Echoes of Mercy: A Novel

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Caroline bit back a gasp. “Are you saying he deserved what he got?”

  Ollie shook his head, turning a frown on her. “Of course not. Even rabble-rousers have a right to their say, thanks to freedom of speech. I’m just saying his noisemaking could have made somebody mad enough to want to silence him. Maybe for good.”

  Kesia plopped aromatic, steaming bowls of thick chicken gravy oozing between mounds of moist dumplings in front of them. She brushed her palms together. “Anything else? Besides coffee, I mean. I’ve got a fresh pot brewin’ an’ will bring it over soon as it sings.”

  “This is fine, Mrs. Durham. Thank you,” Noble said.

  “Looks good, as always,” Ollie added.

  Kesia beamed. “All right, then. You enjoy your dinner. Holler if you’re wantin’ more.” She scurried off.

  Noble said, “Shall I ask the blessing?”

  Caroline and Ollie nodded in unison. They closed their eyes while Noble offered a simple thank-you for the meal. After the “amen” Noble lifted his fork and began cutting the dumplings into smaller pieces. “Mr. Moore, would you have any idea who might have wanted to silence Bratcher?”

  Ollie gave a start, as if he’d forgotten what they’d been discussing before the food arrived. He swept his napkin over his mouth. “No, sir. But I imagine anyone who employs younger workers would be motivated to end his crusade.”

  “Including Dinsmore?” Noble continued eating, seemingly unconcerned. The simple query hung in the air for several tense seconds.

  Ollie placed his fork on the table as if his appetite had fled. “You can’t think Fulton Dinsmore had anything to do with Bratcher’s death.” A bald statement, not a question.

  Caroline flicked a worried glance at Noble. She’d never heard such defensiveness in Ollie’s voice. Had Noble stirred a hornet’s nest?

  Noble lifted his head, his expression bland. “Didn’t you just say anyone who employs younger workers might wish Bratcher ill? Dinsmore certainly falls into that category. He has a substantial number of young employees in his factory.”

  Ollie’s lips formed a grim line. “Yes, he does. And for good reason.” Pushing the bowl aside, Ollie leaned toward Noble. “A lot of the children working at the factory come from poor families, families who have trouble putting enough food on the table. The salaries the youngsters earn benefit the entire family. I know Carrie thinks those children ought to be in school, but the truth is they’re getting an education by working. They’re learning a trade.”

  He shifted to look at Carrie. “If you want to know how much can be learned by working in a factory, ask Gordon Hightower. He started out as one of Dinsmore’s box makers when he was ten or eleven years old. Now he manages the entire operation—second only to Fulton Dinsmore himself. Hightower’s success proves what can happen if youngsters start working at an early age.”

  Shifting his attention to Noble again, he went on in the same passionate tone. “Mr. Dinsmore believes in giving young workers a chance to better themselves, so he and Harmon Bratcher were on opposite sides of the child labor battle. Even so, he’d never deliberately harm someone.”

  “You seem to know Fulton Dinsmore quite well.” Noble said what Caroline was thinking. She sat with her fork poised over her untouched bowl. What would Ollie say next?

  Pink splashed Ollie’s cheeks. He ducked his head, picking at a bit of loose paint on the edge of the table. “Well enough to know he isn’t a violent man. Besides, he lets Hightower run the place.” Ollie flinched as if he’d tasted something unpleasant. “Fulton Dinsmore comes once a month for meetings with Hightower. The night Bratcher died, Dinsmore wasn’t anywhere near the factory.”

  Noble took another bite of his dumplings, chewed, swallowed, and then tossed out a casual comment. “But he wouldn’t necessarily have to be on the grounds to arrange an … accident.”

  Ollie leaped up, bumping the edge of the table. Broth sloshed over the edge of Caroline’s plate, and she let out a squawk of surprise. Ollie glared at Noble. “Mr. Dempsey, friend of Carrie’s or not, I won’t let you speak that way about my … my boss. He’s a good man. A hardworking, honest man. Do not cast aspersions on his character.”

  Noble’s eyebrows rose. One side of his mouth twitched beneath his mustache. “I meant no offense. I’m merely searching for possibilities. My comment wasn’t intended as an accusation.”

