“Young lady, we left San Francisco in a hurry—with not five dollars between us after paying our fares,” Mama whispered viciously. “If Miss Vanderbilt is such a wonderful headmistress, has she not taught you the fine art of enticing gifts from men who appreciate pretty women?”
“I thought once we got to those post office boxes, we’d be rich beyond our wildest—”
“We must seize opportunities when they present themselves, Christine. She who hesitates is lost.”
Mama turned to smile fetchingly at Mr. Acree again. When she wiggled her fingers at him, he did the same.
“Now—take a lesson from your mother,” Mama instructed in a low voice. “You will behave graciously—and say nothing—when we join him for dinner tonight, understand me? Mr. Acree believes we’ve been to San Francisco seeking treatment for a mysterious ailment which has left you unable to utter a sound.
“He felt so sorry for your misfortune—and the fact that your doctor bills have bankrupted your poor widowed mother,” she purred, “that he’s going to ticket our Pullman hotel express car all the way to Abilene, even though he himself is getting off in Cheyenne.”
Christine’s eyes widened. “Why on God’s earth did you tell him I’m—”
“So you wouldn’t spoil it, of course.” Mama looked downright gleeful. “And because an old goat like Mr. Acree is so damned grateful when a woman pays attention to him, he’ll go along with anything I say. We’ll get off in Cheyenne with him, secure the ticket for our Pullman car—and then dismiss him. For being such a desperate old toad!”
Christine’s cheeks grew hot and she looked away. Not only was Mr. Acree being played for a fool, but Mama had made her a pawn in this despicable game—a bargaining chip for his sympathy.
“We’re not getting off in North Platte, as Mr. Carson suggested?”
“Whatever for?” Mama scoffed.
“Because you cheated those ladies! In their darkest hour, you stripped them of their dignity—even though you knew how lost—”
“You feel sorry for them? After they believed you were me?” Her mother’s face displayed extreme disbelief. “Christine, dear heart, when P.T. Barnum said ‘There’s a sucker born every minute,’ he must’ve just left North Platte, Nebraska. Let us hope you will never become the sucker of the minute.”
Christine’s mouth fell open. Her mother, a woman of beauty and breeding, gazed at her with coldly calculating green eyes that made her soul freeze over. Mama was already plotting some excuse—some way to get rid of her tonight—before she could foil any of these devious plans.
Not only does Mama disregard the pain of others, she won’t admit she inflicted it. Nor does she care.
Her mother had no conscience.
What a frightening thought.
As Christine caught her own reflection in the window glass, she was reminded of how much she resembled her mother—and how she’d taken it as a compliment to be compared to her. Other images came back to her, too: times when she’d flounced out of Tucker’s red wagon and ridden off on his horse like a thief in the night, and stalked off before he could further explain that WANTED poster, back at the hotel.
The apple hadn’t fallen too far from the tree, had it?
Lord, don’t let me be like her! Not anymore! Christine pleaded. I’ve treated Tucker and his mother badly, behaving like a pampered brat.
What can I do to fix this?
Dinner with Mr. Acree was yet another ordeal. The old fellow’s face bore several scars, probably from smallpox, so it was an effort not to stare at them as he talked with Mama. He looked so obviously flattered, so happy to be in their company, that Christine pitied him. Just as well that she was only to smile forlornly and keep silent.
Mama was in rare form. She’d pinned a fabric poinsettia at the crown of her upswept hair, with a black veil that swooped coquettishly over one eye—
Like a spider’s web, Christine mused.
—to offset her black velvet gown. It was acceptable attire for a widow at her evening meal, except, perhaps, that its daring décolletage left little to anyone’s imagination. The waiters fawned over her, expounding upon menu items as though she were a queen.
And Mama was behaving regally indeed. Living out the fantasy of splendor and refinement she felt she deserved as she daintily sipped her wine and played upon Mr. Acree’s unsuspecting nature.
