When I Meet You

by Olivia Newport

  Mastranga.

  Provenzano.

  Warring crime families.

  Plenty of commerce to go around, but the Mastrangas wanted it all and would do whatever it took.

  Parisis and a string of others scrambling to make a living, to find a new dream in a new country, made choices they would never be able to take back.

  Luciano was the oldest brother, arriving in the new country taking seriously the pledge he made to his mother to look after his younger brothers, still teenagers.

  Luciano Parisi. Lou.

  Jillian’s mind’s eye could see the swirly handwriting of the lengthy letter prevailing on Sal—Salvatore—to ease a transition to Denver. Her instinct that Lou was Sal’s brother was correct. The author of the dissertation listed the brothers. Luciano. Salvatore. Giuseppe. Like many young immigrants of their generation, they’d simplified their names and were known in their trades by their more American sounding nicknames.

  Lou. Sal. Joe. Think of Joe.

  The Parisi brothers, like others, hedged their bets with their allegiances. All their livelihoods depended on their decisions—Luciano in transporting produce, Salvatore on the docks, Giuseppe climbing the ranks in a grocery store with aspiration of opening one of his own. Luciano paid for the protection the Mastrangas offered. He was the head of the American family and the first to marry and have his own children. But Salvatore resisted the violence with which the Mastrangas strangled entire industries.

  As Nolan burst out with an Italian chorus Jillian didn’t recognize, she flipped pages, scanning and homing in on relevant explanations. Conflict between the Mastranga and Provenzano families caught the attention of David Hennessy, the police chief, who paid for his alertness with his life. In a chain of backlash violence and vigilante lynchings, the Mastrangas forced out the Provenzanos.

  But not before felling a swath of opposition—including young Giuseppe Parisi, who had just opened his own small grocery store—who were caught up in the violence and lost their lives.

  At least take Geppetto. Save him. Think of Joe.

  Listening to her father’s strains of Italian lyrics, Jillian took the front stairs as quickly as she could manage on her nearly healed foot. After not looking in her mother’s trunk for six years, now she would open it for the third time in nine days.

  What was she missing?

  Jillian hadn’t dragged the trunk back under the eaves after the last time she opened it, and the blankets were only roughly positioned atop it. She pushed them aside now and soon had the box out again. It must be in the photos.

  She always focused on the little girls with the distinctly Parisi hair and secondarily the canopy with the Parisi name. The children remained nameless—Lou’s children?—but above the letters of her family name was another. Smaller letters, perhaps, but at the time the bigger name.

  Provenzano.

  Whoever Geppetto was, Luciano had wanted to send him to Salvatore in Denver for a reason. Giuseppe had bet on the wrong side.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Denver, Colorado

  May 3, 1909

  Dear Miss Bendeure,

  I am not persuaded that your physical presence in Denver is required, but I am not unsympathetic to the sense of urgency your father and you must surely be feeling for complete resolution of the matter. I assure you I have operatives on this case even when I need to leave the city or state. If you wish to make the journey, I suggest we arrange a date in the third week in May or the beginning of the fourth. This will allow me to dispense with another matter and meet with you personally. If you wish to arrive earlier, I can arrange for you to speak with a senior associate who is fully versed in the details of the investigation. Please make your wishes known, and we will make sure all is ready, not only with our own presence but also with the availability of others whom it will be important for you to meet, including the individual your father may wish to engage as the western agent for Bendeure & Company, rather than withdrawing completely, as you have indicated is his preference if it is possible to accomplish with confidence. It is my understanding that you will arrive duly authorized with appropriate documents to act on his behalf on all matters to which we will attend.

  As far as accommodations, my recommendation is the Windsor. You will find them quite comfortable with every amenity you may wish during a pleasant stay.

  Yours sincerely,

  James McParland

  Manager, Western Division

  Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency

  Sunday, May 23, 1909

  Traveling across Nebraska

  “In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m a stubborn old bird.” Mrs. Sweeney’s beady eyes were narrower every time she turned up at Lynnelle’s compartment. “Something happened on that train in Iowa. You don’t want to talk about it.”

  “It was lovely of you to bring me another sandwich, Mrs. Sweeney.” Lynnelle picked up a quarter of the offering between thumb and forefinger. “Roast beef is my favorite.”

  “That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

  Lynnelle bit into the sandwich and chewed.

  “You’ve barely left your compartment for more than twelve hours,” Mrs. Sweeney said.

  “I don’t mind.” Lynnelle dabbed her lips with the napkin that arrived with the food. At least on this leg of the trip the Meades weren’t sitting right outside her door. That didn’t mean they—or the Hollises—weren’t watching her. She’d seen both couples the first time she ventured out after the train left Omaha, an experience that cemented her resolve not to leave her compartment unless absolutely necessary. “After all, I have you inquiring after my welfare at regular intervals and making sure I don’t starve.”

  “When we got stuck in Iowa, I rather thought it was going to be the other way around.”

  “One must never assume, because one never knows what surprises a day may bring.”

  “Now you sound like Clarice and her infernal stories about the aunts. But of course you’ve spared yourself by hibernating in here.”

