Creating nasty villains and dire, mysterious straits for Sally Sharpe was a lot more fun than enduring the cowlike gazes of the men who eyed her around town. When they learned she was domestic help in the Perkins home, the ones of modest income were too intimidated to call on her, and the wealthier ones didn’t give her a second glance. Sally Sharpe, her prim, blond heroine in nondescript clothes, had become her closest friend, a girl whose daring escapades filled her empty hours with derring-do Celesta could never imitate in real life. And now that Mama was gone, Sally would be her comfort, her means of staying sane in a life that suddenly had a gaping hole in it.
Celesta wiped the wetness from her eyes and focused again on her paper. What if ... what if Sally herself were the victim of a crime? What if some devious, dangerously handsome client engaged her services and she later discovered he’d made off with her most important files—information that would put her at the mercy of a ruthless criminal who’d murdered her mother, for instance?
No good. Sally was an orphan, like most female protagonists in the pulps. And it hit too close to home right now.
Heartened by the adrenaline this idea had pumped up, Celesta gripped her pen again. Perhaps Sally had a crotchety aunt, an old maid who didn’t approve of how she made her living—and who died at the hands of a crook who stole the will that grudgingly named Sally as the sole heir to her estate. Of course the aunt wore her hair in a bun and had a forehead furrowed from scowling at Sally—Nadine, her name was!—and . . . was that cigarette smoke she smelled? Miss Sharpe herself would certainly be the killer’s next target, unless. ...
Celesta chuckled low in her throat. She saw a dark, fashionably dressed villain with a line for every occasion, now wooing Sally after years of being away from her. Aunt Justine was in for a real jolt if she picked this story off the newsstands!
Alive with anticipation, Celesta crumpled the top sheet and began again. SALLY SHARPE, GIRL DETECTIVE, in “THE CASE OF THE PURLOINED PAPERS” she wrote with a bold flourish. It was going to be a long, productive evening.
“Celesta, dear, you look like you didn’t get a moment’s sleep,” Aunt Katherine fussed the next morning. She placed another pancake on Celesta’s plate and tapped the china with her fork. “Eat one more, and then perhaps you should go back to bed. Rest is the only cure for that pale face.”
Stifling a yawn, Celesta obediently drenched the flapjack with syrup. She’d seen the purple half-moons under her eyes when she looked in the mirror, so this loving lecture wasn’t unexpected—just as Justine’s next comments came as no surprise.
“She wouldn’t have this problem if she’d gone to bed. What on earth were you doing in the ballroom at all hours?” she asked tersely. “And don’t deny it. I heard you up there, making the floorboards creak with your snooping!”
Celesta took a large mouthful of pancake as an excuse not to answer immediately. She’d been pacing, making the details of her story dovetail as tightly as they must to keep her readers worried about poor Sally until the final paragraphs.
“And why on earth were you mumbling? All that racket!” Justine complained. “You could’ve at least shown the courtesy of staying in your room so the rest of us could sleep.”
“Perhaps she was talking to her grandfather’s ghost,” Katherine teased. “Now that Celesta’s returned home, he’s probably come back to comfort her in—”
“I should’ve known you’d devise such a ridiculous defense!” Justine rose from her chair, glaring at each of them before going to the pantry door to fetch her market basket. “I might as well be on my way. Something tells me the shopping may be all that gets accomplished in this house today. And don’t think it’s going to become a habit!”
Celesta knew this remark was directed at her, so to infuriate Justine more, she didn’t offer any apologies. She merely watched, her fork in her mouth, as her maiden aunt stepped briskly out the door and then slammed it.
She’d have to be more careful. Caught up in Sally Sharpe’s dangerous dilemma, she’d forgotten that Justine’s bedroom was directly below the ballroom, and that vents in her aunt’s ceiling allowed the unwelcome heat to rise up into the alcove . . . and the sound of her voice to drift down to her aunt’s ears.
