Hidden in a Whisper

by Tracie Peterson

  No, Ivy longed for the thrill of the uncommon. She longed to travel again as she had when she’d been a child. She wanted to see the world, at least more of the world than this little stop along the Santa Fe Railroad. Faith had chided her to be patient because after one year of service, Ivy would be entitled to a vacation and a free pass to go anywhere the Santa Fe Railroad went. Ivy thought the idea laughable. There was no destination on this wretched railroad that enticed her to travel. Unless, of course, she considered the possibility of Kansas City or Chicago. Both places would be accessible along the line. But even this idea held little interest. What Ivy really wanted was a wealthy husband—someone who could arrange for her travels and see to it that she never wanted for anything.

  Smiling, she made her way across the small footbridge that connected the Casa Grande side of the gardens to the Needlemeier side.

  It was all open territory for the guests of Casa Grande. Her aunt had even offered to give her gardeners to the resort, and Mr. Harvey and the Santa Fe had eagerly accepted. They reasoned that if this team of workers knew how to create a garden in the middle of the arid, sandy soils of New Mexico, they were well worth any pay to keep on staff.

  Of course, the Santa Fe officials had never had to spend a winter in Morita. When winter came, everything seemed rather dried up and dead in spite of the usually mild temperatures. But sometimes the snows came, and then the boredom of sitting in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do was almost maddening. But with or without snow, Morita was sheer misery to Ivy.

  Aunt Esmeralda had tried to interest Ivy in everything from needlework to music lessons, but nothing appealed to her. Ivy had pleaded her case to go east, to live in a bigger city where she might truly benefit from the agenda it could offer. Her aunt was nearly convinced until the Santa Fe and Mr. Harvey had taken notice of her oasis. Of course, Ivy hadn’t learned until recently that Esmeralda had been issuing a barrage of letters to those officials, enticing and urging their interest in the property. She had made all manner of promises, and with their purchase of the land, Ivy saw her dreams go up in smoke.

  “I hate it here,” she muttered, cursing the very ground that she walked on. “If I have my way, I won’t spend another winter here.”

  The real trick was to figure out how she might make her dreams come true. She needed a wealthy husband—someone who was already established in one of the eastern cities, or who had a mind to go there once Ivy assured him it was for the best. The grand opening celebration was sure to bring in dignitaries and wealthy investors, and Ivy figured to give them all a lengthy consideration before deciding her true course.

  She passed her aunt’s beloved roses and stopped to pick a particularly delightful pink blossom. The thorns pricked her finger as she ripped the stem away from the plant. I’m like this flower, she thought. I, too, have my sting. Pluck me if you will, but it comes at a price. She put her bleeding finger to her lips in order to ease the pain and smelled the sweetness of the rose at the same time. It was exactly as she saw herself. Lovely and sweet to the senses, but deadly and painful if taken the wrong way.

  Humming to herself, she went into the house through the kitchen door, snagged one of the cook’s cherry tarts, and tossed the rose to the housemaids as she came down the back stairs.

  “Put this in water and leave it in my room, Liza.”

  The girl caught the rose, grimacing as the thorn stuck her thumb. “Yes, miss.” She curtsied, and Ivy gave a nod as she left the kitchen.

  Ivy nibbled at the tart and made her way through the house. She had planned to take a bath first and change out of her uniform into some of her lovely clothes, but she needed information, and that would only come from her aunt. Ivy was desperate to learn more about Braeden Parker, and if anyone would know his history, it would be Esmeralda Needlemeier.

  “Aunt Esmeralda,” Ivy said, going into her aunt’s favorite sitting room. She could see the old woman was poring over her mail and telegrams. No doubt spending more of Ivy’s inheritance trying to further populate the tiresome little town.

  “Ivy,” the woman said, glancing up momentarily. “I expected you to come home last night.”

  Ivy shrugged and took another bite of the tart. “I had things to take care of and it wasn’t convenient. So what are you doing today?”

