Echoes of Mercy: A Novel Read online

  Grateful to set aside the subject of matrimony, Oliver lifted his head and met his father’s gaze.

  “Remember, our first priority is to turn a profit. Hightower does that well. Try to learn from him.” Father gave Oliver’s knee a quick pat and then stood up. “You should know that Hightower has some real concerns about one of his newest hires—the woman you asked to have placed on third shift.” Oliver’s heart fired into his throat. “Carrie? Why?”

  His lips twitching, Father linked his hands together. “It seems she has been pestering coworkers for information concerning the accident that claimed Harmon Bratcher’s life. Since he was specifically inspecting the factory’s third rotation, Hightower’s concerned her real reason for wanting to join that shift is to stir up trouble.”

  Oliver could refute Hightower’s claim. But if he told Father she needed that shift so she’d be available to Lank and Lesley, he’d have to explain why he knew so much about Carrie Lang. So he phrased a question instead. “Why would she stir up trouble?”

  “Hightower believes she knew Bratcher—that she’s his relative. If she finds a reason to hold us accountable for his death, she can sue us. Going to court is costly, and it could turn the public against us. Bratcher was well known across the state for his campaigning. If Hightower’s suppositions are correct, this woman could create a financial hardship for the factory. Perhaps even force us to close down.”

  “Carrie wouldn’t do that.” Oliver spoke firmly, but the moment the words left his mouth, uncertainty fell over him. She’d specifically asked if he was looking into Bratcher’s death—had even seemed elated at the idea. Did she have motives of which he was unaware?

  Father sent Oliver a sharp look. “I’m not so sure. But I want to discover why she’s curious. So I’ve told Hightower, and now I’m telling you—I want her watched. I want you to watch her.”

  Oliver’s pulse began to gallop. “Sir?”

  “Starting tomorrow you’ll be on third shift with Carrie Lang.”

  Caroline

  Kesia slid a packet wrapped in brown paper across the counter toward Caroline. “Here you are. Two cheese sandwiches, some jerked beef, and a nice big apple with nary a wormhole. That oughta keep your Letta goin’ ’til lunchtime tomorrow.”

  Lank and Lesley paused in eating their ham and beans to stare at the lumpy packet. Lank licked his lips, and Lesley turned a disgruntled look on Kesia. “Ain’tcha got nothin’ for me an’ Lank? How come Letta gets it all?”

  Caroline clicked her tongue on her teeth. Apparently no one had taught the boys tact. Or appreciation. In her brief time with them, she’d already been subjected to no less than a dozen stinging opinions about her tiny apartment, her lack of cooking skills, and her insistence on their attending school. Additionally, they’d neglected to thank her for providing them with a place to sleep. She could take their disparagement—she’d been subjected to worse—but she would not allow them to inflict guilt on dear Kesia.

  “Lesley, shame on you,” Caroline said, frowning at the boy. “Kesia served you a nice, hot supper, and you fuss because your sister will be given the chance to fill her stomach, too? That’s a very selfish attitude. Apologize to Miss Kesia.”

  Lesley gaped at her with round blue eyes. “Huh?”

  Caroline raised one eyebrow. “You heard me. Apologize for being greedy.”

  Lesley squirmed in his seat, hunching his shoulders. He muttered, “Sorry, Miss Kesia.”

  “Now,” Caroline continued, letting her firm gaze move from Lesley to Lank, “tell Miss Kesia thank you for your supper.”

  The boys’ faces pursed into matching grimaces, but Lesley said, “Thank you, Miss Kesia,” while Lank muttered something under his breath that Caroline presumed was a word of thanks.

  Kesia beamed as brightly as if they’d expressed gratitude without prompting. Reaching across the counter, she gave each boy a pat on the shoulder. “You’re as welcome as welcome can be, boys. Finish up them beans an’ cornbread, an’ I’ll bring out a plate o’ molasses cookies for your dessert.”

  The boys bent over their bowls and returned to eating.

  Kesia, chuckling, turned to Caroline. “They’re quite the rapscallions, aren’t they? But they sure liven up the place. Glad you brought ’em in, Carrie. Been too long since young uns sat at my counter.”

  “I’m glad you don’t mind feeding them.” Caroline offered a sheepish grin. “They’d have to go hungry if they relied on me for meals.”

