Shadows of the White City

by Jocelyn Green

  “No, Miss Townsend! I never even saw that much money all at once in my life. I don’t snoop around. I only check your pockets when it’s wash day and I need to empty them first. And whatever I find in the pockets, I don’t throw away either. I just put the coins and bits of paper on your dressers.”

  Sylvie believed her. She wanted to believe her.

  “Do you?” Kristof challenged. “I didn’t notice any such pile on my bureau this week.”

  “Oh no.” Lottie slapped at the pocket of her apron. “I must have forgotten, but it’s all right here.” She scooped out the contents and released them into Kristof’s cupped hands. A few quarters, a dime, restaurant receipts for Kinsley’s and the Chicago Oyster House, and something else Sylvie couldn’t quite decipher.

  Kristof plucked it out. His complexion paled, then fired to a livid red. “A receipt from the Garfield Racing Association. Gregor’s been gambling again. Of course the money disappeared.” He crumpled it in his fist. “I owe you an apology, Lottie. I’m sorry you had to defend yourself like that. Your honesty has proven your innocence. And my brother’s guilt,” he added quietly to Sylvie, steel in his tone.

  Sylvie picked up Lottie’s bonnet and placed it on her head. “You’ve been very helpful, and we’ve kept you long enough. See you tomorrow.”

  With a small, awkward curtsy, Lottie scurried from the apartment and down the stairs.

  “I apologize for barging in like that.” Kristof exuded frustration. “But she cleared her name quicker than I thought possible. I’m glad she’s blameless. . . .” His voice trailing away, he clenched the back of a chair and leaned on it. “I hate that my brother isn’t. Three hundred dollars! I noticed it was missing before he left this evening. He knew I suspected Lottie, must have known I would question her. He could have cleared her name himself and didn’t.”

  Peppermint tea infused the air, but Sylvie let it turn tepid. She laid a hand on Kristof’s back and felt his muscle tense. “I can only imagine the confrontation you have ahead of you with your brother,” she said. “But right now I have one of my own.”

  Lightning flashed outside in a bank of clouds hovering over the courthouse. “Not with me, I hope?”

  She opened her hand to show the laundry tag within. “At the Palmer House. With the guest in room 423.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The hansom cab lurched, and Sylvie clutched the leather bench. Kristof peeled her fingers away, enclosing them in his. “We’re close,” he said. “Just a few more minutes, and we’ll have some answers.”

  Rain dropped on the roof of the cab in fat, loud drops. “I want more than answers. I want Rose. I want whoever is in room 423 to—” Suffer, she’d almost said. She’d never felt this vindictive before. She ought to be ashamed, but she was too preoccupied to manage it. “I just want this to be over. The mystery, the suspense, the hope and fear. If I don’t even recognize myself right now—and I don’t—will I recognize Rose?” She squeezed his hand. “I have no idea what she’s been through, but I’m sure it’s changed her.”

  “I’m sure it has.” He angled toward her, his knee brushing hers and disappearing in the folds of her skirt. His nearness, the shadows, the vulnerability she felt just now, all combined to form a startling degree of intimacy. She wanted to be strong. But at the moment she didn’t mind if that strength came from him.

  “Kristof.” She spoke his name as much to reassure herself that she was not alone as to ask for attention that was already hers. “When she went missing, my world broke into pieces, and she and I were no longer in the same piece. What if, when we come together again, the rift doesn’t disappear, and the jagged edges between us won’t align?”

  In her mind, she begged him not to point out that Rose’s return was still not guaranteed. She knew what she’d said and implied. When, not if. It was a hope she had to cling to.

  Rain blew through the windows, misting her skin. A wheel caught in a gap between cobblestones, rocking the cab to one side. Sylvie swayed against Kristof, and he draped his arm around her shoulders to hold her there. She had no desire to shrug away. Indeed, his arms were shelter, his presence security. His brown eyes held the warmth of a fire as he looked at her.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Things may not snap back into place exactly as they once were.”

  She glanced past him to the silver streams outside. “The way things were right before she left weren’t what I wanted either,” she confessed. “I love her with everything I am, and yet I feel inadequate to help her.”

