Fatal as a Fallen Woman (13 page)

"Nothing so fatal as a fallen woman," Diana muttered, but she managed to keep a look of salacious interest on her face.

Charlie's head bobbed up and down and his worried expression cleared. "Torrence met her here more than once. His former wife. I saw them together."

"He met her
here
? In this suite?"

"Well, no. Not that I know of. How would I? But once they were in the main dining room and another time in the ballroom and I heard them shouting at each other."

"When? How long before the murder?"

"Oh, well . . . it was sometime last year. Near Christmas. But there was always bad blood between them. She'd hated him for years."

Diana thought about asking just how long Charlie had known her parents but decided to keep her focus on the key issue. "Did she threaten his life?"

"She said she'd make him pay for the way he'd treated her."

Not the same thing at all, Diana thought, relieved. "Did you see Elmira Torrence here the night of the murder? Did anyone?"

"Well, she must have been here, mustn't she? She killed him."

"But how did the police decide she was the one who did it? Was there some evidence left here? Something of hers?
Did someone see her
?"

"When they went to her . . . er . . . place of business, they found clothes spattered with blood."

A
glove, Diana thought irritably. A single glove that might have belonged to anyone.
It made much more sense to believe some enemy of Elmira's had planted that glove in her suite. She had business rivals, witness the other madams. And then there was the mysterious Ed Leeves.

"If no one saw her in this hotel that night, how can you be so sure she's guilty?"

"Stands to reason," Charlie insisted. "She ran away, didn't she?"

Diana ground her back teeth together and fought to hold onto her temper. "Did the second Mrs. Torrence know her husband kept these rooms?"

Charlie blinked at her, as if taken aback by the unexpected question.

"Why come here rather than rent office space or use his lawyer's office? In fact, since Mr. Torrence was so wealthy, I find it odd he did not own a single building in Denver's business district."

"Whether he did or not, he liked to stay at the Windsor."

"He chose to do . . . business . . . here often?" Diana hoped a sugar-sweet tone would conceal her growing disgust. Had her father brought Miranda here when he was still married to Elmira?

"Business. Yes, that's it exactly." Charlie had his handkerchief out again and was patting his damp forehead. The nervous way his eyes darted from the grandfather clock to the door told her he was beginning to worry about accidental discovery almost as much as he feared her threat to expose him. She'd already kept him longer than the fifteen minutes she'd paid for. If he was thought to be shirking his responsibilities, even if he wasn't caught giving tours, dereliction of duty might cost him his job.

Diana regarded him in a silence so thick it vibrated, wondering if there was more he could tell her. Probably not. Whatever his reasons for hiding the identity of her father's mistress, he wasn't about to reveal her name to someone he thought was a reporter.

Diana's hands, which had started out primly folded in her lap, were tightly clenched. It took a concentrated effort to relax her grip, finger by finger. Flexing to restore circulation, she fixed Charlie with a stare that brooked no disobedience and demanded the one remaining thing he could do for her: "Take me to the maid who found the body."

Both the maid, an Irish girl named Maeve, and the elevator operator, proved cooperative after Charlie told them they
had
to answer her questions. Unfortunately, neither of them had anything to add to what she'd already learned. Sam, the elevator man, had been curious enough to talk to several other hotel employees who had been on duty the night of the murder. He was happy to relay the information that no one had seen anyone, not even William Torrence, go into William Torrence's suite. Nor had anyone been seen leaving. No one would admit to knowing anything about a mistress.

Diana left the Windsor on the Larimer Street side and walked back to the Elmira. It was only a short distance, and all along solid plank sidewalks that kept pedestrians out of the muddy street. In broad daylight the journey was safe enough on foot and could be accomplished in less time than it would take to flag down a hack and ride through traffic.

