Searching for Home (Spies of Chicago Book 1) (27 page)

“Do you work here? At the factory?” She jutted her chin toward the building.

“Naw.” He rubbed his bread. “I’m a Tabor. The name’s Peter.”

“Then you’re a detective.” Ellen stepped closer.

Peter leaned against the fence. “Hired by McCormick. There’s a couple of us prowling the perimeter. Not that he doesn’t trust the police—let’s just say he wanted a little extra insurance.”

“If you’re for McCormick why are you so willing to talk to me?”

“”Cause, you aren’t a striker.” Peter shrugged.

“Yes, I am. Look at my clothes.”

“That’s how I know. You don’t hold yourself like a worker. You aren’t used to being told what to do. It’s in your eyes and the set of your chin. You’re just some middleclass girl looking for a story to tell.”

Her throat went dry. “How could you know that?”

He tapped his forehead. “Right here. It’s what I’m paid to do, after all. Now, if I were you, I’d skedaddle out of here before that whistle blows.”

As he spoke the shrill signal blew.

Within minutes, the non-union workers were ushered out of the building by a group of burly men who must have been managers. The men walked the stream of shuffling people to the gate. The one who appeared to be the leader fished a key from his pocket.

“Step aside!” he bellowed.

The crowd of strikers parted, but they tossed insults at the non-union labors.

“You’re filth! Taking our jobs.”

“You good as stole food from my children. If they starve tonight, it’s upon your heads.”

“Dogs. Cowardly dogs. You spent the day bowing to the masters.”

The non-union laborers kept their chins to their chests. Their clothes were more tattered than the ones the strikers wore.

Ellen stomped her foot. “Stop! Leave them be. You’ll only get yourselves into trouble.”

Peter stood beside her. “Save your breath. It’s too loud. They can’t hear you.”

As the non-union workers filed through the gateway, the strikers surged forward and hurled more insults. Then someone in the crowd picked up a stone and sent it flying. The rock struck a worker. He cried out.

The police rushed forward. They cocked their guns and shoved a group of strikers into the mud. Other strikers jostled forward and swung at the cops. To Ellen’s horror, the police opened fire on the crowd.

Shots rang out. A scream ripped through the air. Some people dove to the ground and covered their heads. Others took off running.

Ellen froze—her hand over her face so that she peeked at the mayhem between her fingers.

Peter seized her arm and towed her backwards. He placed his body between her and the gunfire.

“I have a wagon waiting in case of an emergency around the side here.” He pressed his mouth close to her ear.

More shots, punctuated by screams.

Peter held out his hand. She grabbed it and they ran along the edge of the fence, away from the fighting mass of people behind them. The wagon came into view, and Ellen stopped to catch her breath. Peter wrapped his arm around her waist and propelled her forward.

He lifted her onto the bench, then scrambled up beside her. When he made a clicking sound with his tongue, the horse shook its mane and started walking. Peter snapped the reins and forced the horse to a trot.

After they were four blocks away from the factory, Peter let loose a long whistle. “My, that was a close call.”

Ellen palmed the moisture off her cheeks. “What about all those people. I saw young children in the crowd.”

“You can’t think about them. They chose to strike. They knew the dangers involved. They knew the city would send a large force to deal with them. I figure there were about four hundred officers there, would you say so?”

Ellen shrugged.

“Believe me—they’re not worth fretting over. Especially when they showed up today, knowing McCormick had reopened the plant and brought in scabs.”

“Scabs?” She’d experienced her share of skinned knees growing up, but had always considered
scab
a disgusting word.

“Replacement workers. They’re cheap. It’s a quick fix to a bigger problem, but they cover it for the time being. Scabs.” He turned down a side street. “Now where to?”

She rattled off her aunt’s address, and he claimed to be familiar with the Danbys’ neighborhood.

Peter elbowed her. “Are you shell-shocked?”

Trying to will away the images of people falling to the ground, Ellen blinked. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m terrified that people are injured back there.”

“Injured?” He laughed. “I’m sure they’ll find some dead bodies. Those people are no good, but I can’t complain. Their plight gives me a stable job.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“Why? If the world was hunky-dory and people were all honest, hard-working, and trusted each other, well, there’d be no reason for detectives to exist. Who would I investigate if no one did anything wrong? These troubles between the factory owners and the working class, it may sound trite, but it pays my bills.”

