Hooked (6 page)

Now
The San Francisco Chronicle
had him.

He was the best stunt reporter
The Chronicle
had ever employed. It had been a fluke he'd taken his column on the road. Posing in the nude had had its rewards. That cultured artists piece had put Gage's name in every household. His undercover whereabouts had turned into a game. So much so that even rival newspapers ran headlines such as: “Where's Gage?” and “Who Will Gage Be Next?”

Not even Gage knew who he'd be from one day to the next. He most certainly hadn't planned on being Vernon Wilberforce. He'd never once assumed the identity or borrowed the name of a real person. Each of his aliases had been his own creation.

But Wilberforce's predicament had fallen into Gage's lap. Wilberforce needed to be in Harmony or his wife would leave him. And Gage needed a new place to hide as soon as Ben Tweedy had unmasked him. If that was all there were to the pieces, Gage wouldn't have come this far. What brought him to town wasn't Wilberforce's woes. Actually, it had been what Tweedy said.

A fly-fishing contest that was rigged. One thousand dollars paid out to the wrong winner.
Rumors or fact.

There was nothing like the underdog to get Gage's blood stirred.

Muckraking. It was Gage's bread and butter. He championed those who were less fortunate. He had his reasons; they were buried deep inside him. Only his editor, David West, knew the truth behind the byline. And it would stay that way.

Gage recalled the dawn hours in his Bozeman jail cell listening to the uneven snores of the deputy—Gage had kept the lawman up most of the night telling him about some of his most wild adventures.

As soon as Tweedy's chin dropped to his chest, Gage had given Vernon a long stare, just to unnerve him and see if he'd flinch beneath his gaze; see if he was indeed telling the truth about having to be in Harmony—or if he'd made it up just to get the deputy's sympathy. The Bissell salesman hadn't batted an eyelash.

“Tell me all you know about this fly-fishing contest, Wilberforce,” Gage had said.

Wilberforce began talking and didn't stop until Deputy Tweedy woke up and broke things off between them to give Gage his walking papers.

Now Gage was in Harmony, posing as a man he'd only known for six hours, and running on his instinct to uncover things.

The town had no local paper that he could read and dissect. A newspaper told a lot about a place—especially one with a small population like Harmony. They printed the kind of things dailies ignored in their search for bigger headlines. He wanted to examine folksy, newsy, personal stories like who was visiting relatives, who got arrested on Saturday night for intoxication, and who baked the best cake for the church fund-raising raffle. He could have read commentaries on the upcoming fly-fishing contest and gained some insight.

Since Gage couldn't nose around the local rag, he'd have to do all his digging from scratch. He figured he'd better get to work.

Starting with: How in the hell do you fly-fish?

Whenever Gage wanted a trout, he told the waiter.

Gage left the desk and went into the bathroom to retrieve his journal case. Afterward, he returned to the bedroom, slipped the leather buckles free and dumped the contents onto the bed. Rifling through his belongings, he momentarily paused at the bundle of envelopes bound by string and all addressed to his . . .
wife
. Or, rather,
Mrs. Vernon Wilberforce.
Gage grimaced. He had to remember to mail the first one tomorrow or the plan would be made into hash.

Moving on, he gathered his pencils so that he could take notes, a lot of them. Then he shuffled through several tablets and finally reached the item he sought. A simple, blue-cloth covered book, thoroughly battered, its flyleaf stained with coffee cup rings from the former owner:
New American Fly-Fishing Manifesto.

With a shove of his arm and a total disregard for the mess on the bed, he got most of the stuff out of his way—enough so he could lean back and arrange the two pillows to prop his back against. Crossing his bare foot on top of his knee, he opened the book and became oblivious to his surroundings as he began to read up about his latest stunt.

*  *  *

Meg let the screen door to the house on Elm Street whack closed in her wake, etiquette forgotten—along with her parasol and gloves at the hotel; she had left the premises with her head in the clouds.

The rich aroma of a pot roast wafted to her nose as she entered the vestibule. Mr. Finch had started dinner.

