Echoes of Mercy: A Novel (29 page)

She was only yards from the front door of her building. She’d get away if he didn’t move now. Oliver broke into a trot, ignoring how much the jarring against the concrete walkway caused his head to throb. She must have heard him coming, because she wheeled around, hands upraised as if to fend off an
attack and terror etched into her features. She quivered from head to toe, and he knew it wasn’t the chill air causing her tremors. He’d frightened her. Remorse smote him.

He came to an abrupt stop at least a dozen feet away from her. “It’s all right, Carrie.” He snatched off his cap. “See? It’s just me—Ollie.”

Her entire body sagged with a relief. Then she straightened and fixed him with an irritated look. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you we needed to talk.”

Her expression turned grim. “And I told you there was nothing left to say.”

“But there is.” He took one step forward, ready to catch hold of her if need be. “Carrie, I didn’t take those blueprints.” He spoke softly, fervently, truthfully, looking directly into her wary eyes. “When I discovered they were missing, I could think of only one other person who wanted to see them. You.”

Her eyes snapped, but her brow pinched as if being angry took more effort than she could muster. “I didn’t take them.”

Oliver nodded slowly, his gaze never wavering from hers. “I believe you.” He did, too. He didn’t know why, but somehow, deep down, he knew she told the truth. If only she would believe him. Trust him. He couldn’t explain why, but he wanted her to trust him. “Do you believe me?”

For long seconds she merely stared into his face, seeking, not even seeming to breathe. Then she let out a big sigh, her breath hovering in a cloud around her face. She nodded. “Yes, Ollie. I believe you didn’t take them.”

He broke into a smile so big his bruised eye hurt. But it didn’t matter. She believed him. He dared another step forward.

“But why are you tattling to Hightower about me?”

He froze in place. Hurt and disillusionment colored her tone. He’d rather she was angry than deeply wounded. She might believe him about the blueprints, but she still held some incorrect suppositions. “Carrie, I have not spoken one word about you to Hightower.”

Her brow pinched, a myriad of emotions playing across her features. “But when I asked if you’ve been reporting about me, you didn’t deny it.”

No, he hadn’t. And he wouldn’t deny it now. Licking his dry lips, he formed
a truthful reply. “Because I have been compiling information for the owner of the factory, Mr. Dinsmore”—how odd to refer to Father so formally—“concerning many happenings at the factory.”

“So you’re more than a mere janitor?”

Cautiously, Oliver nodded. He waited for her to question his purpose for compiling information, but she stood in silence for several seconds, lips sucked in, brow puckered in thought.

Tipping her head to the side, she mused, “So if you didn’t take the blueprints, and I didn’t take them, then … where are they?”

“I don’t know. But can we go inside? It’s cold out here.” At her nod of agreement, he held the door open for her, then followed her to the little lobby area. She crossed to the sofa where he’d spent the night only four days ago. He found it hard to believe how much had transpired in such a short time. Where Carrie was concerned, it seemed he constantly rode a seesaw—one minute sailing high and the next plunging low. Yet he didn’t begrudge even one second of their wild adventure. What kind of hold did this woman have on him?

She sank onto the sawdust-stuffed cushion, her mouth stretching with a yawn. “Let me think … How long has the elevator been in the factory?”

Oliver shrugged, traveling backward through time in his mind. Father had installed the elevator when Oliver was still a boy. He recalled riding it up and down while still wearing knickers. “I believe it has an 1881 patent. Twenty years ago? Maybe more.”

“It’s likely been serviced at least once during that time. Perhaps the blueprints were taken out when workers did repairs and they neglected to put them back.”

Oliver perched beside her, holding his hands wide. “But wouldn’t they take the protective tube, too? Why take only the blueprints unless whoever took them wanted to hide the fact the canister was empty?”

Carrie frowned, her expression more thoughtful than irritated. “You make it seem as though some sort of conspiracy has taken place.”

He leaned back, considering her statement. The information he’d uncovered concerning Bratcher being in the factory on a Sunday when no one should
have been there seemed to point to a conspiracy. Or at least some shady doings.

