Above the Fold

by Rachel Scott McDaniel

  Why had Mr. Shelby come here that tragic night? Was the Halloway Building the mysterious headquarters he’d spoken to Cole about? She only had her lunch hour to discover all she could. After that, Father might become concerned. Elissa tugged her collar higher, deflecting the slight breeze.

  The city had ordered the building’s demolition to begin next week, due to the hazardous conditions the fire had wrought. This was her only chance to find a clue, a lead for her article.

  She slipped on leather gloves as she skimmed the area. Except for some charred wood scraps, most of the debris from the explosion had been cleared. Stepping over a sooty plank, she made her way to the door Mr. Shelby would have gone through the last day he was alive. She tested the knob. Locked.

  She could scour the grounds in hopes he’d dropped something the police hadn’t found, but if Sterling was anything like Cole on a pursuit, she was out of luck.

  Her heart quickened at the thought of Cole. She wasn’t sure how to label their relationship. Holding hands and kissing had pushed them past the boundary of friendship, but the idea of being a couple again tested her courage. She blew out a noisy breath. The man was proving, even in his absence, to be a distraction.

  She had to find her story. She had the same alphabet to work with that Cole did, right? This was her opportunity to prove she could piece together the puzzle of letters to fashion a masterpiece worthy of attention.

  Elissa walked methodical lines around the building, her gaze pinned to the scarred pavement. After thirty minutes of straining her eyes, she decided her idea was a flop. Besides the soot swirling the air every time the breeze kicked up, she had noticed nothing.

  A muffled cough yanked her attention from the blackened building to the adjacent corner. A man huddled in a weather-beaten doorway. His bleak clothing almost blended into his ashen face. His pack, torn and threadbare, lay to his side.

  A hobo.

  He coughed again, tightening his gray-whiskered jaw, and succumbed to a vicious bout of wheezing. The man needed water or something to coat his throat. She reached for the lozenges in her purse and froze. What if the man was dangerous? What if this was an act to bait her to give him aid, only to assault her? She shook her head. After proofreading scores of articles about Pittsburgh’s crime-life, she’d allowed her reasoning to become darkened with fear. It was one thing to be cautious and another to be callous to the needs of others.

  The stranger held his ribs with another fit of coughs, and Elissa walked toward him, fishing in her purse for the throat drops. She calculated her distance and stopped a good ten feet from the man, who was now hunched over.

  Her fingers squeezed the circular tablets, while her brain suggested she toss them at the scrawny fellow and dash off. But the sag in his posture while he focused on the spit-stained ground made her take another step forward.

  She took a calming breath. “Hello.”

  The man flinched.

  “I’m sorry for disturbing you, but I have something that may help.” She held out her hand, and the man’s gaze softened. “I’ll set them here on the walk if you’re interested.”

  He gave a frail smile.

  She pivoted toward the road, ears sharp in case the man intended to make his move.

  “What’s your name?”

  Turning, she cleared her throat and acknowledged him with a small smile. “Elissa.”

  He straightened and cracked his neck to one side then the other. “Thank you kindly, Elissa.” He stooped and picked up the lozenges. “It’s nice to know decent people exist nowadays. Especially around this place.”

  “Quite welcome.” She offered another warm smile, contemplating. “Have you lived around here for a while?”

  “Several months.” His eyes lowered while his blackened fingernails worked to unwrap the medicine. “Can’t say my lodgings are ideal.” He jerked his head toward the doorframe from which he just stepped. “But, at least from my view, you witness a lot of dealings. Some good.” He lifted up the lozenge as a reference. “Some not so good.”

  Her pulse quickened. “Were you here the day of the explosion?” She pointed to the charred structure to her left. “Such a tragedy about Mr. Shelby.”

  “Maybe I was.” He shrugged. “Maybe I wasn’t.”

  So the nice old hobo wasn’t as artless as he appeared. She possessed only a five-dollar bill hidden in case of an emergency, and this qualified. “Any information you have would be helpful.” She retrieved the cash from her purse.

