Fatal February, A Historical Mystery Novel: The Calendar Mysteries, #2

By Juliet Kincaid

Fatal February, A Historical Mystery Novel by Juliet Kincaid

It's February 7, 1900, and Minty Wilcox is hard at work typing up the most recent report of Daniel Price, a detective for Price Investigations. Then, into the office walks Alpha Ledgard, daughter of a local factory owner. Miss Ledgard tells Minty that a worker has gone missing and she wants the agency to find the girl. Minty longs to help. But her boss forbids her to take part in cases except as to type reports. He also orders her to stay on a strictly formal basis with his nephew, Daniel Price. (No office romance allowed!) But Minty decides to defy her boss and go undercover to find the girl, who may have come to harm. Daniel Price helps Minty investigate, but he also hinders her with outrageous flirtation and other ploys. And, as she digs into the case, Minty comes into danger herself. Will Daniel rescue her? Will Minty even let him try? Read Fatal February to find out.

Snippet from Fatal February

"Miss Alpha Ledgard of Digby, Ledgard, and Smith Dry Goods Company needs our help in locating one of their workers, a young girl, who's been missing for several days. I took down the information about where the girl was last seen, and when. I included a description of her." Minty bit her lip and forged on. "Given the situation, I've concluded that you need a female to investigate."

Mr. Mathison, the office manager, lurched toward her, like a bulldog about to attack. "No, Miss Wilcox, it will not suit," he growled. "It's not your job to interview a potential client, Miss Wilcox."

"Of course, it isn't, sir," Minty said. "But Miss Ledgard was so very forthcoming that I thought you'd appreciate my jotting down the details. Just to save you time, of course. And by the by, I think the reputation of Digby, Ledgard and Smith speaks for itself. So, we only need to do a brief potential-client investigation, if one is required at all."

Daniel Price's soft chuckle earned a scowl from his uncle and the warning: "Stay out of this, Dan, unless you want to work at the office in Anchorage your grandfather is considering opening."

"It's very cold in the Alaska Territory this time of year, Uncle."

"Pack your woolens, my boy."

"But I'd happily go there if Miss Wilcox worked there, too."

The compliment made Minty blush and brought another glare of cornflower blue eyes.

"None of that, Dan," said Mr. Mathison who continued with . . .

 

Praise for Fatal February, Book 2 of the Calendar Mystery series

In the year 1900, Minty Wilcox has been hired by a private detective agency, her on again/off again beau's employer, as a stenographer. For this spunky gal, typing and taking shorthand aren't enough. She wants to be an operative. So, of course, author Juliet Kincaid, accommodates her protagonist by letting her delve into a missing person/murder case, sometimes sanctioned, but often not, by her boss. The ins and outs of the investigation, Minty's romantic ups and downs, and her inside out family situations are fun to follow. It's also interesting to learn about the physical layout and the social customs of Kansas City at the turn of the last century. Good follow-up to January Jinx, the first mystery in the series.

Juliet Kincaid's Calendar Mystery stories and novels tell the story of Minty Wilcox and Daniel Price from newly met to newlywed and beyond in Kansas City, a place that could get downright deadly a century or so ago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Juliet Kincaid
• Release date: Jul 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201492991

Juliet Kincaid

I’ve been hooked on fiction since grade school. And I’ve always preferred stories that supply adventure and escape. Humor and wit help, too. I try to write the same sort of stories and novels as the ones I like to read. In addition to the Calendar Mystery series, my published work includes the Cinderella, P. I. Fairy Tale Mysteries for grown-ups that feature Cinderella as a detective twenty years, three kids, and a few extra pounds after the ball. (Happy endings guaranteed.) My stories and novels are available as eBooks and trade paperbacks. I have also written and published Novel Basics, a concise yet complete guide to writing a novel. My daughter, Jessica Kincaid, the bead artist, and I live in a house filled with books, mostly detective fiction, just a few miles from where Minty Wilcox and Daniel Price have their adventures in the Calendar Historical Mystery stories and novels. You can contact me at juliet@julietkincaid. com, Juliet_Kincaid on Goodreads, JulietKincaid on Twitter, and JulietKincaidauthor2016 and juliet.kincaid on Facebook. To find out what work I currently have available, sign up for notifications at https://books2read.com/author/juliet-kincaid/subscribe/1/305166/

