A Deadly Affection (42 page)

A half hour later, I was on the sidewalk outside the shop beside Detective Maloney, watching two officers load Mrs. Braun into the wagon.

“So it looks like we were both wrong,” the detective remarked. He had arrived right behind the patrolmen, and had heard enough from Mrs. Braun during questioning to arrest her for the murder of Dr. Hauptfuhrer and his daughter.

“We were both right too,” I said, “about some things.”

He turned to me with a frown. “What made you so sure Mrs. Miner didn't do it?”

“I wasn't sure, not absolutely,” I confessed. “Sometimes, you just have to trust your intuition.”

He snorted. “That's a hell of a way to operate.”

“It's better than the alternative,” I replied.

The officers closed the rear door of the patrol wagon and climbed into the front.

“I still don't get why she did it,” Maloney said, gazing pensively at the wagon's rear window. “If I hadn't seen the knife and the traces of blood and hair inside the bag, I wouldn't have believed it, confession or no.”

I murmured noncommittally as the wagon pulled away from the curb.

“I'm guessing it had something to do with that list you showed me,” he went on, “and wanting to keep the illegitimate granddaughter a secret. But something's missing. Plenty of people have babies out of wedlock. It's not worth killing over.”

Still, I said nothing, watching the wagon disappear through the intersection.

“You aren't going to tell me, are you?” he said finally.

I turned to him. “You got the murderer, Detective. That's all you care about, isn't it?”

He grimaced—a bit ruefully, I thought.

“Two cases closed in one day,” I said, shaking my head in admiration. “Maybe you should take a holiday to celebrate.”

“There are plenty more files where those came from,” he said.

“And I'll sleep sounder knowing they're in your capable hands.” I smiled at him. “I mean that.”

Two pink dots bloomed in his gaunt cheeks. Stuffing his memorandum book into his coat pocket, he strode to the police car and threw the starter switch, then cranked the engine until it sputtered to life.

“You take care, now, Detective,” I called as he climbed into the driver's seat. “And if I can ever help you with anything else, don't hesitate to call!”

It might have been just a trick of the light, but I could have sworn I saw his lips twitch in the faintest of smiles. Then the car jerked into gear, and with a cloud of exhaust, he was gone.

I glanced up at the sky, leaden now with snow clouds, realizing for the first time how truly bone-weary I was. My stomach was empty, my arms ached, and the scratches on my forehead were throbbing. I decided to go home for a meal and quick nap. Eliza had been in a very deep sleep when I last checked in on her and, according to the professor, wasn't likely to awaken until late afternoon. Detective Maloney had left an officer behind to guard the premises until a team could arrive in the morning to conduct a thorough search. I'd asked him not to tell Eliza about her mother's arrest, on the off chance she awoke before my return, and had left her a note saying I'd be back at four o'clock to explain everything.

I pulled up my collar, and had just started down the block when I heard a shout. I turned to see Simon's man trotting toward me from the other side of the street.

“Say, miss, what was all that about?” he asked, gesturing toward the departed vehicles.

“I'm afraid Mr. Shaw is going to have to find you another job,” I told him. “Mrs. Miner is innocent. They just arrested the real murderer.”

“You mean the old lady?” he asked in disbelief. “That's why they took her away?”

“She's confessed to both murders. Do you think you could find Mr. Shaw and let him know?”

He whistled. “I'll go straightaway. Is there anything else you want me to tell him?”

Was there anything else I'd like to tell Simon? My mind suddenly swam with answers. I'd like to thank him, from the bottom of my heart, and tell him that I was sorry for mistrusting him, yet again. Only now that I knew for certain that my suspicions had been unfounded could I fully appreciate how generous he'd been with his influence and his time, how gracious for agreeing to help me despite my mistreatment of him in the past. But how many times could I expect him to forgive me? And what, after all, was the point in trying to fix things? Now that Eliza was exonerated, there was no need for Simon and me to have any further contact. I doubted he'd want to continue seeing me on a purely social basis; he'd made it very clear that he respected neither me nor the world I represented. And even if he did, it wouldn't work. I fit into his world as awkwardly as he fit into mine. The thought of never seeing him again was as deflating as a piece of glass in one of Papa's tires—but that was the only outcome I could reasonably foresee.

