The Widow's Secret (3 page)

T
he lump in Jocelyn's throat swelled until she was afraid she wouldn't be able to breathe, much less speak. This man was too quick for her, too intelligent. “Yes,” she finally managed, once again picking her way through half truths. “I…I reverted to my family name, after he died.” She took quick breath that allowed her to finish, “I told you I will not discuss the matter.”

“I'm not asking you to. Yet.” He'd been carrying a leather satchel, and now placed it on his lap. “One of the reasons I'm here today is to ask about Benny Foggarty. I have witnesses who signed affidavits that, after entering the store, he crowded next to you and Mr. Fishburn while you were standing up front, talking with Mr. Hepplewhite.” He withdrew a much-handled photograph and passed it to Jocelyn. “Was it this man?”

With a concentrated effort of will she managed to keep her hands from shaking as she took the small rectangular cardboard and pretended to study its unforgettable likeness of the man who had probably ruined what was left of her life. “Yes.” She passed her tongue around her lips to moisten them. “He made a comment about my watch.” Instinctively, her hand
cupped it. She could feel her heart frantically thudding beneath the soft linen of her shirtwaist.

“I can see why. It's a beautiful piece. A gift from your late husband?”

“My father.” Pressure built inside her chest, crowding its way up her tightening throat. “He gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. I've worn it ever since.” Until she'd had to take it to Clocks & Watches to be repaired.

Life was unfair, Chadwick used to remind her. Either learn how to duck—or close your eyes and let it pummel you into dust.

“My father gave me a watch once,” Operative MacKenzie said. “I'm afraid I was more entranced with its internal workings than keeping track of time. By the end of the evening, watch innards were scattered all over the table. I put it back together, but it never did keep good time.” He smiled at her, uncapping the charm as though it were a potent elixir. “Made a perfect excuse to be late for chores or other loathsome tasks I didn't want to do.”

She was too fatalistic to believe she possessed the strength of will to continue her resistance much longer, not when Operative MacKenzie treated her with a quixotic blend of gallantry and steely determination. Somehow that knowledge helped ease the pressure in her chest a bit. She wondered if condemned prisoners looked with the same tremulous longing upon their executioners.

Jocelyn Tremayne, you are a weak and foolish woman.
Postponing the inevitable, she asked, “How old were you?”

“Twelve. So Benny commented on your brooch watch?”

She nodded. “Then the gentleman at the counter made some rude comment, and—you said his name was Benny? Benny left. After I paid for the repairs, I did, too. And before you ask, I've not seen him since.”

When was telling the truth a lie? At what point had she become so adept at it that she could sit in her parlor and not tell an operative of the United States government that she had, albeit without her consent, become a receiver of stolen goods?

“Hmm. I believe you, Mrs. Tremayne.” Then he added, “About that, at least. It's a good thing your father gave you a brooch watch. They're more difficult to pinch.”

Tell him. Give him the incriminating evidence and be done with it.
Why not get it over with? Her thoughts spun in a maddening tornado of lurid visions of her fate, with chain gangs and rat-infested dungeons tilting her toward mental paralysis.

She opened her mouth to confess. “If Benny's nothing but a thief, why are you chasing him?” dribbled out of her mouth instead.

Perhaps she was a lost soul after all, beyond hope of redemption.

Operative MacKenzie sat back in the chair, his finger returning to trace the line of his clean-shaven jaw while he studied Jocelyn. Unable to stop herself, she stared back. He was tall; even when seated he dominated the room, with those clever gray eyes and thick tawny-brown hair whose prosaic color she envied with all her heart. As before, he was dressed in a gentleman's day wear: gray-striped trousers that matched his eyes, and a double-breasted waistcoat under his black woolen frock coat—a thoroughly masculine man comfortable enough to make himself at home in her fussy, feminine parlor.

This man was going to arrest her—and she was gazing at him as though he were her savior instead of her executioner.

But from the instant they'd met the previous afternoon, something about him had quickened feelings inside her that
she thought were as dead and cold as her marriage. His deep voice washed over her, and she drifted in the currents, savoring the fleeting connection.

If only she could pray for strength, and be equally soothed by the assurance of a response.

“We don't usually chase after thieves,” he was informing her, “unless they also print money from counterfeited engraved steel plates. Benny Foggarty's one of the best engravers in the business. He's also a gifted forger, taking photographs of bills, then touching them up with pen and ink. For the past nine months Benny's been…ah…helping…me track down the principals in a notorious gang of counterfeiters. If we can't put the ringleaders out of business, last year's financial woes will look like a picnic in comparison.”

