,” Helen said as she reached down to right the stool. “You and your mother were kind enough to retrieve the handbag.”
The politician reached down to retrieve a pair of receipts and set them onto the counter beside the newspaper. “So you are employed by this establishment then?”
Helen settled on the stool and folded her hands in her lap. “I am.”
He gave her a sideways look. “In a supervisory role?”
“Well, actually, I am a bookkeeper, but Mr. Madison just asked me to—”
Without warning, his countenance changed. “Then you, Madam Supervisor,” he said slowly, “owe me a public apology and an explanation of this.” He swept his hand across the newspaper’s headline. “And along with the apology and the explanation, I demand the idiot who did this be fired forthwith.”
Fired?
Anger simmered, then quickly hit the boiling stage. How dare this … this politician treat her in such a manner? Why, if she weren’t a lady and the daughter of a politician herself, she would …
“Madam, are you daft?” His voice rose well beyond the proper tone, summoning Penney from the back.
“Well, hello, Mr. Hill.” Penney smiled and wiped her hands on her apron. “Is there a problem?”
“Problem?” He held his volume in check, but his tone sounded deadly as he returned his gaze to Helen. “Do me the favor of reading this headline, please.”
Helen turned the paper around and stared at the boldface type announcing a break in the investigation of the biggest murder to hit San Francisco in years. Mr. Madison had been rightly proud to have been the first in San Francisco to run the story, prouder still to have her read the copy and deliver the corrected manuscript to Penney before it went to press. She looked up to see the politician staring at her intently.
“Do you see the problem with this headline, Madam Supervisor?”
Once more she read the words spanning the top of the morning edition before handing it back to him. “No, actually it looks fine to me.”
“I see.” He nodded and studied the headline before looking up at Penney and then at Helen. “Can either of you tell me the name of the fellow the police are seeking?”
“I believe that would be Henry Hall, sir,” Penney said.
“Henry Hall.” The politician seemed to contemplate the name a moment before spreading the paper out on the counter. “Then pray tell me whether that is the appellation you see here?”
Penney leaned against Helen and took the paper. Her lower lip quivered as she read the name aloud. “Henry Hill.” She looked up at the politician and let the paper drop onto the counter. “Oh no,” she whispered.
Helen snatched up the paper. “Henry Hill.” Her gaze met his. “That’s you.”
“Yes, madam, it is.”
“Oh my.”
“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation, sir,” Penney said. “This is probably one of those silly coincidences and not a mistake at all. Let me go get the copy Mr. Madison gave us, and I’ll show you.”
Penney’s bright smile belied the tear Helen noted on the woman’s cheek. How dare that man make her friend cry over something obviously coincidental?
As her friend scurried toward the back of the building, Helen took a deep breath and exhaled slowly—one of Mother’s tricks for remaining a lady when the words you desire to speak would brand you otherwise. Feeling reasonably confident she held a measure of control, Helen leaned forward and spread this morning’s copy of the Gazette between them. She took her time meeting his gaze and held it a bit longer than polite society might deem proper.
“Are you sure you’re not a suspect, Mr. Hill?”
His glare precluded further argument. This time when he leaned forward, Helen took a step back even though the sturdy counter filled the space between them.
“Are you sure this is really a misprint?”
Her gasp of surprise must have had the desired effect, for the politician turned on his heels and strode away. “Make the necessary changes or face prosecution, madam,” he called as he reached the door.
“Sir,” she called to his retreating back, “to be sure, this situation must be very distressing for you, but I f–f–fail to see how this sort of behavior will accomplish—”
“Here it is,” Penney called as she rounded the corner and thrust the edited copy of Mr. Madison’s story into Helen’s hand. “I told you the headline was right. I spelled it just like it shows on Mr. Madison’s notes.” She stopped short and looked around. “Where did he go?”
Helen shrugged and set the copy on the counter. “Wherever bad-mannered politicians hide when they’re not upsetting nice people.” She touched Penney’s sleeve. “I’m sorry he made you cry.”
Penney shook her head. “I’m just glad it was all a mistake. It must be very upsetting to be running for an important political office and then learn that a murderer shares your name.”
Helen watched Penney return to her work, then knelt to retrieve the receipts littering the floor. Amy arrived with Jennie trailing a few steps behind. Both greeted Helen before heading toward the back of the building. Helen checked the clock. Almost nine. Mr. Madison would probably return soon as well.
As long as that awful Mr. Hill did not return.
“What an angry fellow,” she said under her breath as she collected the last of the slips of paper. “He’ll never be elected to anything with that attitude.”
She picked up the copy to set it aside and a name caught her eye. Not the name in the headline, Henry Hill, which Helen had written at Mr. Madison’s request, but the one appearing in the second sentence of Mr. Madison’s story.
“Early this very evening, the citizens of San Francisco were presented with the name of the possible culprit of the murder of one of our fair fellows. Law enforcement personnel are searching for one Henry Hall….”
Helen let the paper drop. “Oh no.”
Chapter 4
Henry walked past the newspaper offices twice in the half hour since his confrontation with the green-eyed woman, and both times his heart told him to go in and apologize for his rude behavior. So did his conscience.
Why he’d strolled past without stopping, without doing what he knew he should, defied reason. To be certain, he owed both women an apology, for he’d surely made the little one cry, but something abou
t his exchange with the tall one set his jaw—and his heart—on edge.
She made him want to be right.
He shook his head and went back to work on his writ. No, that wasn’t it. Henry began to twirl his pen.
She made him want to be …
Enough foolishness.
With force, he reapplied pen to paper and attempted to continue with the writ he’d set to drafting. Instead of coherent and intelligent words filling the page, his pen stalled, and so did the eloquent phrasings.
What in the world was wrong? Even the incident with the counterfeit note from his father hadn’t caused him as much uneasiness as this.
He dropped his pen and watched a nasty splat of ink decorate a corner of the page. He’d spend another hour redrafting the document for sure, longer if he continued to let his thoughts wander.
Leaning back in his chair, Henry laced his fingers behind his head and closed his eyes. No doubt whatever ailed him, its source was the woman.
Rather bookish, that one, and well past the age of employment. To be blunt, the first time he met her she’d barely made an impression. Why, until she mentioned the fact, he hadn’t realized the woman at the Gazette was the same one whom he had met days earlier on the street.
He met so many people these days. A hazard of his chosen profession—or at least the profession he hoped would choose him. What’s a politician without an office to hold?
Better off.
A strange thought. Did he really question God’s plan for him to pursue the mayor’s office?
Henry heard her before he actually saw her. She called his name, stiffly and formally, and with the slightest hint of a stutter.
Opening his eyes, he saw the object of his thoughts standing in the doorway. She wore yellow. Why hadn’t he noticed before?
“Do come in, Miss …”
“Morgan.” She wrung her hands together, then clasped them behind her back. “M–m–may I intrude for a moment?”
He stood a bit too quickly and pushed away from the desk, then gestured to the chair nearest him. “Do sit down.”
The Valiant Hearts Romance Collection Page 9
