11th Hour Rose

by Melissa Lynne Blue

  A sound trapped somewhere between a guttural growl and a gurgle bubbled from his throat. As if he didn’t know that. Now Mrs. Hatchet wouldn’t speak to him. “We are not reevaluating anything.” He tugged impatiently on the brim of his hat and looked from the infuriating woman standing before him, to the Hatchet’s porch. Lilly was impossible. And nosy. With this electric way of moving that grated his last nerve.

  “David—”

  He snapped a silencing hand through the air—a technique he’d learned at West Point and perfected in his subsequent military career. He drew a ragged breath in an attempt to cool his flaring temper. In all, he considered himself a good-humored man, not patient, but good-humored nonetheless. So what was it about Lilly that set his every last nerve on the fray? He knew the sudden and extremely childish urge to yank her hair. He’d never had a sister it might be fun, perhaps even satisfying. Lilly was the closest thing to sisterly sibling rivalry he’d ever known, and it had been that way with every investigation for the last two years. Two miserable, agonizingly long years. “Did you at least write anything down from your interview?”

  “Of course,” she replied. “I always keep detailed notes.”

  “Good.” He held out a hand. “Give them to me.”

  She clutched a blue cloth satchel to her chest. “Absolutely not. I’m more than happy to share information with you.”

  “I wouldn’t need you to share information if you would stay away from my witnesses. Mrs. Hatchet won’t speak to me now that she’s answered all of your questions.” For emphasis he glared at the porch he’d just vacated. “Seeing as you are not officially investigating this case I think you could do us all a favor and hand your interview notes over cooperatively, for once.”

  Her eyes shifted from his face, to the porch, and back again, but her fingers did not relax the death grip on her satchel.

  “Give them to me.”

  “No!” She half turned as he stepped forward attempting to grab the bag. “I am more than happy to show you my interview notes, but I’m not going to hand them over just because you’re behaving like an incorrigible brute.”

  “Come, Lilly. Is that really the best insult you can muster?”

  “The words I would like to use are hardly appropriate for the middle of a city street.”

  “Ah, yes, and you’re such a lady.”

  For just a moment her eyes flashed hot red and he knew the immense satisfaction of having pushed her over the edge. “Go to the devil you overbearing horse’s ass.”

  “Now that’s an insult,” he mocked, swiftly reaching an arm across her shoulder, and snatching the satchel from her grasp.

  “David.” She whirled. “Give that back.”

  “Go home, Lilly.” He rifled through the satchel until he found her interview notes. “Now.”

  “That’s stealing.” She crossed her arms, fixing him with a withering glare.

  “It’s not stealing.” He rattled the papers in front of her face, taunting her. “I’m confiscating these as evidence. Leave.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean no? You have no right and no authorization to be questioning witnesses. Now that Mrs. Hatchet is refusing to answer more questions you could have compromised the entire investigation.” Grabbing her elbow Davy, steered her bodily toward the sidewalk.

  Defiant, she yanked away from him. “Your size doesn’t intimidate me, Marshal Langston.” She stepped forward to prove her point. “I could help if you’d allow it.”

  “Help me?” He barked with ironic laughter. “You are nothing more than a thorn in my side.”

  “Only because you’re so stubborn. And that is beside the point because I have a lead, Marshal Langston.”

  He growled shaking his head. “Very well, Lilly. What is it you think you have?”

  “I spoke with Clara Hatchet’s mother, Janet Carlisle’s mother, and Susie’s sister–”

  “Wait a minute.” His hand sliced through the air once more, silencing her. “You spoke with all of them?” David glanced down at the notes clutched in his hand. “When did you start?”

  “This morning.” Her eyes blinked innocently.

  Well, he couldn’t fault her for efficiency. “Go on.”

  “I found a common thread in the activity of the women.” She paused, presumably for dramatic effect, but Davy would just as soon have throttled her. “All three of them visited the dressmaker the week they were killed.”