Book preview

FATAL FEBRUARY

Book 2 of the Calendar Mysteries

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Mystery and romance in old Kansas City,

a place that could get downright deadly

a hundred years or so ago

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JULIET KINCAID

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AzureSky Press, LLC

AZP

Fatal February © 2015 by Juliet Willman Kincaid. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Juliet Kincaid except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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978-0-9961604-1-4 (trade paperback)

AzureSky Press, LLC

Overland Park, KS

Copyright © 2015

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Cover by Juliet Kincaid

Cover Photo from Victorian Fashion in America

Kristina Harris, editor

Mineola, NY: Dover Publications, Inc. 2002. Print.

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Fatal February is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, and persons, living or dead, and their animals is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

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To my father,

Homer Dale Willman, Sr.

who talked me through this book

Fatal February

Book 2 of the Calendar Mysteries

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Also by Juliet Kincaid

Historical Notes

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Chapter One

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Early morning

Wednesday February 7, 1900

Kansas City, Missouri

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February 6, 1900—Tuesday

A CAR KILLS A SCHOOL GIRL

Little Hortense Petty Horribly Mangled

On the Northeast Line

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Hortense, the 12-year-old daughter of Wilfred Petty of 4116 St. John Avenue, was killed by an electric car at St. John and Jackson Avenues, almost directly in front of her own home at 8:30 o’clock this morning.

The little girl was on her way to school with her brother, Willy, 9 years old. They attended the Scarritt School, the little girl being in the fifth grade. There is no sidewalk along the north side of St. John Avenue west of Jackson and the two children were walking westward in the street along the north side of the track. The little boy says they heard no car coming. The cars run swiftly there, the neighbors say.

Just before the children reached Jackson Avenue, the little girl being at the left of her brother and a little in advance, started across the first car track. Just as she was stepping over the last rail of the first track the westbound car, running at high speed, struck her.

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The man reading the previous evening’s newspaper lowered it to his lap. Across the bedroom a woman huddled against the wall. The lamplight transformed her red skirt into a pool of blood on the carpet around her.

That would work and well, the man thought. People constantly blundered onto the tracks of Kansas City’s streetcars, cable cars, and railway trains. The schoolgirl was the first of the month to die in that way, but undoubtedly not the last.

Not if he had anything to say about it at least.

He glanced over his shoulder at the rumpled bed and then at the girl. Get up. You’re not hurt all that bad.

I’m sorry, sir. I’m not sure—

I told you to get up.

Yes, sir, she said in her light, pretty voice and began a long, slow climb to standing, first her left foot, then hands flat on the floor as she got her right foot under her, but also on the hem of her dress. Still crouching, she yanked the red cloth out from under her scuffed shoe, and straightened, but never fully. Propping herself against the wall, she folded her arms across her hips and moaned softly.

Quit your belly aching.

Okay.

When she glanced toward the door, he said, You’re not leaving until I’m good and ready.

But, sir, she blubbered.

Don’t worry. I’ll see that you get home. It wasn’t his plan to take her home, but she wasn’t to know that.

He’d made a mistake with this one.

The others hadn’t mattered. But someone might care about this girl, a pretty thing with red hair. People might come looking for her, and if they found her alive, she might tell them what he’d done. That would never do.

Besides, she was ruined now, quite ruined. Why, if she knew what he planned, she’d probably thank him for ending her misery.

But evening was hours away and he needed darkness. Meanwhile, there was the bed and there was the girl. The newspaper dropped to the floor as he stood.

Then, quite by chance, somewhere nearby a train sounded its whistle, its great metal wheels rumbled on the tracks, and he smiled. She surprised him by smiling in return.

<> <> <>

Mid-morning

Wednesday February 7, 1900

New England Building

Kansas City, Missouri

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That morning, at her desk at Price Investigations, Minty Wilcox pounded the keys of her old Remington typewriter. She stopped and lifted the carriage of the blind strike machine to check the date on the report from earlier in the week that she was typing.

