Author's Muse (Sweet Town Clean Historical Western Romance Book 12)

by Sarah Christian

  “Apparently a man was murdered and the details matched one of Ross’s books exactly.”

  “Oh my,” Lucy murmured.

  A feminine voice, less pleasant, and more grating, piped up. “At the time of the murder the book wasn’t published yet. The only person who would have known the details would be Ross himself.”

  Theo’s answering voice, when it came, held a tinge of disapproval. “Well, except for our office, Clara. Honestly, I don’t even know how the police noticed the similarities since the book was still being edited.”

  “But who did he kill?” Lucy asked.

  Belle strained to hear.

  “A man by the name of Paul Lindholm. There’s no known connection.”

  Belle was not the fainting sort. She really wasn’t. But this shock was more than she could take and a darkness overtook her until she could feel the floor rising up to meet her. She grasped the curtain to try and slow her fall but could feel it ripping, pulling free of the wooden rod that held it up. Her last thought as consciousness receded was to wonder. Was she overcome with grief or relief?

  ***

  Belle fluttered her eyes open and a face filled up her vision. Confusion scrambled her thoughts but it came back to her slowly. This was Theo. Paul was dead. “How did he die?” she croaked out.

  Theo’s face pulled back and he scowled at her. “Did you know him?” He glowered further. “Who are you anyway?”

  Lucy piped up. “This is Belle Lincoln. She and her son Ari live upstairs in an apartment.”

  Belle’s heart sank. She had only known the people in this town for a short while but she already felt close to them. They would no doubt feel somewhat betrayed when they found out she had deceived them. She struggled to sit up and Erik ran to her and snuggled into her lap. “I’m sorry Lucy, but I had to lie. My name is really Isabelle Lindholm and Paul is - was - my husband.”

  Theo reached out a hand and helped her to her feet. “Why have you assumed a false name?”

  She leaned against the counter and put a hand to her forehead. “This is such a shock,” she said slowly. “I didn’t want him to find me.”

  “Who? You didn’t want who to find you?” Theo was staring intently into her face.

  The word is whom, she thought absently. “My husband. I didn’t want Paul to find me . He’s a vicious man, cruel and punishing. Or at least, he was.” Was it really over? The years of abuse and the weeks of hiding, only to discover that someone else had finished him off.

  “Mommy,” Erik said, tugging on her dress. “Was there a bad guy?”

  “Oh my darling,” she cried. No matter what she thought of Paul, he had been Erik’s father. She looked up at the others. “I won’t discuss this further in front of my son. Please go.”

  She pressed on the child’s shoulder, directing him back to the opening to the stairwell, the curtain now on the floor.

  “You have to admit, Mrs. Lindholm,” Theo’s voice accused from behind her, “That it’s very suspicious that you are here in the same town where Jamison Ross is, your husband dead by the same method described in detail in Ross’s last book, and you yourself hiding under a fake name.”

  Belle paused. Put like that, it did sound very bad. But she had done nothing wrong. There had to be some sort of explanation. “I am sure the police will discover who killed my husband, but in the meantime, I’m going to sit with our child and try to explain how our circumstances have changed.”

  “One last thing,” he said as she took the first step upwards, ushering Erik in front of her. “If you were having an affair with Ross and hope he will be blamed for your husband’s death, be aware that I’m going to do everything in my power to prove him innocent. Everything.”

  “How dare you,” she hissed. “I have no doubt that Ross is innocent, as am I.”

  “Then you admit you know the author? Have you killed him, too?” He had a coin in his hand and was turning it over his knuckles, repeating the movement seamlessly.

  “I admit nothing.” She turned with a flourish and continued up the stairs to her apartment.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Papa, what’s an affair?” Maeve asked, her high childish voice at odds with the ugly word.

  Theo cringed. “Why, it’s a party where everyone dresses up to the nines and dances until the wee hours,” he said cheerfully.

  “Did that lady have a party then?”

  Theo ushered her out the door, Clara following. Without waiting for the wagon Lucy had offered, he picked up all three bags and stomped up the street toward the hotel. “I think she might have.”

  Clara hurried her steps to catch up. “She’ll hang.”

  “Shut up,” Theo ground out. When he reached the post office he stopped and set the bags down. “Wait here, please,” he said and grabbed the door, opening it with force.

  He paused inside and took a deep breath. Why had Mrs. Lindholm caused such a strong reaction in him? He was sure his author hadn’t murdered her husband. After three years of working with the man on many books, dime novels of mystery and intrigue, he felt he knew him well. There was no way Ross could hurt someone. Their letters sometimes included pleasantries, observations of the things going on around them both. He was sure the writer was not a murderer. If anything he was a gentle soul, and even his chosen genre of books was out of character.

  Behind a counter in the small space was a middle aged man, his salt and pepper hair a bit shaggy, wire rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He was peering at Theo with some measure of curiosity. Behind him were many small cubbies, boxes where the mail was sorted. Most were labeled with names, and many had envelopes and small wrapped packages inside. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  Theo took a deep breath and swallowed. His throat was dry and his lips were sticking to his teeth. He tried licking them but even his tongue was parched. He supposed it was a result of the altercation at the mercantile. “Yes, I’m looking for a man named Jamison Ross. I’ve sent him several letters here, General Delivery.” The man nodded. Theo noticed a plaque on the wall. “Gregor Behr, Postmaster.”

