by Amanda Cabot
As she pressed her hand to her racing heart, Lydia reminded herself that it was Sunday. That meant Opal would not be in the kitchen, occasionally clattering pans as she cut and weighed candies. Of course the house was empty. Lydia picked up her watch from the bedside table and nodded. On a normal day, Aunt Bertha would sleep at least another half hour. Today she’d probably remain in bed longer than that, since even though she hadn’t wanted to admit it, yesterday’s party must have been tiring.
It had been an unusual day for all of them. When Aunt Bertha had finally headed for bed, she’d worn a sheepish expression as she admitted that she’d eaten too much during the party and would forego her nightly chocolate cream. To the best of Lydia’s knowledge, that was the first time that had happened since she’d begun making pansy-decorated candies. Perhaps Aunt Bertha was still sleeping off the effects of overeating.
Still . . .
Lydia swung her legs out of bed, slid her feet into her slippers, and reached for her wrapper. Compelled by an urgency she couldn’t explain, she hurried down the hall until she reached Aunt Bertha’s room. She put her ear to the door, listening for something—anything—that might have alarmed her, but there were no unusual sounds. No sounds at all. And that was wrong. Though Aunt Bertha snored, today there was no snoring, no sound of breathing.
Remembering how Catherine had described how empty her house felt the day her mother died, Lydia closed her eyes and prayed. Please, Lord, don’t let it be true. But there was no sound other than the deafening pounding of Lydia’s heart.
Forcing her eyes open, Lydia entered Aunt Bertha’s bedroom and raced to the bed.
“No!” she cried as she stared at the empty shell of the woman she loved so dearly. The hair was Aunt Bertha’s; the nightdress was the one Lydia had seen a dozen times when she’d carried laundry upstairs; but everything else about the dear woman looked different—horribly, horribly different. It couldn’t be true, and yet it was.
Dressing as quickly as she could, Lydia tried but failed to erase the image of Aunt Bertha’s still form. There had been no need to touch her, to search for a heartbeat or a breath. Aunt Bertha had breathed her last.
Lydia shuddered. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t scream. But she had to tell someone. Not just someone. She had to tell Travis.
Moments later, she was pounding on his door.
“What’s wrong?” She could see the surprise in his eyes when he noticed her hasty toilette. Unlike Lydia, Travis had dressed with care this morning and had donned his best suit in preparation for church services.
He ushered her into his home, and when Lydia said nothing, he asked again, “What’s wrong?”
Lydia found the voice that had deserted her only a moment ago. “It’s Aunt Bertha. She’s dead.” As she pronounced the words for the first time, her composure crumbled, and she began to sob. Even though she knew in her mind that Aunt Bertha was gone, somehow hearing herself say it made the fact real. Aunt Bertha was dead, and Lydia would not see her again this side of heaven. Oh, how was she going to bear that?
Instinctively, Travis opened his arms to embrace Lydia.
“We knew her heart was weak,” he said softly as he stroked Lydia’s back in an attempt to comfort her. “The party yesterday must have been more of a strain than we realized. Still, you saw how happy she was. It’s the kind of passing she would have wanted. Think about it, Lydia. She went to sleep happy and never woke up. It was a peaceful end.”
If only that were true! Lydia shook her head. “Something’s wrong, Travis. I don’t know what happened, but Aunt Bertha’s body is so swollen I almost didn’t recognize her.”
Lydia shuddered at the memory. Aunt Bertha’s face was contorted in a parody of a smile, and her body . . . Lydia didn’t want to think of the swollen flesh.
Two sets of footsteps told Lydia that Opal and Edgar had heard her pounding on the door and had come to see what was happening. She stepped away from Travis, not wanting to leave the comfort of his arms but knowing there were things that had to be done. Death, particularly a death like this, involved others.
“It’s Aunt Bertha,” Travis told Opal and Edgar. “She died last night, and Lydia’s worried about the cause of death. That means we need Doc Harrington. I can only do so much as sheriff. Doc’s the one who investigates deaths.” Travis turned toward Opal. “Will you go back to the house with Lydia? I’ll bring the doctor. If anything else comes up, you’re in charge, Edgar.”
