Into the Whirlwind (6 page)

“Those people are your employees, not family. Never confuse the two.”

“Then I want to negotiate for control over the personnel working at the company.”

He shook his head. “No deal. We want all assets of the 57th Illinois Watch Company. Every scrap of equipment, every piece of unsold inventory, every unused matchstick in the drawers. I don’t want to muddy the contract with exceptions. The offer is for the sale of the entire company. Take it or leave it.”

“Why are you being so hard-nosed about that deadline? Another week will not hurt.”

His reply was nonchalant. “If you are concerned about your employees, take the deal. It is a good offer, and you know it. And I doubt you will feel any less conflicted about your decision a week from now. True?”

He was right, but she didn’t want to admit it. She vaulted out of her chair and stormed over to the window. She wanted to break something. She wanted to pretend this past week had never happened and she could happily go about making her watches and providing a decent livelihood for people who depended on her. She stared moodily out the window. “I am due to send another quarterly shipment of watches to you on Monday. If I don’t sign the contract, will you still accept delivery?”

“No,” he said bluntly. From behind her, his voice was soft and tempting. “Of course, you could avoid all this stress and simply sell us the company.”

She swallowed hard, twisting her gloves between her hands. “Why do I feel like Eve being offered the apple?”

If he was insulted by her reference, he gave no appearance as he leaned back in his chair and watched her through those laughing dark eyes. At first she had thought he had black eyes, but on closer inspection they had flecks of amber in them. Like obsidian. “Miss Knox, you are a bottomless well of grim anxiety. A fortune is about to be dumped into your lap. A normal person
would be dreaming about opening a bottle of champagne or planning a trip to the south of France, but not Miss Knox. Oh no. She is all about calculating revenue streams while she leaches all the joy out of life.”

She tightened her mouth. “I am fighting for the livelihood of my employees, and you interpret that as leaching
all the joy
out of life.”

“Every drop. And I don’t even think you enjoy it all that much. Instead of spending your weekend with your accounting books, why don’t you go watch the sunset this evening? Better yet, there is a White Stockings baseball game tomorrow. Do
something
besides indulging that grim streak of anxiety you have been feeding all week.”

“I hold the fate of forty employees and their families in my hands, and you think I should go to a baseball game?”

He swiveled back in his chair. “What if a comet hits the earth tomorrow and we are all dead? Wouldn’t you be glad you spent your final few hours outdoors with friends, enjoying a cold drink and a warm pretzel, watching the finest baseball team this side of the Mississippi take on the Philadelphia Athletics? Or would you prefer staring at columns of financial equations? Judging by those lines on your face, it looks like you spend far too much time curled up with those accounting ledgers.”

If she hadn’t been feeling so brittle, the words would not have hurt, but did he know what it felt like to have responsibility for so many people? Maybe she didn’t have time for baseball or watching sunsets, but that didn’t mean she leached all the joy out of life.

Mollie stood and needlessly adjusted a bit of the lace at her throat. “You can search for the next decade, but you will never find a better watch company on the continent. I will let you know when I’ve made my decision.”

4

I
t was Sunday before Mollie figured out why Hartman was so desperate to buy her out.

On Sunday evening, her mind was too numb to process any more equations, and she allowed herself the temporary diversion of flipping through old product designs buried in her father’s trunk. That was when she saw the deed stuck in the pages of an old product manual.

Her fingers trembled as she lifted the certificate from the pages. On thick paper, embossed with a stamp from the state of Illinois and signed by the county clerk, was a deed of ownership to half an acre on Columbus Street. It was where her father’s first shop, one of six properties that were torn down to make way for Hartman’s grand store, had been located.

The deed described her father’s lot as half an acre in size. The footprint of Hartman’s Emporium was two acres.

