Fire Lily (A Dangerous Hearts Romance)

by Deborah Camp

  “Yes.” He smiled at her use of language and was glad for his Oxford education. “Why didn’t you demand a better report?”

  “Because I’m a laaady,” she said, drawing out the last word to give it a lick of disrespect. “It’s Uncle Howard’s place to ask, but he never does. He believes business should be courteous. Such questions would be the same as calling the investigator’s work inadequate, and Uncle Howard is too much the gentleman for that.”

  “Being a lady is rather inhibiting, isn’t it?”

  “Most certainly,” she said, amazed that a man would be sympathetic to a woman’s social boundaries. “I know women are second-class and expected to remain in the background, but I don’t feel inferior and I find living in shadows unbearable.”

  “And so you should,” he said, thinking that the sunlight made her eyes sparkle like jewels. “Nothing can grow to its fullest potential in the shade, Lily.”

  Lily studied his serious expression, and something wonderful fluttered near her heart. For a moment, she yearned to fling her arms about his neck and deliver a smacking kiss of gratitude to his lean cheek. At last! A man who understood the chains attached to women! Caution, however, prevailed, and she inched away from him, but that spark of wonder remained in her.

  Griffon cleared his throat, undone for a few moments by the animation in her face. Her face! It would feed his sexual fantasies for weeks—months!

  “So you don’t know what led the investigator to Van Buren?” he asked, desperate to return to his purpose.

  “Uncle Howard wouldn’t ask, although I begged it of him.” She glanced at Griffon, wondering if she owed him an apology. The gentleness in his eyes swayed her. “That’s why I was blunt this morning. I think questions should be asked and answers should be forthright.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. May I keep this?” he asked. Getting her nod of approval, he folded the report into threes and tucked it into his inside jacket pocket. “My first order of business will be to speak to this detective.”

  She poked at the rug’s fringed edge with the toe of her shoe. “I’m returning books to the library today, and his office is across the street from it. I could … that is, we—”

  “Are you suggesting that you and I …” He feigned a shocked gasp. “To be seen on a public street in my company! What of your reputation, Lily?” He laughed at her furious scowl, then looked out the window to admire the glistening, rain-splashed lawn. “It’s a lovely day for a …” His breath stopped in his throat as his gaze collided with the swing.

  “What is it?” Lily asked, stepping beside him to see what had drained the color from his face.

  “That swing,” he said, giving a sharp nod to indicate it, suspended from a thick oak limb.

  Lily looked from it to him. “It’s been there since I was a girl,” she said, trying to discern the significance.

  “You and Cecille played on it?”

  “Yes, as children we did.”

  “Your room …” He glanced up. “It’s the one directly above us, isn’t it? It affords the same view.”

  “Yes, but I don’t—”

  “You have a window seat in your room?”

  “Yes,” she answered, growing irritated. “But what has that got to do with anything?”

  “Did you and Cecille play with dolls, too?” he asked, relieved to find a key to his disturbing dreams. They hadn’t been his thoughts, his impressions. They’d been hers.

  “Don’t all little girls play with dolls?” She laughed softly and stepped closer to the sunlit windows. “I dreamed last night of Cecille and about a doll I had.”

  “You dreamed?” he repeated. How was that possible? He’d never received another person’s dream before.

  “Yes … a dream about a doll,” she continued. “A blond doll. Cecille had one just like mine. We were given them for Christmas. But I was tired of having the same everything as Cecille. I wanted something different, so I—” She laughed again, recalling her rash solution.

  “What?” Griffon asked, leaning so close that his chest pressed against her shoulder. He was hardly aware of the contact, dumbstruck by the power of her mind to have sent him dreaming images that had kept him awake. “Tell me.”

  “I decided my doll should have black hair, so I poured a bottle of ink over her pretty golden tresses. It was a terrible mess. Orrie and Aunt Nan were beside themselves because I’d ruined not only my doll but also my dress and the rug in my room. I managed to splatter ink everywhere.” As she related the prank, she took note of his rapid breathing and the excitement building in his cornflower-blue eyes. “What’s wrong? Why are you so interested in this?”

