A Dangerous Engagement

by Ashley Weaver

  He smiled and leaned to kiss me. “Don’t wait up for me.”

  Then he released me and had slipped out of our room before I could reply.

  I very much feared I must wait up for him. I was certain I would be unable to sleep a wink until he returned.

  Moving to the bed, I threw back the covers and settled beneath them with a book I intended to read until Milo was safely in the bed beside me.

  I was very annoyed, then, to wake up at dawn and find Milo asleep at my side. Morning light filtered through the curtains across the peaceful lines of his handsome face. I shifted slightly and was met with a jab from the corner of the book I had been reading, which lay between us.

  I put the book on the nightstand and sat up. I couldn’t believe that I had fallen asleep or that, at the very least, I hadn’t heard him come in.

  “Milo.”

  He stirred slightly.

  “Milo, wake up.”

  “I’ve only just gone to sleep,” he murmured without opening his eyes.

  “What happened at De Lora’s?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean?” I demanded.

  He opened his eyes with a heavy sigh and looked up at me. “De Lora wasn’t there, and I didn’t discover anything of interest. I had a few drinks, played a few hands of cards with a sinister-looking and tight-lipped gentleman, and then came home.”

  I looked at him. For some reason, I had the impression that he was lying to me. There had been a time in our marriage when it was very difficult for me to tell, for he was a consummate liar, but I was becoming more adept at sensing dishonesty in him.

  My gaze narrowed as I studied his face.

  “I find that very difficult to believe,” I said at last.

  He met my gaze with guiltless blue eyes. “I hate to admit failure, darling, but I’ll go back again in a night or two and see if I can find out anything. In the meantime, I think we should consider our other suspects.”

  There was something that he wasn’t telling me. I had learned to distrust that easy dismissiveness, and now I was certain.

  I considered what it might be. It had been Milo’s idea that we pursue this investigation, so I didn’t think it was merely a matter of trying to dissuade me from investigating. The noblest answer—if indeed lying to one’s wife can be considered noble in any circumstances—was that he was trying to protect me from something. Perhaps he had discovered Leon De Lora was more dangerous than Milo had assumed, and he didn’t want me to pursue him as a suspect.

  This seemed unlikely, however. I felt there was something else that he was hiding. It was irritating in the extreme, but I knew from long experience it would do no good to press him. He would never tell me anything he didn’t want me to know.

  Well, so be it. If he was going to keep secrets from me, I was just going to have to go to De Lora’s and get the answers for myself.

  12

  MUCH TO MY annoyance, Milo was up not long after I was and departed the house shortly thereafter. He had business with a banker and an American lawyer, he told me, though I was fairly sure I didn’t believe him.

  There was no one in the dining room as I had my tea and toast and thought over the events of the past few days. Though I was trying not to think of it in such grim terms, I found that this trip had devolved in my mind from a joyous occasion to one of suspicion and fear. There was a sense of melancholy that hung over me, and I was sure it was not going to dissipate until Mr. Palmer’s murderer was caught.

  To make matters worse, someone had left a newspaper on the table. Apparently, Mr. Alden had been reading the morning news, for the paper was folded to an article with a photograph of the Alden home next to a photograph of Grant Palmer, that sardonic smile flashing in his handsome face.

  Against my better judgment, I picked up the paper and read.

  The shooting death of Mr. Grant Palmer at the home of shipping tycoon Benjamin Alden remains under investigation. So far no suspects have been named, but rumors persist that the method of the killing points to a gangland connection. Mr. Palmer was well-known in underworld circuits, though he had never been officially linked to any crimes. It is unknown whether the Aldens were aware of this connection, though Mr. Palmer was to serve as best man in the wedding of Miss Tabitha Alden to Mr. Thomas Smith. The wedding is due to take place in a fortnight.

  I pushed the paper away with a sigh. It was just as I had feared: rumor and speculation were already beginning to spread. I had hoped that Tabitha and Tom would be spared some of that, but it seemed that, no matter what side of the Atlantic one was on, gossip still spread like wildfire. I determined not to dwell on them for the moment. Mr. Palmer’s murder was a tragedy, to be certain, but I had dealt with tragedy before and had overcome it.

  No one had come downstairs by the time I finished my meager meal, and I wandered out of the dining room into the silent hallway. Though distracted by the newspaper, I had thought I heard someone at the front door, but there was certainly no one there now. Perhaps it had been another reporter dispatched by Calvin.

  There was a large grandfather clock in the hallway and I glanced at it. It was nearly ten o’clock. I wondered where everyone was this morning. It seemed as though Mr. Palmer’s death had sent them scattered into the winds. Not that I could blame them.

  I knew, despite her stiff upper lip, Tabitha was no doubt trying to come to terms with the death of Grant Palmer. It had been terrible for her to see him lying there, his blood spilling out on the steps, and I knew she was likely more affected by it all than she’d let on. I hoped she was somewhere with Tom. I was optimistic that the bonds of love could do much to help her make her way through the trauma.

