CHAPTER NINETEEN
M rs. McCarthy brought the limping detective to the front parlor where Leona had been sitting since a tense breakfast with her husband and Grandfather.
They’d told Gil story of Benedict’s arrest, the robbery, and then rescue by the warehouse nightwatchman.
Gil sat in stony silence as he listened.
Then he’d kissed her on the forehead with dry lips and thanked God neither of them was hurt or worse before heading out to his office.
He appeared much better, though a little tired.
Grandfather took his newspapers to the kitchen to sit with Mrs. McCarthy.
A knock on the door had announced the detective’s arrival.
She braced herself for questioning, which began after Mrs. McCarthy served him scones and a fresh cup of coffee.
“I hope you are feeling well despite last night’s experience?”
“I’m well,” she agreed, setting aside her empty cup. “As is my grandfather. Gil is not here if you wanted to speak to him.”
“I don’t.”
“And Grandfather is—”
“I am paying a call on you to reassure myself you are whole and unharmed.”
Taken aback, she said, “Well, thank you.” After a moment of silence she asked, “Why haven’t you found Henry Caldwell-Jones yet?”
He smiled benignly. “Because it’s not my case to solve. I can make inquiries, if you and your husband would like, but not until after the holiday.”
“Yes, please, thank you. We haven’t heard from anyone but....” But Helen, she didn’t say. “We haven’t heard from anyone.” She made a mental note to visit Helen before the holiday, bring her a gift and see how she fared. First Christmases without a loved one could be hard.
Silence drifted between them again.
“Where did you find such a lovely tree?” he asked conversationally.
“A German man sells them in a lot by the shops, and his wife sells some of the trinkets—those glass angels with the silver, you see them there?” Leona pointed them out, though it made her think of the Van Wyn children the night before, playing happily around the enormous tree in the formal dining room.
Of their father taken from them three days before Christmas and locked away.
“Now, one more question about your experience last night—”
“Which? When you arrested Benedict Van Wyn in front of his children?”
He grimaced and set down the cup and saucer. “That couldn’t be helped. If you saw the state of the Frosts, you would have understood.”
Well, she had seen them, hadn’t she? “Oran Montgomery said there was a ledger which very nearly points to him as their killer, but a ledger implies more than one person could be guilty.”
“Mrs. Gladney, I’ve spoken to many people like yourself who believe his arrest to be an injustice, believe me. And I’m not here to talk about Van Wyn.”
Well, this was going too far to call it injustice, and certainly even she hadn’t made up her own mind about Benedict’s guilt or innocence, but she had more pressing questions for the detective.
“Tell me, have you found Daphne’s murderer?
You won’t be charging Benedict with the murder of his grandmother, will you? ”
He narrowed his eyes. They were such an extraordinary blue. “I know it was you who convinced Mrs. Van Wyn’s maid to go to the newspapers with her so-called story—”
“Because my grandfather told you I did,” she huffed. “You couldn’t find her.”
“We spoke with her, eventually. She, like you, has nothing but guesswork.”
Winifred, at least, was aware of the meaning in Daphne’s disordered bed, pillow fallen uncharacteristically to the floor. “If you read the Frosts’ ledger, then you know they are thieves and blackmailers. Did you think they would stop at murder to avoid discovery?”
He sighed and leaned back in the chair. “I did not intend to have this particular conversation with you.”
She had too many questions, asked only in her journals. Leona found herself unable to let this opportunity pass. “If Benedict can’t speak for Daphne any longer, then who will? Doesn’t the ledger and the very manner of their murders suggest the Frosts murdered Daphne also?”
He leaned forward as if eager to answer despite his previous claim of not wanting to talk about it with her. “Then doesn’t this also put Benedict at the top of the list? That his motive is gaining freedom from his blackmailers?”
“Oh, dear, why at the top? What about Millie Frost?” She suspected he enjoyed verbal sparring, for he appeared engaged in the conversation fully now. As did she.
“Millie—? Oh, the missing wife. What about her?”
“Aren’t you looking for her? What if the killer took her with him? What if Millie and the killer planned this together? They left some of Daphne’s jewelry behind in order to—” She shut her mouth with an audible snap.
To implicate Benedict and throw everyone off their track while they escape. But it’s too late to take back what I’ve already given away.
