The Harvey Girl - Part 14

Quick Recap:

With the treasure map in hand, Willa snuck out of the Harvey House to spring her trap. Unfortunately, it backfired. Notorious con men were waiting at her father’s house.

LINKS: Start Here, Last Part (#13), Harvey Girl Page

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Author’s Note: Since The Harvey Girl is true serialized fiction, written for this format, I am applying my lessons learned on Substack to bring it to you in a way that is easy to read. That means: going forward the installments will be shorter and the plot payoff will come faster. It will not be drawn out as long as a book length format. I’ll need to wrap up the current plot to truly apply this feature, but soon Willa will have shorter, more intense adventures! I hope you like this change. Please comment with your thoughts, dear Reader, because what you want from this story is important to me!

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“Your accent is charming.”

I remained rooted on the front pathway, ten yards away from the Big Guy and the Brit. The con men scowled at me, standing in father’s front door like they owned the place. Their names, mentioned in passing while traveling to Kansas City, evaded me. I’d heard them only once, and I desperately tried to pull out the information to use against them. Drat, my memory! And the flush of panic clouding my mind!

“Compliments won’t get you far, love,” the British ruffian said, pointing, “but if that’s a treasure map in your hand, I’ll be the charmed one.”

His wink turned my stomach. For a Confidence Man, his skills were lacking. One usually heard of beguiling men who were able to tell a thumper. The tales made their targets willing to give away their money for nothing.

“Map, now,” the big one said. His sheer bulk quivered with power, threatening to burst out of a tweed jacket.

“Not so fast,” I said.

The Brit’s upper lip quivered. “You’re right daft, aren’t you, love?” He winked again, more flirty than mad, but the tremor in his voice belied the nonchalance.

I didn’t have long with this pair. They’d undoubtedly manhandle me, take the map and disappear. I couldn’t let that happen without knowing what they knew of Father’s whereabouts. Could they have been partnered in the treasure hunt? I had to know. However, I had to admit that they couldn’t be in Father’s pocket if they wanted the map. They didn’t realize it was a Spanish mislead to protect the treasure, not find it.

Waving the map, I lifted my chin and chuckled. “This old thing? Come, come, are we not friends?” With a confident stride, I walked up the front steps toward them. I did belong there and acted like it. “Are we not cloth cut from the same bolt?”

I pushed past them, entering my father’s house. They pivoted, startled, and allowed me to pass, following. The firm thud of the front door closing gave me pause, but I continued into my father’s office. It seemed the best spot to spring the rest of my hasty plan.

Setting the rolled-up map on the desk, I took a moment to light a lamp. While the home had electricity, I favored oil. It cast long shadows about the room. Less light meant a lesser chance of them seeing right through me. I needed all the help I could muster to sell my pack of lies.

Leaning against the desk, I turned to them. They awkwardly stood before me, eyes flicking to the map. Clearly, they didn’t know if they should sit or take the map and run. I had to convince them to hear me out.

“Shall we drop all pretense?” I asked, not giving them a chance to answer. “The map is yet another Spanish tale. Please tell me you have not fallen for it?”

The men shared a confused look.

“Come, come,” I admonished them, “are you not in my father’s inner circle? When was the last time you spoke with him?”

“Your father?” The Brit tugged at his ear. A tell for sure, but precisely what it signaled, I could not guess.

“Who dat?” the big Brute asked.

My stomach dropped. “Egad! This is his house.”

The Brit shrugged. “Nice, but we came for the map, not a lesson about your family tree.”

“Map!”

Their insistence on the treasure map confounded me. “I expected more from such a team,” I hissed, their names popping into my mind with blinding relief, “as the great Sullivan & Tuck!”

The compliment hit its mark.

“You have heard of us?” the Brit said, pleased. His chest puffed out.

“Tuck & Sullivan,” the Brute corrected, instantly clueing me who was who.

I nodded, guiding them back to what I needed to know. “You have met my father, correct?” I grabbed a family photo from his desk, pointing at his image. “Lewis Abbot?”

They peered closer. Tuck’s large head cocked to one side. Sullivan, in his clipped accent, said, “Never seen him. This is his house?”

“But we were sent here for the map,” Tuck grumbled.

Frustrating on so many levels, I dared not let them digress. They’d said nothing. They knew nothing of Father! “Who sent you after the map?”

“That ain’t none of your business, is it?” Sullivan frowned.

Crossing my arms over my stomach, I had no intention of letting them leave without a fight. Well, one with words. I’d clearly lose any actual scuffle, although I had my eye on the fire poker. If the mood changed, I hoped to wield it like a sword, but I would probably only break a vase, knock over the oil lamp, and set the room on fire. That sounded more like me.

“The map is rot,” Sullivan told Tuck. “We need to see the man about this. He led us wrong; he did.”

Tuck snarled. It sounded like no good would come when they met with The Man.

“We must join forces,” I implored. “I fear you will be duped, yet again, if you ignore my aid. For you see, I have a Pinkerton Man in my pocket and have quite led him, along with the Land Police, on a merry chase. But they are poking about, and Kansas City is not a safe place for the likes of us if you know what I mean.”

They did not, as their blank stares spoke volumes. Unsure if they weren’t buying my lies that I ran schemes like they did or weren’t willing to take me into their confidence, I pressed on, giving them little chance to think it through. If I gave them too much time, even their limited number of brain cells would work it out.

“Just tell me one thing,” I raised my voice, “who is The Man?”

Sullivan’s lips curled in the most unattractive way. I wasn’t sure if it was due to revealing the name to me or for the new distaste of the man. “He calls himself Reggie Brown. Knew we couldn’t trust an East Ender.”

Reggie Brown? My father’s self-proclaimed business partner had been found dead—in this very house—but as I was fast learning, lies were more prevalent than flies when it came to treasure hunters.