  He turned away from her, shuttering his feelings. “I’m trying to get to know Cecille. Is she older or younger than you?”

  “Younger by one year. She’s eighteen. How old are you?” she asked, then wished she hadn’t when he glanced slyly at her. Drat! Now he’d think she was actually interested in him.

  “I believe I’m twenty-five.”

  “You believe?” she asked, intrigued despite herself. “Don’t you know?”

  “Not for certain. Gypsies don’t pay much attention to the calendar. It’s just not important to them, so they make no effort to record the exact time, day, or year of birth.”

  “What about your birth certificate? Surely it lists that information.”

  “My mother delivered me in the back of a Gypsy wagon near the shores of the North Sea. No doctor, no birth certificate. Just Mother and me and my maternal grandmother, so I was told. I have no memory of it. My memory begins at age two, or thereabouts.”

  “You recall something when you were but a babe?” Lily asked, already counting this as a tall tale.

  “I remember holding my mother’s crystal ball,” he said, the memory releasing the pristine innocence of his youth. “She snatched it from me, upset that I’d touched it. Later, I was taught that males aren’t supposed to handle things to do with the boojo magic. Anything mystical is strictly marimay to Gypsy men.”

  “Marimay?” Lily asked, hanging on his words.

  “Unclean … forbidden,” he translated. “It is my boojo powers that made me an outcast with the Rom.”

  “I know what that is,” Lily said. “ ‘Rom’ is Gypsy.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” He regarded her for a few moments, sensing a bubbling excitement. “How did you know that?”

  “Orrie used to take us to the Gypsy circus when it came to town, and I heard them call themselves that. Orrie says you’re a Scot.”

  “Scot, Irish, English, Russian, maybe even Egyptian. Gypsy blood is a hodgepodge.” His gaze moved over her chestnut hair and he had to remind himself again of his mission. “How did you hear of Cecille’s disappearance?”

  “Uncle Howard sent us a telegram.” Her thoughts circled back to that day. “Father wasn’t alarmed. He thought Cecille would turn up. He said she was pulling a stupid prank.” She crossed her arms and ran her hands up and down them as a remembered chill overtook her. “But I felt cold.”

  “Cold? Numb, you mean?”

  “No, chilled. To the bone.” She swallowed the stickiness in her mouth. “Cecille is a lively sort, granted, and not above trickery, but I felt certain she was in trouble when I read the telegram. I can’t explain it….” She shook her head, trying to dislodge the clamminess clinging to her like a wet shawl. “I had an immediate sense of foreboding. I … I started crying. Father became quite concerned and made travel arrangements for me immediately.”

  “Concerned” wasn’t accurate, she thought. Father had been frightened of her—not for her, but of her. And not for the first time.

  “I was shivering,” she continued, “and I … well, I felt positively ill until I arrived back home. Once I stepped into this house, the chill vanished.” It dawned on her that she had revealed something to Griffon that she’d kept to herself, not even sharing with her family. “It’s silly, I know,” she murmured. “Foolish of me to tell you about it.�
��

  “Don’t dismiss your feelings so quickly,” he cautioned. “They are never counterfeit, Lily.” He looked past her as if someone had entered the room, but when Lily glanced over her shoulder, no one was there. “You wouldn’t mind if I walked with you to the library?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I believe your aunt has an errand for you to run while you’re out.”

  “Lily?” Aunt Nan called as she came into the dining room. “Here you are. When you go to the library today, will you stop in at the printer’s on the way home? Your uncle’s business cards are ready.”

  Lily felt her mouth drop open. “Y-yes, Aunt Nan.” She drew in a shuddering breath and tried to see through Griffon’s ruse. When her aunt had left them alone again, Lily confronted him. “How did you know that? And don’t tell me you read her mind.”

  He shrugged. “In that case, it was a lucky guess.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Naturally. It’s a lie.”

  “I want the truth.’

  “No, you don’t.” He shook his head sadly. “You want me to say what you’re ready to hear.”

  “Aunt Nan must have mentioned the errand before I came down to breakfast.”