Diana had plenty to mull over on the short trek. First, that the so-called evidence could have been planted. Second that
someone
was lying. Bribed to, no doubt. And third, though she didn't like this train of thought, that if her mother had murdered her father and fled on foot, it wouldn't have taken her long to cover the distance back to her own hotel. Diana would not have liked to be out in this neighborhood alone at night, but after four years of living on Holladay Street, Elmira would have been accustomed to it. She
could
have killed William Torrence.

Diana felt reasonably certain her father
had
entertained a mistress in that suite at the Windsor Hotel. She might not have seen her father for six years and might have been away at school for four years before that, but she felt certain that some things did not alter.

A place her father had intended to use only for business would have been plain and practical. If he'd wanted a setting that would relax an associate, he'd have arranged to meet him for a meal in one of the private dining rooms offered by Denver's many restaurants. He'd splurged on the mansion to assure his own comfort and prestige and because such luxury was sure to please a wife. It followed that if he'd wanted to impress a mistress, he'd take a suite at the Windsor for their assignations.

Diana examined her logic, found it sound, and moved on to the obvious question—had William Torrence's mistress also been his murderer? Unlikely, she decided. Why slay a goose that was laying golden eggs? Murder
Miranda
, perhaps, in the hope of taking her place, but not Diana's father.

She stopped on the doorstep of the Elmira Hotel to look out over Holladay Street, so lost in thought that she was only dimly aware of the other buildings and the traffic passing by. The mystery woman might have been a witness to the murder. She might just as easily have been the reason for it.

Her existence had given someone besides Diana's mother an excellent motive for murder. The second wife who discovered she had a rival might well be driven to drastic measures, especially if she feared she was about to receive the same treatment as the first. It was not impossible. Diana had read somewhere only recently that three in every thousand marriages now ended with a judge's ruling, and that the highest incidence of divorces was in the western states. Besides, Miranda had been the one with most to gain if her husband died.

Diana felt a rush of triumph as she considered the conclusion she'd reached. She was sure she was right. Miranda had to be the one who'd murdered William Torrence.

Now all Diana had to do was prove it.

Chapter Seven

A brick wall marked the property line between Matt Hastings's house and the Torrence mansion. The long, narrow lots made up for their lack of frontage with space at the back for gardens and other plantings. Matt's mother had put in apple trees. Diana remembered scaling the wall as a child to climb one and gorge herself on the fruit.

It was too early in the season yet for blossoms, but the trees looked as if they were beginning to bud. If the present warm spell continued, color and scent would soon burst forth. Then again, this being Denver, there might well be another snowfall first.

Matt appeared to be an optimist. When Diana had unexpectedly arrived on his doorstep at three in the afternoon, he'd ordered Gilbert to bring tea out to them at the wrought iron table and chairs beneath a rose arbor. Gnarled brown branches twisted up the sides and over their heads, bare of all but thorns, but it would be a charming spot once blooms appeared.

"Lemon?" Matt asked. "Sugar?" The only fragrance in the garden came from the tea tray.

By rights, Diana should have offered to pour, but he seemed intent on playing the good host. "It's fine as it is. Is Dorcas still away?"

"Until tomorrow."

While Gilbert set out more trays, Diana searched for the right words to broach an awkward subject. The appearance of Miranda's maidservant in the yard next door provided the opening she'd hoped for.

"Have all the servants my mother employed been replaced?" She reached for one of the little cakes Gilbert had brought and smiled when she tasted cinnamon.

"I must confess I do not know. I don't pay attention to the domestic arrangements of the neighbors. Mother could have told you," he added after a moment.

While Diana and Matt watched, the maid attached a half dozen pillows to a line placed where a current of air would stir it and set to striking the pillows with a carpet beater. Each blow raised little puffs of dust.

"That man Miranda employs has a frightening aspect," Diana said. "Not that physical appearance necessarily reflects character, but there was meanness in his eyes." She shivered. "And the boy with him had a feral look about him."

