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In his midfifties, Jacob Wertheimer wasn’t old, but he’d been around the Plantation a long time and had seen a lot. His father had managed the Plantation under Hans, and Jacob had taken over shortly before Galen had arrived on the scene. During Galen’s reign, Jacob had been demoted to a groundskeeper, but his commitment and dedication to what Hans and his father, Joseph Wertheimer, had created never faltered. In fact, Jacob had been the one who had saved Forrest’s life the night of his graduation. He had no recollection of how the man had stopped Galen’s henchmen from beating him to death, but he did recall Jacob driving him to Rochester. All the way to Aunt Shirley’s house the man kept saying, “Don’t you die on me, boy. Don’t you die on me.”
“No,” Forrest answered. “I’m not questioning my decision about the Plantation.” Shortly after he’d received the phone call from his mother, insisting he come home to run the place while she and Galen moved to California—to take care of the few minor allegations against Galen—he’d decided this could be his chance to change things. By then, he’d heard Galen could end up serving serious time, and his airmail contract had ended due to the new legislation then still in discussion.
A pilot friend, Isaac Hammer, gave him the idea of changing the nightclub into a bowling alley. Bowling had become a rave on the east coast. Some alleys were merely covers for speakeasies, but others were legitimate businesses that people flocked to, especially during the winter months. He’d capitalized on that idea, placing an order for bowling pins and balls to be sent to Minnesota, and envisioned his remodeling plans while flying his last few routes. However, what he’d discovered upon arriving home had made him wonder if any of it was possible.
“You talk to Roger?” Jacob asked.
“Yeah,” Forrest answered, following the shorter, bald man down the long hallway that led to the front foyer and the staircase leading to the second and third floors, where only he and Jacob resided. When he was a kid the entire third floor had been occupied by prostitutes. Originally, while the second floor had always been the family living quarters, the third floor had been the hotel section. Forrest had considered reinstating guest rooms, but his funds had run out before the renovations had finished.
Although he’d arrived only a week after his mother and Galen had left, others had been here before him. Those who’d had money owed to them had taken anything of value. Even old beds and chests of drawers. In almost every room, what they hadn’t taken they’d left too damaged to use.
Jacob said it had all happened in one night. Everything had been fine when he’d left one evening and then it was either gone or destroyed the next morning. The man had been living in the back of the garage then, in the small room he’d been forced into under Galen’s ownership, and suggested it must have been frustrated employees. Jacob swore the doors had been locked that night, and he hadn’t heard a thing, yet come morning, the damage had all been done. The odd part was that the building hadn’t been broken into; someone had had a key.
The staff, including Jacob, hadn’t been paid for several months. Forrest had taken care of that issue first. He had used a good portion of his savings to find all the disgruntled workers and pay them their wages, but it had been money well spent. Whether he had anything to do with it or not, those people deserved to be paid for their time rendered. People seemed to appreciate his honesty, although none had jumped at the chance to renew their employment. Then he’d changed the locks.
“What did he say?” Jacob asked.
“He’s checking into Galen’s pending release.”
“I’m sure he is,” Jacob said, climbing the curved stairway of the front entrance.
Still following, Forrest said, “He’s done well for himself, Roger has. I know you told me that, but until really seeing it all for the first time tonight, I didn’t know how well.”
“Yes, he has,” Jacob agreed. “But don’t be fooled.They don’t call him The Night for no reason.”
“You don’t think he’s involved in the opium trade, do you?”
“Nope, and never have.”
“I wish I didn’t,” Forrest said honestly. “But after seeing what I saw tonight—the money spent on that place—I have to wonder.” He stopped his mind from taking another path. One that was filled with a shimmering dress and blue eyes. “If Roger was the one who blew the lid off Galen’s cover, he had to know about the opium.”
“I’m sure he did.” Jacob shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean Roger was involved, then or now.”