  Kesia shook her finger. “But you wouldn’t have to depend on my cookin’ if you’d just learn a few recipes for yourself. When’re you gonna let me teach you how to make your way around a cookstove?”

  Caroline forced a laugh, hoping Kesia didn’t notice the perspiration breaking out across her brow at the thought of working in a kitchen. “Maybe someday, Kesia, when I’m not so busy.” But she knew she’d never agree to Kesia’s request, no matter how many times she asked. She would never deliberately enter the darkest place of her childhood. She changed the subject before Kesia could argue. “I’m grateful for the lunches you pack for Letta. The poor girl hasn’t left the hospital even for a minute in the past two days.”

  Kesia’s wrinkled face pursed in sympathy. “What a dear, standin’ by her pa the way she’s done. O’ course, you carin’ for her brothers lets her stay.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “How’s her pa doin’?”

  Caroline cringed, recalling the man’s nearly colorless face on the white starched pillowcase. He’d come through the surgery, but he didn’t appear to have much life left in him. “The doctors are hopeful,” she said, “but they won’t make any promises. He’s very weak.”

  “Well, we’ll just keep prayin’ an’ trustin’.” Kesia cleared the dishes left by one of the male patrons and then swept away the crumbs from the counter with a damp rag. Tossing the rag into a basin behind the counter, she smiled at Caroline. “Least he don’t have any worries, seein’ as how you an’ Ollie’ve taken charge of his kids.”

  To Caroline’s chagrin, at the mention of Ollie’s name, her pulse gave a stutter of delight. She inwardly berated herself for the reaction. Taking the third-shift position had done more than give her access to the people who might have witnessed Bratcher’s fall—it had removed the possibility of crossing paths with Ollie Moore during the day. She’d told herself only good could come from the arrangement.

  Yet all last night while preparing crates for shipping, she’d caught herself glancing up in anticipation at every approaching footfall and then fading in disappointment when the person wasn’t Ollie. She’d convinced herself only tiredness created the desire to see Ollie’s familiar face. After all, she’d had only a scant three hours of sleep before retrieving the boys from school yesterday afternoon. Today she’d slept a full seven hours. So she wouldn’t be looking for Ollie tonight.

  She wouldn’t.

  Caroline confided, “Mr. Holcomb won’t have to worry about hospital bills, either.”

  Kesia’s fuzzy eyebrows shot high. “Hospital not chargin’ him?”

  Caroline shrugged, feigning a casual air that belied her deep curiosity. “His bill was paid by an anonymous benefactor. Not even Letta knows who did it. She was crying tears of joy when the boys and I visited her this afternoon. I asked the hospital administrator who’d paid the bill, but he refused to answer—said the person had sworn him to secrecy.”

  Tears winked in Kesia’s eyes. “Aw, such a sweet turn of events. Whoever it was, he’s an angel to my way of thinkin’.”

  Caroline nodded in agreement. She’d like to thank the person—if she knew who the provider was. Perhaps she could find the time to investigate a second mystery.

  Lesley jabbed Caroline on the shoulder with his finger. “I’m all done. So is Lank.”

  Caroline pretended to inspect their empty bowls. “Good job. You ate every bite.” Not that she’d expected anything less. She’d begun to wonder if the boys had tapeworms. How could such small children consume so much
food?

  “We’re wantin’ those cookies now.”

  Folding her arms over her chest, Caroline affected a mild scowl. “If you will ask Miss Kesia politely, I’m sure she’ll bring you some cookies.”

  The two turned pleading faces in Kesia’s direction. Lesley said, “Miss Kesia, can—”

  “May, Lesley.”

  He scowled and started over. “May me an’—”

  “Lank and I,” Caroline interrupted.

  “May Lank an’ me, er I, have some cookies?”

  “Please,” Caroline prompted.

  The little boy heaved a persecuted sigh. “Can—May we pleeeease have some cookies?”

  Kesia laughed and ruffled the thick hair on Lesley’s crown. “Yes, you may. I’ll fetch ’em right now. You two put your dirty bowls in my washtub over there, an’ I’ll be right back.”

  Caroline watched the boys scoop their bowls, plates, cups, and spoons from the counter, trot to the corner, and deposit their armloads with a clatter. Just as they climbed up on the stools again, Kesia returned with a plate heaped with crumbly molasses cookies. “Don’t eat ’em all right now. Save a few for a snack before you go to bed.”