Did I get it right? she asked herself. Yes, she had. She had typed Monday February 5, 1900, and not the 1899 that she’d typed more times than she cared to admit even this far into the year.

Minty would give a tooth for a new front strike Oliver typewriting machine like the one belonging to Mrs. Bradford, the senior typist of the office. The Oliver let you check your work with a quick glance instead of stopping and pushing the carriage up every time.

But Price Investigations had bought only one Oliver—so far. Minty lifted her head to look at the desk in front of hers. It held Mrs. Bradford’s machine folded away inside. Minty didn’t have permission to touch it, so she might as well not even think about it. Besides, she couldn’t change machines in the middle of a report.

Minty lowered the carriage of the Remington and resumed touch-typing as she read the field notes of detective Daniel Price in regard to a young man applying for a cashier’s position in the New England Safe Deposit and Trust downstairs.

Minty smiled sadly to think that typewriting operatives’ reports was the closest she’d gotten to becoming a detective herself for Price Investigations in the year she’d worked at the agency.

Not for want of trying.

Indeed, every sixteenth of the month, or the closest workday to the anniversary of her being hired as a stenographer/typist, she knocked at the door to George Mathison’s private office, entered at his beck and call, and asked if the general manager of the Kansas City branch had given any thought to making her a detective. Every month he said, It’s not a proper job for a female, Miss Wilcox.

Gosh, Mr. Mathison is stubborn, Minty said as she resumed typing. But I’m stubborn, too, she thought.

Abruptly, Minty leaned close to the handwritten report she was transcribing. What was that word Daniel had written? Pearl Street or Peery? Usually Daniel wrote in a clear, dark hand, but rain or melted snow had blurred the letters. Probably it was Peery, just east of downtown, not Pearl, very far east. Minty leaned even closer to the page and saw the faint tail of the y.

Well, figuring that out was detection in a way, she thought.

Hello! someone said and Minty looked up to see a woman with light brown hair peeking in the door to the hall.

Good morning, miss, Minty said. May I help you?

The woman pushed the door open and stepped in. Tall, she wore a deep green coat but no hat and gloves. I, I, I’m not sure. I think I need a detective.

I’m sorry. Mr. Mathison, the office manager, isn’t in yet.

Oh, well, then, I’m sorry to bother you. She pulled the door toward her as she backed out.

Now, Mr. Mathison strictly upheld the policy that employees of Price Investigations should never discourage potential clients for fear they might take their business and themselves to the Pinkerton National Detective Agency at the corner of Seventh and Main.

Please, come in, Minty said. Mr. Mathison should arrive any time now. You can wait in his office.

The woman fumbled with the buttons down the front of her well-made coat. The left side of the collar stood higher than the right and the placket gaped at her waist where she’d missed a button altogether. I came away so suddenly. It’s just that, just that . . . The woman burst into tears. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just that one of our girls is missing.

A missing girl? Minty said. Well, you’ve come to the right place. Price Investigations specializes in locating missing persons.

Minty stood and went around Mrs. Bradford’s desk. Taking the woman by the elbow, she guided her through the open door into Mr. Mathison’s private office, bathed with cool, wintry light streaming through the south windows and those of the distinctive six-bay of the oriel in the corner of the room. The oriel held Mr. Mathison’s club chair and ottoman, a smoking stand, and a sadly drooping Boston fern. Newspapers littered the seat of Mathison’s chair, the ottoman, and most of the floor. Two more club chairs sat with their backs to the south windows.

Minty shut the door firmly to keep the woman from leaving and led the woman to the closest club chair. Minty helped the woman sit down.

I beg your pardon, miss, the woman whispered. I’m really not one to cry for little reason. Her head bowed, the woman sniffed. But I am so worried about Katie.

Minty probably should have left the woman to wait alone for Mr. Mathison. After all, Minty wasn’t supposed to be in Mathison’s private office unless he was also present or, in his absence, she’d come in to answer the candlestick telephone that sat on his desk.

