by Carol Arens
Lilleth took a breath, slowly and calmly. She let it out, drawing deep down for a smile. You catch more men with lace than you do with homespun, she reminded herself. This philosophy was also something bequeathed by her mother.
“I’m sure you can provide them another room. Certainly they will understand once you explain the mistake.”
“I’d like nothing more, Mrs. Gordon, but the couple in question are the elderly parents of the owner of this hotel. I can’t rightly send them out in the cold.”
Tap, tap...”I’m not asking you to do that. I’m simply asking that you give them another room.”
“There are no others. I’m sorry.”
“No other rooms?” There had to be another room; she had reserved one! “Do you see my children over there, Mr. Green? Mary’s only a baby. Would you send her out into the cold?”
He truly did appear remorseful. She brightened her smile and forced her toe to be still.
“Not by choice, no, I wouldn’t. But it’s out of my hands.”
“Whose hands would it be in, then, Mr. Green?” This error would be corrected or she was not Lilleth Preston. “We’ll wait right here in the lobby until you find the person who can correct this error.”
“It won’t do any good. No rooms means no rooms. The hotel is booked up long term. There won’t be a room here or anywhere else for a good while.” Mr. Green reopened the register and flipped through a few pages. “Look for yourself. There’s the Grange meeting in town. All the farmers and their families are here for it.”
She would not take the children back out in the cold. They had only now quit shivering.
“Be that as it may, I do have a reservation.” Lilleth looked about. There was nothing for it. “We’ll take the lobby, then. The chairs by the fire will do well enough for now.”
It served Mr. Green right to be choking on his Adam’s apple.
“Come along, Jess,” she called toward the fireplace. “Let’s have a bite to eat before we settle into our chairs for the evening.”
“May I be of service in some way?” said a low voice from behind her.
A deep breath, hands planted on her hips and a slow pivot brought her about to face a well-dressed man standing beside Mr. Green.
“And you would be?” She arched a brow. This had better be someone who could fix the situation.
“The owner of this establishment. Is there a problem?” he asked.
“There most certainly is, Mr....” She shooed her hand between them, since he hadn’t felt it necessary to reveal his name. “My reservation has been given away. According to Mr. Green, my children and I have no place to go but out in the cold to freeze to death.”
“There is the meeting of the Grange. The whole town is booked.”
“And I am one of the people who booked.”
“I understand your frustration, ma’am. Let me think on it a moment.” The hotel owner frowned and twirled his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “There is Mrs. O’Hara’s. She might have a room.”
For some reason this made Mr. Green’s eyes go wide as dollars.
“Very well, I suppose that will have to do.” If it didn’t she’d be back to camp out in this lobby. “And where will I find Mrs. O’Hara?”
“A few streets north of here will be a saloon. Make a right and go three blocks. That will take you near the edge of town. You can’t miss the place. It’s the only building around.”
She’d rather not walk the children past a saloon, but there appeared to be no help for it.
She bundled Mary up tight. Jess took the bags.
“Give my regards to Mrs. O’Hara,” Mr. Hotel Owner called as she hustled the children out into the first snowfall of the season.
“Auntie Lilleth,” Jess said, his shoulders hunched under the burden of the bags. “I hope Mrs. O’Hara’s place isn’t far. It’s so cold I can’t rightly feel my toes.”
“Careful, Jess, ears are everywhere.”
* * *
Trace opened the front door to Clark Clarkly’s Private Lending Library, stumbled inside and then closed the door with the heel of his shoe.
He shivered from the chill lingering in his coat and dumped the load of books on his desk, letting them fall out of order. He tossed his broken glasses on the pile.
Ordinarily, he would light a fire in the big hearth that took up most of the wall behind his desk, but not this afternoon. Snow drifted past the window, growing heavier by the minute, and he needed to get to Hanispree Mental Hospital.
Unless he missed his guess, the staff wouldn’t venture away from their cozy quarters to make sure the inmates were warm. It was back out into the cold for good old Clarkly.
Over the years, as an investigative journalist for the family paper, Trace had uncovered plenty of nasty secrets. Hanispree Mental Hospital had some of the worst. It was a stink hole of corruption. The more he poked around, the more determined he was to expose the malignant soul of the place.
To the casual observer, Hanispree looked like a resort where the wealthy might come to relax. Its gardens were manicured and the marble staircase inside gleamed. Expensive wood floors reflected layers of polish.
The truth that he had discovered ate at his gut. Polished floors and gleaming marble were a facade. Hanispree Mental Hospital was little more than a prison for the cast-off members of wealthy families. He was certain that some of them had no mental illness whatsoever.
A movement beyond the window caught his attention. He figured he’d be the only one foolhardy enough to go outdoors with a storm blowing in. He walked to the window and pulled aside the filmy curtain.
What the devil? Lilleth and her little brood were making their way down the boardwalk, their bodies leaning into the wind. He’d assumed they would be settled into the hotel by now.
He started to reach for the doorknob, to run after her and find out if there was something amiss.
But she had a husband, no doubt a fine man who was at this moment coming to her aid. Trace would do well to remember that he was not himself at the moment, but Clark Clarkly.
