by Linz, Cathie
Gerta stared at her, bug-eyed. “Gott im Himmel!” she shrieked. Dropping the sheets and frantically crossing herself, the maid ran screaming from the room.
Seven
Oh, God! Now she’d done it! Swearing under her breath, Susannah snatched the headphones off her head with one hand while turning off the portable cassette player with the other. Of course, the headphones got stuck in her wild wavy hair and she was further delayed trying to untangle herself without yanking a hunk of her hair out. Hiding the headphones and cassette player back in her purse, Susannah tugged on what she hoped was a dress—the garment wrapped around the front.
As she rushed downstairs, she prayed that the clothing she had on was sufficient to be seen outside her room. She certainly didn’t want to raise any more eyebrows than she already had. She found Gerta and Mrs. B. both in the dining room. Since Mrs. B. didn’t blink an eye at Susannah’s appearance, she guessed she was okay in that department.
Gerta, however, was not okay. Standing behind Mrs. B. as if for protection, the maid was shivering and crying in her apron.
“Gerta says she saw you in your room and that you were possessed by the devil, with strange pounding noises coming out of your head but not out of your mouth,” Mrs. B. related.
So much for lip-synching, Susannah hysterically noted. “I can explain,” she hurriedly assured her landlady.
“I hope you are not going to use your foreign upbringing as an excuse this time,” Mrs. B. said with a disapproving frown. “I’m sure that even in the remotest part of France such behavior would be deemed strange, to put it mildly.”
Thinking of the punk hairdos and wild grunge clothing Susannah had seen the last time she’d been in Paris, she doubted anything would seem strange. “I can explain,” she repeated. “You see, my husband, Kane, is an...inventor. I was merely trying out one of his most recent inventions.”
“An inventor? You mean like that Mr. Edison up North I’ve read about in the newspaper?”
“That’s right.”
“Your husband is inventing a sound machine?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“There, Gerta.” Mrs. B. patted the maid’s trembling shoulder reassuringly. “I told you it was nothing to be afraid of, silly girl. Mr. Wilder is an inventor.” She drew the word out, as if that might make it easier for the foreign maid to understand. “He is making a sound machine. That’s the noise you heard.” To Susannah, she said, “You know, I’d be most interested in seeing the machine.”
“Oh, my husband doesn’t let anyone see his toys until he’s finished with them,” Susannah hastily stated.
“Toys?” Mrs. B. repeated in confusion.
“That’s what I call his inventions,” Susannah replied.
“Among other things,” Kane interjected mockingly, having just walked in on their conversation. “What’s going on here?”
“Nothing, sweetie,” Susannah quickly declared. “Gerta walked in while I was listening to your...sound machine.”
“My sound machine, huh?” Kane said, stalling for time.
“That’s right. Naturally, she was frightened seeing me dancing around the room half-dressed like that—”
“Half-dressed?” Kane repeated. Damn. He should have gotten home earlier. Clearly he’d missed a great show here. As it was, he hadn’t been able to pick up much information at the tavern, other than the fact that rumor had it that Mrs. Hilton and Whitaker were indeed having an affair. But from what Kane gathered, married men often did that sort of thing in this time period. Apparently, the key was being discreet about the matter.
“I’ll tell you about it later,” Susannah was saying. “We’ve cleared everything up now.”
Gerta didn’t look all that reassured, as Mrs. B. continued trying to explain the meaning of the word inventions to the maid.
“I can’t leave you alone five minutes without getting into trouble, can I?” Kane declared, once they were upstairs.
“I’ll have you know that you were gone much longer than five minutes,” she began when Kane interrupted her.
“Missed me, did you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorted.
“So how did you spend your afternoon, aside from terrorizing the poor maid?” he mockingly inquired.
“Actually that kept me pretty busy,” she replied in kind.
“I’ll bet.”
“So what did you find out at the saloon?”
“That the New York baseball teams aren’t playing any better in this century than they are in our own.”
