Love on the Line Read online

  “I need to talk to Roscoe over at the bank.”

  “Just a minute.” He flipped the key to center position, looked at the list Miss Gail left him, plugged the corresponding cable into number five, pulled the rear key backward, checked his notes again, and cranked a handle to the right of his knee with three quick turns.

  “Hello?”

  Luke flipped the key forward. “Go ahead.”

  Returning the key to center, he continued answering the waiting calls. Everything went pretty well unless someone wanted to know what the price of turkeys was, who could deliver wood, or who’d come in on today’s train.

  The time spent on the board gave him an appreciation for what Miss Gail did all day—and the pulse she had on the comings and goings of every person in the county. During today’s stint, he’d visited with several subscribers in town and a few out on farms. He’d do well to be a bit more friendly toward SWT&T’s operator. She no doubt had information that would speed up his investigation.

  Ding.

  “Central.”

  “What happened, Mr. Palmer? One minute you were there and the next you weren’t.”

  “Please accept my apologies, Miss Honnkernamp. My hand slipped and I jarred loose the cable.”

  Miss Gail’s bedroom door opened.

  Luke quickly folded his notes with one hand and tapped them into his shirt pocket.

  “I called back and there was no answer,” Miss Honnkernamp replied.

  He glanced over his shoulder. The setting sun sliced through the front window and screen, turning Miss Gail’s hair the color of cornsilk. She’d repaired it and her face was pink from a recent scrubbing, but there was no hiding the red nose and puffy eyes.

  “I was attending to other calls,” he said into the phone.

  “Were you?” Miss Honnkernamp’s voice took on a pout. “I didn’t hear anything on the line.”

  Miss Gail crossed to the bookshelves and took out a stack of publications. He’d not had a chance to look through all of them, but he knew the ones on top were from the Audubon Society.

  “Hello? Mr. Palmer?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Who can I connect you with?” He stayed turned around in the chair, watching Miss Gail sift through the pile. She was clearly looking for something in particular.

  “Actually, I was calling to, well . . .”

  Ding.

  Miss Gail looked up, her eyes going from the board to him. But he couldn’t read her expression, backlit as she was by the fading sun. Could she even see what she was perusing?

  “Shouldn’t you light a lantern?” he asked.

  “Shouldn’t you answer the phone?” she replied.

  “I’m sorry?” Miss Honnkernamp said. “Light a lantern? I’m not sure I heard you right. You sound far away. Are you speaking into the mouthpiece?”

  Shifting back around, he adjusted the speaking disc. “There are calls coming in, ma’am. Was there someone you wanted to talk to?”

  “Well, I . . . of course,” she snapped. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Schmid at the mercantile, please.”

  “One moment.” He checked his list, connected her to number four, then answered the waiting call. When he had everyone settled, he took off the earpiece and twisted around, hooking his arm over the back of the chair.

  He wanted to come right out and ask her what was wrong, but truth was, it was none of his business. “When does the switchboard shut down?”

  “Tired?” She didn’t look up, just kept searching through her stack.

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “Switchboard closes at five o’clock unless it’s an emergency.”

  “How do you know if it’s an emergency?”

  “The phone will ring.”

  He popped open his timepiece. Four fifty-five.

  “You need to check lines two and six,” she said. “They’ve been plugged in for a while.”

  Holding the earpiece to his ear, he pulled back on the key for line two, then six. Nothing. He unplugged them, then stood and stretched. “What are you looking for?”

  “An article I saw in last month’s publication. It should have been right on top. Did you look through these while I was gone?”

  He lifted the chimney from an oil lamp, then drew a match from her safe. “No, ma’am. I sat in that chair the entire time answering everybody’s calls.”

  Pausing in her search, she looked up. “The entire time?”

  His detour onto the porch flashed to mind. He struck the match against the seat of his pants, lit the lamp, and replaced the chimney. “What happened when you went to town?”

  She returned to her stack. “Bettina decided to sell the nest and eggs to Mr. Ottfried—the wealthiest milliner in town.”

