When Love Calls (23 page)

“I heard you. I simply don’t believe you.” He picked up his
fountain pen. “Now, if you’ll kindly remove yourself from my work area, I’ve got a defense to prepare.”

Cedric sauntered away, and Lincoln rubbed his left temple. How could he convince Pete and Charles to let him see Walt’s case through?

 25 

“When I get out of here . . .”

Walt’s breath tickled Hannah’s ear. She pulled away from the goodbye hug inside his jail cell. He didn’t finish the sentence, and for that she was grateful. She should probably set him straight, but right now he needed all the hope he could muster—even if it was misplaced hope.

She laid her hand on Walt’s whiskered cheek. The beard growth made him look much less like her oldest and dearest friend and more like a man capable of committing a horrible crime. Before his trial, he’d need a shave. She’d have to speak to Lincoln about arranging that.

“Take care, Walt. Lincoln and I won’t stop until we prove you’re innocent.”

“And your father and I pray for you constantly,” Mrs. Calloway said.

Walt turned from Hannah and enveloped his mother in a hug. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. This will all be over soon.”

His father clapped his shoulder. “We believe in you, son. Remember that.”

They departed, and the cell door clanged shut behind them, sealing Walt in once again. Guilt nudged Hannah. She’d been spending far too much time at picnics and socials when she should have been addressing Walt’s case.

Starting today, she’d work harder. With her days free, she could do more research, and if she kept Lincoln at bay, she wouldn’t be distracted. It couldn’t be any other way. Her friend needed her. Lincoln would simply have to understand that any relationship between the two of them would have to come second to Walt’s case right now.

Now she only needed to get Lincoln to see things her way.

After saying goodbye to the Calloways, Hannah hurried home. She stopped at Rosie’s mother’s, explained the change in her schedule, and asked her to keep an eye on her sisters, including chaperoning George and Charlotte if necessary.

“It’d be me pleasure,” Mrs. Murphy said in her lilting brogue. She wiped her hands on her apron. “We’ll have a grand time, pet. And you write those sisters of yours a note that says they should come over here for supper. If that lad comes around, I’ll make it clear to your sister that any sparkin’ better be happenin’ with fireflies and not with the lad.”

Hannah chuckled, thanked the kind woman, and went home to write the missive. She added she’d be home after midnight, so they should not wait up for her. After placing the note on the kitchen table, she made herself a sandwich and put on a small pot of coffee. She’d earned the second pot after all that occurred this morning, and nothing eased the tension like a warm cup of her favorite brew.

While it was heating, she located one of her law texts and carried it back to the kitchen. Three cups of coffee and one egg salad sandwich later, she had a better understanding of how most defense attorneys refuted circumstantial evidence. The prosecuting attorney would try to create his case on the basis that it was reasonable to suspect Walt had set the fires. Lincoln would need to show that while it might be reasonable for Walt to be the arsonist, it could just as reasonably be someone else. That was why Lincoln had tried so hard to get Walt to divulge the name of who he thought started the fires.

Well, if Lincoln couldn’t get the name out of Walt, she’d have
to do it. And one thing she knew for certain—Walt Calloway had a very hard time saying no to her.

The wall clock in the parlor gonged, signaling it was time for Hannah to leave. She arrived at the Iowa Telephone Company early enough not to feel rushed. She secured her headset and was introduced to her new supervisor. Wiry white hair ringed Mr. Grabowski’s bald head like a victor’s crown. His saggy eyes bespoke of too many years with little happiness.

“You’ll do.” He sighed, as if the effort to speak took all his energy. “One of the regular girls will be out for a while. Her mother died.” His tone was flat, without an ounce of compassion. “She’s at station thirteen. Are you familiar with the subscribers?”

Hannah could scarcely believe her luck. “Yes, sir. That’s where I work during the day.”

He sat down behind one of the desks. “Good. Follow the rules, and don’t make me have to come over there.”

Was the day shift that different? She couldn’t imagine Miss Frogge ever sitting down. She flitted from one station to another like a hummingbird, slipping her supervisor’s plug into the special jack to monitor the sweet nectar of the operator’s errors.

During her shift, Hannah discovered it was easy to keep from getting reprimanded by Mr. Grabowski. Once an hour, he made rounds, briefly stopping behind each operator. Not once did he intervene or correct Hannah in any way.

After her dinner break, she heard a soft snoring noise behind her. She dared look back and smiled. Mr. Grabowski, head propped on his fisted hand, was asleep.

A light flickered on her panel. She slipped the plug into the jack. “Hello, Main. Number, please.”

“I wanna lull-by,” a child’s voice responded.

“Sweetie, you should hang up the telephone. Telephones are for grown-ups.”

“Sing me.”

Hannah smiled. The child was very young. If she had to guess, she’d say he was about two. Where was his mother?

She recalled Mrs. Reuff at the operators’ school telling them that some parents gave the phone to their children as a toy to entertain them. Perhaps this was one such occasion. Mrs. Reuff had insisted the best way to handle the situation was not to encourage the child by interacting with him or her. Should she disconnect this call?

