Elm Creek Quilts [10] The Quilter's Homecoming (5 page)

Elizabeth caught Mae’s eye and beckoned her to join them. Mae hesitated before speaking quietly to her companion, whose glance in the newlyweds’ direction, Elizabeth had the distinct impression, took in more than it seemed, down to guessing within a dollar the number of bills in Henry’s wallet.

Mae and Peter strolled over to their table. “You don’t have a black eye, so I guess he liked the hair,” Mae greeted her. She extended a hand to Henry. “Hi, Henry One-in-a-Million.”

Startled, Henry rose slightly from his chair to shake her hand. “Hello.”

“Henry, this is Mae,” said Elizabeth, “and I assume you’re Peter?” When he inclined his head in acknowledgment, Elizabeth smiled and gestured to the two empty seats beside her and Henry. “Will you join us for lunch?”

“We don’t want to intrude on your honeymoon,” Peter demurred.

“That’s all right,” said Henry. “It’s a long trip. I don’t want Elizabeth to get bored with only me to talk to.”

Mae laughed and pulled out the chair beside Henry.

“How long a trip?” asked Peter as he sat down beside Elizabeth, across from Mae.

“All the way to California,” said Elizabeth. “We’re changing trains in St. Louis.”

“Well, what do you know?” said Mae. “We’re on our way to California, too. Peter goes at least twice a year, but this is the first time he’s taken me. And it’s not even my birthday.”

“Maybe we’ll be on the same train,” said Elizabeth.

“Unlikely,” said Peter, as the waiter approached to take their orders. “We’re stopping over for the night in St. Louis on business.”

“But once that’s out of the way, we’ll be on our way to Los Angeles,” said Mae. “Orange groves, palm trees, Hollywood—Say, why are you going to California, anyway? It’s a long way from Pennsylvania even for a honeymoon.”

Surprised, Elizabeth said, “I never mentioned that we’re from Pennsylvania.”

“No, but you got on in Harrisburg and you have those accents.”

Elizabeth and Henry shared a look of amusement. It was Mae who had the accent—a thick New York accent just like an actor playing a big-city cabbie on a radio program. Peter didn’t, Elizabeth suddenly realized. His accent was more polished, as if that same actor had taken elocution lessons from the man who sold the sponsors’ products between programs.

“We’re not going only for a honeymoon,” explained Elizabeth. “We’re staying. Henry’s bought a ranch.”

Peter regarded them, intrigued. “You don’t say.”

“One hundred and twenty acres of prime southern California ranchland,” said Elizabeth. “Over two hundred head of cattle, the farmhouse, a bunkhouse, and even a stream, a tributary of the Salto Creek.”

“Never heard of it,” said Mae.

Peter seemed more impressed, and he looked to Henry for confirmation. Henry’s pride won out and he explained, “It’s called the Rancho Triunfo. It’s about forty-five miles north of Los Angeles in the Arboles Valley.”

“Actually,” added Elizabeth, “the proper name is ‘El Triunfo del Dulcisimo Nombre de Jesús,’ but we’re going to call it Triumph Ranch.”

“Or we’ll just stick with the Rancho Triunfo, since that’s what it says on all the maps,” said Henry good-naturedly.

“Triumph Ranch,” said Mae. “That sounds like a sure thing, doesn’t it?”

“There’s no such thing as a sure thing,” said Henry. “I have every intention of succeeding, but our only guarantee is that we’re in for a lot of hard work.”

“You don’t say,” said Mae, with a glance for Elizabeth that inquired if she still believed the fun was just beginning, because it certainly didn’t sound like Henry thought so.

To change the subject, Elizabeth asked, “What line of work are you in, Peter?”

“Sales and distribution.”

Mae choked on her water. She set down her glass, wiped her lips delicately with her napkin, and nodded to the table behind Elizabeth and Peter. “Don’t make a big show of it, but take a look.”

As inconspicuously as she could, Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder at the middle-aged man in a black pinstriped suit and bowler hat, dining alone. He had unscrewed the brass handle of his walking stick and was surreptitiously pouring a clear liquid into a glass of tomato juice.

