The Telegraph Proposal

  “What notes?” Hale’s question was repeated by the rest of the men almost simultaneously.

  Quinn opened his notebook and took out a scrap of paper. He handed it to Uncle Jonas first.

  “I never authorized—” His skin turned red.

  Hale snatched the note from his uncle’s hand. STOP TALKING ABOUT PHONY MONEY OR YOU’LL BE SORRY. “What didn’t you authorize?” He barely felt the paper being tugged away.

  Uncle Jonas coughed into his fist. “I’m sorry, Marshal Valentine. I forgot myself for a moment. This is city business. It’s not within my jurisdiction to deny the release of evidence in an ongoing investigation.”

  The words rang false in Hale’s ears, but a logical reason why escaped him.

  “Do you think Mac’s search and this”—Hale looked at his uncle while pointing at the note now in Isaak’s hand—“are connected?”

  “Hard to know.” Quinn glanced to where Emilia and Madame Lestraude had last stood. “I only spoke with Mac for a minute before he passed out. He and Alderson found the place easily because it was on fire. Mac figures someone must have warned the counterfeiters.”

  And to shoot the men who’d come to arrest them, all of which had happened while someone was warning Carline and Yancey to keep quiet about the same thing or they’d be sorry.

  Hale’s stomach squeezed into a hard lump. “Mac came to the brunch this morning so Uncle Jonas could sign the search warrant. There were approximately fifty people in attendance. Do you think one of them could be involved?”

  Quinn stared down at his notebook. “Were it not for the notes the girls received, I would have said no. Illegal operations usually have their own lookouts posted.”

  “You said both Carline and Yancey received one of these.” Jakob took the note from Isaak’s hand.

  Quinn nodded. “They brought them to me at the picnic, but there wasn’t much more they could tell me. They didn’t remember seeing anything or anyone unusual, but that doesn’t surprise me. So many people were there, it would be as easy for a skilled pickpocket to put something in a pocket as it would be to take something out.” He lifted the pencil dangling from the end of his notebook by a leather strip and began tapping it against the open page. “Nothing about the Popes’ deaths suggests foul play. It just appears to be a tragic accident, but I wish I’d taken this threat more seriously. I even told Yancey and Carline not to worry too much because ‘or you’ll be sorry’ was such a vague and almost juvenile warning.”

  Isaak frowned. “I’ve given Carline and Yancey a hard time about their irrational adherence to the belief that Joseph Hendry was killed because of counterfeiting. That”—he pointed to the note still in his brother’s hand—“makes me think they’ve been right all along.”

  I can’t explain it other than a feeling I have. I know it’s true. I just do. Yancey’s declaration—the one Hale dismissed because it wasn’t logical—rang in his ears. What else might he be wrong about?

  Isaak rubbed the corners of his lips between his thumb and index finger. “A few months ago, Mac came to The Resale Company asking whether we ever sold a leveling foot to someone in town. He found one in Finn’s barn after he was killed. I was supposed to check our ledgers, but I put him off until Ma and Pa came home from their trip.”

  Jakob jerked his attention to his brother. “You never told me that.”

  “I didn’t?” Isaak frowned and glanced at the floor. He shook his head. “Sorry about that. Anyway, I’m starting to think that Mac asking for our ledgers, the store burning right before I was going to check them, and the fire marshal’s ruling of probable arson are all connected.”

  “I”—Jakob raised his hand as if he were a schoolboy needing the teacher’s attention—“also find it suspicious that the fire started in the office instead of the storage area, where we kept varnish and other flammable chemicals.”

  Hale shifted his focus between the twins. “Are you saying you think The Resale Company was deliberately burned to keep you from going through your ledgers?”

  Isaak raised both shoulders. “Maybe I’m stretching things here, but I remember we briefly had a printing press in stock. Between Pa and me, we can usually fix just about anything, but that press was beyond us. Pa set the price at a tenth of what he thought a functional one would sell for, and we were thrilled that it was gone by the next week.”

  “Who bought it?” Quinn gripped his pencil and held it over the open page of his notebook.