  “We are all imperfect, despite every effort.”

  “Except for you.” She couldn’t resist.

  “No,” he said. “Especially me. I’m worn out with striving to achieve an impossible ideal.”

  Sylvie read a struggle in the lines of his face and considered this. “In your music?” she asked, all teasing erased.

  “Music is only part of it. I grew up trying to be good enough and find it’s a hard habit to break.”

  “But good enough for whom? For yourself? For others?”

  “That is the question, isn’t it? God says that as His child, I am good enough for Him—not because of what I’ve done, but because of what Christ has done on my behalf. For some reason, I often forget that.”

  “Shall I remind you on occasion?”

  He smiled. Behind the stubbled jaw and the silver glinting in his brown hair, she saw in him the little boy he’d once been, a child who had craved belonging and never felt secure in it.

  Without thinking, she lifted a hand to his cheek as though she could console a wound long buried. “You are good enough, Kristof. You are more than good enough.”

  He took her hand and pressed a kiss to its palm before lowering it. The gesture was so quick and artless, it failed to register a shock. In that instant, nothing in the world could have been more natural.

  “You see how this works, don’t you?” he said. “If there is grace for me, there is grace for you, too. You worry about your ability to reconcile with Rose and help heal her after whatever ordeal she’s endured. Correct?”

  “Exactly.” The cab turned. In a matter of blocks, they would arrive at the Palmer. Her stomach contracted in anticipation.

  “Where we are weak, God is strong. He can take our smallest offerings and make of them a feast. But for now, we focus on finding her.”

  The heavens opened wide, and drops became a driving torrent just as Sylvie and Kristof stepped inside the Palmer House hotel. Even with him beside her, her nerves buzzed. She couldn’t imagine doing this without him.

  The two-story lobby had been designed to awe its guests and visitors. Beyond red velvet seating and marble-topped tables, a grand staircase led the eye to a fresco mural on the ceiling taken from Greek mythology. Garnet-draped chandeliers glowed above them.

  None of this interested Sylvie.

  Kristof’s hand warmed the small of her back as she made her way between men in dark suits and women in dinner gowns and matching elbow-length gloves to the long reception desk against one wall.

  A man stuffed into his brass-buttoned uniform scribbled on some kind of ticket while Sylvie mustered all the patience she could find. “I’ll be with you shortly.” The name on his straining blue jacket said Tom.

  Sylvie surveyed the lobby while she waited. The air was thick with the smells of perfumes, colognes, and the restaurant adjoining the lobby. Gilded frames held artwork Bertha Palmer had brought home from France by a painter she’d befriended named Claude Monet. At a time like this, it was impossible to enjoy a single one of them.

  “Excuse me, Tom,” Kristoff said to the receptionist, tapping his umbrella lightly on the floor. “We have a pressing matter, and it won’t take much of your time.”

  The receptionist’s eyebrows plunged but quickly smoothed back into placid arcs. “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

  Sylvie produced the laundry ticket. “Somehow I have ended up with the laundry belonging to the guest in room 423,” she said. It w
asn’t a lie.

  Color deepened in Tom’s already ruddy cheeks. “I’m sorry to hear it. I’ll find out where the mistake was made and report it immediately.” His chin lowered, flattening against his neck.

  “Your guest ought to be notified at once, as well.” Kristof’s demeanor was a thin veneer of nonchalance. Beneath it, the tendons in his neck pulled taut.

  “But of course,” Tom said. “You have the article with you?”

  Sylvie swallowed. “Not at present. I first wanted to see if the guest is still staying in that room. You’ll see the date on the ticket is from last week.”

  With an ink-stained finger, the receptionist spun the ticket to face him, then consulted a ledger book. “The guest checked out last Friday. The room is occupied by someone else now, a guest who has specifically asked not to be disturbed.”

  “Who was it?” Kristof asked. “We’ll try contacting him or her ourselves.”

  “I’m not at liberty to release that information to you,” Tom hedged. “We pride ourselves on preserving our guests’ privacy even after they’ve gone.”

