Page 4 of Mail-Order Tess (A Mail-Order Mystery #2)

Four

S ixteen-year-old Fletcher Vander tucked his bicycle behind the ticket master’s office, half dragging the back wheel where the chain had slipped free, he muttered under his breath and gave the pedal a kick, which, of course, did absolutely nothing.

His spectacles slid down his nose, and he pushed them back up with a sigh.

“I knew I shouldn’t have bought this thing. ”

But he’d always wanted a bicycle and had saved up for a long time. Maybe if he’d saved a little longer, he could’ve afforded a better model. It was bad enough his friends teased him about him having to save up to get it. His family was the wealthiest in town.

No matter. He’d fix it after he walked it home. It was nearly lunchtime, and Betsy—his family’s maid—would have his hide if he didn’t show up on time. But he couldn’t help it. He’d seen that stranger again.

The same one who kept showing up at odd hours near the town’s little train station. The man never spoke to anyone, just loitered, always watching. Sometimes scribbling in a small notebook. But now he was gone. Again.

Fletcher had spotted him coming out of the mercantile earlier and slipping down the alley by the telegraph office. He figured the man was making his way here. But now there was no sign of him.

He glanced around, then ducked low behind a stack of lumber someone hadn’t come to pick up yet.

The tiny depot yard was empty otherwise.

The next train from Portland wasn’t due until Friday.

A few workers might’ve been nearby earlier when the train arrived that morning.

They’d have been moving crates, checking the lumber, putting livestock in the corral across the tracks, but not now.

This afternoon, the little train station was deserted.

A loud thunk jolted him. It sounded like it came from the far side of the ticket office. Fletcher froze. Who else was here?

Then came a metallic scrape, like something heavy being dragged across the floor.

Fletcher crouched lower, heart thudding. His curiosity had gotten him into trouble before. Like the time he stuck his head into a piece of stovepipe and wore it for twenty minutes until his parents managed to pry it off. He’d just wanted to see if it would fit.

Another scraping noise echoed, and he couldn’t decide if he was a little scared…or elated. Something was happening on the other side of the office. Either that or inside!

Heavy boots clunked across the platform. Fletcher peeked around the edge of the building just in time to see the elusive stranger hurry down the steps to the street.

Had he been inside the ticket office this whole time? Good grief. Did that mean he’d seen Fletcher wrestling with his bicycle just outside?

He hesitated, then crept to the front of the office. The door stood slightly ajar. Mr. George always locked the office. Had the stranger broken in?

Fletcher slipped inside and looked around. Papers were scattered everywhere. “Mr. George is going to be furious,” he whispered. The man was neat as a pin. He’d never leave the place in such a mess. The stranger had clearly been searching for something.

Fletcher scanned the room, his gaze landing on a clipboard. Manifests. The top sheet was torn off, but the ragged edge of the page still clung to the clip. He gently removed it and examined what was left.

“Dundee Lumber,” he read aloud. He vaguely remembered Dundee as a lumber mill near Salem. Folks in town often ordered materials from there if the local mill didn’t have what they needed. So why would the stranger take that ?

Fletcher folded the scrap and tucked it into his pocket. He’d tell Mr. George someone had broken in. But first…lunch.

His heart pounded with the thrill of uncovering somethingactuallysuspicious! This wasn’t like when he thought the mill foreman was hiding treasure behind a false wall in the barn. This wasreal!

He grinned to himself as he walked away. After lunch, he’d return with Mr. George. Maybe this was the start of a proper mystery.

Tess had never considered herself nosy. Curious, perhaps. Inquisitive on occasion. Butnosy? Not until she found herself in Henry Bonner’s old room at Mrs. Bee’s boardinghouse, sorting through a chest she absolutely had to open.

“Oh, come now, dear,” Mahulda said. “Since he was your betrothed, it’s perfectly fine for you to have his belongings. What little there is, that is.”

“My word, it’s dusty in here,” Martha commented as she moved about the room, inspecting corners.

“Mrs. Bee said the sheriff didn’t want her touching anything until he closed the investigation,” Mahulda reminded her.

“I suppose Sheriff Walker knows what he’s doing,” Martha allowed, sniffing lightly.

Tess looked around the small room. It was dusty. She wasn’t sure how often the landlady cleaned the rooms, but one would think at least every few days. “Are you sure this is alright?” she asked for the third time.

“Of course, dear,” Martha said with a wave of her gloved hand.

“You have his letter and marriage contract. That’s all the proof you need that you were his mail-order bride.

Poor Henry didn’t have any kin, at least none that we know of.

Besides, it’s not like he was a rich man with thousands of dollars stashed away.

If he had been, who knows how many women would be showing up claiming to be his bride? ”

“If they knew about him,” Tess pointed out.

“She has you there,” Mahulda said with a smirk.

“Oh, quiet, you,” Martha shot back.

Tess turned her attention to the chest at the foot of the bed. It was old, the lock broken clean through. Had it always been like that? Or had someone taken a crowbar to it?

She shook her head. She’d been reading too many dime-novel mysteries. “What do you suppose is in the chest?” she asked.

“Open it, dear. Find out,” Martha urged.

Tess stepped forward and lifted the lid. A faded handkerchief lay on top of a bundle of old letters. She hesitated, picked up the handkerchief, and spied a slim notebook bound in cracked leather.

