The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (29 page)

He ordered from the bartender before Patricio could say a word. At the
back of the bar a piano player launched into the song that summarized the
ending of the war, ‘Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag and Smile, Smile,
Smile.’

“Fifteen states have ratified the stupid prohibition idea already,”
Hastings was saying. “The rest have it coming up for a vote in the next few
months.”

Heavy glasses with golden brown liquid appeared before them.

“Here’s to the rest of ’em seeing the light and defeating the damn
thing,” Hastings said, raising his glass. A half-dozen others in the bar joined
in.

Patricio let the tepid liquid burn a path down his throat. He’d never
had anything quite like it.

“Where you from?” Hastings asked.

“New Mexico. You?”

“New Mexico—is that a state? Me, I come from Chicago. My family’s on
the north shore there, father in real estate. Mother spends his money. One
sister, my little
dollface
. I haven’t seen her in two
years and she’s probably turned out to be a real beauty by now. Deborah is her
name.”

“I have a sister, too—”

“Yeah, my father’s got a spot for me in the family business already.
Can’t wait to get back and start raking in some of those post-war profits.” He
raised his refilled glass and gave Patricio a stare that seemed intended to
mean something.

A light rain was falling when they left
O’Ryan’s
.
Patricio turned up his collar, the overwhelming crowds and noise assaulting his
senses once more.

“Hey, you staying somewhere in town?” Franklin asked as they huddled
under the bar’s narrow awning.

“I had planned to catch the first train to Santa Fe.”

“Well, there’s nothing direct from here. You want the Santa Fe DeLuxe
out of Chicago. It’s a weekly and they treat you right. Tell you what—let’s
catch the overnighter out of Grand Central, you stay over with me until
Thursday and then we’ll have you on your way.”

“That’s too much imposition—”

“Nonsense! You’re a fellow doughboy. My parents are gonna love you.
Nothing too good for my comrades. Besides, you’ll be going that way anyhow.
Like I said, really no better way to do it.”

Franklin Hastings obviously knew his way around and it seemed so much
easier than trying to figure out all the logistics on his own. Patricio felt
himself acquiescing.

Franklin was scanning the traffic on the street, ignoring the
horse-drawn hansoms, spotting a bright yellow motorcar. He stepped off the
sidewalk and hailed it, swinging the door open; Patricio tried not to be
obvious about the fact that this was his first experience with a taxi cab.
Before he knew it, Franklin had whipped out some cash and paid for both the
taxi and the train tickets at the ornate Grand Central Terminal. People stepped
aside when they saw the two uniformed men and the railroad clerk upgraded their
tickets to the first class coach at no extra cost. Patricio wanted to protest
that he was no one special but Franklin reminded him of the time spent in the
trenches and how he had sustained an injury.

“Never sell yourself short,” he said as they took their seats. “Someone
wants to do something nice for you, you accept it.”

Patricio leaned into the padded seat, exhaustion suddenly enveloping
him.

* * *

Chicago. Big. Dirty. Notorious. Patricio caught the bold headlines on the
city’s three newspapers as he and Franklin Hastings exited the train station.
Four murders overnight. The papers almost glorified them.

“This way,” said Franklin. “We’ll grab a cab and surprise the family.”

The building where they stopped towered above the crowded sidewalk with
an ornate face of cool gray stone, polished marble floors in the lobby.

“Hey, Harry!” Franklin greeted the elevator operator.

“Mr. Hastings, sir. So good to see you home safe and sound.” The
elderly man stood respectfully still, but Franklin wrapped his arms around him
in a boisterous hug.

At the sixteenth floor the polished brass door opened to a small lobby
with a heavy, paneled door beyond.

“This is us,” said Franklin. “Don’t have my keys so I guess we’ll
ring.”

A uniformed Negro maid opened the door, her large dark eyes rolling
upward as she took in their uniforms.

“My lord! Mr. Franklin!”

