Page 80 of Taming Lady Temperance

She turned toward her approaching supervisor. “Sorry. What did you say?”

The head cook raised a brow. “I asked if those potatoes were ready. The first dinner orders are coming in.”

Noreen nodded toward the large pot. “Yes, ma’am. They’re ready.”

“Good. Turn in your apron and take the rest of the shift off.”

“What?” Noreen’s stomach twisted. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Are you firing me?” She’d just vowed to trust God to bring good from whatever trials came her way, but that didn’t stop the trials from hurting her heart.

Mrs. Winslow shook her head and touched Noreen’s shoulder. “No. You’re one of the best cooks I have. I’m not giving you up without a fight.”

Had that been what she’d been doing when Noreen saw her talking with the hotel manager after the lunch service? Fighting to keep her employed? Noreen’s throat clogged with unexpected gratitude.

“I know you’re tired and have a lot on your mind, though,” Mrs. Winslow continued, “and we have all the prep done for tonight’s dinner service. We can spare you.”

Noreen swallowed and fought to keep her voice steady. “I don’t mind finishing the shift.”

“You might when I tell you that Martha Evans is waiting for you by the back door.”

Martha was here? Noreen’s gaze shot to the rear of the kitchen.

“She said it was important. Something about your mother.”

Mama? Noreen’s stomach cramped.

Mrs. Winslow dropped her hand from Noreen’s arm in order to give her a little push from behind. “Go on. Get out of here.”

“Thank you.” Noreen abandoned the stove and hurried for the back door, untying her apron strings as she went. She pulled the apron over her head, then traded it out for the straw bonnet currently hanging on her assigned hook. Without taking the time to pin the headpiece to her hair, she clutched it by the brim and exited the kitchen.

A woman paced across the yard not far from the cistern that had supplied their bucket line last night.

“Martha?” Noreen hurried to intercept her friend. “What’s happened to my mother?”

“I’m not sure. She showed up at Jane’s house with a flour sack bundle and asked to speak to Parson Cowan. Jane’s mother offered to take her bag for her, but she refused to let go of it. She was visibly upset and only calmed when the preacher invited her into his study for a private conference. Before she went with him, though, she asked us to fetch you and Deputy Paxton. Miss Lockwood and I were at the house going over our findings with Jane when your mother arrived. Miss Lockwood volunteered to fetch the deputy, and I came after you.” Martha’s gaze caught on Noreen’s hat. “Are you able to leave?”

“Yes. Mrs. Winslow is covering the rest of my shift.”

“Wonderful. Let’s go. I’ll fill you in on our findings along the way.” Martha headed for the road, and Noreen matched her pace, eager to see her mother.

What had upset her? Had Arthur stepped out of line?

“She didn’t look hurt, did she? My mother?”

Martha shook her head. “No, she looked fine. Just . . . troubled.”

I don’t know what Mama is dealing with, Lord, but take care of her. Bring her peace.

Martha turned east on First Street, taking the most direct route to the parsonage. “Miss Lockwood and I conducted inquiries all morning, paying calls on our spinsters as well as other ladies of the community, to see if we could ascertain any clues to the real arsonist’s identity. Most people had been asleep at the time the fire was set, of course, and had little to offer. However, Wilma Berry recalled hearing someone run down the street past her house while she was up feeding her baby. She didn’t see anything, but the fact that the perpetrator fled down Jacob Street indicates the arsonist likely lives on the west side of town. You live on the east and would have had no reason to run past Mrs. Berry’s house had you set the fire.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“We also did our best to solve the mystery of your missing handkerchief. Miss Lockwood and I both recalled seeing it at the courthouse after your sentencing hearing when your stepfather made a nuisance of himself.”

Noreen raised the hem of her skirt to better navigate the train tracks crossing First Street. “Yes, but he gave it back to me.”

“He did, but he also made a point of calling out your dislike of Mr. Taggert in a public place. Someone could have overheard, seen the handkerchief, and concocted a plan to incriminate you.”

She hadn’t considered that. “I suppose that’s possible. But how would this person gain possession of my handkerchief? I keep it in my skirt pocket most of the time. No one would be able to take it from me without my knowledge.”