  Caroline held her breath, watching Ollie. Fury pulsated from him. The vexation had exploded from nowhere, taking her by surprise and raising questions in the back of her mind. Why was he so protective of Fulton Dinsmore?

  Noble motioned toward Ollie’s chair and plate. “Please. Sit back down. Eat your dinner before it grows cold.”

  Ollie shook his head. “I’m not hungry. I came here at Carrie’s invitation. I thought we’d talk about the elevator, try to determine who took the blueprints. But instead”—he offered Caroline a brief, apologetic look, then turned a murderous glare on Noble—“you began a character assassination on someone I admire. And I want no part of it.”

  Tossing his napkin on the table, he took one sideways step toward the door. “I don’t know why Harmon Bratcher was in the factory that Sunday. I don’t know how he fell down the elevator shaft. But I do know this: Fulton Dinsmore is innocent of any wrongdoing. And now, since there seems to be nothing more I can do for you, I bid you both good night.”

  “Ollie, wait!”

  Ignoring Caroline’s plea, he turned and strode out the door.

  Caroline watched him disappear. Aggravation rose from her middle and made her tremble from head to toe. She turned toward Noble. “Why did you goad him so? He’ll never help us now.”

  Noble chuckled. He patted Caroline’s hand. “Ah, my dear, you weren’t paying attention. He’s already been very helpful.”

  Caroline frowned. “He has?”

  “Indeed. I now know on whom to focus our investigation. Oh, we still need evidence to convince a court of law, but I’ll be quite surprised if my instincts are proved wrong.”

  Caroline shook her head hard. “I’m not following you.”

  “Of course you’re not. Because when you’re in the presence of that young man, you’re suddenly rendered incompetent.”

  “Wh-what?” Heat seared her face. She lifted her napkin and fanned herself with it.

  Another chuckle, indulgent and fatherly. “There’s no harm in mindless flirtation, Caroline. In fact, I find it rather refreshing that you can lower your guard enough to enjoy a bit of coquetry. You’re entirely too serious most of the time.” He gave her hand a squeeze and then reached for his fork. “Eat your dinner. While you eat, I’ll enlighten you on what your so-called janitor inadvertently divulged. And then, when we’ve finished our business, I’ll take charge of the youngsters and ask Annamarie to sit down with you for a womanly chat.” He winked, mischief twinkling in his eyes. “I believe our Caroline might have need of romantic advice.”

  Oliver

  Oliver set his feet with such force the impact jarred his entire skeleton. By the time he reached his apartment, his jaw ached and his head throbbed. He flopped into the overstuffed chair in front of the cold fireplace. What an insufferable man! And Carrie claimed him as a friend.

  He envisioned them in the corner of Kesia’s café at that cozy little table—brought in especially for their tête-à-tête, apparently—with Dempsey’s snow-white head tipped close to Carrie’s cinnamon-colored coils. At first glance he’d recognized that the pair shared a special relationship. The man was old enough to be Carrie’s father, but he’d seen enough of what his mother called May-December romances to know that some women preferred older men. He wouldn’t have expected it of Carrie, though. He’d hoped—

  He jolted to his feet and paced the room. Why had Carrie invited him to meet Noble Dempsey? Noble, indeed. Ignoble was more like it, flinging out such drivel about Father. He’d gone, fully expecting whomever she brought to have knowledge of the elevator. To be subjected to accusation and innuendo ha
d bruised him even more deeply than the door smacking his head. She hadn’t deliberately struck him with the door, but this blow—this blow to his heart and ego—seemed calculated. And he’d walked right into the situation as recklessly as he’d plowed into the door.

  If Carrie was in league with this Dempsey, who seemed determined to find Father accountable for the death of Harmon Bratcher, then they had a bigger issue to overcome than her desire to see the child labor laws changed. Sinking back into the chair, he held his aching head in his hands and closed his eyes. God … But the prayer ended on a single, strangled word. He didn’t know what to ask.

  Caroline

  Laughter spilled from the smaller of the two sleeping rooms in Noble and Annamarie’s suite. Caroline looked toward the sound, a smile tugging at her lips despite the heaviness in her chest. How gratifying to know the children at least were happy.

