Courting Misfortune

by Regina Jennings

  “It’s just us today,” Calista said to Howie. “I hope you feel like a nap this afternoon.”

  Her first order of business was to call the office. Matthew had explained how Graham had called Mr. Pinkerton the night before, and Calista knew, being the professional that he was, Mr. Pinkerton wouldn’t rest easy until he heard that she was safe, Sunday or not.

  Instead of asking at the front desk, she smiled and pointed inside the office. The clerk waved her on through with a curious look at Howie. Closing the door behind her, she took a deep breath as she waited for her connection.

  “Father, I hope everything is well,” she said at the sound of his greeting.

  “Good to hear from you. Your cousin’s husband called last night and said that you ran into some people who thought they knew you.”

  “I’m not sure what the nature of our acquaintance is,” she said, “but complete strangers don’t usually hand out such a welcome without a cause.”

  “That’s very troublesome,” he said. “My friend here has never suggested that anyone working for that institution was involved.”

  “They are most credibly involved,” she said. “When I asked about certain names, the effect was immediate.”

  The only sound was the clicking that Calista knew to be Mr. Pinkerton’s pen against his desk as he thought. From the speed of the clicking, it must be a tough decision he was pondering.

  “I’m recalling you,” he said.

  Calista’s stomach dropped. “There’s no need.” She moved Howie to her other hip, breathing hard into the receiver. “I’m so close.”

  “You’ve done marvelously, but your identity has been compromised. With all you’ve learned, it won’t take any time for this to come to a satisfactory conclusion. I regret that the satisfaction will come from another of our teammates, but I’m concerned about your safety.”

  “No, please.” While she never forgot the urgency of her mission, she had pushed away all thought of what would happen when it was over—when she had to leave. She was at home in Joplin, but home had taken on a whole new meaning with Matthew. “Give me more time.”

  “Buy train tickets to Kansas City. Leave as soon as you can tie up loose ends. Make sure you aren’t followed, and you can meet your replacement in Kansas City to share whatever information you’ve gathered.”

  Knowing that her portion had ended, Mr. Pinkerton wasn’t even bothering to keep up the familial ruse on the telephone, and he didn’t need to explain the Kansas City meeting. If the agency suspected that one operative had been compromised, they could only meet their replacement in a secure place. She must leave Joplin before the next operative arrived. There was no question of them meeting under the nose of the criminals they were trying to catch.

  The pen had stopped clicking. He’d made a decision, and there was no changing his mind. Calista hugged Howie against her, surprised at the hitch in her breathing. She’d been naive not to see this day coming. She had no control over where she was going next, or when. She was totally at the agency’s mercy, and this decision felt particularly merciless.

  How had she come to rely on Matthew so much? How had she blinded herself to the certainty that this day would come? Calista had a mission, one that was very important to her. A calling that she believed was from God. Matthew was also called, but to a different field, and she would think less of him if he abandoned it. There was only one choice for both of them—obedience. Only Calista hadn’t expected it to cost them so dearly.

  But if she could find Lila herself before the other operative was due to arrive, maybe she could bargain for a few days’ leave. Maybe she could have the time to make a decent good-bye to Matthew and thanks to Willow and Granny for keeping her secret. Maybe she’d have a better chance of getting the permanent position as an operative.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “The depot might not sell tickets on a Sunday, but I’ll do it first chance.”

  She hoped that excuse would buy her a little time, because first thing tomorrow, she was making a telephone call to Carthage and asking for records from the county courthouse. Records on Della Rush, in hopes of learning what her relationship was to Officer Rush.

  Sunday had been a frantic day of combing the streets, looking for any signs of Lila. In most places, Calista wouldn’t have a chance to carry on the investigation on a Sunday. All business would be suspended in honor of the Lord’s Day. Joplin wasn’t most places, but Calista’s attempts hadn’t been profitable. She’d learned nothing that would reverse Mr. Pinkerton’s decision.

