Fatal as a Fallen Woman (26 page)

"Lie back, now," he told his patient, "and try to get some sleep. You've had a rough day."

"Fine advice from a doctor!" she exclaimed, glaring at him. "I always sleep sitting up."

"Why?" he asked in astonishment, exchanging a puzzled glance with Diana.

"To prevent tuberculosis, of course. What do they teach you in those doctor schools?"

"Obviously not enough." Ben forced a smile. It wouldn't do her any harm to sleep upright. Unfortunately, it wouldn't do her any good, either.

He shooed Diana and Jane out of the room ahead of him, leaving Nellie alone to recuperate.

They gathered below, in a large parlor on the first floor. It was dominated by a square rosewood piano. Steel engravings of Landseer's "Deer Stalking in the Highlands" and "Bringing Home the Buck" decorated one wall.

"We need to talk about what happened," Ben said. "Whether it was a deliberate attempt to harm any of you or not, it should be reported to the sheriff."

"Of course it was deliberate," Maryam snapped. "Katie'll tell you."

Diana caught Ben's arm and he fell silent. She was right. She knew these people and he did not. They'd answer her questions more easily, and in greater detail, than they'd respond to his.

"Where is Katie?" she asked.

A redhead rushed in, out of breath and apologetic. "Sorry. Have you seen the outhouse? It's a wonder. Furnished with soft wrappings from peach crates instead of catalog pages. And it's surrounded by larkspur trained onto lattice work."

"Have a seat, Katie. We were about to discuss those gunshots." Diana gestured toward the only open space, an end of the horsehair sofa.

Katie wrinkled her nose. "No thanks. I hate horsehair. Slippery stuff. And once you do get a good seat, you get stabbed in the rump for your trouble." She settled her back against the doorframe instead.

Ben had to agree with her assessment. He'd never understood why the upholstery was so popular. There were always hairs poking upright, sharp as porcupine quills. He'd supposed women had some protection, what with all the skirts and crinolines, but Katie and the others seemed to prefer thin fabrics. He could understand how that would present a problem for them.

Diana rapped on a marble table top for attention. "Who was with Nellie when she was hit?" she asked when they quieted down.

It was the redhead who answered. "I was. And Chastity."

A dark-eyed, full-figured young woman, who sat tailor-fashion on the Brussels carpet in front of the horsehair sofa, waggled her fingers at them but said nothing. For a moment, she reminded Ben of Pearl Adams, but the resemblance was only superficial. Pearl was much more delicate and refined.

"All right, Katie," Diana said. "What happened?"

"We just went for a walk. Didn't hurt no one." Her lips formed into a pout. "We went to the mercantile and bought penny candy."

"That old woman didn't like it," Chastity piped up.

Katie chucked. "Turns out she was a minister's wife."

"Scandalized, she was." Chastity ventured a tentative smile.

"Somehow I don't think she's the one who shot at you." Diana tapped one finger against her chin as she thought over what they'd said.

Ben could tell she didn't like it that Nellie'd had another close call, but there didn't seem to be any connection to the incident in Denver.

"No one saw anything," the professor said. "No one knows anything to tell the sheriff. No sense in bothering him."

The others seemed in agreement on that. None of them trusted the law.

"Did anyone try to keep you from moving into the Alhambra?" Diana asked.

Maryam snorted, but it was the professor who answered first. "The place had been closed up for years."

"I heard Matt Hastings shut it down and left Torrence for good the same week Timberline Torrence married Miranda."

"That was four years ago," Diana said in amazement.

"Looked like it had been that long," the professor said. "We spent most of our time just trying to make it habitable." He shrugged. "We didn't have a chance to make any enemies."

"Well," Diana said, "I don't suppose there's much point to sending for the sheriff tonight. But since we don't know who fired those shots, we would all do well to stay in this evening."

"Too late," Maryam said with a sardonic smile. "Jane's already flown the coop."

"I'm sure she's only gone to visit Mr. Kent. He'll look out for her." The look Diana gave the cold-eyed brunette would have silenced most people, but Maryam seemed to delight in causing dissension.