If she discovered who he was it might spell disaster for the exposé he was writing. If his true identity was revealed, what would happen to all the folks at Hanispree? He needed to keep his distance.
Trace peered after Lilleth, his eye to the windowpane trying to see up the street, where Mr. Gordon no doubt waited with open arms.
The investigative journalist in him began to gnaw at something. It was trivial, really. But Lilleth detested being called Lilly. He’d witnessed her wrestling half-grown boys to the ground for teasing her with that name.
A knock low down on the front door brought his attention and his eye away from the window.
He opened the door to let in a flurry of flakes and young Sarah Wilson.
“Little Sarah.” He closed the door behind her, then brushed an inch of snowflakes from the brim of her hat. “What are you doing out in this weather?”
“Good day, Mr. Clarkly. I’ve come to borrow a book.”
Bless her heart, coming out in the elements. He was familiar with Sarah. She was a nine-year-old bundle of curiosity, as well as a dedicated reader. Her mother was in frail health, and Sarah escaped into stories as often as she could.
Clark Clarkly and his lending library did have their uses in the community. He wasn’t a complete waste.
“As luck would have it, I picked up a shipment of new books just an hour ago.” Trace lurched toward the desk and snatched one up, along with his shattered spectacles. “I’ve just the thing for a girl your age, Miss Sarah.”
He opened the ledger on his desk and Sarah signed her name in it, her promise to return the book.
“I’ll bring it back real soon,” she said.
“Not until the weather clears.” H
e would give her the book to keep, along with a few others, when his assignment was finished and he went back home to Chicago. “Come along, I’ll see you home.”
Trace put on a heavy coat, picked up his collection of new books and gathered Sarah’s mittened hand in his.
Outside, he closed the door behind him and glanced in the direction that Lilleth had gone, but she and her family had vanished.
Met up with her husband, no doubt, the lucky man. In his mind’s eye, Trace saw the pair of them snuggled in front of a snapping fire. He wished his Lils and her man the best, truly he did.
“You’re going to like this story, little lady.” Trace walked in a direction away from Hanispree Mental Hospital, but there was no help for it. “It’s the tale of a girl just your age.”
* * *
Main Street was deserted, the silence profound. Only the shuffle of Lilleth’s and Jess’s footsteps on the boardwalk disturbed it.
Wisely, the folks of Riverwalk had withdrawn into their homes. Tendrils of smoke curling out of fireplaces made the cold outside seem that much worse. Only yards away, people were tucked into houses and fully booked hotels, enjoying warmth and companionship.
With any luck, Mrs. O’Hara’s place, whether it be a boardinghouse or private home with an extra room—Mr. Hotel Owner hadn’t offered that information—would be warm and have food for the children.
Biting cold wasn’t the only thing troubling her about Main Street this afternoon. The utter stillness was almost spooky. Out in the open, with no one else about, it seemed that eyes observed her every step. It was silly, of course, as she’d been careful.
A block back, she had been startled by a curtain being drawn aside. Her gasp had nearly woken baby Mary, who slept sweet and warm, against her breast.
“It’s all right, Auntie Lilleth,” Jess had said. “It’s probably Mr. Clarkly. The sign over the door says that place is his lending library.”
“It makes sense that Mr. Clarkly would be a librarian, the way he stacked those books in alphabetical order.” For some reason it didn’t bother her that he might be watching. Funny, when for the last two weeks she’d done nothing but live in fear of folks who stared too intently at her family.
“And Jess, don’t forget, call me Mother. Anyone might hear you.”
“Uncle Alden won’t come to Riverwalk.” Jess shifted the small valise under his left arm to his right. “He’s too afraid of ghosts.”
True, Alden Hanispree had an unnatural fear of them. It was probably the very thing that had spared her sister’s life. Had he not been such a fearful little man he might have murdered Bethany instead of having her committed to his haunted mental hospital.
Still, just because Alden Folger Hanispree was a cowardly man didn’t mean that he wasn’t dangerous.
Dangerous, and greedy for their inheritance, he was a powerful enemy to her niece and nephew.
“He might send someone, though.” Lilleth stopped. She lifted her nephew’s chin in her fingers and looked him in the eye. “I’ll protect you, I swear it. But Jess, we can’t be too careful. Watch every word you say and don’t trust anyone but me.”
“I wish my father was still alive. Uncle Alden couldn’t hurt us then.”
“I wish that, too.” Lilleth traced the curve of Jess’s cold cheek. It had been only six months since his father’s death. Too little time to keep Jess’s eyes from becoming moist. “But he sees us from heaven, I’m sure of it.”
“Do you think, somehow from way up there, he can help us sneak Mama out of the mental hospital?”
“Well, if he can, you know he will, and if not, maybe he’ll send someone our way who can help us.”
She couldn’t imagine who that would be, since she wouldn’t allow anyone close enough to be able to help. She wouldn’t say so to Jess, but it would be she who would have to figure a way to get Bethany away from Hanispree.
“Everything will turn out fine, Jess, don’t you worry.” Lilleth shifted the baby in her arms. She was small for a twelve-month-old, but nonetheless the weight was beginning to take a toll on Lilleth’s back. “We’d better get to Mrs. O’Hara’s before we freeze.”
