Murder in Burnt Orange (21 page)

Hilda frowned.

“Then, instead of trying to woo my men with promises of higher wages, shorter hours—all the things a union tries to accomplish—they offered money up front, right then. That also seemed peculiar, and to the men who did not succumb, quite irregular if not illegal. Then, too, the organizers never made mention of any specific union. They were vague and simply said that if the men made enough trouble for the company, the company would be forced to consider their demands.”

“What demands?”

“Exactly.”

Hilda thought about that for a while. “They are not union organizers at all,” she said at last, slowly. “They pretend to be, but all they really want is to cause trouble. Why?”

“Perhaps to make Studebaker's less profitable?”

Hilda thought about that one, too. “The only people who would benefit from bringing Studebaker's down are their competitors. Vanderhoof had a harness business in town, and Studebaker's makes harness for their carriages.”

“Not so much anymore. We make some, but mostly we buy it from other suppliers. Like Vanderhoof, at least before he left town. Without him, his business isn't doing so well these days.”

“Then that is not the reason. Maybe—maybe it has nothing to do with Studebaker's. Sven, do you know if these organizers—these pretend-organizers—have been to other big factories? To Oliver's, maybe, or Birdsell's?”

“I do not know, but I can find out. What is in your mind, my sister?”

“I am not sure. It is cloudy. I am sure only that Vanderhoof is behind everything, and he must be stopped.”

“Yes,” said Sven, and took his leave.

When Hilda related the conversation to Patrick, he could make little of it. “Why would someone pretend to be a union man, only to make trouble? That's what gives unions a bad name, the trouble-makin'.”

“That is what Aunt Molly said. She is the wisest person I know, Patrick. I love her very much. I think I maybe married you to have her for my aunt.”

“Then I owe her even more than I thought I did. Come to bed,
acushla
.”

For her own breakfast she'll project a scheme,

Nor take her tea without a stratagem.

—Edward Young,
Love of Fame
, circa 1725

Hilda slept restlessly and awoke early. Patrick was still in bed. It was Saturday, and though he had to go to the store, he had decided he could leave it till a little later than usual.

Hilda needed something to do. She remembered the first few months of her marriage, when she thought she would go mad with boredom. Neither a servant nor yet a lady, she had not found a pattern for her days. That had changed when Norah's husband, Sean, had been charged with a serious crime, and Hilda had to untangle a web of lies and deception to clear him.

Things were different now. She had a great deal she wanted to be doing. The trouble was, she couldn't do any of it. Standing at the open window in her voluminous nightgown, she looked down at her swollen body. She couldn't see her feet, but she knew they were swollen, too. Her back ached. Oh, how she wished this baby would make its appearance soon.

But then she would be confined to bed for quite some time. And meanwhile, that monster Vanderhoof would be pursuing his nefarious plans, whatever they were, and she could do nothing about it.

She needed a plan of her own.

When Patrick awoke, missed her, and went downstairs looking for her, he found her seated at his desk in the den, busily writing.

“You're up early, darlin'.”

“What? Oh, Patrick. What do you want?”

“Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes. No. I do not know. Go away, I am busy.”

His eyebrows rose nearly into his hair, but he went away. Finding Eileen in the dining room, he said, “Take Miss Hilda some coffee, please, Eileen. She's in the den, up to somethin' or other. Better take the pot. She looks like she'll be there a while. And if you see Andy, send him in here, will you?”

When the boy appeared, Patrick gestured to a chair. A little unsure of himself, Andy sat.

“Andy, I want you to stay here today instead of goin' to the store with me.”

“Have I done somethin' wrong, Mr. Patrick, sir?”

“No. It's Miss Hilda who's worryin' me. She got up early and didn't eat her breakfast, and now she's shut herself up in the den, writin' away like the devil set her an essay. I don't know what she's up to, but she's in a mood to take it into her head to do somethin' foolish. I want you to keep an eye on her for me.”

“Yessir. What do you think she might do?”

For a moment the two shared a look of the liveliest apprehension. Then Patrick raised his hands and eyes to heaven. “The saints alone know! But she might decide to go someplace to see somebody. I don't know where or who, but I don't like the idea.”

“So you want me to stop her?” His tone implied doubt that such a thing was possible.

“If you can,” said Patrick with a sigh. “But if you can't, I want you to go with her. I don't want either of you to get into trouble, and seems to me there's less chance of it if there are the two of you. I wish I could stay here, but—”

“But with Mr. Malloy still not feelin' so good, you've got to be at the store. I know, sir. Don't you worry. I'll see to things here.” His twenty-five-inch chest swelled with pride and determination.