  “Business as usual,” Esmeralda replied. “I have the possibility of luring a New York seamstress here to Morita.”

  Ivy sunk casually to her favorite rococo-styled chair. This particular chair had been fashioned in Italy, and the arms had been inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The exotic design against the ornately carved walnut wood gave Ivy the feeling of being a queen on her throne. A fitting depiction, in Ivy’s mind.

  “And what would Morita do with a New York seamstress?” she asked, toying with the last bits of her treat.

  “Casa Grande will attract a high class of clientele. A seamstress already well acquainted with the desires of such women will stand ready and able to meet any necessity they might have. Perhaps those staying for lengthy respites will find themselves in need of lightweight but fashionable clothing. A seamstress could provide this and make herself a reasonable living, while also serving the community. You yourself have complained about the quality of the local gowns.”

  “Yes, but a trip to Denver quickly rectified the situation. Others might find it just as easy to take the train north.”

  “Not if the goods are readily available. I plan to see that no one desires to leave for any reason. I will install all of the necessary businesses to make Morita a success. It’s just as your uncle would have wanted it.”

  “Would he have wanted you to waste your money—money that is your only hope of survival for the future?” Ivy asked, seriously eyeing the old woman.

  “I believe he would have,” Esmeralda said. She put down the letter and met her niece’s stare. “I suppose you believe it foolish. Youth cares very little for the concerns of making a mark on the world. Your uncle wanted to leave something behind that would cause men to remember his name. He had no son to carry his name, thus he determined to have something else.”

  “But Morita hardly bears his name,” Ivy countered. “You should have at least called it Needlemeier.”

  “Rubbish. Your uncle liked the way the word sounded and used it accordingly.”

  Ivy shrugged, ate the last of the tart, and brushed the crumbs from her fingers. “Still, what if this venture refuses to pay out?”

  “It will pay out. There’s already good money attracted to this town.”

  “Truly?” Ivy questioned, taking immediate interest in the conversation. “Yes,” Esmeralda replied, nodding. “That rather tolerable Mr. O’Donnell hails from a wealthy Chicago family. I’ve heard it said they’re worth millions. Then Mr. Parker, the hotel manager, has a considerable sum in his bank account, and as I’m told, it is only the tip of his worth.”

  “Honestly, Auntie, how do you manage to find these things out?”

  Esmeralda smiled a tight, reserved little smile. “I ask questions, and I demand answers.”

  “And you did this in Mr. Parker’s case?” The conversation was playing out exactly as Ivy had hoped it might.

  “I completely investigate each of the businessmen who come to Morita.”

  “And Mr. Parker is wealthy?”

  “Apparently he is very comfortable,” Esmeralda replied. “He, too, comes from Chicago, where his family was heavily involved in banking, the stock market, and other manners of moneymaking. Mr. Parker attended college, chose the field of accounting, then found an interest in hotel management. For whatever reason, I can scarcely imagine. He is unmarried, his parents are now deceased, and he claims to have absolutely no regrets in coming to such a small town after living in the big city all of his life.”

  “Well, that could change,” Ivy said, fingering the mother-of-pearl.

  “I wouldn’t count on it. Apparently there is some old friendship between him and your Miss Taylor. Of course, this com
es to me clearly through the grapevine, but I wonder if it isn’t enough of an attraction to keep him here.”

  “I doubt it,” Ivy said, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly. “I have seen them nearly at each other’s throats. I don’t think they have the slightest liking for each other,” she lied, even now wondering how difficult it would be to make this an absolute truth.

  Esmeralda harrumphed this news and returned her attention to the letters before her. “I suppose time will tell.”

  Ivy nodded. “Yes, I suppose it will.” Getting to her feet, Ivy could think of nothing more than a hot bath and time to consider all that she’d learned.

  “I would imagine that with the changes and elegance provided by Casa Grande, you might well learn to content yourself with this small town of ours.”