“It took you four hours to figure that out?” she said.
“Timing me, were you?”
“On the contrary. I had a busy afternoon myself.”
“Terrorizing the maid.”
“And Mr. Whitaker’s law clerk.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, nothing, aside from the fact that I met the mysterious Gordon Stevens, the law clerk who keeps a picture of Elsbeth in his wallet. And the man was very nervous. He’s definitely hiding something.” So was Susannah. She had plans for tonight that she had no intention of telling Kane.
“Maybe he knew about the affair his boss and that Hilton woman are having,” Kane said.
“Just because we caught them about to embrace, doesn’t mean they’re having an affair.”
“I agree. Which is why I talked to a few people at the tavern. That’s where I heard about their affair.”
“And they say women gossip!” Susannah said in a huff. “Get a bunch of men together in a bar and watch out. They talk sports and women.”
“How do you know that?” Kane demanded.
“I’ve got two older brothers.” Her expression became worried as she thought of her family.
“I miss my family, too,” Kane said.
The problem was, his family consisted of a lying younger brother. But Susannah knew that there was no way she could convince Kane of her innocence. In the end, it was her word against his brother’s. But when she got back to her own century and her own office, she was going to read the riot act to young Charles Wilder. She’d make him tell Kane that he’d been lying about having an affair with her.
Seeing her fierce expression, Kane asked, “What are you thinking?”
How should she answer? That she wanted to drive a stake through his brother’s heart—figuratively speaking, of course? She doubted the confession would help her cause any. “I was thinking that if Hayward Whitaker was cheating on his wife, then he had the perfect motive for killing her so he could be with his mistress.”
“Him?” Kane repeated. “What about her? She wanted to become the next Mrs. Hayward Whitaker, but she had to get rid of his wife first.”
“You don’t have a shred of evidence to make that kind of accusation.”
“Neither do you,” he countered. “Yet it’s okay for you to accuse Hayward Whitaker of murder.”
“Women aren’t as violent as men.”
“And you call me a sexist!”
“Statistics back me up,” Susannah said. “You’re just accusing her because of what happened with your brother! You see me as the wicked other woman, guilty as sin. And you’re doing the same thing to this Hilton woman. Making unfounded accusations. Hurtful accusations that don’t hold an ounce of truth to them.”
“Are we talking about Mrs. Hilton or about you, here?” he quietly asked.
She looked up and was caught—caught in the seductive web of his gaze, caught wishing for the impossible. Wishing for him to trust her, to believe her. She wanted it so much she couldn’t breathe. She tried to read his expression, thinking she saw a matching hope there. A hope for what?
They were interrupted by the simultaneous sounds of the dinner gong and Kane’s stomach growling, breaking the sultry tension that had been building between them.
Susannah and Kane both started laughing.
“We’d better go down,” Susannah said.
Kane nodded. “I
wonder how many dishes Gerta is going to break tonight?”
The answer was three. The maid acted as if she had as many left feet. Susannah could commiserate. She felt rather unsteady herself. Hope had returned to her heart. And she wasn’t sure that was a good thing where Kane was concerned.
Despite Gerta’s clumsiness in serving it, the meal itself was delicious—cold meat, potato salad, with the promise of fresh fruit for dessert.
Another dish crashed to the floor. With a shake of her head, Mrs. B. had to take over and banish poor Gerta to the kitchen.
Susannah wished she could banish her wayward feelings for Kane as easily.
* * *
Shortly after dinner, Susannah and Kane both retired to their room. Remembering the book their landlady had lent her, Susannah picked it up from the fireplace mantel and sat in the rocking chair by the window to begin reading it.
Kane had muttered something about making flow charts of the suspects and had busied himself writing notes in a notepad he kept in his jacket pocket. “Don’t let anyone see you with that ballpoint pen,” Susannah warned him, before turning the page.
Instead of responding to her comment, he said, “What are you reading?”