He paused, but when Jocelyn did not respond he shrugged, adding softly, “Life can be complicated. You're an intelligent woman, Mrs. Tremayne. But you're also…let's say, a ‘guarded' woman. Makes me wonder what's happened to you over these past ten years.”

She almost leaped off the sofa. Ten years?
Ten years?
What could he mean—He must know Chadwick, after all. And if he had known Chadwick ten years ago, he must know who she was. He probably also knew—

Rising, she locked her knees and struggled to breathe. “I need to…” The words lodged beneath her breastbone. She pressed her fist against her heart. “Operative MacKenzie…”

Her entire marriage had been a lie; how ironic that finally telling the truth would result in her complete destruction. She could feel the internal collapse, feel her will buckling along with her knees, until ten years of secrets and shame collapsed into rubble.

“Take your time, Mrs. Tremayne. Contrary to what some
would have you believe, Service policy prohibits the use of thumbscrews on widows.”

Because he didn't modulate the tone, it took Jocelyn a second to realize he was actually teasing her, as though he'd peeked inside her soul and discerned what would disarm her the most effectively. Disarm, yet somehow calm.
Chadwick had used sarcastic humor as a weapon, but never tolerated laughter directed his way—never.

But Chadwick's image blurred, then dissipated like a will-o'-the-wisp until she could see only the commanding figure of a man with windswept hair and smoke-gray eyes…who had risen from the chair. Whose hand was stretched out as though he were about to touch her.

Prickles raced over Jocelyn's skin. She might crave his touch with a force more powerful than the longings for Parham, her long-lost family home, but she had long ago given up girlish dreams.

In a flurry of motion she sidestepped around him, practically babbling in her haste. “I have something for you, something B-Benny dropped in my shopping bag the other day. I didn't discover it until yesterday morning. I was going for a ride in the country and—Never mind. I should have told you before, but I—but I—”

His hand dropped back to his side. “It's all right, Mrs. Tremayne. Go ahead, finish it. You'll feel better for it, I promise.” The kindness in his voice made her eyes sting.

“I doubt it,” she whispered.

It was done. Whatever happened to her no longer mattered. Exposure, shame, condemnation—prison. Nothing mattered but that she had finally gathered the strength to do the right thing, for someone other than herself. No longer could she control her quaking limbs. Fumbling, she opened the doors to the sheet-music cabinet, tugged out the bottom drawer, her fingers
scooping up the watch box. Her steps leaden, she walked back across the room to Operative MacKenzie and thrust out her hand.

“Here. This is what I found.” She thrust the object into his hands. “Inside the box there is a ten-dollar bill wrapped around a coin. The bill is obviously counterfeit. I don't know about the coin.”

As she talked, he opened the box, removed the bill and coin. “I gave him this case,” Micah said. “He was to hide inside it the evidence he promised to bring me. Something, or someone, made him bolt into Clocks & Watches. Mrs. Tremayne, you're not going to swoon at my feet, are you?”

“Of course not!” She hoped.

“Hmm.” His gaze shifted to the gold coin, and the ten-dollar bill, and Jocelyn watched, fascinated, while he examined them with narrowed eyes and deft fingers. “Excellent workmanship, but someone mishandled the printing on this bill, which indicates an entire set was likely bungled. Coin's probably bogus, as well…but this just might be the break we've been looking for.” Excitement sparked in the words.

Jocelyn sank back down onto the sofa and allowed herself a single shuddering breath.

Operative MacKenzie's head lifted. “You all right?” She nodded but didn't trust herself to speak yet; his gaze turned speculative. “In my business, I've learned how to distinguish a counterfeit bill from the real one. I've also learned the same about people. Sometimes it's more difficult to discern the counterfeit from the genuine, particularly when you think you know someone. Or, in your case, when you think you
knew
someone.”

Dumbfounded, Jocelyn lifted her hand to her throat, her eyes burning as she searched Operative MacKenzie's face. “Earlier…you said ‘ten years.' We've met before, haven't we?” she asked hoarsely. “Before Clocks & Watches?”

“Yes. We have.” He hesitated, clasped his hands behind his back and contemplated the floor for a tension-spiked second. “It was at a wedding. Yours, to Chadwick Bingham. You were leaning against a marble column, and you'd removed your shoes because they were pinching your toes.”

