At Every Turn (17 page)

 22 

W
ebster handed me the money I’d requested first thing the next morning. “Mightn’t it be better to just tell the truth, Ally?”

I hurried past him, but his footsteps sounded close behind.

“I can’t. You know that. They would never believe . . .” It felt as though the steel frame of the racing car rested on my chest. I pressed my lips together and shook my head.

Why should I explain it to him? He felt no need to explain himself to me. I climbed into the car and we rumbled to the dirt track.

He signaled for me to cut the engine. “I think we need a communication system.”

“Oh?” My eyebrows rose. Rich, coming from the man who refused to communicate anything about his past to me.

“Just a few hand signals. You know how hard it was to hear during the race in Chicago.”

“Yes. Impossible.”

“Exactly. In fact, might be better if you don’t even have to look. Maybe we should communicate by touch.”

Heat burst into my cheeks as I studied the horizon. Race instructions. Nothing more. Not the tender touch between a man and a woman. So why did the thought of it set my heart pumping? “Why don’t we try the signals first? See if I can take them in with just a glance.”

He shrugged and leaned down to crank the engine. “Whatever you think. We can try it both ways.”

I settled the goggles over my eyes, thankful to be hidden from scrutiny. As we circled the oval again, I forced my thoughts away from the possibility of his touch and focused instead on the money hidden beneath Webster’s watchful eyes. Obviously it remained safe; otherwise he would have put me off with excuses, not handed me what I’d asked for. Lawrence’s insinuations apparently had no basis in fact.

And yet . . .

What if he had other motives for desiring me to drive? What if it wasn’t about helping me raise money for the McConnells at all?

Maybe he meant to blackmail me—or my father—instead.

A turn rose up before me. A poke at my thigh reminded me to glance down. I spied Webster’s thumb turned down, his signal to slow. Every ounce of my strength held the wheel steady as the needle on the instrument panel hovered at sixty-five. I breathed relief in the short straightaway. No, blackmail couldn’t be it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t encourage me to come out with the truth.

Another curve. Another straightaway. Webster’s thumb up and then down, his fingers left and then right.

I could think of no reason not to trust this man. His every interaction with me, with Father, seemed the model of integrity. I’d probably have been smitten with those dark eyes and that laughing grin if I suspected him to be a man of faith. But I’d never heard him mention God—or even church.

I pondered as we drove. Fewer laps, more breaks. Our communication system with just the hand signals was working as planned. Mostly. When we left the track, I felt steadier on the turns, even if they weren’t the banked ones. But I still let him drive us back to the house.

We roared into the yard. Two figures in the gazebo leapt from their seats, peering up the drive.

I gasped.

“Mr. Little? Is that you?” Mother’s voice.

“Yes, ma’am.” He pulled back his goggles while I continued to study the dashboard and sink deeper into my seat.

“Who’s that with you?”

“Just a friend.” He climbed from the car and stood in front of me, blocking their view. “I needed some help with the race car today.”

“See that you don’t leave that horrid thing in the yard for long.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He lowered his voice. “Walk behind me into the garage. Just like at the racetrack.”

I nodded, but between the hours of driving and the jangle of my nerves, would my legs hold me up? With a deep breath, I set my feet on the ground. Eyes glued to Webster’s back, I followed as if a rope attached between us pulled me forward. Just inside the doors, out of view of the garden, he stopped. Turned. Wrapped his arms around me, his face just inches above mine. My knees turned as soft as taffy on a warm night.

His quiet laugh filled my ear, his breath hot on my neck. “Hold on, Ally girl.”

I turned my head. His breath caught, arms dropped. He backed away. My knees stiffened. I reached for the wall.

“That was close,” I whispered.

He rested his hands on top of his head, a grin sliding up his face. “I guess you’re stuck with me for a while longer today.”

I leaned against the wall and ducked my head to hide my answering smile.

Mother’s guest finally left. I hobbled to the house, eager for a hot bath.

Just as I stepped inside, the telephone shrilled. I let Clarissa answer as I lowered myself to the bench just inside the kitchen door.

Clarissa’s head popped through the doorway. “For you, Miss Alyce. A Lucinda Bywater.”

Lucinda phoning? In spite of my stiffness, I hastened to the telephone but covered the mouthpiece and asked Clarissa to have Betsy draw a hot bath. “What’s wrong, Lucinda?”

“Oh, nothing’s wrong.”

My tense muscles eased a bit.

“I wondered if . . . well, I hope you don’t think it out of place, but I was hoping . . .”

I switched the earpiece to my other ear. “Whatever you need, Lucinda, I’d be happy to help.”

