Relieved their meeting had not involved much drama, and they had skirted discussion of their shared, volatile past, Inez hurried to catch up and lead him out of the store. However, Flo’s warnings nagged at her, and she had to ask. “Flo said you threatened to ruin her and me should we not succeed in helping you find your son.”
Harry stopped so abruptly that Inez collided into him. He turned to face her, taking her arm. Inez assumed he was just trying to help steady her after she’d nearly been knocked down. When he didn’t let go, she began to reconsider.
“Mrs. Sweet’s mind jumps to dime novels and melodramas.” The tightening grip on her arm, the way he pulled her closer, just the slightest bit, belied his calm words and tone.
An electric jolt ran down her spine as he continued, “I cannot imagine a scenario in which you or Mrs. Sweet would elect to hide any information you might have about my son from me. Therefore, you have nothing to worry about.”
Inez’s breath caught in her throat. She managed to blurt out, “Harry, I’ll tell you exactly what I told Flo. Looking for your son will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
He leaned toward her, his hold steady. She drew back as far as his grip would allow.
“You have a son, Inez. I know the lengths you went to ensure his safety and well-being, even sending him away to live with relatives. If he were a grown man, but young and foolish, and disappeared, leaving no word, and he was traveling down a wrong road, a road filled with dangers he knew nothing about, what would you do to find and protect him?”
She didn’t reply. The answer that she bit back behind closed lips was I would do whatever I had to do. Whatever was necessary.
He must have read it in her face, because he nodded once and released her arm.
She stepped back one pace, then two, before she rallied. “What do you mean dangerous? How dangerous? And how do I know he would not be in more danger if I learn something that led to you tracking him down? I heard about his Leadville fiancée, Vivian Poole. I heard her father, Phillip Poole, is out for blood and that he is in the city as well.”
“Where did you hear this?” The question was mild, the tone was not.
Too late, Inez remembered that Flo had come by that bit of information through stealth. She sidestepped a direct answer, countering, “If it’s true, doesn’t that concern you? Maybe Robert disappearing is best, if you fear for his safety.”
Inez caught an unmistakable ripple of worry surge across his face before it vanished, leaving his expression cold and distant. “Inez, you are meddling in family matters that are none of your business.”
He pulled out his pocket watch, clicked it open, and glanced at the face. “I’ve tarried long enough. I said what I came to say, except for this.” He closed the cover with a snap and surveyed the back room slowly—the office, the gathering area with the round table, the practice room with the pianos. “You have a new life in San Francisco. One you have obviously worked hard to achieve. One clearly divorced from your past in Leadville. Far from State Street, the Silver Queen, various unsavory escapades, and your shared ‘business endeavors’ with Mrs. Sweet. I understand your desire to keep it that way.”
The implied threat could not have been plainer.
Her fear shifted into anger. “If you think to frighten or blackmail me—”
He moved into the showroom and away from her. “I am certain you and Mrs. Sweet will do all you can, using your considerable talents and connections to help me find my wayward son. I have others looking for him as well, so I do not expect this to take long. In the meantime, keep me apprised of any developments, particularly if you hear any news indicating where he might be. I will let myself out, Mrs. Stannert.”
Chapter Twelve
“Ante up, gentlemen.” Inez watched the six men at the round table pitch in their pennies for the next hand, rubbing her arm absently. The memory of Harry’s hand on her arm, pulling her close, still burned.
The copper bits plinked onto the table, sounding like a miniature version of the rain that dripped onto the wood porch outside the back door.
She dealt the cards.
To her left, violinist Giotto Laguardia swirled the brandy in his goblet as he examined his cards, mouth turned down. His unhappiness, she suspected, was probably not with the cards but with the fact he was not part of Nico’s quartet that evening. Her suspicion was confirmed when Giotto said to the table at large, “So, Nico is playing at the Flood mansion tonight. A quartet. Anyone know who the other three are?”
The Ash brothers, Walter and William, looked at each other. They often appeared to communicate with a glance, as if an invisible telegraph wire was strung between them. They shrugged simultaneously. Walter said, “He didn’t ask you to be second violin?”
Giotto glared. “I’m here, yes? That should answer your question.” His voice clearly communicated his displeasure at being left out. He downed the last of his drink. It had disappeared quickly, Inez noted, as she pushed the bottle toward him.
To her right, the labor newspaperman, Roger Haskell, grumbled and shifted his foul-smelling cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Better luck next time, Giotto. I gotta say, hope my luck at the table tonight is better than this weather. And the news. It’s been dreary, all around.”
Inez raised an eyebrow. “Bad news on the labor front, Mr. Haskell?”
That was all the encouragement he needed; the floodgates opened.
“Is there ever anything good?” he asked. “The disgrace
