by Dianne Day
Table of Contents
Title Page
Praise
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
About the Author
Also by Dianne Day
Copyright Page
Raves for Dianne Day and Fremont Jones
DEATH TRAIN TO BOSTON
‘‘Fremont Jones is a laudable and attractive heroine. . . . Ms. Day has done her research and readers who relish being transported to another time will find this an extremely appealing book. Every facet of the novel—the writing, the characterizations, the suspense, the history— provides knowledge and just plain good storytelling.’’
—The Book Report
EMPEROR NORTON’S GHOST
‘‘Fremont is a spirited young woman ahead of her time and her adventures make enthralling reading.’’
—The Purloined Letter
‘‘[An] appealing portrait of a spirited, irrepressible heroine.’’
—Publishers Weekly
‘‘Fremont is . . . [a] delightful, feisty, independent adventurer . . . [who] exhibits a wry sense of humor.’’
—Southbridge Evening News (Southbridge, Mass.)
THE BOHEMIAN MURDERS
‘‘Thrill to the third in this exciting series featuring the liberated Fremont at her bravest. . . . This knockout setting draws you in like no other. The Bohemian Murders conjures up the murkiest mystery—you can just hear the waves and smell the fog. Bravo.’’
—Mystery Lovers Bookshop News
‘‘Delightful.’’
—San Francisco Chronicle
‘‘A plucky heroine, a darkly handsome suitor in the wings, and a glimpse back into history all add to the charms this series has to offer.’’
—Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
‘‘Light, entertaining, and ever-so-slightly racy, The Bohemian Murders is perfect summer reading.’’
—Wisconsin State Journal
‘‘An attractive and involving historical.’’
—Library Journal
‘‘Fast-paced machinations keep the reader turning page after page with anticipation.’’
—The Carmel Pine Cone
‘‘By the third book in a new series, most new sleuths tend to flounder. Not that plucky Bostonian Caroline Fremont Jones . . . The strong-minded Fremont surrenders neither her independence nor her intelligence. . . . This liberated woman has come too far ever to go back.’’
—The New York Times Book Review
FIRE AND FOG
‘‘A winner.’’
—Monterey County Herald
‘‘Day’s decorous, spirited heroine is as charming as ever as she picks her way through a world of rubble where every acquaintance could be a killer.’’
—Kirkus Reviews
‘‘The strong-willed, intelligent Jones shines, whether she’s helping her friend, fending off suitors, or fleeing the clutches of ninja smugglers.’’
—Publishers Weekly
‘‘One of the best books of 1996 . . . showcases Dianne Day’s incredible storytelling abilities.’’
—Mostly Murder
‘‘Great fun.’’
—Nashville Banner
‘‘An attention catcher . . . you won’t put the book down in a hurry.’’
—The Times & Democrat
‘‘A distinctive and appealing voice.’’
—Library Journal
‘‘A delightful period mystery.’’
—Booklist
‘‘Excellent, involving tale.’’
—Bookwatch
THE STRANGE FILES OF FREMONT JONES Macavity Award Winner for Best First Mystery Novel
‘‘Dianne Day provides a delightful heroine and a lively, twisty, intriguing mystery.’’
—Carolyn G. Hart
‘‘Wonderfully fresh . . . as much a quirky, turn-of-the-century character study, a love letter to a city, as it is a traditional romance/whodunit . . . An impressive performance.’’
—Chicago Tribune
‘‘Chilling . . . Day won’t disappoint even the hard-core suspense addict.’’
—The Carmel Pine Cone
‘‘Foggy period atmosphere, a dash of dangerous romance and several rousingly good-natured action scenes.’’
—Star-Tribune (Minneapolis)
‘‘A fascinating novel.’’
—The Virginian-Pilot
‘‘[Fremont Jones] could be the Victorian ancestor of contemporary sleuth Kinsey Milhone. An enjoyable introduction to a new series.’’
