“Would the professor be willing to talk to me, do you think?”
“I’m sure he would. He seemed to be a very friendly fellow.”
When Diana had the information she’d need to contact Winthrop, she asked to see that morning’s edition of the
Daily Whig and Courier
, Bangor’s leading newspaper. A report on Frank Ennis’s death had been printed, but the editor had relegated it to one paragraph in the “State News” column. There was no hint in this brief account that Ennis might have been murdered. All it said was that he’d drowned while diving in Penobscot Bay. Keep Island was not mentioned, nor was Graham Somener.
Had Somener used his influence to keep the murder quiet? Diana had to wonder. Any journalist worth the title should have pursued the story. Mysterious death. Private island owned by rich and famous recluse. And then there was all the secrecy about what Serena Dunbar claimed she was searching for—proof that the history books were wrong.
On the other hand, the
Whig and Courier
was not the most adventurous newspaper she’d ever seen. The other items in “State News,” which took up a significant portion of the front page, ranged from a fire in a stable in Augusta (caused by rats gnawing on matches), the escape to Nova Scotia of an alleged bigamist, and the ordination services for a new minister at the Unitarian Church in Presque Isle.
With a sigh, Diana reminded herself that she was no longer in New York City. If a killer was caught and brought to trial, perhaps then the story would be covered in more detail by the Bangor press, but right now no one particularly cared that Frank Ennis was dead.
She skimmed the remaining pages of the newspaper. The Republicans were about to convene their national convention in Chicago. Maine’s own James G. Blaine was being touted as a candidate for President of the United States, even though he had lost to Grover Cleveland four years earlier. There was no mention of the Democratic Party’s convention in St. Louis two weeks earlier, at which President Cleveland had been the unanimous choice, or of the Equal Rights Party ticket. Washington D.C. lawyer Belva Ann Lockwood was their candidate for President even though, as a woman, Mrs. Lockwood herself could not vote in the election.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” the librarian asked when Diana turned in the
Whig and Courier
.
“Alas, no. Have you any other local newspapers?”
“Only the
Kennebec Journal
weekly edition.” She produced a newspaper dated five days earlier. “I do enjoy their woman’s column.”
Curious, Diana accepted the paper and spent a few minutes looking through it. A woman, she noted, was the editor of the woman’s page. Always glad to find a fellow female journalist, she made a note of the name.
In this same June 13
th
Kennebec Journal
, there was an account of a murder. This one had occurred on the ninth of June. A mail clerk had been found stabbed to death in a U. S. Mail car, “on bags of mail in a pool of blood,” according to the reports of eye witnesses. Curiously, the article did not say in what town the discovery had been made or give any names save those of the doctors who examined the body and the undertaker called in to deal with it, but the report did include the information that the authorities had already solved the case. The man’s death had occurred during a fight with another—also unnamed—postal worker. Whether the killer had been apprehended or not remained unclear.
Both the
Whig and Courier
and the
Kennebec Journal
were in need of an experienced crime reporter, Diana thought. Why, one person might even take on the job for every paper in the state, for surely there weren’t all that many murders in any given year in Maine. Someone could make a specialty of covering them.
But not you
, she reminded herself. She had sworn off investigating criminal activity. Criminals were too likely to take exception to being caught. They tended to strike out at anyone they perceived as a threat to their continued freedom. Diana had decided that she had too much to live for to risk her life for the sake of a byline.
“You’re certain you don’t want a library card?” the librarian asked when Diana returned the newspaper.
“Not today, thank you.” She felt her cheeks grow warm. Ben might be wealthy, but she still had to watch her pennies. She did not have the requisite dollar with her. Her bag contained only one of the small notebooks she always carried, a pencil, an essence bottle, a handkerchief, and seventy-five cents.
“The money is not carelessly spent, I assure you.”
“I didn’t think it was.”
“At one time there were several reading rooms throughout the city. Now all the volumes are here in one place. There is great danger of losing them in a fire. The city of Bangor badly needs a library building, Mrs. Spaulding.” She leaned across the expanse of walnut, her voice vibrating with the intensity of her feelings on the subject. “Your support and that of Dr. Northcote could help us achieve our goal.”