Lydia crossed her arms and held them close to her body, trying to still the tremors that coursed through her. This couldn’t be happening, and yet it was.
Opal touched Lydia’s hand. “We should go. It won’t take Travis long to get the doctor. Mrs. Henderson would want you to be there.”
But Mrs. Henderson was beyond caring what happened in her home. Lydia shuddered again as she followed Opal out the door. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without her. She was my friend, my mother, and my grandmother all in one. And now she’s gone.”
Opal had no answer.
When the doctor arrived, Lydia understood why Catherine did not trust him. Lydia had met him only a few times, once when he was leaving church, another time when they’d passed on the street, and yesterday when he’d made a brief appearance at the engagement party. Though he’d been cordial on those occasions, today he strutted around the house as if he owned it before demanding to see “the body” as he referred to it.
Lydia bristled at his tone, anger helping to mute her grief. Did the man have no common decency? And then she noticed his hands. He was a doctor, and yet there was dirt beneath his fingernails. Aunt Bertha would have handed him a bar of soap and a brush and insisted he clean them. Though Lydia was tempted to do precisely that, she knew from Catherine’s stories that the doctor would not comply. The sooner he was gone, the better.
Lydia led the way up the stairs and into Aunt Bertha’s room, grateful that Travis was with them. He’d ensure that Doc treated Aunt Bertha with dignity.
“Harrumph!”
Lydia had no idea what the doctor meant by that. He stood in the doorway for a moment, his eyes scanning the room as if he were taking inventory. With a quick nod, he strode to the bed and yanked the blankets from Aunt Bertha’s body. If he was surprised by the state of her body, he said nothing, merely stared at it for a few seconds.
“Was she taking digitalis?” he demanded.
Though Travis stood by her side, it was Lydia to whom the question was addressed and Lydia who answered. “Yes.”
Doc Harrington nodded. “That’s what killed her. She took too much. That’s why there’s all that swelling.”
The doctor might think he knew what had happened, but he was wrong. “That’s not possible,” Lydia told him. “I gave her the normal amount last night.” Warner had impressed on both of them the importance of the proper dosage, telling them that even a slight increase in the quantity could be fatal. That was why Lydia measured the powder so carefully before she dissolved it in water.
Doc Harrington glared at Lydia, obviously angered by her daring to challenge him. “Look, missy, the proof is there. She took more than she should have.”
Lydia shook her head again. “I told you, that’s not possible. We ran out of digitalis last night. With all the excitement of the party, I forgot to get a new supply. I was planning to ask Warner for more this morning.”
The doctor was not convinced. “You can say what you want, missy, but I know what I see. Bertha Henderson died of an overdose of digitalis.”
Without asking permission, he strode to her bureau and began opening drawers, rifling through the contents. Lydia took a deep breath, trying not to shout her horror at the thought that this man was pawing through Aunt Bertha’s belongings with his dirty fingers.
“What are you doing?” Travis asked.
“Looking for where she had it stashed.”
Travis took three steps and laid his hand on the doctor’s shoulder, pulling him away from the bureau. “Lydi
a’s already told you Aunt Bertha didn’t have any more digitalis. Even if she had, she wouldn’t have taken too much of it. She knew how dangerous it was.”
Doc Harrington gave Travis a look that said as clearly as words that he was mistaken. “If the pain gets bad enough, people will do anything to stop it.”
“Not Aunt Bertha.” Lydia was as certain of that as she was of anything in her life. “She wouldn’t have taken a chance of dying.”
“So you say.” The doctor shook off Travis’s hand and moved to the bedside, where a box from Cimarron Sweets lay on top of Aunt Bertha’s Bible. He opened the box, sniffed, then spun around, an expression that looked almost like glee lighting his face.
“You’re right, missy. Mrs. Henderson didn’t kill herself, but her death was no accident. This candy has digitalis in it.” He held the open box under Travis’s nose. “Smell it. The chocolate coating almost hides it, but if you take a deep breath, you can smell something sour. That’s digitalis.”
Doc Harrington closed the box and handed it to Travis. “There’s only one person in this town who makes candy like this. It looks to me like your fiancée is a murderer.”
