A Wife in Time (Silhouette Desire)

by Linz, Cathie

  “What about breakfast?” Kane demanded.

  “You go ahead without me,” Susannah said. “I’ll have some bread and jam afterward.”

  “What’s the rush, dear?” Kane mockingly inquired. “The kitchen will still be there after you’ve eaten. After all, I wouldn’t want your grits to get cold.”

  “Thank you, honey pie,” she said with enough sweetness to gag a chocoholic. “Don’t you worry about me. You just go right on and eat those grits yourself. After all, a girl has got to look out for her girlish figure.”

  “I’ll look out for your figure,” Kane drawled, his gaze settling on her body as if he could see what lay beneath her multiple layers of clothing. Since he’d seen her standing half-naked shortly before, she had no doubt he was having no difficulty recalling what she looked like. The realization made her even more desperate to get away.

  Linking her arm through the older woman’s, Susannah said, “Come, Mrs. B. You don’t mind if I call you Mrs. B. the way Mikey does, do you? Let’s go into the kitchen and dish the dirt.”

  “Dirt? There’s no dirt in my kitchen!” Mrs. B. denied in an affronted voice before pulling away from Susannah.

  “I’m sorry,” she swiftly apologized. “I certainly didn’t mean to imply... That is...it’s just an expression, meaning to talk and gossip.”

  “You do use the strangest expressions. Mikey told me you’re from France. My husband and I went to Europe on our honeymoon. We visited Paris at that time and I must say that we didn’t meet anyone who paints their nails and talks in such a strange manner.”

  “Oh, Kane and I are unique, I’ll grant you that,” Susannah breezily declared. Kane had her so rattled this morning, she wasn’t thinking straight.

  “I don’t paint my nails, though,” Kane said dryly.

  “Very funny,” Susannah snapped.

  “I live to amuse you, honey pie,” he replied with a devilish grin.

  He lived to irritate her, Susannah thought to herself. And he was doing much too good a job of it.

  Mrs. B. gave them both an uneasy look. “If you’d like to speak to me alone, we could take tea in the front parlor.”

  “That would be lovely,” Susannah said.

  “It’s not that I have anything to hide in the kitchen,” Mrs. B. hurriedly assured her. “It’s just that Cook does tend to be a little testy if a stranger comes into her kitchen. I could arrange for you to visit some other time, perhaps.”

  “That would be fine. We’ll be in the parlor,” Susannah told Kane.

  “Bring us tea on the tea cart, Gerta,” Mrs. B. said.

  “Is not teatime now,” Gerta said with a confused look.

  “That’s all right. We’ll make it a special occasion.”

  Mrs. B. didn’t relax until Gerta had pushed the tea cart into the parlor and left. “The girl is trying her best, I know, but I fear I won’t have a breakable item left in the household.”

  Noticing all the bric-a-brac in this room alone, Susannah doubted that.

  “The weather appears to be most agreeable today,” Mrs. B. said.

  Susannah nodded. “You’ve got a lovely parlor here.” Which was true. Although crowded, it was lovely. “And some very nice paintings, as well.”

  “Thank you. My husband fancied himself to be something of a collector. He collected etchings of horses. We have them all over the house. The chromolithographs are those selected by Catharine Beecher for their refinement in taste.” Mrs. B. nodded to one print Susannah recognized as Bierstadt’s Sunset in the Yosemite Valley. “She talks about it in her book. Would you care for sugar?”

  Susannah nodded. “Thank you. I apologize for the misunderstanding earlier,” she added, before taking the delicate teacup and saucer handed to her. “I wouldn’t want you thinking that I have no manners at all. It’s just that I’m not used to all the social mores in this part of the world yet.”

  “‘Elegant manners will carry a stranger further up the heights of social ambition than money, personal beauty, or mental culture.’ I read that in one of my social etiquette books,” Mrs. B. confided.

  “Maybe you should lend me one,” Susannah suggested.

  “Certainly. I keep them on the shelf right here.” She got up and walked the few steps to the bookcase. Setting down her teacup, Susannah followed suit. “You’re more than welcome to borrow any volume that appeals to you.”