“Think nothing of it, dear,” Aunt Katherine said as she began stacking the dishes. “Justine’s especially crotchety when she doesn’t sleep, and—”
“Justine would be crotchety if she slept night and day,” Celesta blurted. “You can’t blame it on the heat and you can’t blame it on me. She was born with a peevish streak, and that’s that.”
Katherine appeared startled by her tone, but then her face softened into a smile. “You’re catching on, dear. But I can’t help wondering why, if you couldn’t sleep, you were up there on the third floor . . . unless you truly were communing with your grandfather’s spirit.”
Celesta couldn’t admit she’d written the most exciting story of her career in six hours flat, so she played upon Katherine’s own fanciful suggestion. “I...I just felt compelled to go up there, as though something—or someone—were calling to me,” she answered in a mystical tone.
Then she chuckled, to relieve the horrified fascination on the dear lady’s face. “Actually, I just like it up there, where it’s so quiet you can hear the heat. And the view of the river from the alcove window is comforting, somehow.”
Katherine nodded wisely. “You need time alone to sort out your feelings. And with Eula and Patrick coming tomorrow, expecting your answer, I imagine you’re a bit nervous. They’re not accustomed to anyone declining the privilege of being associated with them, you know.”
Seeing the sparkle in Katherine’s hazel eyes, Celesta chuckled. She washed the dishes while her aunt dried and put them away. This woman wasn’t used to being refused, either—assumed she’d stay on at Ransom Manor, even though she hadn’t discussed it. After bluntly rejecting Patrick’s hint of marriage, it hardly seemed wise to return to a house where she’d be under his constant watch, yet she wasn’t sure how long she could endure Justine’s nit-picking if she stayed here.
Since the green beans were now preserved in rows of sparkling jars in the cellar, Katherine had declared today a holiday. Celesta followed her into the parlor, because she couldn’t make up an excuse to walk into town and mail her story if she went back to bed. This was the coolest room in the house, shaded by the same oaks that had dropped a branch through the gazebo ceiling, so this was where her aunt had assembled the yarns and canvas for the new sampler she was stitching.
“Your other aunt thinks needlepoint is a worthless occupation,” she was saying as she settled into a wing-backed chair. “And I already have a clutter of samplers on the walls, but I find the challenge of counting out these stitches in just the right shadings a rewarding pastime. And I have something when I’m done. Justine claims she listens to language lessons when she isn’t reading upstairs, but I have yet to hear her utter a word of French.”
“Justine’s learning French?”
Katherine giggled. “She has the lesson cylinders and the latest machine for playing them, anyway. For all I know, she sneaks recordings of bawdy sailors’ songs upstairs in her basket, and listens to those instead.”
Celesta joined in her laughter, thinking sea ditties incompatible with her spinster aunt’s tastes—but French lessons? She watched Katherine lean forward and crank the gramophone on the table next to her chair. After a few scratchy seconds, the graceful opening strains of The Blue Danube filled the air, and she sat back with a dreamy-eyed look.
“Your uncle Ambrose always requested that tune at balls, knowing how I loved to waltz,” she explained with a sentimental smile. “He was a magnificent dancer, tall and robust though he was. Sometimes after Justine retired for the evening, he and I would dance in this very room. They were wonderful times, Celesta.”
Her eyes misted over, and Celesta couldn’t bear to watch her wipe away tears. How had she even considered this lonely little woman as a possible murderess?
Celesta’s thoughts drifted with the music, and she sat back in the chair opposite Katherine’s. Someone had poisoned Mama—she was sure of it, after reviewing the horrible telltale symptoms that had left Rachel Montgomery lifeless. Yet without that sugar packet she had no proof, and she couldn’t risk sneaking another sample.
Damn that Damon anyway! Perhaps the walk to the post office would clear her mind and she’d think of a way to confront him before he exposed her as the creator of Sally Sharpe. Her Hannibal readers—not to mention her editor in New York—would lose all faith in the dauntless Girl Detective if they knew Sally was created by a sheltered young woman writing out her adventurous fantasies.