“Oh, would you look at this!” she twittered, batting her lashes beneath that veil. “Years it’s been since I tasted Blue Point oysters! Or oxtail soup! But I really can’t expect you to—”
“Of course you shall have them, my dear Mrs. Bristol,” the old fellow said, nodding at their waiter. “And when we arrive in Cheyenne, I’ll escort you to places—”
“Oh, no, no, kind sir!” she replied, patting his mottled hand. “I’ve already told you Christine and I must return to Abilene. In time to place flowers on her daddy’s grave for Christmas, you know.”
Mama turned to her then, widening her green eyes.
What could she do but play along? Never mind that Mama had never decorated Daddy’s grave back home; she and Billy had placed wildflowers on the river rock that marked his spot, as the only memorial they could afford. If she spoiled Mama’s charade by speaking now, there’d be hell to pay for the rest of the trip.
So Christine pointed to her menu choices with a very real sense of despair. Not only did Mr. Acree’s fawning make her ill, but she felt downright mousy compared to Mama. She’d left her better dresses at the Malloys’, so the only adornment she wore on her green tweed gown was the lace collar Miss Vanderbilt had tatted for her birthday.
Bad enough that the red candles and holly sprigs on the tables proclaimed a Christmas spirit she didn’t feel; the festive printed menu had made her aware of the date, after days of being too caught up in Mama’s drama to notice it.
December eighteenth. Mama hadn’t even wished her a happy birthday.
The waiter flashed them a grin and went to place their order. Christine distanced herself from her mother’s flirtation with Mr. Acree by staring out at the moonlit plains, which passed at an amazing clip. Memories of sixteen candles last year, with her academy friends and Miss Vanderbilt, gave way to recollections of Beulah Mae’s high, light angel cakes with pink sugar roses like only that old Negro cook knew how to make.
Mama had insisted those cakes be placed on the crystal cake pedestal and served on the white china with the roses that matched the cake—“because my Christine Louise is a lady,” she proudly proclaimed each year.
But the War Between the States and those Border Ruffians had changed everything, hadn’t they? Christine hadn’t known how deep the wounds went that first night at the Monroe house, when she’d insisted to Billy that it was their duty to save Mama because they were all she had.
“ ‘If she can’t be the same Mama we had before we lost Daddy, then there’s nothin’ left worth savin’!” he’d blurted through his tears.
He was only ten when he said that, but maybe Billy was the smart one.
Maybe her mission to find Mama had been a major mistake.
“Now, not one word about how all the envelopes came to be in this box, young lady.”
Mama glanced around the Denver post office, as though wondering if Mr. Acree had tailed them here from Cheyenne. Had he seen her paying the railyard workers to leave that Pullman car on a side spur until they returned to take a later train?Was he lovesick enough to follow the wily woman who’d detoured to Denver to fetch more of her clothing and jewelry—and the windfall that awaited her from Wyndham’s advertisements?
Or would Mr. Acree retaliate? Have the car canceled in their absence?
Christine sighed, tired of being treated like a child—and disgusted by her mother’s devious ways. What a show Mama had put on, kissing that poor old fool and promising she’d write to him. Was this how she’d won Richard Wyndham’s attentions, too? And Carlton Harte’s?
Mama fished the key from her reticule. “Thank
God Richard rented one of these larger boxes. I could never remember the combination on the smaller ones.”
Why did that line ring so false?
Because Mama could’ve sweet-talked the postmaster into opening any box she wanted. Because she made a beeline back here to this one, as though she knew exactly where it was—because she’s been here many times before.
So many stories, so little truth.
Christine held her tongue, squelching a retort that would ruin Mama’s fine mood. All the way here, she’d grinned like a little girl ready to make her wildest dreams come true. Her hand shook as she slid the brass key into the lock and twisted it, anticipating a pile of mail from the various schemes she’d supposedly never known about.
Mama threw open the shiny hinged door—and then her smile curdled. “What in the name of God—?”
She pulled out a single sheet of paper with a short note scrawled on it.
“Who do they think they’re dealing with? Don’t just stand there gawking, Christine,” she snapped as she stalked off. The echo of her steps announced her wrath as surely as her scowl. “It seems we must claim our mail at the front counter—as though we were ordinary customers!”