“You're
that
young man? You said Chadwick told you the freckles gave my face character. No wonder I—” Roaring filled her ears, and a vortex sucked her inside its black maw. “Chadwick never said that. My freckles embarrassed him. And I…I wished—”

“Gently, there.”

A hard arm wrapped around her shoulder, startling her so badly she jerked. “Whoa. Relax, Mrs. Tremayne. Let's lean you over a bit, hmm? I'm holding you up so you don't topple onto the carpet. As soon as I can, I'll fetch Katya. All right?”

The words washed over her, lapping at the fringes of the whirling vortex. His warmth and his strength surrounded her. If only she could trust him, if only she could lean against him, draw from his strength, savor the feel of his protective embrace. Soak up his kindness.

Kindness, she had learned through painful experience, usually covered a shark-infested sea, boiling with ugly motives.

She would never trust a man again.

M
icah struggled to remember that he was a federal operative, that the woman he held was not the blushing bride he'd met one evening a decade earlier, but a witness who—strictly speaking—was also a receiver of stolen goods.

He stroked his hand up and down her arm, spoke softly, as though he were gentling one of his brother's high-strung mares. Propriety be hanged—she felt like a bundle of sticks, brittle enough that the slightest pressure would snap her.

And her eyes, Lord.
As Micah gazed into them, he felt as though he'd come face-to-face with himself. There were secrets in her eyes. Secrets, and pain.

As a man, Micah might yearn for the opportunity to help assuage the pain.

As a U.S. Secret Service agent, he was bound to investigate the secrets, particularly those associated with the Bingham family.

For the moment, however, the widow Tremayne was a terrified woman, one who needed a gentle hand and a reason to trust the man who had terrified her.

In the end, Micah took her for a ride in his rental buggy.
Katya, who communicated through the use of a lined tablet and pencil she kept in her pocket, refused to accompany them, despite Mrs. Tremayne's and Micah's invitation. After eyeing her mistress, she wrote for a moment, then handed the paper to Micah.

She has fear, all day. Needs help. You are good man. A servant like me. I clean house, you help lady.

The maid's extrapolation of Secret Service to Secret “Servant” touched him; he wished her mistress shared Katya's wordless trust and was surprised by Mrs. Tremayne's docility, though he doubted it would last. For a few blocks they drove in silence. But the late-afternoon sun was warm, the sound of the steady clip-clop of hooves soothing, and eventually Mrs. Tremayne relaxed enough to shift in the seat, and glance up into his face.

“Katya is very perceptive, for all her youth. I'm surprised she refused to accompany us, but she's obviously taken a shine to you. Even if you were taking me to the police station to be arrested, Katya would tell me not to worry.”

“I'm not taking you to the police station. I have no intention of placing you under arrest. The motive behind this outing is to banish your worries, which I'm sure you know achieve nothing but wrinkles and gray hair. A fate worse than death for a lady, wouldn't you agree?”

“Unless the lady has a head full of garish hair.” At last she smiled, the rueful sweetness of it arrowing straight to Micah's gut. “But thank you all the same. I'm much better.”

“God gave you a beautiful head of hair, Mrs. Tremayne. Why not celebrate it?”

He might have struck a match to tinder. Temper burned in her eyes and the words she spoke next were hurled like fire-tipped darts. “Operative MacKenzie, we may or may not have to endure each other's company in the future. If we do,
please know that the next time you feel compelled to utter any divine reference, however oblique, I will leave the room. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly. Since we're traveling in a buggy along a fairly crowded street, however, I'll be especially careful how I phrase my remarks.”

Well, he'd known the docility would not last, but he hadn't anticipated such a violent reaction. Micah wondered who had poisoned her mind, not only about her hair color, but about God. On the heels of that question, it occurred to him that her comments might be a clever ploy, designed either to draw attention to herself or to deflect probing questions about why she had abdicated her status as a member of the Bingham family.

If she'd been a different sort of woman, the watch with its vital evidence might still be hidden in her music chest.

A stray breeze carried to his nostrils the faint whiff of the gardenia scent that permeated her house. It was a poignant, powerful scent and threatened to turn his professional objectivity to sawdust. Micah's hands tightened on the reins. “I do have a secondary motive for this drive. If you don't mind, I'd like to stop by and talk to Mr. Hepplewhite a moment. See if perhaps Benny Foggarty returned.”