“I will certainly speak to him,” Diana promised.
It occurred to her that as the wife of a prominent physician she would be expected to take an interest in the community. Espousing the library’s cause would suit her very well. It would be pleasant, too, not to have to worry about money. She could almost sympathize with those women who wed for financial security alone, but she was very glad she was marrying Ben for love.
Upon leaving the library, Diana walked to the Western Union office. Their facilities were open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The press operator remembered her from several visits a few months earlier and greeted her like an old friend.
“Sending a story to New York, are you?” he asked, sticking his head up above the sound-deadening glass-and-wood partition that separated his cubicle from others like it.
She hesitated. If she asked Horatio Foxe’s help in getting information on Serena Dunbar, she risked arousing his interest in Frank Ennis’s murder. Worse, she might place herself in a difficult position with Ben. She knew how he’d react when she admitted she’d been in touch with her editor at the
Independent Intelligencer
. And yet, if she didn’t tell Ben, in light of her recent vow not to keep secrets from him, she’d have committed a worse betrayal. A quandary indeed!
“Mrs. Spaulding?” The operator looked perplexed, making her realize she hadn’t answered him.
“I apologize. My mind wandered.”
“Distracting place,” he allowed. The clatter of quadruplex repeaters, typewriters, and other equipment created a cacophony of sound. No wonder they needed the noise-deadening glass!
“Yes, I do wish to send a telegram,” Diana said. Ben would accept that it had been necessary to use
all
her resources.
* * * *
In between taking Diana to visit the building site and escorting her to the library, Ben had treated his fiancée to luncheon at the Bangor House. They’d agreed to return there and meet in the lobby at four. It was just past that hour when he arrived to find her deep in conversation with Mrs. Zenobia Entwhistle, wife of the president of a Bangor bank. Trust Diana to meet one of Bangor’s most prominent citizens on her own! Ben just hoped she wasn’t badgering the woman for an interview.
“Any luck?” Diana asked when pleasantries had been exchanged and Mrs. Entwhistle had gone on her way. She closed the little notebook she’d been writing in and tucked it into the pocket of her skirt. Seeing Ben’s look of alarm, she chuckled. “Telephone number. She has one in her home.”
“And I do not.” Nor did he wish to acquire one of the contraptions. More trouble than they were worth, that was his opinion. “As for my luck, it was all bad. No one named Justus Palmer is registered at any of the hotels I’ve been to, nor was anyone by that name a guest last week.”
“He might be using an assumed name.”
“Or he might be staying at a boarding house, or with friends. Or even across the river in Brewer. And we know he was in Ellsworth the evening before last—”
“So he could be anywhere. Rather like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“I’m afraid so. Worse, I cannot discover how Mr. Palmer reached Ellsworth. It was not by stage coach.”
If the sheriff had been correct in reporting that Palmer would not travel by water, then the only other ways for him to have reached the shiretown of Hancock County from Bangor would have been to hire a horse for the twenty-six mile journey or to go by train. Ben had also been to every livery stable in town. No one answering Palmer’s description had so much as inquired about transportation.
When Diana was once more settled beside him in the doctor’s wagon, Ben resumed his account. “I went to the passenger depot and questioned the station agent and other railroad employees, but no one remembers seeing a man of Palmer’s description. I begin to think we should not put much stock in anything the fellow told Sheriff Fields. If he lied about criminal activity on Keep Island, then that business about an aversion to travel by water may also have been a lie.”
“Why would he make a claim like that it if isn’t true?”
“A handy excuse to avoid going to Keep Island?”
“But shouldn’t he have
wanted
to go there, to investigate for himself?”
“So one would think, but if he did not travel from Boston to Bangor by train, then the fellow could have come by steamboat, and reached Ellsworth the same way—by boat. I did not have time to stop by the steamship office, but I can do so tomorrow.”
“We have something else to do tomorrow. Have you ever heard the name Lucien Winthrop?”
“No.”
“He is a retired professor. I believe he can assist us in our investigation of Serena Dunbar. I sent him a telegram, asking to interview him as an expert on archaeology, tomorrow if that is convenient for him. I hope to have his reply this evening.”
