Stolen (A Prairie Heritage, Book 5)

by Vikki Kestell

  “Would you care to come in, Mr. Carpenter?” Her words dripped with reluctance.

  “Thank you! I would, indeed.” He skipped up the steps and into the foyer, looking around, inquisitive and intrigued. The two guards placed the buggy on the floor in the entryway.

  “By the way,” he mentioned as Tabitha led the way to a large room warmed by two fireplaces, “Mrs. Thoresen’s Bible is in the buggy. It looks well used—I’m sure she will be happy to have it back.”

  He took the seat that Tabitha gestured to, although it was plain that she was merely going through the motions of cordiality.

  “Thank you, Mr. Carpenter,” she responded, “and I wish to express the gratitude of everyone at Palmer House for your quick thinking yesterday. Mrs. Thoresen is resting in hospital; she will not be released for a few days.”

  “And Shan-Rose?”

  Tabitha glared at him again, and Mason almost chuckled. She had not yet forgiven him for refusing to hand the baby over to her!

  “Shan-Rose is well, thank God. And thanks to you . . . I guess.”

  Carpenter looked around again, puzzled. “You called this place Palmer House? What sort of place is this?”

  When he walked down the steps toward his car thirty minutes later, Mason Carpenter’s head was spinning. Tabitha, as thorny as a rose and obviously trying to fend him off, had employed few niceties in the history and description of the house and those who lived there—herself included. Carpenter had difficulties focusing when she described the current tragedy with which they were coping—the kidnapping of the infant boy.

  At least Carpenter now understood why the crowd at the hospital had been so diverse but so united in their concern for Mrs. Thoresen and the missing child. However, Tabitha’s recitation had been almost more than he could take in and nearly more than he could stomach.

  Mason understood her intent. She had done her best to put him off and discourage the attentions he wished to pay her.

  Tabitha! He bowed his head as he marched, unseeing, toward the front gate. Lord, it breaks my heart that this lovely woman has been so misused.

  Carpenter had insisted on returning the pram himself because he wanted to see this woman again, wanted to see if the fiery spirit she’d demonstrated at the hospital beckoned to him as it had yesterday.

  Carpenter’s brow plunged into a stern line as he pondered all she had—with no holds barred and no self-pity—recited to him in the space of half an hour. He turned her words over in his thoughts—the horrors she had glibly rattled off while his mouth hung farther and farther open.

  Could he see beyond those cold, cold facts?

  Because he had the answer he had sought today: The moment Tabitha had appeared in that doorway, glowering like a thundercloud, he’d known—here was a woman he could love.

  Now what, Lord? he demanded.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 23

  Groves’ officers swarmed over the house on Acorn Street while O’Dell showed Groves and Pounder the letter he had received containing the house’s address.

  “We came in through the back and found those four,” O’Dell gestured toward the bodies in the kitchen, “and this letter.”

  Groves and Pounder perused the letter written, presumably, by the same person who had shot the four men lying dead on the kitchen floor. “This letter clearly implicates Madam Chen in a plot to kidnap Mei-Xing Li’s baby—but they took the wrong child?”

  “That’s what it says,” O’Dell answered through gritted teeth. Why? he reasoned to himself. Why take Edmund and not Shan-Rose?

  “R.S. Any idea who that might be?”

  “Not at the moment,” but O’Dell’s mind was in overdrive, racing for a name to fit the initials.

  “You shouldn’t have investigated this without us, you know,” Groves chastened O’Dell and Gresham, his expression grave. “You, O’Dell, have a history with this Chen woman. At trial, her lawyers could speculate that you had a hand in all this, that you killed these men and wrote this letter, even. Might throw the evidence this letter provides into doubt.”

  O’Dell bristled. “These men have been dead at least a day—a trained monkey can see that. I was in Kansas City yesterday and only came into Denver on the train near midnight last night. I can prove that. Besides, see those names and telephone numbers? If telephone calls from this house and telephone calls from Madam Chen can be tied to those numbers, they will prove her involvement.”

