“You want solid?” she jeered, grabbing the wax cylinder from the top of his desk to shake it at him. “I’ve given you the most damning evidence against Frye—”
“And we’ll both be sorry if you hit me in the head with it.” Jones looked steadily at her from his desk chair, clasping his hands over his middle like a priest awaiting a confession.
Celesta exhaled slowly and lowered the cylinder. “I—I’m sorry. Mr. Frye has upset me.”
“So I’ve noticed.” He fingered the Edison record and looked at her, his strained patience showing in his eyes. “And had Mr. Frye struck Justine with this, we’d have him. But this is merely a recording, Celesta, not a weapon. Frye didn’t force your aunt to listen to it, did he?”
“No,” she mumbled. “Justine loved her phonograph long before he came to live with us, but—”
“And had she been her normal, lucid self she would’ve seen through the attempt to coax her over the cliff—would’ve accused Frye herself,” he added quickly. “Unfortunately, it’s common knowledge that your aunt lost her mental balance several weeks before her demise, after a fire probably caused by her careless smoking. I’m very sorry, Miss Montgomery, because I held Justine in highest regard, but I can’t incarcerate a man for merely making a recording. If I could, every irate businessman who owns one of those newfangled dictating machines would be subject to arrest, for the threats in his recorded correspondence.”
He had a point, but that didn’t settle the impotence that roiled her stomach. “What am I supposed to do, then? That’s Frye’s voice on the cylinder, and if the Chief of Police refuses to help me while the wealthiest man in Hannibal ushers the suspect out of town—”
“He said you could solve it yourself. Said the creator of Sally Sharpe would sift through the evidence and figure out who dunnit.”
She planted a hand on her hip. “And I suppose he knows?”
“Says he does, but he wasn’t telling me, either. If you’ve got any clues, little lady, I’ll be happy to help out. Games like this can get nasty if they’re allowed to continue.”
Games? She straightened to her full height, realizing now why she’d never thought much of this hulking, awkward lawman who dared refer to her as a little lady, with his crocodile smile. “Why would I want to help you?” she muttered as she turned toward the door. “You’re an incompetent, double-dealing-no better than Damon Frye! Thanks for nothing, Mr. Jones.”
It seemed only fitting that as she stalked up the hill to the Manor, a gray brigade of clouds rolled in on the horizon. Of course Chief Jones would tease her about putting clues together like she did in her stories, as though the little lady was only fit to fight crime in the dimers! And Frye had put him up to suggesting that! Which made perfect sense, because Damon was once again pointing at Patrick Perkins, perpetuating their feud over Lucy Bates.
She’d thought of Patrick right off, after the initial shock of discovering the altered cylinder. He’d never liked Justine, and he had brought her some new Edison records, and, lover of mechanical devices that he was, he no doubt had a dictating machine in his office. And she’d known for most of her life what a mimic he was; he’d proven that the day he aped Justine in the music room!
But Perkins also knew he’d never get away with such a warped trick because she would figure him out. As the head of Perkins Lumber, Hannibal’s third-largest mill, he couldn’t afford to be associated with such a scandal. And he had no need to kill the woman who’d stand between him and the Ransom fortune because if he were financially strapped, he could’ve married any number of wealthy socialite daughters months ago—girls who wanted him. She’d certainly told him enough times that she didn’t.
So, while Patrick had the motive, means, and opportunity to cajole Justine over the cliff, his case wasn’t nearly as compelling as Damon’s. Frye had every reason to capitalize on his closeness to the family, and he’d nearly done it—nearly married the new heir to the Ransom estate. Only he could play upon Justine’s weakness for him. Only he could’ve orchestrated their engagement so perfectly, except he’d failed to remove the one puzzle piece he assumed she wouldn’t stumble onto.
These thoughts, along with Katherine’s fretfulness, made the evening seem endless. Her aunt bemoaned cooking for just the two of them, and when the thunder and lightning announced a storm after dinner, she became so nervous Celesta nearly asked her to sit on her hands. She’d stitch for a few moments on her sampler and then pull the yarn out, claiming she’d miscounted.