But no telling when he would arrive. Meanwhile, the visitor might bolt out the door and travel down Main to the Pinkerton office, the single eye of its painted logo glaring from the window and its slogan declaring, We Never Sleep.

Well, Minty wasn’t asleep either.

Please make yourself at home, miss, she said. I’ll return right away. Minty ducked out the door, sped across the office, plucked her stenographer’s notebook and a pencil off her desk, and raced back into Mr. Mathison’s inner sanctum.

Minty went over to the conference table and pulled one of the straight chairs tucked under it over to the leather chair. She usually did that when she took notes for Mr. Mathison because she could cross her legs and prop her notebook on her knee.

I’ve forgotten my manners, the woman said. I’m Alpha Ledgard. Her smile transformed what Minty had thought a plain face into something like beauty. You may have heard of my family’s business? Digby, Ledgard, and Smith Wholesale Dry Goods?

The overall factory? Of course, I’ve heard of it, Miss Ledgard. Indeed, Digby, Ledgard, and Smith was one of the city’s bigger businesses, shipping its products by train throughout the Midwest. Just recently the company had opened a new building, second in height in Kansas City only to the New York Life Building. I’m Minty Wilcox. How do you do? Minty offered her hand and Miss Ledgard shook it with icy fingers.

Miss Ledgard flashed her lovely smile again and Minty adjusted her estimated age downwards from forty to thirty.

We don’t just make overalls, Miss, the woman said. Miss? I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.

It’s Wilcox, Miss Ledgard. I’m Minty Wilcox.

What an unusual given name.

My name is properly Arminta Meneatha, but my little sister couldn’t say my name when she was younger, so now I’m Minty to one and all.

Very nice.

Thank you. And what else besides overalls does Digby, Ledgard and Smith make, may I ask?

We make women’s wash dresses. Miss Ledgard leaned forward in the chair. And when we opened the new building two years ago, I persuaded my father that there’s a profit to be made in nicer women’s wear. So, we started making shirtwaists. Soon we’ll start making ladies’ jackets and skirts. Of my design. Here, I’ll show you. She unbuttoned her coat the rest of the way and pulled it open revealing a white shirt. Oh, not this rag, Miss Ledgard said. I came away in such a hurry I forgot to take it off. She unbuttoned the artist’s smock part way to reveal an elegant vanilla-white shirtwaist. It had tiny vertical tucks down the front and a pale green dragonfly embroidered on the standing collar.

It quite put in the shade Minty’s plain white shirtwaist. It’s very pretty, Miss Ledgard.

"Thank you. It’s in the Oriental style. When my parents and I were in London several years ago, we saw The Mikado. That’s Messieurs Gilbert and Sullivan’s operetta, you know."

I’ve read about it, though I haven’t seen it.

I was very impressed, especially by the beautiful gowns the ladies wore. Eventually, we hope to make evening dresses with the Oriental influence, of silk, naturally, and bright colors with embroidered details. I’ve made several prototypes already. She hesitated. I’m sorry that I’m rattling on. My stepmother says I talk too much about my work.

I find it very interesting, especially about the evening gowns.

Why, thank you. You know, you are very easy to talk to, Miss Wilcox.

Thank you.

Miss Ledgard leaned close and lifted sand-colored brows. I myself think there’s a great need for ready-made evening dresses for ladies of limited means, if they can’t afford one of Madame Kieffer’s, she said, naming one of the city’s most exclusive dressmakers.

Or if they don’t have time to make their gowns or go in for fittings, Minty said.

You understand perfectly.

Suddenly, Miss Ledgard’s features pinched together and she burst into tears again. Oh, poor Katie. She’s been doing such lovely finishing work on the shirtwaists. I can’t imagine what’s become of her.

Having worked for a detective agency for over a year and transcribing operatives’ reports, Minty could imagine. Many a girl in trouble in her Kansas or Missouri hometown fled to Kansas City and ended up in one of the sporting houses on the north side. If the girl was lucky, or somewhat lucky at least, she ended up at Madame Lovejoy’s or Mrs. Chambers’, but if she wasn’t so lucky . . . Well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

Forgive me for carrying on like this, Miss Wilcox. Miss Ledgard sniffed and pulled a handkerchief embroidered with another dragonfly, this one lavender. She wiped her eyes with it, then held it out and stared at it. Katie made this for me.