  Pounder added, “We need to get to this Clemmins fellow and the person on the other end of the second number quick. If we clamp down on them, before Madam Chen does, then we’ll have their corroborating statements.”

  “I agree,” O’Dell answered. “In fact, knowing how Madam Chen works, if you don’t get to these folks first, by the time you do, Madam Chen will have disposed of them—permanently. She won’t risk them remaining loyal to her, regardless of how much she is willing to pay them.”

  Groves, Pounder, O’Dell, and Gresham formulated their plans; Pounder left immediately to contact colleagues in Washington State.

  “We have a lot to think over,” Groves remarked, “a lot of possibilities.”

  “Less than we think, is my opinion,” O’Dell answered. “If we answer one question, I believe we will have the key to all of this.”

  “What question?” Gresham and Groves both stared at O’Dell.

  O’Dell lost no time explaining where his thoughts had taken him. “This one question: Who would leave such a provocative letter? The last line of the letter, Sorry about taking the wrong child, O’Dell—is personal. It’s a taunt. Toward whom? Obviously, toward me. And the same individual who wrote this letter cared enough to send me an urgent note containing the address of this house. Why? So I could discover these men and this letter—and receive this personal jibe.”

  O’Dell raised a finger. “So I ask you: Who knows me well enough and whose ego needs this type of vindictive stroking to send me such a provoking message? If we answer that, we have our man.”

  Groves stroked his chin, thinking. “You handle a lot of missing persons cases, O’Dell, some of them kidnappings, like this one. You could have enemies you aren’t aware of.”

  “Somehow, I think this is more personal than my work with the Pinkerton Agency—and something tickling the back of my mind tells me that I should recognize these initials, R.S.” O’Dell’s mouth dropped down into a scowling frown. “I should know who wrote this letter and took Edmund, and, by God’s grace, I will figure it out.”

  With Grove’s permission, O’Dell copied the words of the letter into his pocket notebook, taking care to copy them exactly. “Sam, I’m going back to Palmer House to check in with the Pinkerton men canvassing the neighborhood.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  Joy lay next to Grant and listened to the even cadence of the tank as it fed precious oxygen to her husband. He was sleeping, his body and mind exhausted. Joy wished she were sleeping, too—blissfully reprieved from the pain and worry attending Edmund’s absence.

  She wrapped her arms about herself, curled into a ball, and tried to shut out the fearful fantasies that were playing havoc in her imagination, but she could not. Edmund’s little face floated before her closed eyes and her breasts, swollen with milk, let down in response, soaking her bodice and sleeves.

  Joy gritted her teeth against the discomfort. He must be so hungry! she mourned. Are they feeding him or is he crying in hunger? Is he warm? Are they tending him well or are they letting him cry without comforting him? He must be so frightened!

  The terrible possibilities tortured her soul until she gasped and broke down. And then she was in Grant’s arms, and he was holding her, crushing her to his chest. He had pulled off the breathing mask, and Joy could hear that he was short of breath, but he held her with all the strength he had.

  “Don’t, Joy,” he whispered between shallow gasps. “Don’t allow the evil one to fill your heart and wound you with his evil thoughts. Wherever Edmund is, our
Father sees him.”

  Joy burrowed into Grant’s warmth, sobbing into the comfort she found there. Slowly she released the thoughts and relaxed, exhaustion taking over. Grant slipped the mask back over his mouth and they slept, folded in each other’s arms.

  O’Dell and Gresham passed under the scrutiny of two of Gresham’s guards and let themselves into Palmer House. Mr. Wheatley and Tabitha were the only ones in the great room.

  “Where is everyone today?” O’Dell inquired.

  “Joy and Grant have gone to their cottage to rest,” Tabitha informed them. “Pastor Carmichael and Minister Liáng were here earlier; they have gone to the hospital to see Miss Rose. Most of the girls have gone to work except Mei-Xing. She and Shan-Rose are upstairs. Billy and Marit are in the kitchen.”

  Tabitha looked as worn as O’Dell felt. “Oh, Mr. O’Dell, I am so concerned about Grant!”