  The man’s back straightened. Five dollars could feed him for three weeks. Four—if he was frugal and didn’t waste it in seedy speakeasies. He sucked in air through his teeth, making him cough again.

  She waited until his breath evened enough for him to speak.

  “So happens that before the explosion, I saw a finely dressed man talking to a woman. She was a pretty woman from what I could see. I was camped over there.” He pointed to the neighboring alley. “They argued a bit, and the guy let his temper out on her. Gave her a nice slap on the cheek. She called him a few ugly names and got into her car and drove off.”

  A woman? Mrs. Shelby? Elissa’s brow wrinkled. The hobo had mentioned an attractive woman. Did that mean she was young? Mrs. Shelby was in her late sixties, and while the woman wasn’t bad-looking, Elissa wouldn’t label her a beauty.

  And had the man she argued with been Mr. Shelby? Or someone else?

  “What happened to the man? Did he leave too?”

  The hobo’s gaze slid to the money in her hand. She didn’t want to get too close to him, but she didn’t want the money carried away on the breeze either. A “No Parking” sign stood six feet away. Elissa folded the money and tucked it into one of the holes in the pole. There.

  With a smirk, she stepped away. “Now. About the gentleman you saw? Can you describe him? Like was he tall or short? Old or young? And what became of him?”

  He grinned. “Like I said, he was nicely dressed. His suit was all pressed, and he was wearing one of them fancy hats with a satin band. I couldn’t see his face too well, but he didn’t look too old. He was nice-sized. Tall. A bit on the thicker side. After he slapped the woman, he took off ’round the back.”

  Elissa tried to keep her heartbeat at a normal pace, but it spiked regardless. This was huge. Finally, a lead!

  He stepped over to the sullied sign, withdrew the money, and stuffed it in his frayed coat pocket. “Fell asleep after that and got woken up by the loudest boom I ever heard. The place was in flames, and junk was everywhere. Then came the sirens, and I decided to move on out for a spell.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Elissa beamed, and the man looked at her as if she’d sprouted five heads. “You’ve been most obliging.”

  He laughed. “Don’t waste those fancy words on me, kiddo. But you’re welcome.”

  She nodded and controlled her steps, walking a few blocks east in hopes of catching a cable car. The man’s description eliminated Daniel Shelby. The inventor hadn’t been tall and had definitely not been thick. More average height and lean. Could this mystery man have planted the dynamite? Set a timer to explode for when Mr. Shelby was inside the building?

  High-dollar suits, a beautiful woman, and an irrational temper? According to the gossip column, all of those factors added up to one man.

  Jeffrey Shelby.

  CHAPTER 20

  Elissa’s community of Shadyside boasted charm and elegance, but its neighboring area, Jeffrey Shelby’s turf, hosted millionaires. Andrew Carnegie, Henry Clay Frick, Mellon—all had lived in luxurious Point Breeze.

  Slim were the odds of Jeffrey Shelby being home. Most wealthy families went south like Canada geese for these horrid winter months. But Elissa clung to the hope that Jeffrey might remain for his father’s funeral Thursday. Hopefully, the socialite would find time in his busy schedule of wine and women to attend.

  Her fingers, numbed by cold despite her wool gloves, rapped on the door. After Elissa waited a few minutes, the door eased open, and a butle
r appeared.

  Elissa spoke up. “Miss …” Oh, she couldn’t give her true name. “Freedy to see Mr. Shelby.”

  The butler waited for her card, hand outstretched, palm up.

  “I’m afraid I left all my announcements in my other purse.” Not a full lie. Her cards were indeed in her black clutch, but the butler did not need to know they read Tillman and not Freedy.

  He nodded and opened the door wider, allowing her admittance to the stately house. Ornate, carved wooden panels lined the entryway, surrounding an enormous staircase leading to the second floor. The heels of her T-straps tapped the marble floors.

  Her house was larger than most, but this, this was grandiose.