  Annamarie settled in the chair facing Caroline, and she shook her head, fondness shining in her eyes. “Noble’s getting them all wound up again. He’s so good at it. Then, when it’s time to sleep, he becomes all bluster, telling them if they don’t settle down, they’ll have no goodies in their stockings come Christmas.”

  Caroline released a light laugh. “He did the same thing to me when I was Letta’s age, as I recall. And I never believed his bluster, because while he issued his threat, his eyes sparkled.”

  “Letta, Lank, and Lesley don’t believe him, either,” Annamarie said. She sighed, gazing toward the doorway. Her brows pinched together. “I worry they’re growing too attached to Noble. You know how hard he is to resist.”

  Caroline felt certain Ollie could resist Noble. Ollie hadn’t liked Noble. At all. But she didn’t want to think about Ollie. “Has their aunt Gertrude responded to the telegram Noble sent?”

  “Not yet. But she might have decided to save her dime and simply do what he requested—come for them herself. He made it clear he won’t put them on a train unattended and send them to her.”

  Caroline hoped the aunt would respond to Noble’s telegram more positively than she had to the ones Caroline had sent. Those children needed someone.

  Annamarie reached into the basket beside her chair and withdrew a snarl of red yarn and a pair of knitting needles. “Do you mind if I work while we chat? I’d like to finish these scarves for the children before we leave for home.”

  Tears pricked behind Caroline’s eyes. Annamarie’s fingers were so bent from arthritis that holding the needles had to cause her much pain. Yet she chose to push past her discomfort to gift the children. Caroline forced a light tone. “Maybe you should teach me to knit so I could make them matching mittens.”

  Annamarie sent Caroline a teasing look over the top of the needles. “If you prove as adept at knitting as you have at cooking, the poor children will be elderly before they receive their mittens.”

  Caroline only shrugged, offering a halfhearted grin. Not even for Annamarie would she learn to cook.

  Annamarie went on. “If their aunt hasn’t come for them by the end of the week, Noble said we’ll take the children to Baldwin City ourselves before we go home.”

  Knowing the children would have supervision—either from their aunt or from the Dempseys—took a great burden from Caroline’s mind. She leaned forward and pressed her hand to Annamarie’s knee. “You and Noble do so much for children. It’s a pity—” She bit down on her tongue, sitting back in her chair.

  Annamarie sent a warm smile at Caroline. “No need to look all sorry over there. It’s true Noble and I weren’t blessed with children of our own. And I admit, for years I resented God for it. But think for a moment, Caroline.” Her expression turned pensive, and her hands stilled on the needles. “If I’d had children of my own, do you suppose Noble would have brought you home? Or any of the other children he saved from difficult situations? Of course he wouldn’t have. And even if he’d tried, I wouldn’t have allowed it! We’d have been too busy with our own. So you see? God had a plan in leaving me barren. My womb has been empty, but my heart?” A smile curved her lips. Tears glittered in her eyes. “My heart overflows.”

  Caroline slipped from her chair and knelt beside Annamarie. She cupped her hands gently over the older woman’s, the partially completed red scarf dangling between them. “I love you, Annamarie. And Noble. I don’t know what I would have done without you.” Memories of the years before Noble scooped her up and carried her from the Remingtons’ house sneaked from the far recesses of her mind, but Caroline resolutely drove the dark recollections back to their hiding places. Those early years no longer mattered. “I hope I can make half as much difference in the lives of children as you’ve made in mine.”

  “You’re already making a difference.” Annamarie gently extracted her hands and put the needles to work again. “But of course Noble and I pray you’ll be blessed in ways we weren’t.”

  Caroline rose and crossed to the window. Only darkness greeted her eyes. And her own reflection in the glass. She might have been the only person in the world. Loneliness struck. She said quietly, “If God is wise—and I believe He is—He’ll withhold family from me.”

  “Caroline, such a thing to say.” The mild reprimand stung as much as if Annamarie had flayed her with harsh words.