Grandma Nettie had given him a position while Meg's parents were away. His duties were those of a domestic: clean, cook, wash, and iron. He may not
have been the right gender for the job, but he actually
liked
doing women's work. And since Meg didn't care to spend her time in the kitchen or polishing the furniture, she thought of Mr. Finch as a temporary godsend. But she did have a difficult time thinking of him as a hired girl.

To her friends, she'd introduced the bowler-wearing man who emptied their rubbish into the bin behind the house as Mr. Finch, the butler. Even though he rarely answered the door, and he wore a white string apron like a housemaid.

Meg heard Mr. Finch's British accent coming from the dining room. “Is that enough ink, Mrs. Rothman?”

“I think it will be fine, Mr. Finch. All I have to print up are these last few. Thank you.”

Walking through the parlor and beneath the arched doorway with its ornate spindles and woodwork, Meg found Grandma Nettie at the dining-room table. She pressed a large rubber stamp on a pad of ink, then smacked it in the middle of a flyer. Meg didn't take the time to read what the stamp said.

“Margaret, you're home. I won't be able to have dinner with you this evening. I've got an engagement.”

“What kind?”

“It's best you don't know.”

A sinking feeling weighed on Meg. She didn't want to tell her grandma not to do as she pleased. But by the same token, if she caused a big fuss Meg didn't want to lose the ground she'd been working so hard to gain.

“Grandma,” Meg began, glancing at the paneled doorway that led into the kitchen to make sure the revolving door was closed. She didn't want Mr. Finch to hear. “I have to tell you something.”

“What's that, dear?” her grandmother asked, eyes leveling on Meg with a hopeful gleam “Have you decided to become the first woman president?”

“No.” Meg pulled out a chair and sat next to Grandma Nettie who had stopped what she was doing to give Meg her undivided attention.

“It's important. I can see it written all over your face.”

Unbidden, Meg blushed. “Well, yes it is rather important.” She toyed with the fringe of the table's center scarf. “I had an accident today. I . . . I lost my petticoat.”

Grandma Nettie didn't flinch. “Is that all? Heavens, once while I was on a crusade march for the Female Suffrage Act, I lost my best lace-up shoes. I threw them—one at a time—at a copper. Did you throw your petticoat at somebody, Margaret?”

“I wouldn't dream of it!” Meg blurted. “Given your situation, you had to throw your shoes, but a lady would never take off her petticoat and throw it at somebody.”

“I might if I thought it would get my message across.” Grandma shook her head. “I think you're taking this lady business a little too far, Margaret. I knew you before you were a lady and I liked you just fine.”

“Thank you, Grandma. But before I quit doing ‘rambunctious public displays' as Mother called them, I never had the attentions of a man. And now . . . well, I do.” Meg lowered her voice. “And it's not Harold Adams.”

Her grandmother's brows rose, then she lifted her gaze to Meg's hair—which hadn't been pinned up very tidily.

Meg felt the need to explain. “I got my hair caught under somebody's bed.”

“Whose bed?” Grandma gasped—even she had her limits on liberalism.

It sounded much worse than it was as Meg admitted, “A bed at the hotel.”

“What were you doing under a bed at the hotel?”

“Hiding from Delbert because I stepped on the hem of my petticoat and it fell off.”

“If your mother heard this, she'd faint dead away,” was all Grandma Nettie said.

“I know,” Meg dismally agreed, thankful that she didn't have to tell her mother—not that she would have. “But it was an accident. Honest. I really did get trapped in a room while trying to repair the damage. And with a man. The most handsome man I've ever seen.”

Her grandmother's pale blue eyes grew bright with amusement. “How intriguing. What was his name?”

“Mr. Wilberforce.”

“Room thirty-two. I remember him. I checked him in at noon. He came to town on the eleven twenty-five train. I did think he was very handsome. His name doesn't fit his appearance.”

“Well, I do suppose that a woman would want the most handsome man she's ever met to be named something more . . . handsome, but,” she quickly went on, “he can't help the name he was born with. And Wilberforce does go nicely with Vernon.”

“It does at that.”