  “I must agree,” O’Dell commiserated. “You probably understand his condition better than we do . . . is there not anything that can be done?”

  She hesitated. “Only that he should take care not to overtax his heart either emotionally or physically.”

  O’Dell nodded. “More easily said than done, under the circumstances. What is the report on Mrs. Thoresen?”

  “Breona telephoned to say that Miss Rose slept well last night, with the help of a sleeping powder. She will be coming home in two or three days, if she has recovered enough by then.”

  “Well, I have men going door-to-door throughout the neighborhood,” O’Dell told her, “and I have asked them to report to me here, if that is all right.”

  “Of course it is! I will ask Marit if she would make some sandwiches and coffee and have them ready when they are needed.”

  “I could use something to eat,” Gresham realized, patting his empty belly.

  The front door to Palmer House opened and one of the guards put his head into the great room. “Begging your pardon, sir, miss. A neighbor woman is at the door. Claims to have something to say to the police. She won’t talk to your Pinkerton men.”

  “Show her in,” O’Dell ordered. “She will talk to me.” The iron in his words sent a chill down Tabitha’s back.

  “Yessir.”

  The guard returned immediately with a thin, sour-faced spinster who eyed O’Dell with distaste. “I already told that man that I would only speak with the police,” she insisted.

  “You are?” O’Dell fixed the woman with a cold stare.

  “I, ah, I am Miss Cora DeWitt. And who are you?”

  O’Dell recognized the name. Grant had told him of the bitter woman and her vigorous attempts to rally the neighborhood against Palmer House when they had first moved in. He had described to O’Dell how Miss DeWitt and her friends had picketed Michaels’ Fine Furnishings—costing them days of income.

  O’Dell’s face hardened. “Edmund O’Dell, Pinkerton agent. Chief Groves has assigned the canvassing of this neighborhood to me.” O’Dell stared, unflinching, at the woman.

  She seemed to wilt under his stony gaze. “Oh! Well I, um, wanted to report . . . a concern to the police.”

  “You will report it to me,” O’Dell answered, never taking his eyes from the woman’s face.

  Miss DeWitt looked as though she wished she had not come forward. Her gaze cast about the room, taking in the homey, humble décor, while her mouth tightened and her hands fidgeted with a worn hanky.

  “I am waiting.”

  Miss DeWitt stared at the floor and began to mumble. O’Dell had to strain to hear her.

  “Speak up!” he barked.

  She jumped. “Oh dear! I-I, what I said was, I rented a room in November to a gentleman—that is, he said he was a gentleman—but-but, he has left without notice, and I find that I am concerned . . .”

  O’Dell grasped her by the arm. “Show me the room.”

  Miss DeWitt found herself being propelled through the door and across the street to her own home. Within minutes, she was trying hard to catch her breath as O’Dell stared around the room that Roger Thomas had vacated.

  Gresham stood at O’Dell’s shoulder looking through the window toward Palmer House. “He’s been watching the house. Since November.”

  “Yes. But who?”

  O’Dell took Miss DeWitt into her own drawing room and questioned her for more than an hour. By the time he was finished, she had to retire to her bed to rest her nerves, and O’Dell had a man’s physical description that did him little good. Other things she mentioned, though, resonated with O’Dell.

  He seemed like such a gentleman! His clothes were impeccable—always pressed and never a speck of lint. Why, I never saw him other than immaculately dressed and his grooming perfect. And so well-spoken! Obviously, very intelligent.

  Something in those descriptive phrases nagged at O’Dell’s memory. That and R.S.

  R.S.?

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 24

  The individuals gathered in the great room of Palmer House three days later gave their whole attention to O’Dell, Chief Groves, and Marshal Pounder as they talked through what they knew regarding baby Edmund’s kidnapping.

  Breona and Mei-Xing sat side-by-side and arm-in-arm on one of the threadbare sofas, Shan-Rose curled upon Mei-Xing’s lap. Liáng, standing with Carmichael and Bao on the edge of the assembled party, hovered close by Mei-Xing.

