Annie's Stories (16 page)

19

I
N THE MIDDLE
of his morning route, Stephen stopped by his apartment because he’d forgotten his lunch again. Davis met him at the door, waving some papers at him. “Nah. This won’t do.”

“What do you mean? It’s a fine story.”

“Maybe, but it’s not what I’m looking for.”

“Come on, Davis. With phrases like ‘a nose like a can opener’ and ‘a mouth like a steel rattrap’?”

“Did you read the whole thing?”

“You know I can’t do that. Just enough to know this one has merit, Davis.”

“I do not agree.”

“Fine, but I’m going to remember this title.
Truth Dexter
is going to make someone money.”

“Right. Now you’re an expert.”

“Hey, you asked me.”

“True, true. But I’m looking for something more in the league of L. Frank Baum.”

Someday Stephen would remind Davis that he’d turned this down. “I’ll keep looking.”

As he turned to leave, Davis stopped him. “I have not been upstairs, but the police came by about an hour ago and asked
for you. I told them you were at work. Then I had to go out. Maybe they left you a note or something. Hope everything’s all right.”

“Thanks, Davis. Probably had the wrong fella.”

“Probably.”

When Stephen got to his room, the door was ajar. He pushed it further open with his foot.

What the devil?

He turned on the electric light.

Completely empty! Everything that wasn’t bolted to the floor or walls was gone. A note was pinned to the inside of the door.

The note was written on the official letterhead of the New York City police. Stephen had delivered mail with the same logo. He knew it was legitimate.

Under the window he noticed something in the shadows. When he got closer, he realized it was his expenses ledger. They must have figured it wasn’t worth taking. He had lost track, apparently. Just how behind had he been? He threw the book at the wall with all his strength. He should have been more mindful of why Davis thought it might be necessary to put his locked box in the safe. Those fellows meant business.

He went to his stove and opened it. Thankfully they had
not also taken the coal he had in there. He stoked it and then decided to borrow a blanket from Mrs. Jacobs while it was still daytime. The woman baked early, and he didn’t want to disturb her by waiting until he got home from work.

Before he went to visit Mrs. Jacobs, Stephen paused to ring Davis’s bell. He had Annie’s little story in his pocket, ready to return it, but perhaps he should tell Davis about it first.

“Adams, has there been trouble?”

“I’ll say. They took everything.”

Davis clicked his tongue. “I believe I warned you about that.”

“I know, I know. But I may have something here to solve all our financial troubles.”

“Oh?” He opened the door wide and invited Stephen in. “Sit down, son. Show me what you have.”

“I . . . uh . . . The owner of these stories, of which I have one here, doesn’t exactly know I have it.”

“What? You stole something? Adams, I never suspected you were a thief.”

“No, no. It was purely accidental. But before I return it, I thought you should take a look, see if you come up with the same conclusion I have.”

The man sat at his desk and wiggled his fingers, waiting for the papers. Stephen slowly pulled them out of his pocket. “They are old and fragile. Please be careful.”

“All right. Let me see.”

Stephen tapped his foot, waiting for Davis to finish reading or to get sight of that mark, whichever came first.

“Blessed be! Could that be what I think it is? Weren’t you and I just talking about Redmond?”

“We were.”

He let the papers fall to his desk. “You aren’t trying to pull a prank now, are you?”

Stephen laughed. “No, I promise you. The young lady to whom these belong told me her father in Ireland wrote them for her.”

“And she said Redmond was her father?”

“No. Marty Gallagher, like it says at the top. I suspect Luther Redmond was a pen name.”

“And the daughter did not know?”

“She does not seem to have known.”

“A stretch of our fortunes, I’d say, but it is a wonderful tale
 
—and for children. And there are more of these, you say?” He carefully refolded the papers.

Stephen held out his hand. “There are several more. I need to get that back.”

“I don’t think so. Not yet. I’ll keep it in my safe for now, and this afternoon I’ll drop by the club and show it to the editor at
Harper’s
magazine. This could be a gold mine if it’s genuine.”

“But Annie Gallagher will want it back. She did not intentionally give it to me.”

“You explain it to her. In the meantime I’ll find out if it’s real.” He shooed Stephen out of the office. He was late anyway.

When she woke midmorning, Annie pulled on her robe and sought out Mrs. Hawkins. “How is Kirsten?”

“Up and drinking tea. Her fever broke. The doctor’s been here again and left. She may have whooping cough.”

Annie let out a breath. “Oh, my. After all she’s been through. Where’s Aileen?”

“Sawing logs, love. She was up half the night. Well, all night, I suppose.”

“You should have awakened me sooner.”

“You had a busy day yesterday, love. We’ll take turns.”

“Fine, so. I’ll start the fire.”

“Already done.”

Annie reached out both hands as she tried to focus her thoughts. “I should . . . Breakfast. I’ll make breakfast.”

“We already ate, but there are buns on the stove. Help yourself.”

“Mrs. Hawkins, you pamper me so. You did not have to let me sleep. I’m perfectly capable
 
—”

“I suppose it is just my nature, love.”

“I do not think that is the reason. You don’t do for others what you do for me.”

The Hawk patted Annie’s cheek. “You remind me of your mother.”

Her mother? Annie rubbed the spot between her eyes, wondering if the fog of sleep still lingered, causing her to misunderstand. “I thought you said my mother.”