  The boys nodded and reached for the cookies. While they munched, Kesia tapped her chin with one finger, her expression thoughtful. “I should’ve put a few cookies in that pack for Letta. Young uns are partial to sweets, an’ she deserves somethin’ extra for bein’ so considerin’ of her pa.” She gave a decisive nod and headed for the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “An’ don’t you put even an extra penny in the bucket for the cookies. Those’re my treat.” She disappeared from view.

  Caroline shook her head, chuckling fondly. Kesia surely had angel wings tucked beneath her calico dress. She returned shortly with a packet of cookies. Caroline instructed Lank to carry the boys’ schoolbooks and slates and gave Lesley the task of carrying the food. Kesia accompanied the trio to the door, sending them off with smiles and cheerful farewells. “See you tomorrow!”

  “See you tomorrow, Kesia. Thank you.” Draping her arms over the boys’ shoulders, Caroline aimed them for the hospital.

  Lesley squinted up at her, his nose wrinkling. “Ain’t we goin’ to your place?”

  “No. We’ll spend the evening with Letta. You two have homework, and Letta can do the lessons, too, so she doesn’t fall behind while your father is recuperating.” Putting the children to work on lessons would keep them busy, but it would also prevent them from thinking too much about their pa.

  “We sleepin’ at the factory again tonight?” Lesley asked.

  “That’s right.” Caroline had worried that the boys would be bothered by the factory’s noises. Banging hammers, whistling steam, and squeaky cartwheels created a discordant melody that sneaked beneath the door into the infirmary. Yet each time she’d peeked in on them, they were sleeping soundly, seemingly unaware of the cacophony on the other side of the door.

  Lank scuffed his toe against the ground and mumbled something. Caroline leaned close and asked him to repeat it, but he shook his head, his lips pinched in a grim line. She turned to Lesley. “What did Lank say?”

  Lesley sent a quick look at his brother. “He don’t want to go to school no more. Lank … he don’t like school.”

  Caroline squelched a smile. “You’ve only gone one day. How can you be sure you don’t like it?”

  Lesley rolled his eyes as if Caroline’s statement was too ludicrous to warrant a reply.

  Caroline looked at Lank. She wished the boy would talk to her. He whispered to Lesley now and then, but other than his emphatic statement that he would not attend school, he hadn’t uttered a word to her or to Kesia or even to Ollie. She’d never met such a quiet boy. Yet intelligence lurked behind his resentful glare. She spoke very gently. “Why don’t you like school, Lank?”

  The boy set his lips in a firm line and stared ahead as if he hadn’t heard her.

  Caroline sighed and turned to chatterbox Lesley. “Why doesn’t Lank like school?”

  Lesley scrunched up his face. “The teacher made us recite things. Made Lank recite things. An’ the kids—they all laughed.”

  “Why did the children laugh? Are the recitations funny?”

  Lank snorted.

  Lesley shook his head. “Huh-uh. He just can’t say ’em without goin’ uh-uh-uh.”

  Caroline stopped, drawing the boys to a halt as well. When Lank had spouted his determination not to attend school, she’d presumed anger had caused him to stumble over his words. But now she understood, and sympathy brought the sting of tears. She leaned down and looked directly into Lank’s sullen face. “Is that why you don’t talk, Lank? Because you stammer?”

  Lank looked to the side, his jaw tightening.

  Lesley tugged on Caroline’s sleeve. “Pa calls Lank a im… imbecile. Says Ma prob’ly left ’cause she was ashamed to be around a mushmouth.” His forehead crinkled. “Miss Carrie, what’s a imbecile?”

  Caroline ground her teeth, anger rolling through her like an ocean wave. “Something Lank most certainly is not.” She took Lank by the shoulders and made him turn toward her. “Lank, you do know, don’t you, that there’s no shame in stammering?”

  The look he turned on her spoke of fury but also of a deep, deep hurt. The anguish behind his glare nearly dissolved Caroline into tears. She squeezed his arms, offering comfort with her touch.

  “Lank, you’re a very smart boy.” Lord, let him believe me. Don’t let him go through life carrying a burden of disgrace he doesn’t deserve. “You know the words. That means you’re smart. Just because you have trouble saying the words doesn’t make you stupid.”