Hilda, oblivious to the machinations of her husband and protégé, sat at the desk, now with her pencil flying, now with her head tilted to one side reading what she had written and waiting for the next thought. A cup of coffee sat to one side; every once in a while she remembered to take a sip. Sheets of paper covered the rest of the desk. One was headed CLANCY, one VANDERHOOF, one FIRES, one TRAIN WRECKS, one BANKS, and one, the one in front of her at present, read UNIONS.

She frowned and chewed the end of her pencil as she read. No one else would have been able to read the hasty scrawl, written partly in English and partly, when she could not think of the English word, in Swedish. On the paper was written nearly everything she knew about unions, generally and specifically, and she had decided it was not nearly enough.

She knew the names of two big union men, Eugene Debs and Samuel Gompers. She knew, in a general sort of way, where Debs had been at the time of the Studebaker train wreck—but not where he had been a little earlier in June, when the Twentieth Century Flyer had been deliberately wrecked. She knew that Debs's particular interest was in railroads, that he had founded or at least was the moving spirit of the ARU. About Gompers she knew only that he was president of the biggest union of them all, the American Federation of Labor.

She knew that Studebaker's, the most important business in town, had never been unionized, and she was pretty sure the Oliver Chilled Plow Company had not. About Birdsell's factory, manufacturing clover hullers, she was less certain.

But now there were men coming around, acting strange, trying to organize a union at Studebaker's, or pretending to try. Hilda was quite certain it was only a pretense, a cover-up for—for what?

That was where she was stuck. Secret contacts with men in Sven's paint shop, secret meetings of bankers... She suddenly remembered to add a note to her BANKS page.

But what could meetings of bankers have to do with union activity? And train wrecks and fires?

An idea began to stir, sluggishly, uncertainly. Banks. Businessmen. Unions. Vanderhoof.

She touched the bell, and when Eileen came, she said, “More coffee, please, Eileen. This is cold.”

“Yes, ma'am. And Mr. Patrick said as I was to make sure you ate somethin', or all that coffee's goin' to give you indigestion.”

“It never did before!”

“You've never been nine months gone before, ma'am.” Eileen left and closed the door smartly behind her.

That reminded Hilda. Making a face, annoyed at her situation, she made a quick trip to the downstairs lavatory. All that coffee had another effect, too.

When she got back to the den, Eileen had moved her papers aside and deposited a large tray with bacon and scrambled eggs and toast and jam and coffee and orange juice, and was standing in the corner waiting to make sure Hilda ate it.

“I am not hungry. I want only coffee.”

“Yes, ma'am. Mr. Patrick said as I should watch you eat it, ma'am.”

“I am
busy
, Eileen. Go away.”

“Yes, ma'am. As soon as you've eaten your breakfast. Them eggs—”

“Those eggs.”

“Those eggs is gettin' cold, and there's nothin' so nasty as cold scrambled eggs. I remember once, me gran said cold eggs were an abomination unto the Lord. I didn't know what she was talkin' about, but I knew I'd better eat me breakfast quick. That was back when there was eggs for breakfast. Later on it was just bread, when we were lucky enough to get it, or maybe an apple. I can remember when...”

She went on chattering until Hilda, in a frenzy of anxiety to be left alone with her thoughts and her notes, ate simply to get rid of her. Eileen smiled gently as she took the tray away. She was learning how to manage her mistress.

It took Hilda a few minutes to recover her thoughts of thirty minutes before, but when she did, she began to make notes again, slowly this time, as her brain began to work.

Vanderhoof (she had ceased to honor him with “Mr.” even in her thoughts) was a businessman and a politician. He wanted to make money, and he wanted to have influence, and he wasn't overly particular about how he achieved either goal.

He had been interested in how Tammany Hall gained both wealth and power.

He had told Clancy to burn down Malloy's Dry Goods, and had killed him when he didn't succeed. (That was an inference, not a proven fact, but Hilda was sure she was right.)

Bankers were businessmen, also interested in making money. Bankers had held secret meetings with some of Vanderhoof's stooges. (Hilda liked that word.)

Trains had been wrecked. Trains were run by union crews, members of the ARU. Vanderhoof had some railroad interests. Railroad management didn't like unions.

And finally, a quotation from Patrick, barely heard at the time, but now burned into Hilda's mind: “That's what gives unions a bad name.”

She looked at what she had written, and needed more coffee.

If what she suspected was true, this was wicked. This was greed and evil in its purest form.

