“Please do.” Mrs. Lankford rolled her shoulders, reminding Phillip of a banty hen fluffing her feathers. “I’d like to know what that impersonator wrote.”
“The letter begins by saying you’ll need to send out your husband’s monthly statements since it’s almost the first of the month.”
“Me? Send out the statements?” Mrs. Lankford let out a definitely unladylike guffaw. “There’s the proof right there. I know nothing about such statements. Dr. Lankford hires someone to take care of his accounting. You can inquire of Claire if you don’t believe me. She’ll tell you.”
“There’s also a second letter,” Phillip said, hoping to keep Mrs. Lankford’s attention on the letter and away from misperceived indignities or forays into the past. “It says that Karen’s room is empty now that she’s married. Is Karen your daughter?”
Mrs. Lankford’s ruffled feathers rose higher, and to Phillip’s chagrin, so did her indignation. “My daughter’s name is Carol not Karen. Surely even you can see I wouldn’t make a mistake about my own daughter’s name.”
Even me? Phillip wasn’t sure what to make of that. Or how to respond. He opened his mouth, but before he could stick his foot in it—which he was sure was about to happen—Eloise answered in her calm, soothing tone. “We believe you, Mrs. Lankford.”
“Though it is true that she married recently.” The woman frowned. “And her bedroom is vacant.”
“Who would know that?” Eloise asked.
“All our friends. People from church.” Mrs. Lankford tilted her head in thought. “I suppose even a few of my husband’s patients might be aware of the wedding. And his staff, of course. Actually, I suppose all of Portland. It was announced in the society pages. Carol is the daughter of a renowned physician after all.”
“I see.” Eloise smiled at the older woman and exchanged a glance with Phillip. Apparently, she didn’t know where to go from here, what other questions to ask. Truthfully, neither did he. Two more forged letters had led to a dead end.
“Although…” Mrs. Lankford said slowly. Both Phillip and Eloise turned toward her. “There’s a woman I know, an antique doll dealer…but no, she’s too well-respected to have anything to do with the FBI.”
Phillip’s antennae went on high alert, and he graced her with his most charming smile. “An antique doll dealer? From here in Portland?”
“Her shop is in New York City, but she sends me a doll almost every month. I almost always send it back, but over time I have come to consider her a friend. This may surprise you, but I even invited her to stay with Dr. Lankford and me the next time she visited the area.”
She laughed, a high-pitched silly sound that grated on Phillip’s ears. But he kept his smile in place and stayed silent, certain that Mrs. Lankford would fill in the silence. He wasn’t disappointed.
“Velvalee is too dear a friend to forge my name to such a silly letter,” she said. “Everyone who is anyone in the sphere of doll collecting knows her. She gives lectures and writes articles. A fount of knowledge, she is. Indeed, she is.” Her tone ended on a screech as if she realized she was trying too hard to convince them of her friend’s innocence while also beginning to doubt it herself. “She knows we have an empty room,” Mrs. Lankford finished lamely. “She knows a great deal about my family.” Her eyes widened in fear, and she pulled the shawl tighter around her chest.
“Her name is Velvalee?” Again, Eloise’s low voice sounded comforting, gentle even. “What an unusual and lovely name.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Mrs. Lankford agreed. “It isn’t a name I would want for myself or my daughter. Though she signed her name Vee on the postcards she sent me. The space for writing is so small.”
“Postcards?” Eloise sounded intrigued. “From New York?”
“No, my goodness, no.” Mrs. Lankford’s earlier doubts about her friend seemed to disappear as she once again took on the persona of society queen. “Velvalee called it her West Coast tour. I’m not sure how she managed, what with trains being so crowded these days. And the horrid gas rationing. Dr. Lankford is fortunate to get a higher ration because of his profession. But we no longer go on the long Sunday afternoon drives we used to enjoy. I suppose we must all make our own sacrifices, mustn’t we? No matter how small.”
“Where did Velvalee go on her tour?” Eloise asked in an apparent attempt to steer Mrs. Lankford’s attention back to the doll collector.
“Oh, I’d need to look at the postcards again to tell you that.” She tilted her head, reminding Phillip of a frail canary. “Seattle for sure. San Francisco. Other places.”
“I’d love to see those postcards,” Eloise said as she primly sipped her tea.
“Then you shall.” Mrs. Lankford rang a tinny handbell sitting on the table beside her chair. When Claire arrived, she instructed her to retrieve the postcards from a nearby desk and give them to Eloise. “The pictures are breathtaking, but her messages are brief.”
Eloise held the cards, a stack of six or seven, so Phillip could see them too. He sensed her eagerness to turn them over, to read the private messages, even as she oohed and aahed over the photographs. He wanted to do the same.
“I have a tremendous favor to ask,” Phillip said. “You’d be doing your country a great service if you said yes.”
“That’s quite the bowlful of flattery you’re serving me,” Mrs. Lankford replied. “What favor?”
“Allow me to take these cards to FBI headquarters. They may be helpful in our investigation.”