“And where does this Professor Winthrop live?”
“Belfast? Is that far?”
“To go there and back will take all day, whether we travel by train or by steamer. I am surprised I did not run into you at the Western Union office,” he added, steering the horse and buggy through the gates and up the long winding driveway to the Northcote mansion. “I sent a telegram of my own earlier today.”
“Did you? To whom?”
“I asked an acquaintance of mine in Boston to pay a visit to Justus Palmer’s office. Whoa, girl.”
The slight jolt as the buggy came to a stop made Diana’s next words sound a trifle breathless. “I sent a second telegram—to Horatio Foxe.”
Ben fought a grimace and tried to make his voice sound hearty with approval. “A wise decision. If anyone can unearth dirt on Justus Palmer, Foxe is the man to do it.”
“I did not think to mention Palmer. I asked about Serena Dunbar and Graham Somener.”
Ben froze, every muscle tensing. “You promised Graham—”
“I couched my questions very carefully.” Diana sent him a bright but tremulous smile. “Trust me, Ben. I can keep Horatio Foxe in line.”
“Foxe scents scandal the way a ... fox sniffs out chickens.” He winced at the uninspired comparison.
“If Winthrop cannot answer my questions, I am certain Foxe will.” She flashed a quick, mischievous grin. “You know what they say—never put all your eggs in one basket.”
Ben groaned, but somehow the foolish wordplay relieved his mind. In spite of a few differences of opinion, all was well between them.
* * * *
Maggie Northcote cared not a whit how other folks managed their meals, but she sat down to sup at six thirty every evening. As she’d announced earlier to everyone in the household, today she had something “special” planned.
According to the hand-lettered menus she’d set out at each place, the dishes were all “delicacies from the Orient.” Politeness, or perhaps shock, kept everyone silent for the few seconds it took to read down the list.
Certain there was a sickly green cast to her face, Diana tried not to contemplate what sheep’s eyeballs or duck feet would look like. Fermented cabbage didn’t sound much more appetizing, especially served with “baby mouse wine.” There were to be candied grasshoppers for dessert.
She glanced at her mother, who was seated opposite her and next to Ed Leeves. A broad grin spread across Elmira’s weathered face. “Can’t be worse than rattlesnake,” she whispered loudly to her husband, “or Rocky Mountain oysters.”
Ben sat at the head of the table, with Elmira on one side and Diana on the other. Although he glared down the length of it at Maggie, she paid him no mind. The last member of the party, seated next to Diana and across from Ed, was Aaron Northcote. Alone of them all, he was visibly upset. His gaze darted from person to person, corner to corner, and sweat beaded on his forehead and his upper lip. He mopped both with his handkerchief. Diana braced herself when Cora Belle brought in the first platter.
In spite of her uneasiness about Aaron, Diana was unprepared when he suddenly produced a pistol from his breast pocket, cocked it, and pointed it at the cook. “Put that disgusting mess at the other end of the table or I’ll add brain and bone to the ingredients.”
Cora Belle obeyed, but she slammed the serving dish down so hard that the spoon resting on top of the food bounced a good four inches. Hands on hips, she ignored Aaron to address Ben. “That’s it! I’ve put up with him for years but enough is enough. I won’t be threatened. You’ll have to beg me on bended knee to come back and work in this house again!” Turning on her heel, she stormed out of the dining room, head held high and starched apron crackling as she untied it and threw it to the floor en route to the door.
“You may bring in the next course any time,” Maggie called after her.
With a hearty horse laugh that made her daughter wince and Aaron jump and bobble the gun, Elmira helped herself to a heaping portion of “sheep’s eyeballs.” Popping one into her mouth, she chewed with every indication of enjoyment as she passed the platter to her husband. Ed thrust it at Maggie without taking any. With a fulminating glare for Diana’s mother, she followed Elmira’s example.
Diana shifted her attention back to the gun. Aaron’s gaze had fixed on the entrée. He stared at the platter’s contents with a kind of fascinated horror and when his mother whipped a spoonful of the disgusting objects in his direction, he yelped and tipped over backward in his chair. The gun discharged, striking the ceiling and sending a shower of plaster down on everyone at the table.