  After some consideration, she selected The American Code of Manners.

  Mrs. B. was much too well mannered to directly inquire why Susannah had wanted to speak to her in private. And Susannah knew she couldn’t just jump in and ask their landlady if she knew anything about Elsbeth Whitaker; she’d learned that much about the social etiquette of the times.

  So she let Mrs. B. set the pace, listening to her talk about Savannah and how it had changed over the years. “There are many in society here who haven’t forgiven me for marrying a Northerner after the war between the states.”

  “You mean the Civil War?”

  “There was nothing civil about it.”

  “I imagine not.” Susannah knew how devastating the war had been.

  “When I married, I was slighted by society. After my husband died, I realized boarding offered a good chance to make money and not lose social class. I had already lost so much of my position here, I didn’t want to slip even further. During that time, Elsbeth Whitaker was one of the few who was kind to me.”

  “You knew Elsbeth Whitaker?”

  “Not well. She was younger than I. Hers is such a tragic story, really. She came from a very old family here in Savannah. Her family arranged her marriage to Hayward Whitaker, whose family lines go all the way back to those of the state’s first settlers, right along with General Oglethorpe, who founded Savannah. The couple had two children, but both died in their infancy. And then Elsbeth herself died just this past month. Sad story indeed.” Before Susannah could comment, Mrs. B. went on to more social gossip, none of which was relevant to Elsbeth. Knowing she couldn’t rush her, Susannah listened politely as the older woman began practicing her schoolgirl French.

  Reverting to English, Mrs. B. reminisced, “I did so enjoy our time in Paris while on my honeymoon. Are you from that lovely city?”

  Susannah shook her head, hating to lie, but knowing there was no way she could tell the truth. “I grew up in the countryside.” It was true—just the Connecticut countryside, not the French countryside.

  “Perhaps I’ve visited your hometown?”

  “I don’t think so,” Susannah replied, thinking of the twentieth-century suburb where she’d grown up. “Tell me more about Elsbeth Whitaker,” she prompted, her patience nearing an end.

  “There’s not much more to tell. Her death was a great tragedy.”

  Susannah couldn’t help herself. She had to ask. She tried to be as discreet as possible. “Do you know if there was any mention of any romantic indiscretions attached to Mr. Whitaker’s name?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. And even if I did, it wouldn’t do to talk about it with strangers.”

  Susannah sighed, ruefully acknowledging that in Mrs. B.’s eyes, people probably didn’t come much stranger than herself and Kane.

  “I appreciate your discretion,” Susannah murmured, thinking once again that it was a good thing they were hiring Mr. Ogilvie this morning. Because she and Kane were bound to get bogged down in sticky social testiness, were they to try gathering too much information on their own. That didn’t mean she was going to sit around and twiddle her thumbs, however.

  In fact, Susannah had a plan up her sleeve for doing a little additional investigative work on her own later that very afternoon.

  * * *

  “We’d like to hire you, Mr. Ogilvie,” Susannah said.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Oliver Ogilvie replied. “I confess, I’ve done a little preliminary research on my own. I had a feeling you might be returning.”

  Susannah couldn’t resist giving Kane a triumphant look, one
that said, See, I’m not the only one who has feelings about things.

  “And please do call me Oliver,” the detective added.

  “How about starting off by telling us who the redheaded woman was in Whitaker’s office yesterday. The two of them looked to be more than just good friends,” Kane said.

  “She had a dark beauty mark near her mouth.” Susannah almost added, Like Cindy Crawford, but stopped herself in time. “And she was wearing tea-rose perfume. I haven’t smelled anything else like it since I’ve been here.”

  “That sounds like Mrs. Lucille Hilton,” Oliver Ogilvie noted. “She has a beauty mark such as you’ve described and her own perfume is made up especially for her. I do believe the tea rose used is even named after her.”

  “Who is Mrs. Hilton?”

  “She’s one of this city’s leading women of beauty and a client of Hayward Whitaker’s.”

  “They looked to be more than just attorney and client,” Susannah noted. “Where was Hayward Whitaker the night Elsbeth died?”