—Castro Valley Forum
‘‘A fine, buoyant literary style . . . A spirited, likable heroine.’’
—Kirkus Reviews
‘‘An enchanting book . . . an extraordinary adventure and a delightful read.’’
—Library Journal
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks are due to Robert Rosenblum, for the basic concept that evolved into this book; and to Robert Irvine, for sharing his extensive knowledge of Utah geography and matters Mormon.
1
THIS MUST BE how it feels to come back from the dead, I thought as I struggled to open my eyes. Every inch of my body, especially my uncooperative eyelids, felt heavy as lead. I heard a sound, a plaintive moan, and only when another voice spoke did I realize the moan had come from me.
The other voice said, ‘‘Awake, unfortunate woman!’’
That voice and its biblical-sounding manner of command were unfamiliar, so alien to my ears in both language and tone that fear coursed coldly through me and broke my leaden bonds. I opened my eyes.
Immediately I wished I had not. I was lying stark naked in a strange bed, in a strange room, with a man I had never seen before in my life standing over me. I had not the slightest idea in the world how I’d come to be here.
Whatever this was, whatever I had done now, whatever horrible mistake I’d made, I couldn’t face it. I closed my eyes and turned my head away. That is, I tried to turn my head, I meant to turn it—but the pain was so severe, and my head was so heavy, that I doubt I moved at all. Instead I was sinking. Everything went black, and I was glad of it.
Goddammit!’’ Michael Kossoff swore aloud, adding several more obscene words under his breath for good measure. As the sky stopped spinning overhead, he began to assess himself and the situation.
His collarbone was broken on the left side. He was certain of that much, due to the pain that ensued when he tried to move his left arm, and where the pain was located. He lifted his right hand and felt his face, which appeared to be intact, beard included, though he had the very devil of a headache. Without looking down he moved first one leg and then the other. Flexed his ankles; wiggled his toes inside his shoes. Everything seemed in working order except for the shoulder, and that damned throbbing in his head.
He supposed he could have been unconscious for a while; in fact, on further thought he believed he must have been, because of the initial dizziness combined with a certain sluggishness of mind. He wasn’t yet entirely sure what had happened. He did know he was in no way ready to sit up, so he closed his eyes and put his ears to work.
Michael heard—and felt—a vast silence around him; the unnerving sort of si
lence that one notices when for days there has been steady sound in the background, then suddenly the reassurance of that steady sound is gone. Yes: The comforting, lulling hum and clack of the train moving swiftly over its tracks was now missing. He listened harder: Within the disturbing hush there were people crying, moaning, sobbing—and for one terrifying, irrational moment Michael wondered if he had finally died and gone to hell.
‘‘Where I belong, several times over,’’ he muttered, aware even as he did so that Fremont would not agree with this last point.
Fremont. . . .
Along with her name, her face filled Michael’s mind: the murky depths of her green eyes that always made him wonder what she was thinking; the quirk of her mouth; that dark reddish hair as stubbornly straight as her narrow, uncorseted backbone.
Michael lay for a moment not caring where he was, just contemplating, with an aching pleasure that was quite different from the other aches in his body, how much he loved Fremont Jones. Even better—indeed the cause of a sudden, revivifying warmth that coursed through his whole body—was knowing that she also loved him.
But then, in the blink of an eye, all pleasure vanished as he cried aloud, ‘‘Oh, my God! Fremont!’’
Someone kept poking and prodding at me, when all I wanted was to sleep. If I moved, it would hurt—that was my one thought. Yet this poking about on my person had to stop.
As forcefully as I could, I said, ‘‘Stop that!’’ And then, with the greatest reluctance, I opened my eyes.
‘‘Just what do you think you’re doing?’’ I asked the strange man who was examining my anatomy as minutely as if I had been a specimen for dissection in a laboratory. Perhaps I was. Perhaps I had died, or some ill-informed person had thought I was dead and shipped my body off. Dimly I recalled knowing a woman that same thing had happened to. . . .