“In order to what, Mrs. Gladney?” An edge entered his voice, and the hard pebbles of his eyes struck her again. “How did you know so much about this?”
She brushed at her forehead as if to banish the memory of her last sight of Iris and Jesper. “I must have read it somewhere or Oran told me.”
“We told no one about it. Do you know Millie Frost? Did you attend seances there?”
Lie and deny. Jack’s advice to her before she infiltrated the Confederate camp.
Leona put her best Stanbury effort into looking down her nose at the very idea.
“My name isn’t in the ledger, is it?” she asked archly.
“And I told you about the spiritualists first, didn’t I, after I spoke with Mrs. Rackham?
It stands to reason, at least according to the newspapers, the Frosts were preying on the rich and elderly. ”
“Did you know Millie Frost?” he repeated.
“Aren’t you looking for her?”
“Of course, we are. Well, enough.” He rose to his feet and adjusted the cane to take his weight. “You appear none the worse, Mrs. Gladney, for your experiences last night. I do enjoy speaking with you, but I must be on my way.”
“You had one more question for me, about last night?”
“I—I seem to have forgotten it, unfortunately.” Was Detective Gideon Day blushing? “Give my regards to your husband and grandfather, and compliments to your cook for the scones. They are quite lovely. I’ll see myself out.”
***
T HE MORNING OF CHRISTMAS Eve dawned bright and cold; Leona watched the stars wink out from the front stoop.
She’d lain beside her husband for a short time, but his body and spirit were so tight and angry, she’d fled to the divan.
Her grandfather had taken on lighting fireplaces, and the house was warming up when she stepped back in.
The tree in the front parlor glittered like a visiting fairy.
The cards strung across the hallway bobbed in one of the perpetual drafts.
In the deserted pantry, bread, rolls, cakes, and pies sat, cooked ahead of time by Mrs. McCarthy with instructions in a spidery, looping scrawl on a few sheets of paper.
Leona stuffed the turkey and got it into the oven.
She relished having a purpose. The vegetables to peel, the salad to toss.
Gil’s breakfast, too—sausages sizzled in the pan as the water began boiling to poach his eggs.
How she missed having more family around her, especially Ada.
If she’d lived, she might even be here today if she could bear to tear herself from her beloved mountains.
An artist like Grandmother Earl, she’d hiked to summits with her easel and paints to capture beautiful sunrises and sunsets.
She loved the clouds, painted great big skies like the one hanging in the upstairs parlor.
Grandfather wandered in with a handful of periodicals to read as he drank coffee and ate a breakfast consisting of bread and butter. She’d meant to tell him about her writing, as she’d almost promised Daphne, though it seemed ages since she last sat down with Ned and Zed.
Before she changed her mind, she turned to him. “Grandfather.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ve been writing something new.”
He smiled and put down the magazine. “About what, my dear?”
Leona sat across from him and reached out to search through the periodicals, sure she’d seen the familiar magazine.
Mrs. Drew came to mind, sitting at her own kitchen table to drink tea and work on her books.
Leona had stepped through her blood; the hems of her dress were so bloodied, she had to burn her dress.
He patted her hand, fallen inert to the table.“Leona?”
She gave herself a mental shake and pulled out the Brooklyn Illustrated Star from his pile, a copy from the last week in October.
“Here.” Paging through it, she stopped at the latest installment by John Barrington and turned it toward her grandfather.
“This is me. It’s not the usual reviews and essays. This is different.”
He peered at her over his spectacles, and a slow smile crossed his face. “I never would have guessed it. Well done, my dear. Well done.”
Her cheeks burned, but she had to return his smile.
“I’ve been keeping up with Ned and Zed religiously. I like them. Daphne—” His voice dropped. “She was sending the magazines. She didn’t say you were the authoress of these adventures, though.”
“That’s very like her.” Leona sat back in her chair, melancholy.
“To find a way to both keep a secret and to share for the love of it.” The tears brimmed over and rolled down her cheeks.
“I miss her so much.” She wiped them away and finished making up Gil’s plate for his late morning breakfast. Picking up the tray, she said, “Gil doesn’t know. About the stories.”
“No, I imagine this would lead to a conversation you’d prefer not to have with your husband. But before I leave, you and I must talk seriously about the future, my dear. However, we’ve time.” He turned his attention to the papers with a distracted air. “It can wait until after the holidays.”