“Sing me. Pweeese.”

Such a sweet little voice. Jesus never refused the children. Why should she? One song wouldn’t hurt.

The only song she could recall at the moment was one she’d learned in Sunday school. She wrapped her hand around the cold metal of the speaker and held it close to her lips. “Thy little ones, dear Lord, are we, and come thy lowly bed to see. Enlighten every soul and mind, that we the way to thee may find.”

“More!” the toddler squealed.

She smiled, imagining a cherubic face with dove-blue eyes like Lincoln’s.

“Miss Gregory!”

“Sir?” She jumped but didn’t dare turn her head to face the man now looming over her.

“Please tell me I did not hear singing.”

How was she to answer him?

“If I hear any melodies from this area again, I’ll assume you’d like to see if the night shift’s supervisor would enjoy being serenaded, because I, Miss Gregory, do not.”

“Yes, sir.”

Night shift? Good grief. What had she done? She’d never be able to help Lincoln clear Walt if she was moved to that. Instead of doing research during the day, she’d have to sleep.

Until the clock struck midnight, Hannah made certain she was the perfect switchboard operator. Every call was completed in seconds, and not one word was uttered other than those deemed acceptable by the Iowa Telephone Company. Even when thunder rumbled outside, she kept her eyes on her switchboard, not glancing up at the overhead windows once.

When the time came for the night shift to take over, the fresh
operator appeared behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder. The switch was made flawlessly, and Mr. Grabowski nodded his approval at her. Perhaps she’d redeemed herself.

She stepped out of the building into the dark of the night and shivered in the chill of the air. The brief thunderstorm had left the air scented with rain, and clouds still shrouded the moon and stars. Even though she already knew no cars would clang along, she glanced at the streetcar line. Buggies lined the curb, driven by husbands, fathers, and brothers to pick up the other operators. Only she had no ride home.

Mr. Grabowski glanced back at her from the bottom of the stairs. “Miss Gregory, you do have a ride home, don’t you?”

What would he think of her if he knew the truth? After tonight’s faux pas, she didn’t dare disappoint the man further.

“I’ll be fine, sir,” she said. “Thank you for your concern.”

He nodded and started walking in the opposite direction of her home.

Slipping her hands beneath her spring cloak, she started down the stairs. Solitude descended on her like a fog. Shadows seemed to arch and grin at her cowardice.

A cat yowled and darted across her path. She gasped and pressed a hand to her throat. Beneath her palm, her pulse raced. Why was she acting like a silly schoolgirl? It would take less than half an hour to walk the few blocks home. So what if it was past midnight? It wasn’t like she was walking in a bad area of town.

She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and plunged down the dark, empty street.

Lincoln punched his pillow and jammed it beneath his head. When sleep failed to claim him, he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling of his bedroom. What was his problem?

He already knew the answer.

Hannah Gregory.

Maybe some fresh air would settle his thoughts. He crawled
out of bed, went to the window, and lifted the sash. A cool breeze drifted inside the stuffy room. He drank in the clean scent. Was Hannah sleeping any better than he was?

Obviously, she was upset with the way he’d acted earlier today. When he’d called her this evening, Charlotte said she wasn’t home. He wasn’t a fool. He recognized her sister’s answer for what it was—an excuse for Hannah not to speak to him. Still, it seemed so unlike Hannah to lie to him and especially to ask her sister to lie on her behalf.

He sat down in the overstuffed chair and ran his hand through his hair. Something felt off. Wrong. God kept pointing him to Hannah and that call. Why?

When she’d come to the hearing—

Wait. She should have been working, but what had she told him? She’d been able to get away. He pictured her face and remembered catching the way she’d paused and licked her lips before answering. She changed the subject as soon as she answered too. Usually, all those things would tell him a client was hiding something. But what would Hannah be hiding about her presence there? Had she lost her job?

No. She wasn’t in poor spirits, and he’d seen few signs of stress on her face.

But the telephone company wouldn’t let her off to come to the hearing in the middle of the day . . .

Unless she really wasn’t home when he called.

Was Hannah working evenings or nights now?

The clock downstairs gonged twelve times. Midnight was much too late to telephone her home, but he’d never get any sleep unless he knew where she was. His stomach fisted. Even with all the courtroom trials he’d faced, nothing had demanded an answer like this did.

It felt improper to ring her wearing his pajamas, so he threw on a pair of trousers and a shirt before rushing downstairs.

He glanced at her number jotted on a pad by his candlestick telephone and picked up the receiver. In seconds, the switchboard
operator was ringing the Gregory house, but it took several rings before anyone came on the line.

A sleepy voice answered.

“Tessa?”

“Mr. Cole?”

“May I speak to Hannah?”

“Uh, she’s not home from work yet.”

So he was right. She was now working nights. Poor thing probably wouldn’t get off until morning. Maybe he could take her to breakfast. “When will she get home?”

“Probably half past midnight or so.”

“Tonight?” His chest squeezed tight. “Who’s bringing her home?”

“I dunno.” Tessa’s voice cracked. “No one, I guess, if you aren’t. Can I go back to bed now?”