To avoid watching this wasted effort yet again, Celesta looked out at the turbulent sky. The rain splattered loudly against the window, drowning out the scratchy strains of Katherine’s record, and the lightning looked like ragged, electrical wounds on the black face of the night. A particularly close clap of thunder made her aunt jump and then stick her pricked finger into her mouth.
“I wish we weren’t so isolated up here,” she whimpered. “Damon was such a comfort during a storm. Even Ambrose had his ways of distracting me when the weather kicked up, and I ... I wish those days weren’t over.”
She didn’t need Katherine to remind her how Frye’s presence had affected them all. This was his sort of night, and a glance at the white latticework of the gazebo, illuminated by another sudden flash, brought back memories of his tempestuous love-making, of declarations she’d believed all too quickly. Since such recollections served no purpose now, she tried to direct her thoughts down a more constructive path.
“Who do you think made that awful recording?” she asked thoughtfully. “Damon, or Patrick Perkins?”
Katherine looked up from her needlepoint, startled. “There’s a chance Mr. Frye didn’t?”
“Certainly. Patrick brought new cylinders, as you’ll recall—”
Her aunt nodded slowly.
“—and you’ve heard how he could imitate voices, and you know how he disliked Justine,” Celesta continued.
Katherine shrugged. “He apologized for causing the disturbance that day she sent them home.”
“And you felt it was sincere?”
She let out a short laugh. “Personally, I’ve never felt young Mr. Perkins had a sincere bone in his body. He takes after Eula, the way he touts himself as such a paragon.”
“Do you think he despised Justine enough to kill her?”
She stitched for a moment, pursing her lips as she considered the question. “I don’t think he feels that passionately about anything, except himself. He didn’t pursue you all that diligently, even though Damon seemed to be egging him into competition.”
“Do you think he wants our money? I certainly didn’t dangle any other prizes in front of him,” she said wryly.
Katherine chuckled and shook her head. “To hear Eula tell it, Perkins Lumber is neck-and-neck with Cruikshank’s, more profitable than when Tom was at the helm. And frankly, I don’t think he’s sharp enough to put all the details, and the timing, and the ... the words, together so perfectly.”
Celesta nodded, glancing out the window at the storm. “And you think Damon could?”
“I don’t think he would,” she replied in a firm, small voice. “I—I just wish Justine would’ve kept their new records separate, or labeled them. I wish she’d have told us about that awful message instead of listening until it became too real for her to deny. I wish a lot of things that’ll never come true, Celesta, and it’s not getting us one step closer to the man who led her on. But it has to be one of them.”
Katherine’s lament echoed her own frustration. Such mysteries were so easy to solve when Sally Sharpe was investigating, even when she didn’t know which suspect was the culprit when she began the story. Why did real life have to be so complicated? Celesta sensed the answer was pointing its finger, laughing in her face, yet Damon had apparently taken her powers of perception when he stole her heart. First Mama and now Justine, and she had a feeling, despite Chief Jones’s unfortunate choice of words, that for someone she knew very well, this murder business was indeed b
ecoming a game.
She scowled out the window, listening. Was that a horse approaching, or the sound of rain driving against the house?
Katherine, too, puckered her brow and rose to look outside. “Was that a whinny?” she fretted. “Surely no one would be out in this storm.”
Unless he’s up to no good, Celesta mused darkly. She and her aunt gasped at the rapid-fire thunderclaps and kept staring out until the next flash of lightning revealed a rider on a tall, skittish horse. He was cursing his mount, trying to keep a tight enough rein that the creature couldn’t toss him off into the mud. His hat was crammed low, and his cloak, though sodden with rain, whirled dramatically as he fought for control.
Her aunt grabbed her arm, nearly pinching it off, as the horse neighed frantically and reared with the next blinding flash. Its dark front legs pawed at the sky, and they could see the whites of its eyes quite clearly.
Celesta walked decisively toward the fireplace and grabbed the poker.
