“He’s forcing good people out. Causing rifts where none existed. And for what purpose? If he’s hiding an illegal partnership or amassing land for foreign interest, we need to know. Seattle’s interests come first, and you’re the man I need to investigate it.”
More like Mr. Wingate’s shipping business came first, but Emil didn’t give a damn why he wanted him to pursue Harvey Gunn. Collecting information on a rival was standard procedure. Not to mention a case like that could put Emil’s agency on the map.
“Understood. If there’s anything amiss, I’ll find it.”
At that moment, a cheer burst from the salon behind Emil, followed by raucous laughter. Mr. Wingate gazed over his shoulder with interest. “I wonder what that’s about.”
“New Year’s cheer, no doubt. Now, regarding–”
But Mr. Wingate hummed under his breath, his attention gone.
Emil swallowed a sigh and faced the open doorway, steeling himself against the inescapable vision of a certain woman on her piano bench. One glance was all it took before his pulse quickened and his necktie grew uncomfortably tight. He shifted on his feet, bewildered as to how the compelling notions of investigating Harvey Gunn could dissipate so quickly.
The space around the piano bench was crowded with women, their hands clasped together in mock desperation, as though begging for a sliver of Miss Becket’s attention. Curiously, their focus drew forth her shyness. Her skill was in demand, yet her gaze stayed on the ivory keys before her, her head bobbing occasionally with the faintest of smiles. At last, she said something too low for him to hear, and the women cheered and backed away.
He watched, transfixed, as Olive’s hands struck the keys anew. A burst of lively notes cascaded through the air, each chord bolder than the last. The women surrounding the piano began to sing, and Emil recognized the catchy suffrage tune at once. More voices joined in, a lively mix of sopranos and altos weaving together in an off-key but enthusiastic song. Laughter sparkled between verses, hands clapped, and feet stomped in time.
And with each verse, Olive Becket glowed brighter and brighter.
Adrenaline coursed through Emil’s veins, and an unsettling sensation crept over him, as if the ground beneath him had shifted a fraction.
The anthem ended, and the salon erupted with applause. More women jostled past him, craning their necks to see what the commotion was about, and the touch was enough to release him from Olive’s magnetic pull.
“How fortuitous,” Wingate mused with a chuckle. “That very song is the next order of business. I’d dearly love to find its mysterious composer.”
“I won’t work against the suffragists,” he said bluntly. Not again. Not when it went against his personal beliefs and those of his friends.
“Nothing of the sort.” Wingate leaned forward on his cane as if to share a confidence. “I’m getting married.”
Emil blinked. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you. But my fiancée, bless her, is reluctant to relocate from Nantucket. She’s convinced the West is nothing but loggers and mud streets. The one thing working in my favor is the race for state suffrage. Imagine her delight if the most talked-of composer in Seattle played at her welcome party. It will show her she’s welcome here, and it will show the city that I stand with progress.” His eyes glittered. “There’s good business in that, too. A man who keeps step with reform will have no shortage of allies when new laws reshape the markets.”
Emil exhaled slowly and swirled the Old Overholt in his glass. So this wasn’t about undermining reformers but impressing one—and profiting from their cause. That, he could stomach.
“I’m interested,” he admitted. “But which case takes priority?”
“The anthem, of course. The vote—and my marriage—is imminent. I still need eyes on Harvey Gunn, don’t mistake me there. The man is buying up the waterfront piece by piece, and I won’t stand by if he’s a danger to good men. But Gunn’s game is long and slow. It may take longer to expose him.” Mr. Wingate released his cane with one hand and offered it to Emil. “What do you say, Mr. Anderson? Can you keep one ear in the drawing room and another to the ground?”
Emil didn’t hesitate. He pumped Wingate’s hand, excitement swirling through him. Not one, but two cases. His luck had finally turned. “You can count on me, Mr. Wingate.”
Finding the composer would be simple. He had contacts in the suffrage movement, which would be far easier than investigating a man like Harvey Gunn. A quick solve could show Mr. Wingate he was all that he promised, and more. Perhaps it would even lead to a few more minor, inconsequential cases while he worked the larger one. Not to mention it could give him ammunition against his father in their next shouting match.
“Oh, and Mr. Anderson.” Wingate leaned in close. “Discretion is paramount.”
“All part of the job,” he assured him smoothly.
“Good man. Now, I just spotted a congressman who's been avoiding me. If you’ll excuse me.”
Mr. Wingate ambled off, and Emil allowed his gaze to return to the retiring salon doorway one final time. Miss Becket had risen from her bench and was quietly gathering her sheet music.
Emil zeroed in on the papers. Had she used sheet music for the anthem? And if so, where had it come from? What else did she know about the suffrage anthems? The longer he stared, the stronger his resolve grew. Olive Becket was a puzzle he needed to solve, and what better way to get started than to find out what she knew?
Turned out he had more use for the so-called lamb after all.
Chapter 4
“What a rousing performance!” Winnie latched onto Olive’s arm and squeezed. “You held the entire audience at your fingertips.”
