Chapter 11 #3
“Aye, it does,” Archibald agreed. “Let me ask this. If I’m dead in yer time, why are ye so hostile right now? Pain and grief—I understand, but ye’re angry. Ye’ve hugged me every time ye’ve seen me, but not this time. Why?”
“I… I wasn’t sure it was you.” The lie hung between them, a hostile, suffocating presence.
Inside him, grief and pain surged, a flood of emotion that wouldn’t recede, impossible to wipe away like a temporary tattoo or uninstall like a useless app.
Hugging Archibald was an impossibility. The anger that consumed Clay was a fortress he couldn’t abandon.
He rested his elbows on the table, fingers pressed together at his lips, a cage for his thoughts.
He lowered his hand, pointing a single, accusing finger. “Let’s start with your conundrum.”
Archibald raised an eyebrow. “Which is…”
“Years ago, you made several decisions about my life, your brooch, and your adventures.”
“Adventures?”
“Dozens that I know of.”
“Ah…” Archibald folded his hands deliberately, a barrier forming across his middle. “Ye discovered my secret room.”
Clay wanted to blurt out—I also know you and Violet are my birth parents—but that would be too unsettling. He had to lead into that topic carefully.
“I found your brooch in the hiding place in the bookcase, triggered the magic, and traveled back to 1901 Buffalo. Patrick came to your house looking for me. He found the box and figured out I had traveled back in time. He came after me to be sure I was okay. After that, Elliott welcomed me into the MacKlenna Clan.”
“I always suspected Fraser had brooches. How many does he have?”
Clay looked over his shoulder. The sight of Remy and the girls still laughing sent a wave of jealousy through him. “I can’t talk about the Frasers.”
“That doesn’t mean I’ll stop asking. So, how’d ye come to be here in Chicago?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“I thought I’d find a friend here. What about ye?”
That made little sense. How could Archibald know if a friend would be in Chicago in 1928? “Did you ever meet Remy Benoit? He’s Elliott Fraser’s EMT, bodyguard, and aide.”
“No.”
“Remy’s friends—Marcelle LeBlanc and her brother Bastien—went missing.
I went with Remy to search for them, and we found a brooch in Marcelle’s townhome.
We believed that she and her brother got caught in the fog and threw the brooch in an attempt to escape, but they didn’t. We found Marcelle, but not Bastien.”
“I’ll help ye find him,” Archibald volunteered.
“Thanks. We could use more help. We’re also looking for Alistair and Sheena Robertson.
They disappeared in 1972. They also threw their brooch, which ended up with Alistair’s sister, Edith, who recently passed away in Dallas.
Her estate sold her brooch at auction to a vintage shop owner, which is where Marcelle purchased it. ”
“Where’s it now?”
“Locked in a safe.”
The waiter brought Archibald’s food, and Clay told him to eat. After several bites of pot pie, Archibald said, “It makes ye wonder how many brooches have stranded travelers in the wrong century.”
“The MacKlennas know of one other couple. The brooch stranded them in New Orleans in the early 1800s. They were there for seven years before help came.”
“How do ye return home after something like that and explain yer absence?”
“You don’t. The couple is living at Mallory Plantation, and so will the Robertsons.”
“I dated an Edith Robertson when I visited Scotland as a teenager. I wonder if she’s the same woman who lived in Dallas?”
“It’s possible. Edith’s brother and his wife disappeared from Inverness.”
The pot pie brought a look of bliss to Archibald’s face.
“Delicious. I’ve heard of Mrs. Hering’s original chicken pot pie.
Did ye know that Harry Selfridge, of Selfridges Department Store fame, was a manager here and saw the potential of serving food to hungry guests, believing it would keep them in the store for more shopping?
He persuaded Mrs. Hering to open a small tearoom in the building, which eventually became this famous restaurant. ”
Clay didn’t give a rat’s ass about Mrs. Hering’s chicken pot pie but kept that to himself. “And you’ve never been here before?”
“Never.”
“I haven’t either.” Clay picked up a spare fork and pointed it at Archibald’s plate. “May I?”
Archibald pushed his plate toward Clay. “Help yerself.”
Clay stuck the fork into a piece of chicken, and the bite almost melted in his mouth. “My friends better save me a serving. I agree it’s delicious.”
Only after Clay nudged the plate aside did Archibald retrieve it, taking another bite. “When ye discovered my brooch, did ye understand what ye had, or did ye activate the fog by mistake?”
“The fog swallowed me, launching me into the cosmos, but I wasn’t afraid.
I figured you’d blazed the trail long ago.
” Clay’s eyes found Marcelle across the room.
She refused to meet his gaze. If she had, he would have beckoned her over.
