On Pinkerton’s desk in Chicago were forged papers from the finishing school she was supposedly attending, ready to be mailed to her family if she was spotted in town. The excuse of a semester credit for research was a flimsy one, but it would buy her enough time to finish this case. If she could find Lila, then maybe her job would become permanent, and she could proudly tell her family what she’d accomplished. Calista’s lips twitched as she imagined their amazement that their cosseted daughter had answered a Help Wanted ad in the newspaper and actually secured an intriguing job, all of her own initiative. But until she could tell them, the deception had to continue.
“Here’s your change, ma’am.” The waiter eased the hand-sized silver tray onto the table. “Is there anything else I may help you with?”
It was time to make a move. Calista lifted her chin. “Yes, sir. I’d like to meet the manager of your hotel to offer my skills as a designer and decorator.” This was why she’d worn her newest gown today. Even a waiter would try to find some hole in her story, and a shabby wardrobe would be a most obvious inconsistency.
Evidently she passed the first test.
“If you’ll follow me,” he said. He ducked his head as they paraded through the busy dining room to the reception area.
Calista followed him around the maître d’s podium to an office door that was inset with frosted glass. From the shadows moving inside, it appeared the House of Lords had a busy staff. The waiter pushed through and held the door open for Calista to enter. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and she braced herself. Strangers appearing uninvited in dens of iniquity often received less than warm welcomes.
This was not the case, however.
As Calista entered, a couple came through a back door, the woman laughing garishly while the man ogled her ample bosom. Both carried heavy bags with the seams nearly bursting.
“We emptied the slots, Malcolm.” She tried to raise the bags to present them, but failed to lift them above the countertop. Her companion bumped her with his elbow and held the gate to the desk area open with his foot for her to pass through.
A ringing telephone was answered by a middle-aged man. After a few mumbled words, he returned the receiver to the hook switch. “Mr. Olson requests a room tonight at eight o’clock with entertainment,” he said to a neatly dressed woman who sat at a desk. “He’s going to have five gentlemen in attendance.”
“You got it, Carrots.” She jotted down some notes, then ripped the paper out of her notebook. “Constance, take this up to Mrs. Wilds when you go. She’ll know who to recruit for tonight.”
Calista’s head was spinning. If this was illegal activity, it was the least furtive operation she’d ever encountered. No one hung their head in shame. No one shuffled papers out of sight at her entrance. No one seemed bothered that a stranger was in their midst.
After passing the paper to the courier going up the staircase, the woman at the desk motioned Calista over. With a straight back and perfect precision, she pecked at a typewriter.
“Have a seat,” she said, her fingers never slowing as the waiter departed. Calista sat primly in the sturdy chair. If she was looking for a hint of the opulence that supposedly decked the third floor, it was nowhere to be seen. This office, with its polished wooden floors and spacious windows, was as clean and respectable as Mr. Buchanan’s railroad offices.
The secretary rolled the paper out of the typewriter and held it to the side of her desk. Immediately another courier appeared. “Take this liquor license to city hall,” she said, “and make sure you get a receipt that it was received. Thank you.” Then she spun her chair toward Calista. “How may I help you?”
If anyone in this room felt guilty for what they were doing, it was Calista. But she was here for Lila Seaton. No matter how cheerful these employees were, they were part of an operation that was holding a girl hostage.
“I’m recently arrived from St. Louis and am looking for work. I have experience with a designer, Madame DuBois. I have a letter of reference from her, recommending myself for the remodeling of your entertaining areas.” Whether the letter was legitimate or a forgery done by Pinkerton, Calista couldn’t say.
The secretary barely gave her a glance. “You’re from the Clarketon Hotel, aren’t you? Want to get a look at our rooms? No, thank you. If our staff wasn’t doing an admirable job, there wouldn’t be so many competitors trying to imitate us. Have a nice day.” She turned back to her typewriter and pulled another paper off a stack.
“Or maybe I could tour the place?” Calista persisted, “I think I have a relative who works here. I’d like to say hello to her before I leave, if that’s possible.” She knew she wouldn’t persuade the secretary, but she was buying time. First and foremost, she was watching every face for Lila Seaton, but beyond that, you never knew when a crossed path would prove fortuitous.