“Certainly.” She drew her jacket tighter, but at least her response was civil. “I'd enjoy seeing Mr. Hepplewhite again myself, if only to have him vouch for my character.”

Micah prayed the old watchmaker would do precisely that, since his own view of Jocelyn Tremayne
Bingham
was regrettably distorted at the moment. For the next few blocks he stared between the horse's ears, excoriating himself. The Secret Service had spent years tracking the most vicious network of counterfeiters in the agency's brief history.

Operative Micah MacKenzie was not sharing a buggy
merely with a distraught, vulnerable woman. He was sharing a buggy with the widow of the man whose family—eight years earlier—had arranged for the murders of three people, one of them Micah's father.

Micah glanced sideways at her profile. Sunbeams streamed sideways into the buggy, turning her freckles a rich copper color. It was difficult to nurture suspicions about a woman whose face was covered with copper freckles.

When they reached Broad Street, throngs of pedestrians, buggies and bicycles choked the roadway as well as the sidewalks.

“Strange,” Mrs. Tremayne commented in a warmer tone. “I've never seen such a crowd on a Wednesday afternoon.”

Micah, who had spotted several policemen's helmets in the crowd, made a noncommittal sound as he maneuvered the buggy down a side street, pulling up in front of an empty hitching post. “We'll have to walk from here.”

He helped her out of the buggy, noting with a tinge of masculine satisfaction the color that bloomed in her cheeks at the touch of his hand. At least the attraction appeared to have buffaloed them both. She quickly freed herself and stepped onto the sidewalk—directly into the path of a newsboy racing pell-mell down the sidewalk. Boy, cap and newspapers tumbled to the ground. Jocelyn staggered, and Micah swiftly clasped her elbows, swinging her off her feet.

The feel of her exploded through him like a tempest. He managed to gently set her down on the sidewalk, then knelt to help the newsboy to give himself time to recover, no mean feat since his hands tingled, and his fingers still twitched with the memory.

Streams of people flowed around them, glancing indifferently at the boy's plight as they hurried along toward the corner.

“Thanks,” the newsboy said, his voice breathless. “Didja hear what folks is saying? A murder. Right down the street! I ain't never seen nobody dead, so's I was hurrying.” He gawked at Jocelyn while he stuffed newspapers under his arm, then flashed Micah a quick grin. “I never met nobody what had more freckles than a salamander, either.” He grabbed the last newspaper, leaped up and scooted down the sidewalk with the agility of a squirrel darting up a tree.

Micah stood, dusting his hands, a frown between his eyes.

“I've heard less flattering comparisons over the course of my life,” Mrs. Tremayne offered with a rueful smile. She glanced down the walk. “Operative MacKenzie…”

“Why don't we stick with ‘Mr.'? It's less of a mouthful.” Forcing a smile, he casually stepped in front of her. “Crowd's a tad unruly. How about if I take you home? I can talk to Mr. Hepplewhite another time.”

“I'm not deaf. I heard what that child said. He was probably exaggerating. People don't get murdered in downtown Richmond.” She darted a quick glance up into his face, stubbornness darkening her eyes. “We're already here, and I'd like to see Mr. Hepplewhite. If you want to wait in the buggy, I'll go by myself.”

Micah lifted a hand, stroking the ends of his mustache to hide a reluctant smile. “I'm sure the masses would part like the Red Sea for you, Mrs. Tremayne. But my mother would nail my hide to the door if I neglected my duty.” He gestured with his hand. “Shall we?”

By the time they reached the millinery shop two doors away from Clocks & Watches, the crowd swarmed eight deep, sober business suits mingling with day laborers, shop workers and a surprising number of ladies.

“Can't believe it…shocking…”

“…in our fine city…”

“…murdered…lying on the floor…”

“Who would…atrocity…such a nice man…”

Micah casually moved closer to Mrs. Tremayne, whose complexion had turned sheet white. Her lips moved soundlessly, and he leaned down, even as his gaze remained on the crowd of people hovering around the doorway of Clocks & Watches.

“Who…” She cleared her throat, tried again. “Who was murdered?”

A burly gentleman standing beside them glanced around. “The old watchmaker, I heard,” he muttered.

“Here.” Micah pressed his handkerchief into her hand. “Breathe deeply. You'll be all right.” Concerned, he watched her sway, watched her struggle for composure, and fail. Consigning propriety as well as his profession to the nether regions, he slipped a supporting arm about her waist, and all but carried her backward, out of the milling crowd, to the edge of the sidewalk, where he propped her against a telephone pole.