“Whatever are you doing?’’ Katherine breathed. She glanced outside again and clutched at the lace bow on her blouse. “He’s dismounted, and—”
“And if it’s Patrick or Damon, we certainly don’t want him getting a jump on us, do we?” she replied. “Who else would have business here on such a night?”
Katherine sucked in her breath as the loud pounding on the back door echoed in the hallway. “I—I don’t—perhaps it’s Bill Thompkins, come to check on us. Dear God, did we lock that door? He’s going to beat it in!”
“I guess we’d better find out.” As Celesta approached the back entry, she could see it vibrating with the force of the man’s blows, and her heartbeat sounded puny in comparison.
“Open up, damn it! I know you’re in there!” came the man’s muffled voice.
Grasping the poker, she glanced at her aunt, who was too shaken to nod. If only Damon were still on their side, protecting them. But it was up to her to identify their caller and hope she reacted properly, and in time. The light here was so dim—
“Damn it, do I have to break a window?”
“I can’t tell who it is,” Celesta said in a frantic whisper.
“I—I suppose we’d better ask.” Katherine inhaled deeply and approached the crack that ran around the door. “Who’s there?” she demanded in a wobbly voice.
“I didn’t come all this way to be left standing out in—”
“Throw the lock and step aside,” Celesta whispered, raising the poker above her head. “By God, we’ll teach him to announce himself properly.”
Her aunt complied and jumped back as though the lock had bitten her. With a whoosh of spray, the door flew in. The tall, dark intruder splattered them with cold rain as he clumped inside and then fell against the door to close it with a whump.
Celesta gripped her poker, telling herself it wasn’t too late to disable him—even though he towered above her and his haughty presence filled the back hallway. Katherine stood at a distance on the other side of him, peering anxiously, as though she didn’t really want to know who it was. Damon or Patrick they would’ve recognized by now, but this monster of a man made no effort to reveal himself. He stood, panting for breath, looking out from beneath his dripping hat brim as though their feelings of mistrust were mutual.
Finally he stood free of the door, and it was then Celesta noticed he had a peg leg. She stepped back, still clutching the poker in hands that were growing numb with apprehension.
“Put that fricking thing down before you hurt someone,” he muttered.
“I’ll put it down on your head if you don’t state your name!” she cried. “We weren’t exactly expecting guests!”
Slowly he reached for his hat, his gaze sweeping from Celesta to linger upon her aunt. Katherine paled, trembling, as the broad, black brim came up over a smooth head that was splotched with scars and had a fringe of dark hair around it. His brown eyes glimmered, unmoving, as a long, low cry escaped the little woman’s throat.
“Ambrose—” she breathed, and then fainted into a heap on the floor.
Chapter 26
Celesta glared at her uncle as he shrugged out of his soggy wraps. “You could’ve at least announced yourself so we—”
“And I’d still be out there in the storm, wouldn’t I?” he retorted.
“Then, you could’ve sent word ahead, rather than—”
“There wasn’t time. The telegraph from Thompkins made it sound like all hell was breaking loose,” Ambrose said as he let his cloak drop to the floor, “and someone had to take charge before the family fortune fell into the wrong hands.”
That explained Bill’s nervousness when she’d tried to encourage his attentions toward Katherine, but this! “So you’ve really been in hiding, letting poor Katherine assume you died in the Phantom explosion—”
“You always were perceptive, for a girl,” he said with a short laugh.
“—and while you wouldn’t return to take care of her, you’ve come running when your damn money’s at stake?” she spat. Celesta knelt to cradle her groaning aunt, glowering up at him. “That stinks, Ambrose.”
“I’ve missed you, too, Celesta,” he replied as he glanced around the hallway. “I’m going upstairs for dry clothes. Knowing Katherine, she hasn’t had the heart to clear out my belongings.”
She glared after him as he walked slowly past the summer parlor toward the main stairs—step clunk, step clunk. Damon Frye had once seemed the epitome of arrogance, but this haughty uncle’s reappearance topped anything her former fiancé had pulled. Let him discover for himself that the armoire in the master suite now held nothing but the Sally Sharpe dimers Aunt Katherine insisted upon saving! “Be ready to answer a lot of questions!” she hurled after him.
