Hannah Grace (23 page)

Rubbing his freshly shaven face, Rufus McCurdy surveyed the little restaurant for an available table. He hoped his new duds, complete with tweed trousers, Western shirt and bow tie, and brand-new socks and shoes would conceal his identity. A new wool coat hung loosely over his arm, his handsome new hat dangling off his hand. The same hand that had made a clean sweep over his smooth face now combed through his fresh haircut as he took a deep breath, trying to appear calm.

A few heads turned when he closed the door behind him, the "OPEN" placard that was hanging by a chain flapping against the glass. Out the corner of his eye, he noted whether any patrons appeared overly interested in his presence, then quickly relaxed when they all returned their attentions to their breakfasts.

"Table over in the corner," a man behind the serving counter ordered, pointing with his spatula. The cook? It must have been, for he wore an apron bearing witness to splattered grease, catsup, and mustard. Rufus nodded his thanks and made a path through the densely arranged tables. Now and then, someone acknowledged him with half a nod or a silent, disinterested glance. He pulled back a spindly chair and sat down, glad to have a corner table where he could keep an eye on customers coming and going.

Where is that scrawny old thing who owns this place? Eva somethin' or other. As if she'd heard his private thought, Eva appeared from behind a closed door, three heaping plates balanced on her skinny arms, and maneuvered her way to a table near him. Plunking the plates down in front of three men in business attire, each one smoking a pungent cigar, she promptly headed for the coffee pot, then came back to refill their cups. The one with his back to Rufus thanked her profusely, then drew her down to him and whispered something in her ear. She slapped him on the shoulder and snickered. Without delay, she moved over to Rufus next. He had wondered whether she'd noticed him. Must have eyes in the back of 'er head, he ruled. Setting down the coffee pot on the empty table next to him, she removed a pad of paper from her pocket and a pencil from behind her ear.

"What ken I get y, mister?" she asked, gaze fixed on her pad.

"Is that feller here you was tellin' me'bout yesterday?"

She jerked her head up and angled him a beady stare. "I cain't recall ever talkin' to you. Not yesterday, anyhow."

It gave him a powerful rush to know that his disguise had worked. He sat up a little straighter, pride welling up, and thumbed the navy suspenders that helped hold up his tweed trousers. "Guess I clean up good, huh?"

She stepped back and tilted her face, giving him a hawklike stare. Then, she lowered her pointy chin in confusion. "When was y' in here?"

"Yesterday, 'round two. Had me a big bowl o' bean soup."

Looking skeptical, she asked. "What's yer name?"

"S-Smith," he stammered, caught off guard. Drat! I couldn't come up with somethin' more original? "Gomer Smith," At least the first name had a unique ring. "I come from up in Iowa," Is Iowa up? "I tol' y' I was on the lookout for my cousin's kid. Seems he disappeared a few months back, and they's, uh, there's a whole bunch of us out searchin' for 'im, includin' the law."

It was downright difficult keeping his speech half decent, not to mention his lack of know-how hidden.

She sank her second finger into her hollow cheek, as if waiting for something to register. Suddenly, her little brown eyes popped. "Ah, you! Now, I remember." She tilted her face and studied him further. "Yep, you plumb changed, all right, got yerself a haircut and-and what else? Y' shaved! Well, I'll be,"

He nodded, wanting to get on with things. Her loud, raspy voice rallied a few customers, causing their heads to raise and turn. His nerves set to jangling.

"Y' want some coffee?" she asked, pouring before he had a chance to say he'd rather have tomato juice. He'd already had three cups of stiff, black brew back at the camp.

"So, yer lookin' for that kid, eh? Yeah, Vanderslute's here t'day. Right there, matter o' fact," She turned her body and pointed. "Hey, George! Man here wants to talk t' you."

Two tables over, the fellow with his back to Rufus, the one who'd whispered something in Eva's ear, swiveled on his chair, a half-smoked cigar hanging out from under his pencilthin mustache. "What's that?" he asked, sticking the cigar in an ashtray.

"This feller's got some questions for y' 'bout that kid that was hangin"round here way back in August."

"Oh yeah? Don't know as I can tell you anything. That was a while ago." The man pushed back in his chair, rose, and came directly to his table, perching over him with owl eyes.

"George, this here's Gomer Smith. Hails from Iowa. What city did you say yo'r from?" she asked.

Horse hockey! City? I don't know no stinkin' cities in Iowa.

George leaned forward, looking keenly interested.

"Well now-I didn't tell you-and for good reason," he blurted, fishing in his shallow head for the good reason.

Both Eva and George stared at him intently and waited while nothing but the sounds of gabbing patrons, shuffling newspapers, and grating forks and knives came between them.

Before Rufus made an even bigger fool of himself, George grabbed his hand and gave it a hearty shake. "Well now, Aunt Eva, it's not important what city he comes from. What's important here is ar good manners." His mouth slanted into a grin, and, quick as a steal trap, he pulled out a chair and sat down. Rufus wasn't sure if he should relax or keep his guard up good and high. He clasped his hands in a tight knot and plopped them in the center of the table, then quickly thought better of it and stuck them in his lap. Tarnation! I wouldn't know good manners if they up and bit me in the backside.