  “Jesus, Lilly. The dressmaker?” He clenched a fist in exasperation. “Hundreds of women visit a seamstress every week. That is flimsy happenstance at best.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. This morning new evidence came to our attention. Possibly the name of a suspect. We’re not sure what it means yet, but now that you’ve harassed all of our witnesses the entire investigation may be delayed.”

  She gulped, looking chagrined. Finally. “Oh.”

  “There are specific questions I need to ask. Do you see now why you cannot run about half-cocked playing lawman?”

  She flushed. “I didn’t know. I-I thought…”

  “No, Lilly, you didn’t think. That is the problem.”

  Lilly fell silent for a long moment. “You have the name of a suspect?” Any remorse at having compromised his investigation fled from her expression.

  “None that you need know of.”

  “Come.” She linked her arm through his, taking him completely by surprise and tugging him into the street, back toward the Hatchet’s house. “I have an idea.”

  Tenacious. There was no other word to describe the woman, except perhaps impulsive. Tenacious and Impulsive. What the hell was she thinking to go back to the Hatchet’s? “Lilly. Lilly, wait.” Davy dropped her arm and caught her fingers, dragging her to a halt. “What are you about?”

  “Securing your interview.” She dropped his hand, darting quickly up the porch steps. Before he could stop her, she rapped on the door.

  Davy approached from behind more than prepared to physically haul her from the porch if necessary.

  The portal yanked open and Mrs. Hatchet flicked a cool glare from Lilly to David. “I told you not to come back.” She swung the heavy door as though to shut it, but at the last moment Lilly stuck her foot out, blocking the door open a few inches.

  She smiled sweetly at the older woman. “Do forgive me for interrupting your morning again, Mrs. Hatchet, but Marshal Langston has just informed me of the most exciting news. It seems the name of a suspect has come to our attention just this morning.” Pure honey, thick and sweet, ran through her words. Lilly leaned into Mrs. Hatchet, her manner conspiratorial, but also completely genuine. “I cannot divulge too much at this time you understand, but would you be good enough to grant Marshal Langston a bit of your time?”

  Mrs. Hatchet hesitated as her shrewd gaze sliced from Lilly to Davy. Finally she stepped back from the door and sighed. “Very well. It doesn’t seem you’ll see fit to leave me in peace anyhow.”

  Grudgingly impressed, Davy removed his hat and followed Lilly into the house. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Hatchet led them along the hall to a small, tidy parlor. “Mary,” Mrs. Hatchet called. “Bring lemonade please.”

  Their hostess sat in a cushioned chair by the door while Lilly perched on the love seat. Davy waited for the women to settle themselves, contemplating the only chair left in the room—a narrow armed rocker, he’d never fit in it. He hesitated, pondering the best course of action. He couldn’t very well ask one of the women to move and he didn’t want to conduct the interview standing and risk intimidating Mrs. Hatchet. His gaze shifted to the open seat beside Lilly. There was no choice.

  Davy crossed the small parlor and sat directly beside Lilly on the loveseat. The sofa was long enough to accommodate both of them but not so much as to prevent her thigh from pressing the length of his or their arms from brushing. She glanced up to him, startled, and for a moment her baby blue eyes locked on his. Diamond eyes. Her full skir
t wrapped around his leg, and the sofa—the entire room—shrank. Thick dark lashes fringed wide round eyes and—

  Lilly blinked, quickly looking away, successfully pulling Davy back to the task at hand. He gave himself a mental shake and ignored the intimacy of their seating arrangement.

  “Mrs. Hatchet, before we begin, I must ask that you keep our conversation private,” he said seriously.

  The older woman nodded, fatigue lining her visage though she kept her chin up and shoulders squared.

  “Did your daughter ever mention a man named Bram?”

  Mrs. Hatchet’s eyes narrowed. “I told you before, Marshal Langston, that my daughter was not involved with any men. No boys called on her. If these are all the questions you have then I’ll ask you to leave.”

  “We won’t bother you with any more questions,” Lilly smoothly interceded. “However… Would it be possible for us to see your daughter’s room? Perhaps she kept a journal that might lend us a clue, or it could be she received letters from a secret admirer.”

  “My daughter did not keep secrets from me.”

