Intrigue a la Mode Page 2

  The mother turned up her nose. “A lot of good dessert does us now,” she said. “Guess what the next hundred miles of my journey is going to be like.” She arranged the baby firmly on her hip before taking the boy by the hand. “Whoever heard of a waitress disappearing for the entirety of the meal?”

  Back home, Willow had gone without dessert for whole weeks, but a Harvey customer expected the best. Swallowing her sense of justice, she said, “I apologize if you are displeased with your service. We regret—”

  “Is there a problem, ma’am?” It was Mrs. Sykes.

  “I’d say. We paid for a meal, complete with dessert, but it wasn’t served until the train whistle blew. What kind of service is that?”

  Mrs. Sykes’s maternal smile showed the disappointment that only a doting mother could have in her favorite child. “We apologize that your experience did not meet the Harvey Standard,” she said. “Billie, please carry this kind lady’s custards to the train for her.”

  “But, ma’am, that’s china,” Billie squeaked.

  “Whatever we need to do for the satisfaction of the customer.” Mrs. Sykes laced her fingers together. “That’s the single priority here.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Billie pulled her skirt to the side to ease around Willow. The angry mother stuck her nose in the air, gave a huff, and stomped toward the train. Billie followed close behind, playing the hero who’d rescued the situation from Willow’s incompetency.

  With the last of the customers exiting the dining room, Willow’s shoulders dropped. She didn’t have to see Mrs. Sykes’s gesture to know that she was expected to follow.

  She ran her fingers along the soiled tablecloth of her table as she passed. It was time to clean the dining room. Why couldn’t she run upstairs, change uniforms, then get back to work? But evidently Mrs. Sykes thought that whatever she had to say was more important than getting the table cleared for the next train.

  There was no privacy at the foot of the dormitory staircase, but everyone knew not to linger there when a discussion was taking place.

  “Miss Kentworth, how did it happen that your station was shorthanded for the duration of the dinner?”

  Willow breathed deeply to steady her racing heart. “First, the boy spilled his milk on the table. While I was attempting to clean the mess, the mother thrust her baby in my arms and took the boy outside. Then the baby erupted on me. Soaked clear through my apron and sleeve. All I could think to do was get the baby back to its mother.”

  “Surely you thought through the consequences of abandoning your station?” Mrs. Sykes’s hair was piled in a soft pillow atop her head. Everything about Mrs. Sykes looked soft beside the precision of her uniform and her voice.

  “The consequences didn’t matter,” Willow said. “I had to rid myself of the child, and serving in a smelly apron is not the Harvey Standard.”

  “Neither is allowing our customers to get back on a train without the opportunity to enjoy their complete meal. Of the two, I can assure you which will cause the most dissatisfaction.”

  Mrs. Sykes’s advice contradicted the training Willow had received in Kansas City. There, the girls had been reminded again and again of the importance of cleanliness, of presentation, and of professionalism. They’d never been taught what to do when the Harvey Standard of appearances conflicted with the Harvey Standard of service.

  “I’ll know next time,” Willow said. Please, God, let there be a next time. I don’t want to go home, despite Calista’s concerns. “Next time I’ll finish serving the meal even if a child is in my arms.”

  “But that wasn’t the only impediment to your work. I noticed that a passenger engaged you in conversation. You claim to have been in a hurry, but it seems you had time—” Mrs. Sykes’s mouth went tight, and her brow furrowed. “May I help you?”

  Willow turned to see a busboy ambling toward them . . . and the forbidden stairs to the girls’ dormitory. He removed his cap to display a haircut that couldn’t be done in a kitchen with a pair of shears and a mixing bowl. Judging by his posture and age, he should have advanced far beyond busboy by now. Unless he was a dolt who couldn’t tell when he was interrupting a private conversation.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m reporting for work. Are you the head waitress?”

  If Mrs. Sykes was as taken aback by his cavalier attitude as Willow was, this young man was in big trouble.