Oliver’s flesh tingled as disconcerting thoughts flooded his mind. He examined Carrie’s tired face. “Carrie, you haven’t told me why you’re so interested in the elevator. Does your interest have anything to do with Harmon Bratcher?”

She looked sharply away. “Does it matter?”

A man had died—perhaps had been murdered—in his factory. It mattered a great deal. He decided to share a bit of what Father had told him. “Hightower thinks you’re related to Bratcher and wish to uncover proof that the factory is somehow accountable for his death so you can sue us.”

She kept her gaze angled away, but a slight smile curled her lips. “Hightower has a very active imagination.”

Oliver touched her arm—a light touch but a deliberate one. “Is he right?”

“I’m no relation to Harmon Bratcher,” she said, “and I have no interest in suing the factory.”

Although relieved to know she wasn’t out for money, Oliver wasn’t completely satisfied with her vague statement. “Then why your interest? You did promise to tell me, remember?”

She released a rueful chuckle. “I’m not sure it matters anymore, to be honest. Without those blueprints I don’t know how.” She closed her eyes and lowered her head. For several seconds she sat so still Oliver wondered if she’d fallen asleep. But then she jerked her head up to face him, determination evident in the firm set of her jaw. “Ollie, I’m exhausted, and you must be, too. We should get some sleep. But this evening—at suppertime—could you come to Kesia’s? There’s … someone I want you to meet. Someone with whom I think you should talk.”

Oliver blurted, “Who?”

She gave an impatient shake of her head. “Never mind that now. Will you meet me?”

How could he resist such an intriguing invitation? “Of course I’ll meet you.”

“Good.” She stood, covering another yawn with her injured hand. Then
she turned a look on him—a look of intense reflection that froze him in his seat. She spoke, but the words seemed intended for herself. “I hope I’m not making a mistake.”

Before he could question her cryptic statement, she rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

“What were you thinking to involve a factory worker in our investigation?”

Although Noble spoke quietly without a hint of disapproval, his query still stung. Caroline rested her clasped hands on the little table Kesia had set up for them in the corner of the café. Annamarie had stayed behind at the hotel with the three Holcomb children, allowing her to visit undisturbed with Noble. “I’m not trying to bring him in as an official investigator for the commission. But he’s been doing some sleuthing on his own—for the factory’s owner, he said—and unless I miss my guess, he has uncovered helpful information. It will be beneficial for us to combine his findings with mine.” Noble’s expression didn’t change. Caroline added on a timorous note, “Won’t it?”

Noble raised one brow. “I don’t know. It depends on his trustworthiness. If he tells the purpose of our investigation of the factory, and the owner tells the managers in the factory, we might very well be sabotaging any hope of discovering the truth about Harmon’s death.”

“I don’t intend to tell him our purpose for being there.” Caroline cringed, hearing her own words. She’d accused Ollie of being less than truthful with her, yet she deliberately hid truth from him. As much as she relished her job, ensuring future workers could enjoy safer environments, she would never adjust to the necessity of deception. “He knows I’m concerned about the age of some of the workers. We can let him assume our investigation is related to Bratcher’s campaign to change the child labor laws. If we—”

“Carrie?”

The quiet voice behind her took her by surprise. She turned to find Ollie
standing just inside the doorway. She leaped up, aware of Noble also rising. Had Ollie overheard her final statement? Her heart fluttering, she gestured him forward.

“Ollie, please meet Mr. Noble Dempsey, a dear friend of mine.” Her words came out breathy, as if she’d just run a footrace. She drew in a lungful of air to calm herself. She’d suggested this meeting and didn’t need to be apoplectic over it. “Noble, this is Ollie Moore, a janitor at the Dinsmore chocolate factory.” She wished she could introduce Ollie as a friend, but that would only inspire speculation in Noble’s mind. Yet another thing she must keep hidden. Her stomach twisted in regret.