"Will he? I'm thinking she's in for a surprise."

"What do you mean, Maryam?"

"Only what everyone knows—Alan Kent's got his sights set on the widow Torrence." With that she picked up a stereoptican and pretended great interest in the selection of scenes available. "Oooh, Ausable Chasm!"

A few of the girls gathered around her, wanting a look, although this was a pastime better suited to a sunny afternoon. The professor, after a glance at Diana to make sure she was through with her "meeting," took a seat at the piano and began to play "Sylvan Echoes."

Diana looked at Ben. "And the evening's entertainment begins."

"Not quite the usual, I trust?"

She grinned at him. "Not with three or four women to a room."

He choked on a laugh and, realizing how her words might have been interpreted, Diana's face flamed.

"Dreadful man!" She smacked him, hard, on his upper arm, but there was love in her eyes as she gazed up at him.

"I don't suppose I could persuade you to leave Torrence on the early morning train?" he asked.

"Not even if everyone came with us. There are answers here. I'm certain of it."

"And if whoever shot at Nellie tries for you?"

She pursed her lips. "It must have been an accident. Some hothead shooting in the air. Because if he'd meant to kill Nellie, surely she'd be dead."

"You think it was an accident, not a warning?"

Just the hint of a smile played around her mouth. "Well, if it was the latter, then that means someone thinks I'm getting close to the truth. And since Matt Hastings is still in Denver, that only leaves Miranda."

"She could be dangerous, Diana."

"If she killed my father, then I cannot let fear for my own safety keep me from discovering evidence of it. Indeed, if she attacks me, wouldn't that prove I've been right about her all along?"

"Diana—"

But she wasn't listening. "Tomorrow we will visit my dear stepmother, just as I planned."

"You think she killed your father and yet you walk into her parlor? Does the expression 'lamb to slaughter' mean anything to you?"

"I'll have you with me for protection. If it becomes necessary, you can overpower her."

He winced at this display of overconfidence. He didn't have a clue why anyone would have tried to harm Nellie, but if it had been Miranda or one of her henchmen who'd shot at that young woman, then they weren't just dealing with someone who'd seized a knife in a fit of passion and killed a cheating spouse.

"We'll make a production of the visit," he said. "Rent a buggy from the livery stable. Make sure as many people as possible see us arrive there. But there is nothing more frightening than a woman with a gun, especially if she's scared, too. There's no way to predict what she'll do if you come right out and accuse her of murder."

"I only want to ask her a few questions," Diana insisted. "That's all I've ever wanted from her. But this time I don't intend to leave the house until I have answers."

The stubborn tilt of her jaw warned him it was useless to argue. Short of binding and gagging her, stuffing her in a trunk, and loading it onto the train in the morning, the only thing he could do was go along with her plan and hope her confidence in him was not misplaced.

Chapter Thirteen

Diana and Ben went together to the house in which she'd lived for almost three years. The front hall was as she remembered it, furnished with a handsome French plate mirror flanked by an inexpensive blue and white Japanese umbrella jar and an oak hat stand. A large photograph of the mountains hung in a plain wood frame on the wall. What was different, as in the Denver house, was the pervasive smell of frangipani. It overpowered the more delicate scent from a vase holding a cluster of evergreen cuttings.

Elmira's salon, now Miranda's, consisted of two rooms thrown into one by means of an arch. In Elmira's time, there had been so many doilies and antimacassars scattered about that the crocheted pieces were the first thing to catch the eye. Now there were distractions everywhere, from the design of hearts woven into the border of the large rug to an imported French candelabra.

The arch was defined by a frieze of plaques against a background of pale green crêpe drapery, while the rooms themselves had been hung with pictures from baseboard to ceiling. In one corner stood a terra cotta bust of Miranda, arranged so that it was reflected in the Venetian mirror.

Miranda herself sat enthroned in the midst of all this clutter, a vision in lavender framed by the French blue brocade of her chair. A bell pull was near at hand, as if she expected trouble. Diana imagined that her henchman waited in the basement kitchen, near an annunciator just like the one in the Denver house, where arrows indicated the source of any given bell.