But no, on second thought that was not likely, for most definitely I lay not on some cold, scientific-looking metal trolley but in a bed, on a mattress that might have been comfortable had I not, overall, hurt so much.
‘‘I am examining you to determine the nature and extent of your injuries,’’ the man said gruffly. He may have intended to smile, but obviously he did it so seldom that his face had forgotten the corners of the mouth were supposed to turn up.
‘‘I will thank you to desist and give me back my clothes,’’ I said, injecting a note of outrage into my voice as best I could. Then I crossed my arms over my breasts with great difficulty. I would have drawn up my legs, but I could not; they refused to cooperate with me. Nor could I raise my head. I said, ‘‘You are a doctor, I presume?’’
‘‘No,’’ he replied, making no move whatever to cover my nakedness, ‘‘I am not a doctor. I am your savior.’’
More biblical language. ‘‘A likely story. Savior, my foot!’’ I scoffed, but without conviction. Perhaps I really was dead.
My mind refused to work with its usual efficiency. I wanted very much to escape back into unconsciousness, where my body might rest and my thoughts attain oblivion. Yet my brain, which is undoubtedly my most reliable organ, argued against that. For one thing, judging by his odd vocabulary this man could be a dangerous fanatic; certainly he was no savior. Second, around fanatics one had better stay awake—therefore I would.
I strained my peripheral vision in an attempt to ascertain if there might be someone else in the room who could assist me. Preferably another woman. But I couldn’t see around my fanatical savior. He was a large man, standing so close that he completely filled my visual field.
‘‘You should be grateful,’’ he said. ‘‘I could have left you there to die.’’
‘‘A likely story,’’ I said again. But I wondered, Left me where?
‘‘You have a serious head wound and were bleeding profusely.’’
‘‘Do you always completely undress people who have wounds upon their heads?’’ I inquired, emphasizing the final word. Speaking at all required tremendous effort. I was trying hard to be my usual insouciant self, but I was a long way from hitting the mark.
He turned his back without response and moved away from the bed. I forced my head to roll to one side, intending to scan the room, and immediately became nauseous beyond my ability to control. I vomited all in one horrid projectile gush.
What a humiliating performance! I was afraid of the man, yet I wanted—needed!—him to come back. Obviously I could not take care of myself.
He did come back, with a clean white sheet, which he draped over my body, and a wet washcloth with which he bathed my face.
I murmured, ‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘Hunh,’’ he said, a gruff acknowledgment, as he moved from cleaning me to cleaning up the floor. At least I’d managed to miss the mattress and bedcovers beneath me. I watched him work, forcing myself to make note of every detail of his appearance, though I was not at all sure what compelled me to do so.
He was ash-blond and big-boned. His hair was thick and straight, too long for fashion, cut bluntly at the level of his equally blunt jaw, and tucked behind his ears. His skin had a reddish cast, such as happens to fair-skinned folk who spend much time outdoors. He had no freckles. His eyes were quite a brilliant blue. And rather chilly, I thought, as he looked up and caught me staring at him.
Again he attempted that odd smile. He sat back on his haunches, which put him on a level with me. ‘‘Can you tell me your name?’’ he asked.
For a split second my mind went blank. But then, like an obedient if exhausted child, it offered up my name. I opened my mouth and deliberately said, ‘‘Caroline.’’
‘‘Caroline what?’’
‘‘What’s your name?’’ I countered. ‘‘And what have you done with my clothes?’’
‘‘I am called Melancthon,’’ he said. An important-sounding name, which he pronounced in a self-important tone of voice.
Hmm, I thought. I persisted: ‘‘Melancthon what?’’
But the effort was costing me, and my throat hurt from heaving. Courage, Fremont, I counseled myself, be strong!
‘‘You are gravely injured, yet spirited as a filly,’’ he said, rubbing his chin again. ‘‘You must come of good stock. My full name is Melancthon Pratt. And yours is . . . ?’’