One young lady in particular caught her eye. Wearing a stern black skirt and tan blouse, she was dressed too somberly for her age and too modestly for a woman employed at this business. Her thick bangs were cut so low as to nearly brush against her spectacles. She stood at a respectable distance, waiting for Calista to finish.
Her wait would be short. The dragoon at the receptionist table ripped the page from her typewriter and held it out to another courier. “Barney, tell Mrs. Wilds that Dr. Stevenson has scheduled ten of our girls for their checkups tomorrow. Here’s a list of who needs to attend this time. And please get security to escort this woman out of my office.”
“Me?” Calista pressed her hand against her fitted jacket. “I don’t mean any harm.”
But the woman at the typewriter only rolled her eyes before addressing the prudish woman next to Calista. “How can I help you?”
With a nervous glance at Calista, the woman stepped forward. “I’m Mrs. Bowman from the Children’s Home,” she said. “I’ve brought news for Fredericka. Her child has recovered from her illness. We thought she’d like to know.”
The secretary grabbed a pencil and jotted a few words on a pad. “I’ll get the message to her,” she said.
A burly man entered, scanned the room, then started toward Calista.
Calista didn’t need to be warned again. Besides, she’d acquired an interesting piece of information—employees of the Children’s Home had interactions with the women at the House of Lords. Calista knew of a Children’s Home on the road leading to Granny’s ranch, but she’d never considered what children resided there. And if Mrs. Bowman was a courier between the ladies of the night and the Children’s Home, she could be a wealth of information. She followed the prim woman from the orphanage out the door.
“You’re from the Children’s Home?” Calista said once she and Mrs. Bowman had reached the sidewalk. “Do you know many of the girls who work here at the House of Lords?”
Mrs. Bowman bit her lip, then looked over her shoulder at the imposing building behind them. “Our records are confidential. Only our staff and volunteers know where the children come from.”
The copy of Lila Seaton’s photo was in Calista’s pocket, but this wasn’t the right place or time. “Perhaps I’ll find time to volunteer, then,” she said. “I’ve always pitied children from unsavory—”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Mrs. Bowman interrupted. “You wouldn’t be welcome, so better not to waste your time.” Then, as if embarrassed by her candor, she gave Calista’s wrist a friendly squeeze before trotting away.
Calista tilted her head in puzzlement. “I wasn’t expecting that,” she mused.
But neither was she expecting her cousin to round the corner.
“Calista York?” Olive Kentworth crushed a paper bag of groceries against her side and ran to hug Calista. Her small frame felt as fragile as the fuzzy blond curls pushing against the brim of her hat. “What are you doing in town?”
Calista turned her face away to keep from getting poked in the eyes with celery leaves. “It’s so good to see you,” she said as she took the groceries from Olive. “How’s Aunt
Myra?”
“Not well,” Olive said. “The treatments don’t help like they used to. The doctors don’t give her much hope. We take each day as a gift.”
Olive was a saint. Her mother had been unwell her entire life. Because of her illness, the family had never had any money, and the two daughters had sacrificed much of their young adulthood nursing her. Life was unfair. Calista’s uncle Oscar had fallen in love and married sweet Aunt Myra, and they’d barely made ends meet since. On the other hand, Calista’s mother, Pauline Kentworth, had fallen in love with a land developer. True, they’d had to move to Kansas City to pursue opportunity, but the rewards had been great. Calista and her siblings, Corban and Evangelina, had never wanted for anything. Except maybe purpose.
“Well, I hope you have an afternoon free this week,” Calista said. “We could visit a tearoom. My treat.”
“A tearoom? Aren’t you going to stay at Granny Laura’s?”
Calista wrinkled her nose. “Granny doesn’t know I’m in town. In fact, no one does besides you. I’d like to keep it that way as long as possible.”
“I can guarantee someone saw you at the depot when you came in and has already informed Granny that one of her Kansas City grandchildren is in the vicinity.”
“I’m hoping for some time without all the family interference.”
“Time for what?”
Calista’s gut clenched. She hated lying to her family, but it was for Lila. Olive wouldn’t be harmed by not knowing the full truth.
“I’m looking for a job.” Calista winced, because it sounded false even to her.