Meg leaned closer to her grandmother, “Mr. Wilberforce had a gun.”

“Really?” Grandma Nettie whispered, setting her
ink stamp down; her gaze held a sparkle of mischief. “What kind?”

“I wouldn't know the model. But it had a pearl-handle.”

“The Feds carry Peacemakers. I wonder if he's a Federal agent? This is all very interesting, Margaret.” Straightening, Grandma Nettie sighed on a wistful note. “As you know, I loved your grandfather in our forty-eight years together, but after he passed on and I made it my life's work to fight for my sisters, nothing out of the ordinary—like losing my petticoat and hiding beneath a man's bed—has ever happened to me.”

She held up her forefinger in pausing thought. “Unless you count the time I went to jail for twenty-four hours for burning my corset and refusing to apologize to the city of Mud Willow Flats when the local granary caught a spark. Land sakes, you could smell popcorn for five miles. I suggested the good ladies in town melt some butter, bring large bowls, and shakers of salt. That's when the sheriff arrested me. He had a Peacemaker.”

“You never told me that.”

“Oh, I don't like to speak of such things when your mother is around. I might make her faint.” Grandma picked up a flyer and studied it. “I make
you
faint, Margaret, now that you've changed.”

“It would take a lot to make me faint, Grandma.”

“Good.”

Grudgingly, Meg said, “I should be working on my journal now.” She would have much rather talked with Grandma Nettie about men, but Meg was already late turning in her first assignment.

Meg was still enrolled in Mrs. Wolcott's Finishing School, but Mrs. Wolcott had allowed her a leave of
absence in order to help Grandma Nettie at the hotel. On one condition. Meg was to complete various writing assignments and keep a journal on her experiences in the business world. Meg had to present her opinions on the running of the hotel to Mrs. Wolcott at the end of the term in order to graduate.

“Tomorrow I'll be a little late coming to the hotel,” Meg added. “I need to buy a new cigar clipper. The one I set out is missing. Stolen, no doubt. Some of those traveling men, you just can't trust them.”

“Yes, I know. That King Merkle in room—”

The front door bell cranked.

Grandma Nettie turned toward the parlor and suddenly said, “I forgot to mention—your friends Ruth and Hildegarde called while you were out. They wanted me to tell you that Johannah Treber wore her engagement ring to school. A
diamond,”
her grandma dramatized. “I was supposed to tell you it was a diamond because in class Mrs. Wolcott explained about the origin of the diamond as an engagement ring. She said that a diamond originated in the fires of love, and therefore a diamond is the only
true
engagement ring, signifying love and happiness throughout life.” With a soft
humph,
she went on, “Not my words. Theirs. Frankly, any ring given with love is all that a woman should require.”

The chime of the bell sounded once more, and Mr. Finch's footsteps could be heard through the foyer.

“Margaret, it just dawned on me. Mr. Wilberforce could be a diamond salesman. It makes sense, you know. Johannah shows off her ring just when he comes to town. And he did have a gun. He has to protect himself from jewel thieves.”

“It's a possibility.” Then she remembered what Mr.
Wilberforce did have sprawled across the bed in his room. “He brought a fishing pole and tackle. I'll bet he's here for the contest.”

Mr. Finch came into the dining room. “Miss Margaret, there's a Harold Adams come to call on you.”

Meg groaned.
Harold Adam's Apple
. Once a woman had been stuck in a hotel room with a man as good-looking as Vernon Wilberforce, the Harolds of the world paled in comparison. “I really don't want to see him . . .”

Grandma Nettie put her ink-smudged fingertip to her lips. “We'll let your mother handle this.”

Confused, Meg frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Finch,” Grandma Nettie said, “please tell Mr. Adams that Margaret has a sick headache and she's not receiving callers. Thank you.”

“Very good, Mrs. Rothman.” He departed, leaving Meg to ponder the credibility of the excuse. Whenever Mother said she had a sick headache, Father didn't bother her. Sick headaches warded off unwanted attention.

Sharing a smile with her grandmother, Meg realized this was the first benefit she'd encountered since becoming a proper lady.

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