  “Pardon me, sir.” Mrs. Sykes might look motherly, but it was a mistake to miss the ironclad authority beneath the full bosom and bouffant. “It’s not my practice to answer to busboys.”

  Pure orneriness, if there was such a thing, had Willow fighting back a smile at his shocked expression. But he hadn’t learned his lesson. “My apologies, ma’am. I’m looking for someone to answer to myself and thought you might be helpful. If I’m mistaken . . .”

  “You are not mistaken. Only the manager outranks me at this Harvey House, and you are preventing me from a discipline concern at this moment.”

  “Discipline concern?” For the first time, he looked at Willow. His eyes were direct, intelligent, and not the least bit humble. As fearful as she was over her employment, Willow was even more worried for him. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked.

  “Our interview has concluded,” Mrs. Sykes said to Willow. “This busboy needs to meet the manager immediately.”

  Willow took one last look at the handsome fellow, certain she’d never see him again. It was a pity. He’d saved her from explaining the unexplainable appearance of her cousin. She wished she could do something in return.

  As usual, Marlowe was right. Pretending to be a busboy wasn’t as easy as Graham had thought, and he’d yet to wash a single dish. For years he’d been accustomed to railroad employees answering to him. Even in most Harvey Houses, he was treated with care. The managers knew that all their food and supplies shipped for free on his father’s railroad. They knew they could come to him with their concerns and problems. Being left out of a management decision was a new experience for him.

  Graham followed the matron as she chugged through the dining room to the kitchen door.

  “Please don’t go any farther.” Her voice sounded as sweet as spun sugar as she allowed the kitchen door to swing closed in his face.

  He hadn’t fooled the girl. She’d immediately recognized his error in addressing the head waitress. Graham stepped aside as a stout boy rushed into the kitchen with a tray of dirty dishes. He wondered what else the girl had seen while working in Emporia. He’d noticed that she’d snuck away from her station to talk to the young lady who’d arrived on his train. Graham had spent his life on trains. He knew how travelers behaved, and that lady had not behaved like a simple traveler. Over the last few weeks, he’d crossed her path repeatedly between Kansas City and Emporia, but she’d always ducked out of sight when he approached. What was she up to, and how was the Harvey Girl involved? He wouldn’t mind talking to the waitress. Someone as observant as she was might be helpful. Someone as beautiful as she was . . .

  Graham felt like a churl, not holding the door for the next busboy carrying dishes, but he could tell there was a system and that if he interfered, he’d cause more problems than he’d help. With a sigh, he looked down at his own uniform. Being underdressed was a new experience for him. Next to the uniforms of the ladies, he might as well be decked out in beggar’s rags. He had to remember that a busboy’s introduction wasn’t as coveted as a Buchanan’s.

  The door swung open again. The head waitress passed serenely by without comment. Graham suspected that she was an excellent worker who brooked no nonsense from her charges. Once this adventure was over, he’d have to look into getting her a bonus. If she fired him, well, that would show even more that she was a good employee.

  Behind her came the manager. Perhaps it was his pencil-thin mustache or his too-perfect posture, but Graham had him pegged as a Brit before he ever opened his mouth and proved it with his accent.

  “Who am I addressing?” he asked with his mout
h tight like he was trying to suppress a yawn.

  Luckily, Graham had already planned his alias. “Buck Graham,” he said. Better to keep as close to the truth as possible. “I’m reporting for duty from the Kansas City employment office.”

  The Brit kept his nose elevated as he surveyed Graham from on high. “Mr. Graham, you’ve made a poor impression on Mrs. Sykes. I can’t imagine what possessed you to interfere with the reprimand of an employee, but I trust you won’t do it again.”

  “Of course not, Mr. . . . ?”

  The manager’s eyebrow twitched. “It’s Mr. Cecil, and in general it behooves lowly busboys to let their superiors introduce themselves when they are ready. Perhaps you’ve never been in society, but forcing an introduction is bad form.”

