Shrouded In Thought (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 2) by N. S. Wikarski Page A

over the river and made its way to the factory entrance. Another wagon followed. Freddie watched as the men in the picket line began to grow restless, whispering to each other and pointing to the wagons.
    Ten men stepped out of the back of the first dray. Another ten stepped out of the second. Some of the police moved forward as a shield between the newcomers and the picketers. A few of the strikers picked up stones and hefted them for weight.
    “Remember, all of you, this is a peaceful demonstration!” Tibbs tried to make himself heard above the rising tide of angry voices.
    The men unloaded from the wagons meekly followed the police through the door of the factory.
    Freddie saw the cop who had been in conversation with Bayne walk up to Orlando . The young man was already seething with rage. It wouldn’t take much to push him over the line.
    “You, Orlando?” the cop asked in an insolent tone.
    “That’s right.” The boy glared at him.
    Freddie was reminded of a picture he’d once seen of David and Goliath.
    “Gettin’ into trouble must run in the family.” The cop paused to ruminate a moment over his chewing tobacco. He spat casually on the ground in front of Orlando , narrowing missing the boy’s boot. “I think it was yer sister I ran in last night.”
    “What?” Orlando challenged in disbelief.
    “Yeah, sure it was her. She was out walking Clark Street around midnight, looking for business. I ran her in for prostitution.”
    “You lying son of a—”
    Before Orlando could leap at the cop, two of his coworkers pinned his arms.
    The cop grinned. “But maybe I made a mistake.”
    Orlando relaxed slightly and the two strikers loosened their grip on him.
    The cop rubbed the back of his neck, seemingly deep in thought. “Yeah, that’s right. I did make a mistake. Now that I think about it. It wasn’t yer sister.”
    Orlando looked at him skeptically.
    “It was yer mother that was the whore!”
    Before his friends could stop him, the young man had leaped for the cop’s throat, attempting to throttle him. The patrolman was quicker. He raised his club and brought it down squarely on Orlando ’s skull. Freddie winced as he heard the dull crack of wood against bone.
    At the sight of the attack, the other picketers broke their line and began pelting the police with rocks, broken glass, bricks, and anything else they could lay hands on. The cops retaliated by striking back with clubs. A few shots were fired, and Freddie saw a picketer drop to the ground and roll around on the sidewalk, grabbing at a shattered, bloody ankle.
    One of the cops blew his whistle, summoning reinforcements. Almost instantly, three patrol wagons came charging around the corner.
    The police subdued the strikers by kicking them, clubbing them, and finally shooting into the crowd. The men were rounded up at gunpoint and loaded into the patrol wagons. Freddie saw Tibbs smile crookedly at him through a cut lip before being shoved into the back of the last wagon.
    Freddie noticed Bayne standing on the top step of the factory entrance languidly smoking a cigar. In a second-story window directly above the doorway, Freddie caught a glimpse of Martin Allworthy anxiously watching the scene below. Freddie shook his head in disgust as he turned to go. Simple justice for the strikers would be a long time coming. In the meanwhile, Hyperion had reopened for business.

Chapter 8—The Presence Of Spirits
    By the third week of June, both Evangeline and Freddie were feeling the strain of Chicago ’s labor unrest. Evangeline had volunteered to work at the Pullman Relief Store and Freddie was being sent all over town to cover strike stories. Exhausted, the pair had mutually agreed that one night of frivolity would do them good. It was the evening of the much anticipated séance at the Allworthy villa and Freddie had come to the country house to collect his friend.
    “How goes your murder investigation?” Evangeline slipped on her gloves and took one