  Ivy paused at the archway and laughed. “Don’t imagine that too hard, Auntie. I hate this town as much as I ever have. I don’t intend to live here one second longer than it takes me to find a rich husband who lives elsewhere.” She could see the brief expression of hurt on her aunt’s face. The woman covered it quickly, but it was enough to encourage Ivy to speak further.

  “This town will never amount to anything. People will come, but inevitably they will go because there is nothing here to entice them to do otherwise. You can hardly believe that a cheap railroad resort, even one that brings in famous entertainers, could ever hope to hold the attention of the public for long. Once the people have come here and experienced it, what’s left? Do you really suppose they would venture to this barren land solely to enjoy your hot springs and pitiful little town? Do you really imagine that the whispered promise of a New York seamstress will bring upper society running to Morita?” She laughed, knowing that she’d just cut her aunt’s dream to ribbons.

  “It will merely run its course as everything else does,” Ivy said, turning on her heel before a satisfied smile crept across her face. Live with that thought, old woman. You’ve forced me to live in this desert hole, but don’t imagine that I will ever stay here.

  Hours later, Ivy emerged from her bath and wrapped a robe of pink lawn around her still-damp body. She sat herself down in the window seat and let the wind gently blow dry her waist-length blond hair. She knew her appeal to men and smiled to herself as she thought of the handsome Braeden Parker.

  “So what if he has a past with Rachel Taylor,” she murmured. “It hardly matters, considering the plans I have for him.”

  She stretched catlike and leaned back against the wall. She needed a plan in order to entice Braeden to see the benefits she could offer him. He had taken off too quickly the night of the mishap at the hot springs, or she might have allowed him to better understand how easy it would be to fall in love with her. But the real dilemma wouldn’t be in getting Braeden Parker to lose his heart. No, Ivy had confidence enough in her ability to get her man. The greater problem would be how to convince him to leave Casa Grande and New Mexico and return to the big city.

  Thinking on this, Ivy smiled to herself. “Of course, if Casa Grande’s reputation were ruined, it might provide an answer. Say, if the guests were constantly taking ill from the food …”

  The idea intrigued her. How difficult could it be to add a little something here or there to the already prepared meals? After all, it was her job to handle and serve that food. Who would know?

  “It might take a bit of time,” she reasoned aloud, “but it could be done. If people grow sick dining at the Harvey House Restaurant, they certainly won’t be coming back to Casa Grande.” Not only that, but by targeting this attack on the restaurant, she would also cause Rachel a tremendous amount of trouble.

  She smiled smugly and lifted her chin in an arrogant manner. “If there are no customers for Casa Grande, there can hardly be a reason for Braeden Parker to remain here. And, of course, he would have to take his wife with him wherever he ventured. And that wife … will be me.”

  FOURTEEN

  “REGINALD WORTHINGTON, may I introduce Mr. Marcus Smith of Topeka,” Jeffery O’Donnell stated more than asked.

  Reg looked up from his labor to create curried rack of lamb and smiled. “How do you do, Mr. Smith? I hope you’ll forgive me if I fail to shake your hand.”

  Smith, a robust man with a thick mass of curly gray hair, nodded. “I completely understand, Mr. Worthington. I have heard great things about your cooking and couldn’t resist coming here to sample some of the fine cuisine.”

  “Very good, sir. We shall offer only an abbreviated menu, but it shall be our very best efforts.”

  “Mr. Smith is here to make a final inspection of the resort on behalf of the Santa Fe board,” Jeffery explained.

  Reg nodded and listened as Smith immediately jumped in to explain his position. “I find that taking matters into my own hands often allows me to avoid those pesky complications that become destructive elements at later dates.”

  “I trust you’ve found no such complications here at Casa Grande,” Reg said, putting the lamb aside. He gave a quick instruction to one of his assistants, then went to wash his hands.

  “No, I am very pleased with what I’ve found,” Smith replied. “Why don’t you come join us in the dining room for a moment and tell us how you feel about the matters of the kitchen.”