  Lynnelle swallowed. “Is she pestering you?”

  “She does have a way of turning up.”

  “Yes, she does.” And telegrams have a way of disappearing in her wake. “You’ve been a wonderful traveling companion, Mrs. Sweeney.”

  “My dear, why won’t you tell me what distresses you? Perhaps I can help.”

  “It’s a delicate matter.”

  “I’m an old woman. I’ve seen everything.”

  I hope you haven’t seen this. “I have some cookies left in my cousin’s basket. Oatmeal raisin. Would you like one?”

  “I’m not so easily distracted, Lynnelle.”

  “Well, I’m going to have a cookie.” Lynnelle opened the basket and took her time fishing around.

  “It’s only another three hours until we arrive in Denver,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “Will you come to see me at my daughter’s home while you’re in town?”

  Lynnelle nodded. “That would be lovely. Let’s meet up when we get off the train and make some arrangement.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “You won’t have to hold very hard. I would love to meet your family.” Not knowing how long her business with Mr. McParland might take, Lynnelle had not yet booked her passage home. Another day in Denver wouldn’t matter. Once the matters were concluded, she could tell Mrs. Sweeney the whole story.

  Mrs. Sweeney stood. “Then I have brought you your final sustenance for the journey, and I shall wait for you when we disembark. I’ll find a bench after I have my trunks and make my daughter wait until we have spoken.”

  “You have my assurance.” Lynnelle stood to see Mrs. Sweeney out and latched the door behind her. She turned again to Marabel’s basket. The jar of olives was down to its last four. As Lynnelle scooped them out, she spoke aloud the verse her mother’s cousin would have recited on such an occasion and tried hard to embrace it, whatever awaited in Denver. “‘But I am like a green olive tree in the house of God
: I trust in the mercy of God for ever and ever.’”

  The last few hours were the longest. The train would get into Denver midafternoon, and once she settled in at the hotel—assuming they could accommodate her altered reservation—a proper bath and a fine meal would help her resist the urge to try to reach Mr. McParland on a Sunday evening. First thing Monday morning she would telephone Pinkerton’s.

  When the final hour had arrived, and the conductor was coming through the cars announcing the imminent arrival in Denver, Lynnelle straightened up the contents of her wicker case, combed and pinned her hair, applied rouge to her cheeks, fixed her hat at a fetching angle, straightened the jacket of her navy plaid traveling suit, and made sure she had coins handy for tipping the porters, cabbies, and bellhops who would help her with her luggage along the way.

  Lynnelle touched her mother’s brooch at her neck. The reunion with her steamer would be sweet, with its photographs and the family Bible. If her father knew she had packed these mementos, he would have scowled over the top of his spectacles. He had never even been able to bring himself to enter the dates her mother and brother had died. Entries had always been her mother’s task. But more than a thousand miles from Ohio she wanted to feel close to something familiar. The faces and names of her family would greet her every morning in the hotel and strengthen her in the unknown. At first she’d regretted not somehow fitting them into her crowded wicker case to keep with her on the trains. Now she was glad her most precious personal items hadn’t been available for Willie Meade or Clarice Hollis to rifle through.

  Who were they?

  The massive lumbering train tempered and lurched into its berth at Union Station. With one last look in the mirror, Lynnelle blew out a breath, opened the compartment’s door, and stepped into the throng gathering belongings and disembarking. Strapped over her shoulder, the Moroccan satchel was braced under one elbow. One hand held her case, and the other Marabel’s empty picnic basket, which she couldn’t bring herself to abandon after it had served her so well after all. Like most crowds that arrive in an unfamiliar station, people stalled at the bottom of the steps as they left the train to look around and get their bearings. Signs. Porters. Carts. Lynnelle chose to keep walking in the direction of where the baggage would be unloaded and find a porter there to assist with her trunk. After she spoke to Mrs. Sweeney, the hotel would be only a few blocks away by cab.

  Closer to the baggage car, a porter with free hands looked at her hopefully. She nodded, and he stepped forward to take the claim check to her trunk.

  Instead, another hand reached from the side. “I’ll take that,” Carey Meade said.

  He grinned at her. That dimple.

  “Mr. Meade!” Lynnelle reached for the claim check, ignoring the dimple. “I beg your pardon.”

  Carey tipped the porter twice what Lynnelle would have given him. “Thank you anyway, but I’m happy to help my friend.”

  The porter pocketed the coins. Someone else was already signaling for his assistance.

  “What in the world?” Lynnelle braced herself. Carey was on one side and Willie on the other. “I will thank you not to interfere in my efforts to find another porter. You’ve done quite enough on this journey.”

  “Look.” Willie lifted her chin, and Carey followed its direction.

  Henry and Clarice Hollis were headed their way.

  If the Meades had left her alone, Lynnelle would be within sight of her steamer by now and within a few minutes in the comforts of a cab. Tomorrow she would speak to Mr. McParland.

  She took two deep steps backward.

  “Oh no you don’t.” Carey caught her elbow.

  The weight and warmth of his hand pressed through the fabric of her traveling suit, and whether she liked it or not, Lynnelle responded to his touch.

  But he was a betrayer. And married. She tried to step out of his grasp, but his grip tightened.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said.