Ellen crossed her arms.

“Don’t get me wrong. I want to see an end. I don’t want anyone else hurt. And when this is done, there’ll be another problem I’ll be hired to help with.”

He pulled the reins, halting the carriage in front of her aunt’s home.

“Thank you for the ride, sir.” She climbed down without his assistance even though her knees shook from the events she’d witnessed.

“Now, take this.” He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to her. “If you need anything—anything at all—or if you think of a way I can help bring an end to the striking, you just send word to me. All right?”

She rubbed her thumb over the dog-eared card. “I will.”

Chicago, Present Day

Whitney examined the three decorative belts her friend had lent her. She grabbed the sparkling metallic one and clipped it over the imperial blue maxi dress she wore.

A peek out her window promised a late October storm, so she pulled a cream-colored wrap over her bare shoulders. Thankfully, her curls were behaving themselves. She stepped into strappy silver heels.

The digital sound of a phone pinged around the room. Whitney snatched Nate’s phone off the kitchen table. She glanced at the caller ID:
Beth
. He’d forgotten it when he left last night.

Maybe she’d swing by the Historical Foundation on the way home and return it to him. She slipped his cell into her purse. Although, by the time Owen’s shindig at the Palmer House Hotel ended and she drove back to this side of town, the Foundation would be closed.

On her way to the event Nate’s phone rang twice more. Who was Beth? And why did she want to get hold of him so badly? Whitney made her mind play through the possibilities. Perhaps Beth was his stepmother and something horrible had happened to his sisters. In that case, Whitney should answer the phone.

But if Beth turned out to be the ex-girlfriend who had dumped him during his hard time, picking up the call wouldn’t go over so well.

Or it could be a girl interested in him now.

Whitney gripped the steering wheel harder.

He told Gran he didn’t have a girlfriend. So that couldn’t be the case. And he wouldn’t come take care of Whitney when she was sick if he was seeing someone, would he?

Right, because she wasn’t driving half-way across town to see her on hold boyfriend.

She valeted Marta’s Honda Pilot, then entered through the front doors of the Palmer House Hotel. Her breath caught.

Living in Chicago her whole life, she’d never once stepped inside this building. Yesterday when she discovered Ellen had come here, Whitney decided she wanted to see the establishment, too. Sure, the whole place had been through a remodel since Ellen’s time, but the wonder of walking in the same building her ancestor had more than a hundred years ago gave her goosebumps. Owen’s choice of venue couldn’t have been timelier.

After fishing her phone from her small purse, she scrolled through the saved texts to find the one with Owen’s instructions. He said the party would be held in the Honore Ballroom.

She followed the signs, which led her to the second floor and through the grand lobby. The paintings on the vaulted ceiling could have been done by Leonardo Di Vinci himself. If someone told her she had walked straight into a gold mine full of nuggets shining across every inch, it wouldn’t have come as a shock.

Leaving the lobby, she made her way down the hallway toward the Honore Ballroom. Framed photographs of old time performers graced the walls and reminded her again of the days gone by this building had witnessed. She imagined luxurious parties with gloved ladies and bowing men.

When she found the location, there appeared to be more than a hundred people gathered. Whitney strode to the area where drinks were being served and helped herself to a Jasmine pearl tea. She glanced at the giant chandeliers. The lobby had dripped luxury, but this room looked like any at a number of venues people would rent for a wedding reception. Nondescript.

Owen’s mother marched toward her in a red power suit. “Well look at that. You actually showed up on time.”

Whitney tried to smile at the woman. “I take it the fundraiser that the Shedd went well after I left?”

“Oh yes. Owen raised quite a bit. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you, but then the two of you don’t really talk anymore. Now do you?” Mrs. Taylor shook her head.

Whitney sipped her tea to avoid making eye contact.

“Tell me, have you found a way for us to gloss over your terrible past in case he’s asked a question in an interview?”

Whitney sighed. “I’m still looking.” She scanned the crowd, trying to will Owen to find her like James had found Ellen in her time of need.