Ambrose turned, his scowl intensified by the scars on his head. “I’ve got a few for you, too, you little schemer,” he snarled.
Was this truly the man her aunt still idolized? Celesta didn’t remember him being so ruthless ... so cruel. Katherine was coming around now, moaning as she tossed her head from side to side. Her poor aunt was in for a rude awakening, after more than a year of pining for the only man she’d ever loved, and Celesta had a feeling they’d learn some startling, distasteful things before this night was over.
“Let’s get you onto the settee in the parlor,” she murmured, placing her hands under Katherine’s arms. “You’d better brace yourself. The storm’s just beginning, now that Ambrose is back.”
“Ambrose?” Katherine’s voice was high and childlike. Her eyes fluttered open, and she sat against Celesta’s supporting hands. “I...I had the most haunting dream, dear, about—”
“It was no dream,” she replied quietly. “Uncle Ambrose is home.”
Her aunt’s hazel eyes widened fearfully. “We’ve seen his ghost, then. My Ambrose died during the boiler explosion aboard—”
“That’s what we all thought,” Celesta said, patting her aunt’s arm as she watched the confusion cloud her pale face. “He must’ve had some very compelling reasons for playing dead all these months—”
“Yes, he’s dead,” she confirmed with a confident nod. “He’s in Heaven, and Justine’s joined him and Rachel now. They’re all together with ...”
Celesta swallowed a painful lump of emotion as Katherine prattled on about the souls of their departed kin. No good would come of arguing about where Ambrose Junior’s spirit was really headed, so she gently helped her aunt to her feet. “Let’s sit in the parlor, beside the fire,” she said as she guided Katherine’s steps. “We’ve had quite a shock, and you need time to adjust. That’s it ... sit right here. I could use a cup of tea. How about you?”
“Tea would be lovely, dear.”
She hesitated to leave the shaken woman alone, but it was the best way to confront her uncle before he upset his wife any further. Celesta hurried in to put the kettle on, and just as she was coming through the dining room she heard his uneven tread upon the stairs.
Ambrose Ransom, once graceful and athl
etic, hobbled down to the bottom of the stairs still clad in his damp clothes, exuding God’s own wrath. “Why does my home look like a whorehouse?” he demanded. “You can’t tell me my sister paid for this garish red paper! And the master suite looks like some floozy’s—”
“That was Justine’s room, actually,” Celesta replied, crossing her arms to return his harsh gaze. “Your wife convinced her that the Manor deserved a proud, new image for the coming century, and—”
“Don’t feed me that,” he jeered. “My sister was so tight she squeaked, and—”
“—the bathrooms were her idea, too,” she continued above his sarcasm. “Did you think our lives would come to a standstill when you died, Uncle? Did you want your money to gather dust in the bank while your wife and sister rattled around in these dreary old rooms, letting progress pass them by?”
He snorted. “An interesting question, coming from the urchin who stood to inherit after Rachel and Justine passed on. You must be terribly sorry to see me, Celesta. Hope I didn’t spoil too many plans.”
Her slap resounded in the stairwell, and she gasped when Ambrose grabbed her stinging hand. “How can you even think—what? Are you insinuating I wanted them gone? That I may have done them in? There’s a new wrinkle!”
He shoved her away to stroke his reddening cheek. “Bitch!” he muttered. “Rachel filled your head with her own romantic fantasies, and frankly, I wasn’t surprised at your choice of fiancés. Thompkins has been a faithful captain, keeping me informed when something of importance happened. And when I heard you’d wormed your way into this house and brought that underhanded Frye with you, I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d have to rescue my family’s good name and estate.”
Celesta felt like throwing up. “How noble of you to return,” she said with a sneer. “And since you’ve had the benefit of an informer—and since my aunt would still be in a heap by the door, were it up to you—you damn well owe us an explanation, Ambrose. Katherine thinks she’s seen your ghost, so be very careful how you address her, or I’ll—”
Missouri Magic Page 27