`Aunt Eva, bring this here man a big plate of bacon and eggs. That suit you, uh, uh-?"

Rufus had to think a minute. "Gomer," he supplied. Then, to Eva, he affirmed, "Yeah, that's fine."

Eva hobbled off as fast as her wrinkled old body would take her.

"Ah, sorry 'bout that, Gomer. Rememberin' names is one of my bad points."

"Yeah, I know what y' mean."

"Now then, what's your interest in that little fugitive?"

Rufus proceeded to weave a tale he'd only half thought out ahead of time. Dim-witted, he was, for not plotting out his words more carefully. What must this George fella think of me? he wondered. But George's questions fueled his lies, lending him confidence to continue, and, by the time he finished, his zigzagged story seemed to stretch about as far as the Mississippi River.

"Well, I'll tell y' what," George finally said, leaning back in his chair to stretch out his legs, hands fastened behind his head. "I do believe that kid was here, all right. 'Bout so tall, dark-haired thing, skinny little mongrel. Eight or nine, mebbe. Dirty and scruffy, too. What's the kid's name?"

"Name don't matter. That's him, though. You described him to a tee," Rufus said, sure of it, heart pumping blood faster than his veins could handle.

George shook his head, deflating his hopes. "Can't say where he might've taken off to, though. Humph." His head kept up a constant back and forth shaking until finally he paused and lowered his chin. "Unless..." He straightened, put a finger to his cheek in deep thought, then started nodding. "Yeah, that could be it," he said, talking to himself.

"What?" Rufus asked, nearly coming off his chair with nervous excitement.

"I don't want to get your hopes up." George chewed on his lower lip and gazed across the table at Rufus. For just an instant, Rufus felt baited, but he didn't care.

"What? What was y' goin' to tell me?"

"Well, there was this stranger comin' through town. Think he said he was moving to Sandy Shores. He, uh, took a job at a-a lumbering outfit. Yeah, that's it. Lumbering. Anyway, he was asking questions about that boy, and, come to think of it, once that stranger moved on, I never did see that boy again."

Just after eleven o'clock that morning, Rufus rode into camp. "Mount up, you big lazybones. We're headin' fer Sandy Shores."

The boys all scrambled to their feet, wiped the slumber from their eyes, and stared gape-mouthed at Rufus.

"Pa! What happened to y'?" Roy asked, voice wavering with shock.

"What do y' mean?"

"You look all-all spiffed."

"Y' hardly look like y'rself, Pa," Luis whined. "What'd y' go and do t' yerself?"

"Where'd y' get them new clothes?" Reuben groused. "I thought you said we didn't have no money t' waste. And y' got a new coat an' hat." Envy shone in his clouded eyes.

Rufus sneered. "It was all fer a good cause. Stop y'r bellyaching, all of you. Now, mount up, and I'll tell you all about it on the way. Things is lookin' up, boys. I got a good feelin' this time."

Under his breath, but just loud enough for his father to hear, Reuben muttered, "Yeah, that's what you always say."

our stories tall, Culver House Hotel represented all that was the best and most progressive in the hotel world, particularly for a modest town like Sandy Shores.

Having been destroyed in the fire of 1889, along with at least fifty other businesses and homes in a five-block area, Culver House rose from the ashes to reopen just two years later, perhaps not as large or flamboyant as the first building, but every bit as tastefully elegant. Sandy Shores' citizens were nothing if they weren't full of grit and gumption, so soon after the fire, they had gathered for town meetings in City Hall to plan their strategy for rebuilding. Nothing happened overnight, but now, four years later, the ordinary visitor would have no inkling that a fire had wiped out a good share of the northeast section of the downtown area.

Ralston and Hannah passed through the veranda on the Third Street side and entered Culver House's welcoming lobby through the glass double door. A blast of warm air greeted them, a welcome relief from the chilly night. Leather easy chairs and potted plants graced the room, where, suspended from the ceiling, three oversized chandeliers gleamed and glistened, their light reflecting off the elegant marble floor. Ralston put his hand to the center of Hannah's back and guided her across the large room toward the dining area, past the broad, massive oak staircase, the Western Union Office, a cigar room, a barbershop, and several small conference rooms with shiny oblong tables and matching chairs. It was a lovely place, and Ralston insisted on bringing Hannah here every weekend. She would have been just as happy to eat at the Lighthouse Restaurant, but it fell far beneath Ralston's standards. And, because of his high standards, it never bore mentioning that Marie's Ice Cream Parlor would be a wonderful place to stop after dinner.

Hannah's sturdy heels click-clacked across the marble floors, the sound echoing off the walls and high ceilings. She removed her heavy shawl and bonnet and lifted her yellow satin skirts past her ankles to take the two steps up to the restaurant level, Ralston's firm hand cupping her elbow and nearly squeezing the lifeblood from it. She was thankful when he finally released it.

"Good evening, Dr. Van Huff, Miss Kane," Dressed all in black, a white towel draped over one arm, the maitre d' greeted them, friendly only insofar as his professional status would permit.

"Good evening, Peter," Ralston said, his tone cool and cavalier. "We'd like our usual table, please."