“Pure evil,” Aunt Molly had said. “He must be hunted down and stopped.”

And how was she, Hilda Johansson Cavanaugh, great with child, how was she to stop him?

She had only her wits. She must try to outsmart him somehow.

She pulled herself to her feet and went into the hall to phone Aunt Molly. As the wife of an important businessman, she would know far more than Hilda about the ways of business, about how a businessman's mind worked.

Mrs. Malloy was not at home, Hilda was informed politely by Riggs. He believed she had taken another lady to a meeting of some of the Progress Club ladies. He could not say when she might be home. Certainly he would ask her to telephone Miss Hilda. No trouble at all, madam. Yes, thank you, Mr. Malloy was feeling quite well.

Hilda chewed at a knuckle, then picked up the phone again and asked for Bell 264. “Mr. Williams? Oh, Colonel George, I am sorry. I did not recognize your voice. This is Mrs. Cavanaugh. Is Mrs. Clem at home?”

Mrs. Clem was not feeling well and was keeping to her room. Was there any way he could help her himself? Oh. And how was she feeling these days? Fine. No trouble at all, Hil—Mrs. Cavanaugh.

Frustrated, Hilda sat back on the chair next to the telephone. Colonel George was, of course, a businessman, one of the Studebaker vice presidents. But Hilda had never gotten along as well with him as with Mr. Clem, and she was sure he still thought of her as a housemaid.

Who, then? Who knew enough about business, and enough about sharp dealing, to give her some ideas?

Put that way, the answer was simple. John Bolton was the sharpest dealer she knew, and had driven Mr. Clem and Colonel George for years. He knew a lot.

She couldn't phone Tippecanoe Place again. Colonel George might answer again, and she didn't dare ask him to bring his coachman to the phone. There was no help for it. She went back to the den and rang for Eileen.

“I must go out, Eileen, and I cannot go dressed this way. The only decent dress I can wear is the black one you made. Help me upstairs, please, and help me into it. I feel foolish that I cannot do these things for myself—”

“Now, ma'am, you mustn't go out, and that's flat. Mr. Patrick said—”

“I do not care what Mr. Patrick said! I have had enough of what Mr. Patrick said. I wish to go out. You will help me, or I will try to do it myself.”

“But, ma'am—” Eileen was almost weeping.

“Is there some trouble, Miss Hilda?” Andy peered around the edge of the door.

“Andy! Why are you at home? Why did you not go to the store with Mr. Patrick?”

“He said he didn't need me this mornin', and I could stay here and do whatever needed doin' around the house.” He thought he hadn't better mention that he had been delegated to look after Hilda. In her present frame of mind, she would fly right off the handle, and that wouldn't be good for her or the baby. “So I wondered if there was somethin' you needed.”

“There is nothing you can do, Andy, thank you. Eileen is about to help me go upstairs and dress.”

Andy and Eileen, who had begun to establish a truce, exchanged glances. This was Hilda at her most willful, and neither of them was quite sure what to do.

“That dress you're wearin' is right pretty, Miss Hilda, if you don't mind me sayin' so.”

“Thank you, Andy, but it is not appropriate to wear outside the house. I must put on my black dress. Eileen, help me up, please.”

“Is there an errand I can run for you, Miss Hilda? It's gettin' kinda hot out there. You might not want to get out in it, 'specially dressed all in black.”

“This is not something you can do for me. And you are not to be out alone. Eileen?”

She put out a hand, and Eileen, seeing no choice, helped her out of the chair and up the stairs.

It was some little time before Hilda was properly dressed. She came slowly down the stairs, holding up her dress with one hand while the other gripped the railing. Andy was waiting.

“Andy, have Mr. O'Rourke bring the carriage around, please. Tell him I wish to go to Tippecanoe Place.”

Andy ran off, but returned immediately, panting. “Please, Miss Hilda, can I come along? I've never seen that house up close.”

Hilda was so astonished she forgot to be either suspicious or protective. “Never seen the biggest, most important house in town?”

“Just from the street, miss. It ain't a place for the likes of me.” He looked downcast.

“Do not be foolish. Have you never heard the saying ‘A cat may look at a king'?”

“No, miss. What does it mean?” He was helping her to the door as they talked.

“It means—” Hilda paused for thought. “It means you will go with me to see Tippecanoe Place. Come and get in.”

Andy helped Hilda into the carriage while a frowning O'Rourke stood holding the reins of the horses. Eileen had come out with them, and Andy winked at her before he climbed in himself. “It'll be all right,” he whispered, and they drove off.