Rekindling Trust

by Sandra Ardoin

  EDYTHE PLACED HER HAND in Ansel’s as she stepped from the carriage in front of the Patton Place Hotel. He tucked her arm around his and led her inside the building, keeping hold of her as if he worried she’d run back home. It had crossed her mind.

  The headwaiter ushered them into the dining room, a long and somewhat narrow room with tables arranged against the side walls and separated by Roman-style columns. A straight line of large chandeliers spaced several feet apart hung from the ceiling, and colorful carpeting muffled their footsteps. Starched white tablecloths, polished silver, and crystal glassware awaited diners.

  The hotel’s restaurant was not an eating establishment the majority of Riverport frequented. Hopefully, Ansel could afford the meal and wasn’t simply trying to impress her.

  On the way to their table, Edythe dipped her head in greeting to a number of people she knew or recognized. Most were friends of her father. Surely, their tongues would wag for the next few days as they speculated on seeing her accompanied by Ansel.

  They had barely been seated when two shadows passed over the table. Phoebe Crain and Spence Newland approached. Ansel pushed back from the table and sprang to his feet.

  “I told Spence I thought I saw you enter the room.” Phoebe clung to the arm of her fiancé and slid a curious glance toward Edythe’s companion.

  “I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Ansel Treadway. Mr. Treadway, these are my friends, Mrs. Phoebe Crain and Mr. Spence Newland.”

  Ansel nodded a greeting. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Crain. I had the pleasure of attending your July Fourth concert and was quite taken with your talent. Superb.”

  Phoebe’s gift as a concert pianist had gained her acclaim throughout the Midwest until a man’s deceit ended her career. Why did love too often end in betrayal?

  “Thank you, Mr. Treadway.”

  He reached out and shook Spence’s hand. “Mr. Newland, it’s a pleasure to see you again, sir. I understand you and Mrs. Crain became engaged on Independence Day. I offer you my congratulations.”

  Spence grinned. “When a man finds the right woman, he takes the necessary steps to keep her from getting away.”

  Ansel gazed at Edythe. Her cheeks flared like a flambéed Cherries Jubilee. She liked the gentleman, but he wasn’t—

  Her jaw tightened. No, Ansel Treadway was not Barrett Seaton. Shouldn’t she consider that a good thing?

  Phoebe exchanged an amused glance with Spence. “We should go.”

  Ansel’s attention whipped back to Edythe’s friends. “Won’t you join us?”

  “No, thank you,” said Spence. “We’ve finished our meal. Maura’s bedtime is coming soon and Phoebe wants to tuck her in.” Clearly, Phoebe’s fiancé would enjoy his role as papa to her child.

  Barrett had his doubts about Andrew’s innocence with regard to the Stark incident, but her son’s respect for him said much about their newly formed relationship. Even Timmy and Sarah Jane spoke about him as though he were a hero.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. If she didn’t stop snatching at every opportunity to think of Barrett, she might scream.

  Left to themselves again, Ansel settled back in his chair. “Nice couple.”

  “Yes.” Edythe turned her attention to the evening’s menu.

  “Of course, I knew Mr. Newland from his visits to the bank.”

  “Really?” Really? Even with her natural timidity, Edythe had been taught to provide more scintillating and intelligent conversation in a discussion. She focused on Ansel. “He is a nice man.” No better. “I’m sure he finds your assistance...”—her brow furrowed—“helpful.”

  “I hope so. The bank’s president is leaving soon. As a substantial investor and one of its board members, I’m sure your father must have mentioned it.”

  “No, he didn’t.” Her father rarely spoke to her of anything regarding his business dealings.

  “It’s rumored that I am certain to take his place.” His chest puffed out like a Thanksgiving turkey’s.

  “Congratulations.”

  “We’ll see. It all depends...” The sentence faded as though the words had fallen over a cliff. He raised his menu, his gaze moving up and down it with enthusiasm. “What would you like, Edythe?”

  She would like to know who told him the bank presidency might be his and why this sudden chill had overtaken her.