  Sylvie had never heard such a ridiculous notion. She touched Kristof’s shoulder, and he bent his ear to her. “I’m going to sit down. Stay and finish your conversation.”

  He nodded. He was still arguing with the receptionist when she strolled away, circling through the lobby. She took a seat in one of the plush velvet chairs and watched the bank of receptionists at the long mahogany desk. Rain pounded outside, mingling with the steady drone in the lobby. Bits and pieces of other people’s conversations floated to her, and she discarded the fragments as quickly as they fell upon her ears. She was focused on one thing only.

  “I said I want to speak to your supervisor,” she thought she heard Kristof say.

  Tom straightened and stalked away.

  As soon as he did, Sylvie whisked over to the other end of the desk. “Pardon me,” she said quietly. “Could you send up two extra pillows to 423, please?”

  “Certainly. I’ll have a maid bring those to you shortly.”

  “Thank you.”

  Heart hammering, she walked through the lobby with a purposeful stride and, unwilling to speak to an elevator operator, ascended the stairs. Gloved hand gliding over the railing, she answered Kristof’s questioning gaze by staying him with her palm. She would do this alone. All she wanted was to speak to the maid.

  Her headache swelled with every step. I didn’t lie, she told her conscience. Even so, her own actions surprised her. But what wouldn’t she do to get to the bottom of this? She was too close now to give up. If the new guest had asked not to be disturbed, perhaps he—or she—had secluded himself enough so the hotel staff wouldn’t recognize him anyway. There were hundreds of rooms, after all. The staff might never realize she wasn’t actually a guest.

  On the fourth floor, she hurried down the corridor toward room 423. Electric light from the wall sconces reflected off the crown molding and absorbed into the carpet cushioning her feet. She had to wait only five minutes before a maid appeared at the other end of the hall, pushing a cart topped with pillows in starched white cases.

  Sylvie walked toward her. “For room 423? Thank you.” She met the maid halfway down the corridor and read the name embroidered on her shirtwaist. Jenny. “I’ll take them from here.” Her legs were shaking, but her voice did not. It was a gamble, wagering that the maid either had not yet met the room’s new occupant or would assume that Sylvie was a visiting friend or relative. “Have you serviced this room for long?”

  “Yes, ma’am, this is one of the floors I’m assigned to. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just let the front desk know, and I’ll get the message.” She bobbed in a curtsy, then stood there expectantly, most likely waiting for a tip.

  Sylvie dug into her reticule for a coin but held it while her mind raced. Questions tangled on her tongue. “I understand the last guest in 423 was here for some time,” she began. Her mouth went dry. She licked her lips. “Jozefa Zielinksi? Since August 14, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am.” Jenny adjusted the ruffled cap over her blond hair. She could not be more than eighteen years old. So very like Rose.

  “Of course, I understand.” Sylvie’s conscience pricked at what she was about to say, but she silenced it. She had to know. “It’s just that she mentioned that her maid was extremely helpful, and I wanted to pay you the compliment of hearing that. That is, if it was you she meant. After that mix-up with her room not being ready until a week after she came, it was especially important that the service here was good.”

  “She was always kind to me. I was happy to serve.”

  The words clanged like cymbals in Sylvie’s ears. Her palms began sweating through her gloves. “It was kind of you not to report that she kept a cat in the room. A little black one with a white chest and paws.”

  Recognition flickered across Jenny’s face.

  Emboldened, Sylvie pressed harder. “Didn’t you feel like you were coming down with a cold every time you came into the room? At least, that’s what she told me.”

  Jenny rubbed a finger below the tip of her nose. “If there was a cat, it must have been hiding whenever I was in there. And any mix-up with the dates of her lodging wasn’t the Palmer’s fault. Room 423 waited for her, empty, for an entire week before she showed up. All I know is that she asked us to hold it for her, paying the full price even though—”

  “The room was available right away? You didn’t refer her to the Sherman House?”

  “Land sakes, no, ma’am! We were ready. She just wasn’t ready for us.”