  “I remember those letters, but I don’t remember the man.” He rifled around in the General Delivery box for a moment. “They aren’t here any longer. If he’s staying at the hotel, the owner may have taken them. Ask Therese.”

  “Therese, you say?” Theo wondered at the lax safekeeping that anyone could just take mail from a box.

  “She’s the daughter of the owners. Stills runs things over there for the most part, though she’s married now. She’d be the one to ask. The owners can’t speak English. I don’t bother trying to talk to them anymore.”

  The hotel was at the end of the road, the last commercial building on the way south, though there were some country homes further out. It reminded him of a gypsy wagon, one of the colorful caravans depicted in a picture book Theo had brought home for Maeve. He was sweating and breathing heavy by the time he got to the red double doors, his hands cramping from holding the heavy bags.

  He stood there for a second before he realized that rather than open the door for him, even though his hands were full, Clara expected him to open the door for her. With a huff, he dropped the bags again, this time finding a small measure of satisfaction at the broken glass sound that tinkled forth from the woman’s case. He turned the knob and pushed one side open with a flourish before picking up the baggage again. Once inside he kicked the door shut, even as a dark haired woman rushed forward.

  “Oh dear, you have your hands full,” she cried.

  Theo put the luggage down yet again and opened and closed his hands several times in an effort to encourage circulation. “I’m hoping you’re Therese.”

  She smiled. “I am. What can I do for you?”

  “First, I hope you have three rooms available.”

  Clara’s eyebrows rose. “Three? Maeve can room with me.”

  Without even looking at her he continued. “Three rooms, please. And then once my traveling companions are settled I�
��d like to speak with you about another matter.”

  Therese came back downstairs after showing Clara and Maeve to their rooms and offered Theo a cup of cold water. He drank it gratefully. “What was it you wanted to talk with me about?”

  “I’ve just been to the post office. I spoke with Mr. Gregor Behr, the postmaster, and he advised me to talk to you.”

  “He did? That’s odd. I can’t imagine why. He’s married to my husband’s aunt so I suppose that makes him my uncle, of sorts. But it’s curious why he would send anyone over to talk with me. Ordinarily I think he doesn’t even notice I’m around.”

  Head spinning with all the irrelevant information the young woman was spewing he finally chopped the air with one hand. It effectively silenced her. “Is there a man staying here named Jamison Ross?”

  She put one finger to her lips as though she had to search over numerous names before answering. “Hmm, no, can’t say that there is.”

  “Has there been?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Theo pulled his lucky coin from his pocket and began turning it over his knuckles. He spoke slowly. “Has Jamison Ross been here at all, even if he no longer is staying here?”

  “Oh, that. No. I’ve never heard of him. But why did Gregor say you should talk to me?”

  Through gritted teeth Theo tried to keep his voice pleasant. “There have been several letters that have come for him but he can’t remember Ross picking them up. He thought perhaps your father might have.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of the man.”

  Theo had turned toward the stairs when something occurred to him. He pivoted on one heel. “How about Isabelle Lindholm? What do you know about her?” When Therese looked confused he amended his question. “I mean, Belle Lincoln. She lives in an apartment above the mercantile.”

  “Oh her, yes I’ve met her but no one really knows her. She seems pleasant enough, but very proper.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Upstairs, with the door shut behind her, Belle leaned back against the pine panels, her heart pounding. She stuck a finger under the lace collar of her dress and tried to loosen it some as she felt sweat trickle down her temple. Erik was already in the corner where his toys were kept, and was carefully lining up several tin cars.

  Okay, she said to herself, I can figure this out. The book Theo referred to was Danger at the Lake, and was not yet in print. She had wondered what the hold up was. Theo’s last letter had said it would be out soon, but he always sent out advance copies and none had arrived. That meant that whoever murdered Paul had access to the manuscript. That narrowed down the choices significantly.

  In the book, a man was murdered by poison, and a note was left that has been assembled from irregular letters cut from the pages of a magazine. She supposed those were the similar details.

  But there was one thing she hadn’t considered. Someone at the publishing company had to have killed her husband. It could be Theo. He had never mentioned a wife, but perhaps that’s who the unpleasant woman with him was. Maybe Paul had an affair with Theo’s wife, though Belle couldn’t imagine anyone less likely to strike lust in a man’s heart than the dour woman accompanying the editor. Maybe danger was coming from another source now that her husband was gone. Maybe his murderer would want her dead, too.

  After Paul’s murder was solved would it even be possible for her to go back to her previous life? If she had any hope of regaining it, it was imperative that she maintain her ruse.