  WYNN WAS ASLEEP WHEN Barrett returned to Oakcrest on Sunday afternoon, so he hadn’t stayed. On Tuesday, he received a message from Dr. Ellis telling him that Ned Flannigan was feeling much better, dissolving the solid clump of anxiety he’d struggled to breathe around for days.

  Mrs. Quincy appeared in the doorway to his office. “Mr. Seaton, a gentleman is here to see you.”

  Barrett checked his schedule to be sure he hadn’t forgotten an appointment. Still new in town, there hadn’t been many yet. As expected, nothing was written in the small agenda he kept open on a corner of his desk. “Thank you, Mrs. Quincy. Show him in, please.”

  “Yes, sir.” She disappeared momentarily and reappeared, followed by a well-dressed man near his own age.

  Barrett met him in the middle of the room.

  His guest removed his hat. “Mr. Seaton?”

  “I’m Barrett Seaton. What can I do for you?” Barrett gestured for the man to take the chair near the desk and returned to his own seat.

  “My name is Mark Gregory. I’m an architect here in town.”

  Someone drumming up business? “I’m afraid I’m not in the market for an architect’s services, Mr. Gregory.”

  The man grinned. Confidence oozed from him. “Well, if you ever find yourself in that market, come see me. My office is on Commerce Street.” He lost the grin. “Actually, I’m not here regarding my business. I’m here about yours, or I should say, that of Jeremiah Quincy.”

  Barrett leaned forward and rested his forearms on the desk. “What about Mr. Quincy?”

  “I spoke with Mr. McMullin earlier. He’s like a gossipy old woman when it comes to the disturbing event that happened near his livery.”

  “I can’t blame him for considering it disturbing.”

  Mr. Gregory grimaced. “As is learning you’re looking for a man who once lived under my roof.”

  Barrett bolted upright. “He’s a relative of yours?”

  “By the grace of God, no.”

  “But you know who he is.”

  “I believe he’s a man by the name of Alec Olesky. He rented a room from my mother in July. He’s in his fifties, thin, and has a jagged gray streak in his hair. About here.” Mark Gregory ran a finger down the front portion of his brown hair.

  “That’s the description Jeremiah gave me.”

  “And the one Mr. McMullin gave me.”

  Stopping to talk to the friendly livery owner might have been Barrett’s best move in this case so far.

  He wrote down the name he’d been given, then studied his guest. Though seemingly self-assured, he didn’t appear to be the type of person to make up a story in order to assert himself into a criminal case. However, one never knew. Barrett had met such men—and women—in his line of work. They sought the notoriety.

  No, Mr. Gregory didn’t look the type, but he couldn’t dismiss the possibility. “To be clear, if the man I’m looking for is this Mr. Olesky, no one has accused him of taking part in Dulong’s murder. At this point, I’d categorize him as a potential witness.”

  “I don’t like to think the worst of people, yet I always felt there was something not quite right about Olesky.”

  “In what way?”

  He shrugged. “Call it a feeling.”

  “I see.” Feelings weren’t fact and definitely not evidence of wrongdoing. “Your mother owns a boardinghouse?”

  “Not a boardinghouse. It’s a long story, but she rented the room to him thinking to help ease my financial burden while I established my business here.”

  “So, you’re new in Riverport.”

  “We’ve been here a few months.”

>   “Mr. Olesky still resides with you?”

  Gregory shook his head. “When I informed him I would marry in October and he should find another place to live, he moved out that night without a word. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Strange.” And disappointing.

  “No stranger than the man himself. I didn’t pay much attention to McMullin’s gossip until he mentioned the gray streak in the man’s hair.”

  “Have you given this information to the police?”

  “I stopped there before coming here. They listened and wrote down his name, but I’m not sure they considered my information as being important.”

  “Which prompted you to come see me.”

  Mr. Gregory bobbed his head. “When speaking with the officer in charge, I sensed he’d made up his mind about the murder and wasn’t looking elsewhere. Perhaps I’m imagining it, but I’m afraid his lack of desire in investigating the facts might stem from your client being a frequent visitor of the local taverns.”

  “Why? What did he say to you?”