  “I keep a journal full of the secrets I wouldn’t wish to tell my mother,” Lilly said quietly, her expression empathetic.

  “Your mother is dead, Lillian. I imagine there isn’t much you could tell her.”

  Lilly stiffened. The movement almost imperceptible, but he could feel her. Protectiveness flared within him. Elizabeth Hatchet could fling as many insults as she wished as long as they were directed at him, not Lilly. “That is uncalled for, Mrs. Hatchet. We—”

  “It’s all right, Marshal.” Ever-so-gently Lilly touched his knee before turning back to Mrs. Hatchet. “Each of us here knows how very hard it is to lose someone we love. These are hard times and you must believe that I would not ask this of you if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

  The anger in Mrs. Hatchet’s eyes began to fade. Davy held back, flicking his gaze to Lilly.

  She leaned forward, naught but compassion shining in her eyes. “Did you ever have a secret, however small, that you never told anyone about? A secret beau or even a little money hidden away?” Lilly paused, a half smile toying at the corner of her mouth. “The journal I spoke of… not even my cousin Lavinia has laid eyes on it.”

  Mrs. Hatchet sighed, a wistful tear winking from the corner of her eye. “I suppose you’re right, Miss Hudson. You may look through her things. Mary will show you the way. I haven’t been to Clara’s room since…”

  Davy reached for the widow’s arm, but his hand collided with Lilly’s in midair.

  * * *

  Shockwaves erupted, shooting up Lilly’s arm. She snatched back as though burned by the simple, accidental touch of David’s hand. She gulped, casting a covert glance at the man beside her on the sofa.

  A vise of true compassion lined his face as he sandwiched Mrs. Hatchet’s hand between each of his large palms. David appeared totally unaffected—oblivious even—by Lilly’s presence. “My deepest thanks, ma’am,” he murmured solemnly.

  Mrs. Hatchet’s servant, an elderly black woman, entered the room carrying a wooden tray laden with a pitcher of lemonade and three tall glasses. She set the tray on the round table situated between the sofa and Mrs. Hatchet’s chair.

  “Mary, after the lemonade, I’ll have you show the marshal and Miss Hudson to Clara’s room.”

  Within minutes Mary led them up a set of narrow wooden stairs to a closed whitewashed door sporting a shiny brass handle. Outside the door, the elderly woman stopped and glanced nervously back down the stairwell. “Miss Hudson, Marshal Langston,” she whispered. “There’s somethin’ I got to tell you.”

  “Yes, Mary, what is it?”

  “The Missus don’t know,” she continued nervously, “but Miss Clara sneaked out of the house a lot.”

  “Do you know where she went? Did she ever mention names?”

  “Not to me,” Mary said. “But a couple weeks before she died she started getting’ letters and flowers and even showed up one day in a brand new dress.”

  “A blue dress?” Davy inquired.

  “Yup. ‘Course she wouldn’t tell me where she came by it.”

  “Thank you, Mary.” Lilly squeezed the older woman’s hand. “You’ve been most helpful. I won’t mention any of this to Mrs. Hatchet, you have my word.”

  Mary nodded, tears glassing the surface of her brown eyes. “I helped raise that child since she was no bigger than my knee. It ain’t right what happened to her. Ain’t right at all.” She walked back down the stairs, shoulders hunched.

  After a moment of silence, David twisted the brass handle and entered the room. Lilly quickly followed. Sadness instantly washed over her. The room presented itself in pleasant disarray, waiting for Clara’s return. The bedclothes were tossed back half-hazard as though someone had just gotten out of bed and an open book lay print face down on an end table beside an oil lamp. Three roses, perfectly dried, stood in a glass flute vase on a chest of drawers. The door clicked shut, startling Lilly out of her thoughts.

  David strode slowly through the room, stopping at a shelf littered with books and loose pieces of paper.