“I’m shocked,” remarked Peter in a low voice, shaking his head. “Absolutely shocked.”

“Because he’s flouting the law so publicly?” asked Elizabeth, not at all shocked. She had seen worse in the hotel back in Harrisburg, in the dining room as well as her father’s private study.

“No, because he’s drinking that rotgut. By the cut of his suit, he can clearly afford something smoother, as well as a decent flask to carry it in. That wooden cane can’t be doing much for the taste.”

The waiter arrived and set their plates before them. “You must really know your liquors to be able to tell rotgut from the best Russian vodka at this distance,” said Henry.

“It’s the most obvious conclusion. If it were the finest Russian vodka, he would either make a show of drinking it to impress everyone with his wealth and connections, or he’d drink it at home, alone, in the privacy of his study. He wouldn’t ruin it by storing it in a cane.”

“It’s hard to argue with that logic,” said Henry.

“Tell me, Henry.” Peter paused to taste his pork chop. “What is your opinion on the issue of Prohibition?”

Henry thought for a moment, sparing a glance for Elizabeth. “I think it was well intentioned, but it’s created more problems than it’s solved. From what I’ve seen, it hasn’t done much to stop people from drinking.”

“What do you expect?” said Mae. She sounded almost pleased. “Booze is forbidden fruit now. If you want to make something seem a lot more fun, make it illegal.”

“Oh, I agree completely. Back in Harrisburg, girls who would never set foot in a saloon sneak off to speakeasies every Friday and Saturday night and drink nearly as much as their dates.” At a surprised look from Henry, Elizabeth quickly added, “Not that I have any firsthand knowledge of such places.”

“Of course not,” said Mae. “Me, neither.”

“Back where we come from, most of the farmers have been making their own home brews just as their German ancestors did generations ago,” said Henry. “Who am I to say they should stop?”

“The law says they should,” said Peter.

“Maybe it’s a misguided law.”

Peter smiled. “Then I gather you’re not planning to turn in the gentleman seated behind me?”

“No. Live and let live, I say. He’s no danger to anyone as far as I can see.” Henry regarded Peter curiously. “Why, are you planning to report him?”

“Of course not. It’s none of my business.” Peter picked up his fork and continued eating. “Besides, he’ll drink away the evidence before the authorities meet the train in St. Louis. It would be our word against his and a waste of everyone’s time.”

Henry merely shrugged and finished his coffee.

After lunch, the two couples went their separate ways. Elizabeth and Henry went to the observation car, where Elizabeth altered the hemline of a poplin housedress and Henry read a farming journal. The flat farmlands of central Indiana sped past the windows, the first early shoots of corn and wheat wafting a light green haze to the horizon.

“I wonder,” said Henry suddenly, in a voice too low for anyone else to overhear, “what it is exactly that Peter sells and distributes.”

Elizabeth looked up from her sewing. “What do you mean?”

“He said he was in sales and distribution. I’m just curious what his product is. He seems to know a lot about alcohol.”

Elizabeth smothered a laugh and resumed her work. “You’re right, he did. He also seems to know a lot about canes. That must mean he’s either a cane salesman or a bootlegger.”

“You can laugh,” said Henry. “But don’t you think it’s interesting that he noticed we got on in Harrisburg? Out of all these passengers, he remembered that about us?”

“All that means is that he’s observant. Doesn’t a salesman have to be? And anyway, it wasn’t Peter who said that but Mae.”

“Right. Mae.” Henry brooded in silence. “I bet she knows a lot more about speakeasies than she lets on.”

“Well, obviously.”

“Maybe you should steer clear of her for the rest of the trip.”

Elizabeth set down her sewing. “Henry Nelson, you might be my husband now but you can’t tell me who my friends should be. Mae was kind to me when I needed someone to salvage my hair and I’m not going to give her the cold shoulder just because you’re suspicious of her boyfriend.”

“Salvage your hair?” Then her words fully sank in. “You mean they’re not married?”