  Elissa shed her gloves, and the butler received her coat and hat. She ran a hand down her burgundy dress and followed the older gentlemen, who turned left and shuffled down another hall lined with paintings. How did Jeffrey get this kind of money? Yeah, his father could afford such a home, but did his father pay for all of this? The Mr. Shelby she had come to know through Cole had been a simple man, preferring mutton to steak and synthetic fur to fox fur.

  The butler opened a carved door with an “S” etched in the center of the fancy woodwork. “Please wait in the study while I summon Mr. Shelby.”

  “Thank you.” Elissa smiled, but the man was already out of the room.

  The study wasn’t as large as what she would’ve expected in a house like this, but the fire crackling from the hearth gave it a cozy aura. A mahogany desk crowded the space to her left, and two tall bookshelves stood behind. Books. Elissa’s weakness. While she hardly expected a man like Jeffrey Shelby to own a copy of Jane Eyre, she investigated the spines of possible book-friends.

  Hemingway, Dickens, and Melville filled the middle shelf, but most of the works were poetry. Cole would love this collection. Her fingers itched to pull out Wordsworth and find the works Cole had read to her many summers ago—when life had consisted of moonlight kisses—when she was supposed to be home tucked in bed. Instead of reading by the gas lamp, she had been listening to Cole’s deep timbre reading of stars, seas, and her favorite fields of flowers.

  “See something you like?”

  Elissa’s spine snapped straight.

  Pittsburgh’s playboy leaned against the doorframe, his arms linked across his chest as if he’d been there all day. The velvet robe over his suit and hair styled better than Elissa’s said this man valued appearance as much as his lofty bank account.

  He flashed a smile, exposing dimples that probably charmed more women than Casanova. “Hopefully, you find something to your liking.” He dipped his chin and moved toward her like a hawk swooping in on his prey.

  Oh, what a flirt. Shouldn’t he be mourning? His brows weren’t slumped in grief but arched in interest.

  “Allow me to express my sympathies on the recent death of your father.”

  His gaze shifted to the fireplace behind her. “Thank you.” After several crackles from the hearth, he returned his attention to her. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Miss Freedy?”

  “I’m from the women’s club. The one your father donated to. I’ve been tasked to inquire if you’d supply us with some kind words about him. Your comments would be placed in our quarterly letter along with those from others who’ve had the benefit of knowing Mr. Shelby. It’s a memorial letter, you know?” The spiel she’d practiced on the trip over flowed without a hitch. She trained her focus on him, hoping to catch a reaction. If he disdained his father, she’d detect it.

  “I see.” He sunk his hands in the robe’s pockets. “How much time do you have to spend with me?”

  “As much as needed, sir.” His lips twitched, and she caught her mistake. He’d viewed it as an invitation. “That is, I’m so glad you have ample amounts of generous words about your father. Perhaps this could help in your grieving.”

  His shoulders sagged slightly. “Yes, that.”

  She retrieved a notepad from her pocket. “Is this a good time for you? Or would you rather have time to reflect? We can meet again.”

  His brown eyes twinkled. “But the question is, have we met before?”

  Elissa fought against an eye roll. One would think the well-seasoned aristocrat would be more skillful in his schmoozing. “I don’t believe so.” Because Shelby had been several years older than she and had attended an all-male, private school in Point Breeze, there was little chance of him knowing about the Shadyside Slob.

  “That’s splendid. I’ve always been fond of forming new acquaintances. Making friends.”

  Elissa took a step back. Jeffrey wouldn’t be getting friendly today. Not with her. But she had to sway him into talking about his father. Up to this point, she hadn’t sensed any emotion besides eagerness, unnerving her. No guilt. No anger. No trace of loss or regret. What kind of relationship had these Shelby men had?

  Flipping open the notepad, she tightened her grip on the pencil and braved a weak smile. “May I ask what your favorite memory was with your father? Or perhaps you’d like to begin with what his legacy means to you? Either one.”

  He cleared his throat. “You may be seated, if you like.” He gestured to a wing-back leather chair. “I may need a few moments to gather my thoughts.”

  “Of course.” She sat in the plush seat, her nearness to the fire increasing her warmth. She expected him to sit behind his desk, but instead he paced the rug behind her.

