Searching for Home (Spies of Chicago Book 1) (2 page)

“Need me Rita?” A wide smile parted his lips as he turned. His hand covered the elderly lady’s.

“Yes. These old knees don’t like crawling up on the shelves and heaving down those big boxes. This young lady here wants to find out about her family, I’m assigning her research project to you. Sounds like the kind of thing that will use up the rest of your time here with us.”

He looked up, his hazel gaze colliding with Whitney’s. He extended a hand. “I’m Nate Holland, looks like I’m your research assistant.”

All she could do was place her hand in his warm grasp. A tiny zap raced up her arm, like touching the wrong end of a heated flat-iron. Not that she ever used the thing. It took a lifetime of straightening before she could work the curls out of her hair. “Whitney Dean.”

After a moment he let go then leaned over the desk to scrawl something on a piece of paper. Sandy brown hair fell over his forehead. He pushed the strands out of his eyes, revealing a barbell piercing on his right eyebrow. Pity. He’d been cute until then.

He rounded the desk, his workman boots scuffing against the floor. “Here’s the deal, this could take me hours or days depending on what I can find.”

“Days? That doesn’t work for me. I need this information as fast as possible. Isn’t there some sort of card catalogue like in a library to do a quick look?”

“You know that scene at the end of
Raiders of the Lost Ark
where it showed the Ark of the Covenant being boxed up and left in a warehouse? Well that’s not far from the truth when it comes to archives. There are rare items stored away that curators have forgotten about everywhere.” He rubbed his jaw, hiding a chuckle.

“I’m not looking for the Holy Grail here, just some family information.”

Nate shook his head. “We have more than twenty million artifacts so it’s hard to say. Needle in a haystack, that sort of thing.” He handed her a pen. “If you write down your number I’ll call you when I find something.”

Bending, she scribbled out her cell phone number and handed back the paper. “Don’t wait until you strike the mother lode, okay? Call me the second you find something, anything about anyone in the Ingram family who might be connected to Lewis.”

“This means a lot to you.” Skin crinkled on his forehead and near his eyes as he regarded her.

“Consider it on par with a life or death situation.”

He gave her a look of disbelief. “Then I’ll get started, but if it’s that big of deal I suggest looking elsewhere too. Don’t make me your only hope.”

“I don’t intent to.”

Thirty minutes later Whitney stepped off the CTA bus and took a deep breath of after-rain air, thankful that Grandma Lynn lived a mere half-block away. She loved the Lincoln Park neighborhood in Chicago.

The winds from earlier had yanked the last of the autumn leaves off the puny tree in front of Grandma’s squatty white-sided house. Whitney clicked the catch on the wrought iron gate and continued into the ten-foot by ten-foot patch of yard. She smiled. Many would have given up on the plot of earth, but Gran had worked a green-thumb miracle. The area burst with potted mums and a knee-high statue of a rearing stallion.

Trailing her fingers along the solid railing, Whitney climbed the steps. Mom’s knack for not paying rent while Whitney grew up landed them in a new apartment often enough that Gran’s house remained the only monument of Whitney’s childhood. Gran’s house felt more like home than anywhere on else on earth.

She sidestepped the pumpkin decorating the landing and tapped on the red door. Roscoe, Gran’s beagle, howled on the other side. Gran hushed him then eased the door open.

“Well, hi there honey, come right on in.” Her grandma held out her arms. Skin hung from her as if melting from her elbows.

Whitney wrapped Gran in an embrace and gave a light squeeze, always afraid she’d hurt the petite matriarch.

Gran grabbed Whitney’s upper arms. “Now stand right there. Let me have a good look at you.”

“I look the same as I did when I brought you that lasagna two days ago.”

“No. There’s something. See, you’re sad around the eyes.” Gran tapped Whitney’s cheek. “Are you tired? Maybe you’re just rundown.”

Wow. Thanks, Gran
.

Roscoe whimpered, his under bite causing his bottom teeth to poke out over his little black lips.

“Have you seen the paper this morning?” Whitney broke from Gran’s grasp and tugged the wadded paper from her bag.

“I don’t read that rubbish. Besides, you can find all the news worth knowing on the E! channel with that cute Seacrest fellow.”

“That’s not real news, Gran, but this—”

“Of course it is. Did you know Brangelina is thinking of adopting another child?” Gran moved into the kitchen and grabbed the tea kettle.

