Broken Limbs, Mended Hearts, Regina Jennings [best 7 inch ereader TXT] 📗

Just be prepared for a rocky start. She’d tell you the same.”

It was nearly time to take his grandpa to the train. Matthew didn’t want him worrying on his account. He motioned about them. “You say a rocky start, but it seems I’ve landed in clover. You tell Ma and Pa that after years of cleaning out their stinky barn, I’ve found somewhere sweeter.”

“I’ll tell them, boy. I’ll tell them. But don’t you forget that those stinky smells have a purpose. Without the barnyard, there’d be no bacon. Without the fertilizer . . .” He waved his hand over the garden before turning again to Matthew. “Don’t be afraid to deal with the mess, son. The sweetest moments come from the most offensive fertilizer.”

If that was so, Joplin had the potential to be a virtual Eden, because Matthew had never known a place as rotten.

Now that the bothersome man had fled, Calista could survey her prospects and choose her strategy.

Her end goal was to question the women working at the House of Lords and see if Lila was there, but she didn’t expect her presence would be tolerated without a pretense. So, how to proceed?

Calista requested her bill, then eavesdropped on the table of matrons next to her. Did any of them know her aunt Myra? How about Granny? Calista’s presence in Joplin wouldn’t go long undiscovered, but she had a few things working in her favor. One was that Aunt Myra was an invalid. She wouldn’t be about town. Of her two daughters, Willow had just married and was on her honeymoon, while Olive generally stayed home to care for her mother. The rest of the family lived on the ranch west of town. Granny Laura was well-known, but she didn’t waste her time in town. And since Calista’s parents and siblings lived in Kansas City, they didn’t have many connections in the area.

On Pinkerton’s desk in Chicago were forged papers from the finishing school she was supposedly attending, ready to be mailed to her family if she was spotted in town. The excuse of a semester credit for research was a flimsy one, but it would buy her enough time to finish this case. If she could find Lila, then maybe her job would become permanent, and she could proudly tell her family what she’d accomplished. Calista’s lips twitched as she imagined their amazement that their cosseted daughter had answered a Help Wanted ad in the newspaper and actually secured an intriguing job, all of her own initiative. But until she could tell them, the deception had to continue.

“Here’s your change, ma’am.” The waiter eased the hand-sized silver tray onto the table. “Is there anything else I may help you with?”

It was time to make a move. Calista lifted her chin. “Yes, sir. I’d like to meet the manager of your hotel to offer my skills as a designer and decorator.” This was why she’d worn her newest gown today. Even a waiter would try to find some hole in her story, and a shabby wardrobe would be a most obvious inconsistency.

Evidently she passed the first test.

“If you’ll follow me,” he said. He ducked his head as they paraded through the busy dining room to the reception area.

Calista followed him around the maître d’s podium to an office door that was inset with frosted glass. From the shadows moving inside, it appeared the House of Lords had a busy staff. The waiter pushed through and held the door open for Calista to enter. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and she braced herself. Strangers appearing uninvited in dens of iniquity often received less than warm welcomes.

This was not the case, however.

As Calista entered, a couple came through a back door, the woman laughing garishly while the man ogled her ample bosom. Both carried heavy bags with the seams nearly bursting.

“We emptied the slots, Malcolm.” She tried to raise the bags to present them, but failed to lift them above the countertop. Her companion bumped her with his elbow and held the gate to the desk area open with his foot for her to pass through.

A ringing telephone was answered by a middle-aged man. After a few mumbled words, he returned the receiver to the hook switch. “Mr. Olson requests a room tonight at eight o’clock with entertainment,” he said to a neatly dressed woman who sat at a desk. “He’s going to have five gentlemen in attendance.”

“You got it, Carrots.” She jotted down some notes, then ripped the paper out of her notebook. “Constance, take this up to Mrs. Wilds when you go. She’ll know who to recruit for tonight.”

Calista’s head was spinning. If this was illegal activity, it was the least furtive operation she’d ever encountered. No one hung their head in shame. No one shuffled papers out of sight at her entrance. No one seemed bothered that a stranger was in their midst.

After passing the paper to the courier going up the staircase, the woman at the desk motioned Calista over. With a straight back and perfect precision, she pecked at a typewriter.

“Have a seat,” she said, her fingers never slowing as the waiter departed. Calista sat primly in the sturdy chair. If she was looking for a hint of the opulence that supposedly decked the third floor, it was nowhere to be seen. This office, with its polished wooden floors and spacious windows, was as clean and respectable as Mr. Buchanan’s railroad offices.

The secretary rolled the paper out of the typewriter and held it to the side of her desk. Immediately another courier appeared. “Take this liquor license to city hall,” she said, “and make sure you get a receipt that it was received. Thank you.” Then she spun her chair toward Calista. “How may I help you?”

If anyone in this room felt guilty for what they were doing, it was Calista. But she was here for Lila Seaton. No matter how cheerful these employees were, they were part of an operation