  Reg hardly felt it necessary to sit about a table and discuss issues of his kitchen. He was very much under control, knew his job, and desired no outside interference. However, he knew what was expected of him and gave the briefest nod of his head.

  “I shall be there momentarily,” Reg told the men. “Allow me to put together a tray of refreshments.”

  “What a capital idea!” Smith said enthusiastically. He rubbed his stomach and grinned. “I could go for a bit of refreshment.”

  Reg nodded, figuring the man would go for much more than a “bit” of Casa Grande’s delicacies. He pulled out a silver tray and instructed one of the baking assistants to arrange a selection of pastries and cakes, then ordered another man to bring him a pot of coffee. At just that moment, Gwen Carson appeared. She was in charge of the dining room for the evening meal, and while Reginald liked her well enough, she couldn’t compete with the high esteem he held for Rachel. “I understand there is to be some form of refreshment offered to the gentlemen in the dining room,” she said, greeting Reg. “I thought maybe I could help. Would you like me to serve for you?”

  Reg smiled. “I say, that would be quite the thing. Show Mr. Smith a bit of our Harvey charm before the evening meal!” He smiled at the soft-spoken girl. “The trays are being prepared even now. We shall await you in the dining room.”

  Gwen nodded and went to work while Reginald, seeing that everything was under control, exited the kitchen to join Smith and O’Donnell.

  “We are to be served in Harvey fashion,” he told the men. They looked up at him as if to question his empty hands and he smiled. “The head waitress herself shall look after us.”

  “Miss Carson is a very amiable person,” Jeffery told Smith. “She was originally trained in Topeka and held a position of high regard at the Emporia House.”

  “I must say, Fred Harvey’s idea sounded completely ludicrous to me. He never makes a profit, and in fact, he must be concerned by the Santa Fe losses. However, everywhere I go people talk of his fine food and service,” Smith commented.

  “I know,” Jeffery replied. “It doesn’t sound reasonable, but Harvey’s restaurants are making the Santa Fe a prosperous rail line. Despite poor showings this year, profits continue to rise where passenger service is concerned, and the hotels and resorts should make even more money. So lavishing the guests with outrageous portions and gourmet cuisine at the dinner table hardly seems to keep Mr. Harvey from success. I believe Harvey’s prosperity has crossed over to benefit the Santa Fe as well.”

  “Well, it won’t be beneficial for long if those in power continue to make poor decisions,” Smith countered.

  “Whatever do you mean, sir?” Reginald questioned.

  Just then
Gwen appeared holding a silver serving tray. She quickly arranged cups and saucers, dessert plates, and silver before them, then placed the pot of coffee in the middle of the table. Without giving them any chance to comment, she returned to the kitchen and came back with a tray of delectable goodies. “Oh my,” Smith commented as she asked them to make choices. “Such decisions.”

  “Have no fear,” Reginald said, seeing the heavy man lick his lips, “there are more awaiting us in the kitchen.”

  This seemed to satisfy Smith, who quickly pointed to two creamfilled pastries. Gwen served the men, poured coffee, then returned to the kitchen for cream and sugar.

  “If you gentlemen need anything else, don’t hesitate to let me know. I’ll be over there folding napkins,” she told them and pointed to a small counter where even now another Harvey Girl was at work.

  Smith nodded and quickly tore into the pastries with his fork. He sampled the e clair first, closing his eyes as the food met his lips. With a broad smile he exclaimed, “Simply superb!”

  Reginald smiled at the man. “Thank you.” He paused momentarily, worried that he might be overstepping his bounds with the next question. “You mentioned that there were poor decisions being made among your railroad officials.”

  “Indeed there are,” Smith replied in between bites. “The Santa Fe is not as solvent as we would like. Unwise business decisions have proven harmful to the well-being of our industry.”

  “Is it truly all that bad?” Jeffery questioned.

  “I believe it may prove to be so,” said Smith, though he appeared far more concerned about his desserts. However, he quickly moved the focus of the conversation back to Reginald’s kitchen.