His mother mumbled something, but Whitney couldn’t understand her.

A group of people parted and she saw Owen. Even dressed in a suit he oozed an easy approachability. One would think he still wore his minor league baseball uniform underneath the finery. When he turned to join another conversation, Whitney noticed a girl on his arm.

She squinted. Make that a very beautiful girl on his arm.

“Who’s that with Owen?”

“You mean Vera? She’s his intern at the office, and such a sweet girl. She’s majoring in political science at Elmhurst College.”

Whitney ditched her cup on a nearby table. “She’s still in college?”

“She comes from a very prestigious family. Her parents own a hockey team in Canada, named after some woodland animal.” Mrs. Taylor straightened her suit coat. “I see one of the aldermen’s I needed to speak to is free, please excuse me.”

When his mother left, Whitney contemplated going to Owen’s side. But she’d never mastered the art of breaking into established conversations. Whitney bit her lip. Vera may be pretty, but Owen wasn’t the cheating type.

That wasn’t her worry. It bothered her more that Vera fit beside Owen so well. She was keeping up a conversation with the people around her while Owen talked to others. Vera pulled more people into the conversation and made introductions to Owen. Whitney was never able to function at these events as effortlessly as Vera was.

Picking a table, Whitney took a seat to observe from. She watched Owen as he worked the room with Vera at his side. He seemed so natural, making people laugh, and offering handshakes to the men. Even at such a young age, Owen would make an excellent mayor.

He joined a gaggle of women who all fawned over him. Again, without a smidge of jealousy, Whitney looked on. She scanned the room. Each woman’s hair looked professionally done. Their dresses must have cost hundreds. Whitney tugged on her dress. Hopefully it didn’t scream department store discount.

They all seemed so confident. People piled shrimp and caviar onto their appetizer plates.

She hated shrimp and caviar. Whatever happened to biscuits and butter? What she wouldn’t give for a waffle.

Then a thought hit her straight in the heart: she didn’t belong here. Never had.

Owen might care for her, and she wished the best for him, but this wasn’t the life she wanted. She couldn’t mingle with strangers night after night. And she didn’t want to.

A life with the stability Owen offered wouldn’t be worth giving up love. And for the first time in her life, she didn’t want to settle for a man who didn’t love her. Owen didn’t. In her heart she’d known that all along.

Whitney gathered her purse and tucked her wrap around her shoulders, and then she walked out of the room. She made it fifteen paces down the hallway before Owen caught up to her.

He called her name and she stopped, but didn’t face him.

Owen reached for her hand. “Where are you off to?”

She crossed her arms, tucking both her hands away. “I’m going home.”

“You’re still not feeling well?” His brows furrowed. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“I just—I think it’s over between us.”

Some of his supporters walked past, he plastered his politician smile on for them. Then he pressed his hand to the small of her back and ushered her into the nearby stairwell.

“Don’t be upset, babe. I swear I was making my way over to you. I saw you at the table, but there were a few more people I needed to talk to and—”

“But that’s just it.” She lifted her chin to meet his eyes. “There will always be one more person to talk to, one more meeting to attend, one more event to plan, one more speaking engagement.”

“I thought you understood what I wanted.” Owen grabbed the stair railing and his knuckle went white.

“I do,” she whispered. “Don’t you see? What you want isn’t me—not really—and I don’t want to settle for that.”

“So, are you saying you want me to quit? Because I can’t go in there and tell all those people I’m dropping out.” He made a sweeping motion with his hand. “Haven’t you seen the numbers?” Owen came down a step closer to her. “There’s a good chance I’ll win.”

She touched the top of his hand. “If you drop out I can’t vote for you.” She smiled. “I want you to win too. This has nothing to do with the election. I’m not the girl for you, Owen.”

He grabbed her elbows, pulling her back to the landing. “But shouldn’t I be the one to decide that? Listen Whitney, I know our relationship has been through the wringer lately. With that story about your family and with how busy I’ve been, I know that’s been rough. I promise you, the second the election is over we can spend all the time together that you want.” In the year she’d known him, the only times she’d seen him this passionate was during a speech or when he talked baseball.