particular one. He needed to think
of her as he thought of Hiram Tattersall: just his opponent in this election. Think of her as he would any man who stood in
his way, any man who wanted to keep him from achieving his objective.
He groaned. Even in his wildest dreams, he wasn’t sure he could picture Gwen Arlington as a man.
“Excuse me, Mr. McKinley.”
He turned from the window, glad to be interrupted by Inez Cheevers, no matter what she wanted. “Yes?”
“If you’ve got a moment, sir, I’d like to introduce the staff I’ve hired.”
“Of course.” He strode across the room, following the housekeeper out to the entry hall.
Standing near the front door was a girl of no more than eighteen, her chin tucked to her chest and her eyes downcast; a middle-aged
woman with a hooked nose and the shadow of facial hair across her upper lip; and a man of sixty or more whose shoulders were
stooped and legs bowed.
“Mr. McKinley, I’d like you to meet Miss Louise Evans who I’ve employed as the housemaid.”
Morgan extended his hand to the girl. “How do you do, miss?”
“I’m well, thank you, sir.” Her voice no more than a whisper, she shook his hand but didn’t look up.
Morgan glanced toward Inez with a raised eyebrow.
The housekeeper shrugged, then motioned toward the older woman. “This is Opal Nelson, your new cook. She worked in one of
the finer restaurants in Boise for many years, but she and her husband moved to Bethlehem Springs this year. Mr. Nelson works
at the bank.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Nelson.”
“Likewise, Mr. McKinley.”
“And this,” Inez finished, “is Roscoe Finch. He’ll be tending to the upkeep of your house and yard and anything else we need
him to do around the place. He’s a fine carpenter, by all accounts, and with the right clothes, he could serve as your butler
when you entertain.”
Morgan tried to imagine the man in butler’s attire, but failed. “Welcome, Mr. Finch.”
“Thank you, sir. Glad to be of service.”
“Mrs. Finch isn’t here as she’s in Boise visiting her sister, but she’ll be taking care of the laundry for the household.”
Inez rested her hands on her belly. “I’ve given Louise the attic bedroom. Mr. and Mrs. Finch will take the room off the laundry
in the basement. Mrs. Nelson won’t be living in, but we’ve agreed she’ll arrive for work each morning at six and return to
her home after supper every day except Wednesdays, which she’ll have off.”
Morgan nodded his acceptance to the arrangements.
“Very well, then.” The housekeeper looked at the staff. “Let’s be about our business, shall we? Mr. McKinley has his work
to do, and we have ours.”
The new employees scattered, leaving Morgan alone in the entry hall. Rather than returning to his study, he opened the front
door and stepped outside onto the veranda that wrapped around the house. From this hillside location, he was afforded an unobstructed
view of Bethlehem Springs. And if he wasn’t mistaken, he could see the rooftop of Gwen Arlington’s home on Wallula Street.
Hers was a modest home made of red brick, single story, perhaps five or six rooms in all. A white picket fence surrounded
a well-tended front yard, flowers and shrubs in abundance. A stone walkway led to the covered porch where wooden chairs and
a swing invited people to sit and relax in the cool of the evening. He knew all this because he’d made a point of driving
past it yesterday.
It hadn’t taken much effort for Morgan to learn some details of Gwen’s life: raised by her mother in New Jersey; moved to
Idaho at the age of twenty-one after graduating from a women’s college; taught piano lessons and wrote occasional articles
for the newspaper; devoted to her sister and father; attended the Presbyterian church on Sundays; pursued by one Charles Benson
whose father owned a sawmill to the south of town. But Morgan would like to know a lot
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William W. Johnstone
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Linus Locke
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Raymara Barwil
Kieran Shields