  Actually, he had been in society, but Graham had never had to beg for an introduction before. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “This is very different than what I’m used to.”

  “Quite. Well, you look promising. Mrs. Sykes won’t be pleased that I haven’t sent you packing, but I’m having difficulty keeping the kitchen staffed, and we are short a busboy at present. There’s a stack of dishes and a sink of hot water reserved for your pleasure. Help yourself, Mr. Graham.”

  Mr. Cecil turned to go, but Graham stepped forward. “I beg your pardon again, sir, but you mentioned that you are losing staff. Why do you think they are leaving?”

  If Graham had been given a second chance, he nearly lost it that fast. Mr. Cecil’s liver-spotted cheeks drooped in disapproval. “You are not being paid to talk, Mr. Graham. If I wanted a conversation, I could find people infinitely more agreeable to converse with than you.”

  Fair enough. People quitting, staff resigning, shorthanded kitchens making management edgy—it looked like the problems were just as he suspected, but were they a sign of felonious activity?

  Graham adjusted his cap and made his way into the steamy kitchen. He had work to do.

  Chapter Three

  The gaslights of the saloon across the railroad tracks left a bright halo on the night sky. While cowboys and businessmen alike appreciated the excellent food of the Harvey House, they also appreciated a place to kick up their heels when the day was done, and the fact that alcohol was illegal in Kansas didn’t seem to affect their merriment. Willow didn’t begrudge the saloon their customers, but she did wish they’d keep their illicit activity on their own property. She’d rather not spend every morning picking up discarded bottles before her breakfast customers arrived. She also resented the late-night ruckus that made sleep impossible. The later the hour, the worse the piano playing and the louder the crowd.

  She sat in the thick stone windowsill of the Harvey Girls’ dormitory room, her feet braced against the opposite side. Her house dress was a welcome relief after the starch and pomp of her uniform. Selecting a lock of hair, she began the brushing ritual that completed her day. Were her sister and mother doing the same at their house in Joplin? Probably not her mother. While Olive’s and Willow’s thick blond hair shone, their mother’s hair was brittle because of her illness.

  And as long as she was thinking about family, what was Calista doing in Emporia? After Aunt Pauline had worked so hard to get her accepted into a respectable finishing school, you’d think Calista would buckle down with her studies and improvements.

  But Calista never did what was expected.

  “Willow, you have to come in here and watch Etta Mae.” Billie held back the curtains that separated Willow from the goings-on inside the common room. “She’s imitating that horrid woman from earlier today. She’s a perfect mimic.”

  “I never want to see that customer again,” Willow said. “Even in jest.”

  Even though she could be socializing, Willow preferred being alone with her thoughts. And if she wasn’t mistaken, her thoughts were that someone was leaving the warehouse and making their stealthy way toward the Harvey House.

  She dropped her feet from the wall and leaned forward, straining her eyes. The light from the saloon made it impossible to see into the shadows, but if the stranger crossed through one of the lit patches . . . there. Wearing the white uniform of the kitchen help, he peered around a wagon parked in the street and then, seeing no one, strolled unabashedly toward her building.

  None of them were supposed to be outside after hours. Such guidelines were the only way they could enforce Mr. Harvey’s strict non-fraternization rules. Perhaps the men weren’t monitored as severely, but breaking curfew would be the end of their employment, no questions or exceptions. Who would be so foolish as to risk it?

  Willow couldn’t place the man immediately. Jimmy? No, too tall. Maybe Leo? The man was coming toward the door on the bottom floor to gain entrance to the dining room when he saw her. His eyebrow rose as he assessed her. Willow lowered her hairbrush in alarm. It was the new busboy, the one who should have been unemployed by now. What was he thinking?

  “The saloon is behind you,” she called, “if you’re looking for trouble.”

  “I’m looking for a way back inside, actually.” His hands were in his pockets as if he were strolling the grounds after a dinner party. “The door to the men’s dormitory must have locked behind me.”

