What the Dead Leave Behind
Page 38
The guilt was strangling her.
Stare down the memories until you overpower them. She turned her inner eye to the kitchen one floor below where she sat, to the stone floor where Mrs. Barstow must have lain while Jackson kicked her ribs into shattered pieces of bone, where she had taken her last breath in unimaginable pain. Kincaid found her body in the stable where Jackson had concealed it; he told the whole story of that dreadful afternoon to Geoffrey, who understood that Prudence would need to look once more on the face of the woman who had first betrayed and then rescued her. Maurice Warneke had kept the body in his cooling room.
On Geoffrey’s instructions, Warneke had done nothing to reconstruct Frances Barstow’s face. Prudence had to see for herself the damage done by the man she had shot. Whatever Mrs. Barstow had done in her life to earn a stay in purgatory had been forgiven by what she endured before she died. There was a hard lesson to be learned from Frances Barstow. Prudence thought she might never understand all of it. But what she felt as she forced herself to remember was a gradual easing of the pain of guilt, a sense that someone who had much to be forgiven could also bestow the gift of exoneration.
Prudence would never forget these last few weeks; for years to come she would wake up trembling and drenched in sweat. But the ghosts would one by one absent themselves, would find their own peace and cease haunting her.
The fire German Clara had lit spit and crackled, sending sparks against the screen, embers that beat against the worked iron until they fell, spent, to the floor of the brick fireplace. Prudence watched them burn themselves out, saw their bright red light turn into gray ash.
She stood up, shook out her skirts, ran her fingers through the heavy weight of her upswept hair, loosened a few pins. Delighted in the feeling of release and freedom as the curls cascaded against her neck.
The maid had brought a carafe of coffee and a plate of Cook’s best currant scones to tempt her mistress’s appetite. Split, toasted, and liberally buttered, the scones filled the air with the rich smell of fresh baking. The aroma of the coffee reminded her of every morning’s new beginning. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d relished the food set out for her.
Prudence took a bite of scone, then pushed open the heavy library drapes, drawn tightly closed against light and air. Yards and yards of green velvet rolled back from windows that cried out to be opened to the fresh, fragrant air of springtime.
She wondered where Geoffrey was at this moment and whether he would call on her today, then realized he would continue to respect her request to stay away. Until she told him otherwise.
There were decisions to be made, work to be done. They had talked about a new venture, an exciting opportunity to be developed in Roscoe Conkling’s old offices. Not your ordinary law practice. Not even your predictable private investigation firm. Something that combined the best of both.
Her eyes drifted to the new telephone standing on what had been the Judge’s desk. Now hers. Prudence smiled when she heard Geoffrey’s voice. It was as though he were standing right beside her.
“I’m ready,” she said. “I’m ready.”
Hunter and MacKenzie, Investigative Law. Equal partners.
Prudence liked the sound of it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Working with the support and encouragement of other writers is the greatest motivation an author can have. Thanks to Alexis Powers and to all of my fellow Writers Workshop members who listen to and validate each other’s work with respect and enthusiasm.
Special thanks to Louise Boost, Joyce Sanford, and Betty Barry, who have made my Tuesday mornings some of the best hours of the week. Nothing escapes their critical eyes and ears, and every suggestion is made with only one goal in mind: to tell a better story.
Jessica Faust, agent extraordinaire, has been a fierce advocate of this book. Her suggestions, analytical approach to revisions, and unflagging enthusiam were of immeasurable help. Thank you, Jessica!
My editor, John Scognamiglio, knows exactly where to apply the editor’s touch. No question ever goes ignored or unanswered; he is the gentlemanly soul of courtesy.
Whenever I’ve floundered, my husband has been there to throw me the lifeline of confidence and love. His belief in me has never faltered.
Although this is a work of fiction, the Great Blizzard of March 1888 was real. New York’s former senator did make a three-mile trek up Broadway through blinding snow and howling-winds that resulted in his death. The newspapers of the time carried stories, sketches, and photographs of the devastation caused by the sudden and unexpected storm. Everyone who survived the blizzard was eager to tell his story.
To this mystery writer, it seemed the perfect time and place to attempt to hide a murder.