  “I don’t remember selling it myself. Do you?” Isaak looked at Jakob, who shook his head. “We can ask Pa, but the reason he was so methodical with his records in the first place was because he couldn’t remember which whos bought which whats.”

  “Or which whos sold him which whats,” Jakob added.

  “Here’s the thing”—Isaak tapped the fingers of his right hand into his left palm—“printing presses use leveling feet, and sometimes when we couldn’t fix things, we’d send them to Finn Collins. I’m wondering if whoever bought that press paid Finn to fix it, then killed him before he figured out they were using it to make counterfeit money.”

  “That’s rather far-fetched.” Uncle Jonas scowled with—what? Anger seemed too strong an emotion, yet his glare was identical to the one he’d given Madame Lestraude earlier.

  Quinn scribbled notes in his book. “Maybe, but it’s at least worth pursuing.”

  “You’re chasing a rabbit down a hole.” Uncle Jonas shifted his glare to Quinn. “There’s no reason for you to waste valuable time and money. No reason at all.”

  His repetition caught Hale in the stomach. His uncle was lying. But why? And about what?

  Quinn returned the notebook to his inside pocket and then tugged the lapels of his jacket together. “You’ve made yourself quite clear, sir, but as you stated earlier, your jurisdiction doesn’t include mine.” He bowed. “Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day and it’s going to be an even longer night.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Jakob clamped a hand on Quinn’s shoulder as they left, their footsteps thudding across the floor.

  Uncle Jonas waited until they were gone before turning his attention to Isaak. “I hope that, in the future, you will think through your presumptions before spouting them.” He patted his arm. “Where’s my cane? Never mind”—he stomped away—“I have more important things to do than stand around listening to puppies yap about . . .”

  Whatever else he said was lost when he lowered his voice and turned the corner to leave.

  Isaak turned wide eyes on Hale. “Do you know what that was about?”

  Hale shook his head. “No, but I intend to find out.”

  July 5, 1888

  City Hall

  “You did what?” Jonas marched to the door and flipped the lock. His only appointment for the day was this one, but it wouldn’t do to have an unexpected interruption. He turned and walked back to his desk. His hands curled as he walked past Lombard. How hard would it be to wrap his fingers around the dolt’s dirt-creased neck and squeeze? Jonas stood behind his chair gripping the top of the leather. “I never told you to do anything beyond listening and reporting back to me. And I certainly didn’t authorize writing notes to those girls. Of all the stupid, idiotic, asinine things to do.”

  Lombard didn’t bother to take the toothpick from his mouth. “I don’t hold with killin’ women.”

  Jonas balled his fingers into fists. “I would never kill Yancey Palmer or her parrot of a friend.”

  Lombard shifted the toothpick from the left side of his mouth to the right with his lips and tongue. “How was I supposed to know that? All I know is that you had that reporter killed to hush him up about the counterfeiting, and like I said, I don’t hold with killin’ women.”

  Jonas had killed for incompetence, too, and he still had the hemlock he’d used on Dunfree. It would be easy—so easy—to invite Lombard over to the house, pour him a glass of wine, and watch him choke on his stupidity.

  But he would
n’t defile his wife’s home, and getting rid of two men in the same manner might raise suspicions.

  He could pay Smith to do it. The man would ask no questions. Jonas could even specify that he didn’t want to know how the deed was accomplished, just that it was done.

  If only Lombard weren’t so valuable in his own slothful way. Yesterday’s picnic was the first of many events leading up to the election. Jonas needed the names of men whose votes could be bought for five dollars of counterfeit money. Lombard was a fixture in Helena. He sat on the front porch of Babcock’s Hardware Store like it was his job. He knew names, could blend into a crowd, and would be dismissed by law enforcement as incapable of criminal activity because he was too lazy and stupid.

  A fact he’d just demonstrated to perfection.

  Jonas forced his hands to his sides. “I will forgive this lapse in judgment on your part. But I’m warning you, Lombard, from now on, you do precisely what you’re told. Nothing more, nothing less. Do you understand me?”