  “Of course it did.” Willow glanced over her shoulder, but the curtain shielded her. The girls in the room across the hall were howling in laughter at Etta Mae’s antics and not paying any attention to her. “You won’t be able to get back in until morning, and by then it’ll be too late.”

  “That’s inconvenient,” he remarked. “Could I persuade you to help me out of this pinch?”

  “Not for all the gold in Faustus Buchanan’s safe,” she replied.

  His eyes widened in surprise. His mouth quirked like he was trying to find the perfect retort. Willow felt a surge of pride that she’d sparked his interest, but no. He was trouble, and he was on his way out. She couldn’t afford to jeopardize her own employment. Her family was relying on her.

  Something below her caught his attention. He looked toward the door, then dodged behind the ornamental greenery that flanked the entrance.

  Willow could still see him. She could also see Mr. Cecil as he walked outside with Leo. Mr. Cecil stood with his hands against his waist, looking down the track, while Leo jogged to the depot platform. Something was amiss. Willow leaned out the window.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Cecil. What’s the matter?” she asked.

  Crouched behind the greenery, the errant busboy caught her eye. He couldn’t plead from that distance without Mr. Cecil hearing him, so he pressed his hands together as if he were begging. Her mouth tightened to hide her smile. He didn’t seem the type to have spent much of his life begging.

  Mr. Cecil stepped away from the building to see who was speaking to him from above. “We have a midnight train coming through,” he said. “Railroad executives who’ve called ahead for some hot meals to be delivered to their cars. If you’re still awake . . .”

  “Yes, sir!” Willow hopped off the windowsill, her mind already racing through the steps she needed to get presentable. Taking extra duties often resulted in rewards like free days or promotions. She’d be dressed before Mrs. Sykes made it upstairs to ask for volunteers.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Leo is getting a head count. I’ll wake the chef, and then—”

  Her eyes widened as the busboy eased from around the tree and came to stand next to Mr. Cecil. Seeing the movement out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Cecil startled. “Where did you come from?”

  “I met you this morning, remember? Buck Graham.” He’d managed to position himself between Mr. Cecil and the building, looking for all the world like he’d just stumbled outside behind the manager. “You need help? Is that what you said?”

  Willow shook her head in amazement. He had plenty of nerve, and his gamble paid off.

  “It’d be good experience for you,” Mr. Cecil said. “You just do exactly what Miss Kentworth tells you.”

  Willow had no time to lose. This was her chance to e
arn her way back into the head waitress’s good graces. She could only pray that the new man didn’t get her into more trouble.

  Breaking into the warehouse had been fairly easy. Graham had been around those warehouses since he was carried in his mother’s arms, so he knew to look for loose-fitting windows and unlocked doors. But what had changed since he was a boy was the discomfort of squeezing through a half-opened window. He was larger and heavier now. Resting his weight on a splinter-rich window frame wasn’t terribly comfortable. And not nearly as picturesque as the young lady perched in the window upstairs.

  Graham splashed water on his face and checked his uniform for presentability. His mother would never consider the machine-sewn uniform presentable, but he was after another standard. The Harvey Standard. But the job required more than looking good, and that was where he could fail.

  By the time the team was assembled in the kitchen, even the lights at the saloon across the tracks had begun to dim. The town might sleep, but the service here would be just as sharp as if the sun were blazing overhead and they were in the elaborate dining room, or so Mr. Cecil said to the small gathering that consisted of Miss Kentworth, the chef, the baker’s boy, and Graham.

  “As this isn’t a scheduled meal, and considering the short amount of time the chef has to prepare something, he will need extra hands in the kitchen. Instead of individual plated food, we’ll deliver platters, along with a stack of plates and silverware. That’s where you come in.” He pointed to Graham. “You will do the toting for Miss Kentworth and will accompany her on the train back to Emporia when her services are no longer required.”