28
You’re not going to arrest her, are you?”
Travis ushered the distraught woman into his home. It wasn’t yet noon, and this was the second time a woman had pounded on his door.
“Surely you know Lydia would never harm Aunt Bertha,” Catherine declared as she stepped inside. “Doc Harrington is an old fool. He knows nothing.”
Travis wondered how Catherine had heard the news. He had planned to visit each of the family members, telling them of Aunt Bertha’s passing, but it appeared that someone had already begun spreading the story.
Shaking his head, Travis offered Catherine a chair. With her color as high as it was, she looked as if she might keel over any moment. “Doc’s right about the digitalis poisoning,” he told Catherine. “I asked Warner, and he confirmed that swelling is a symptom, and when he sniffed the candy, he said that’s what digitalis smells like in large doses.”
Travis had confiscated the box of candy and had it locked in the small safe he kept in the sheriff’s office. As much as he hated the fact that it pointed toward Lydia, he had to keep evidence secure.
“Lydia didn’t do it,” Catherine insisted.
“I know that, and you know that. That’s why I don’t want to put Lydia in jail, despite what the doctor says. But I have to do something. Until I discover who poisoned that candy and left it in Aunt Bertha’s room, I have no choice but to close Lydia’s store and insist that she never be alone. I can’t risk anyone else in town being harmed.”
Furrows formed between Catherine’s eyes. “I can stay with Lydia if that will help, but I’m still puzzled by the murder. It makes no sense. Everyone liked Aunt Bertha. Why would anyone kill her?”
Travis was equally perplexed. “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” The other crimes he’d been investigating were serious, but this one hit too close to home. Not only had someone poisoned his favorite aunt, but the same someone had gone to great lengths to frame Lydia. This was one crime Travis had to solve . . . quickly.
Lydia took a deep breath and smoothed the skirt of her mourning gown, wishing she could settle her thoughts as easily as she had pressed the wrinkles from the navy blue gown she’d found in the attic. Though Catherine had offered her one of her black gowns, Lydia had refused. Since Aunt Bertha had been adamant about her loved ones not wearing black, Lydia would respect her wishes. The dark blue was somber enough to match her mood without being black.
Death was never easy, but sudden, senseless death was the worst. It had been two days since Lydia had discovered Aunt Bertha’s lifeless body, two days in which she’d struggled to believe it was true. Though the uncontrollable sobs that had wracked her initially had subsided, Lydia now felt as if the foundation of her life had disappeared.
Everything had changed. Though she was still living in Aunt Bertha’s house, nothing else was the same. Instead of the wonderfully kind woman who’d offered her a home, it was Catherine who now lived with her, since Travis insisted she not be alone. Instead of having a prosperous business on Main Street, Lydia now had a shuttered store. Instead of being welcomed as part of the family, she was now a pariah, a woman accused of murdering her benefactress.
Lydia was more grateful than she could express for Catherine’s company. Not only did Catherine continue to insist that no one who mattered could believe Lydia capable of poisoning Aunt Bertha, but she’d been a godsend, helping Lydia with the preparations for the funeral and the cold collation that would follow it. Though other members of the Whitfield and Henderson families had offered to take charge, muttering under their breaths that it was unseemly for Lydia to have any part in Aunt Bertha’s funeral, Catherine had insisted that she and Lydia would handle everything.
“You know what Aunt Bertha would have wanted better than they do,” she said quietly when Mary and Hilda Gray left, the frowns on their faces expressing their disapproval as clearly as their harrumphs. And so it had been Lydia who had chosen the flowers and candles that would help mask the smell of death, Lydia who’d selected the foods that would be offered to mourners after the funeral. And all the time it had felt wrong—so wrong—to have Aunt Bertha lying in a coffin in the same parlor that had been the site of such a happy event only a few days earlier.
As the hour for the funeral approached, the family began to gather. Catherine and Lydia had kept a vigil next to the coffin. Now they stood at the entrance to the parlor with Travis between them. Family had been invited to come an hour before the service began to pay their respects to the last member of the founding families.
