“I didn’t take them!” She nearly shrieked the statement.
The other craters stopped their work to stare. The night foreman, Alden, bustled around the corner and charged over to Oliver and Carrie. Hands on hips, he bounced a furious frown over the two of them. “What’s goin’ on here?”
Carrie stepped to the far side of the crate, her arms folded tightly over her chest and the hammer clutched tightly in her fist. “Nothing.”
Oliver added, “Just a misunderstanding.”
Several tense seconds ticked by while Alden stared first at Carrie and then at Oliver. Finally he bobbed his head. “All right. I’ll let it go. But from now on save your catfights ’til after quittin’ time. Both of you have jobs to do, an’ unless you want a write-up, I suggest you get to them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Oliver and Carrie spoke simultaneously, both through clenched teeth. Alden strode away, barking at the other craters to pay attention to their own work.
Oliver sucked in a mighty breath and expelled it in a huge whoosh. “We aren’t finished with this conversation, Carrie.”
She dug in her apron pocket and withdrew a tack. “Unless you intend to tell me why you hid those blueprints from me, I have nothing more to say to you.” She bent forward and added another slat to the top of her crate, her lips set in a grim line.
Oliver threw his hands in the air, fighting the urge to grab her shoulders and shake some sense into her. Stubborn, headstrong, infuriating woman! He’d get no satisfaction from her now, and Alden was probably lurking around the corner to see if his orders would be followed. Oliver had no choice but to return to work. But he wasn’t finished pursuing the topic of the blueprints. And Carrie had better be ready to give an explanation as soon as the shift-change buzzer sounded. He wouldn’t accept anything less than the truth from her.
Gordon
“The two of them were goin’ at it worse than a pair o’ prizefighters. Thought maybe she was going to bounce her hammer off the side of his head.”
Gordon pinched his chin, contemplating the meaning behind Alden’s statement. The foreman waited, fully expecting payment for divulging another snippet of information. But until Gordon understood the significance of the fight between Ollie Moore and Carrie Lang, he wouldn’t give even a penny reward.
He caught Alden by the sleeve and pulled him away from the flow of workers entering for the morning shift. On the lower level the third-shift workers were gathering their belongings to leave, Moore and Lang among them. He wished Alden had stayed downstairs, listening for any further exchange, before hightailing to report to Gordon.
Gordon snorted, being deliberately derisive. “So they had a fight. You’ve broken up skirmishes between workers before. Why is this one different?”
Alden’s brows pulled down. He scratched his head. “It’s different ’cause you told me to keep my eye on those two. Before, they’d always seemed to be in cahoots, heads together whisperin’. But this time they were goin’ at it—pure, spittin’ mad.”
Gordon ducked his head to hide his smile. Sounded as though the lovebirds were choosing to fly their separate ways. That suited Gordon fine. He didn’t encourage friendships among the workers. Friends tended to confide in each other, to join forces. And if they ganged together, it’d be harder for him to stay in control. So this falling out could only be a good thing.
He lifted his head and forced a nonchalant shrug. “But you don’t know what had them all worked up?”
“Somethin’ about blueprints.”
Gordon sucked in a sharp breath, nearly swallowing his tongue. “Did you say blueprints?” Cold air whisked through the open doors, but sweat broke out on Gordon’s forehead.
Alden shrugged. “Sounded like it to me. But I didn’t hear the whole argument. Only caught the tail end of it.”
The only blueprints of which Gordon was aware were the ones for the elevator. After Bratcher’s unfortunate—or fortunate, depending on one’s viewpoint—plunge, he’d hidden the elevator drawings in the secret compartment of his desk. He’d felt the need to hide everything concerning the elevator and Bratcher’s fall. Why would Moore or Lang be interested in those blueprints unless his initial suppositions about Lang were correct and she was seeking information about Bratcher?
Beads of sweat dribbled down his forehead and stung his eyes. He swiped the moisture away with the back of his hand and forced a weak laugh. “You must have heard wrong. Blueprints? Why would a crater and a janitor be fighting over blueprints?” He clapped Alden on the shoulder, his hand trembling. “I think you need some sleep, my friend. So go home. And take a rag to the inside of your ears before coming back to work tonight.”