  I suddenly felt an odd little longing for Milo. Ours had never been the sort of relationship where I relied on him for emotional support. Indeed, I had spent most of the first five years of our marriage concealing my feelings from him. It was only recently that I had begun to look upon him as someone in whom I could confide when feeling morose, the steady arm to lean on in trouble. Despite my feelings that he was concealing the truth from me, it would be nice to talk to him now.

  Brushing off this silly bit of melancholy with the reminder that he would likely return before lunch and, in all probability, do something to annoy me by dinner, I considered my plans for the day. I was feeling a bit at loose ends. I didn’t particularly want to venture out into the city. Even if my heart had been in it, I knew there were still reporters outside and I didn’t care to have my picture splashed across tomorrow’s papers.

  It was then I remembered that I had not finished the letter to my mother. While I was already feeling gloomy, I might as well accomplish the task.

  I made my way into the sitting room, considering news I might share while sidestepping the fact that there had been a murder on our doorstep. Knowing my mother, she would hear about it soon enough without my informing her. I was, in fact, a bit surprised I had not yet received a terse wire or even a transatlantic telephone call.

  I walked to the drawing room and stopped in the doorway. Detective Andrews was standing before the fireplace, looking at the large painting that hung above the mantel, a cigarette between his lips.

  I had not particularly cared for the man’s brusque manner last night, and I had no desire to talk with him again now. I wasn’t even sure what he was doing here. Was it usual in America for the police to appear so often without warning?

  Unfortunately, he apparently had heard me approaching, for he turned before I could slip away.

  “You much of an art lover, Mrs. Ames?” he asked, by way of a greeting.

  I wasn’t sure what to make of the question, but I answered it straightforwardly. “I enjoy art. I wouldn’t say I’m particularly knowledgeable on the subject.”

  “Oh, I bet you have a good eye. What do you make of that painting?”

  He nodded toward the painting that hung above the mantel.

  I looked up at it. It was a portrait of a man on horseback. Th
e colors called to mind the countryside, and, though the rider’s face was not visible, his dress and the set of the shoulders gave the impression that he was a man on a journey. There was something vague yet vivid about the picture; it gave one the loose impression of a story while encouraging the mind to fill in the details.

  “I think it’s very good,” I said, though something told me there was more to his question than simple curiosity.

  “It’s an Eakins,” he said. “Painted in Philadelphia around the turn of the century.”

  I knew I oughtn’t to have made judgments, but I would not have taken Mr. Andrews for an art aficionado, and I was caught off guard by this knowledge of the piece in question.

  “That’s very interesting. You seem well-versed on the subject of art.”

  He shrugged. “Everyone has their hobbies.” He moved over to the crystal ashtray on the chair by the sofa and stubbed out his cigarette.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

  “I used to work in the robbery division. We saw a lot of art come through there, and I developed an interest. This is an expensive piece. A lot of families are having to sell off these sorts of things now.”

  I didn’t know what sort of information he was hoping to glean from me. Surely he didn’t think I was privy to the Aldens’ financial situation.

  His next question struck closer to home. “You come from money, I suppose?”

  I was a bit put off by the question, not just for the fact that it was considered ill-mannered to discuss such things, but because I felt as though he was coming at things from an angle I didn’t understand. I was at a disadvantage, and I didn’t like it.

  That didn’t mean, of course, that I would refuse to answer his question. After all, there was no crime in having been born into a wealthy family.

  “I’ve been fortunate enough to live a very comfortable life,” I admitted.

  He nodded. “I grew up poor, but we had a happy little family.”

  “A happy family makes a good deal of difference.”

  I glanced into the room, wondering where Detective Bailey was. I had somehow had the impression that the men did not often go places apart.

  “Money makes a difference, too. I can applaud a man who does what he needs to get ahead.”

  “Mr. Alden has always worked very hard,” I said carefully, unsure of what he was getting at.

  “You can come into the room, you know,” Detective Andrews said suddenly. “I may look mean, but I don’t bite.”

  He said the words without any apparent humor, but I could tell he was trying to lessen the impression of an attack. I hadn’t even realized that I was still hovering in the doorway. Perhaps it was my instinct for self-preservation that had kept me there, the feeling that I ought to be wary of this man.

  I didn’t intend to let him see that, however.

  “I thought you might be waiting for someone,” I said as I moved into the drawing room and took a seat.

  “I came back to talk to everyone again. I didn’t want to overstay my welcome last night, but I thought another go-round today might be a good idea. Things are always a bit hazy after a tragedy. I thought people’s recollections might be a little clearer today.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have many recollections,” I said. “After all, I didn’t see anything.”

  “Yes, so you said. But perhaps some new details have emerged? Maybe you’ve thought of something you didn’t think to mention?”

  I had again the impression that he was trying to get me to reveal something. There was no reason to be uneasy. After all, I didn’t know anything.

  “I’m afraid I told you everything I could think of that night,” I said.

  “You were in your room upstairs when you heard the sound of gunfire.”

  I nodded.

  “And you didn’t see anything?”

  “No. I didn’t even go to the window. I heard Tabitha scream and went downstairs immediately. That’s when I saw Mr. Palmer lying on the steps.”

  “The butler had the door open.”

  I nodded.