When Martha showed them in, Miranda did not get up to greet them, but she looked resigned to dealing with Diana again. "Did you follow me here?"

"Not really," Diana said. "May I present my future husband, Dr. Benjamin Northcote."

That did startle the other woman. "I thought you were going to marry Matt Hastings."

"So did he, apparently." Without being invited, Diana perched on the end of a matching sofa and inclined her upper body toward Miranda so that she could watch the other woman's face. "Matt isn't the man I thought he was, Miranda. I think you came to see the same thing."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you? Matt was nothing to you?"

"That's right. A neighbor. Unimportant. Your father thought him beneath notice."

"My father cheated him. He came close to ruining Matt financially."

"That's no concern of mine."

Diana could feel her temper building, but Ben's hand on her shoulder stopped her from hasty words she'd later regret.

"Mrs. Torrence," he said in that remarkable voice of his. "Mrs. Spaulding has a natural desire to know what really happened to her father. She does not believe her mother killed him. What harm in letting her ask a few questions?"

Miranda wavered, plainly charmed. Diana said nothing, but her teeth were clenched so tightly that her jaw ached.

"She has been wondering," Ben continued, "if there might be some link between Mr. Torrence's murder and the death of her husband back in '85. Mr. Spaulding died shortly after a meeting with your husband, Mrs. Torrence. Shortly after receiving a rather large sum of money from him."

"I know nothing about that." The denial came quickly, but it was plain Miranda was intrigued by this news.

"The two deaths may be unconnected, but there are certain . . . circumstances that lead us to believe otherwise."

The wariness came back into Miranda's eyes. Diana wasn't surprised. Why should her stepmother trust her? And Miranda had doubtless encountered more than her share of charming men before, most of them duplicitous.

"I am no threat to you, Miranda," Diana said, pleased to find her voice even again. "To convince you of that, I'm willing to sign a paper saying I'll never make any claim to Torrence money. Getting it away from you was Matt's plan, not mine."

"What do you want in return?"

"Your cooperation. Let me go through Father's papers in this house and in the house in Denver. There may be some record of the money he gave Evan, my late husband. And there may be some clue the police overlooked in finding his killer."

"The police never asked to see anything," Miranda informed them. "They are certain Elmira killed him." When Diana bristled, she held up a hand, forestalling a diatribe against the local constabulary. "Never mind. I can see you believe in her innocence. You'll forgive me if I don't share your opinion."

"It seems to me you had more reason to kill him than my mother did." The words were out before Diana could stop them. She hadn't mean to blurt an accusation, but there was something about Miranda that eroded her self-control.

Miranda shot angrily to her feet. "How dare you!"

Diana gave the gown Miranda wore a pointed look. "You should be in mourning black. Most widows wait at least two years before switching to half-mourning, but apparently you did not think it necessary." She didn't herself, but she wasn't about to tell Miranda that. "You weren't faithful to him. He may have been about to replace you."

"Diana—"

She waved off Ben's protest. Tact was not going to get them anywhere with a woman like this one. "You're the one who ended up with all his money, Miranda. What better motive for murder?"

"I put up with him for four years. I earned every penny! And no, I don't regret his passing. But I didn't kill him. I can prove it if I have to, but until someone in authority asks me where I was and who I was with that night, I've no intention of explaining myself." Fists clenched at her sides, Miranda glared down at the still-seated Diana.

The strident voice grated on Diana's nerves, but to her dismay she realized she believed Miranda's heated denial. She rose slowly, accepting Ben's hand to help her to her feet and to lend moral support. "Let me try to find out who did kill him, then."

Miranda drew in one deep breath, then another. She looked at Ben, then back to Diana. "You're going to marry him?"

"When things are settled here, we'll go back East. You'll never see me again."

"I want that paper signed first."

"Agreed."

It took only a few minutes to write the document. Once Diana had signed it, with Ben and Martha acting as witnesses, Miranda retired to her bedchamber and left them to their search. Her two bodyguards, the man and the boy, lurked in the background but did not interfere.