Alden scowled, but he skulked off with his hands in his pockets.
Gordon hurried up to his office and set his typewriter on the desk. He rolled a crisp sheet of paper onto the platen, composing the letter in his mind. He set his fingers on the keys and began to tap.
Dear Mr. Dinsmore,
I believe it would be to your benefit to make a return visit to the factory before the end of the month. Some things have come to light concerning Miss Carrie Lang and the young man you recommended for employment, Ollie Moore, which you should find of great interest …
Oliver
Oliver trailed Carrie. He hadn’t called out to her. He suspected she’d only ignore him. And he didn’t want to talk to her in the open, where other workers might overhear. They’d caused enough furor during the night, attracting Alden’s attention. Rumors would start flying if he wasn’t careful. The last thing he needed was the workers watching him more closely.
So instead of heading to his own apartment to sleep—his aching head yearned for sleep—he followed Carrie toward her boarding hotel. He’d catch up just before she stepped inside, and they’d get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding the missing blueprints. He knew he didn’t have them. And the more he’d thought about her strong reaction to his accusation, he wanted to believe she didn’t have them, either. The residual effects of his concussion made it difficult to think rationally, but if they could set aside their irritation with each other and combine their thinking, surely they’d find a likely reason for the canister in his closet to be empty.
Steam rose from the grates alongside the cobblestone road, swirling around her skirts as she bustled past. Her heels click-clicked against the stones, intrusive in the quiet of early morning. With only a sliver of sunlight hovering on the horizon, the sky wore its morning coat of pinks and yellows, the colors reminiscent of the deep blush in Carrie’s cheeks and the gentle highlights in her red-brown hair. Odd how the most unlikely things held connections to Carrie. This woman fascinated him beyond anyone he’d known before. But she also frustrated him. He preferred being fascinated, so he could only hope their conversation would dispel the negative emotions she’d stirred with her belligerence.
She was only yards from the front door of her building. She’d get away if he didn’t move now. Oliver broke into a trot, ignoring how much the jarring against the concrete walkway caused his head to throb. She must have heard him coming, because she wheeled around, hands upraised as if to fend off an attack and terror etched into her features. She quivered from head to toe, and he knew it wasn’t the chill air causing her tremors. He’d frightened her. Remorse smote him.
He came to an abrupt stop at least a dozen feet away from her. “It’s all right, Carrie.” He snatched off his cap. “See? It’s just me—Ollie.”
Her entire body sagged with a relief. Then she straightened and fixed him with an irritated look. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you we needed to talk.”
Her expression turned grim. “And I told you there was nothing left to say.”
“But there is.” He took one step forward, ready to catch hold of her if need be. “Carrie, I didn’t take those blueprints.” He spoke softly, fervently, truthfully, looking directly into her wary eyes. “When I discovered they were missing, I could think of only one other pe
rson who wanted to see them. You.”
Her eyes snapped, but her brow pinched as if being angry took more effort than she could muster. “I didn’t take them.”
Oliver nodded slowly, his gaze never wavering from hers. “I believe you.” He did, too. He didn’t know why, but somehow, deep down, he knew she told the truth. If only she would believe him. Trust him. He couldn’t explain why, but he wanted her to trust him. “Do you believe me?”
For long seconds she merely stared into his face, seeking, not even seeming to breathe. Then she let out a big sigh, her breath hovering in a cloud around her face. She nodded. “Yes, Ollie. I believe you didn’t take them.”
He broke into a smile so big his bruised eye hurt. But it didn’t matter. She believed him. He dared another step forward.
“But why are you tattling to Hightower about me?”
He froze in place. Hurt and disillusionment colored her tone. He’d rather she was angry than deeply wounded. She might believe him about the blueprints, but she still held some incorrect suppositions. “Carrie, I have not spoken one word about you to Hightower.”
Her brow pinched, a myriad of emotions playing across her features. “But when I asked if you’ve been reporting about me, you didn’t deny it.”