  Grant and Joy sat together; Joy, O’Dell observed, did not let Grant out of her sight. Her eyes, though hollow from lack of sleep, were continually on him, seeing to his needs. Every so often, O’Dell saw her gaze slide to Shan-Rose. The aching on her countenance pierced his heart.

  Rose leaned her head upon the back of her chair. She was suffering from recurring headaches in addition to the pain her arm caused her. Tabitha attended her needs.

  Lord God, Rose prayed through the blinding headache, you are the only strength we have. We lean on you.

  We lean on you.

  We lean on you.

  We lean on you.

  O’Dell had selected those who should attend this meeting, but those he had summoned did not yet know the purpose of the meeting. They had not yet heard the audacious and hazardous plan O’Dell, Groves, and Pounder had devised—and those attending did not know the role each of them would be asked to play in that plan.

  “Lord,” O’Dell whispered, “Your word tells us, Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it. If you are not in these plans, we cannot hope to succeed. Help us, O God, I am asking in the mighty name of Jesus.”

  Then O’Dell stood and addressed the room. “Here are the facts as we understand them and as the evidence seems to indicate,” he began. “First, we know that a man rented a room across the street from this house in November. From November until the day that Edmund was taken, more than four months, he watched this house using a telescope and a pair of binoculars.

  “Secondly, we know that the kidnappers were organized; they were prepared and ready to attack Mrs. Thoresen and the guards even though the outing to the park was not planned in advance. This leads us to believe that the man spying on Palmer House alerted the kidnappers, telling them that Mrs. Thoresen and the children were vulnerable, as soon as they left Palmer House.”

  Chief Groves took up the narrative. “The telephone company has checked with its switchboard operators, and they have testimony to prove this theory: A telephone call did originate from Miss DeWitt’s telephone to the house on Acorn Street prior to the attack.”

  He nodded at O’Dell, who continued. “The third fact we know is that, the day after the kidnapping, the Pinkerton office here in Denver received an urgent note for me through the mail. The note contained the address of the house on Acorn Street. The person who wrote that note certainly wanted me to go to the house and find the second letter.

  “The second letter tells us that Su-Chong’s mother, Fang-Hua Chen, financed a plan to kidnap Shan-Rose—not baby Edmund. For reasons unknown, the kidnappers took Edmund rather than Shan-Rose. The le
tter tells us this was a mistake.”

  O’Dell had to stop; a sob had escaped from Joy, a sound so broken that he choked and could not continue. Mei-Xing stared straight ahead, her relief for herself and Shan-Rose warring with her grief and sense of guilt for Joy and Grant’s loss.

  Pounder cleared his throat and stepped in to take over for O’Dell. “We do not understand why the kidnappers took Edmund instead of Shan-Rose, but the letter tells us that the kidnappers had been instructed to do away with Mei-Xing as well.

  “We can speculate that the stringent efforts taken to protect Mei-Xing and Shan-Rose from the very beginning were effective in preventing an earlier attack. The kidnappers, having watched for an opportunity for months, may have been under tremendous pressure to produce results. They may have elected to take advantage of this opportunity—the first time Shan-Rose had been taken outside for a walk—even though it meant, er, failing at their other objective, er, regarding Mei-Xing.”

  O’Dell was able to continue. “Since the letter identifies two co-conspirators, Marshal Pounder reached out to law enforcement in Washington State with their names. U.S. marshals in Washington have apprehended two people, a man named Clemmins and a woman named Gooding.

  “When Clemmins and Mrs. Gooding were shown the letter implicating Madam Chen and themselves, they were terrified to give evidence—terrified that Madam Chen would find a way to silence them permanently. The Pinkertons, as a personal favor to me and with the permission of the U.S. marshals, have hidden Clemmins and Gooding away. In return, we now have their sworn testimonies that Fang-Hua Chen was behind the entire scheme.”

  “You said the letter indicated that Mei-Xing was one of the kidnappers’ objectives.” Rose’s words were quiet but clear, although her eyes were pressed closed and her brows furled in pain. “Does that mean we should still be concerned for her well-being?”