She ran her tongue over her lips, swallowed hard, and dug in. The ranch. Drew. The photo. Min. The flip side of Drew. Finally she powered on her phone.
“Ah, the phone works.”
“Dad, please.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I want to show you the picture I took of the photo on the mantel.” She pulled it up and handed him the phone. Then she went to the trunk and found the family photograph. “Do you see the resemblance?”
Nolan tilted his head. “It’s hard to say. The old photo is grainy, and there’s quite an age difference. No particular distinguishing marks.”
“But it could be her.”
“Yes, I suppose it could be.”
“Don’t you see?” Jillian took back her phone. “I said I was going to find Lynnelle, and I did. Now I just have to figure out why she’s on that mantel. And we wouldn’t know that we’re close if I hadn’t gone to Pueblo.”
“Jilly, I have every confidence that you would have found another way to substantiate your theory, if that’s what this was about.”
“What else would it be about?”
“It’s unlike you to gallivant off in person without very strong evidence.”
She sank slightly in her seat. “Something happened to Lynnelle. She deserves justice.”
“But when you took off without telling me you’d be gone all day, you weren’t expecting to see a photo you think might be her. You had a quite opposite theory in mind. And you didn’t want anyone’s advice about it.”
“No one with her name is legally associated with the history of that property,” Jillian insisted. “If anything, I’m even more curious why her photo would turn up in that little red house.”
“Maybe we’ll figure it out and maybe we won’t,” Nolan said, “but I care a lot more about whether we figure you out.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The trunk in the attic, Jilly. Please be careful that you understand what opening the trunk in the living room stirred up in you, and use careful judgment. In the meantime, please don’t tangle with Min, whoever you think she might be.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Denver, Colorado
April 29, 1909
Dear Miss Bendeure,
I am certain that with not much more investigation, and the assistance of some of my best operatives, I will come to timely conclusions and prevent the damage to Bendeure & Company from taking root. It is unfortunate that it seems clear that there has been some loss, but relative to the overall strength of the organization and your father’s business acumen and early intuition, wise preventive steps have been taken. In my experience, it would be highly unusual for only one company to be targeted, and my investigations have borne out the improbability of this in the current circumstances as well. In fact, for the sake of their own reputation and potential liability, the banks have cooperated by supplying the names of other companies whom the same agent claimed to represent, and I am in the process of verifying the legitimacy of these organizations and the transactions made on their behalf, many of which predate your father’s discomfitures with the nature of the agent’s correspondence. Many may prove to be aboveboard. We need only find the one loose thread which may unravel the enterprise and lead us to the key figure who will be far more significant to apprehend. If that happens, or if I might say, when that happens, we will have your father to thank.
Yours sincerely,
James McParland
Manager, Western Division
Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency
Saturday, May 22, 1909
Traveling across Iowa
Lynnelle pressed her hand to her forehead. The late afternoon departure from Luzerne meant they could make Omaha only twenty-four hours late, and the Union Pacific would attach extra cars to accommodate the overflow passengers the train’s late arrival caused to its schedule. She only wanted to be left alone for these remaining torturous hours.
For heaven’s sake, why was there yet another knock on her door?
“Hear me when I call, O God of my righteousness: thou hast enlarged me when I was in distress; have mercy upon me, and hear my prayer.” The psalmist’s cry vaulted through her spirit. If she had any righteousness, it surely was not her own. Nor mercy. If Willie or Carey Meade was knocking at her door again, she would march straight up the aisle until she found a porter or a conductor or a guard or a waiter. Anyone. She would bang on the door to the locomotive and demand to speak to the engineer if necessary, but she would not tolerate harassment all the way to Omaha and certainly not to Denver. Someone in authority could make clear that they must leave her alone.
“Yes?”
“Miss Bendeure?”
“Yes?”
“I have a telegram for you.”
She leaped off the bench and opened the door to the porter.
“When did you receive this?” They were nearly two hours out of Luzerne.
“I’m sorry, miss. The depot master gave us quite a stack of replies just before we pulled out. It has taken some time to sort them out and match them up to everyone.”
“Thank you.” She scrambled for a coin to press into his palm. “Thank you very much.”
“You’re very welcome, miss. I hope it’s the news you’ve been hoping for.”
“Thank you again.” Lynnelle closed the door behind the porter and sat on the forward-facing bench to tear open the telegram. Almost immediately another knock sounded. Perhaps the hotel had also responded to her message—hopefully with reassurance that her delay did not imperil her accommodations arrangement. Lynnelle popped up to open the door for the porter again.
Clarice Hollis stepped across the threshold with her incessant smile. “I haven’t seen you in hours and hours. Did you ever get that bit of fresh air before we finally got underway again?”
“Yes. I felt better after a short rest and ventured out. I’m sorry I didn’t come looking for you. I wasn’t sure how much time there would be at that point.”
“No trouble at all.” Clarice sank into one of the benches. “Just wanted to be sure you’re all right.”