"Bodyguard," Matt muttered, his distaste clear, "and his son, I believe. You should have seen the last one. He looked like a cross between a melodrama villain and an underworld thug. Carried two pistols hung on his hips and a wore permanent sneer on his face." At Diana's surprised glance, he flushed, then cleared his throat. "It seems I do notice some things about the neighbors."

"Did my father need an armed guard? Does Miranda?"

"The rich sometimes think they do."

"And the maid?" Diana shifted her gaze to Miranda's back yard. The young woman had finished her chore and was just disappearing into the house.

Matt obligingly squinted in that direction. "Well, she's new. The previous one was a redheaded Irish lass. Miranda seems to have considerable difficulty keeping female staff." 

"How new is this one? Since my father's death?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Diana." He watched her as he took another sip of tea. "Why this sudden interest in Miranda's servants? From what my mother used to say, it's next to impossible to hold onto a good housemaid. As soon as they're properly trained, they run off. Get married. Take another job. Sometimes they just disappear."

"My interest is in Miranda." She selected another cinnamon-flavored tea cake. "Tell me about my father's second wife, Matt. Who was Miranda Torrence before she married him?"

Matt frowned and returned his cup and saucer to the table, avoiding Diana's eyes. "The wedding took place in Torrence. That's where he met her. She was a Miss Chambers then."

"And you own a . . . business in Torrence. Or so I hear. You must know more than her maiden name."

He said nothing, but his reluctance was almost palpable.

"It's important, Matt."

"Why?" His eyes fixed on her as he waited for an explanation.

Diana drew in a deep, steadying breath and then told him what she'd learned during her visit to the Windsor Hotel. "Miranda had as much reason to kill Father as my mother did," she concluded.

"You think
Miranda
is a murderess?"

"That makes as much sense as accusing Mother of the crime."

"And just how do you intend to prove it? She says, or so I've heard, that she was home all that evening. Her servants will no doubt verify her claim."

"The servants we've just discussed?"

Diana wished she could interpret the blank expression that now hid Matt's thoughts from her. Did he believe her? Would he agree to help her?

"Perhaps you can locate the previous maid," Matt said, "but I wouldn't count on finding her."

A horrible thought crossed Diana's mind. Had Miranda disposed of a maidservant as well as a husband?  What if it had been her former maidservant William Torrence had meant to entertain in that hotel suite?

Diana quickly dismissed that notion, remembering the expense her father had gone to. He'd never have spent so much on a servant. But she could not eliminate the possibility that a girl working in the Torrence mansion might have known more about the activities of her betters than was good for her.

"Miranda could have had her bodyguard do her dirty work for her," she mused aloud.

"He'd have beaten your father up, or shot him. Torrence was stabbed. There was passion behind it."

"It was personal," Diana agreed. "That argues for my mother or Miranda or Father's mistress. I need your help, Matt. I doubt Miranda will talk to me, and I have no evidence substantial enough to take to the police. Not yet. But
you
could question her. And talk to her servants, past and present. One of them may know something about the woman who was with my father the night he died. There was someone there. Or expected. I'm sure of it."

He pondered this suggestion while finishing his tea and eating the last of the cakes. "Unless you can identify this hypothetical woman, you have no hope of proving Miranda had any reason to want her husband dead. And for all you know, your mystery mistress, if she exists at all, is respectable and married, someone in Denver society who doesn't want to be found."

 "Someone knows who she is and how to find her."

He looked as if he were about to argue, then glanced at her face and changed his mind. "All right, Diana. I will do what I can to help. I'll ask Gilbert to question Miranda's servants."

The words were the right ones, but Diana had the feeling he was only saying them to placate her. His attitude puzzled her. He seemed curiously inclined to defend Miranda Torrence.

She
was
pretty. Blonde. Shapely. Petite. Although Diana had never considered herself a particularly large female, she'd had felt like a giantess next to the other woman. Miranda was just the type to bring out protective instincts in a man.

"Walk with me, Diana?" Matt stood and offered her his hand. There was, she saw, a gravel path meandering through the apple trees. She did not remember that from her girlhood.