She scooted forward, about to ask if Katherine needed anything from town, when the clatter of the brass doorknocker summoned them above the sounds of Strauss. “I’ll get it,” she said, eager for the distraction, and she smiled when she heard Katherine’s footsteps behind her.
When she opened the massive door, however, her smile fell flat. Damon Frye was grinning at them, his brown eyes alight, with a mischief she knew not to trust.
“Celesta,” he crooned with a slight bow, “and Mrs. Ransom,” he continued in his suavest voice. “I hope I’m not interrupting or—”
“How nice to see you!” Aunt Katherine chirped. “Why, we weren’t doing a—oh, my,” she breathed as he tenderly kissed the back of her freckled hand. “You are a direct young man, aren’t you?”
“Quite,” he replied, his eyes roving to tease Celesta. “When I saw your dear niece yesterday, she mentioned you’d lost your husband, and I came to express my deepest sympathy.”
“Why . . . thank you,” she murmured, her hand still wrapped in Damon’s broad, browned one.
“And since she also said your gazebo was damaged in the storm, I took the liberty of bringing materials to fix it for you.” He gestured behind him, to where a horse-drawn wagon loaded with lumber stood waiting. “But if this is a bad time, or if you’ve hired someone else—”
“Don’t you even think of leaving,” Katherine replied, her gaze flitting coyly from her niece to Frye. “This is the most thoughtful thing anyone’s done for me since Ambrose’s memorial service. Why didn’t you tell me you took so long in town yesterday because you were talking with Mr. Frye, dear?”
Celesta gave the rogue in the doorway a pointed, warning glare as she replied, “It didn’t seem worth mentioning, Aunt Katherine.”
Chapter 6
Damon chuckled. Despite her pallor and pink-rimmed eyes, Miss Montgomery looked determined to confront him the moment Katherine was out of earshot. And since that was what he came for, he played along. “It was so hot, and she was so eager to get your yarn home, I doubt she heard a word I said,” he replied smoothly. Then he smiled at the little woman, nodding toward the partly stitched fabric in her hand. “You’ve already worked this much of the design? What’s it say?”
Katherine beamed as she held the sampler up. “Home is where the heart is,” she replied with a girlish smile. “It’s nothing fancy—”
“But skillfully done. I don’t recall ever seeing some of these stitches,” he said as he ran an admiring finger over her handiwork. “And the sentiment has always intrigued me. It seems that those without a home often lose heart, and those without a heart seldom find a true home. To have both is to be doubly blessed.”
He was dangling some sort of hook, and Aunt Katherine was gazing at him, about to snap up the bait—and Celesta didn’t like it one bit. “We appreciate your thoughtfulness, Mr. Frye, but how is it you can spare us your time from overseeing the Cruikshank construction?” she asked coolly.
Katherine’s mouth dropped open even farther. “You’re an architect? And quite a fine one, if John Cruikshank’s put you in charge of his new home!” she exclaimed. “I would so like to hear about it! Such a palace it must be.”
With a quick, victorious glance at Celesta, he bowed slightly. “And I’ll be pleased to tell you all about it, but as your niece has pointed out, my time’s a bit short. I’d better get started on your gazebo.”
Frye strode to his wagon, leaving Katherine gaping after him, her needlepoint clutched to her bosom.
“Really, Aunt! You’re gawking like a schoolgirl,” Celesta muttered.
“Yes, and I can’t imagine why you aren’t. He’s kind and generous, and he’s obviously made something of himself these past ten years,” she said, her hazel eyes fixed intently on her niece’s. “You shouldn’t be so short with him, dear. Now that you’re out of Eula Perkins’s employ, you’ll need to think about your future. You could do worse than be wooed by Damon Frye.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” she replied, steering the little woman back into the house. “And besides, it’s hardly the proper time to encourage—”
“Your mother wouldn’t want you to be alone, dear. Lord knows how much easier her life—and yours—would’ve been had she landed a dependable man.” Katherine studied her for a moment, and then her face softened with a smile. “And since we’d be remiss not to repay Damon’s kindness, we should prepare a special dinner, don’t you think?”
