Something’s been worrying me. I was staying at the Grande Hotel.” Quickly, I filled him in on the room search, Brown Fedora, and the Grande Hotel fire. Even unflappable Oliver raised his eyebrows at that last bit.
“And you think all this was the work of the same man?”
“I don’t know what to think. Who else but the trustees would have had my room searched? That made sense, and we expected it. But the shadow? Maybe he wasn’t tailing me to see where I was going; maybe he was trying to find a quiet alley where he could knock me in the head.”
“Maybe he was trying to protect you.”
“From what?” Oliver turned up his hands in the universal gesture that meant, Who knows? “So maybe this fella burned down the Grande Hotel. What I can’t figure out is why Mr. Wade or one of the trustees would want Jessie dead. And no one else knew where I was staying, so it had to be one of them. You didn’t know, did you?”
He shook his head. “Severinus Wade has played this close to the chest.”
“No one else knew.”
“Au contraire, my dear. All the trustees might have known, not to mention anyone who worked in Wade’s office. Let me think.”
He stared into the fireplace for several minutes until I grew impatient and interrupted the silence. “I asked myself, why would the trustees want to kill Jessie? If they thought I was an imposter, they would have called the police. But no, they believed me. They were delighted I’d come home.”
“They damn well should have been. They’ve made fat fees for the past seven years managing Carr Industries, and when Jessie inherits, they’ll be able to continue their service. The Carr brothers were certain to terminate them and run the company themselves, but you couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“A woman can’t run a big company,” he said sneeringly.
“What if one of the trustees has been skimming funds and needs to cover up his crime?”
“By killing Jessie? Hardly. The truth is, all of the trustees are probably helping themselves to extras. So what? You aren’t equipped to expose them. They aren’t worried about you.”
He considered the circumstances a while longer, then pronounced his conclusion. “The fire was a coincidence. A lucky break for me—you might have been killed if you hadn’t checked out. The newspaper said it started in the kitchen, a logical place. There was no mention of arson. The man following you was probably the same one who searched your room, by order of Severinus Wade, as a precaution. Could even have been a Pinkerton. You said yourself that they were going to hire Pinkertons to investigate. But they know you’ve come here, and they know you’re going to Oregon, so if they want to shadow you, it won’t be hard. We’ll watch for it, but I don’t think it will be a problem.”
A coincidence. That was the only logical explanation.
11
As vaudeville lingo would have it, I had killed ’em at a one-night stand in Sacramento and jumped to San Francisco where I played to a small and easily satisfied audience. Coming off rave reviews, I jumped to Portland, a tougher venue but one where, if opening reviews were positive, I could look forward to an engagement of as many weeks as I cared to perform. From there I envisioned long holidays in Italy, southern France, Greece, or wherever the climate was endlessly sunny, the food fresh and plentiful, and the people welcoming. This dream, nurtured by the travel books Oliver had given me to study, kept me focused on perfecting my role.
I had twice in my life played Portland, Salem, and Eugene, a trio of Oregon cities that adored vaudeville. That made it easy for Jessie’s story to hinge on having joined a vaudeville act in Portland instead of returning home after her runaway adventure. I had some hazy recall of Portland’s rivers and bridges and a large mountain hovering nearby, and some pretty clear memories of the theaters we’d played, should anyone ask.
Never mind that
“And you think all this was the work of the same man?”
“I don’t know what to think. Who else but the trustees would have had my room searched? That made sense, and we expected it. But the shadow? Maybe he wasn’t tailing me to see where I was going; maybe he was trying to find a quiet alley where he could knock me in the head.”
“Maybe he was trying to protect you.”
“From what?” Oliver turned up his hands in the universal gesture that meant, Who knows? “So maybe this fella burned down the Grande Hotel. What I can’t figure out is why Mr. Wade or one of the trustees would want Jessie dead. And no one else knew where I was staying, so it had to be one of them. You didn’t know, did you?”
He shook his head. “Severinus Wade has played this close to the chest.”
“No one else knew.”
“Au contraire, my dear. All the trustees might have known, not to mention anyone who worked in Wade’s office. Let me think.”
He stared into the fireplace for several minutes until I grew impatient and interrupted the silence. “I asked myself, why would the trustees want to kill Jessie? If they thought I was an imposter, they would have called the police. But no, they believed me. They were delighted I’d come home.”
“They damn well should have been. They’ve made fat fees for the past seven years managing Carr Industries, and when Jessie inherits, they’ll be able to continue their service. The Carr brothers were certain to terminate them and run the company themselves, but you couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“A woman can’t run a big company,” he said sneeringly.
“What if one of the trustees has been skimming funds and needs to cover up his crime?”
“By killing Jessie? Hardly. The truth is, all of the trustees are probably helping themselves to extras. So what? You aren’t equipped to expose them. They aren’t worried about you.”
He considered the circumstances a while longer, then pronounced his conclusion. “The fire was a coincidence. A lucky break for me—you might have been killed if you hadn’t checked out. The newspaper said it started in the kitchen, a logical place. There was no mention of arson. The man following you was probably the same one who searched your room, by order of Severinus Wade, as a precaution. Could even have been a Pinkerton. You said yourself that they were going to hire Pinkertons to investigate. But they know you’ve come here, and they know you’re going to Oregon, so if they want to shadow you, it won’t be hard. We’ll watch for it, but I don’t think it will be a problem.”
A coincidence. That was the only logical explanation.
11
As vaudeville lingo would have it, I had killed ’em at a one-night stand in Sacramento and jumped to San Francisco where I played to a small and easily satisfied audience. Coming off rave reviews, I jumped to Portland, a tougher venue but one where, if opening reviews were positive, I could look forward to an engagement of as many weeks as I cared to perform. From there I envisioned long holidays in Italy, southern France, Greece, or wherever the climate was endlessly sunny, the food fresh and plentiful, and the people welcoming. This dream, nurtured by the travel books Oliver had given me to study, kept me focused on perfecting my role.
I had twice in my life played Portland, Salem, and Eugene, a trio of Oregon cities that adored vaudeville. That made it easy for Jessie’s story to hinge on having joined a vaudeville act in Portland instead of returning home after her runaway adventure. I had some hazy recall of Portland’s rivers and bridges and a large mountain hovering nearby, and some pretty clear memories of the theaters we’d played, should anyone ask.
Never mind that
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