  “I will say my old man had a vigorous work ethic.” Agitation lathered his voice. Or maybe it was hurt. Cole had relayed that Mr. Shelby had missed several of Jeffrey’s ball games because of job deadlines. Perhaps that had caused the strain between them.

  “That’s notable.” She jotted it down. “Thank you. Anything else?” Time to poke the bear. “Loyalty to family, perhaps?”

  He scoffed. “Mother, maybe.”

  Sympathy softened her disgust. Wounds cut deep always rose to the surface. But did Jeffrey possess enough anger to kill his own father? Such an extreme measure. Warmth from his hand pressed into her shoulder. He towered over her, the look in his eyes hungry.

  “Do you dance, Miss Freedy?” He removed his hand and walked to the other side of the room where a Victrola stood. He fingered through some records.

  Her phonograph looked paltry compared to this one. Gold parts and fancy milled hardwood. “Um, I don’t dance with strangers.”

  “Like I said, I have my ways of becoming acquainted.” He slipped a record on the turntable and wound the crank. “After all, I think it will take me a length of time to accurately relay my sentiments about my father.”

  Woodwind music crooned from the phonograph, and the light in his eyes glinted brighter than the sizzling fire. Elissa needed out of this place before the man deluded himself into imagining her interest. She launched to her feet. “I’ll be more than willing to scribe your words. Can we meet at a coffee house next week?” A nice crowded place, where his hands could hold a mug and not her.

  His brows furrowed and then lifted. “I’ll be at The Steel Fountain tomorrow night. You could meet me there.”

  The Steel Fountain was a swanky speakeasy supposedly protected by city magistrates. Her stomach soured. Integrity died when graft money fattened the pockets of the honest.

  “Or here.” He shifted closer. “We can dance here. Privately.”

  Oh no, she wouldn’t. “Thank you for the invitation, sir, but I am already engaged for the evening.”

  His hand slid across her back. “Why waste this moment?” He scooped her in his arms, and she did everything she could not to stab her heel into his shoe.

  “Please release me.”

  He laughed. “I’m not used to rejection, Miss Freedy.”

  Then she would knock him over the head with the brass candlestick on the mantel. She wasn’t sure she’d need to resort to such measures, but her eyes found something enlightening beside her could-be weapon.

  A pipe.

  And by its carvings, a significant one.


  Jeffrey nuzzled her hair, and she pulled back. “What a remarkable item.” She broke free and gestured to the mantel. “Those markings and the lettering.”

  His gaze darkened. “It’s nothing.” He snatched it from the wood plank and shoved it in his robe pocket. “Only a family heirloom.” The recording had ended, and the ticking of the needle on the record filled the room. He rushed over and plucked it up.

  “I should leave, Mr. Shelby. I do have an engagement to attend.”

  His manner softened. “Forgive me if I was too forward with you. I sometimes act impetuously, especially during difficult times.”

  Was he trying to tell her something deeper? “Of course, Mr. Shelby.”

  “Please call me Jeffrey.” He reached for her hand and kissed it. “Remember an invitation for dinner and dancing is yours. You tell me the day.”

  She forced a smile. “I’ll be sure to inform you when I’m free.” Which would be never. “Good day. I believe I can let myself out.” And with the knowledge she’d just gained, she was going straight to the newsroom.

  After seven o’clock, the newsroom fell vacant. Elissa had approximately an hour before she met Cole for dinner. The butterflies invading her stomach flew north, making her chest tight. Within the next moments, she’d know if the story’s lead would prove fit for the typewriter or the trash bin.

  She opened the bottom drawer, and her jaw unhinged. Her articles. The ones she’d penned about the Cartelli case had been moved. The order at her secretarial station had always been the Review paperwork to the left and her personal projects to the right. And currently, the Cartelli articles were mingled with the advertisement log. Not only that, but the pages were not in chronological order.

  She fell back in her chair.

  Who would tamper with those articles? Why? Maybe she should put a lock on the drawer. Not that the writings were anything but a pretense—a futile attempt to prove to herself she could write noteworthy editorials.