Her shriek drew attention. A man, a forty-year-old version of Franklin,
stepped into the foyer from a side room. His eyes widened as he rushed forward
to clasp his son’s hand. The woman who followed him burst into tears when she
saw them. Patricio took a step backward, feeling a little awkward; this should
have been a private family moment. But Franklin turned toward him.

“My new friend, Patricio Sanchez. He served at Belleau Wood.”

“Oh, my,” said Mrs. Hastings. “We read about that one in the papers.
Are you all right? You seem to be limping. Now come right inside and sit down.
We were just having our morning coffee. Mattie—get more cups and saucers,
please. You boys just drop your bags here for now.”

The maid rushed away and Patricio realized that Mrs. Hastings wanted to
take his arm so he extended his elbow. She subtly guided him to a room with
high ceilings, large windows and velvet draperies that hung to the floor. A rug
covered the marble floor, a richly patterned thing in shades of red and blue. A
brisk fire in the marble-faced fireplace took the chill away and tall bookcases
flanked both sides of it. Two sofas with richly embroidered red fabric faced
each other and a silver coffee service sat on a table between them. He had
never seen anyplace like it.

Movement caught his attention and he stopped cold. Rising from the end
of one sofa was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and she was regarding
him quite frankly. Blonde hair that must have been borrowed from an angel, blue
eyes whose irises were rimmed just faintly in a deep gray. He blushed when she
stood. A woman’s ankles and clinging, filmy material were unfamiliar sights—how
fashions had changed!

“Frankie!” she shouted, racing toward them with outstretched arms. “Oh,
you’re home, you’re home!”

“I am, Deb. Finally.” He lifted her off the floor and twirled around
with his arms wrapped around her waist.

When he came to a stop he set her down and turned toward Patricio.

“Meet my sister—Deborah. Sis, this is Patricio.”

“Patricio? Oh, come on … you need an American name now. I’ll call you
Patrick.”

Patricio didn’t even think to object. He was lost in those blue eyes.
She reached for his hand and pulled him toward the sofas as the maid returned
with a small tray containing cups, saucers and another silver pot of fresh
coffee.

“Patrick comes from New Mexico,” Franklin was saying. “He’ll stay with
us until the next Santa Fe DeLuxe leaves.”

“Oh, dear, the DeLuxe stopped service last year.” Mrs. Hastings turned
toward Patricio. “I’m afraid they’ve only first-class service to offer now. I
do hope that will be all right.”

“Too bad, old man. The DeLuxe always greeted the ladies with an orchid
corsage and the gents with a tooled leather wallet.” Franklin had already
reverted away from Army talk, had become more formal, Patricio noticed.

 
“But it’s wonderful that you’ll
be in Chicago a few extra days,” Deborah sat across from him now and the blue
eyes were constantly on him. “And do you know—since you wouldn’t be able to
make it home before Thanksgiving, I think you should stay and have it with us.
Wouldn’t that be perfect, Mummy? A war hero as our guest.”

Although nothing had been said, she must have noticed the medals on his
uniform. He started to protest, to talk about how he had really not earned the
medals. But these people didn’t want to hear of death and bombs and hospitals
full of damaged men. The ladies were already talking about decorations for the
holiday table. He accepted a cup of coffee that smelled like heaven and leaned
back against the sofa’s puffy cushion.

“We heard that the great pandemic flu had come to Chicago,” Franklin
said to his father. “You never said, was the household affected?”

“Oh, no. We were fine—went to the country place for a few weeks, even
the servants. I’m sure your mother wrote you … must be a letter that never
caught up with you.”

Deborah spoke up. “It was deadly dull, I’ll tell you. But then the city
was deadly dull as well. They closed the theaters, cancelled concerts, even
some of the shops shut down for awhile. There was absolutely nothing to do, and
one didn’t dare even ride the trains out of fear—the germs were simply
everywhere.”

“I suppose that’s pretty much over with now,” said Franklin.