“My case of impatience should be cured now that we’re moving again.” Lynnelle casually stepped over to the small cushioned bench opposite the sink, where her wicker case was opened, and let the telegram drop in next to her folded nightdress and dragged the hem of a pale pink blouse across it. She joined Clarice on the benches, though she would have preferred Clarice to make a polite inquiry and leave, not settle in.
“I think everyone is quite relieved!” Clarice slapped one knee. “My aunt Ida—or was it Iola—tells a story of being stuck on a train during a blizzard. I think that’s probably worse. At least we could get off and go outside. Every time she tells the story, the snow gets deeper. For all I know it was a passing rain shower, but I tend to believe there was at least some snow. There must have been. Something stopped the train. Rain wouldn’t stop a train, but deep snow would.”
Lynnelle managed a polite smile. “I’ve never known rain to stop a train.”
“Ivy says the whole thing never happened.” Clarice got up and wandered three steps to the mirror and leaned toward it, examining her reflection. “At least not to any of them. It was in Wyoming, according to her, and Ida—or Iola—read about it in the newspaper decades ago and transported the whole thing to New Jersey where they grew up.”
“I suppose anything is possible,” Lynnelle said. “Does it really matter?”
“No. The aunts are ancient. And they bicker about memories all the time. Who knows what’s true?” Clarice pivoted and leaned her wrists behind her back against the sink as she surveyed the compartment. “I’ve never actually traveled in a compartment. I’m lucky if I get a sleeping berth instead of sitting up all night.”
Lynnelle waved a hand. “As you can see, you can practically trip over yourself.”
“At least you’ve got space for a small case out of the way from where they make the bed.” Clarice took
two steps toward the wall beside Lynnelle’s wicker case. “What’s this? A cabinet?”
“Yes. If you really wanted to, you could hang a couple of blouses in there.”
Clarice opened the cupboard door. “But you haven’t.”
“Not on this trip. I brought so few things into the compartment.”
“Just the one hat?”
Lynnelle’s eye followed the end of Clarice’s finger to where Lynnelle’s gray hat hung from a hook. “It seemed bothersome to bring more than one on the train.”
“I agree. Of course the aunts would never travel with fewer than four.”
“Another era.”
Clarice returned to the benches and patted Lynnelle’s satchel. “I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I admire this piece. Elegant but practical for travel. A rich color. The aunts would approve.”
“Thank you.”
“Henry won’t let me carry anything important. He insists on having everything in his pockets.”
Lynnelle smiled. “Enjoy the advantages of traveling with a man.”
“True enough. I’ve also been admiring your brooch. It’s absolutely divine.”
“Thank you.” Lynnelle’s hand went to the piece. “It was my mother’s. I’m very fond of wearing it as often as I can.”
“I can see why.” Clarice stood. “With your case of impatience cured, will we see you out and about again?”
“We’ll see. I have some reading to catch up on.” The miles to Omaha were shrinking rapidly now.
“Henry and I would be happy to see you anytime.”
“You’ve been lovely companions.”
Finally Clarice left. Lynnelle latched the door behind her and stepped to the wicker case to retrieve the telegram from between her spare blouse and nightdress.
It wasn’t there.
She dug through her clothes.
She emptied the case.
She picked up the case to be sure she hadn’t misjudged where she’d slid it, and perhaps it was underneath or had fallen to the floor. She even opened the cupboard, which she had never opened before Clarice entered the room.
She checked the benches, and the satchel, and the back of the sink.
The telegram was gone.
Clarice. It was the only explanation. Was there no one on this ghastly trek worthy of her trust?
Lynnelle had to find the porter, the one who delivered the telegram. Unpinning her keys from her waistband, she locked her wicker case, though it held only clothes for which she cared nothing at all at this point, snatched up her satchel, and left the compartment.
Willie jumped out of her seat as soon as Lynnelle stepped into the aisle. “What’s wrong?”
Lynnelle stiffened. “Why should anything be wrong?”
Carey stood now as well, withholding his dimple. “You do look upset.”
“I’m sure I don’t.”
“If there’s something we can help you with—”
Help from the two of them was the last thing she required. “Thank you, but I’ll manage.”
She ignored the way they glanced at each other and proceeded in search of the porter. Not just any porter. The right porter.
Finally, she found him. “I wonder if by chance you read the telegram you delivered to me.”
“No, miss! That would be wrong.”
She was quick to reassure him. “I’m not accusing you. I seem to have misplaced it before I had a chance to read it, and I very much need to know what it said.”
He shook his head. “I just put it in my pocket until I found you. Only the telegraph operator in Luzerne might remember what it said. But he was taking so many messages, I would be surprised if he did.”
“It’s my own silly carelessness,” Lynnelle said.
“If you’d like to send another message, just write it out and pass it to me. The next time we slow to pass a depot, I’ll make sure to pass it along to someone in the mail car who will pass it to an operator.”
Pass. Pass. Pass. That was quite a bit of passing along. A lot of chances for a message to get lost.
Or intercepted.
Lynnelle walked slowly back toward her compartment, positive she didn’t lose the message. Even telegrams were too risky. She’d just have to contact Mr. McParland when she reached Denver and checked into the Windsor.