How beautiful!

Yes, it is. Katie does lovely work. Miss Ledgard gazed at the fireplace. Some at the company say she’s a bit flighty. She hesitated, looking thoughtful, and Minty considered prompting her, but Miss Ledgard started up again on her own. Katie’s only eighteen, though she’s worked for Digby, Ledgard and Smith since she was twelve. She does such excellent work that when we began the new line, I told Father I had to have Katie as one of my seamstresses. Miss Ledgard looked stricken again. But now she’s gone.

I’m sorry. Minty patted the woman’s cold hand that clutched the arm of the leather chair. How long has she been gone? Minty asked. She opened the stenographer’s notebook and pulled a pencil out of her pocket. When she looked up, though, she found Miss Ledgard staring at her.

What are you doing?

I hope you don’t mind if I jot down some particulars for Mr. Mathison, our general manager. I’m an . . . Longing to claim the role of operative for herself, Minty hesitated.

Of course, she wasn’t an operative. And she didn’t want to lie, for, sure as shooting, Mr. Mathison would fire her if he found out. Minty inhaled deeply and said, I’m a stenographer here. Taking notes is part of my job. I use shorthand, so I’m fast. I won’t slow you down.

Very well, Miss Ledgard said.

Now, how long has Katie been gone?

Since last Saturday evening.

Missing since Saturday February 3, 1900, Minty noted. If Miss Ledgard is so concerned about her, why is she just now looking into it? Minty wondered. And you haven’t heard from her?

Miss Ledgard’s mouth flattened into a hard, straight line. Not directly. And I’ve concluded that the girls who brought me word of Katie were lying. On Monday they told me Katie had a very bad cold. As if that would keep her from coming to work. Yesterday they said she was having her . . . Well, never mind that. Suffice it to say, that wouldn’t keep her home either.

Miss Ledgard sighed. I suppose they were trying to keep her out of trouble and hoped she would come home. But finally, this morning when I said that I’d send my family’s doctor around to look at her, they admitted that they haven’t seen her since last Saturday. This quite alarmed me, so I threw on my coat and came here.

I see, but why didn’t you go to the police?

I did actually. But when I went inside City Hall, the first person I laid eyes on was a giant of a man. And I fled right out the door.

Cook, Minty said.

I’m sure he wasn’t a cook. He was wearing a police officer’s uniform.

Minty pressed her hand to her mouth so she wouldn’t giggle and make Miss Ledgard think her rude. Once Minty got command of herself, she said, I’m sorry for being unclear. His name is Cook, Officer Smith Cook. And I admit he’s intimidating–at least on first view. He’s just over 6 feet, 10 inches. He’s the tallest police officer in the world.

You know him?

I worked with him on a case last year, Minty said. He’s quite large, but he’s a lamb.

Well, I didn’t know that. But I found I couldn’t say a word to him, so I rushed out and decided on the gallop to come here.

Why to us? Minty asked, thinking she could pass the answer on to Mr. Mathison, if it were flattering. There are other agencies closer to City Hall, the Pinkertons, for instance. In fact, Miss Ledgard probably passed the Pinkertons on her way to Price Investigations. She must have been very upset indeed not to notice their distinctive sign and logo.

Father has an account at the bank downstairs, Miss Ledgard said. That’s how I knew you were here. Besides, my father has hired the Pinkertons to watch the picketers and I thought . . . I really want to handle this matter on my own. I was afraid the Pinkertons would tell him about it if I hired them.

Picketers? Minty said.

Looking grim, Miss Ledgard said, About a dozen women from the overall floors of the factory have gone out on strike. They’re picketing the company even as we speak. They’re objecting to the company lowering their wages from $3 per dozen garments to $2.50. I can understand this and my girls still work at the rate of $3 per dozen. But I can’t control what Mr. Smith, the company’s treasurer, has decided.

I see. Well, I can understand why you didn’t approach the Pinkertons. Thank you for coming to us.

