OCTOBER 1915
“This is preposterous!” Mr. Barlowe’s glower probably would have been enough to cease the war overseas were he shipped to the front lines.
Greta shrank behind Oscar, praying that God would end this nightmare she had been swept up in.
Detective Patton cleared his throat, obviously intimidated by Barlowe’s mannerisms as he unwillingly unlocked the doors to the theater. “We just need to have a look inside.”
“To validate her story?” Barlowe’s black eyes speared Greta.
She shouldn’t be here. She needed to return to Grove House and check on her brothers. They must be worried sick by now. Greta wasn’t convinced that Mr. Barlowe didn’t have his own lackeys already paying her retribution by spiriting her brothers away at this very moment.
“The charges are quite serious.” Mr. Boyd leveled a frank stare on his peer.
Mr. Barlowe turned to Oscar’s father. “I would have expected more loyalty from you, Boyd. Siding with this . . . this chit? You realize she comes from Grove House. She’s probably after your money—your son!” Barlowe swept an angry arm toward Oscar. “You’re being manipulated by a liar, and we all know she isn’t in her right mind! The debacle at my theater was what started all this.”
“And no infant was found,” Detective Patton added, which was very unhelpful.
They entered the theater with Mr. Barlowe leading the charge. He stopped in the lobby, his voice echoing off the ceiling with the cherubs gleefully smiling down on them. “Here. Have your way with it all. You’ll find nothing. No one. You’ll see this woman’s accusations are false, meant to discredit my good name.”
Detective Patton ducked into the theater’s hall, the vibrant hues of red welcoming him with the impression of elegance and class.
Barlowe followed, Mr. Boyd behind him, who turned and addressed Oscar and Greta. There was warning in his eyes. “I’m not sure what we will find. Regardless, Miss Mercy, you are here at the behest of Detective Patton to identify Alma or Emily—or both—if we find them. I recommend you stay silent until questions are asked of you.”
Mr. Boyd’s tone was stern. Greta could see the tenuous ledge he was tiptoeing merely for her sake and on the word of Oscar and Eleanor. If they found nothing, if Alma and Emily weren’t here in the theater . . . Greta hated to conjure what that would mean. For her. For her brothers. Even for Oscar and Eleanor and Mr. Boyd.
Entering the hall, Greta immediately noticed the doll Alma had thrown at her was no longer lying on the floor. She bit her tongue. She wouldn’t point that out, yet the mere fact added to the dread within her.
Detective Patton had confronted Mr. Barlowe at his mansion. But if Barlowe had already uncovered that she and Alma had escaped via the tunnel off the vault, there was a strong probability that he had already gained control over Alma—even Emily, assuming she was the woman in white—and had moved them somewhere else. Greta’s accusations would fall flat. Even if the tunnel were exposed, without the presence of the other women, there would be no credence given to Greta’s claims. Her abduction, the abuse, the crookedness of Officers Hargrove and Ambrose . . . none of it would ring true.
“Fan out.” Detective Patton motioned left and right to the officers with him. “Search everywhere. If you happen to see someone, proceed with caution. We don’t want to scare them away.”
“Bah!” Mr. Barlowe barked. “Scare away? Trust me, you won’t find anyone!”
Ignoring Barlowe, the detective asked Greta, “Where’s this tunnel you spoke of?”
Oscar gave Greta an encouraging nod. She summoned the willpower to answer, “Down in the boiler room.”
“Let’s go then!” Mr. Barlowe’s scowl burned proverbial holes into Greta. He pushed ahead of Detective Patton and led the way. “Secret tunnels. What utter foolishness!”
Greta wasn’t sure how Mr. Barlowe planned to convince them there wasn’t a tunnel when she could lead them straight to its entrance. A foreboding in her spirit warned her that with Mr. Barlowe, anything was a possibility.
They reached the basement, skirted the dressing rooms, and entered the boiler room.
“Where is this so-called tunnel?” Mr. Barlowe demanded of her before anyone else had the chance to ask.
Detective Patton held out a hand level with Barlowe’s chest. “Please, Mr. Barlowe, I ask that you allow me to conduct the investigation.” He directed his next question to Greta. “Where did you find this tunnel, Miss Mercy?”