“An etiquette book. This is the neatest thing. I had no idea.... Look... What do you think this means?” She picked up her fan and drew it across her forehead.
“That you’re hot. Got a fever, maybe?”
“Wrong. Drawing the fan across my forehead this way means We are being watched.”
“By whom?”
“No one. At the moment, anyway. I was just giving you an example. There’s an entire silent language used with the fan. Fanning fast means I am engaged. Fanning slow means I am married.”
“I did notice you’ve been fanning slow while you’ve been here.”
“And look, there’s a hidden language with the parasol, too.” She picked it up from its resting place near the door. Checking her book once again, she accidentally dropped the parasol on the floor.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“That I’m clumsy,” she muttered, blushing.
Getting up from his resting place on the bed, he took the book from her, tugging it out of her hands before she could protest. Looking at the page, he said, “Let me see.... Ah, here it is. It says here that dropping your parasol means I love you.”
Her heart stopped at the sound of him saying those three words. What would it be like to have him say those words and mean them? Her wistful thoughts were bound to get her into trouble, but she couldn’t resist momentarily imagining what it would be like to have Kane love her. Not just to be reluctantly attracted to her, while distrusting and often disliking her. But to have him care for her, confide in her, trust her, love her, kiss her, embrace her, take her to a place she’d never been before.
He’s already taken you someplace you’ve never been before, her prosaic side immediately pointed out. Nineteenth-century Savannah!
He hadn’t taken her here, she reminded the inner voice. In fact, he complained that she’d brought him. But he had taken her to a misty plane of sensual pleasure—simply by kissing her! Imagining herself making love with him was enough to raise her body temperature another ten degrees and force her to grab her fan again.
“You’re fanning yourself quickly,” Kane noted. “That means you’re engaged.”
“It means I’m hot,” she stated, fanning herself even faster.
“How are guys supposed to keep track of all these hidden meanings?” Kane wondered aloud as he read the nearly two dozen variations for fan flirtations alone. There were just as many listed for handkerchiefs, gloves, and parasols.
“They didn’t have television or radio to distract them.”
“And men in our time think they’ve got it hard.” Hard. Kane winced at his choice of words. Since watching her out of the corner of his eye, he’d gotten more and more aroused just by looking at her. The wrap she was wearing showed her chemise underneath and he could just barely see a hint of the curve of her breast. She had such white skin. Especially when compared to her midnight dark hair, which she’d loosely tied back with a ribbon. Her face was flushed and she was nervously licking her lips in a way that made Kane groan.
He was dying to kiss her. He wanted to throw the book across the room and take her in his arms. Then he wanted to lower her onto the bed they shared and peel every layer of clothing off her, kissing every inch of her creamy skin as he exposed it to his gaze. And he wanted to make her want him as much as he wanted her, watching her brown eyes melt as he slid into her and made her his.
“Um, how is the suspect list coming?” Susannah nervously asked. She had reason to be nervous. There seemed to be a tidal wave of attraction building between her and Kane, all but drowning them and pulling them into its dangerous undertows. Or had she just imagined it? Maybe Kane had merely been thinking about solving the case.
“The suspect list?” Kane repeated. “Right.” Returning to the bed, he grabbed his notebook. “Well, we’ve already got a motive for Elsbeth’s death. Now we need to see who had the opportunity. To do that we have to ascertain exactly where in the house both suspects were that night.”
“There are three suspects,” Susannah reminded him. “Don’t forget that picture of Elsbeth we found in Gordon Stevens’s wallet.”
“A picture doesn’t make him a suspect. What would he have to gain by Elsbeth’s death?” Kane demanded.
“He could have had a dangerous obsession with her. It happens. Quiet, seemingly normal guys create a fantasy life of their own that has nothing to do with reality,” she calmly noted.
“Is this your way of saying my brother is living in a fantasy world?”
“I can’t think of any other reason for him to lie,” she said.