“Sure, Ma.” Jess stepped forward with a long stride.
If her brother-in-law was watching from above, as she firmly believed, he would be proud of his only son. Jess was a brave and intelligent boy.
Praise the saints, they were nearly to the saloon, then only a few more blocks to sanctuary.
“Jess, come walk on the far side of me.”
Things went on in a saloon that a ten-year-old didn’t need to be privy to. It would take a heavier snowfall than this to keep men of low morals and women of loose values from their amusement.
Despite the cold, the front door was open to let out the choking smoke that built up in those places. If it were up to Lilleth, Jess would never be old enough to witness mostly exposed bosoms and the men ogling them.
“When we walk past the front door of the saloon, squeeze your eyes closed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed, but a grin crossed his face. And weren’t his eyes cracked open a slit?
Well, a grin was better than tears. Blooming adolescence would be something for Bethany to deal with once they set her free.
All would be right when she was Auntie Lilleth again, free to spoil and coddle.
They had taken only a few steps around the corner of saloon when the wind began to howl. Cold air bit through their wool coats. Mary whimpered in her sleep. The three blocks to Mrs. O’Hara’s couldn’t come soon enough.
It became difficult to see through the swirling snow.
Just in time, Lilleth spotted a house in the distance.
“That way, Jess.” She pointed through the shifting white veil.
In another moment a front porch came into view. A front porch with a red lantern hanging from the eves!
It couldn’t be. Mr. Hotel Owner would not have sent her here...he couldn’t have. Maybe Mrs. O’Hara simply liked red lanterns.
In any case, there was nothing for it but to knock on the door. The children couldn’t take much more of the cold. Lilleth’s own feet were becoming icy stubs.
The door opened after the third knock. Dim light and warmth spread over the porch.
“Is there something I can do for you, missus? Are you lost? And in this weather!”
Jess didn’t bother to hide his grin or squeeze his eyes to respectable slits. Clearly, he was bedazzled by the woman with nearly purple hair, clown-red cheeks and eyes lined with black. Or more likely it was her mostly exposed bosom that made his eyes pop wide in wonder.
“No, not lost.” Lilleth took Jess by the shoulder and turned him to face the street. “The owner of the Riverwalk Hotel directed me here after he gave away my room.”
Well! Mr. Hotel Owner would not insult both her and Mrs. O’Hara by his little joke. This would not be the last he heard of it.
“On occasion I do rent upstairs rooms. But this wouldn’t be the place for you and your children. It wouldn’t be seemly. I’m sorry.”
“I understand, Mrs. O’Hara. We’ll find another place.”
“I hope you do. I wouldn’t turn you away, but there’s the children, you see.”
Yes, there were the children. Lilleth hustled Jess down the steps. Mr. Hotel Owner would be well aware of them before this night was through.
Chapter Two
One mile outside of town, Trace opened the gate of Hanispree Mental Hospital and walked through.
Apparently neither Dr. Merlot nor Nurse Goodhew had braved the weather to come outside and lock it for the night. Good luck for Trace—it saved him having to scale the tall stone wall surrounding the place.
The grounds of the hospital looked like a winter playground. The pristine snow covering everything res
embled a sparkling blanket. Now that the storm had blown away, the moon shone down to make the area glisten.
But the wind was cold as needles.
To anyone who didn’t know better, which would be nearly everyone until he finished his exposé, Hanispree was a lovely place to house the mentally ill. Benches and flowerbeds, bare at this time of year, were connected by a series of winding paths. The building itself was made of the same stone as the wall, with three stories of windows overlooking the elegant park.
To Trace’s knowledge, no inmate of the hospital had ever set foot on the paths or sat upon the benches, even when the park was at its loveliest in the spring.
A shiver took him from the inside out. One day soon he would have this place shut down. The patients would be better off away from here, housed in institutions where their well-being was important to the caregivers.
Trace walked across the grounds toward a wide front porch, leaving a trail of footprints in the snow. The verandah, lined end to end with rocking chairs, welcomed him forward.
Through the front window the glow of a fire in the hearth cast golden light into the night. Too bad the aura of comfort was a lie.
Unseen in the dark, he watched through the window for a moment. Nurse Goodhew dozed in a fireside chair with her stocking-clad feet stretched toward the flames.
To call Mrs. Goodhew a nurse was like calling a grade-schooler a professor. From what he had learned, she was there for appearances only. Well, also to keep Dr. Merlot entertained of an evening.
Ah, here came the good doctor now, tiptoeing toward the snoring Mrs. Goodhew and touching her where a gentleman shouldn’t.
Spy time was over; if Trace didn’t get inside now, he might be shivering on the porch until they finished their tawdry business.
He rapped on the door. When a few moments later Nurse Goodhew opened it, she was wearing her shoes and a sour-looking smile. Dr. Merlot was nowhere to be seen.
“Good evening, Mrs. Goodhew. I’ve come with a delivery of books.” He stepped inside, then stomped the snow from his feet. He took off his hat and thumped it against his thigh.