You’re welcome. I’m glad I did now that I’m talking to you.

Minty nodded. You said that someone told you that Katie was sick?

Yes, two girls who live at the same boarding house as Katie does. Looking down, Miss Ledgard said, Katie and I had an argument about . . . about work, and now, I fear that she’s run away. Miss Ledgard looked up again. If you could just find her so I can talk with her, I’m sure we would straighten the matter out right away.

We’ll help you, Miss Ledgard, Minty said. I’ll make sure of it. If you’ll just give me some information. What are the girls’ names? Which boarding house? Oh, and what is Katie’s full name?

Miss Ledgard wiped her eyes. Katie Higgins, Katharine really, and the girls are Rose and Lily Switzer. The three of them live in a boarding house on Sixth Street across the way from the Sisters of Mercy. I don’t know the exact address.

I’ll check the City Directory. Minty jotted the tentative address in her notebook. And Rose and Lily saw Katie last Saturday? Do you know when exactly?

Probably around three or so in the afternoon. Saturday is payday at Digby, Ledgard and Smith, and we let our employees leave in midafternoon. Just this year, at my father’s suggestion, we’ve begun having Saturday evening socials. Singing, dancing, cards, that sort of thing. Light refreshments, though nothing alcoholic, since my stepmother is a teetotaler of the Carrie Nation variety.

I see. Where was the social this past weekend?

That’s been a bit of a problem. First, they were held at Father’s club, but it was too small. And last week, we had it at Murphy’s Dance Hall and Saloon.

But you said no liquor was allowed at the gathering.

Indeed, it was awkward to have the social there, Miss Ledgard said. Even though Mr. Murphy kept the bar locked up and under guard until the end of our party at nine, my stepmother refused to attend. I didn’t either. Many of our workers stayed away as well. It’s really not fair to have the social at a place like that since most of our workers are female.

Miss Ledgard looked stern. It’s possible that Katie didn’t run off, but came into some sort of danger because of the social being at a saloon. If Price Investigations discovers that’s the case, we’ll have to discontinue the social altogether.

Her pencil hovering over her notebook, Minty said, So you said that most of your employees are female?

At least three out of four, I’d say. Let’s see. At the new factory two of our three cutters are male. We also have a very fine pattern maker who’s a man, two men supervisors, former tailors both, and one man who sews overalls. I’m the company designer. She tipped her chin up as she said this. We have any number of young fellows to fetch and carry. The workers in the box factory are all men as is every one in sales. The laundry is staffed completely by women. The fabric inspector is also a woman.

Definitely a female operative would fit into that factory better than a man, Minty thought. She looked down at her dark-gray skirt. It was simple of cut and construction, and she sewed it herself on her mother’s sewing machine the previous autumn with some help from Mama every once in a while.

Now just put that notion out of your mind right now, Minty Wilcox, she thought. Mr. Mathison will never let you go undercover or take part in an investigation except to type up the operatives’ reports.

All right, Minty said as she scanned her notes. Let’s see. Does Katie have family in Kansas City?

Miss Ledgard looked nonplussed. Not that I know of. Lily and Rose might know. She frowned. They’ve lied to me, and I think they haven’t told me everything they know about Katie.

I see, Minty said. Miss Ledgard was the daughter of a factory owner, so Rose and Lily might not talk to her as freely as they might to another seamstress, someone like me, for instance. But no, Minty instantly realized, she mustn’t give that possibility another thought.

What do Lily and Rose do at the factory? Minty asked.

They’re sewing machine operators in my shirtwaist department.

Minty filed this information away for future reference. Could you tell me what Katie looks like? Height, weight, hair color, distinctive features, that sort of thing. Mr. Mathison will want to devise a missing person flyer to distribute around town to see if anyone has seen Katie and where. Do you have a photograph?

Miss Ledgard swallowed, as if distressed by the possibility of the flyer. I do have a photograph of her. I’m sorry that I didn’t think to bring it along.

That’s all right. Perhaps one of us can pick it up at some later date.