  That was it? That couldn’t have caused all the commotion. “What else?”

  Resting her hand against the stack of papers, she slowly closed it into a fist. “I saw Mrs. Ottfried.”

  He set the lantern on the table beside her. “And?”

  She turned her face toward the fireplace, even though no fire burned. Her chin quivered. “You should have seen what she was wearing.”

  Frowning, he lowered himself into the easy chair on her left. “What was she wearing?”

  “Bird parts.” She choked on the words.

  “What kind of bird parts?”

  “There was an owl on her hat.”

  An owl was a bit extreme, but nothing to warrant her reaction.

  “Her cape had swallow wings all along the edge.” She gestured with her hands, outlining a cape and where the wings had been attached. “Swallows consume billions and trillions of insects. And not just normal insects, but the kind which bite and suck blood. We owe them a great debt. And how do we repay them? By killing them so we can tear off their wings and sew them onto our capes.”

  He rubbed his mouth. Guess she wouldn’t appreciate knowing next to coon hunting, bird hunting was his favorite.

  “But that wasn’t the worst of it.”

  Finally. “What was the worst?”

  “The finches.” She impaled him with her green gaze. “All along the hem of Mrs. Ottfried’s gown were dozens of beheaded finches.”

  He cringed. That was pretty sick. Definitely going overboard on bird fashion. At least he ate the birds he killed. Still, he didn’t expect to lose any sleep over beheaded finches. Wouldn’t bawl his eyes out, either.

  “Are you familiar with finches?” she asked.

  “Can’t say I could pick them out of a crowd necessarily.”

  “Finches look like they’ve been dipped in raspberry juice and left in the sun to fade.” She tightened her jaw. “But the ones on Mrs. Ottfried’s skirt were yellow. Yellow. Not yellow like a goldfinch, but a more saffron color. Do you know what you have to do to turn a purple finch saffron, Mr. Palmer?”

  He had no idea what color saffron even was. Clearly, though, it was some shade of yellow. He shook his head.

  “Cage it. For two years.”

  That was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. Where did she come up with this stuff? “You’ve seen this happen?”

  “Of course not. I would never cage a bird. But I’ve read articles and books and all kinds of publications on them.” She swept her hand in a gesture that encompassed the bookshelves. “There are no saffron-colored finches in the wild.”

  “I see. So someone deduced they turn colors when they’re caged. For two years.”

  “They didn’t deduce it, sir. They saw it. With their own eyes.”

  “Who did?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “I can’t remember exactly, but I’ve read it in more than one place.”

  “But it was one of these societies who want to protect birds which substantiated the claim?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, in order to confirm it, they would have had to capture the finches and cage them for two years, don’t you figure?”

  She looked at him, nonplussed. “I hadn’t thought about it. I
don’t know.”

  He couldn’t believe he’d wasted his concern over something so ludicrous as a few dead birds.

  “I do know,” she continued, “finches sing to us from March to October.” Leaning forward, her eyes picked up the lantern’s flame. “You should see them when they go a-wooing.”

  “A-wooing?”

  “Yes. The male springs into the air singing to his ladylove while going higher and higher.” Clasping her hands, she pressed them against her chest. “That’s when his song reaches its highest ecstasy. Why, I’ve seen him go fifteen—no, twenty feet above his mate before dropping exhausted at her side.”

  Raising a brow, he lowered his voice. “And did he get what he was going after?”

  She gave a soft smile. “He certainly did, Mr. Palmer. He most certainly did.”

  Blinking, he rubbed his hands against his pant legs. “Right. Well. So what is it again you’re looking for?”

  She handed him a stack of her papers. “The February issue.”

  He began flipping and found it almost immediately, but before handing it over, he skimmed it. An Audubon Club in Massachusetts run by a bunch of women had taken up the cause of bird conservation the way suffragettes had taken up temperance.