No, he hadn’t. And he wouldn’t deny it now. Licking his dry lips, he formed a truthful reply. “Because I have been compiling information for the owner of the factory, Mr. Dinsmore”—how odd to refer to Father so formally—“concerning many happenings at the factory.”
“So you’re more than a mere janitor?”
Cautiously, Oliver nodded. He waited for her to question his purpose for compiling information, but she stood in silence for several seconds, lips sucked in, brow puckered in thought.
Tipping her head to the side, she mused, “So if you didn’t take the blueprints, and I didn’t take them, then … where are they?”
“I don’t know. But can we go inside? It’s cold out here.” At her nod of agreement, he held the door open for her, then followed her to the little lobby area. She crossed to the sofa where he’d spent the night only four days ago. He found it hard to believe how much had transpired in such a short time. Where Carrie was concerned, it seemed he constantly rode a seesaw—one minute sailing high and the next plunging low. Yet he didn’t begrudge even one second of their wild adventure. What kind of hold did this woman have on him?
She sank onto the sawdust-stuffed cushion, her mouth stretching with a yawn. “Let me think … How long has the elevator been in the factory?”
Oliver shrugged, traveling backward through time in his mind. Father had installed the elevator when Oliver was still a boy. He recalled riding it up and down while still wearing knickers. “I believe it has an 1881 patent. Twenty years ago? Maybe more.”
“It’s likely been serviced at least once during that time. Perhaps the blueprints were taken out when workers did repairs and they neglected to put them back.”
Oliver perched beside her, holding his hands wide. “But wouldn’t they take the protective tube, too? Why take only the blueprints unless whoever took them wanted to hide the fact the canister was empty?”
Carrie frowned, her expression more thoughtful than irritated. “You make it seem as though some sort of conspiracy has taken place.”
He leaned back, considering her statement. The information he’d uncovered concerning Bratcher being in the factory on a Sunday when no one should have been there seemed to point to a conspiracy. Or at least some shady doings.
Oliver’s flesh tingled as disconcerting thoughts flooded his mind. He examined Carrie’s tired face. “Carrie, you haven’t told me why you’re so interested in the elevator. Does your interest have anything to do with Harmon Bratcher?”
She looked sharply away. “Does it matter?”
A man had died—perhaps had been murdered—in his factory. It mattered a great deal. He decided to share a bit of what Father had told him. “Hightower thinks you’re related to Bratcher and wish to uncover proof that the factory is somehow accountable for his death so you can sue us.”
She kept her gaze angled away, but a slight smile curled her lips. “Hightower has a very active imagination.”
Oliver touched her arm—a light touch but a deliberate one. “Is he right?”
“I’m no relation to Harmon Bratcher,” she said, “and I have no interest in suing the factory.”
Although relieved to know she wasn’t out for money, Oliver wasn’t completely satisfied with her vague statement. “Then why your interest? You did promise to tell me, remember?”
She released a rueful chuckle. “I’m not sure it matters anymore, to be honest. Without those blueprints I don’t know how.” She closed her eyes and lowered her head. For several seconds she sat so still Oliver wondered if she’d fallen asleep. But then she jerked her head up to face him, determination evident in the firm set of her jaw. “Ollie, I’m exhausted, and you must be, too. We should get some sleep. But this evening—at suppertime—could you come to Kesia’s? There’s … someone I want you to meet. Someone with whom I think you should talk.”
Oliver blurted, “Who?”
She gave an impatient shake of her head. “Never mind that now. Will you meet me?”
How could he resist such an intriguing invitation? “Of course I’ll meet you.”
“Good.” She stood, covering another yawn with her injured hand. Then she turned a look on him—a look of intense reflection that froze him in his seat. She spoke, but the words seemed intended for herself. “I hope I’m not making a mistake.”
Before he could question her cryptic statement, she rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.
Caroline
“What were you thinking to involve a factory worker in our investigation?”