“Oh, well . . . I probably said
my
mother, or meant to. We’ve a busy day ahead. We must clean the house from ceiling to floorboards for the upcoming postwedding party. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

“I have not, of course.” The Hawk had ended the conversation again. But Annie was still left with the feeling that Mrs. Hawkins was avoiding something. Didn’t she trust Annie? She thought about how Mrs. Hawkins had seemed hesitant about Annie’s idea to open a library. There was something a wee bit odd about that. Something about the woman and her brother, Father Weldon, that felt secretive somehow. For instance, how had they decided, far apart from each other, that Annie should come to live at Hawkins House? Annie was weary of secrets.

Later, as Annie swept the carpet on the stairs with a whisk broom, she heard the familiar whistle of the postman. She fetched the
outgoing mail from the silver tray. When she opened the door, a brisk gale entered the house, sending a letter flying out onto the front steps.

“Get that!” Annie cried, lunging toward the threshold.

She nearly bumped heads with Stephen Adams, who was bundled up like a north woodsman with the collar of his raincoat turned up toward his chin.

He pulled off one mitten and snagged the letter before it blew off the top step.

“Hurrah!” Aileen cried from somewhere in the hall, clapping her hands.

Stephen’s blue eyes shone in the cool air. “Letters are my business.”

Mrs. Hawkins scrambled up behind them. “Stephen Adams, come inside, young man. A cup of hot tea will warm you up. Truly winter is knocking on our door already, and too soon. Last week it was warm, this week cool. Such is autumn in New York.” She reached out one chubby arm and pulled him in off the stoop.

Annie closed the door and gathered up the man’s wet mittens to dry by the stove in the kitchen. What a generous soul Stephen Adams had, to help Kirsten like that last night.

Mrs. Hawkins pointed to the front room. “The fire is stoked in the parlor, Mr. Adams. Please go on in. We’ll put the kettle on.”

He glanced to Annie and then back at the woman of the house. “That’s very kind of you. Really, all this is not necessary.”

“I’ll get the tea,” Annie said.

When Annie returned with a tray, she heard Mrs. Hawkins profusely thanking Stephen for helping out with Kirsten. “You’ve got time to visit awhile, haven’t you, love? After what you did to help our poor Kirsten, it’s the least we can do to give you a bit of respite from the dreary weather out there.”

He shrugged. “Well, I do have only one block left to deliver.”

The Hawk grinned. “Good. Annie will see to you until I get back. Come along, Aileen. You can help me in the kitchen.” She gave Annie a nudge. “Make our guest comfortable, love.”

Whatever that was about, Annie was glad to have the chance to speak to the man.

He lifted his dark brows. “How is Miss Wagner?”

“Much better. Please have some tea.” She poured him a cup and then took the plump chair opposite Mrs. Hawkins’s. “Kirsten is . . . recovering. My cousin Aileen sat up with her most of the night. We took good care of her.”

He smiled, tight-lipped, as though trying not to speak.

“Mr. Adams, the story I showed you earlier
 
—I’m afraid I’ve misplaced it.”

“Uh, yes. I need to explain. It seems in all the rush, I inadvertently put the papers in my pocket. I did not mean to.”

“Oh.” She held out her hand. “You’ve brought them back, so.”

“Miss Gallagher, remember what I told you about that mark?”

“I do. You thought it was some famous author’s mark, but you were mistaken.”

He sipped from his cup. “I hope you will forgive me, but I was prepared to return your story. I just wanted to show it to Alan Davis, the owner of Davis Publishing, first.”

“I see. Well, you brought it back, didn’t you?”

He closed his eyes.

“What is this about, Mr. Adams? I would like my story back.”

“I know. And you shall have it. Miss Gallagher, allow me to explain my position with Davis Publishing.”

“Position?”

“Indeed. My landlord observed my love of stories, and so he asked me to do some reading for him as a side job, to help him
find a new author to publish. I’ve been looking through what people have sent him, and . . . I can tell you positively that your father’s stories are far superior to anything else he’s received.”

“Truly?” She felt proud.

“In addition, you should know he agrees with me. He thinks those stories were actually written by Luther Redmond. Perhaps your father was using a pen name.”

“Oh, nay. That’s preposterous. He would have told me. But your publisher friend liked them, so?”

“He did very much. He wants to show the story to the editor at
Harper’s
magazine.”

“Truly? Well, that is splendid, but you did not think to ask me first?” She swallowed hard, suddenly realizing that Stephen Adams might not be interested in her at all. “Are you being compensated for this side job?”

“I am, for the time I put into it. But that does not negate the fact that these stories are excellent.”

All this time he was searching for stories to publish, in cahoots with his landlord.

He stared at his shoelaces. “I am sorry, but I truly did not have the opportunity to consult with you prior to speaking with him. He lives in the same building, so we talked about it before I delivered your mail. I’m telling you now.”

“Please continue.”

“He insisted on keeping it temporarily, but don’t worry. He’s trustworthy. He thinks this story might be quite valuable. I assure you it is secure in Davis’s safe.”

She pinched her hands together. “And the two of you did not think I could handle such a transaction on my own.”

“No. We weren’t thinking anything of the sort. You have the wrong idea. There is no transaction. He is collecting information, opinions, you understand.”

She stared at the roses on the carpet. Now was the time to stand up for herself, to be the woman no one thought she could be, with or without guidance. “I will have the story back by tomorrow, Mr. Adams, or I will go to Mr. Davis’s office and get it myself. You gave me the address, as I recall.”

“I did. Yes. I understand your concern. But you really need not fret. The papers are safe.”

“Can you get them back before suppertime tomorrow?”

“I . . . uh, I’m not sure exactly. I give you my word no harm will come to them.”

“I suppose I will have to trust your word, Mr. Adams. My father’s stories are immensely important to me.”

She was happy when Mrs. Hawkins joined them, bringing biscuits. She could think of nothing else to say to him.