Greta pointed to the coal bin that was perhaps five feet in height and boxed in by walls and a door. “I came out of there. You’ll find a hatch at the back of the bin.”
Detective Patton moved to the coal bin, pulling open its door.
Coal was piled high. Too high. The hatch was well covered and out of sight. Detective Patton exchanged looks with Mr. Boyd, who turned to Greta expectantly. “You’re certain you came through the coal bin?”
Greta nodded, although she could sense the thin thread of hope she still clung to unraveling by the second.
“You expect us to believe you pushed your way through coal?” Mr. Barlowe jeered. “Impossible!”
“Detective?” An officer hustled into the boiler room. “We’ve checked the theater. There’s no one here.”
“See?” Mr. Barlowe’s fury was palpable. “I want to press charges. I want this woman jailed for defamation of character and for trespassing. I know you have an officer on your force who can testify that Miss Mercy has indeed broken into the theater before.”
“Miss Mercy?” Detective Patton swung around to address her.
Oscar stepped forward. “She wasn’t alone.”
“Oscar,” Mr. Boyd snapped.
Greta put her hand on Oscar’s arm and shook her head. This wasn’t his battle. He and Eleanor had sacrificed much on her behalf. Their loyalty and their devotion were more than Greta could have ever asked for or expected. She would not allow them to further damage their futures when hers already lay in ruins. “I merely wanted to find my brother Leo. After the evening here when I thought I saw an infant fall—”
“Thought she saw!” Mr. Barlowe snarled.
“Mr. Barlowe, please.” Detective Patton held up his hand again. “Go on, Miss Mercy.”
“Leo was only trying to clear my name. To prove that I wasn’t making up stories. I saw an infant fall, but now I know it was a doll. I’m sure of it. And the woman who dropped it was . . .” Greta bit back her accusation. It would do no good to claim that Emily Barlowe, who had been buried in the Kipper’s Grove cemetery, had somehow grown into a woman, only to toss a doll from a box seat. It was preposterous.
“Was who, Miss Mercy?” Detective Patton pressed, though Mr. Boyd had already explained the theory prior. The detective appeared to be calculating the evidence to warrant any further investigation on his part.
Greta lifted her chin, dismissing the concept of being convincing. Tell the truth. It was what she’d been taught as a youngster by her parents. It was what she and Gerard had tried to foster in their younger brothers. Integrity. Loyalty. Sacrifice for one another and others. She thought of Alma. Sweet Alma who wobbled between her adult mind and that of a child. Simply wanting the love of her father, regardless of the abuse he had put her through. Alma needed Greta to fight for her. Perhaps Emily, the woman in white, did also.
“Alma and Emily Barlowe.” Greta spoke the names with clarity, though even she could hear the nervousness in her voice. “Alma was with me at Grove House. I believe Emily has been here at the theater, going back and forth between here and the Barlowe mansion. I don’t know why. But I do know—because I experienced it myself—that Mr. Barlowe locks Alma and Emily in his vault.”
“That is preposterous!” Mr. Barlowe shouted. “How dare you? My daughters have lain buried for well over a decade!”
Detective Patton had heard this before, at the Boyds’ residence, but now, in front of Mr. Barlowe, he appeared to be gauging his response to Greta’s accusations.
“And the vault has a door that opens into the tunnel,” Greta added.
“There’s nothing illegal about having a tunnel,” Barlowe protested.
Detective Patton sharpened. “So there is a tunnel?”
Mr. Barlowe hesitated briefly before admitting, “Fine. I have a vault. There’s a space behind it. For privacy’s sake. That is all.”
“And if we empty the coal bin?” Detective Patton led.
Mr. Barlowe’s face was growing red, the veins in his neck bulging. “You’ll have an empty coal bin,” he retorted.
Detective Patton snapped his fingers at his officers. “Empty the coal bin,” he commanded.
Greta drew against Oscar in surprise. She’d not expected the detective to lend even the slightest credence to her story in the wake of Mr. Barlowe’s arrogance and prominence.