“Just…tell him good-bye for me, will you?” I said finally.

“Will do, miss.”

I started wearily down the street.

“Say, miss!” he called after me.

I turned.

“Did those boys come to see you about the window?”

“What boys?”

He muttered something under his breath. “Mr. Shaw won't be happy; they were supposed to take care of it right away.”

“Take care of what?”

“He had a few of his lads keeping an eye on you. Seems they didn't see you come home the other night and thought something might have been amiss. Or one of the boys thought he saw you, but the others disagreed. I didn't get the whole story; all I know is they took it into their heads to settle the matter by looking into your bedroom window, to see if you were there.”

I slowly let out my breath.

“When they couldn't make anything out in the dark, they decided to sneak inside for a closer look, only they couldn't manage the locks. Mr. Shaw got suspicious when he heard about an attempted break-in on your street; seems the older boy has some experience with a jimmy. Anyway, when they finally confessed, he told them they'd have to pay for the damage they'd caused out of the money they'd earned at the bakery. That was yesterday. He won't be happy to hear they haven't been to see you.”

I remembered the three young boys who'd left the courthouse with Simon on the day of Eliza's arraignment, “sentenced” to work in a bakery. “Do you mean to say the boys have been following me around all this time?”

He scratched his head. “Mr. Shaw had to do something with them, I guess. There wasn't enough steady work at the bakery.”

“You wouldn't happen to know if they were following me the night I was locked in the—that is, the night your brother left his watch early, would you?”

“Why yes, miss, that's why Mr. Shaw came by the next morning, looking for you. He said the boys told him you'd gone in the night before and never come out.”

So that's why Simon wouldn't admit he'd been asking for me that morning; he hadn't wanted me to know he was having me followed—at least not until the boys' overzealousness had made disclosure necessary. I felt a warm flush at the realization he'd been concerned about my safety, followed by an even stronger pang of guilt for having doubted him.

“Please tell Mr. Shaw to forget about the window,” I told Mr. Kearny. “I'd rather the boys spent their money on something else.”

The watchman shook his head doubtfully. “If I know him, he won't let it rest until they've made things right. But I'll tell him what you said.”

I thanked him and wished him well, then turned and continued unsteadily down the street toward home.

• • •

“Good lord, what happened to you?” Katie cried, staring at my forehead as I hung my coat on the rack.

“Is it that bad?” I gingerly touched the scratches.

She put down the tea tray she was carrying and pulled me into the sitting room. “Let's have a look,” she said, lowering me into a chair.

I winced as she pulled away my bangs, which seemed to be stuck to my skin.

“I'll get the iodine,” she said tersely.

I dropped my head back on the overstuffed chair, listening to the tick of the hall clock and the soft hiss of the radiator, feeling as secure as a silkworm in its cocoon. The nightmare was over. My patient was innocent, my career unscathed. Life could return to normal. There was only one last thing that needed to be addressed. One dark cloud left on an otherwise clear horizon. The question of Olivia Fiske.

I sighed, rolling my head against the chair back. Was it really the best thing to tell her about her disease and, by extension, about her true parentage? I'd felt compelled to reveal this information before, to establish that Lucille had a motive for murder; but now that I knew Lucille was innocent, the case for disclosure wasn't so clear. Despite Dr. Huntington's urging, it was hard for me to see how, in Olivia's case, putting a name to her affliction would be better than leaving her in the dark. Would such knowledge be worth the revelation, at this late date, that she was adopted? And what if she were to learn that she was the product of an incestuous rape? How would that improve the quality of the time she had left?

