Tradition of Deceit Read Online Free PDF

matter. Lots of vagrants, and drug dealers and—oh good . There they are.”
    Chloe watched two men emerge from a station wagon. The driver was a compact man with salt-and-pepper hair. His companion, a blue-jeaned beanpole in his late twenties, jumped from the passenger seat with an air of endless energy. He wore coat and gloves but no hat, displaying an untidy mess of sandy hair. Both men retrieved daypacks from the back seat before joining the women.
    â€œHey, guys,” Ariel said. “This is my friend Chloe Ellefson. We went through grad school together.”
    The younger man offered Chloe a warm smile. “Owen Brinker-
hoff.”
    His handshake was firm but not crushing. Chloe considered that a good sign. “Good to meet you, Owen. And your role on the team is … ?”
    â€œI got involved because of a class in Historic Building Research and Documentation I took at the U of M last fall,” Owen said. “Now I’m doing an independent study, surveying the milling equipment still in the building. It’s an amazing opportunity.”
    â€œSounds like it,” Chloe agreed, although she had no idea what kind of equipment was still in the building. Owen’s enthusiasm made her want to encourage him.
    The second man introduced himself as Jay Rutledge. “I’m documenting the physical condition of the structures.” Jay had thoughtful gray eyes and an air of calm competence.
    â€œI thought Everett might join us,” Owen told Ariel. “I called his office a couple of times, but he never picked up.” He looked at Chloe. “Professor Everett Whyte specializes in industrial history. He’s also my Ph.D. advisor. He knows this mill as well as anyone.”
    â€œHe’s probably setting up for the exhibit opening tonight,” Jay said. He smiled at Chloe. “No problem. We can give you a tour.”
    Owen waved one arm, embracing the landscape from blighted factory to harnessed river. “Everything happened because of St. Anthony Falls. Chloe, did you know it’s the only waterfall along the Mississippi?”
    â€œI did not,” Chloe confessed, humbled by the magnitude of her ignorance.
    â€œIn the US, the falls here are second in power only to Niagara,” Owen told her. “In 1874 the Washburn A Mill, the world’s largest flour mill at the time, was completed. The production of a basic food item was industrialized for the first time in history. Isn’t that awesome?”
    â€œIt is.”
    â€œThe mills needed cooperages, railroads, sawmills, foundries—all kinds of support industries. Immigrants poured into Minneapolis for the jobs.” Owen pointed downriver. “We should drive past Bohemian Flats later. There used to be a whole neighborhood crammed on a floodplain between the river and the bluffs. It was a place for immigrants to get started, and it became quite a vibrant and close-knit community.”
    â€œA bridge went in right over the neighborhood,” Ariel added. “Wealthy Yankees would stop on the bridge and stare down like tourists. They thought Bohemian Flats was quaint.”
    â€œSo they could gawk without getting their shoes muddy,” Chloe said dryly. “I would like to see the place. I work at an outdoor ethnic museum, but we pretty much stick to the farmstead and crossroads village experience.” Something about the notion of a come-and-gone community at Bohemian Flats called to her. After spending so much time considering the lives of immigrants who settled in rural areas, it was intriguing to consider the people who’d made a different choice.

Three
May 1878
    Magdalena stood knee-deep in the Mississippi River, waiting for a log to drift within reach and dreaming of hats. One day, she thought, I shall own a hat. Perhaps a bonnet, covered with silk and adorned with ribbons. Or perhaps something woven from straw, with a perky brim and a cluster of artificial flowers.