Eyes wide, unblinking, she dabbed at her temples with his handkerchief, its deep indigo-blue color a startling contrast against her red hair. After several deep breaths, a tinge of pink crept back into her cheeks. Solemnly she looked up at Micah as she returned the handkerchief. “I'm all right now. It's a dreadful shock. I behaved like a silly goose. Thank you for…” Her voice trailed away and she bit her lip.

“Violent death is always a shock—for most people.” When her body shuddered, Micah debated with his conscience for the space of two heartbeats before giving in to the overwhelming urge to protect. “Come along.” He took her hand, surprised by the way her fingers tensed, then clung. “There's nothing you can do now. I'll take you home. A lot has happened to you in the past twenty-four hours.”

“Mr. MacKenzie? Do you believe M-Mr. Hepplewhite's death is connected with that man, the one who dropped the pocket watch in my shopping bag?”

Before Micah could scramble for an answer, they were interrupted.

“Operative MacKenzie! Been looking for you for going on two hours now.” A burly policeman approached, looking annoyed. “Who's this?”

“I'll be along in a moment, Sergeant Whitlock,” Micah said as Mrs. Tremayne pulled her hand free.

He watched in admiration as she metamorphosed from fright to fearlessness, spine straight and chin lifted, her lips stretching in a social smile aimed between the two men. “I won't take any more of your time. Obviously, you both have more pressing matters to attend to. Don't worry about me. I'll take a streetcar home.”

“No, you won't,” Micah contradicted, only to be interrupted by Whitlock again.

“Coroner's been ordered to wait until we ran you to earth. If I'd known you were out courtin', I'd have told him not to bother.” His hand tightened on his billy club. “Now you're here, you git yourself inside and do your job, Mr. Government Agent, else you can whistle for any more cooperation.”

“Sergeant…Whitaker was it?” The widow Tremayne focused on the police sergeant, who seemed to suddenly shrink in size. “For your information, Operative MacKenzie
has
been about his duties. He was considerate enough just now to attend to me, which is more than I can say for any other
gentle
man in this motley crowd. All of them preferred to satisfy their prurient interest in a man's death instead of coming to the aid of a lady. You may tell the coroner that Operative MacKenzie will be on his way—shortly. Now if you'll excuse us, I'd like to express my appreciation without you looming over us.”

His face red as a brick, the sergeant glowered at Mrs. Tremayne, then swiveled to shoulder his way through the crowd.

“Well.” Micah scratched behind his ear. “You certainly put him in his place.”

“He was rude. And something of a bully. I've never had much use for bullies.” A forlorn uncertainty settled around her like a creeping gray fog. “Am I likely to be arrested now?”

“No.” At least not in the immediate future. “You've committed no crime, you handed over the evidence and you have cooperated fully. However—” he hesitated, the internal debate waging a bloody war “—I think you, and Katya, should pack your bags. Until we learn the circumstances surrounding Mr. Hepplewhite's death, I'm going to need to keep an eye on you.”

“You think I'm somehow responsible for his murder?”

“I've changed my mind.” He reached for her hand once more, tightening his grip when she tried to wriggle free. “Apparently you can be a silly goose. Or hasn't it occurred to you that, if Mr. Hepplewhite's murder is connected to the forged currency Benny Foggarty gave you, you might be in grave danger?”

“You want…Are you saying you're trying to protect me?”

“Don't look so astonished. You're a widow, living alone, with only a mute maid who doubtless, like most day servants, returns to her boardinghouse at night. Why wouldn't I want to protect you?”

She'd looked less traumatized when she thought he might be about to arrest her. “Because—” her voice turned tremulous as a young girl's “—because the thought never occurred to me.”

“Well, get used to it, Mrs. Tremayne. I don't know yet whether your involvement is by happenstance or design. But either way, you're now under my protection.”

“As an operative for the Secret Service?”

“Partly.” He held her gaze with his as he slowly lifted her hand until it was inches from his lips. “But also as a man.” Every nerve ending in his body rioted as he fought the urge to bring her hand those last two inches. “I'll take you home, then I'll return here. I hope you and your maid are efficient packers, Mrs. Tremayne. I have a ticket on the Richmond, Fredericksburg and Potomac leaving Byrd Street Station first thing Friday morning. You and Katya will be accompanying me back to Washington.”