“Oh, yes. We’re all back up to our usual tricks.” The blue eyes
twinkled and her smile revealed one eyetooth just a tiny bit crooked. Patricio
felt his heart flutter.

“Well, I am certain that you boys would love a hot bath and the chance
to unpack before luncheon. Use the afternoon to rest, after that long train
trip, then we’ll meet for drinks at seven and dinner at eight.” Mrs. Hastings
stood to signal that she had other things to do.

They all rose.

Patricio and Franklin retrieved their Army duffle bags from the foyer
and headed for the stairs.

“I’m not sure about this,” Patricio said. “I don’t have any suitable
clothes for dinners and such. And I can’t really afford to go shopping.”

“Oh, nonsense. We’ll rummage up something of Father’s. You’re very
close to his size.” He said it as if this were no problem at all.

Patricio trailed one stair behind. He could wear borrowed clothing for
a few days until the train left. Unless he really did accept Deborah’s
suggestion that he stay for Thanksgiving. He found himself attracted to the
idea.

“You’ll be in here and I’m right up the hall, two doors away.” Franklin
interrupted his thoughts. “Bathroom is right through that connecting door …
plenty of blankets on the beds but if you want a fire just say so. Normally
they’re lit first thing in the morning before we all go out. Otherwise, it’s
just the central heat here in the radiators but sometimes it’s a little
spotty.”

Patricio walked into the room, decorated in shades of green with a high
bed piled with luxurious-looking linens. Central heat? He wasn’t even sure what
that was. He thought of his family’s cozy adobe with its one fireplace and the
thick walls, which kept the place warm in winter and cool in summer. He dropped
his duffle bag on the bed and peered into the bathroom. A flushing toilet, a
deep, claw-footed tub, a handsome basin with both hot and cold water taps.

He had just pulled everything from his bag, finding a hanger in the
tall armoire for his spare uniform and stuffing used underclothes back into the
duffle, when a tap came at the door. Without waiting for a response, Franklin
opened it and peered around the edge.

“Brought you a few things. Try them on. If they don’t fit properly we
can have them altered. Father’s put on a few pounds …” he patted his stomach “…
but these did fit him a few years ago. I do believe you are exactly the same
height, though.” He handed over the garments and left without another word.

The items consisted of a tweed suit with shirt and vest, a simple
tuxedo (apparently dressing for dinner was expected), and a good quality
overcoat. Patricio looked down at his scuffed Army boots, his only footwear.
Equally shabby-looking was Roberto’s carved wooden box. He ran his sleeve over
it to give it a little shine. So many months, so many events since he and
Roberto had walked the streets of that little French village, eaten cookies
from this box, read mail from home together. He thought of Emelia but could
hardly remember her face anymore. Too much had intervened.

“Meant to suggest,” said Franklin—he had not closed the door behind
him. “You’re welcome to browse through my closet for shoes. Come along now, if
you’d like.”

Fifteen minutes later, Patricio found himself completely outfitted for
going out in public (although he could have certainly worn his Army uniform on
the streets) and for the nightly dinner ritual. He closed himself away in his
assigned room and sat on the edge of the bed, nervous about getting through it
all.

A chime rang at seven o’clock, signaling the gathering for cocktails.
Patricio had fallen into a deep sleep shortly after Franklin left the borrowed
clothes, apparently missed lunch with the family, and had awakened only when
his new friend tapped at the door an hour ago to make sure he was all right and
would be joining them for dinner. He’d spent the hour figuring out all the
parts to the tuxedo. A manservant who introduced himself as Hughes came by and
righted the few bits he’d gotten wrong.

He followed the sound of voices and came into the same room where
coffee had been served that morning, to discover another addition to the group.
A female guest named Catherine (‘the family calls me Cat’) Bates; he quickly
figured out she was an old girlfriend of Franklin’s. The two of them drifted
toward the windows, apparently to take in the city lights along the shoreline
of the lake, leaving Patricio to make conversation with the elder Hastings and
Deborah. It didn’t prove to be a problem as she took the lead.