  “It wasn’t what he said. It was more the way he grimaced each time he mentioned that Quincy was a ‘drinking man’.” Gregory leaned forward. “My partner in my company is a woman and my fiancée. I’ve seen the prejudice she’s encountered as a female architect. It almost ruined my business and our relationship.”

  This man was the fiancé of Edy’s friend? What was her name? The name Claire came to mind.

  “I don’t know if Mr. Quincy is innocent or guilty, but I do know he deserves a fair trial and not one based on someone’s bias.”

  “We agree.” Barrett admired the passion and sincerity in Mark Gregory’s voice. It was obvious he’d taken his fiancée’s troubles to heart. “Do you know where Mr. Olesky lived before he rented a room from you? Was he new to town?”

  “All I know is he told my mother he was a widower whose children had moved away. He said he didn’t like living by himself, yet the whole time he stayed in my house, he rarely interacted with us.” He rubbed his chin. “He did talk about Peru in one of our conversations. I got the impression he’d lived there not long ago.”

  Peru was a good-sized town a short train ride from Riverport. Barrett would make his inquiries around here first and, if necessary, travel to Peru. “Would your mother have any other information?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve told you all she knows.” He settled the bowler on his head. “If you have no more questions for me, I’ve been gone from the office long enough.”

  “I’m grateful for your help, Mr. Gregory.”

  “Mark. Please.” He rose from his seat, and Barrett accompanied him to the front door. “If you need anything further from me, as I said, my office is on Commerce.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you for coming to see me, Mark.”

  The man nodded again and walked away.

  Barrett returned to his office and reviewed the notes he’d taken, grateful for the help from the architect. Nothing pinpointed Alec Olesky’s present whereabouts, but there was enough to get Barrett started on inquiries.

  He marched to the foyer and grabbed his hat from the hall tree. “Mrs. Quincy, I’m going out. I’ll return later this afternoon.”

  A faint “Yes, sir” came from the kitchen, barely heard as he walked out the door.

  If the man he sought was Olesky, Barrett would find him. He prayed that, when he did, it would be to Jeremiah’s benefit.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Barrett eyed the sign for the Homestead Hotel on Webster Street, a narrow brick building squeezed between two broader structures. He’d visited the boardinghouses and the other hotels in town, including the Patton Place, which was a long shot. This was his last chance to find Olesky.

  The name painted on the window lacked the “H” in hotel, and the door stuck when he pushed on it. In contrast, the inside appeared clean and orderly, if devoid of much in the way of furniture and natural light.

  Barrett walked up to the clerk behind the counter. “Do you have an Alec Olesky staying here?”

  “Olesky?” The young clerk, not much past twenty, tilted his red head, then shook it. “No, sir. That name isn’t familiar.”

  “Maybe he isn’t here now but stayed in the past, say May or June? It’s important that I talk to him.”

  The clerk’s mouth twisted with indecision, and he glanced right to left as if expecting his employer to be listening. “Giving out information about our guests is not regular.”

  “My name is Barrett Seaton. I’m an attorney. The man I’m looking for might be a witness to a crime.” Barrett described Olesky.

  When he mentioned the streak in the man’s hair, the hotel clerk’s eyes widened. He grabbed the register and flipped the pages, skimming each one. He tapped a line. “Here.” He turned the book around for Barrett to see. “This man fits that description. He checked out on August fourteenth.”

  The day of the murder.

  Barrett studied the signature. “Osbourne?” Asa Osborne. Alec Olesky. The same man? If Mark had seen Olesky’s handwriting, he might identify it as matching Osbourne’s signature in the register. After Barrett left here, he’d stop at the architect’s office and ask him to take a look when he had a chance.

  “If you want confirmation that they’re one and the same, the first time he stayed here—I’m thinking it was last fall or winter—he wanted to know where he could get a haircut. I sent him to Mr. Ferris’ place. The barber might remember Mr. Osbourne.”

  It was worth checking. He pushed the register back toward the clerk. “Did you see him with anyone? Maybe he checked in with a companion?”