  Monday morning found her in the hotel office, watching the clock, waiting for the hour that the county courthouse would open. A decent, quiet town like Carthage was as reliable as they came, and the clerk at the courthouse picked up on the first ring at 9:00 a.m., ready to search for the record she requested.

  “Miss York? You’re in luck. I found a marriage record with that name on it,” the voice on the telephone line reported after several minutes. “Della and Gregory Rush were married in Jasper County two years ago. Gregory Rush’s profession is listed as a police officer.”

  Della Rush, who’d dragged Lila from Chicago, was Officer Rush’s wife? She’d been involved in Lila’s disappearance from the start.

  “That’s very helpful,” Calista said. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” the clerk replied. “Gregory Rush and Della Bowman, it says it right here on the paper.”

  “Bowman?” Calista’s eyes widened. Could proper little Mrs. Bowman from the Children’s Home be involved? It sickened Calista to consider it, but she’d stopped believing in coincidences. “Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been an incredible help.”

  She hung the receiver in the cradle, then picked up Howie. She’d been closer to the truth than she’d realized. Whatever Mrs. Bowman’s role, it was notable that she worked with the product of their unholy commerce. Was she there to whitewash the records so that names like Lila Seaton’s were never recorded? How deep did this ring go?

  Calista was running out of time to find out. Maisie had tiptoed out of the hotel room while Calista was in the washroom that morning, leaving Howie behind again. She had to admit, when the baby was with someone else, she missed his sweet babbling. If she never had to worry about dangerous assignments, he’d be a pleasant distraction.

  She left the hotel’s office with the baby on her hip and headed toward the streetcar stop. What would happen to Howie when she finished her case? Matthew had promised to find a solution, but they hadn’t realized she would be relocated so soon.

  Calista looked at the two men and the lady who boarded the streetcar with her, watching for signs that they had devious intentions. None of them seemed interested in her. Just in case, it was helpful to have Howie with her. Howie gave her an excuse to go to the Children’s Home. She’d ask about him teething or something if she was challenged for her reason for visiting. How she’d introduce the subject of Lila Seaton with Mrs. Bowman, she wasn’t sure yet, but inspiration often sprang from unseeded pots.

  One by one, the passengers who’d boarded with her disembarked. Calista allowed herself a breath. Things were dire enough, but at least she didn’t have to worry about being waylaid on the road between the streetcar stop and the Children’s Home. The walk had never seemed so far, but it had everything to do with her anxiousness to solve the case before Matthew got off work.

  “Do you recognize this place?” she asked Howie as his eyes followed the high gate of the home to its top. But Howie kicked his feet and babbled some meaningless answer that she had no interpretation for.

  Would Howie return here? It wasn’t such a bad place. The people who worked here did what they could for the children, but it wasn’t a home. Calista would feel that she’d failed if he was sent back, but she wouldn’t feel it as strongly as Matthew would. She kissed Howie on the head as she walked through the front door.

  Mrs. Fairfield came out of her office. Her eyes alighted on Howie, and she smiled. “Oh, here’s the littl
e man. Just look at him, fat and sassy as he should be. Come on back. Most of our staff is busy, but they’ll want to see him.”

  She led Calista back to a waiting room, and Calista took a seat on a bench, pleased that her visit was welcome. Her presence wasn’t disconcerting to anyone. What was disconcerting was that Calista couldn’t see past the hanging sheets that divided the room into private alcoves.

  “I thought you all would want to see how well he’s doing,” she said. “You must miss him terribly.”

  Mrs. Fairfield smiled. “He’s a doll-baby, but we’d be selfish to wish him back. His crib has already been filled by another.”

  “I really thought that Mrs. Bowman would want to see him. They seemed to share a special bond.”

  The first crack in the facade appeared. “Mrs. Bowman? She should be here, but now that you mention it, I don’t think I saw her this morning. Let me ask. I’ll be right back.”

  Calista remembered not to let her disappointment show. “Yes, please. That’d be delightful.”

