Courting Misfortune

by Regina Jennings

  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 me 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 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.

  CHAPTER

  3

  When staying in a hotel, it was better to get an upper room. A lady staying alone was safer if her room was a fair distance from the entrance. Pinkerton had taught Calista that thieves preferred to get in and out of a building quickly. So did kidnappers. Sometimes space was the best defense. So when Calista had requested a room on an upper level, she hadn’t considered that the Keystone Hotel had six floors, but it had turned out to be an unexpected boon. She poured herself a goblet of mint-flavored water from a crystal carafe and returned to her post at the window.

  Below, she could see the street in front of the House of Lords. A constant flow of people came and went, with no indication whether they were visiting the diner, the gambling hall, or the bordello. But from her vantage point, she didn’t see many young ladies leaving through the front doors.

  Calista ran her hand down the blue toile draperies, noticing the print for the first time. The women harvesting fruit in the pastoral scene looked charmingly disheveled, not at all like she and her cousins looked working in Granny’s garden. She’d always marveled at how the dirt stuck to sweaty skin, something she didn’t have much experience with back in Kansas City. The one thing she and her cousins did have in common with the laboring youth on the fabric was the smiles. Working with her cousins was always fun. No matter what the task had been, they’d enjoyed each other’s company. After all, even if you had a tiff with one cousin, there were ample alternatives for companionship.

  For some reason, when Calista thought about her rough-and-tumble male cousins—Finn, Amos, and Hank—it brought to mind the man who had pestered her at the diner. What was it? The chip on his shoulder? The way he bristled when she teased him? Just another Missouri country boy come to town, but there was something more to him. Her kin wouldn’t appreciate being compared to someone as morally corrupt as Matthew Cook, but maybe he was redeemable. Maybe God had plans for him.

  Calista continued to scan the roofs of the various buildings beneath her. Joplin wasn’t an old city. It had expanded as quickly as they could dig the ore from the ground, which was about 180,000 tons a year. She remembered when the intersection of Main Street and Fourth Street was a duck pond. Joplin was infinitely more exciting now, but with that excitement came danger.

  A cable car glided up the street toward the hotel. An ice wagon swerved as its horses startled at the car. A woman dragged two children along to catch the car before it left. A man stepped out of a shop with his arms full of flowers. Calista rubbed the corner of her mouth. That was a lot of flowers. More than one would give to a sweetheart. He had to be buying them for a business.

  She watched as he jaunted along the sidewalk. What kind of business needed that amount of flowers? A funeral parlor, hotel lobbies. But he had a target in mind. His steps took him directly to the den of iniquity she was surveilling. Perhaps places like that relied on a sense of opulence to dull the consciences of their clients. And they had their flowers delivered. If the girls rarely came out, this might get her inside.

  Flower delivery went on Calista’s mental list along with the Children’s Home and the doctor. Could she convince the flower shop that they should hire her to arrange and deliver their flowers? From her bird’s-eye view, the shop looked respectable. It was separated from the hotel property by an alleyway, and she could see a postage stamp garden dwarfed by the large greenhouse behind it. As she’d expect a garden at the florist to look, it was filled with greenery, splashes of color in the bushes. Dozens of flowers crowded the green space, and a man knelt surrounded by them. She leaned her forehead against the glass and watched as he worked among the bushes. He cut a few blooms, then stood, seemingly as taken by the moment as she was.

  Gripping the laughing-peasant draperies, Calista remembered the feel of cool dirt. She appreciated the snap of the stem when a bloom needed pruning. How relaxing it would be to spend an afternoon with flowers and not have to evaluate what she said, not have to calculate her every move, not have to lie to her family. Just her and the gardene
r, working silently.

  And within an hour, she’d be bored. If she’d wanted to work in flowerbeds, she could’ve helped her parents’ gardeners back home. Instead, she wanted a life of purpose. She wanted to make a difference in the world.

  Someone knocked on the door. Regretfully, Calista turned away from the window and stepped across the blue-and-white rug to reach the brass knob.

  “Miss York?” The bellboy politely refrained from looking over her shoulder into the room. “You have a caller waiting on the telephone in the office.”

  Mr. Pinkerton already? Calista picked up the tasseled key to her room and exited, carefully locking the door behind her. She followed the bellboy to the elevator and counted each floor as it passed, knowing that the busy director of the Pinkerton Agency had better things to do than wait for her.

  When they reached the office, she thanked the bellboy and waited for him to exit before picking up the receiver.

  “Miss York speaking.”

  “It’s your father, from Chicago.” Pinkerton would never disclose his identity on the phone. His name was too recognizable to the operator, who was undoubtedly listening in on the line. “How’s my favorite daughter?”

  “Doing well, thank you. The arrangements you’ve made are superb.”

  “Not too superb, I hope.”

  “Only the best for your daughter.”

  In his pause, Calista could see him weighing his letter opener as he looked for a target. “Glad to hear it,” he said finally. “Have you made any new friends?”

  This was her chance to give her report. “No, but I do have some job prospects that might open doors.”

  “Is there any way I can help in your quest?”

  She mentally reviewed the contents of her travel case in her room. In it she had a variety of letters of introduction. In one letter she had three years of teaching experience, in another she was an excellent seamstress. She’d prepared the designer’s letter, but she hadn’t thought of creating a letter for nursing. “I’m going to apply at a doctor’s office on account of the work I did at the Home of Mercy in Chicago.”