Every fiber in Christine’s body told her it was a trap. Perhaps they’d better march out the door rather than follow the note’s instructions. Heads turned as her irate mother stormed past, with the sides of her stylish coat flapping behind her. Christine remained in Mama’s wake, too mortified to meet anyone’s eyes, already shaking her head at the high drama about to unfold.
“And what is the meaning of this?” her mother demanded of the clerk. She slapped the note down in front of him, her fist returning to her hip.
The man smiled. “Ma’am, if you’ll be so kind as to wait until I’ve finished with this man’s transaction—”
“According to this, I’m to see a Mr. Klinestettler—whoever the hell he is!” She glowered at the customer in question, daring him to defy her.
“Ah. Yes, of course.” The postman rapped sharply on a door behind his counter. “Mr. Klinestettler will be with you shortly.”
“Damn right he will.”
Christine’s stomach lurched. Why wasn’t Mama suspecting a problem—which might get worse if she acted so hostile? The post office was bustling with people who carried packages wrapped in brown paper and string and handfuls of Christmas cards, but they were setting aside their holiday cheer to watch the little lady with the big mouth.
And when that office door opened and a stocky man with thinning brown hair stepped out, Christine’s worst fears were confirmed.
“Carlton—Carson—whoever the hell you are!” Mama sputtered. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Step inside please, Mrs. Bristol,” he replied. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Chapter Thirty
“I’ll just wait here in the—”
“You’d best come with her, Christine,” the detective said with an apologetic smile. “We’ll be discussing matters you should . . . be aware of.”
Shutting out the curious stares—the humiliation of being associated with a striking redhead who swore like a stevedore—Christine stepped into the postmaster’s sanctum behind her mother.
Her thoughts were spinning. How had Harley Carson arrived in Denver before they did? How had he known to be lying in wait to pounce on Mama when she retrieved that note from Wyndham’s box?
Is Tucker here, too?
She had to save her own concerns for later, however. A tall, intimidating man was standing behind his desk when they entered. He was studying Mama—and her!—very closely, as though comparing their appearances to what the detective had already told him.
“Mrs. Virgilia Bristol and Miss Christine,” Mr. Carson said, gesturing at each of them, “may I introduce the postmaster, Theodore Klinestettler.”
“Good day, ladies. Please have a seat.”
While he gestured eloquently and spoke in a low, controlled voice, Christine already knew she didn’t like this man. Or was it the nature of his inquisition she detested?
“I have what you were looking for, Mrs. Bristol,” he continued, stuffing his hands in his trouser pockets. “And I’ve confiscated it because—”
“You can’t do that!” Mama popped up from her chair with a finger pointed like a pistol. “You’ve taken personal property from a post office box belonging to—”
“Richard Wyndham,” Carson cut in, although he didn’t look happy about it. “And because the box was rented in his name—and because he instructed me to empty it after we caught him in San Francisco—I can’t let you have whatever you were looking for just now.”
“And what might that be, Mrs. Bristol?”
The postmaster leaned forward to gaze down at Mama, but his expression held none of the gratitude or adoration Mr. Acree’s had shown. Klinestettler was the cat who’d grabbed the canary and wanted to play with it before he ate.
“And why is that your business?” Mama countered. She stood ramrod straight; only the clenching of her jaw gave away her rage. She would’ve torn Wyndham limb from limb had he been here.
Christine let out the breath she’d been holding. This could take all day if Mama kept waltzing around the men’s questions.
Harley Carson stepped closer, looking as if he’d rather not be there. “When Wyndham told us you’d be checking the various mailboxes for money, I asked Mr. Klinestettler to be lenient,” he said quietly. “Because you left San Francisco in a rush—”
“My comings and goings are not your concern, Mr. Carson,” Mama snapped. “Why should I trust a man who disguised himself and changed his name to deceive me?”
Christine grimaced at the irony of this.