Mrs. Lankford’s eyes opened so wide Phillip feared they would pop out of her head. “I couldn’t. Could I?” Before Phillip could answer, she held up a hand. “Do you honestly believe they will help in some way?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.”
“I don’t understand how they could be. Nor can I imagine why Velvalee is causing such a stir. And with the FBI of all things.”
“We’ve already told you as much as we can.” Phillip hoped his placating tone and warm smile would convince her to give him the postcards. If not, he’d have to get a warrant. The postcards might not be of any importance, but that wasn’t Phillip’s call to make.
“I suppose I should agree.” Mrs. Lankford sounded doubtful. “Though I do hate giving them up.”
“We’ll do our best to return them to you,” Eloise assured her. “I don’t know when but as soon as we can.”
“Take them then.” Mrs. Lankford gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’m growing tired. I’m sure you can find your way out.”
“Of course.” Phillip rose. “Only one more question. What is Velvalee’s last name?”
“Dickinson. Velvalee Dickinson.”
“Do you happen to have her address?”
“That’s two questions,” she said sharply.
“So it is. My apologies.”
“Wait for Claire in the foyer.” She rang the handbell again. “She’ll write out the address for you.”
“Thank you for your time and the tea, Mrs. Lankford.” Eloise stood beside Phillip. She seemed calm on the outside, but Phillip sensed she was about to explode with excitement. Just like him.
They waited in the foyer, neither one saying a word, until Claire appeared with a folded sheet of pale pink stationery. “The information you requested.”
Phillip unfolded it, noted the Madison Avenue address, then gave the paper to Eloise for safekeeping as they left the Lankford home. Once they were settled in the car, Eloise grabbed Phillip’s arm. “Did we just solve the case?”
“Maybe. We can’t jump to any conclusions though. Or tip our hand too soon.”
“I know it’s her,” Eloise insisted. “Velvalee Dickinson. What a name.”
Phillip wanted to agree with her, but he couldn’t. Not without more proof. Though in his gut, he was 99.99 percent sure that Eloise was right.
If so, then this unnamed operation would soon be at an end. No more traveling around the country with Eloise by his side. No more pretending they
were siblings in front of their fellow passengers and hotel staff.
While Eloise returned to the navy, he could implement plan B. Flip a coin. Heads, army. Tails, navy. He didn’t care which way the coin landed, since joining his cousins in their aerial battles wasn’t an option.
As he drove away from the Lankford home, he snuck a glance at Eloise. Her attractive features glowed with excitement and certainty. No doubt she was eager for this mission to end too.
“One more stop,” he said.
“Colorado Springs.”
“Then home.”
To his surprise, a shadow flickered across her face. Though it disappeared so quickly, maybe he’d imagined it.
“Yes. Home.”
Her enthusiasm seemed to have dimmed. Or maybe he imagined that too.
Seeing what he wanted to see. Hearing what he wanted to hear. But not allowing himself to admit he didn’t want the unnamed operation to end.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Velvalee Dickinson put the finishing touches on the article she was writing for the Complete Collector. The journal, catering to antique collectors, had published articles written by her before, and hopefully they’d take this one too. But with her mind preoccupied on other matters, she found it difficult to focus on the words.
For the third time in less than two weeks, a man had come into her shop to “look around” then left without buying anything. Not the same man, though that also would have been strange. But three different men?
Each one made some offhanded comment about buying a gift for a daughter or a sister yet didn’t seem interested in any of the dolls that Velvalee suggested. When she asked questions to help narrow their selections, they mumbled their answers.
Would she prefer a doll from the royal collection or one wearing a folk costume? What about her color preferences? Vibrant shades such as red and purple or pastel shades such as pink and lilac?
She couldn’t help noticing, though, that their eyes were sharper than their tongues. While they couldn’t come up with sensible answers to her questions, they poked into every corner in the shop. In the end, each man left, empty-handed, with a promise to return at a later date. None of them had.
What if they were criminals planning to rob her blind? She’d read about thieves who posed as customers to learn the location of the cash register and the valuable stock. If she remembered right, they called it “casing the joint” in the movies. Maybe that’s what one of the men or perhaps all three of them were doing. Casing her joint.
If they weren’t simply hapless men who hadn’t a clue what to give their female family members, then she almost hoped they were planning a robbery. As awful as that would be, she preferred that scenario over the other one that kept her awake at night.
What if…no, it was too horrible to think about. She’d been too meticulous for the authorities to trace any of those letters she’d written back to her. How could they? With each one, she’d been precise in copying the address to that so-called señora in Argentina who probably didn’t even exist. She’d practiced forging the handwriting of the supposed letter writers until her hand cramped, laying a thin sheet of onion skin paper on top of an authentic signature and tracing it again and again and again.
Though perhaps she’d made a mistake in pretending to be Ruby Lankford twice. She’d been in such a hurry to send that information on its way, it had been simpler to forge a signature she’d practiced before instead of learning a new one.
She dismissed the thought, unable to admit that her actions could have raised any suspicions. If authorities were investigating her, then someone else was to blame.