  He lowered one eyelid in a knowing wink. “That must be it.”

  “I’m not as soft in the head as you seem to think.” Lily nodded, proud of herself for seeing through him. “Surprised that a feebleminded female could unravel your mystery? You’ll have to do better than that to impress me.”

  He angled closer to her. The scent of lilac lifted from her creamy skin. “Begging your pardon, Lily, but I’m not here to impress you. I’m here to find your cousin.” He straightened and strode past her. “Just give me a few minutes to polish my crystal ball and I’ll meet you in the foyer.”

  She glared at his imposing back and wished for something solid she could throw against it. Impudent bastard.

  He checked his stride and turned slowly to face her again. Lily felt blood rise up to scald her cheeks, although she told herself she had no reason to be embarrassed.

  “Do you think you’re the first unbeliever I’ve come across, Lily?” he asked, mildly irritated that she could hurt him, if only for a moment. Her opinion shouldn’t matter, he knew, so why was he trying to convince her of his integrity? He regarded her, feeling her confusion. But it was the degree of fear in her that gave him pause. Most people were uneasy when confronted with his inexplicable oddities, but she gave out sheets of hard fear, as if believing him, only a little, would be a catastrophe. “Why are you afraid of me?”

  “Afraid?” She managed a harsh laugh, although her heart felt as if it belonged in the body of a rabbit being chased by a hound. “I am hardly that. I simply don’t believe in you or your alleged powers.”

  He shook his head, still perplexed by the strength of her mind, countered by the trembling in her soul. “Given time, I’ll discover the why of you. I’m a prospector of feelings, Lily, and you can’t bury them deep enough that I can’t find them.”

  Lily stared after him, feeling exposed, like a rabbit flushed from its hiding place with nothing ahead of it but an open field and the glaring eye of the sun.

  Chapter 3

  Tucking two volumes of poetry high up under her arm, Lily stood in the printer’s office and waited impatiently for Mr. Bingham to fetch her Uncle Howard’s business cards. She peered through the dusty window to the turreted brick building across the street where George Vick, private detective, kept his office. Having returned her library books and checked out more, she’d dashed next door to the printer’s. Now she willed Mr. Bingham to shake a leg so she’d be in time to join Griffon Goforth when he questioned Vick about the report. Her nose itched, anxious to be placed in the middle of whatever was transpiring between the Gypsy soothsayer and the thieving detective.

  “Here we are,” Mr. Bingham said, emerging from the ink-smelling press room. He held a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a stained length of cord. “Let me yank off this wrapping so you can check them. I want you to be satisfied.”

  “Don’t bother, Mr. Bingham. My uncle will be in touch if he isn’t pleased. Send the bill around to him at the bank, won’t you?”

  “Will do.” He screwed up his eyes behind his thick glasses. “Sure you don’t want to look at them yourself?”

  “No, really. I don’t even know what Uncle Howard wanted printed on them.”

  “You heard anything from Miss Cecille?” he asked, his gray-tinted fingers still plucking at the cord around the package. “I’m not asking as the newspaper printer, you understand. I’m asking as one caring Christian to another.”

  “I understand.” Lily held out her hand for the package. “We’ve heard nothing, Mr. Bingham.”

  “Terrible thing.” His eyes widened behind his glasses. “Speaking of terrible … they hung that train robber yesterday. Judge Parker says two more will swing tomorrow morning. Did you read about it this morning in the newspaper?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to look at the paper.” And I don’t wish to stomach a description of the latest hanging, she added mentally. She nearly tore the package from his hands, then she dropped it into her velvet drawstring purse. “Good morning, sir.” She was out the door and crossing the street before Mr. Bingham could respond in kind.

  Vick’s building was buff-colored and two-storied, and after checking the directory, Lily learned that his office was on the top floor. Lifting her skirts ankle-high, she mounted the narrow staircase, which sent out creaks and groans that echoed in the dark corridor, lit only by a skylight set in the roof’s apex. The strip of rug running the length of the second-floor hallway was threadbare and a dusty shade of green. Vick’s office was the third one on her right. His name was printed in chipped black paint upon a frosted pane set in the door.

