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Claire – Spotlight and Peek Inside the Book

Donna Schlachter • May 31, 2023

This is the third and final post about Claire. If you missed either of the previous two posts, simply scroll back.


Chapter 1

New York City

Tuesday May 1, 1894

 

Claire Columbo, the only child of a mafia boss, hurried down the busy sidewalk, hoping to lose herself in the crowds of afternoon shoppers, the bankers heading to meetings, and the office clerks delivering documents. She wished her errand was as ingenuous as that of those around her, but, alas, that was not the story of her life.


Having grown up in and around The Family, she’d developed her sense of hearing to the point where she could listen through the walls of their Fifth Avenue mansion. Read lips like a deaf person. Understand body language and what was left unspoken like a trained interrogator.


All of which stood her in good stead the previous evening, when her widowed father received a late night visitor.


She’d crept to the head of the stairs as the two men entered the study, leaving the door ajar.


Her father opened the conversation. “Must be serious if you come at this late hour.”


The other man, his back to her, nodded. “Yes. A contract.”


“Me?”


“Your whole family.”


Her father raised his face toward the ceiling. “Praise God my Emma isn’t here to hear those words. But what of Claire?”


“Her, too.”


Her father sank heavily into his chair. “I’m an old man. Not afraid to die. But I’ve tried to protect Claire from the Business. Seems I haven’t kept the Business from her.”


“What will you do?”


Claire’s heart raced as she waited for her father’s reply. The man who’d kept her sane in the years since her mother’s passing. Had taught her how a man should treat a woman—as he’d treated her mother—with respect, gentleness, and tender love. Taught her how to ride a bicycle when girls didn’t do that sort of thing. Despite the seriousness of the situation—after all, somebody wanted to kill her and her papa—she smiled at the memory.


And now, today, the first day of May, marked her last day in New York.


In reality, she’d planned for this day for a while now. Sensing the tensions building in her father, in his discussions with behind-

closed-door guests, in her own spirit as she read newspaper accounts of heads of other families narrowly averting death, or of those who didn’t, she’d already set aside money, a few treasured belongings, and made plans to escape.


Sadly, those plans always included her father.


But when she’d risen this morning, she’d found him still in his bed. A shadow of the man who’d kissed her goodnight the evening before. When she asked if he was well, he nodded.


“Fit as a fiddle, Claire Bear.”


Even now, his childish nickname for her brought tears, blurring her vision. She slowed and checked over her shoulder in the plate-glass window of a milliner’s shop. Nobody familiar. Nobody who’d been there when she checked two blocks back. So far, so good.


No, today was the day. And her father would accompany her, supposing she had to stuff him in a suitcase.


She continued her journey. Next, visit the hair salon. She patted her wheat-brown hair that hung to her shoulders. After her innocence, the next thing to go in her pursuit of staying alive.


Two hours later, Claire Wallace emerged from the salon. Her newly-shorn and colored curls startled her as she passed another window. She barely recognized herself. But would a change of name—appropriating her mother’s maiden name—and hair color be enough to protect her from the ruthless men intent on claiming the bounty?


She spotted a pharmacy on the next corner. Dodging horses and wagons and stray dogs, she zig-zagged her way there. On entering, she sought the counter containing spectacles. After trying on several pairs, she chose the weakest magnification and purchased the round, gold-rimmed pair.


Next on her list: a train ticket. As far as she could go from New York City, and still leave her a few dollars to live on until she found employment.


After chatting with the clerk at the ticket counter, she learned she had enough to go to either Salt Lake City, Utah, or Denver, Colorado. If he wondered why she didn’t know where she wanted to arrive, he didn’t mention it.


But Claire, hoping to keep her stories straight in case The Family figured out she’d left the city, chattered on about deciding which aunt to visit first, or second. Asked the clerk his opinion, to which, as she’d suspected, he had no recommendation.


When she finally settled on Denver—Utah sounded much too dry and barren for her liking—she tucked the ticket and her change into her reticule, thanked him, and bid him a good day.


She would leave first thing in the morning. And she'd convince her father to accompany her. But if not, she would go on her own.


It’s what her mother would have wanted.