  Determined to eliminate the wholesale slaughter of birds for millinery, they raised a hue and cry to all women members, imploring them to form Plumage Leagues. These leagues solicited signed pledges from ladies in their own communities who must vow to never wear or purchase bird-bedecked hats.

  Suppressing a sigh, he pulled the publication free and handed it to her. “Is this the one?”

  She put her stack aside. “Oh, it is. Yes. Thank you so much. Excellent.”

  Standing, he helped gather the other publications and return them to her shelf. She reached up to tuck a few more on top, stretching her shirtwaist against her and calling attention to an hourglass figure no man could fail to notice.

  All that magnificence, he thought, wasted on a woman who had no more sense than a grasshopper. A woman who cried over a few dead birds, but had no qualms about knocking around a tomcat. A woman he had to put up with for the entire spring and summer, possibly more.

  Retrieving his hat, he bid her good night and let himself out. He’d go crazy if it took that long. He needed to find Comer and his gang. Now.

  Chapter Seven

  Luke pulled up on the reins. A long line of naked telephone poles bordered the farm road, disrupting the serene countryside. Pecan, elm, and oak trees shouldered each other for a spot closest to the road, but the redbud’s early pink blooms drew all the attention.

  Birds of every variety welcomed the morning. He tried to discern the nuances of each, but there were too many to separate. He wondered if Miss Gail knew which was which. A brown bird darted from an elm to a grassy opening. It raced a few steps, stopped, and raced a few more before hammering the ground in search of food. Swallowing its prize, it flew atop a wire tacked to the trunk of an oak.

  He followed the path of the wire as it stretched from tree to tree. The thought of voices traveling along that thing was hard to comprehend. After manning the switchboard, though, he realized just how inferior the wire was. The buzz on the line made it almost impossible to hear sometimes. Of course, much of that was the result of too many folks listening in. But even still, the galvanized wire he had in the cart ought to help tremendously.

  Shaking the reins, he turned the cart so it sat parallel to the poles, then jumped down. The sooner he started, the sooner he’d be done. The sooner he was done, the sooner he could begin the real work—ingratiating himself with farmers under the auspice of selling phones.

  Still, he hoped the stringing wouldn’t be a total waste. It should give him plenty of opportunity to comb the area for hideouts without raising suspicion. Cinching a belt around his waist, he buckled it tight, then grasped a wire from the nine-hundred-pound spool mounted inside the cart. He tied it to the back of his belt and started walking, straining forward like a plow horse.

  Bit by bit the wire unfurled, but he was only able to make it past two poles before it refused to budge any further. Untying it, he left it on the ground, walked back to the spool, and cut that end.

  Digging in a side compartment of the cart, he removed a pair of steel J-shaped climbers with a spike poking out of each. He placed his boot over the curve of the J, then secured it at his ankle and calf with buckle straps. Flexing his leg, he recalled seeing a child once in braces not too different from these.

  A deep canvas bag held his wire cutters, splicing clamp, and insulator. He secured it to a rope, then pulled on his gloves. A surge of energy sluiced through him. This was going to be fun.

  The live white cedar pole had been peeled and the knots trimmed close. He ran a gloved hand up and down her, then tipped back the brim of his hat and looked up the pole’s length.

  The thing had to be thirty feet tall. His pulse quickened. Anxious to get to the top, he tied the rope and galvanized wire to the back of his belt, left them to dangle, then reviewed in his mind the instructions from his manual.

  Placing both hands on the pole, he sank his right climber into the wood. Lifting himself up onto it, he adjusted to the feel of it, then stabbed the left one into the pole, raising himself even higher. Shimmying his hands, he took step after step watching each stab to be sure it gripped the pole.

  It took him a good two minutes, but he finally reached the top. His chest rose and fell from exertion. The entire countryside spread out before him. He’d climbed plenty of trees in his day, but those had branches and leaves blocking his view. Up here, there was nothing. Just him, God, and the land.

  The surrounding prairie stretched in every direction, broken by pockets of dense forest. In another couple of weeks all this would be covered with wildflowers and he’d have the best seat in the house.