  The man was impressed enough to take the toothpick from his wet lips. “You got it, boss.”

  Jonas walked him to the door and watched him go, tempted to call him back and pour him a hemlock-laced drink after all. Stupid men were a liability. So were intelligent ones. The first didn’t ask questions but the second asked too many. If only he could be multiple places at once and not have to rely on anyone but himself.

  Chapter Fourteen

  July 24, 1888

  Hale stared at his calendar. Debates was written in pencil on today’s date. In light of the dual tragedy on the Fourth of July, he and Kendrick agreed to put the campaign on hold for a month while the city mourned. Hale withdrew an eraser from the top drawer of his desk and rubbed out the gray letters.

  If only the last three weeks could be erased as easily. Better yet, if they could go back in time and relive the day so Uncle Jonas refused to sign the search warrant, Mac and Nick Alderson never went to Bear Gulch, they could see who put those threatening notes in Yancey and Carline’s pockets, and the Popes stayed longer—or shorter—at the park so they weren’t at the intersection at the same moment as a runaway horse.

  Their deaths were officially ruled an accident. Yancey and Carline had received no more threats. And Mac was recovering well.

  But three people were dead.

  Deputy Nick Alderson’s funeral was held at the largest church in Helena, every seat taken by residents. Law enforcement officers dressed in uniforms representing the cities and counties from all around the territory stood at attention along both side walls. Mac—against doctor’s advice—came in a wheelchair, his right leg in a long cast. Emilia stood beside him until halfway through the service, when she sat beside Madame Lestraude, who’d saved a seat for her. The entire Palmer family was there surrounding Carline. They left as soon as the ceremony was over.

  The Popes’ funeral was held at Hale’s church. Carline and her uncle sat in the front row alone, but halfway through the service, she was weeping so uncontrollably that Yancey and her mother left their pew to sit on either side of her. When the service was over, the Palmers hosted a reception at the grange hall.

  Hale was able to express his condolences but moved along quickly, as was proper.

  A few days later, Carline’s uncle abruptly announced that—as her legal guardian—he was taking her back to Butte with him to recover. Yancey had burst into Hale’s office, begging him to break the guardianship, but the terms were clear. Carline would remain the legal ward of Eugene Nordstrom until she turned thirty or married, whichever came first.

  Poor Yancey.

  Hale consoled her as best he could, but there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  He went to the train station the day Carline departed and stood behind the Palmer family as they waved her goodbye. He would have offered to add another event to the calendar to give Yancey something to plan, but the campaign was on hold.

  She needed a friend. Hale was doing his best to step into that role, but Yancey had little time for him.

  As though his longing for her had conjured up a response, Mrs. Palmer entered the office. “I’ve come to ask you for your help.”

  Hale stood to honor her presence. “Of course.”

  “It’s about Yancey.” Mrs. Palmer walked deeper into the office. “Her birthday is two weeks from tomorrow. For years, she’s planned a huge party. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard her say, ‘August 8 of ’88 only comes around once every hundred years. I plan to invite a hundred people.’”

  “Sounds like her.” Hale flipped over the final adoption papers turning just plain Nico into Nico Lester.

  Mrs. Palmer’s lips quirked into a sad substitute for a smile. “Now Yancey wants to do nothing but have a quiet celebration with just our family.”

  Hale frowned. The words quiet celebration and Yancey didn’t belong together in the same sentence. “Is there something I can do to help?”

  “I was hoping I could interest you in a small subterfuge. I’d like to plan a surprise party, but since Carline left, Yancey’s done nothing but work and go to church. And as much as I appreciate her revived interest in cooking, I need her out of the kitchen.” The last was said with a bit of heat. Mrs. Palmer was one of the most compassionate women he’d ever met, but even she must have limits.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I was hoping you’d plan another event, now that there’s been a sudden cancellation in a reservation at the grange hall.” Mrs. Palmer waved her hands in small circles. “You can put Yancey in charge of decorations and the like.”