Although Noble spoke quietly without a hint of disapproval, his query still stung. Caroline rested her clasped hands on the little table Kesia had set up for them in the corner of the café. Annamarie had stayed behind at the hotel with the three Holcomb children, allowing her to visit undisturbed with Noble. “I’m not trying to bring him in as an official investigator for the commission. But he’s been doing some sleuthing on his own—for the factory’s owner, he said—and unless I miss my guess, he has uncovered helpful information. It will be beneficial for us to combine his findings with mine.” Noble’s expression didn’t change. Caroline added on a timorous note, “Won’t it?”
Noble raised one brow. “I don’t know. It depends on his trustworthiness. If he tells the purpose of our investigation of the factory, and the owner tells the managers in the factory, we might very well be sabotaging any hope of discovering the truth about Harmon’s death.”
“I don’t intend to tell him our purpose for being there.” Caroline cringed, hearing her own words. She’d accused Ollie of being less than truthful with her, yet she deliberately hid truth from him. As much as she relished her job, ensuring future workers could enjoy safer environments, she would never adjust to the necessity of deception. “He knows I’m concerned about the age of some of the workers. We can let him assume our investigation is related to Bratcher’s campaign to change the child labor laws. If we—”
“Carrie?”
The quiet voice behind her took her by surprise. She turned to find Ollie standing just inside the doorway. She leaped up, aware of Noble also rising. Had Ollie overheard her final statement? Her heart fluttering, she gestured him forward.
“Ollie, please meet Mr. Noble Dempsey, a dear friend of mine.” Her words came out breathy, as if she’d just run a footrace. She drew in a lungful of air to calm herself. She’d suggested this meeting and didn’t need to be apoplectic over it. “Noble, this is Ollie Moore, a janitor at the Dinsmore chocolate factory.” She wished she could introduce Ollie as a friend, but that would only inspire speculation in Noble’s mind. Yet another thing she must keep hidden. Her stomach twisted in regret.
Ollie moved toward Noble but stopped a couple of feet away.
The two men stood in a face-off, which left Caroline battling the urge to giggle. Both tall, one broad chested with a full white beard and one well toned with clean-shaven cheeks, and both wearing expressions of part curiosity, part guardedness. Although they shook hands and murmured greetings in a gentlemanly fashion, they might have been preparing for a duel. Caroline would have given a five-dollar gold piece to know what each was thinking in those brief seconds of assessment.
Noble extracted his hand from Ollie’s grasp. He turned to Kesia. “We’re ready for supper whenever you’d like to deliver it, Mrs. Durham.”
The woman nodded. “Three plates o’ chicken an’ dumplings on the way!” She smiled and waved at Ollie, who smiled and waved back, then she bustled into the kitchen.
Noble held his hand toward the third chair at the table. “Please join us, Mr. Moore.”
Ollie, instead of sitting, held Caroline’s chair.
With a self-conscious smile she slid onto the round wooden seat. “Thank you.” Aware of Noble’s curious gaze, she turned her attention to smoothing her skirt across her knees.
Noble sat, bracing his ankle on his opposite knee, as Ollie sat and stacked his arms on the table. He flashed a smile—a bit lopsided thanks to the swelling on the side of his face. “Sorry if I was late. I thought I heard you talking about Bratcher when I came in.”
Caroline looked to Noble, silently giving him permission to divulge as much or as little as he wanted to concerning their investigation.
Noble cleared his throat. “You weren’t late, Mr. Moore. Car … rie and I were simply reviewing what we know about the incident that claimed Harmon Bratcher’s life. I was well acquainted with the man, and I fully supported his interest in raising the age of child laborers to sixteen. His death came as quite a shock.”
Ollie frowned, drumming his fingers on his elbows. “It was a shock for me, too. There’d never been a death at the factory before. Mr. Dinsmore has always insisted on the safest working conditions for his employees. But Mr. Bratcher was more than an inspector, wasn’t he? In fact”—Ollie’s voice took on a bit of an edge, as if testing Noble—“he was something of a rabble-rouser, trying to incite unrest among workers.”
Echoes of Mercy: A Novel Page 20