  Willie looped arms with her on the other side and leaned in conspiratorially. “Trust us. It’s for your own good.”

  Carey steered her away from the train, out of the main path of passengers, out of sight of the Hollises.

  Away.

  Lynnelle pulled against him to no avail. The temptation to release both her wicker case and the picnic basket in order to flee unencumbered was earnest and severe. She would telephone Mr. McParland from the nearest telephone.

  “I demand you both unhand me!”

  “Perhaps this would persuade you we’re on your side.” Carey reached into a suit pocket and pulled out a small folded paper.

  “My telegram! Where did you get that? Why would you take it?” The fleeting urge to succumb to his charms of a few minutes ago had dissipated, supplanted with rage rising like water rushing over a broken levee.

  “Have we been anywhere near you since it went missing?” Willie said.

  “You know Clarice took it. The Hollises are the ones you have to worry about.”

  They were in a secluded corner now, and Carey released her elbow. Lynnelle snatched the telegram from his hand.

  Lynnelle had to concede that neither of the Meades could have taken the telegram from her compartment directly. Yet they had it. Who was to say they weren’t in cahoots with the Hollises? She scowled and fumbled with the crumpled message.

  “Did you read it?”

  “No. But I’m sure Clarice Hollis did.” Carey’s dimple had not appeared once during this exchange. Lynnelle met his unclouded gaze. This is what he looked like when he was all business.

  “Of course, that’s not her name,” Willie said, “and she doesn’t have three great-aunts from New Jersey or anywhere else.”

  “We’ve been watching out for you.”

  “Why would you need to?”

  “We have our orders.”

  “From whom?”

  Carey pointed at the telegram. “The same man who sent you that.”

  “Mr. McParland?”

  “We’re from Pinkerton’s.”

  “Operatives?”

  They nodded.

  “On my investigation?”

  “And related activities,” Willie said.

  “We have to go.” Carey relieved Lynnelle of her case, and she did not resist. “Now.”

  She glanced back toward the tunnel of trains in Denver’s Union Station. “What about my trunk?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Swinging her arm away from her torso to prevent toast crumbs from dropping into her father’s laptop, Jillian leaned over his shoulder to read the email he’d composed.

  To: Marilyn.

  From: Nolan.

  Re: Final Menu.

  She scanned the contents. “It’s still too much, Dad.”

  “I’ve trimmed it down as far as I can.”

  “What happened to a salad or soup?”

  “That was your suggestion. It was never my vision.”

  “Okay. But they’re both vegetables. So do we really need both additional vegetables with the main course?”

  “It’s all about a colorful presentation.”

  “This is not the cooking channel. There’s no prize.”

  “I have a plan.”

  “I have no doubt. I also have reason to believe Nia’s plan is to serve the entire main course on one standard dinner plate.”

  Cucumber Soup

  Watercress and Orange Salad

  Irish Brown Bread

  Individual Bacon and Cabbage Pies

  Irish Spiced Beef

  Glazed Carrots

  Garlic Roasted Brussels Sprouts

  Baked Barley and Wild Rice

  Vegetarian Stuffed Portobello Mushrooms (upon prior arrangement)

  Fruited and Cream Dessert Tray

  “Nice touch with the cabbage pies.” Jillian bit her toast and picked up her coffee from the breakfast bar.

  “Thank you.”

  “You snuck in another meat and another vegetable,” Jillian said, “and a second Irish di
sh to complement the brisket.”

  Nolan tapped one temple. “I’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  “I can see that. I still think it might be a bit much, Dad. It’s a lot to make.”

  “I have a plan for that too.”

  At least there were no last-minute fancy sauces. The desserts and bread could be made ahead. The barley and rice casseroles could be prepped ahead, ready for the ovens on the day of the dinner. After four or five days of sitting in the seasonings, the briskets would only need roasting and slicing. Most of the meal could be prepared in stages during the days ahead of the meal. Jillian saw the logic of Nolan’s selections. Compared to some of the dishes he’d contemplated, he’d made reasonable choices. There were just so many.

  “Perhaps fresh green beans,” he said. “Some people might appreciate something fundamentally familiar. Traditionally American. And the basic color will tie the palette together.”

  “Dad.”

  “It wouldn’t be too much more trouble. Just wash them, snip the ends, and a quick blanching.”

  Jillian reached around him and hit SEND. The unaltered message whisked into cyberspace.

  “Jillian Siobhan Parisi-Duffy!”

  “Marilyn wanted the menu first thing,” Jillian said, “and you have to go to work. I’m going with you today—to Denver, not to work—and I’m ready. I just need to get my pad and pencils.”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me,” Nolan said.

  “I’ll explain on the way.”

  During the thirty-minute drive to Nolan’s office, Jillian gave him the condensed version. She’d waited far too long to get to the bottom of the mystery of her own trunk, and she still had a long way to go. But she always knew the trunk would be there in the attic. Lynnelle’s trunk was different. She didn’t have time to dillydally. There had to be more to the story than just what was in the Pinkerton’s letters. Maybe the Pinkerton’s archives at the Denver Public Library would hold some answers.