“You? A job? And you left Kansas City and came to Joplin to find one?” Olive took her groceries out of Calista’s hands. “That’s hogwash, Calista York. You’d better not tell Granny that, or she’s like to take a strap to you for lying to her. Besides, last I heard, you were nursing a sick classmate back to health in Emporia. Now I’m wondering if that had any truth to it either.”
Calista blinked her round eyes wide, hoping to look innocent enough to kill suspicion. “Getting a job here is part of my education. The last stage in my finishing school is to collect a menagerie of experiences from different walks of life. I thought Joplin would be a natural place to start.”
Olive narrowed her eyes. “Is that the story you’re telling me? Are you sure about that?”
Calista shrugged. “That’s the story,” she said at last.
Olive’s mouth pursed in disapproval. “Well then, I guess I’m duty bound to help. Father might be able to get you on at the mine, if there’s an opening among his bookkeepers, although something tells me you won’t be interested.”
“That’s very kind, but I don’t think the mining industry is my goal.”
“Then where . . .” Olive’s gaze traveled past Calista to the building she’d just exited. “Not the House of Lords, Calista. How could you even entertain such a thought? Granny would grab you by the hair and drag you to the woodshed before you knew what hit you.”
“Regardless of my reasons or my future punishment at Granny’s hands, why don’t we have a nice tea while I still have my freedom?”
Olive could be as stubborn as those Missouri mules, and there was a chance Calista’s attempt to find Lila was over before it had begun. Olive didn’t like the change of subject, but with a shrug of her shoulders, she signaled defeat. “I don’t have time to argue,” she said, “but Mother can’t eat at the restaurant—not with her illness—and Friday is my baking day. Tomorrow when we return from Dr. Stevenson’s, I’ll bake my dinner rolls and would be glad to share them.”
There was nothing to observe in her aunt’s sickroom, yet Calista dearly loved Aunt Myra, and her mother would expect her to call on her sister-in-law . . . if her mother knew Calista was in Joplin. Which she would shortly.
“I accept your invitation,” Calista said. Then inspiration hit. “Did you say Dr. Stevenson?”
“Most of the other doctors are too expensive. He’s the only one we can afford.”
“Two birds with one stone.” Calista took the bag of groceries back again. “I’ll accompany you and your mother to the doctor tomorrow. How does that sound?”
“Visits to the doctor are rarely any cause for celebration, Calista. If you’re looking for diverting entertainment, it’s not the place.”
“Actually I’ve been very interested in the medical field lately. In fact, after caring for my roommate, I’ve found that I have quite a knack for rehabilitating patients. Perhaps Dr. Stevenson needs an assistant? I’d be willing to work free of charge, if he’d only give me a chance. Plus, it would help with my class requirements.”
“You, work for a doctor? You faint at the first sign of blood.”
“I’ve overcome that failing. Working with my classmate has bolstered my resistance.” No wonder Mr. Pinkerton had hired her with no references. Calista excelled at constructing fictions from thin air.
“If you’re serious, I’d recommend asking Dr. Cortez or Dr. Hooper. You’d be more comfortable with their upscale clientele. Dr. Stevenson . . . well, don’t tell Mother that I told you, but if it weren’t for our finances, Mother wouldn’t see him. There are rumors that he isn’t particular about his patients. Maisie told me that she heard from Hank that Dr. Stevenson treats the entertainment. You know what I mean . . .” Olive jutted her chin toward Main Street and its saloons. “The women who work there.”
Of course Calista knew what she meant. She also knew that somewhere in one of these houses, there was a girl who’d been enticed, seduced, or kidnapped against her will. And Calista would do whatever it took to save her.
About the Author
Regina Jennings is a graduate of Oklahoma Baptist University with a degree in English and a minor in history. She’s the winner of the National Readers’ Choice Award, a two-time Golden Quill finalist and a finalist for the Oklahoma Book of the Year Award. Regina has worked at the Mustang News and at First Baptist Church of Mustang, along with time at the Oklahoma National Stockyards and various livestock shows. She lives outside of Oklahoma City with her husband and four children and can be found online at www.reginajennings.com.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Books by Regina Jennings
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
Sneak Peek of COURTING MISFORTUNE
About the Author
Back Ads
Broken Limbs, Mended Hearts Page 10