And perhaps her determination to escape their family legacy would convince her father that it’s never too late to start again.


She could only pray.

~~~

Toby Gilbert left the New York City Pinkerton Agency office, planting his bowler hat firmly in deference to the breeze rattling down the street. Shrugging down into his suit jacket, he shoved his hands in his pockets and headed for the New York Times office, three blocks away.


His goal: to find himself a wife.


Well, not exactly what he wanted to do. More of an order from his superiors. Part of his cover story.


Tomorrow he would board the westbound train to Buffalo, Chicago, Omaha, then Denver.


His assignment: bust the mobsters and their stranglehold they held over the Queen City of the Rockies.


Inside the office building, he paused a moment to get his bearings. A sign indicating classifieds caught his attention, and he stood behind the three people who’d arrived ahead of him.


A woman with a little boy waited in front of him. The child peeked around his mother’s skirts, and when Toby smiled at him, the lad ducked back. Within seconds, however, one eye inched out again. This time, Toby waggled his fingers at the boy, who giggled.


Maybe he should seriously seek a wife. Having a son like this one would make coming home more enjoyable.


Then again, with his work taking him into dangerous situations, and not being able to share the details of his assignments, was that really a good situation for a wife? For children? He knew of only a few senior agents who’d graduated to desk work who subsequently married. Would he have to wait that long? Or should he simply resign himself to remaining single?


The line moved forward, and the folks in front of him split into three separate wickets. Seemed the newspaper was doing a roaring business.


Within another five minutes, he stood before a man wearing a green eyeshade, who peered up at him. “What can I help you with, sonny?”


“I’d like to place an advertisement, please.”


The man, who looked about seventy, grunted. “Of course you do. This is the Classified department, isn’t it? Didn’t think you wanted to report a mugging.” He shook his head. “No, siree. That’s the police station. Two blocks down. On your left.” He poised his pen over a pad of forms. “Buying? Selling?”


“No, sir.” Heat crept up Toby’s neck. He leaned closer. “I want to place an advertisement for a wife.”


“Huh? What? A rifle? Just go to a gun store, sonny.”


“No, not a rifle. A wife.”


The clerk cupped a hand behind his ear. “Speak up.”


Toby drew a deep breath, then straightened. “A. Wife.”


His voice carried in a brief lull in conversations, filling every nook and cranny of the room. Faces swiveled toward him. A man snickered. The woman with the child smiled at him.


And his temperature went up at least twenty degrees.


The clerk wrote something on the paper. “A wife. Got it. Any particular kind of woman?”


Toby handed over the sheet of paper he’d labored over following his meeting with his lieutenant earlier this morning. Setting out his cover story, the kind of woman he sought, contact information in Denver. Arrangements were already made with the office in that city for an agent to retrieve any responses and send a telegram to Cheyenne so he can reply, setting up appointments.

Pinkerton’s never wasted time once a plan was put into place.


The clerk created the advertisement. “That will be fifteen cents. It will be in tomorrow’s paper.”


After thanking the man and taking his change, Toby left for his next destination: the Bilhorn Folding Organ local office. That was the other part of his cover that gave him concern. He’d never heard of the product before. And now he would attend a training then carry the contraption with him, portraying himself as a salesman.


Which he absolutely wasn’t.


He sighed. He’d joined the Pinkerton’s because he wanted justice for victims. Plus, he loved to solve a good mystery. Yet most of his work had been pretending to be somebody else.


Perhaps he should have gone into acting.


Or maybe he should quit law enforcement and take to the stage. He’d had plenty of practice.


And, at least on the stage, nobody wanted to kill him.

 

 

You can check out the book here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BLS1Z5WT and the other books in this multi-author Series: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BKLNTH1N

 

About Donna:

A hybrid author, Donna writes squeaky clean historical and contemporary suspense. She has been published more than 60 times in books; is a member of several writers groups; facilitates a critique group; teaches writing classes; ghostwrites; edits; and judges in writing contests. She loves history and research, traveling extensively for both, and is an avid oil painter. She also coaches writers at any stage of their manuscript. Learn more at www.donnaschlachter.com/Tapestry

 

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