“Oh no, Miss—Alyce. I don’t need help. I was wondering if you’d come to supper. At my house. On Friday.” She blurted out the last words all at once, as if she feared she wouldn’t be able to say them otherwise.

“I’d be honored, Lucinda.” My tired brain worked to remember why this didn’t seem like a good idea.

Friday.

Cincinnati.

“However, I’ll be out of town on Friday. Would Thursday do? I can help with supper. I’m no gilded lily, you know. I can cook and clean up and, well, all sorts of things you probably can’t imagine me doing.”

Like speeding around a racetrack at nearly a hundred miles per hour.

She sat silent for a moment and then assented. I told her I’d pick her up from work and help her get the kids home from her aunt’s house, too. Then I hung up the telephone and trudged up the stairs. By the time I’d removed my clothes and wrapped myself in a kimono, one of the day maids knocked at my bedroom door and announced my bath was ready.

I locked the bathroom door and sank into the water, relishing the warmth on my aching bones. Was this how Grandmother felt on a daily basis? How did she manage without complaint? Too much more of this and I feared I wouldn’t be able to move well enough to drive at all.

I leaned my head over the back of the tub. No doubt Webster would make sure he didn’t overwork me. I closed my eyes. Dozed for a few minutes. Then awoke with a start.

Swirling my shriveled fingers through the cooling water, I wondered again what Webster wasn’t saying. Surely Father wouldn’t hire him without references. Could a man be upstanding one moment and sinister the next? Perhaps he deceived everyone. Except Lawrence.

I climbed from the tub and wrapped myself in a towel. I couldn’t worry about Webster’s past. Grandmother needed my attention. And I had to concentrate on the race. For now, I’d trust that I—and my mission funds—would be safe in God’s hands, if not in Webster’s.

I slipped into my kimono and padded back to my bedroom. Halfway down the hall, I stopped. Lucinda. Likely she heard lots of things about people in Mr. Morgan’s law office. Maybe she could reveal a bit of Webster’s mystery.

At least it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

Lucinda and her children piled into my Packard on Thursday, and we motored to her home. Part of a home, actually. An old house divided into two dwellings. It sat on the opposite side of Langston from Mr. Morgan’s office, close to Father’s factory.

We climbed a rickety wooden staircase to reach a door on the second floor. Lucinda put her key in the lock. “It isn’t much to look at, but it’s warm in the winter. Mostly.” She pushed the door open. Her little boy rushed past us but the girls stood back for me to go first.

“It’s lovely,” I remarked as I removed my small hat and hung it on a hook I spied behind the door. “So cozy.”

Lucinda answered with a weak smile as she placed baby Teresa in her older girl’s arms. “You go on into the parlor and sit while I get things ready.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” I tucked the corners of a towel into the bibbed front of my dress. “I told you I’d help. I took several courses on cooking in Chicago.”

Lucinda’s mouth opened, but I stilled it with a stern look. Her timid directions led me to plates and utensils. Soon the rich aroma of stew bubbled from the pot on the stove. She seemed more comfortable now, more willing to let me be a friend. Together we filled the children’s plates, poured their milk, and mopped up their messes, spelling each other to take a few bites of food between times. How in the world did she accomplish it all when she was on her own?

After supper, she instructed her girls to wash the dishes and put them away. The girls didn’t protest. She hooked her arm around mine and led me to the parlor before excusing herself to put Teresa and her little boy to bed.

I wandered the room, studying the photograph of her family, husband included. They looked content in spite of their grim expressions.

“That was taken just two months before he died.” Lucinda’s voice startled me. She sat on the edge of a chair and motioned me to the old-fashioned divan. “I’m glad we spent the money. I didn’t want to, but he insisted we should.”

Grief-laden silence engulfed the room. Neither of us seemed to be able to find the words to start again. Then I remembered our encounter after the Women’s Mission Auxiliary meeting the week before.

“I want to apologize for Mr. Trotter’s behavior on Sunday evening, after the meeting. He didn’t realize that I didn’t feel the need to hurry home.”

“Pish.” Lucinda waved her hand and scowled. “I don’t worry about what that man thinks of me.”

My eyebrows drew together as I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “What do you mean?”

She sniffed and straightened her skirt. “He thinks he’s better than most around here, but he isn’t.”

I stiffened. “Maybe he’s just shy and it comes across wrong.”

“I don’t think so.
Mr.
Trotter lurks in dark alleyways more often than’s good for a man, I say.”

“What do you mean?” Her words stirred a flurry of foreboding.