“Okay, have it your way.” Her heart leapt. Did that mean he was finally willing to believe her? “We’ve got three suspects. But I’m sure this Hilton woman did it.” He went on to discuss the case, acting as if his brother’s name hadn’t been mentioned at all, but Susannah was no longer listening.
When would she learn? There was no convincing Kane that his beloved brother was the one at fault, that she was the innocent party.
As Kane got ready for bed, Susannah stayed in the rocking chair, reading her book—or at least pretending to read it.
“Aren’t you coming to bed?” he asked.
She shook her head. “You go ahead. I want to read some more.”
“Suit yourself,” Kane said with a shrug as he got into bed and tugged the draped mosquito netting down on all sides.
The flickering kerosene lamp on the dresser provided the light for Susannah to read by as she waited for Kane to drop off. When she heard the sound Kane made when he was asleep—almost a snore but not quite—she got up and carefully blew out the lamp.
Blue moonlight spilled in through the window, guiding her as she quickly put on the men’s black pants and jacket she’d found in the trunk Mrs. B. had gotten from the attic. She paused long enough to dab on some more insect repellent, just to be on the safe side. Then she put a black cap on her head, stuffing her hair inside it before stealing out the door to go check on Hayward Whitaker’s whereabouts.
* * *
“Follow that cab,” Susannah growled. Somehow, she’d never imagined herself saying those words to a sleepy-eyed driver in a horse and carriage. But she’d no sooner gotten to the Whitaker house than she’d seen Hayward furtively leaving the house and taking off in a hired carriage.
“What did you say, sir?” the driver hesitantly inquired.
“You heard me,” Susannah snapped, deliberately keeping her voice low and gravelly. After all, she was supposed to be impersonating a man. “Follow that cab, er, carriage. Don’t lose them, whatever you do. There’s an extra five dollars in it for you,” she added, at which time the carriage took off like a bat out of hell. You’d have thought she’d just offered him a hundred bucks! Maybe she had—in their currency.
&nb
sp; It didn’t matter. She had a very strong feeling that something very important was going to happen tonight. And it was going to happen wherever Whitaker was headed. She had to get there in time.
There turned out to be the Bonaventure Cemetery, and Susannah’s carriage driver warned her about visiting it after dark, claiming the place was haunted.
Knowing she had a ghost—Elsbeth—on her side, Susannah felt no such fear. She hopped out of the carriage and dismissed him. But still, she made her way carefully through the foliage and shadowy headstones toward the carriage Mr. Whitaker had hired. Ghosts might not be a threat, but Whitaker could be. He was no longer in the carriage, but she could see him a short distance away.
There was a full moon tonight, but some clouds were moving in to cut down on the light, which was good. The air was oppressive, thick with the smell of rotting vegetation. The Spanish moss hanging on the massive oak trees lining the lane took on a life of their own in the bluish moonlight, casting ghostly fingers toward the ground.
Susannah was just thinking it was a good thing she didn’t scare easily when she was suddenly grabbed from behind. A rough hand placed over her mouth stifled her scream.
Eight
Susannah panicked. She’d been perched behind a headstone in a cemetery, for God’s sake! Who wouldn’t have a heart attack when grabbed out of the dark this way? She struggled to get free, her cap falling off her head and her hair tumbling around her, but her attacker held her too tightly for her to escape.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a male voice growled in her ear.
It was Kane. And he staggered back as she went limp with relief.
“Don’t you dare faint on me,” he growled again.
His impatience was like a douse of cold water.
She made a soft noise that sounded like a growl of her own. Kane didn’t know whether it was safe to let go of her or not. It certainly wasn’t safe to keep holding on to her this way. His arm was around her waist, his hand pressed beneath her left breast. He knew it was her left because he could feel her heart pounding beneath his palm. And he knew it was her breast because he could feel the curve of her soft flesh even through the ridiculous men’s clothing she was wearing. In fact, it felt like she wasn’t wearing much of anything beneath that clothing.