“There’s a lively bunch in the cigar lounge. Come with me.”
An hour later, Emil tossed his still-smoldering cigar onto an ashtray and admitted defeat. Despite some of the most eloquent schmoozing he’d ever done, there were no takers. Somehow, every lawyer in town was deliriously happy with their investigative team. That, or they were more interested in the poker chips on the table. He would be too, if he weren’t so determined to find a case.
The ballroom, he noted when he returned, had grown even more crowded. He sauntered through the room, greeting a few familiar faces and perusing the new arrivals in their dazzling gowns and complicated hair-dos. A lovely brunette with a low, confident laugh caught his eye, and he stepped forward. A dance or two would undoubtedly rouse his spirits–
He stilled, cocking his head to one side as he struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. Behind the brunette, an open doorway provided a clear view into the retiring salon. Olive Becket was framed on the piano bench.
The shy creature from before was nowhere to be seen. Her earlier stiffness had melted into a delicate arch as she played. Light, nimble fingers danced across the keys, her arms undulating with the grace of a swan. Her eyes were half closed, her lips slightly upturned in a dreamy smile. Gaslight cast a pretty halo around her, luring him forward…
What the ever-loving hell?
He tore his gaze from her to the clusters of party-goers around her. Surely they had also witnessed the timid lamb’s transformation into an alluring siren? But no. She might as well have been wallpaper for all the attention they paid her. Not that he had ever paid attention to the hired musicians at a social event, but that was different. This woman had her friends thinking she needed protection when it was clear as day she could hold her own.
Or was he the one who’d lost his mind?
He had been somewhat off his game lately, as his mother had brashly pointed out. The stress of founding a detective agency had clearly addled him. That or it had been so long since he’d cracked a case that he was now fabricating mysteries from thin air. Why else would he stand gawking at an inconstant woman who had already caused him to lose face? More importantly, why hadn’t he followed up on the lovely brunette, who was already moving across the ballroom?
He shook his head and turned on his heel, only to bump into an older, balding man in a sleek black tailcoat paired with a white wing-collar shirt and a perfect black bow tie. The man’s ensemble was completed by a pair of white gloves and a distinctive black cane with a silver handle that identified him at once.
He straightened and flashed a smile. “Mr. Wingate, my apologies. Didn’t see you there.”
Mr. Leland Wingate was a prominent businessman in Washington, a shipping magnate whose state-of-the-art steamships earned God-only-knew how much money shuttling goods up and down the West Coast and across the Pacific to Asia. A man of influence, he served on multiple city advisory boards, including the Denny Regrade project and the upcoming Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition. In other words, he was a man of infinite connections. Precisely the sort of man Emil wanted to work for.
“No need to apologize.” The older man tapped the hardwood floor with his cane and winked. “I was trying to catch your attention, and now I’ve got it.”
Emil hid his surprise with some difficulty. “That you have. What can I do for you?”
“I spoke with an associate of mine. He mentioned you are in search of investigative work. I am in such need.”
“Then I’m all ears.” Noting Mr. Wingate’s empty glass, he glanced around and gestured to a serving man with a tray of drinks. “Whiskey or brandy?”
But Mr. Wingate waved the man off. “My assistant knows what to bring me. ”
A short, rotund man dressed in a neat, yet much lesser quality, coat materialized at their side before Emil could respond. Without a word, the man presented two glasses. Emil took a swig, appreciating the rich, smoky liquor.
“Old Overholt?”
“Turns out your nose for unlawful behavior is just as sharp when it comes to rye whiskey.” Mr. Wingate gave him an appraising look. “I’ve only heard good things about your role in taking down the Gruber Crime Ring a few months ago.”
“Thank you, though I must point out I was part of a strong team.”
One corner of Mr. Wingate’s mouth lifted. “That’s not what I heard. Without you, they never would have caught Alan Gruber or his henchman, Horace Donnelly.”
“It was the case that convinced me I could do the same on my own,” he allowed. The man was buttering him up, but for what, he hadn’t a clue. “My agency is new, but that means I can devote all the time I need to my cases.”
Mr. Wingate took the transition. Lowering his voice, he said, “I’m concerned about some recent activity at the waterfront. It might be nothing, but better safe than sorry.”
“Certainly. What have you noticed?”
“Harvey Gunn has been buying up properties all along the wharf. Strategically, you might say. Anything not owned by me or the railroads. And not just any properties—prime lots.”
The Scotsman was no ordinary businessman. He was known among Seattle’s grittier circles as a man who didn’t play by anyone’s rules but his own. If Gunn was amassing properties along the waterfront, it would be for a reason. A power move.
“Sounds like he’s setting up for something significant,” Emil mused. “Control over a trade route, perhaps?”
“Possibly. Or he could be biting off more than he can chew. I keep a close eye on all waterfront activity to ensure everything’s above board. It might be nothing, but something feels off.”
Emil took another slow sip. There could be some merit to Wingate’s worry; it wouldn’t be the first dock war in Seattle. “How so?”