“Part of my job, I’m afraid.” The detective shifted, imploring her with his eyes. “I want to help you, dear. I led your daughter in your direction because I believe families should be together and—”
“Horse hockey! You knew I was Richard Wyndham’s partner and lured me away from him. Because you wanted me!”
“Because I knew he’d cause you trouble!” Mr. Carson came to stand in front of her. Hesitantly, he took hold of her hands. “Virgilia, he left you to rot in that Chinatown alley. Like garbage thrown out the window.”
Mama pulled away, smirking. “Your concern is touching, Carlton—or whatever your real name is. But I’m not buying it. It was all a part of your scheme to latch on to me—or to catch Richard at something illegal—because I was so successful as a medium. Men just can’t stand it when a woman does well for herself!”
“That’s not true. I’ve always admired your agile mind—”
“Shall we get to the point?” the postmaster demanded.
Mr. Klinestettler stood at his full height then, looking down his nose at Mama. “Richard Wyndham has confessed to more than fifteen fraudulent schemes involving the United States mail these past five years. He named you as his partner, Mrs. Bristol. Which means you’ll be called into court when—”
“Court? You can’t touch me!” Mama tilted her head defiantly, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. “You yourself said I didn’t know about Richard’s financial affairs, Mr. Carson. So why am I being treated like a criminal?”
The Pinkerton agent’s face hardened subtly. “If you hadn’t been so cavalier about selling those Bibles to the widows in North Platte, maybe I’d defend your honor more strenuously. But you tricked Harriet Butterfield—my mother—and her best friends. And I’ve been paying ever since.”
“Oh, spare me, Mr. Carson!” Mama said with a roll of her eyes. “If you can’t handle your mama by now, you deserve to rot like this crock of—kraut—you’re stirring up here.”
“Mama, really!” Christine slapped the arms of her chair, glaring. “You told me yourself we’d be raking in the windfall from Richard’s big schemes. High time you were held accountable for deceiving so many innocent people!”
Mama spun on her heel. “And what did you plan to get by on, Miss Idealist? We s
pent what little money we had on train fares. I’m your mother. It’s my duty to take care of you.”
Christine stood then, shaken but not dropping Mama’s gaze. “If I spent even a dollar of your misbegotten money, I couldn’t face Billy or the Malloys—or Miss Vanderbilt!—ever again. I—”
“Well, then, you’ve never gone hungry. Or been widowed. Or lost your home—and nearly lost your mind—after your son was snatched away from you.”
Mama’s eyes widened into deep green pools, transforming her face into a fragile mask of tragedy. She assessed the effect she was having on the men.
“Until you’ve suffered as I have, dear daughter,” she went on with a catch in her voice, “you have no right to judge a woman left utterly destitute after the war. You were a child. You had no idea of the grief and heartache I endured after your daddy was shot dead.”
Christine took a deep breath. Here it comes: She’s going to whimper and raise that pretty chin and stick out that lower lip like the spoiled brat she is. Lord, deliver me!
This brief plea settled her. She stood erect, her head high as she recalled the lessons Miss Vanderbilt had taught about dealing with adversity—and impossibly difficult people. It was time to make her stand.
“You dumped us like unwanted puppies, Mama,” Christine replied in a tight whisper. “You broke Billy’s heart, and betrayed all that was sacred to your family. You lied to us all the way to the stage station because you knew Richard Wyndham was going to send us west—out of sight, out of mind. And you never really married him, did you?”
Christine’s fisted hands quivered at her sides, but she couldn’t stop now. She had to state her case in front of these witnesses, who might help her, or forever endure her mother’s unspeakable behavior.
“I can’t be part of this anymore!” she cried, wishing the tears weren’t dribbling down her cheeks. “From the start, I insisted on coming after you—I’ve spent the past three years with that as my mission. And from the start, Billy saw the situation for what it was. “If she can’t be the same Mama we had before we lost Daddy,’ he said, ‘then there’s nothin’ left worth savin.” I’m going home now, to tell him he was right. And I’m going without you, Mama. I can’t let him see what you’ve become.”
Journey to Love (Angels of Mercy) Page 26