  Pieces of memory slammed together. Jozefa had seen Rose’s notice in the Polish bulletin. She had come to find her at the bookstore, not Sylvie. The week she’d spent in their apartment had been based on a ruse. And all those things Jozefa had said so calmly, so deceptively, now slithered through Sylvie’s mind.

  “I congratulate you.”

  “You are free now, too.”

  “Singleness is a gift, dear, and so is being childless. Don’t waste it. Why, I’d never be able to do what I do if I were tied to a family of my own.”

  And Sylvie had believed her.

  A coldness clutched her. She had missed them. She’d come too late. The realization jarred her into a clawing urgency. “Where did she go? She and Rose—did they leave the city?”

  The maid eyed the coin still in her grip. Ah, yes. Jenny could be bought. Jozefa had already done it.

  “I heard them talking. There are plans.” Jenny’s tone teased. Taunted. She took pleasure in holding information and clearly expected a reward.

  Whatever apprehension and guilt had plagued Sylvie burned away, leaving something stronger, sharper, in its place. “Jenny.” Sylvie stepped closer, clenching the cart between them. She bridled her voice to a low rumble, while lightning flashed outside. “Listen to me carefully. I know you were paid to impersonate Rozalia Dabrowski at the police station. That’s a crime. You obstructed an investigation. Losing your job for that is the least of your worries.”

  The maid’s face washed clean of its color. She was shaken now. She ought to be.

  “Now, I’ll ask you again. Where did the two of them go?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 31, 1893

  Morning had come too early. And Gregor hadn’t come at all.

  The sunlight infusing the rehearsal room was weak and pale, the sky still overcast after last night’s rain. Fog wrapped Music Hall, hovering just outside the closed windows.

  All through the early rehearsal, it had taken Kristof every ounce of discipline to focus on the program at hand. His brother’s absence wasn’t what troubled him. No, he’d decided what to do about that ten minutes into the practice.

  It was Sylvie, Rose, Jenny, and Jozefa who frayed the edges of his concentration. Last night, he and Sylvie had escorted Jenny to the police station, where she’d confessed to Officer Thornhill exactly what she’d don
e. But it failed to instill a sense of urgency in the police. After all, Officer Thornhill pointed out, Jenny was an eyewitness that Rose had not been harmed. She’d been staying at the Palmer, for pity’s sake, which didn’t exactly sound like a hardship.

  It was what they still didn’t know that haunted most.

  Where was Rose now? Jenny didn’t know.

  Were Jozefa and Rose preparing to leave Chicago? Jenny had a hunch they were. New gowns had been made for Rose in European styles, and more linens had been piling up in the room. Enough underthings to last quite a while without washing, as if they were readying for a trip.

  If Jenny was correct, a clock was ticking down to their departure, only no one but Jozefa knew how much time was left. If they left the city, there was no chance of finding Rose again, Thornhill said, statistically speaking.

  Dvořák’s Symphony No. 9 in E minor commanded Kristof’s attention as he conducted the orchestra along its strains and swells. He pulled and pushed at the music as if it were a living, breathing thing to be tamed and set free in turns. The rests were pure, the strings clear on their cue, the timpani rolling like summer thunder. The music reached every corner of the room in whispers, then in magnificent shouts.

  Baton slicing through the air, Kristof brought one hundred and fifty musicians through a stirring climax, bows sawing away on strings, percussion the very heartbeat of the symphony, woodwinds and brass intent on long-held notes, until Dvořák’s Symphony No. 9 ended with its distinctive, repetitive, resounding chords.

  When the last note faded, he closed his eyes and smiled before raising a triumphant fist in the air. “Bravo,” he told his orchestra, and he meant it. For a piece named “From the New World” to honor Columbus’s discovery, it was as dramatic and moving as it should be and was sure to thrill the audience later today.

  The musicians broke into applause, congratulating each other on their feat. While red-faced woodwind and brass players mopped their brows, Kristof glanced at the clock. It was half past ten. By now Sylvie would have left a note for Tessa to manage the bookstore without her, and would have already been to the Woman’s Building.