Perhaps so, she said, looking somewhat doubtful about it. Nevertheless, she described Katharine Higgins as looking younger than eighteen, with reddish blond hair she often wore pulled back from her face with a brightly colored ribbon. She had blue eyes, stood around Minty’s height of 5’2", but was slighter of build.

Suddenly someone called out from the other room. Hello? he said. Where is everybody? Mrs. B? Miss Wilcox? Where are those females?

It’s a mystery to me, said another man.

Suddenly, Minty’s heart raced. How foolish of me, she thought. It’s been less than a day since I saw him.

Still, her notebook in hand, Minty jumped up and rushed to the door, leaving a startled Miss Ledgard behind.

Chapter Two

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Standing by the door to the hall, George Mathison, his stout Prince of Wales physique clothed in a dark navy overcoat, stared at her with cornflower blue eyes.

The taller, younger man, in a tan coat and brown hat, had a brown mustache, flecked with red and waxed to curl up at the ends. As he removed his brown fedora, his dark, inquisitive eyes fixed on Minty.

Mr. Mathison. Although Minty spoke to the bureau chief, she gazed at Daniel Price, grinning at her over his uncle’s shoulder.

Minty willed her heart to quit racing. Or she tried to without much success. Miss Alpha Ledgard of Digby, Ledgard, and Smith Dry Goods Company needs our help in locating one of their workers, a young girl, who’s been missing for several days. I took down the information about where the girl was last seen, and when. I included a description of her. Minty bit her lip and forged on. Given the situation, I’ve concluded that you need a female to investigate.

Minty’s voice quavered and she stopped talking as Mr. Mathison hunched toward her, like a bulldog about to attack. No, Miss Wilcox, it will not suit, he growled.

Minty donned her most ingratiating smile. I’ve taken the information for you, sir.  She held out her notebook.

It’s not your job to interview a potential client, Miss Wilcox, Mathison growled.

Of course, it isn’t, sir. But Miss Ledgard was so very forthcoming that I thought you’d appreciate my jotting down the details. Just to save you time, of course. And by the by, I think the reputation of Digby, Ledgard and Smith speaks for itself, Minty said, deciding on the fly not to mention the picketers and the Pinkertons at the overall factory. So, we only need to do a brief potential-client investigation, if one is required at all.

Daniel Price’s soft chuckle earned a scowl from his uncle and the warning: Stay out of this, Dan, unless you want to work at the office in Anchorage your grandfather is considering opening.

It’s very cold in the Alaska Territory this time of year, Uncle.

Pack your woolens, my boy.

But I’d happily go there if Miss Wilcox worked there, too.

The compliment made Minty blush and brought another glare of cornflower blue eyes. None of that, Dan, said Mr. Mathison who continued with, About Miss Ledgard of Digby, Ledgard and Smith. Did she telephone or is she on the premises?

She’s here, sir, in your office.

Very well. I’ll see her. Hang these up for me. Mathison shrugged off his coat, loaded it into Minty’s arms, which made her drop her notebook. He clapped his bowler on her head and it came down almost to her eyes.

This drew another chuckle from Daniel Price, who nevertheless took the discarded coat and hat from Minty and carried them to the coat tree beside the door.

I’ll need Mrs. B to take notes of our meeting. Mr. Mathison looked around. Where is she?

At home, sir. She telephoned earlier to say that her rheumatism is bothering her today. But I’ve already taken some notes, sir, as I said. She picked up her notebook and held it under Mr. Mathison’s misshapen nose.

You know I can’t read this. He leafed through the notebook and stopped. Who’s this Katharine Higgins?

Like most stenographers, Minty wrote persons’ names, street addresses, and the like in English to make sure she got them right, instead of devising shorthand for them. She’s the girl missing from Digby, Ledgard and Smith. She’s not been seen since last Saturday, and she’s young, sir, just eighteen, as I’ve noted. She could be in great danger, so there’s not a moment to lose in locating her. If you give me a few minutes, I’ll transcribe my notes for you and bring them to you.

Mathison looked at Minty askance before he said, Very well, Miss Wilcox, you do that.

Uh, yes, sir, thank you, sir.

As Minty returned to her