  It had been easy enough to get the letter from Theo to Ross at the post office. They were sent General Delivery and stuffed inside a box with other letters of people who didn’t regularly receive mail. She had simply plucked them out when Gregor’s back was turned. The trouble was getting letters from Ross to Theo back into the mail. No one noticed or cared much about the mail like that in Chicago, but things were different here. She had taken to asking prospectors to deliver her outgoing letters to the post office, though she’d only sent two so far. Along with her advance copy never arriving, she hadn’t heard from Theo recently. She supposed he didn’t want to tip her off about the murder.

  But then why hadn’t he just sent the sheriff if he believed Ross was guilty? Could it be he was trying to protect the author? Maybe he felt they’d forged a connection over the past several years through their letters.

  Erik seemed oblivious to her distraction, and that was for the best. She was grieving, that was true, but not for her husband. She was grieving for the loss of her career. She feared it was over, and her correspondence with Theo would come to an end.

  There was only one way to salvage it, as far as she could tell. Theo must not find out who Jamison Ross really was. Theo could not find out that she was actually the writer.

  Suddenly someone knocked on the door and she jumped away from it, startled. “Who is there?” she called out.

  “It’s Emma and Laura. Lucy told us what happened.”

  Belle clenched her fists and silently stamped her foot. There was nothing for it but to open the door. She took a deep breath and stood up straight, trying to smooth her expression into one of serenity.

  “Oh, you poor thing,” Emma cried as soon as the door was open. She reached out and hugged Belle.

  “I’m fine, really,” she said, her voice muffled against Emma’s shoulder, since Belle was considerably shorter than Emma.

  “Of course, you’re not fine. You’re coming home with me. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  By the time Emma had bustled Belle over to the orphanage, several other women had gathered, bringing cakes, pies, and cookies. Some of them Belle had met, but others she only knew by sight.

  One woman was carrying a baby, swaddled only lightly because of the warm weather, and Belle recognized her as the preacher’s wife. Her hands were full so she didn’t offer any physical comfort, but she leaned in close. “Pastor Whitney will be over to talk with you later. If there is anything we can do for you and your son, please let us know.”

  Belle nodded but didn’t say anything. What could she say? I’m relieved I no longer have to hide? At least none of them had gotten the memorandum that Theo thought she was the murderer.

  Two other women came in, both pale skinned, one crimson haired and the other a brunette, each carrying a baby, but the infants both sported red fuzz on their scalps. Belle had heard that Mayor O’Cuinn and his wife had recently had twins, so she supposed this was them.

  “Sure and we are sorry for your loss,” the redhead said, an Irish brogue rolling off her tongue. “I’m Bridget O’Cuinn and this is my friend Esther Marek. She’s been helping me with these wee babies of mine.”

  Belle nodded, her head spinning with all the names. The room was now full of feminine chatter as cakes were cut and plates of cookies passed around. A cup of tea was pressed into her hand. She looked around and didn’t see Erik anywhere but for the first time in weeks she didn’t immediately jump to the conclusion that he had been taken by her husband, his own father a danger to his safety and well-being.

  A light skinned black woman that Belle recognized as being married to a man who built houses in the area, came closer. “If you’re looking for your little boy, he’s gone upstairs to play with the children who live here. He’s fine.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “I’m Belle Lindholm. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Pastor Whitney is my brother. I’m married to Mack Coffman.”

  Belle held out her hand. “But what is your name?”

  She laughed. “I’m Aimee. I’m used to everyone knowing everyone around here.”

  Belle nodded and looked away. How much longer would she have endure this? Obviously the only way to stay safe and to salvage her career would be to leave before Theo told the sheriff he was suspicious of her. Maybe she could go somewhere else, choose a different name, and begin a new writing career. She might even be able to forge a new relationship with Theo using the new nom de plume. She hoped this gathering would wind down
soon since she now had a plan and was anxious to put it to action. Her life might depend upon it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  After settling Maeve into bed, Theo went out for a walk. On the same side of the street as the hotel he strolled all the way to the end, where the prairie opened up, stretching to the base of huge mountains. He knew from stories he had read that Deadwood, the wild mining town, was hidden in those hills.

  The sky still held a glow, even though the sun had been set for an hour. He supposed with no buildings or trees to block the light, the moon and stars could shine fully.

  He crossed over to the opposite side of Main Street and walked by a tall building. A sign with bright paint, not yet faded by sun and rain, proclaimed it to be the City Hall. In another town this would be as small as store, but here, he supposed, they were quite proud of their little clapboard meeting place.

  The very next building was Karl’s Mercantile. He paused in the shadow of the building and leaned back to see the windows of the upper floor. A lamp was lit and glowed through the curtains.

  That was where Paul Lindholm’s widow lived, but where was Ross? He must also be using an assumed name. Was he staying up there with her, hiding in their little love nest? Would it even be possible for him to stay hidden in such a small town?

  After all the letters they’d exchanged he never would have thought Ross had it in him to carry on with a married woman, but he could think of no other explanation. Unless it was a case of some sort of fatal attraction, unrequited love gone wrong. If Belle had lusted for Jamison and he had spurned her advances, maybe she had killed him as well as her husband.

  If he was there, in Sweet Town, Theo vowed to find him. Though he had never met the author in person, he counted him among his friends and he knew as well as he knew anything that Jamison could not have killed Belle’s husband.