“Lynnelle, dear, were you hungry again?” Mrs. Sweeney was in her seat. Lynnelle must have walked right past her while seeking the porter.
“I’m glad to find you,” Lynnelle said. Mrs. Sweeney was the clearest, most unassuming soul on this entire journey. “Maybe you’d like to come and enjoy the peace and quiet of my compartment.”
“Indeed I would.” Mrs. Sweeney pulled herself upright. “Perhaps you can explain to me why your mood has changed so much since we met.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I’m okay, Dad.” On Sunday after church, Jillian flipped a page in her genealogy magazine and bit into a grilled cheese sandwich. “You don’t have to hover.”
Veronica sure wouldn’t aid and abet her again.
Nia had her hands full on Sunday afternoons recovering from weekends with every room at the Inn full.
Kris opened her shop between one and five for the weekend tourist traffic, especially at this time of year when spring weather brought more families out on mountain excursions.
Jillian was in no danger of another breakout.
“Did I tell you Clark thinks I should make an Irish spiced brisket?”
“Mmm. It’s a good idea.” She flipped another page.
“Jilly.”
“I’m okay, Dad.” At least she would be. Tomorrow, or maybe tonight, she’d go back to work on a long to-do list for the week. She wasn’t giving up on Lynnelle—not after meeting Min—but she did have obligations. Her dad was right. She’d nearly lost herself. After church, he busied himself rubbing the brisket he’d bought from the butcher with brown sugar, covered it, and put it in the refrigerator—day one of the spicing process.
While he puttered in the kitchen with his lists and recipes, he hummed snippets of arias, but he restrained himself from bursting out in song. Jillian felt responsibility for his subdued mood but not remorse. Not yet anyway. She said good night early and went upstairs to bed. Maybe a good sleep would reset her own mood.
On Monday morning, he popped his head in her office.
“I’m okay, Dad,” she said again.
This time she looked up and met his gaze, and when he left for work in Denver it was with a nod and a smile. She had three video calls on her calendar and an article due by the end of the day. Probation and an ankle bracelet would have given her more flexibility to get out of the house. She even cleared her whiteboard of the distracting list of name variants and colored arrows. Only one mattered, and it had already led where she’d hoped it would go. As a peace offering, for supper she warmed some of the many leftovers Nolan’s cooking experiments had produced and had a meal ready by the time he was home.
On Tuesday morning, Nolan worked in his office upstairs, and Jillian plodded along in hers downstairs, as they did most Tuesdays. Occasionally one printer or the other would spit something out, or a phone would ring. At ten thirty an alert on her computer’s calendar reminded Jillian they both had promised Nia they’d take a break and visit the Inn to discuss their needs for the weekend of the dinner. Jillian closed the file she was working on, stepped to the bottom of the stairs—her foot was feeling much better—and called up.
“Dad?”
“Coming.” His footsteps, answering in tandem with his voice, were right on time. “I’ll get my truck out.”
“I feel up to walking.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m okay, Dad.” Her foot was okay. Her mind was okay. Her mood was creeping toward normal. He could stop worrying.
They grabbed light jackets and set off down the street.
In the Inn’s large kitchen, Nia set the agenda. The last time they were there, they’d never gotten aroun
d to having Nolan inspect her assorted pots and pans, small appliances, and variety of utensils.
“Nobody wants any last-minute surprises,” Nia said. “I promised Marilyn this will be a precision operation.”
Nolan opened an oven door. “I must confess I have coveted your double ovens since the day you had them installed.”
“I wouldn’t be without them,” she said, “but are they going to do the job for you?”
Nolan raised his hands as if he were framing photos and squinted.
Nia looked at Jillian. “What is he doing?”
“Measuring.”
“Should I get a measuring tape?”
“If you want the measurements to be correct.”
“You mock me,” Nolan said. “I have to know how many baking pans I can get in each oven.”
“Doesn’t that depend on the size of the baking pans?” Nia said.
Jillian twisted her mouth in an effort not to laugh for the first time in four days.
Nia opened a small drawer and extracted a measuring tape, a pen, and a notepad. “Here. The ovens are extra wide, but measure so you know.”
“Refrigerator space?” Nolan asked. “Once I start shopping, well, it’s a lot of food to store.”
“We may need to beg, borrow, and steal some large coolers,” Jillian said.
Nolan pointed at her, pleased with the idea. “We can always cook in both kitchens and shuttle food back and forth. I’ll need my good electric knife.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” Nia asked. “Did you find someone to help?”
“I’m working on it.”
From there they moved on to opening cupboards and listing available pots, saucepans, skillets, and baking dishes. Jillian silently excused herself from the commotion, until Nia was ready for the questions she wanted to direct at her, and walked through the Inn to sit in the library. She’d always liked this room, cozy and apart from the larger main rooms, designed for quiet with a view of the front porch through its lace curtains. She sat in one of the matching champagne-colored Victorian spoon-back tufted armchairs, where the hum of spirited conversation in the kitchen was barely audible, and gazed out. If the Inn had any guests in the middle of the week, they were either upstairs or out for the day.
When I Meet You Page 14