Snatching up the deed, she dashed out of her apartment to Frank’s place across the hall and pounded on his door. The scales were falling from her eyes. Zack Kazmarek’s offer demanded “all unsold inventory, equipment, designs, and all other property belonging to the 57th Illinois Watch Company.” It was a quick and sneaky way for them to get ownership of that half acre.

As soon as Frank answered the door, she got right down to business. “Frank,” she said in a trembling voice, “when you sell a piece of property, don’t you have to surrender the deed?”

“Yes. You sign over ownership, and the deed passes to the buyer.”

Her fingers began to tremble. “I don’t think that land deal for my father’s property was finalized,” she said in a shaky voice. “I am holding the deed to that piece of land here in my hands.”

Frank straightened. “Then the deal was never legally closed,” he said bluntly.

“If we still own that piece of land, what happens to the building sitting on it?”

Frank’s voice was firm. “It makes you part owner.”

The breath left her body. If Frank was right, it meant she owned twenty-five percent of that palatial six-story building of marble and crystal. No wonder Mr. Kazmarek had been so insistent on speed!

She had never seen Frank Spencer angry, but as the implications sank in, he was furious. “They
knew
about this. It explains their ridiculous need for haste. They waited until your quarterly delivery of watches was due before springing it on you. They were trying to paint you into a corner so you’d jump at the offer.”

A rush of heat prickled her skin, and she fanned herself with the deed. Her father loathed the bookkeeping aspects of business. He wrote receipts on napkins and took payment in promissory notes, then never bothered to cash them. But this deed took the prize. “My father thought he sold it, but he was always so scatterbrained when it came to business. Why would he still have this deed?”

“Who knows?” Frank said. “Hartman would have bought half a dozen other small businesses in order to clear the space for that monster of a store. Somewhere along the way, a bookkeeper
got sloppy. Even if your father received money for the sale, the property was never officially transferred unless the deed was signed and recorded at the courthouse.
You own that land
. Kazmarek knows it, and that is why he is bullying you into a sale.”

Mollie didn’t feel entitled to that building. She didn’t want any part of it, but what Mr. Kazmarek had done was nasty and mean and underhanded. While her mind was still reeling, Frank kept rattling off more information. They could not be completely sure of ownership until they went to the courthouse tomorrow morning to confirm there was no subsequent deed. The courthouse would not open until nine o’clock on Monday morning. Mr. Kazmarek had threatened that if she had not delivered her affirmative reply, he would be canceling their contracts and making an offer to another watch company by ten o’clock.

Frank’s expression was grim. “Don’t trust them, Mollie. Any company that would use underhanded tactics like this is not someone you want to be working for. If you sell the 57th to them, we will be under their heel. Walk away. Fast.”

How could she walk away when she was contracted to deliver three dozen watches to them tomorrow morning? She needed the revenue from that shipment to continue operating. It would take time for her to find other merchants on the East Coast who could afford to sell her watches, and Hartman’s was going to give that time to her because she had something they wanted.

She had a deed to the land where their store sat.

By the time Mollie rode the streetcar and crossed the bridge into the neighborhood where Zack Kazmarek lived, she had worked herself into a fine rage. It wasn’t about the money. Truly, she didn’t feel entitled to any piece of that opulent palace on
Columbus Street; it was his strong-armed manipulation that infuriated her.

The air was hot and smoky tonight. It smelled like there was a fire somewhere in the city, which was not unusual for Chicago. Either that or someone was burning leaves, which was a foolish thing to do when the city had been parched by the drought all year.

What a fine townhome Mr. Kazmarek lived in. Built of pale limestone, the attached townhouses all loomed three stories high with mansard roofs and charming flower boxes in the windows. The brass mailboxes conveniently had the owners’ names engraved on the front, making it easy for her to find the Kazmarek residence. She rapped on the brass knocker, feeling her resentment simmer higher. The veterans who worked at the 57th had all suffered on behalf of a country, while men of privilege like Zack Kazmarek curled up in their cozy townhouses and counted their money.