“Why is she still here?” Charles Gray’s face flushed as he pointed at Lydia, then turned his ire on Travis. “Don’t you have any sense? Why would you let Aunt Bertha’s murderer stay here?”
Keeping her hand on her husband’s arm, Mary nodded. Though she said nothing, it was clear she shared Charles’s views.
This was what Lydia had known would happen when Doc Harrington declared that some of her candies had been poisoned. She was once again the outsider.
“Lydia did not kill her.” Travis’s voice was steely as he laid a hand on the small of Lydia’s back to support her. “She’s here because Aunt Bertha considered her the granddaughter she never had.”
When they’d returned from Ladreville, both Lydia and Travis had agreed there was no reason for anyone in Cimarron Creek to know why Joan had left town so many years ago and that Bertha Henderson did in fact have a granddaughter. Nothing good would come from those revelations.
Charles sniffed. “I thought you were a sensible man, Travis, but it’s clear you’ve had your head turned by a pretty face. The town should never have made you sheriff.”
“Watch what you say about my son.”
Lydia felt Travis’s surprise and knew her own was reflected on her face. While they’d both focused on Charles and his accusations, another man had entered the house.
“Pa!” Travis spun around and clapped his father on the shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I could have met your coach.”
Lydia knew Travis had sent his father a telegram, telling him of his aunt’s death. She also knew he hadn’t expected a response. “I doubt anything would bring him back here,” Travis had said when he returned from sending the message. Yet here he was.
Travis’s father shrugged. “I figured you had other things to do. Obviously, I was right about that. Now, Charles, it appears you owe my son and his bride-to-be an apology.”
“You won’t catch me apologizing for speaking the truth.” Charles wrapped his arm around his wife and led her from the house.
“Good riddance.” Travis’s father shot an angry look at the departing couple. “Mark my words, they’ll be back for the funeral, but only because people would talk if they weren’t here.” He turned to Travis and Lydia. “I may have played poker with him, but I
never did like Charles. I always figured you shouldn’t trust a man who played favorites with his sons the way he did. That’s not right. He ought to have treated them the same, just the way I did you and Dorcas, but that’s water under the bridge now.”
Lydia looked into the parlor, where other members of the family had taken their seats. If they’d overheard the outburst—and she saw no way they could not have heard it—they gave no sign.
“Can I offer you something to eat?” She addressed Travis’s father. “I remember how hungry and thirsty I was after riding on the stagecoach.”
The older man nodded. “Just make sure there’s no poisoned candy on my plate.”
Lydia felt the blood drain from her face. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Abe Whitfield had been nothing if not honest about his dislike of her, but surely that was no reason for such cruelty.
“Pa!” Travis glared at his father.
“Can’t a man joke?”
“Not about that. There are too many people in town who believe Lydia was responsible.”
“Then they’re fools. Anyone with an ounce of brains would know that. Lydia had no reason to kill Aunt Bertha. The woman gave her food and shelter. Where’s she going to live now?”
That was one worry Lydia did not have, since Catherine had already offered her home to Lydia until she and Travis married. It must be her imagination that Travis seemed uneasy with the question.
Would this day never end? It was more uncomfortable than any funeral Travis had ever attended. Sorrow mingled with suspicion, and in most cases it appeared that suspicion outweighed regret that the last of the first generation was gone. There’d been no mistaking the pointed looks that had been directed at Lydia, the whispers that had ceased when she moved close enough to overhear them. She must have known what was happening, and yet she’d given no sign, simply walked with quiet dignity to the front row seat that both Travis and Catherine had insisted she take.
Her apparent composure hadn’t surprised Travis. He’d known Lydia had an inner strength that was greater than she realized. What had surprised—shocked might be a more accurate word—him was Pa’s defense of Lydia. The rest of the town, with the notable exception of Catherine, Edgar, and Opal, seemed ready to believe the worst of Lydia, but Pa had stood by her side during the wake, taken the seat next to her during the service, then escorted her to the cemetery. This was a side of Pa Travis hadn’t seen since Ma died: a kinder, gentler man. The change could be temporary. In fact, it probably was, given Pa’s hatred of all Northerners, but Travis hoped it would last.