“Oh, for goodness sakes. So what if they aren’t? That doesn’t mean anything. Didn’t you suggest that we should wait to get married until we arrived in California?”

“I’m glad you talked me out of it. I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about you.”

“Just like you’re probably getting the wrong idea about Mae and Peter.” Elizabeth hated to argue with Henry on their honeymoon, so she gave him a fond smile and said, “They’re getting off in St. Louis, so it doesn’t matter anyway. After a few hours, we’ll never see them again.”

Henry nodded and raised her hand to his lips in apology, yet it seemed the train could not reach St. Louis soon enough to suit him.

About an hour outside of St. Louis, someone rapped on their compartment door. Thinking she was admitting the porter, Elizabeth was startled to discover Peter standing in the corridor, hands in his pockets. “May I speak with your husband?”

Elizabeth nodded, beckoned to Henry, who joined Peter outside, leaving the door ajar. “I wondered if you might be amenable to a business proposition,” she heard Peter say, while she pretended to be intent on her sewing.

“All of my savings went into the ranch,” said Henry. “I can’t afford any other investments right now.”

“I’m not asking for money. I’m offering you the chance to earn some. A good amount, in fact, with little or no effort on your part.”

“Sounds too good to be true.”

“I assure you, it’s not,” said Peter. “I have friends in southern California who are interested in expanding their business. Your ranch lies in an area that is of particular interest to them.”

“I’ve been told there’s little in the Arboles Valley besides ranches and farms.”

“Its location makes it important,” said Peter. “The valley lies between Los Angeles and the cities of Oxnard and Santa Barbara. My acquaintances have had…let’s call it distribution problems conveying their wares from Los Angeles to cities farther north. The route through those hills can be treacherous—and I’m not speaking only of the terrain but of highwaymen and other unsavory types. Entire shipments have been stolen along the way, or the shippers have been forced to abandon their cargo to preserve their own lives.”

“I’ve been warned about highwaymen,” said Henry slowly. Elizabeth resisted the urge to shoot him a sharp look. He had said nothing to her about such dangers. “What would your acquaintances need from me?”

“They need a place where they could store their shipments in case of emergency. They need an honest fellow willing to allow them to use a remote corner of his property and not ask any questions. In exchange for a regular fee, of course. We can call it rent.”

“I see,” said Henry.

“At lunch I discovered that you’re not a man to meddle in another’s business. I saw that you’re willing to look the other way. That’s what my associates want. I assure you, they’re discreet. You’d never even know they were there, except for the payments delivered to your door on the first of each month, in cash. They can also offer you…protection, should these highwaymen or anyone else cause trouble around your ranch.”

“Your associates will protect
me
?” asked Henry. “They seem to have trouble protecting themselves.”

Peter gave a low chuckle. “I wouldn’t worry about that. They know how to handle people who cross them. So tell me, what’s your price?”

“Sorry, but I can’t help you.” Henry stepped back into the compartment.

“You’re passing up a great opportunity,” Peter cautioned, blocking the door with his foot. “Regular cash payments, powerful friends, and your hands stay clean. Think about it.”

“I don’t need to think about it. I’ve made up my mind. Thanks, but no thanks.”

Henry stood firm until Peter retreated.

“What do you think he was talking about?” said Elizabeth when they had shut and locked the door. “Bootlegging? Guns?”

“I don’t know and I don’t want to know. Whatever it is, I don’t want any part of it on our ranch.” Henry held Elizabeth’s gaze, apprehensive. “Elizabeth, I don’t want to make an enemy of Peter, but I think we should avoid your new friends for the rest of the trip. I also think we should keep our business in California to ourselves from now on.”

“I won’t breathe a word of it until we reach the land office,” said Elizabeth shakily.

They remained in their compartment until the train reached St. Louis. As they pulled into Union Station, Elizabeth glanced through the window and spotted a dozen uniformed police officers lined up along the platform. “Is this a typical Missouri welcome?” she asked Henry as they gathered their bags.

“I doubt it,” he said grimly.