  She bounced Howie on her knee and looked around the room. It was obviously some sort of interview area. The sheet dividing the room would shield someone from sight but wouldn’t keep their conversation private—as was evident when two people entered and began an interview on the other side of the room.

  Normally, decorum would dictate that she make her presence known, but Calista was learning to set aside etiquette in pursuit of the truth. She slowed her bouncing and prayed that Howie wouldn’t give away their location.

  “I have a few questions, Miss Vanek. We like to have a complete file on the children when possible. We have no desire to shame you. This is in the hopes that should you find yourself in happier circumstances, you might decide to return and reclaim your child.”

  “Does that happen often?”

  Calista smoothed Howie’s hair and wondered how often his mother thought of him.

  “All the time,” the volunteer replied, “but it wouldn’t be possible if we didn’t keep records on the children. Now, I have your name. What’s the child’s birth date?”

  “It was this April, the eighteenth. I remember because my own birthday was also on the eighteenth of October—or that’s what my ma always told me.”

  Through the gap in the curtain, Calista saw the girl, and her heart twisted for the young mother. Matthew was right. Maybe a Children’s Home would always be necessary, but wouldn’t it be better if the families could manage to keep the children themselves?

  “And what is the father’s name?” The nurse’s voice was tentative, as if this question had received a poor reception before.

  “I’ll tell you who it is, although you don’t have to worry about him coming after this baby. It’s Silas Marsh. He’s the baby’s father, and he won’t do a blamed thing for her.”

  CHAPTER

  23

  Matthew had learned the rhythm of the shovel—thrust, scrape, lift, and dump. He knew the timing of the explosions that knocked tonnage down when they’d cleared the ground and were ready for more. He knew the harsh music of the jaw crusher aboveground that crushed the rock into smaller bits so it could be carried by conveyor belts to the hand-jigging area. And he knew the movements of the workers at the jig cells, washing the pieces and separating the jack from the chat.

  No longer did they call him an apple knocker. He might have started out as a farm boy, but he knew mining now, and with new men starting every week, no one thought of him as inexperienced anymore. In fact, he’d noticed his foreman paying special mind to his work. If Matthew were to guess, someone had been talking about him.

  “Cook.” The foreman’s light grew brighter as he approached over the piles of debris. “You’re wanted in the office.”

  The men on either side of Matthew didn’t falter in their cadence. Their shovels continued to chip away at the pile, even as they looked at him, worry apparent on their dark faces.

  “It’s fine,” Matthew said. “I’ll be right back.” But just in case, he secured his paddle marker in his bucket to claim the load of ore that he’d started.

  He walked past the mules tethered to ore cans. Those mules walked in a circle, raising the full ore cans and lowering the empty. Once the mules were brought down into the mine, they would spend the rest of their lives in the cave, never to see sunlight again. Hearing that fact from an old cokey with swollen joints had nearly crushed Matthew. He wouldn’t wish it on any beast, but some of the men weren’t much better off.

  He entered the elevator that ran next to the ore can lift. It clanged as it went up the two hundred feet. At shift change, it was always full of men. Without the other miners, all the odd creaks and clangs took on a more insidious tone. Usually, coming up to daylight meant his work was over, but ending the day early meant that he had other concerns.

  First Matthew headed to the doghouse to hang up his tools and hat and wash up, then he went to the office by the scales. When he gave his name, he was directed to the main office, where he was pointed to a folding chair and sat next to a man holding a rag against his bleeding forehead.

  The miner lowered the rag, frowned at the blood, then reapplied it. “Does it look as bad as it feels?” he asked Matthew.

  “It’s a lot of blood, but foreheads are apt to do that. You’ll be fine.”

  A mine employee came out of a back room and called the injured man’s name. “Wish me luck with the sawbones,” he said. “Let’s hope he stitches straight.”

  “Godspeed,” Matthew replied and wondered again why he’d been called up.

  He didn’t have to wait much longer. The raw-boned man who came to fetch him had cuffs that didn’t quite reach his wrists and was none other than Calista’s uncle, Oscar Kentworth.