When the door opened she was ready to tear into him, but bit her tongue when she saw a tiny old woman smiling up at her.

“Can I help you, miss?”

Mollie glanced at the woman’s curious dress. Couldn’t Mr. Kazmarek pay his servants enough for decent clothing? The woman’s shawl looked like it had come from another century, and her skirt was a wild conglomeration of pink, violet, and indigo-blue floral prints. Mollie cleared her throat. “I’d like to see Mr. Kazmarek, please. I know it is late, but I have business with him.”

“Are you the watchmaker?” The old woman’s eyes sparkled and without waiting for an answer, she turned and spoke in a rapid stream of foreign language. An older man with the same laughing eyes as the housekeeper stepped up to the door.

“Miss Mollie Knox?” he asked.

Had they been expecting her? “Yes. I am here to see Mr. Kazmarek. Is he at home?”

“Come in, come in,” the older man said. “I am Jozef Kazmarek, but everyone calls me Jozef. This is my wife, Joanna.” Jozef wrapped a big callused hand around Mollie’s elbow and pulled her inside. Like his wife, he wore working-class clothing.

“Your name is Kazmarek as well?” Mollie asked curiously. “You must be related to Mr. Kazmarek?”

“Zack is our boy,” the older man said proudly.

“Our son,” Joanna added. “Isn’t he handsome? Of course he knows it, and—”

“And it goes straight to his head,” the elder Mr. Kazmarek said. “He went out to listen to a polka band at the biergarten, where the girls always throw themselves at him.”

Mollie looked at the both of them. Mrs. Kazmarek had rough, callused hands, much like her husband’s, as if she had spent her life hanging laundry or hauling water. As the older pair continued to rattle on about various neighborhood girls who were trying to land their handsome son, Mollie glanced around the interior of the curious home. Despite the grand entryway, the parlor to her right was chaotic, as if the contents of a warehouse had been dumped inside. There was almost no furniture, but towers of papers, wooden crates, and books crammed every square foot. Not even nice books either. They were ratty books that looked like they’d been salvaged from a tinker’s wagon. Bundles of newspapers were stacked so high they seemed ready to topple over. Mrs. Kazmarek saw where she was looking and scurried to pull the pocket doors closed, cutting off her view of the strange room.

The dining room, mercifully clear of the clutter that choked the other room, was on the opposite side of the hallway. Over the table was a large oil painting. The painting was . . . well, it was simply breathtaking.

In shades of green and amber, a girl stood in a summer garden, gazing at a watch in her palm. Dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves, illuminating the girl’s white dress so she looked lit from within. The brushstrokes were too choppy to reveal many details of the girl’s appearance, but she looked soft and lovely standing in the patches of light. Peaceful. Luminous.

“What a lovely painting,” she said softly.

“It is a Monet,” Mrs. Kazmarek said. “He is all the rage in Paris. Zack was in Europe last year, and he insisted on buying it. I am glad you like it.” Mrs. Kazmarek elbowed her husband, some unspoken communication flying between the two. Before Mollie could interpret the strange gesture, Mrs. Kazmarek nudged her back toward the kitchen.

“Come down to the kitchen where we can get better acquainted,” she said. “Zack has told us so much about you.”

“He has?” Why would any man talk to his parents about a person he was trying to swindle?

“Oh yes. He told us what pretty hair you have, but—” Mrs. Kazmarek winced a bit when she glanced at Mollie’s braids. “Oh, yes. I see what he means. Come, you must let me fix your hair sometime. I would so enjoy that. I always wanted—”

“She always wanted a daughter,” Jozef said.

“You hush! This is between girls.”

Mollie wanted to leave. If she couldn’t talk to Mr. Kazmarek, she needed to get back home to Frank, but the sound of a bird chirping came from down the hall. Peeking down the hallway, she saw a little blue bird flitting about a cage. “Is that the finch from Mr. Kazmarek’s office?”