  Hale couldn’t help but grin. “Am I to understand that you want Yancey to plan her own surprise party?”

  She tilted her head to the left. “Can you think of a better way to keep her from suspecting anything?”

  He thought about it for a moment. “Indeed, I cannot.”

  “But it won’t fool her for long if she’s not busy with other things for the next two weeks.” Mrs. Palmer sat down. Was she planning to stay until they’d worked out a schedule?

  Hale glanced at his appointment calendar. Nothing for another hour. He returned his full attention to the lady. “Such as?”

  “Send her door-to-door to spread the word about your plans once you’re elected, or have her deliver messages around town. I don’t care. Just give her a reason to get out of the house.” Mrs. Palmer pressed gloved fingers against the corner of her eye. “I’m sorry, Mr. Adams. I don’t wish to be rude. I’m just worried about my girl.”

  Hale walked around the side of the desk. “No need to apologize, ma’am.”

  She gave him a tremulous smile. “I need to get my daughter back, Mr. Adams. She needs people. She’s withering like a late summer rose without them.”

  “Would you like me to go speak to her now?” He perched on the edge of the desk so he didn’t look too eager.

  “If it’s not too much trouble, that would be lovely.”

  “No trouble at all.” He held out his hand.

  “Thank you.” She put her hand in his and rose. “She’s at the telegraph office.”

  “Downtown?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. In light of the note his daughter received, Mr. Palmer had rearranged his staff. His son now worked primarily at the train depot alone, while Yancey worked at the downtown office with her father. As the office was only a few blocks away, Hale had found several reasons to send telegrams when a letter would have done.

  Just to check in on her, because that was what friends did.

  “I think it might be better”—Mrs. Palmer shifted her hand to the crook of his arm as they walked out of the office and into the waiting area—“if you joined us for dinner tonight. You can talk about the assistance you need, and Mr. Palmer, Geddes, and I can work to convince Yancey to help.”

  “Are you making another cherry pie, ma’am?” Hale placed a hand on his stomach. “I’ve not been able to get the delicious smell of the one you were baking back in May out of my
memory.”

  Her smile wobbled into and out of existence. “If it will get you around my table so we can bring our Yancey back, I’ll make one for tonight and one for you to take home with you.”

  He chuckled. “I think that might be the best deal I’ve ever negotiated in this office.”

  They reached the small foyer beyond the waiting area. Mrs. Palmer withdrew her hand. “Dinner will be at six, unless you need us to push it back by half an hour.”

  “Six will be fine, ma’am. I’ll see you then.” He opened the door, startled when—instead of leaving—she put a hand on his cheek.

  “Thank you, Hale. Thank you very much.”

  “No, ma’am, it is I who must thank you. I’ve been looking for a way to regain your daughter’s”—trust? something more?—“assistance. With the campaign.” Because they were friends. And because the four-week hold on the campaign was ending soon. Those were legitimate reasons, so why was heat creeping up his neck?

  Mrs. Palmer patted his cheek. “If this works, we shall agree to be equally grateful. Until this evening.”

  “Until then.” Hale watched her go, closing the door only after she turned the corner of Jackson and Sixth.

  The rest of the day passed at a snail’s pace. Hale opened up his watch six times an hour, frustrated every time that only ten minutes had passed since the last check. Work was impossible, so he decided to reorganize his piles. By five to five, he was sweaty and coated with dust, but his office had more floor space and both chairs were free for clients.

  He took the stairs two at a time, gathered together clean clothes, ran back downstairs, and then stood by the door, pocket watch open, waiting for the instant the second hand ticked onto the twelve, indicating precisely five o’clock.

  Five, four, three, two, one.

  He stepped outside, locked his door, and hurried toward Chen’s Bath House and Laundry. He paid extra for hot water that hadn’t been used by any previous customers, scrubbed himself clean from head to toe, and then dressed in the clothes he’d brought with him, leaving the dirty ones with Mr. Ling to be laundered. It was five thirty by then, which was just enough time to get to the florist and pick up a bouquet for his hostess before heading to the Palmers’ house.