  “Mr. Cook, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” He escorted Matthew into his office. “According to Graham, you were able to clear up the misunderstanding at the police station. How they could mistake my niece for a criminal is inexplicable.”

  Mathew knew it wasn’t his place to explain, so he grunted in agreement.

  “What I wanted to see you about is a new position here at the Fox-Berry.” Mr. Kentworth’s smile was sincere even if his eyes bore a sadness. “As you might remember from the meeting I had with Reverend Dixon, Mr. Blount has decided to create a new position here at the works. As our plans have progressed, your name continues to come to mind.”

  Matthew sat up a little straighter. He’d taken this job to help him reach the miners. Would another position give him the same access? “I’m all ears,” he said.

  “It’s been brought to Mr. Blount’s notice that his miners often miss work because they are sick or injured. Even more often, their sickness is self-induced by the choices they make on Saturday night. He thinks it would benefit his company if the miners showed more restraint.”

  “It’s true. The mine would be more profitable, if that’s his primary concern.”

  “But it’s not yours.” Kentworth steepled his fingers. “I’ve heard about the guidance you’ve offered the miners and how you’ve even intervened to see that they had money at the end of the week. I’ve also noticed that my family members think highly of you.” He pinned Matthew with a look that was indecipherable. “You have good intentions, and I’d like to give you a chance to multiply them. You would be paid to act as a resource for our men and their families at the new workers’ center we’re building . . . when you’re not squiring my niece about.”

  “What kind of a resource?”

  “Counseling the men, training them to be good stewards of their money, giving them a place away from the whiskey and gin to visit and congregate, being an ambassador between them and the management. Of course, we wouldn’t interfere with your Sunday services. In fact, I think this would be a way for your ministry to continue during the week.”

  Matthew looked at his hands, still damp from being washed. It was a dream come true, and it was going to be made possible with help from two people he’d judged unfairly—Mr. Blount a
nd Reverend Dixon.

  “What does this new position pay?” he asked.

  “More than a cokey. Everything pays more than a cokey. You’ll be paid at a manager’s rate. Perhaps not at the highest level, but with time . . .”

  A manager’s pay? Enough to move out of the florist’s cabin? Enough to buy a home? And he’d get to do work that he’d come to do. Could it be possible?

  “It sounds good. . . .”

  “Think it over,” Calista’s uncle said. “Talk it over with Reverend Dixon, as he and his church would like to provide volunteers to help you. If you don’t want the job, your position as a cokey is still available.”

  Matthew stood and extended his hand. He didn’t need to ponder it any longer. “I’ll do it.” He couldn’t wait to tell Calista.

  “Excellent. I’ll tell Mr. Blount. Despite your disagreements, he respects your opinion and will be pleased that you’ve accepted. Tomorrow we’ll meet with him and Reverend Dixon. Unless you want to finish the day’s work, I’ll have them weigh up your ore can and pay you for what you’ve done already this morning. That’ll give you time to make arrangements before it’s too late.” His sad eyes warmed a bit, making Matthew wonder if Calista’s Uncle Kentworth already thought of him as family.

  Matthew barely noticed the walk to his cabin. His mind was reeling. What sorts of projects would they start? What resources would Mr. Blount and Reverend Dixon make available to him? Could he have Bible studies there? Meetings? Suddenly all the vague, wistful ideas he’d thought of to make life better for the families of Joplin seemed possible. Once he knew that Calista was safe, the whole future was ahead of them.

  As he walked up Main Street, his eyes went to her window on the sixth floor of the Keystone. On Sunday, he’d stayed at the minefields until too late to call on her. Dan and Loretta had wanted him to come to their claim and see the ore they’d discovered. The only way he would have rejoiced more was if Calista had been with them, but she needed to recover, and he had his duties to fulfill. Today she wouldn’t expect him until evening, so instead of visiting her unannounced, he’d use the time to make himself presentable.