“Brad-ga-what-a?” Whitney plopped her purse onto the kitchen table and sank into one of the crocheted cushions that adorned the chairs. None of them matched.

“Oh, keep up honey, that’s what Seacrest calls Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie on his show.”

Whitney spread the paper across the table. “I don’t think he actually owns the show.”

“Do you know Seacrest used to be chubby when he was a kid? I saw a special on him once. People made fun of him and he just kept on trucking. Well, just look at him now. He’s an inspiration to all of us. Just goes to show you that a childhood doesn’t have the define you.”

“Hey, Gran, about this newspaper…” Whitney tapped the picture of her great-great-grandfather. He was handsome in a devil-may-care way with full dark hair sticking up in an impressive bed-head manner, dark eyebrows against fair skin, and his head tipped back displaying an angular jaw. He wore an old-fashioned suit. What would possess such a man to spur an army of others to turn on those governing them? If only she could reach through time and ask him her questions.

A plate crashed against the floor, splintering into a dozen jagged pieces. Whitney snapped around. Her gaze flew from the ruined china to Gran who stood a foot away, hands trembling.

“Not again … .not after everything…” Gran lifted her hands to her face and shook as if she might start crying. “I won’t move again. He can’t run me out of my home again.”

Whitney hopped up. “Are you okay?” She wrapped an arm around Gran’s waist. “Do you need meds?”

“No. It’s that.” Gran gestured toward the picture of Lewis Ingram. “Why is that here?”

Whitney guided her to a chair and Gran laid her head against the table.

Whitney smoothed her hand across Gran’s frail shoulders. “I tried to tell you about the article. It took me by surprise today. Can you tell me more about him?”

Gran lifted her head. “Newspapers lie. The media is a bunch of wanna-be actors and actresses with heads full of marshmallows. That’s why I watch Seacrest, even if he’s talking hogwash at least he’s nice to look at. Be a journalist like him someday, that’s all I ask.”

Reaching over, Whitney picked up Gran’s weathered hand and cradled it in her own. She ran her thumb over the soft skin that bunched around Gran’s wrist. “Can you tell me more about Lewis?”

Extracting her hand, Gran shook her head then pushed up from her seat. “Gotta clean up these broken pieces before Roscoe goes and gets himself hurt.”

Whitney stopped her with light pressure on her arm. “I can do that. Just sit back down and tell me what you remember about Lewis.”

Gran clutched her hands together. “I knew him as my grandfather. A kind soul, though much older than this photo shows him as. When he came around he used to play with me for hours even though that wasn’t a normal practice with children back in my youth. He always kept a tin of butterscotch in his coat pocket and he would sneak it to me when my parents weren’t watching.”

“But the story accuses him of being a leader of some sort of anarchist uprising.”

“We don’t talk about that.”

“You have to tell me, Gran.” Whitney finished sweeping up the last of the tiny shards, then dumped them into the garbage can. “I need to know. Owen—”

Gran harrumphed. “Let me guess, that boyfriend of yours finds this information a little hard to shape into one of his fancy campaign slogans?”

“He threatened to dump me if I can’t make it go away. You’ve got to help me. I don’t want to lose him over a mistake some great-great-dead person made.”

“That Owen isn’t worth the product in your hair.”

Whitney crossed her arms. “I don’t have any product in my hair.”

“My point exactly.”

“Tell me about Lewis.”

“I don’t talk about him.” Gran’s hands shook harder than normal. “I’ve nothing more to say, and you can search the house but you’ll only find the one photo I have.”

Bright Eyes
sang out from Whitney’s cell. She pawed into her bag and found it. Didn’t recognize the number but flipped the phone open. “This is Whitney.”

“Hi, uh, this is Nate.” Pause. “From the Chicago Historical Foundation.”

“Of course. Did you find something?” Whitney mouthed to Gran that she had to run. She air-kissed Gran’s leathery cheeks then slung her purse onto her shoulder and walked out the front door.

“You did say to call you even if I found the smallest thing.”

A bus pulled up to the stop—thankfully, today the CTA buses were running on time—and Whitney jogged to get on. “What did you find?”

“Are you okay? You sound out of breath?”

“I’m fine. You have stuff on Lewis?” She looped her arm around a handrail as the bus chugged off into traffic.

