The Gray Ghost (Fargo Adventures 10)

I was lost in her blue eyes, and it was a moment before I realized she was addressing me. “Pardon?”

“I wanted to thank you. For insisting the young ladies being brought into the classroom.”

Reginald gave me a sly look.

“Happy to oblige,” I said, thrilled that she’d seen fit to seek me out.

She gave the slightest of curtsies, about to leave.

“Miss Atwater?”

She turned back, looking at me with an expectation I wasn’t prepared for. After a moment of awkward silence, she said, “I should get back to the children.”

“Would you do me the honor of allowing me to call on you?” My words came out in a rush.

Even so, she smiled shyly, saying, “I would find that most agreeable.”

* * *

—

MY DELIGHT over the prospect of calling on Miss Atwater was tempered by my reluctance to entertain the notion that my cousin was responsible for the theft of the Grey Ghost.

Isaac Bell still believed that Reginald had masterminded the theft while he and I were employed at Rolls-Royce Limited.

If so, was he also the masked man who’d held up the train and killed the engineer and brakeman? The embezzlement, I could almost believe—the work of a brash man who’d gotten in over his head with gambling debts—especially after Isaac had found proof that the books had been altered. Someone had stolen the money. But murder? All to facilitate the theft of engine parts that Mr. Rolls and Mr. Royce were counting on to finish the half-built Silver Ghost in order to enter it into the Olympia Motor Show instead of the stolen Grey Ghost?

As preposterous as it sounded, I dared not mention it to my father, his health being delicate. I tried to put it from my head that night as I called on Miss Atwater, ignoring the strange palpitations of my heart when I thought of her.

We ate dinner and took in an operetta, both enjoying ourselves enough that Miss Atwater agreed I could call on her again. She lived in the caretaker’s cottage behind the orphanage with her brother and his wife. Neither of us wanted the night to end, so I dismissed my carriage, deciding to walk her home. As we strolled down the sidewalk, I sensed the presence of someone behind me. When I looked back, I saw nothing but shadows.

“Is something amiss?” she asked.

Emboldened by the possession of my father’s brass-handled cane, and wanting no harm to come to Miss Atwater, I gathered my courage. “Wait here. I’ll be but a moment.”

I left her at the corner, certain that what I saw in her blue eyes was unwavering trust. Turning back, I gripped the heavy cane and retraced my steps, hoping to discover the source of my unease. Whatever had caught my attention was nowhere to be found, and I chided myself for being so jumpy, certain that my imagination had conjured sounds where there were none. “’Twas nothing,” I said, turning back to her.

But the street was empty.

I ran to the corner, searching frantically, looking at the railroad tracks, wondering if she’d crossed over to the orphanage. “Miss Atwater?” I called out.

I heard a rustling and started to turn. And then I felt a sharp pain as someone hit me over the head.

42

The following morning, Chad and Oliver took a train north to Milan while Sam and Remi made the almost three-hour drive to Rome to meet with Georgia’s contact. Sam turned onto Via Appia Antica, the car bouncing over the cobblestones as they headed up the hill. Neither of them had been to their friend’s restaurant since it had moved from its original setting among the ancient columbaria crypts, and Remi was curious if the new location, on the same road, would have as much character.

About three miles in, the tomb of Caecilia Metella, built in the first century B.C., loomed up ahead, the tower overlooking the gardens of the new restaurant. Sam parked the car, and he and Remi walked up the graveled drive, stopping as a tall, dark-haired man carrying a bottle of sparkling wine in a bucket of ice burst out the kitchen door.

“Scusi,” the man said, almost stepping past them until he made eye contact. “Remi! Sam! Wait here, I’ll be right back,” he added, his Italian accent thick. Paolo Magnanimi continued past them into the garden, where customers sat at white-cloth-covered tables, some set beneath large white umbrellas, others in the shade of the trees.

When he returned, he shook Sam’s hand, gave him a big hug, then kissed Remi on both cheeks. “I was very happy to see your names on the reservation list.”

“It’s been too long,” Remi said. “I’ve missed your tiramisu.”

“But not me?” Paolo replied, with a laugh.

“That goes without saying.”