  Caroline returned to Annamarie’s chair and perched on the arm. “It’s true. God knows I’d be a horrible mother and an even worse wife.” She couldn’t cook, she disliked cleaning, and the thought of being responsible for a baby made her break out in a cold sweat. “Thanks to Noble’s training, I’m a decent agent, though, and I find great fulfillment in helping to make factories safer places for people to work. And when I’ve helped change the laws so children—all children—attend school every day, I’ll know I’ve done what I’m meant to do.”

  Annamarie paused again in her knitting to place a hand on Caroline’s arm. “Are you sure, Caroline, that it will be enough?”

  Caroline frowned. “Of course. Think of the good it will do for the current children and all the children to come.”

  “But I’m not speaking of the current children and the children to come, dear girl. I’m speaking of you. Will it be enough?”

  Uncertain how to answer, Caroline sat in confused silence.

  Annamarie lay her knitting in her lap and took both of Caroline’s hands in hers. “Noble thinks you feel something special for the man who works at the factory—Ollie Moore. Is he right?”

  She wouldn’t lie to Annamarie. Very slowly she nodded.

  A smile broke across Annamarie’s face. “Oh, that’s wonderful!”

  “No, it isn’t.” Caroline stood and paced the room twice. “It’s foolhardy. And it’s distracting. And I have to stop thinking about him right now.”

  “But why?” Annamarie patted the arm of her chair, inviting Caroline to sit. “Tell me about him. Is he a God-fearing man?”

  Caroline sank onto the rolled arm, reflecting on Annamarie’s question. Ollie had agreed to pray for Mr. Holcomb, and he’d been in church this past Sunday. She nodded.

  “Is he handsome?” Annamarie’s dark-brown eyes twinkled teasingly.

  Immediately a picture of Ollie filled her mind—tall, with wide shoulders and a trim waist. Even in work dungarees and suspenders, he cut a dashing figure. Heat filled Caroline’s face. A self-conscious giggle escaped. “Annamarie, really …”

  The woman grinned, arching one brow. “Are you afraid I’ll set my sights on him if you tell me? Remember, I’ve already captured the finest man God placed on the earth, so you needn’t worry I’ll chase Ollie Moore around the block.”

  Caroline laughed out loud, then clapped her hand over her mouth. Annamarie looked so demure with her silver hair slicked back in a neat twist and her slender body attired in a dignified suit of sage green. Her teasing always took Caroline by surprise. She sighed, shaking her head in amusement. “Annamarie, you are a scamp, but I love you.”

  The teasing faded from Annamarie’s eyes. “And we love you. So much so we want you to
be happy. If this man could make you happy, then—”

  Caroline bounced up. “He can’t.” She stepped to the fireplace and braced her hand on the mantel.

  “Why not?”

  “Because our entire relationship”—did they have a relationship?—“is built on half truths. I can’t tell him who I really am. And I know he’s holding back something from me.” Ollie’s cultured speech echoed in her mind. And then something else leaped from her memory.

  When Ollie had shared Gordon Hightower’s worry about Caroline being one of Bratcher’s relatives and therefore seeking a reason to bring a wrongful-death suit against the factory, he’d said “sue us.” Us. Not “him” or “the factory” or even “the owner.” At the time her weariness had kept her from fully comprehending the meaning of his statement. But now her heart pounded like a bass drum as questions—and suppositions—raced through her mind.

  Annamarie’s dear face registered concern. “Caroline, what is it?”

  “Nothing.” Caroline scurried to the hall tree near the door of the suite and removed her shawl. Seeing the deep furrows in Annamarie’s face, she forced a smile and returned to plant a kiss on Annamarie’s soft cheek. “Don’t worry. I just remembered something, and I … I need to take care of it before I go in to work tonight.”

  Annamarie caught Caroline’s hand, holding her in place. “Are you sure you’re all right? Your face is ashen.”

  With a grin Caroline pinched her cheeks. “Is that better?”

  Annamarie’s expression didn’t change.

  Caroline beamed a big smile and tossed her head, making the little coils that always escaped her bun bounce against her cheeks. “You needn’t look so distressed. I’m fine. Honestly.” She leaned down and embraced her friend. “I’ll come when I get off in the morning to walk the children to Kesia’s for breakfast and then to school. We can chat then, all right?”