With Remy’s observational skills, he would have nailed Archibald’s identity.
Their resemblance was uncanny. Why had Clay, who desperately wished Archibald were his father, remained blind to the truth?
The answer was brutally simple. It had never once crossed his mind that the people he loved and trusted most would lie to him.
“Ye were smart to put that together.” Archibald buttered a muffin and took a bite. “But not smart enough not to get involved with Capone?”
“Marcelle plays the trumpet. When Capone heard her play, he offered her a job she couldn’t refuse. Remy plays drums, and they talked me into playing double bass.”
“That I got to hear. Who’s the other woman?”
“Skye Marshall. She’s an amazing jazz singer.”
Archibald tilted his head as he gazed at Skye. “Is she a traveler?”
“She was born and raised here. Her parents are dead, and she has no living relatives. If she were a traveler, would she stay in the 1920s?”
“She’s a beautiful woman, and she has the look.”
Clay picked up a muffin. “Of what?”
“A traveler.” Archibald wiped his hands and dropped his napkin on his plate. “She could go anywhere, change her hairstyle, and she’d fit right in.”
“I don’t see it, and I’d notice something like that. But look at us. Who would believe we were from the twenty-first century?”
“I would.”
“That must come from experience. I’ve only done this once before.”
Archibald’s chin quivered, and the skin around his temples turned deathly pale. “That’s my fault. I knew ye would inherit my brooch and should have taken ye on adventures to prepare ye for the responsibility.”
“I won’t argue with that.” Clay watched Remy interact with Skye and Marcelle. Remy was beaming, and the girls seemed captivated by him. Clay was fine with Remy charming Skye, but did Remy have to impress Marcelle, too? She must have sensed Clay’s eyes on her and looked his way.
Archibald tapped Clay’s arm lightly. “She can’t keep her eyes off ye.”
“Who?”
“Don’t give me that. Ye forget I’ve known ye all yer life. Ye better get over there, and stake yer claim before yer friend has both women eating with his drumsticks.”
Clay bit the inside of his cheek, but a small snort still escaped him. He’d always enjoyed Archibald’s sense of humor.
“Ye’ve got a trumpet player, a double bass player, a drummer, and a lead vocalist. Ye still need a pianist.”
“You want to play with the band?”
“Maybe. I should stay close by. Ye might need my help to get away from Capone. Ye know what happened to Joe E. Lewis, don’t ye?”
“Capone’s men cut him up. That’s one reason we’re not running from him. Remy and I told Capone we’d only be here a few days, but that won’t matter to the mobster. If he doesn’t want us to leave, I’m not sure what we’ll do.”
“That’s not a problem. Ye can vanish.”
“But that’ll leave Skye to manage the fallout. We need to leave her in a better position. Not a worse one.” Clay’s stomach growled, and he knew they’d eat all the food if he didn’t go back to the table and stake a claim on a muffin or two.
Archibald pushed his chair back and crossed his legs. “Other than play in a band and hang out with Capone, what have ye done since ye arrived?”
“We arrived last night and found Marcelle within a couple of hours. Today we’ve been to the bank, bought a car, gone to the music store, and shopped for clothes.”
“And got involved with Capone. Ye move fast. Do ye have a plan to find Bastien and the Robertsons?”
“Bastien plays the sax. We placed a newspaper ad for a sax player, but then realized he was looking for his sister, not a gig. So, we revised the ad to find a trumpet player. As for the Robertsons, we have one idea. The Chicago Scots are hosting the Annual St. Andrew’s Day ‘Feast of the Haggis’ at the Palmer House on Friday night.
We plan to go. If they’re in Chicago, they might attend, or we might find someone who knows them. ”
“I’ll go with ye. Do ye have pictures of the couple?”
“We have pictures of them as they looked when they disappeared, along with age progression photographs. If they’re here, we’ll find them.”
Archibald signaled the waiter for the bill. “Where are ye staying?”
“At Skye’s mansion. The address is 1521 N. State Parkway. What about you?”
“I’m at The Drake Hotel.”
“We had checked in there, but then we met Skye and moved into her house to be closer to Marcelle.”
Archibald paid the bill and collected his packages. “What’s yer plan for the rest of the day?”
“We’re going back to Skye’s to rehearse for tonight. Why don’t you stop by?”
They strolled toward the table where Remy and the girls were finishing lunch. Remy stood, dropping his napkin on his chair. “Sorry, Clay. We didn’t leave you much.”
“I didn’t think you would, especially the muffins.” Clay pointed to his friends. “This is Marcelle LeBlanc, Skye Marshall, and Remy Benoit. Meet Archibald MacIntyre.” Clay didn’t mention their connection.