  “He spent the evening at home.”

  “Where was Mrs. Hilton?” Kane demanded.

  “She was visiting Mr. Whitaker regarding a legal matter of some kind concerning her recently deceased husband.”

  “Wait a second, here. You mean she knocked off her old man, too?” Kane exclaimed.

  Oliver blinked in surprise. “Excuse me?”

  “Sweetums, you’re confusing Oliver with your strange language,” Susannah sweetly warned Kane.

  “Thank you for pointing that out to me, sweetie pie,” Kane retorted, putting an arm around her waist and squeezing. “Forgive the display of affection, Oliver, but we haven’t been together all that long.”

  As in two days, Susannah silently supplied. Already it felt like two lifetimes!

  “Newlyweds, eh?” Oliver inquired with a grin and a wiggle of his bushy, brick red eyebrows.

  “Something like that,” Susannah murmured.

  “I don’t suppose Mrs. Hilton knocked off—I mean, killed her husband...by pushing him down the stairs, did she?” Kane asked, ignoring Susannah’s glare as she stepped away from him.

  “No,” Oliver replied. “His heart gave out.”

  “Helped along by his blushing bride, perhaps,” Kane said.

  “You have reason to suspect Mrs. Hilton of killing her husband? The man was eighty and in poor health.”

  “And she looks to be much younger than that and in fine health.”

  “I’ll certainly make some inquiries,” Oliver said, scribbling down some notes on a sheet of paper.

  Susannah could actually hear the scratchy sound the pen’s nib made as it went over the paper. Seeing her interest, Oliver said, “It’s a new contraption, manufactured by Lewis Waterman. First practical hydraulic or fountain pen that actually has an ink reservoir. Clever, eh?”

  She nodded.

  “Are you interested in new technology?” Kane inquired.

  “Most definitely. But I digress. I will check further into Mrs. Hilton’s possible involvement.”

  “I don’t think she did it,” Susannah said. “I’d keep checking Hayward’s exact whereabouts in the house that night.”

  “I have a contact that can speak to the servants in the house. Perhaps they will come up with additional details,” Oliver replied.

  Once Susannah and Kane were outside, Kane made the sudden announcement, “I’m going to do a little nosing around at the tavern we were at the other night, see if I can come up with anything there.”

  “Don’t do any more gambling,” she warned him.

  “What, no warnings about staying away from your pal Polly?” he mocked.

  “You don’t seem to pay much attention to what I say, so why should I bother giving you advice?” Rather pleased to have had the last word, she walked up the steps to the front door of the boardinghouse. Discreetly looking over her shoulder, she waited until Kane was out of sight before turning around and going back down the steps.

  “You going somewhere?” Mikey asked from the sidewalk.

  Startled, she demanded, “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to see you pretend to go inside.”

  “I was not pretending. I merely changed my mind.” Now that she thought about it, Mikey’s presence could add some much-needed respectability to her plans.

  “I’ve got a job for you, Mikey,” she began.

  “I’m not stealing wallets anymore,” the lad declared.

  “Not that kind of job. I’d like you to accompany me while I...while I go shopping,” she fabricated.

  “Shopping?” Mikey’s face had the same distrustful look any male got when that word was mentioned.

  “That’s right. Everyone knows that when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping,” she told the boy. “I’ll pay you three cents if you’ll come along to hold my purchases once I make them. Deal?” She didn’t know if that was a generous amount or not in 1884’s economy, but apparently it was good enough for Mikey.

  Seeing that he was about to spit in his palm the way he had at Oliver’s office the day before, Susannah hurriedly said, “There’s no need for that. Here.” She dug around in the clear plastic bag she had placed the nineteenth-century money in, taking out the coins one by one. They looked nothing like pennies of her own time. Instead of a portrait of Lincoln, these had a seated woman on them.

  After quickly pocketing the coins, Mikey accompanied her, all the time saying, “There aren’t no shops this way.”

  “I know where I’m going,” Susannah maintained. “We’ll just stop at Mr. Whitaker’s law office while we’re out.”