Ollie moved toward Noble but stopped a couple of feet away. The two men stood in a face-off, which left Caroline battling the urge to giggle. Both tall, one broad chested with a full white beard and one well toned with clean-shaven cheeks, and both wearing expressions of part curiosity, part guardedness. Although they shook hands and murmured greetings in a gentlemanly fashion, they might have been preparing for a duel. Caroline would have given a five-dollar gold piece to know what each was thinking in those brief seconds of assessment.

Noble extracted his hand from Ollie’s grasp. He turned to Kesia. “We’re ready for supper whenever you’d like to deliver it, Mrs. Durham.”

The woman nodded. “Three plates o’ chicken an’ dumplings on the way!” She smiled and waved at Ollie, who smiled and waved back, then she bustled into the kitchen.

Noble held his hand toward the third chair at the table. “Please join us, Mr. Moore.”

Ollie, instead of sitting, held Caroline’s chair.

With a self-conscious smile she slid onto the round wooden seat. “Thank you.” Aware of Noble’s curious gaze, she turned her attention to smoothing her skirt across her knees.

Noble sat, bracing his ankle on his opposite knee, as Ollie sat and stacked his arms on the table. He flashed a smile—a bit lopsided thanks to the swelling on the side of his face. “Sorry if I was late. I thought I heard you talking about Bratcher when I came in.”

Caroline looked to Noble, silently giving him permission to divulge as much or as little as he wanted to concerning their investigation.

Noble cleared his throat. “You weren’t late, Mr. Moore. Car … rie and I were simply reviewing what we know about the incident that claimed Harmon Bratcher’s life. I was well acquainted with the man, and I fully supported his interest in raising the age of child laborers to sixteen. His death came as quite a shock.”

Ollie frowned, drumming his fingers on his elbows. “It was a shock for me, too. There’d never been a death at the factory before. Mr. Dinsmore has always insisted on the safest working conditions for his employees. But Mr. Bratcher was more than an inspector, wasn’t he? In fact”—Ollie’s voice took on a bit of an edge, as if testing Noble—“he was something of a rabble-rouser, trying to incite unrest among workers.”

Caroline bit back a gasp. “Are you saying he deserved what he got?”

Ollie shook his head, turning a frown on her. “Of course not. Even rabble-rousers have a right to their say, thanks to freedom of speech. I’m just saying his noisemaking could have made somebody mad enough to want to silence him. Maybe for good.”

Kesia plopped aromatic, steaming bowls of thick chicken gravy oozing between mounds of moist dumplings in front of them. She brushed her palms together. “Anything else? Besides coffee, I mean. I’ve got a fresh pot brewin’ an’ will bring it over soon as it sings.”

“This is fine, Mrs. Durham. Thank you,” Noble said.

“Looks good, as always,” Ollie added.

Kesia beamed. “All right, then. You enjoy your dinner. Holler if you’re wantin’ more.” She scurried off.

Noble said, “Shall I ask the blessing?”

Caroline and Ollie nodded in unison. They closed their eyes while Noble offered a simple thank-you for the meal. After the “amen” Noble lifted his fork and began cutting the dumplings into smaller pieces. “Mr. Moore, would you have any idea who might have wanted to silence Bratcher?”

Ollie gave a start, as if he’d forgotten what they’d been discussing before the food arrived. He swept his napkin over his mouth. “No, sir. But I imagine
anyone who employs younger workers would be motivated to end his crusade.”

“Including Dinsmore?” Noble continued eating, seemingly unconcerned. The simple query hung in the air for several tense seconds.

Ollie placed his fork on the table as if his appetite had fled. “You can’t think Fulton Dinsmore had anything to do with Bratcher’s death.” A bald statement, not a question.

Caroline flicked a worried glance at Noble. She’d never heard such defensiveness in Ollie’s voice. Had Noble stirred a hornet’s nest?

Noble lifted his head, his expression bland. “Didn’t you just say anyone who employs younger workers might wish Bratcher ill? Dinsmore certainly falls into that category. He has a substantial number of young employees in his factory.”