  His expression didn’t change.

  She straightened, placing her arm around the boy’s stiff shoulders. “Very well, I won’t talk to you about it anymore right now.” With her other hand on Lesley’s back, she aimed them for the hospital again. “But I want you to believe me, Lank. You are very, very smart, and you will find a way to let everyone know just how smart you really are.”

  They walked in silence the remaining distance, allowing Caroline to plan what she would say to the boys’ teacher before school tomorrow. She’d need the woman’s assistance to help Lank feel at ease in the classroom and focus on learning. She glanced at Lank’s unruly red head and stifled a sigh. Another worry to bear. But at least she could remove her concern about feeding her infatuation with Ollie Moore. Without their day-to-day contact, he was sure to drift from her thoughts.

  Thank You, Lord, for separating us. Finally. Despite this added burden, things would be much easier with the factory’s janitor no longer stealing her attention.

  Oliver

  Oliver hunched in the shadowy area behind a stack of empty crates. The mouth-watering aroma of chocolate mingled with the scent of fresh-sawed wood—an unusual yet somehow pleasant combination. He pinched the brim of the battered suede cap he’d swapped with a man on the street for a nickel and wriggled it until it rested just above his eyebrows and then flipped up the collar of his bulky jacket around his ears. The corduroy fabric brushed his jaw, and he scowled. His whiskers—allowed to grow unchecked to offer another means of masking his face—itched. He poked out his chin and scratched his grizzled cheeks with both hands, nearly sighing with relief. The moment he’d gathered enough information to convince Father that Carrie was no threat, he would razor his face clean of these prickly hairs.

  His skin tingling pleasantly from the fierce scratching, he emerged from his hiding spot and snatched the broom from the corner. Head low, he inched across the floor, sending surreptitious glances in Carrie’s direction as he attempted to sweep sawdust and discarded tacks into a pile. Who knew the simple act of sweeping was so difficult? The housekeeper at home never scattered particles in all directions when she swept, yet his fumbling swipes often did more chasing than gathering. But maybe it was discomfort more than ineptitude that made the task seem difficult on this night.

  His stomach twisted in nervousness. S
uch a disconcerting task Father had given him—spying on Carrie. For three nights he’d sneaked around corners, listened in on conversations, and observed her every move. Although his clandestine exploits set his teeth on edge—the entire situation made him feel like an interloper in his very own factory—he had to admit, some of Carrie’s actions stirred a hint of misgiving.

  But instead of making him wary of Carrie, he was finding himself suspicious of Bratcher.

  His first night on duty, he’d overheard her quizzing two other employees about Harmon Bratcher. She’d used a glib approach that seemed to fool the young men who moved the full crates to the shipping dock, but he’d perceived an intensity that went beyond mild curiosity. He’d filed away the information she’d gleaned, intending to share it with Father. According to the workers, Bratcher had been found first thing Monday morning, not Monday evening as Hightower had reported. If the workers were correct—and he tended to believe anyone over Hightower—then Bratcher had been in the factory on Sunday. But the factory wasn’t open on Sundays. What was he doing in the closed factory? How had he gotten in? Something didn’t sound right.

  His chin tucked against his shoulder, he pushed the broom over the planked floor behind Carrie and peeked at her from the corner of his eyes. Father would have no complaints about her work ethic. Even while asking questions, she was industrious. Her hammer rose and fell on the round heads of tacks in a steady rhythm. The securing slats lay straight across the cushioning layer of straw, their ends aligned with the crates’ top edges.

  The other new crater, a boy perhaps seventeen, was sloppy. His placement of the slats left gaps through which bugs could crawl. Some of the narrow strips of wood extended over the edge of the crate, making it difficult to stack the boxes neatly. The boy also wasted time meandering back and forth between the filled crates and the supply of slats, carrying only half enough strips of wood to cover one box.

  But not Carrie. She gathered a large number of slats—enough to cover at least a dozen crates before needing to refill her supply. She worked steadily but not rushed, using her time wisely. He still pondered her fascination with Bratcher, yet his admiration exceeded his apprehensions. Whatever compelled her to question Bratcher’s untimely demise, she earned every penny of her wages. And Oliver would certainly assure his father of that fact.