  “And Miss Alden was kneeling by the body? Almost as though she had been there when it happened.”

  I felt a hint of unease. Was he going to suggest that Tabitha might have had something to do with it?

  “I’m not sure exactly how long she’d been there. You’d have to ask her.”

  “Yes, I came to speak to Miss Alden. It seems she’s not here.”

  I wondered why he had come into the drawing room if he knew that Tabitha wasn’t here. I didn’t have much time to contemplate the question before he moved on to another topic.

  “No one in this house seems much disturbed that Grant Palmer is dead.” I wasn’t sure whether it was a question or an observation.

  “I didn’t know him at all well,” I said, “but I’m sorry that he was killed.”

  “I didn’t mean you,” he replied.

  “Tabitha took it very hard. She was almost hysterical.” I recalled how I had led her, pale and trembling and smeared with Mr. Palmer’s blood, into the drawing room after the shooting. Her hands had been shaking so hard she had been unable at first to hold her coffee cup. No, I was certain that her horror had been genuine.

  “She took the circumstances hard,” Detective Andrews corrected. “But she isn’t overly sorry that he’s dead. I imagine she’s practically recovered by now.”

  I thought of Tabitha and Tom sitting at the breakfast table yesterday morning, their decision last night to go on with the wedding. Certainly they were sorry that Grant Palmer was dead, but I could see how her appearance might give the impression that it had not caused any lasting distress.

  The more he talked, the more Detective Andrews seemed to me to be a very cynical gentleman. Unfortunately, he also seemed to be fairly astute. I imagined that Tabitha was not going to enjoy her interview with him, and I almost wished Detective Bailey was here. Somehow it seemed that his presence softened some of Detective Andrews’s rough edges.

  “Did you look into Mr. Palmer’s relationship with bootleggers?” I asked.

  It seemed to me that he smirked ever so slightly, as though he found me to be very amusing. “We’re investigating all the angles.”

  “It seems much more likely to me than any other scenario.”

  “Well, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  I gritted my teeth at his patronizing tone. I wished suddenly for the comforting, familiar presence of Detective Inspector Jones of Scotland Yard. Though we had started out on less than friendly terms, our relationship had developed into a warm and trusting one. Somehow, I didn’t imagine I would be developing such a relationship with Detective Andrews.

  “Did you learn anything from Mr. Smith?” I asked.

  His sharp eyes came to my face. “Why? You think he’s the guy if the gangsters didn’t do it?”

  He almost made me wish I had said nothing, but now that I had I needed to make myself clear. “I don’t know Mr. Smith very well,” I said. “But I have a hard time imagining that he would do anything like this. No, what I meant was, perhaps he knows about Mr. Palmer’s involvement with bootleggers. The two of them were good friends, after all.”

  “He didn’t seem to know much about that,” he said, turning his back to me and walking along to look at the next painting on the wall.

  I waited to see if he would reveal any more of what Tom had had to say, but I ought to have known better.

  “This one’s a copy,” he said, stopping before a painting.

  I looked at it. Admittedly, I was no art expert, but it looked genuine enough to me. My curiosity got the better of me.

  “How do you know?”

  “Just little things here and there. It’s not always easy to spot a phony.”

  He turned back to me.

  Just then there was a movement in the doorway behind me. It was Calvin, the butler.

  “Mr. Alden says he will see you now, Mr. Andrews. He’s in his study.”

  “
Great. Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Calvin nodded and disappeared. Detective Andrews moved toward the doorway, but he stopped in front of me. “It’s been nice chatting with you, but, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few more questions for Mr. Alden.”

  “I still think you’d have better luck looking into Mr. Palmer’s business associates than any of his friends,” I said.

  “You ever seen a Venus flytrap, Mrs. Ames?”

  Once again, he had caught me off guard. “No, I don’t believe I have.”

  “They’re strange little plants. Shaped kind of like this.” He formed his hand into a claw. “Harmless-looking things, really. They just sit there, minding their own business. And then along comes a fly and—” He closed his fist with a crackle of thick knuckles.

  He gave a shrug. “Sometimes it just takes a little patience.”

  I was beginning to see that it would be a very unwise thing indeed to underestimate Detective Andrews.

  13

  IT WAS THAT afternoon that I set my plan into motion. I had been thinking about it for most of the day, and I had come up with what I thought would be a feasible plan for making Leon De Lora’s acquaintance.

  The first step in the process would call for a bit of assistance.

  “Winnelda,” I said when she came into my bedroom carrying an armload of clothes she had just pressed. “I need you to help me with something.”

  She looked up from where she was depositing items in the wardrobe. “Certainly, madam. What is it?”

  “I need you to help me cultivate an American accent.”

  She looked at me strangely, and I couldn’t exactly blame her. It was, after all, a rather outlandish request.

  “I am going someplace where I want to blend into my surroundings,” I said, by way of explanation.

  She nodded, accustomed, I supposed, to my eccentric ideas. “It’s not really that difficult of an accent to imitate once you get an ear for it,” she said. My eyes widened. Gone was all hint of her London origins. She sounded exactly like an American. Had I met her on the street, I never would have guessed she hailed from my homeland.