“Are you on your way?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll show you when you get here.”

Whitney hurried into the fourth floor research area. The sight she encountered lessened the irritation of having to pay the five dollar fee again. Nate had set up a little area for them at one of the wide tables near the back. A box of papers rested at an angle and a single discolored page perched on a stand.

Whitney clicked her phone to silent, ignoring a call from her boss Freddie. She’d already listened to his voicemail from earlier and didn’t need to hear him repeat any of his accusations. Lied about her past to weasel her way in and destroy his magazine? Right, because the last three years of long hours and working weekends spoke nothing about her loyalty.

Nate glanced at her and dimples appeared in his cheeks, the right side a fraction deeper. Whitney’s heart sped up. Probably from taking the stairs too quickly.

“You got here fast.” He patted the seat beside him.

With a sigh, Whitney dumped her purse on the ground and took the chair. “They made me pay admission to get back up here again.”

Nate cocked his pierced eyebrow. “I have guest passes. I’ll give them to you. It’s not like my roommates are ever going to come here. I’ve tried, believe me.”

The single sheet on the stand drew her attention. Looping expressive cursive covered the paper and the left hand corner boasted two fervent doodles. She reached for it, but Nate captured her wrist.

“If you want to handle any of the artifacts you have to visit the washing station first. Besides the photographs, we don’t require gloves, but we do ask for a full thirty seconds of hand washing.”

“Thirty seconds, huh?”

“A good rule of thumb is to hum
row, row, row your boat
three times.” He winked.

Whitney raised her hands in surrender then tucked them together on her lap. “All right, you show me then. What do you have?”

“It’s a letter written by a woman named Ellen to her cousin Alice.”

“And it has to do with Lewis Ingram?” Whitney looked up from the document and locked gazes with Nate. With both of them hunched side by side the gold flecks in his eyes seemed to shimmer from only inches away.

“Yes.” He traced a finger over the showy cursive. “You see, it says here that Ellen is Lewis Ingram’s sister.”

Chicago, April 27, 1886

With added flourish, Ellen completed her signature. She folded the page, using her copy of Jane Austen’s
Emma
to form a crisp crease, and smirked.

“And what could have you grinning like the Cheshire cat this early in the morning?”

She knew the voice, and took great pleasure in causing him annoyance by taking her time to seal her letter before looking up. James Kent, her brother’s long-time friend, stood there, one broad shoulder propped against the doorframe. He raised his dark blond eyebrows in her direction.

Ellen trailed her fingers over the desktop. “Just this letter I’m sending to Alice. I’m imagining her shock when she reads my declaration. Oh. I wish I could be there to see her face.”

“And what declaration would that be?” Straightening, James looped his hands in his pockets and entered the room.

Aunt Louisa set her teacup on the curio cabinet and fluttered her hands as if to shoo a fly out of the room. “Mr. Kent, a gentleman should show dignity in his reserve.”

“Now what fun would that be? Besides, it’s only Ellen.” With a laugh, he captured Ellen’s aunt’s offered hand and inclined his head. “Good morning, Mrs. Danby, might I thank you again for allowing me to be a guest in your home?”

Ellen rolled her eyes behind her aunt’s ample backside, and James rubbed his jaw to hide the telltale signs of a smile. If Aunt Louisa sniffed a hint of impertinence she would likely force Ellen and James to pack their bags, summon her carriage, and send them both to Union Depot to board the next train home to Wheaton posthaste.

And home proved the last place Ellen wished to be.

Aunt Louisa swept past James and picked up the blue and white delftware teacup she abandoned moments ago. “You’re only here because my sister begged me to host you as well. Why Ellen needs a family friend to accompany her when she’s staying with her own flesh and blood is beyond me, but far be it from me to refuse my sister anything. The poor dear hasn’t had the nicest life, you know.”

It had taken Aunt all of two minutes of a conversation to begin speaking ill of Ellen’s mother. Her nails bit into her palms.
Be kind
. “Yes. James is right. Thank you for having us in your home, Aunt,” Ellen added.

“You know, I’m quite happy that your mother remarried. With your brother gone all the time and with you being of a marriageable age, she would have found herself alone before long. I don’t believe she would have left behind your father’s dusty stables to move in with you or Lewis, which is really a pity. But no matter, above all, your stepfather seems like a nice enough man.”