Of course, there was still another option. She was simply paranoid, and the men had been what they appeared—indecisive customers. Except they tried too hard to make that impression. She’d dealt with indecisive men before, but these three had an air of superiority that suggested they weren’t nearly as helpless nor as ignorant as they wanted her to believe.
Whoever they were and whatever their reason for being at the shop, Velvalee needed to let her handler know. If they were simply customers, no harm done. If they were potential thieves, her handler could be persuaded to provide security. If they were, heaven forbid, from the government, then her handler needed to protect her.
Yesterday morning, after a second sleepless night, she had entered the bookstore next door by going through a back curtain that separated the store from a stockroom. The same stockroom had a door opening into Velvalee’s doll shop, but the lock was broken. The two store owners didn’t mind—the access made it easier for them to cover for each other when the need arose.
While chatting with the bookstore clerk, Velvalee had casually played with a Mexican gypsy rag doll, known as Perla Negra for her genuine black pearl eyes. Months before, Velvalee had suggested adding the unique doll to the store’s window display. After the usual small talk, she returned the doll to the window. Only a sharp-eyed observer would notice that the doll’s colorful shawl was now over her dark hair instead of around her shoulders. This prearranged signal instructed the handler to visit Velvalee as soon as possible. Never had it been more than a few hours before his arrival. So why hadn’t he come this time?
Velvalee forced herself to focus on the article’s final paragraph instead of allowing her imagination—and her fears—to run wild. She rearranged a couple of sentences then put a fresh sheet of paper in the typewriter. In between waiting on a few customers, she pounded the keys of the Underwood, mumbling under her breath when she hit the m instead of the n or some other silly mistake. Each time the bell over the door clanged, she entered the shop expecting to find her handler next to the front display case, holding the brim of his hat in front of him with both hands. Each time she was disappointed.
When she finished the article, she placed it in an envelope, still fuming that her handler had not responded to her signal. Was he ignoring her on purpose? Or…surely not…had he been picked up by the authorities? No. She refused to believe that. There had to be another explanation. Her mind searched the possibilities until she landed on one. Of course. She should have thought of it sooner. Obviously, someone had rearranged the doll’s shawl. Only one way to find out.
She put on the red heels that she’d kicked off while typing and stormed through the stockroom, past the curtain, and into the bookshop. Her heart leapt to her throat at the sight of a young girl, twelve or thirteen years old, holding the gypsy rag doll.
Velvalee rushed to the girl, tore the doll from her hands, and glared. “That isn’t yours. And you’re old enough to know better than to touch something that doesn’t belong to you.”
“But she said I could.” The girl pointed at the bookstore owner, who was busy with another customer and seemed oblivious to Velvalee’s presence.
“Don’t touch her again.” Velvalee practically hissed the words. Her heels clattered on the hardwood floor as she rushed back to her own shop, dangling the doll by its leg. Once past the stockroom door, she leaned against it and took several deep breaths.
Tomorrow she would return the doll to its place in the window. Tomorrow her handler would see the signal. Tomorrow she would tell him about the three men and their odd behavior.
No matter who they turned out to be, he would provide whatever help she needed. Unlike her husband, who had left her with the responsibility of running this business on her own, her Japanese friends never failed her.
Everything would be fine. Tomorrow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Once the train from Portland to Colorado got underway, Eloise pulled the postcards that Mrs. Lankford had given them from her handbag. The man-sized handkerchief given to her by the woman in the Seattle department store’s ladies room and the newspaper article with her father’s photograph almost came out with them, but Eloise managed to shove both back inside before Phillip noticed. During the rainy days at the Seattle hotel, she’d clipped the article from the paper using the only tool she had—her tiny manicure scissors.
Each time it happened, her stomach turned to mush. He was obviously observing her fitness as a valuable asset on this mission. She’d managed to handle herself well in the three interviews they’d conducted, but her behavior in Seattle proved that she lacked self-control and discipline.
Agents weren’t supposed to get flustered under any circumstances. All her instructors at the academy said so, though in different words. She’d failed that test in the worst possible way, and in doing so, she had failed Phillip, his uncle, and herself.
And for what?
Now she had proof that her father was alive, although she’d never doubted it. Now she knew where he lived. Of course, he had to live somewhere, didn’t he? Knowing the details didn’t change the fact that he had abandoned his family. It only deepened the hurt.
Now she knew he never intended to return to them. Until she’d read the article, a tiny ember of hope remained. Even though she wasn’t sure the adult Eloise wanted him to come home, the little girl inside her sometimes did. The article drenched that hope as relentlessly as the rainstorm that had kept her and Phillip confined to their suite.
“Do you have your steno pad handy?” Phillip moved to sit beside her on the bench seat. The other occupants of their compartment had gone to the train’s dining car. “We can go through these postcards in the order they were mailed. Maybe we’ll learn something.”
Grateful for the distraction from her gloomy thoughts, Eloise shook her head. “It doesn’t fit in my handbag.”
“Here, take this.” He gave her the small pad he carried in his suit’s inner pocket then sorted the cards according to their postmarks. On a clean sheet of paper, she drew a grid. In the first column she wrote the dates for each postcard. The second column noted the locations of the postmarks.
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