by Dianne Day
‘‘It’s not his gun,’’ Michael said grimly, ‘‘it’s mine. He took it from me. And I don’t want to trade.’’
‘‘You have no say in this, Michael,’’ I said. I sounded cold, and I felt that way too, entirely without emotion. I have observed several times now that I achieve this emotionless state when a true crisis is at hand. ‘‘Well, then, Braxton? What do you say?’’
He never got a chance to say anything, because at that moment Meiling came running up behind him. In an astounding move she launched herself into the air with a great cry, and kicked Braxton Furnival two-footed with such force that she knocked him off his horse. Michael, although his hands were tied in front of him and I saw the pallor of sudden pain cross his face, slid off his black horse. The sling Meiling had told me he needed for a broken collarbone that he kept reinjuring hung empty from his neck, and he’d been riding without a saddle. With both hands still tied, he picked up the gun Braxton had dropped, but there was no need. Meiling was all over the man. Unarmed, he didn’t stand a chance against her hands and feet.
It was all over by the time Tom and Feather rode up a few minutes later. We let the two of them do the honors of taking Braxton Furnival to Hiram’s town jail.
We stayed on in Hiram, Utah, Michael and Meiling and I, as long as we dared. Until the snow threatened to lock us in for the winter, which was around the tenth of December. By the time of our leaving I had fully regained my strength and was beginning to walk again with the aid of only two canes.
I had purchased a small wire cage with a padded bottom for Hiram the Cat to ride in. Michael pretended not to approve of my pet, but I had caught him stroking the kitty a time or two when he thought my back was turned.
Hiram was in his cage, which was being carried by Meiling, and she had gone ahead to the wagon. I was making one last circuit of my room preparatory to turning it over to Sandra Hunter, saying my silent goodbyes and being sure I had not forgotten anything. I had asked to be left alone to say goodbye in privacy to this place that had been so very special to me, in ways I could not begin to put into words.
So I was startled when I heard Michael’s voice.
‘‘Fremont,’’ he said, ‘‘may I come in?’’
Distracted, I glanced over my shoulder, not sure I was ready yet to go. I felt as if I were leaving a haven. ‘‘I’ll be out, there’s no need for you to come in here.’’
‘‘Oh, but there is,’’ he said, ‘‘because I have something for you. Something very special that I’ve been saving for this moment. Something I had made in San Francisco, because—well, you’ll see.’’
My curiosity overcame me. ‘‘Oh?’’
Michael came into the room slowly, his hands behind his back.
‘‘Turn around,’’ he said, ‘‘so that your back is to me, and close your eyes.’’
‘‘I don’t know if I can trust you,’’ I remarked lightly, but I did as I was told.
I heard a faint sound like a curtain falling, and then felt something soft on my shoulders, down my arms, against my neck—and Michael’s arms enfolded me.
He, this man, was my real home, my true haven.
He said, ‘‘Don’t look yet. No peeking. Just, um, move a step to your left, now half a step more . . . that’s it. That’s fine.’’
I teetered a little, for I was standing without the help of my two canes. But I scarcely noticed because my curiosity was overwhelming me.
‘‘Now?’’ I asked.
‘‘Now. Open your eyes and look into the mirror.’’
In Sandra Hunter’s oval dressing table mirror I saw my reflection, and Michael’s gift.
He had wrapped me in a new aubergine cape.
If you enjoyed Fremont Jones’s fifth adventure,
DEATH TRAIN TO BOSTON,
don’t miss Dianne Day’s sixth Fremont Jones
mystery,
BEACON STREET MOURNING,
available at your favorite bookstore.
In Beacon Street Mourning the normally intrepid Fremont Jones is thrust back into the world of her childhood—the proper Bostonian world from which she had escaped only a few short years. For the first time she must use her hard-won investigative skills to solve a case of a very personal nature.
Still not fully recovered from the two broken legs she suffered in Death Train to Boston, Fremont Jones learns that her father, Leonard Pembroke Jones, is gravely ill and hospitalized in Boston. Distressed, and always suspicious of her detested step-mother, Augusta, Fremont and her life-partner, Michael Archer, set out at once to be at her father’s bedside.
When they arrive, he appears to be somewhat improved, although his longtime physician, Searles Cosgrove, is doubtful of a full recovery. Could Augusta have been complicit in his illness? Fremont, at least, is certain of it. When, once more at home, Leonard dies suddenly in the middle of the night, Fremont begins to look for poison. But then Augusta is shot to death, which would seem to exonerate her—or does it?
Determined to uncover the truth, Fremont and Michael begin an investigation of their own and discover potential enemies on all sides, and in the unlikeliest places.
BEACON STREET MOURNING
A Fremont Jones Mystery
BY DIANNE DAY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
AVA DIANNE DAY is the author of Cut to the Heart, a novel of suspense based on the life of Clara Barton as well as six Fremont Jones mysteries, including The Strange Files of Fremont Jones and The Bohemian Murders. She worked as a psychologist and hospital administrator before beginning her career as a successful mystery writer. She has two grown sons and lives on the north coast of California.
Also by Dianne Day
CUT TO THE HEART
BEACON STREET MOURNING
EMPEROR NORTON’S GHOST
THE BOHEMIAN MURDERS
FIRE AND FOG
THE STRANGE FILES OF FREMONT JONES
DEATH TRAIN TO BOSTON
A Bantam Book/published by arrangement with Doubleday.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1999 by Dianne Day.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-12258.
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