Ignoring his unfortunate livestock metaphor, I responded, ‘‘Caroline, ah, James. From— Oh, never mind, what business is it of yours anyway!’’
The truth was, at the moment I could not quite remember where I was from. It was most distressing.
Melancthon Pratt gave me a look such as one gives a child on the edge of reprimand.
I summoned up one last surge of determination and said firmly, ‘‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Pratt, I’m sure. Now give me back my clothes and as soon as I’ve rested, I shall trouble you no longer.’’
‘‘Likewise,’’ he said. ‘‘However, I cannot return your clothing, nor would you want it until your things have been washed and mended.’’
He bent over me, took the edge of the sheet in his large hands, and as he did so the flat blue of his eyes deepened and his pupils flared. Egad! I thought as I recognized the sexual intent behind the expression. Would he ravish an injured woman?
Apparently not. To my relief, Melancthon merely tucked the sheet close under my chin, then straightened himself up and moved away from the bed.
Warily I watched him go. The man had to be over six feet tall, though I supposed my prone position would have made any standing man look like a giant. He was dressed for farming or some similar activity, in blue denim trousers that were made—hmm, how odd— someplace I knew well and could recall if my mind were working better. He also wore a cotton flannel shirt of blue and white checks. His hands, I’d noticed, were very clean. In fact, it occurred to me that his whole person, and the room, the bed, everything around me, were spotless. Yet somehow this very cleanliness was not so encouraging as it might have been. For one thing, a farmer should have callused hands, and there should have been other signs. . . .
<
br /> ‘‘You cannot remember anything of what happened, I take it,’’ he said from on high, ‘‘yet you can remember your name. That is a good sign. The rest will come, or not, no matter.’’
‘‘It matters to me! Please, tell me what happened.’’ A plaintive note sounded in my voice; I disliked begging intensely, but there it was.
‘‘Not yet. You should rest first.’’
‘‘Nonsense. I need to know where I am, and how I came to be here, and—’’ I stopped abruptly, consumed by the enormity of all I must have forgotten.
‘‘You’ll be here for quite a while,’’ Melancthon said. ‘‘There’s plenty of time for that.’’
‘‘A head wound,’’ I scoffed. ‘‘It’s not much. A matter of a few days, that’s all, I shall be right as rain.’’
He leaned over the bed, lifted the sheet, and commanded, ‘‘Move your legs.’’
I did. That is, my mind gave the order, and perhaps my knees bent, but that was all. Excruciating pain brought tears to my eyes. I dared not move my head, or the sheet, enough to look down and see what might be the trouble.
A flicker of satisfaction—for surely it was not sympathy—passed through Melancthon’s observant eyes. Eyes of so beautiful a blue, yet pale-lashed and oh so cold. ‘‘You will not be going anywhere anytime soon,’’ he said, ‘‘because both your legs are seriously injured. You were pinned beneath a good deal of wreckage. I will go for a doctor. The trip is two days’ ride, one there and one back. Meanwhile, my wives will take care of you. Now go to sleep.’’
Wreckage? What wreckage?
I wanted to scream at him; yet at the same time something deep inside me did not any longer want to know the whole truth, not yet, it would indeed be too much. I closed my eyes and let myself tumble into that warm, quiet, black place again. At the very last moment before surrendering to sleep, I wondered if he’d really said what I thought he had: wives. Plural.
Fear: an unfamiliar feeling, characterized by clamminess of the skin, sickness in the pit of the stomach, a sense of uncertainty, hesitancy, intimations of dread and consequent paralysis of the will to act. He had not often personally encountered this cluster of feelings during the forty-five years of his life, but now Michael Kossoff identified them in himself one by one and knew he was afraid. Afraid for Fremont, because he could not find her anywhere. Afraid for himself, because of what his life would be without her. Not to find her, not to have her with him again . . . unthinkable! Impossible!