  A bird glided by, its tail twice as long as its body. The discordant clanging of a cowbell far away reminded him of the Comer Gang posing as farmers. Wolves in sheep’s clothing who deceived people into thinking they were harmless and evil was okay.

  He scanned the landscape for potential hideouts, but nothing looked promising. What he saw instead were miles of telephone poles like never-ending clotheslines waiting to be strung with wire. He took a deep breath. The manual had been adamant about leaning away from the pole. If he stood too straight, his spikes would cut out and he’d fall thirty feet.

  Still, it’d be tricky to wrap his leg around the pole without sliding. Tightening his grip with his hands, he carefully removed his right climber from the wood and hooked his calf around the pole. Slowly, carefully, he relaxed his handhold and looked down, his heart knocking.

  Lean back. Lean back.

  He leaned back, secured only by his leg. Sweat beaded his forehead. Reaching blindly behind him, he grabbed the rope tied to his belt and began pulling up his bag, hand over hand. Once he had it, he fished inside for the insulator, then hooked the bag over one of two brackets secured to the top of the pole.

  His leg began to burn, but he ignored it and fit the insulator on the remaining bracket. By the time he laid the galvanized wire against the insulator and secured it with a tie wire, his leg was numb.

  Still, he made five complete wraps with the tie wire just like the illustration in his manual. Sweat dripped down the side of his face. Wiping it with his shoulder, he finished off the tie, grasped the pole with his hands, and unhooked his leg.

  Resting his weight on one climber, he allowed his right leg to dangle. Blood flowed into it, stabbing him with needlelike sensations. When he had sufficient feeling back, he jammed it into the pole.

  Step-by-step he made his way down. When he finally reached the ground, he took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Take the deuce, but it was going to be a long day.

  Georgie put down her pen and flexed her fingers. She had written forty-six invitations for her inaugural meeting of the Brenham Ladies’ Plumage League. Only eight to go.

  Din
g. Capping her pen, she placed her writing box on the floor and answered the call. “Hello, Central.”

  “What’s playin’ at the opry house, Georgie?”

  “Gilbert and Sullivan’s H.M.S. Pinafore. Show times are Friday and Saturday night at eight o’clock. Are you and the new Mrs. Bittle planning to attend?”

  “ ’Course we are. Who’s playin’ Josephine?”

  “Lydia Jones.”

  “And Ralph?”

  “The Zeintiks’ oldest boy is playing Ralph.”

  “Why, he ain’t good enough fer Miss Lydia.”

  “Party lines, Mr. Bittle. Anyone can hear. And it’s just a play. The two aren’t actually courting.”

  A bluebird winged into the yard, landing on Georgie’s starch-box-turned-birdhouse. She held her breath. Bluebirds were among the first to nest in the spring and she’d hosted three separate hatchings last year. This particular male had gone in and out of the house numerous times throughout the day, singing to his mate in an appeal for her opinion and stamp of approval.

  He jumped across the roof, peering down at the entry hole below, then whistled cheer, cheer, cheerful, charming . . . cheer, cheer, cheerful, charming.

  Seconds later his female settled on the perch and slipped through the entrance inspecting the home’s interior. The hole was small, just roomy enough for a bluebird or sparrow to fit through. But not big enough for starlings or large birds to sneak in and abscond with the eggs or attack the babies.

  The female emerged from the house and flew off. The male soon followed. Georgie’s spirits soared at the prospect of filling her starch box so soon.

  Returning her attention to the switchboard, she realized Mr. Bittle had long since hung up. Unplugging the cable, she reached again for her writing box.

  Bettina clomped across the porch and pulled open the screen door. “What’s that smell?”

  “Pea soup,” Georgie answered, dipping her pen in the inkwell. “I have a pot simmering on the stove. You’re welcome to take your supper with me if you like.”

  “Can’t. I caught me a shell cracker in Hog Branch River and I’m frying it up fer me and Pa.”