  Lily knocked, heard nothing, and let herself in. A sour-faced woman with frizzled brown hair sat behind a squat desk.

  “You lost?” she asked around a throat full of gravel.

  “No, I’m not.” Lily looked from the frowning woman to the interior door. “Is Mr. Goforth still in there?”

  The woman nodded. “Want me to holler for him?”

  “No, thank you.” Lily moved as confidently as she could toward Vick’s office. “I’ll just join him, if you don’t mind.”

  “Him and my boy are talking business, lady.”

  Lily paused, looking curiously at the woman. George Vick’s mother? She wondered if Mama worked for George or if George worked for Mama. “I’m aware of that. If you’ll excuse me …” She rapped smartly on the door and swung it open without waiting for a response. Her entrance came in time for her to see George Vick half rise from his desk to shout at Griffon.

  “You calling me a liar, boy?” Vick had a bulldog’s face, all loose folds of skin and sagging pockets of flesh under piggish eyes that now focused on Lily. “You’ll have to wait outside, Miss Meeker. Me and your man here are still talking shop.”

  “I’d like to join in.” She advanced with purpose. “After all, it’s my cousin you’re discussing.”

  “Yes, but this here is man talk.”

  She smiled tightly. “I promise not to faint if you let slip a discouraging word.” Her gaze skittered to Griffon. He’d stood at her entrance and now waved her toward the other ladder-backed chair in front of Vick’s desk. “Thank you,” she murmured, sitting in the chair. “I seem to have interrupted an argument. Is there a problem?”

  “No problem, ’cepting I don’t got a hankering to be called a liar by somebody who don’t know an ox yoke from an egg yolk,” Vick said, sitting heavily in his desk chair.

  Griffon crossed one leg over the other, his demeanor unruffled, uncaring even. “I’ve been trying to help Mr. Vick retrace his steps. He’s forgotten how he knew to follow Cecille’s trail to Van Buren.”

  “How could you have forgotten something like that?” Lily asked. “I’ve wondered time and again why you thought to
look for Cecille there. She doesn’t know anyone from that area that I know of.”

  “You don’t know everything there is to know about your cuz,” Vick said, smiling unpleasantly. “You only think you do. Everybody’s got secrets, Miss Meeker.”

  “Perhaps you can enlighten us on Cecille Meeker’s,” Griffon suggested, a hard edge to his voice. “You seem to know something we are ignorant of, Mr. Vick.”

  “Why would I keep something from y’all?” Vick charged. “I’m working for the Meekers.”

  “Then why not tell Miss Meeker here what led you to Van Buren? Surely you recall something. It must have been a most important clue. The most important, if you ask me.”

  “Nobody’s asking,” Vick snarled.

  “I am,” Lily piped up, clutching her purse, her nerves stretched and quivering. “Who told you that Cecille had traveled to Van Buren?” She noticed that Vick was staring at Griffon, and she glanced at the man beside her. His eyes were fixed straight ahead in the general direction of George Vick, but Griffon didn’t seem to be looking at anything. He never blinked. Finally, he heaved a quick, noisy sigh and closed his blue eyes. Lily held her breath as apprehension scraped along her spine. She knew he was going to say something she’d have a hard time explaining away.

  “Jeff … David,” Griffon said, making Lily, then George Vick, flinch with surprise. “Why wasn’t he in your report?”

  “Who’s that?” Vick asked, laughing hollowly. “You know what he’s jabbering about, Miss Meeker?”

  “No, I …” Lily knitted her brows as she worried with that name. Could he mean the dressmaker’s son? She looked at the detective again. “Did you speak to David Jefferson about Cecille?” She knew she was right when strawberry spots broke out on Vick’s baggy cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell us about this before? Does David know what happened to Cecille?” She turned toward Griffon. “David is the dressmaker’s son and a family friend.”

  “Him and his mama don’t know nothing,” Vick said, disgustedly. “I didn’t say nothing to you ’cause there’s nothing to say. End of the trail.” He made a chopping motion with his hand.