  “If Clara was keeping secret correspondence she wouldn’t have left it in plain sight.” Lilly dropped to her knees and peaked under the bed. A small chest with a lock sat at the far back corner by the wall. “Here we are.” She flattened out on her stomach and wiggled under the bed far enough to snag the little handle. Scooting back out from beneath the bed proved a bit more cumbersome with her full skirts, and when she finally managed to twist the little trunk—and herself—out, her skirts were bunched and her hair was falling around her face where it had caught on the bed’s wooden slats. She pushed herself up on an arm and turned to find David, staring down at her, an amused smile on his lips, his eyes twinkling.

  “Well, well,” he drawled, gaze wandering playfully over her disheveled frame. “Aren’t you the expert on keeping secrets.”

  Lilly flushed. “Nothing of the sort.” She struggled to sit and simultaneously straighten her skirts. David knelt, grasping her upper arm and pulling her upright. Their eyes locked. Her stomach—or perhaps it was her heart—fluttered. She averted her gaze, tucking her legs beneath her and smoothing the cotton skirt pooling around her, grasping for her bearings.

  What is wrong with me? The last time her insides had performed a miniature circus act she’d blamed the frazzled state of her nerves on finding her friend murdered. But now… she glanced up into his eyes, brilliant blue and sparkling with good humor… now the only reason for her reaction to the man was… the man himself.

  Dear Lord, please, anyone but David Langston!

  The man was infuriating, belittling, and overprotective to a fault. Even as her father recruited her help and knowledge in investigations, Marshal Langston fought to keep her out.

  She drew a steadying breath, tugging at the lid latch. “We’ll need a key to open this.”

  He rose. “And where, Miss secret expert, would I look for this key?”

  She flashed a playful glare at him, his teasing tone not lost on her. “Use your imagination.”

  He grinned before ambling back to the shelf. Lilly too stood, opening the top drawer of the desk situated beneath the window.

  “So you keep a journal,” he said after a moment. “Is it filled with torrid secrets?”

  “Marshal Langston,” she scolded. “I don’t see how that is any of your business.”

  “Perhaps not, but I am rather intrigued.”

  “If you must know,” she replied, moving to the second desk drawer. “I haven’t kept the journal in some time. Not since the war.”

  “Too busy getting in the way of my investigations to write?”

  Lilly ignored the quip and continued searching the drawers. Silence lapsed.

  “Have you ever thought of getting married?” David asked after a few minutes.

  Lilly’s stomach twisted as bitter memories threatened to resurface. “Have you ever considered getting
remarried?”

  “Touché.” The good humor leeched instantly from his voice.

  Lilly chanced a quick glance over her shoulder. The stern lines returned to his face and his broad shoulders tensed. Guilt niggled at her conscience. He hadn’t meant to pry, and in truth she was seeing a new side to him. A fun side. She didn’t want to go back to sparring.

  “I was engaged once,” she offered after a moment of quiet.

  David turned, brow raised in surprise.

  “To Daniel Radcliffe. I was seventeen. He asked me to wait for him when he left for the war.”

  Davy’s face softened. “You loved him?”

  “I did.”

  “He never came home I gather.”

  She shook her head. “I stopped writing in my journal the day his name appeared on the casualty roster.” David nodded, true empathy in his gaze. He knew pain. Lilly didn’t know the specifics, but he’d been a widower for many years. “I received a letter from him several months after he died,” she continued, unsure why she was opening up to David except that it somehow felt right. “I never read it. I tucked it in the back of my journal and hid it away.”

  Neither of them searched for the key any longer. Instead they stood facing each other on opposite sides of the modest bedroom.

  “You should read that letter,” he said quietly.

  Lilly shrugged, throat thickening as tears pricked the back of her eyes. She blinked quickly to prevent them from forming. “Perhaps. It’s just been so long. I’ve put it behind me.”

  “Daniel wanted you to read it,” Davy pressed. “I would have given anything to have someone other than my grandmother to write home to.” He hesitated. “It’s difficult to explain, but knowing someone back home is reading your letters… It helps.”

  Lilly didn’t know how to respond, but she also sensed he didn’t expect an answer.

  “To hell with this,” Davy muttered. In one fluid motion he flipped open a small leather pouch attached his holster, and brandished a folding knife. He knelt before the chest, and stuck the pointed end into the locking mechanism.