  “No, sir. If he met anyone here, I didn’t see.”

  “Nothing was found in his room after he checked out? He didn’t mention where he might go from here?”

  “Nothing, and he didn’t tell me his plans.”

  “Sounds like he made quite an impression on you.” And not a good one.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Curtis, sir.”

  Barrett tapped the counter, satisfied he’d gotten all the answers available from the young man. He pulled out his card and laid it on the counter. “Thank you, Curtis. You’ve been a big help. If you think of anything else, please send word to that address.”

  “I hope you find him, Mr. Seaton. The truth is, he did make an impression on me. There was something about him, you know? Something shady.”

  That said a lot considering the type of clientele a place like the Homestead must attract.

  Curtis curled his lip. “He was unemotional, like he had no feelings, or if he expressed any, they weren’t real. Know what I mean?”

  “I do.” In his dealings, Barrett had met one or two people so coldhearted they sent a shiver down his spine.

  If Olesky and Osbourne were one and the same, he was glad the man no longer lived under the Gregory roof.

  EDYTHE KNOCKED ON VERBENIA’S door. She’d looked forward to this Widow’s Might meeting all morning, needing the time away from her father. He’d interrogated her over her supper with Ansel last night. His self-satisfied smile had given her another headache, this time not so serious as to keep her from enjoying the company of her friends.

  “Good afternoon.”

  Edythe glanced over her shoulder to see a woman approaching the porch—a blonde several years younger than her. Composed and direct with her eye contact, the woman stood at the edge of the porch steps. “Good afternoon...Mrs. Malone?”

  “Roslyn, yes. Claire encouraged me to come today. I really don’t know what to expect.” She looked Edythe up and down. “I apologize. Though I’ve seen you before, probably at Newland’s, I can’t recall your name.” As fast as Roslyn Malone talked, her fingers tapped the front of her purse even faster.

  “I’m Edythe Westin. We’re happy you’re able to join us.”

  The door opened and Verbenia grinned, her cheeks as broad as her stout figure. “Good afternoon, Edythe.” She glan
ced at Roslyn. “Good afternoon, Roslyn. Welcome and please come in.”

  The other ladies already occupied the parlor. Introductions were made, and Roslyn sat in a dining room chair next to Edythe.

  Verbenia stood nearby. “Of course, we’re acquainted from our work at the store, but these ladies want to know you, Roslyn. Tell them a little about yourself.”

  Roslyn glanced from one woman to another until she’d taken in all the faces staring at her. “As you know, Claire suggested I visit one of your meetings. To be clear, I’m not a widow. At least, I don’t think I am.” She crossed her arms, and her facial features grew taut. “My husband is Gil Malone. He disappeared last December—ran out, I’d say—after stealing from Newland’s Department Store. Contrary to the opinions of some people, I had nothing to do with it. Even the Newlands don’t believe the rumors, which I’m sure is the only reason I still work at the perfume counter in the store.”

  Edythe generally avoided chatterboxes. Her head spun with the effort to keep up.

  Verbenia laid a hand on Roslyn’s shoulder. “We aren’t here to judge you, dear, or dwell on rumor. We each have our troubles and choose to support one another rather than tear each other apart.”

  Roslyn unfolded her arms and her expression relaxed. “Thank you. I do appreciate the invitation to join you. Even if I can’t claim the title of widow, I feel like one.”

  None of them in the room would prefer to claim the title of widow. Neither would they want to walk in Roslyn’s shoes. What was it like to have a missing husband, one who was accused of a crime? Anything similar to having a child accused of criminal mischief?

  “Edythe?”

  She blinked at Verbenia’s raised voice. “Yes?”

  The older woman’s sharp eyes seemed to penetrate Edythe’s thoughts. “I asked how the book delivery went? Do you know if our little library has been accepted by the residents at Oakcrest?”

  “I haven’t returned to the sanitarium since delivering the first collection.” Since Wynn confessed to her his guilt in the robbery. Had he told Barrett yet? It seemed, lately, stories of illegal behavior surrounded her. “I’ll make another delivery this week and speak with the matron.”