Footsteps outside the boiler room snagged their attention—shuffling, as though someone was being pushed and prodded against their will.
“I can walk myself!” a man’s voice declared, just as another officer shoved him into the room.
Mr. Barlowe stiffened.
Detective Patton exchanged looks with Mr. Boyd.
Oscar’s hand went to the small of Greta’s back, and proper or not, she was glad for the reassuring touch. She was most certain the next few minutes would be the last she spent under any semblance of Boyd protection.
Officer John Hargrove blustered. He stopped when his eyes met Greta’s. Instant shame filled his, a silent plea and apology. Then he noted Mr. Barlowe, and he straightened.
Detective Patton took a step toward his officer. “Tell me, Hargrove, what do you know about last night’s events?”
Kit
OCTOBER, PRESENT DAY
She’d never squealed her tires before today. Granted, she was driving her parents’ car due to the accident, which now she furiously questioned if somehow Madison had been behind as well.
Had she attempted to kill Kit? That seemed outlandish, even for Madison. But everything was murky now. Grimy and icky. While she was thankful Madison was okay, in some ways it was worse to know that Madison had coordinated these events. Plotted them. Overseen them. And Heather Grant was part of it. Well, that made sense, but it didn’t spear through Kit like Madison’s actions had.
To fake her own disappearance, to have an entire town—her own family—worried sick that in a few weeks they would be planning a funeral? It was beyond belief! And for what, a historical theater? To prove her grandfather was a money-grubbing monster? If anything, Madison’s actions would discredit all her efforts now. Had she failed to calculate the high cost of what would happen if her cover was blown?
Kit adjusted her grip on the steering wheel, driving to the one place she should have been investing her energies. People like Madison were entitled. They grew up with everything they needed. A solid family history, parents—dysfunctional maybe but parents by birth—a sibling, a good education, enough money to support them so they could pursue their activist dreams. Madison thought she could play with people’s emotions, manipulate them into doing what she thought was best.
For the first time, Kit wondered if maybe Al Farrington wasn’t the bad guy after all. Maybe he knew something about the buildings he wanted to renovate or tear down. It had been proven in the past that some old historical places posed more of a danger than a benefit to people. Like the historical factory six counties over that proved to have had residue from chemical waste contaminating the water supply. Surely a community shouldn’t try to preserve a historic place that hurt people.
But maybe that was too simplistic. Kit eyed the orange-and-yellow trees that whizzed by as she drove to the food pantry, to what used to be the poorhouse. Grove House, they’d called it. The hardworking, dedicated folks of Kipper’s Grove—the town’s foundation—how many of them found themselves there at Grove House? Tossed aside by the county.
Those folks who’d been dealt a hard blow by life should’ve experienced the grace of God through the actions of sharing and service. This was why Kit worked at the food pantry. And it belonged to the Boyd family? The idea sank in slower than her anger and hurt allowed, but she recalled Madison’s explanation now. Not that she believed anything Madison said anymore.
Her eyes brimmed with tears until she struggled to see the road clearly.
There had to be a balance in life. It couldn’t all be so black and white. There was beauty in a place like Barlowe Theater. A rich story and a legacy left by people who’d made a difference in Kipper’s Grove. But there was also beauty in a place like Grove House, now the food pantry, which helped legacies to survive by helping people survive. And then there were people like Madison, whose missions became warped, and by . . . people like her who forgot where her true focus should be. Kit bit back a sob.
She didn’t regret her devotion to finding Madison, but until that first walk at the theater when Madison vanished, she’d been slowly rerouting her attention to Madison’s passions. To Madison’s convictions. Kit Boyd had become the epitome of a heroine’s sidekick. So much so that she’d lost the essence of who she always knew she was supposed to be.
Kit Boyd.
Adoptee.
Fighter for the underdogs.
Someone who saw value and precious worth in the people society too easily ignored. The human family was diverse, with broken people in every category and group within the caste system. People were what mattered most. Not buildings. Not even history. The here. The now. The souls whom God let cross Kit’s path to be impacted today so that in the future, their legacy would speak of healing and not brokenness. Of hope and not destitution. Of God and not a world alienated from its Creator, who wildly loved all people.