Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(45)

“There’s no need for that. I’ve gotten us a car. It’s waiting just outside the station.”

I held my hand over my eyes to shade them, and behold, there stood Simon Wolf.

His appearance was not so different from our previous meeting. He was older, of course, but so am I. He was still a big man, all pink-faced and light-haired, in well-tailored clothes and shiny spectacles that caught the sun and threw it around his cheeks. He smiled broadly and stepped forward, removing his hat. “Miss Andrew,” he said, as cavalier as could be.

“Inspector Wolf, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” See? My social niceties were recovering. I tipped the porter and thanked him for his assistance as the inspector helped himself to my trunk.

“Likewise, I can assure you. The meeting may be a strange one, but I’m happy to have the company all the same. Here.” He held a door open for me. It was tricky for him as he navigated the oversized trunk, but he pulled it off with flair. “The car is waiting across the lot.”

“I must say, I’m surprised to see you. I thought I’d find you at the hotel, perhaps.”

“Surprised? But I’m a detective!” he noted happily, wrangling the trunk into the road. I let him lead the way, for all the cars looked the same to me—some marked as public taxis, some not. All black and shiny, the same model of Ford you’re starting to see everywhere.

“That’s true, and it’s not that I’d forgotten . . .” I stepped down off a curb, sticking closely in his wake. “I’d only thought you’d be out . . . detecting.”

“Nonsense. It took ten minutes with a schedule to see which engine would likely bring you to town. There were only four arriving through New York or Boston before the end of the week, and I had a feeling you wouldn’t have time to catch two of them—and wouldn’t wait around for a third. That left this one, and here you are. Easy as pie!”

“Your detecting skills are as sharp as ever.”

“You sounded eager, so I chose your most likely departure, charted a most likely course, and took my chances. Detecting, indeed . . . And here we are.” He stopped beside a big black car, somewhat larger than the average Model T. It wasn’t a coupe or a roadster, but some kind of touring car. The driver climbed out and assisted him with my trunk, and then we climbed inside. “I thought we would visit the hotel first, so you could leave your trunk behind and refresh yourself, if you like. Then a bite to eat, and then . . .” He glanced up at the driver, who stared straight ahead—but I understood. He didn’t wish to say too much. “Then we have a lot to talk about.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

It was true, despite my aching head and travel weariness. This man had a portrait of my Nance, and this city had strange things prowling its streets at night. Fall River once had strange things prowling its streets, too, and I didn’t like the symmetry of it.

So we had work to do, and despite the circumstances, I was glad for it. It’d been ages since I had any real work in front of me. Once upon a time, I would’ve looked forward to such tedium as my life has lately become; it appeared infinitely preferable to the mayhem of thirty years ago—and only a fool would reject the comfort of routine for weeks of murder and monsters.

And yet . . . there I was.

Again.

? ? ?

The hotel was quiet and pleasant: not too fancy, but no flophouse, either. Wolf said he chose it for its discretion and proximity to downtown, but I think he might’ve also had his eye on the meal schedule. I don’t say this to tease him for his size; I say this because he brought it up twice on the ride over there, and once again upon our arrival—praising the offerings, and recommending them highly.

Once I was checked in, I asked for twenty minutes for myself. He offered an hour, but I can dress more quickly than that, and I was hungry, and I wanted to see this portrait of Nance so badly that I hadn’t been able to ask about it yet. The anticipation had positively paralyzed me.

I changed into a fresher dress, a cream-colored tea-length affair with yellow roses and sleeves that were only three-quarters long, but the outfit worked nicely with a wrap, in case the temperature were to plummet when the sun went down. I chose a round-brimmed hat and button-shut sandals for comfort, and hoped I struck a dignified silhouette that wasn’t too much “mutton dressed as a lamb,” as they say. I was covered, at any rate, and I would not be too warm. I wasn’t sure how different the fashions might be, from New England to the Old South, but surely we all receive the same catalogs, don’t we? Everyone must have a Macy’s or a Nordstrom, I should think. A Sears Roebuck, if nothing else.

I felt silly dedicating so much thinking time to making myself presentable. I usually didn’t bother. So few people ever saw me outside of the house, it just wasn’t something that I counted a priority.

But when I was finished at the mirror, and I was satisfied that I’d achieved this presentable state, I rejoined Simon Wolf downstairs in the banquet hall.

It wasn’t so much a hall as a large room with several tables, all impeccably set, with pitchers of iced tea and lemon slices chilling on plates with ice. Wolf held out a chair for me, and I took it; then he explained that it was a bit late for lunch, around these parts . . . but the hotel mistress had not yet closed the kitchen, so we were in luck.

Lunch was divine, and the talk was small until we were into our second glass of sweetened tea (a new thing for me, and one I rather liked) and the dessert plates had been taken away. (I’d never known there was any such thing as key lime pie, but I now consider myself a great fan thereof.) But after the plates were effectively licked clean, the napkins were folded beside our silverware, and the table was cleared between us . . . Wolf reached into a satchel he’d left sitting beside his chair.