“Well, what do you know? Henry kept a diary,” Martha quipped.

“He wouldn’t be the first,” Mahulda added. “My Arthur keeps a daily journal, though his is in much better shape than poor Henry’s.”

Tess ignored the chatter and carefully lifted the diary out, her breath catching at its weight. Not emotional weight—she hadn’t read a word yet—but literal weight. Was something hidden inside?

She opened to a random page…and gasped.

Rows of neat, deliberate markings filled the paper. Just like the one she’d found on the scrap of paper by the crates in the mercantile. Symbols, not letters. And certainly not English. Could they be abbreviations? A code?

She tilted her head and studied them. There were numbers in the margins followed by the strange symbols. Was it a list? Her eyes narrowed. Some of the entries were underlined, and next to those were tiny hand-drawn shapes of boxes, barrels… and was that a train car?

“What is it, dear?” Martha asked, drawing closer. “What does Henry say?”

“It’s probably a list of complaints,” Mahulda muttered. “Arthur writes complaints in his diary. Things he wants to say to me but won’t. So he writes them down instead.”

Martha gasped. “Why, Mahulda Brock! Are you telling me you read your husband’s diary?”

“Well, it’s not like he hides it,” Mahulda huffed. “Leaves it right out where I can find it. Naturally, I read it. So I still know what he’s grumbling about. Men!”

Tess set the diary aside and dug deeper into the chest. There wasn’t much; just a few shirts, a worn deck of playing cards, and two old books. “I suppose we could give the rest to the church,” she said. “For charity.”

“Good idea, dear,” Martha agreed. “But I’d keep that diary. Who knows what you’ll find? At the very least, you’ll get to know the man you were going to marry a little.”

Tess nodded, letting out a sigh. Something was better than nothing, she supposed. But curiosity gripped her like a vice. Shehadto know what those symbols meant.

Especially now that they matched ones she’d already seen.

Fletcher Vander ran into town with his bicycle. Normally, Wade wouldn’t pay much attention to one of the town’s more rambunctious teenagers, but Fletcher was pushing the bike, its chain dangling loose, and Wade couldn’t help but notice the urgency in the boy’s stride.

“Fletcher,” he called out. “What’s the hurry?”

The boy slowed as he reached him, panting hard. “I’m late for lunch,” he managed between breaths. “And I need to see Mr. George.”

“The ticket master?” Wade asked, arching an eyebrow. “You planning on going somewhere?”

Fletcher shook his head, a lock of wavy brown hair flopping onto his forehead. “No, sir. Someone broke into the ticket office. Took something.” He bent over trying to catch his breath.

Wade slid the hammer he’d been using into the loop on his tool belt. “How do you know?”

“On account of I was snooping around—I mean, riding my bike —near the station and heard something.”

Wade crossed his arms, unconvinced. He knew Fletcher’s tendency to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. “What were you doing by the train station? The train already came today.”

“I told you. I was riding my bike.”

Wade gave the broken chain a meaningful glance. “Really.”

Fletcher groaned. “Beforemy chain came loose, I was riding it.”

Wade allowed himself a small smile. “Alright. You were riding your bike. Go on.”

“I heard someone inside the ticket office, and Mr. George doesn’t work Wednesday afternoons. Naturally, I had to investigate.”

“Who was it?” Wade asked, his curiosity sharpening.

“That stranger who’s been hanging around town. I saw him slip out of the office and disappear.”

“You didn’t try to follow him, did you?” Wade asked, concern in his voice.

“No, sir. I went into the office after he left to see what he was up to. Mr. George is gonna be mad. It was a mess in there.”

Wade stiffened. “A mess? You mean he ransacked it?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it that, but papers were definitely not where they were supposed to be. I think he took something, too.” Fletcher dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a torn slip of paper. “I found this on a clipboard and thought it might mean something.”

Wade took it. The words “Dundee Lumber” were scrawled across the top part of what looked like a shipping manifest.

“This was on the manifest clipboard?” Wade asked, eyes narrowing.

“Yes, sir,” Fletcher confirmed with a nod.

“Well now,” Wade murmured. “That is curious.” He tucked the scrap into his pocket, already shifting into agent mode.

He needed to get to the ticket office himself.

Preferably after swapping his tool belt for his Colt revolver.

If someone was snooping through manifests and hauling off pages, it was time to stop playing carpenter and start being a lawman again.

“Thanks for showing me, Fletcher. Now go on home, have your lunch, and let Mr. George know what happened. I’ll inform the sheriff.”

“Thanks, Mr. Atwood.” Fletcher hoisted the front of his bike and began walking it toward the mayor’s house, already thinking about sandwiches and pie, no doubt. Betsy, the Vander’s maid, was also the best cook in town.

Wade stood still a moment, watching the boy go.

Then glanced at the folded slip in his hand.

His mind flicked back to earlier that day.

Miss Pendergrass, standing outside the mercantile, turning something over in her hand before slipping it into her apron pocket.

A note, perhaps? Or something she’d found?

Were the two connected? Only one way to find out.

He exhaled sharply and started down the boardwalk toward his lodging. First, he’d arm himself. Then he’d have a look at the ticket office. After that? He was finally going to speak with Miss Tess Pendergrass. Maybe even invite her to dinner.

But only for the sake of the investigation, of course. Definitely. Maybe.