  “You gonna tell him about me stealing wallets?” Mikey demanded, thrusting his pugnacious jaw out. The freckles on his nose fairly danced with annoyance.

  “No. My business is...personal.”

  Unlike her last visit, this time there was a man—blond, with the face of an angel—seated at the desk outside Mr. Whitaker’s office. When he turned his head she saw that on the far side of his left cheek were deep scars—smallpox scars—marring his otherwise-perfect countenance. In keeping with the fashion of the day—when facial hair indicated masculinity and virility—he had a mustache and sideburns.

  “Mr. Whitaker isn’t in,” Gordon Stevens told her. The law clerk was younger than Susannah expected. For an eerie moment, he rather reminded her of Kane’s brother Charles, or Chuck, as he called him.

  “I didn’t wish to speak to Mr. Whitaker. I merely stopped by to inquire if I’d left my handkerchief behind yesterday.” God, I sound like Scarlett O’Hara, Susannah thought.

  “I don’t believe we’ve found a handkerchief,” Stevens said.

  Susannah fiddled with her necklace as she said, “Well, fiddle-de-dee. You’re sure? It had lace at the edges and little embroidered flowers on it.” Then, as Gordon Stevens’s eyes fastened on her garnet necklace just as she’d intended, she exclaimed, “Why, Mr. Stevens, I must say that I find your interest in my necklace to be most ungentlemanly.”

  The law clerk blushed and stammered an apology. “It’s just that your necklace reminds me of—”

  “Elsbeth Whitaker? I’ve heard. Such a tragic story. Mr. Whitaker told me that she was buried wearing this necklace, or one that looks just like it. Can you imagine?”

  The law clerk’s face went from red to white.

  “Poor boy, I’ve upset you.” Why is that? Susannah thought to herself, her instincts on red alert again. Do you know something about Elsbeth’s death, Gordon? Are you hiding some secret about your boss’s involvement?

  “I have a lot of work to get done before Mr. Whitaker returns,” the law clerk said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you find your handkerchief.”

  Oh, I found what I was looking for, all right, Susannah thought. “Why, don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll just speak to Mr. Whitaker when he gets home this evening.”

  “He’s got an important meeting this evening.”

  “Then
I’ll stop by here to see him.”

  “The meeting isn’t here.”

  “Oh?” Susannah let the silence hang in the air, waiting for it to force Stevens into saying something.

  Other than fidgeting with the papers on his desk, he made no further comment about his boss’s plans for the evening. Instead he repeated, a bit more desperately this time, “I must get back to work. I have a great deal to do.”

  So do I, Susannah thought to herself.

  * * *

  When Susannah returned to her room at the boardinghouse, she found that Kane still hadn’t come back. The unexpected bit of privacy was welcome. Warm after her long walk, she peeled off her outer clothing and stepped out of the crinoline petticoat. While it had proved to be cooler than the tight, bustled dresses that were more fashionable now, she still longed for a pair of shorts and a tank top— Wait a second! An idea hit her.

  Five minutes later, she stood in her camisole and a pair of bloomers pushed up above her knees. “Not exactly shorts, but they’ll do,” she murmured to herself.

  She felt like celebrating her discovery that Whitaker had an important and apparently somewhat secret meeting tonight. But she’d already eaten all the chocolate bars she’d brought with her. “They would have melted otherwise,” she muttered defensively, as she opened her ever-present purse. Since there were no garbage cans around, she’d worked out a system for disposing of the garbage she collected by burning it in the fireplace in their room. Apparently folks in this day and age were already into recycling—papers were gathered together, as was just about everything else. Little went to waste.

  She popped a piece of gum in her mouth and took out her portable cassette player. Putting the headphones on, she closed her eyes and pretended she was back in her own time, in her own apartment. Before long, the beat of Billy Joel’s greatest-hits cassette got her to boogying around the room. Susannah turned the volume up even higher, holding an invisible mike as she lip-synched the words to the song.

  A scream shattered her concentration. It hadn’t come from Billy Joel.

  Opening her eyes, Susannah was horrified to see Gerta standing just inside the doorway, with a pile of clean sheets in her arms.