The repercussions of disclosure for me and my family could still be substantial. Lucille might not have murdered the doctor, but she'd probably been delighted to learn that somebody had. She'd been willing to go to other extremes, including threats and bribes, to keep Olivia's condition a secret. For that's what she'd been trying to hide all the time, I realized now: not that she'd committed a murder, but that her daughter was ill. I had no doubt that revealing Olivia's condition could still unleash a storm of reprisals.

If I just kept my discoveries to myself, on the other hand, Olivia could have her grand wedding and a chance to experience life as a married woman, free of her parents' control. Lucille and Charles would get the title for their daughter they so coveted, while the Earl would receive the millions he needed to restore his family seat—and in appreciation, might even help improve terms for American trade. It was entirely possible, I told myself, that I'd underestimated the Earl's affection for Olivia; for all I knew, he and his family might be more supportive than Olivia's own parents, once Olivia's condition worsened and the Fiskes started viewing their daughter as “damaged goods.” Of course, there was still the issue of offspring—but at the rate things were going with the Earl, it might be a year or more before he finally proposed and the Fiskes could organize the wedding of the century. By then, Olivia's symptoms would be so evident, at least to her, that she would likely decide on her own to delay a pregnancy until such time as they improved.

I was tired of swimming against the tide. I didn't want to be the bearer of tragic news or to upset the order of things. Besides, there were my parents to consider. If I stayed silent, relations between them and the Fiskes could remain cordial. Father would get his funding, while Mother could continue to bask in the warmth of Lucille's patronage. Was it fair to put their interests in jeopardy when I couldn't even be sure that Olivia would want to know what I had intended to force upon her?

Katie rustled back into the room with the iodine and blotting papers. “Keep your head back,” she said, unscrewing the cap.

I closed my eyes as she dabbed the applicator over the cuts.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” she asked.

I opened my eyes to see her frowning down at me in concern.

“You know I won't tell your father,” she added.

Dear, dear Katie; I would have kissed her big rough hand if I hadn't known it would embarrass her. As long as I could remember, she'd been ready to help and protect me, even when it meant hiding things I was too afraid to reveal. And there had been plenty of those. But I was done hiding things from my father. “Thank you, Katie. But I'm going to tell him myself.”

“You are?” she asked, pausing in her ministrations.

“Just as soon as you finish fixing me up. I don't want to shock him any more than I have to.”

She studied my face for a moment. “Well, good for you,” she said finally. The annunciator box buzzed in the pantry. She straightened abruptly. “Your mother's tea! I forgot all about it.” She scooped up the iodine and crumpled blotting papers and hurried out of the room.

I got up and crossed to the mirror over the fireplace to examine my wounds. My bangs had dried to one side, exposing three new stripes just below my old scar, tinted yellow by the iodine. I gazed curiously at my reflection, rather liking the way my face looked without a fringe of hair obscuring it, even with the stripes. Perhaps it was only in contrast to the brightness of the wounds, but the old scar hardly seemed noticeable. On a whim, I pulled up my bangs and side tresses as Fleurette had done, and liked the effect even more. Perhaps later, when the scratches had healed, I'd try wearing it that way. I released the bangs and started pulling them across my forehead to hide the scratches from Father, but caught myself. I dropped my hand, letting the bangs stay where they fell.

• • •

As usual, the door to Father's study was closed. I knocked and pushed it open, not waiting for him to respond.

He was sitting at his desk, surrounded by scattered, typewritten pages. “Oh, it's you,” he said, glancing up. “I thought it was Mary.” He ran a harried hand through his hair. “Buzz her again for me, will you?” He returned his attention to the papers.

I stepped inside the door and pressed the annunciator button for the kitchen. I'd never felt comfortable in Father's study. The light from the lamp on the desk didn't reach the dark-green walls, leaving the windowless room in perpetual gloom. Furnished for neither comfort nor conversation, it contained nothing but a desk and some freestanding bookshelves at one end, and a reading chaise with a small table at the other. The items on this table never changed: a whiskey bottle and single glass, three worn volumes of poetry, and a shell from some unidentified beach that had been there for as long as I could remember.