Objecting to her aunt’s matchmaking would raise questions Celesta didn’t want to answer, so she followed Katherine to the kitchen. Damon’s interest in her was one more reason not to return to the Perkins home, as Katherine saw it—one more way her aunt had manipulated her into a tight spot, unknowingly and with the best intentions.
But Damon Frye’s intentions weren’t the least bit honorable—flattering an old lady’s needlework so that he could taunt her niece! He was too damn clever for his own good. And he had no business wearing those overalls. His deep pockets had obviously provided a hiding place for what he had stolen from her, and the way the tan fabric hugged his backside was so shameless only a—
“... so I think we’ll make—Celesta, are you listening?” her aunt’s voice cut through her thoughts. “We’ll need a head of cabbage and some onions from the garden, and fetch a big pan of lemons from the cave. Lemonade’s the best refresher for the hot day’s work Mr. Frye will be doing.”
“Yes, of course,” she replied, and hurried out the pantry door before her aunt could ask what she had been daydreaming about. It was insane to be so infatuated with a man whose strut betrayed his colossal conceit, yet her eyes were drawn toward the gazebo as though they had a mind of their own.
Damon was lifting the last sawed section of the huge branch from the crushed white latticework, heaving it to one side with the effortless grace of a man twice his size. And he’d already removed his shirt.
When Celesta returned to the house, ignoring his wave, she was relieved to find Justine back from her marketing. Ramrod straight, fist on her hip, she was injecting the situation with her usual dose of sour practicality.
“. .. so of course you’ve invited him to dinner, and this one paltry chicken in my basket won’t be enough,” she was complaining. “And what possessed him to volunteer his services, unless—” The spinster’s brown eyes took aim at Celesta.
“I did not invite him here,” she insisted as she laid her vegetables in the sink. “And it wasn’t my idea to cook for him, either.”
“How could we not feed him?” Katherine objected with a wounded look. “It would be unheard of not to—even if we paid him—”
“Which we won’t,” Justine stated dryly. “Must you pander to anything that wears pants, Katherine? Put these perishables in the ice box, Celesta, and let’s hope the poultry man has another bird when I get there.”
The door closed sharply behind her, and Katherine’s lips twitched with amusement. “Perhaps she’ll have to stop two or three places, and smoke two or three more cigarettes,” she said lightly. “It’ll give me time to make my pie and biscuits without her hovering, telling me I’m using too much butter or too many peaches.”
Celesta stifled a laugh. Surely Frye would finish repairing the gazebo in a hurry when these two geese got to hissing at each other over every little
thing. It would be amusing to watch him dodge Justine’s barbs and defend poor Katherine’s seemingly innocent ploys—
“Squeeze the lemons first and let them soak in some grated rind and sugar,” she was saying as she opened her flour canister, “and then you can cut the cabbage for slaw and set the dining room table with our better plates. Isn’t it nice to entertain company? I miss the conversations we used to have when Ambrose and his parents were alive.”
Celesta chided herself for thinking only of her own predicament. Aunt Katherine was being the perfect hostess, and if anyone deserved relief from a sister-in-law’s endless criticism, it was she. As they worked side by side, she reminded herself that this sheltered little woman had no way of knowing about Damon’s devious nature: she saw only his highly polished veneer, which reflected her own kindheartedness when she was in his presence. Celesta knew that if she was to be free of Mr. Frye, she’d have to discourage his attentions herself—which she fully intended to do as she walked down the stone path a little while later, carrying a tray of lemonade and cookies.
Hearing footsteps, Damon turned from his work to watch Celesta approach. Her upswept hair was bouncing loosely with each step, and her mouth was fixed in a forbidding line. She looked ready to throw that lemonade at him, an obstinate expression he remembered from when young Patrick used to order her around. The rose-colored dress she wore beneath her apron flattered her complexion, but she looked pale—and he knew exactly how to bring the color to her cheeks.
“You’re a thoughtful hostess, Miss Montgomery,” he said as she walked toward the wicker table. “Only one glass, though. How . . . intimate.”
Missouri Magic Page 6