Fatal as a Fallen Woman (4 page)

"Broadway," she told the porter. The Torrence mansion was only a few doors away from the house Augusta Tabor had kept after divorcing her cheating spouse for carrying on with a woman with the unlikely name of "Baby" Doe.

The porter led Diana past the remaining touters and a line of surreys, wagons, and gleaming black six-passenger hackneys to a gig hitched to a sturdy, broad-backed bay mare. Accustomed to the Hansoms and Gurneys that plied their trade on New York City streets, Diana hesitated.

"Irish Harry at your service, ma'am," the driver said. He didn't sound at all Irish, though he did look a bit like a leprechaun.

A woman traveling alone had to be careful who she trusted. Diana eyed Harry. He grinned at her around a toothpick and squinted to see how much she tipped the porter.

"Where to?" he asked when she was settled in the gig along with her luggage.

Diana gave him the address. His brows lifted and a speculative look came into his eyes. "The Torrence house? I suppose you've heard about the murder."

"I suppose everyone has," she retorted, and resisted an urge to ask what her driver knew about Elmira Torrence's current status. She did not want to hear bad news from a complete stranger. She'd find out soon enough. Even if her mother was under arrest, there would be servants in residence.

Diana expected Dorcas was still the Torrence cook. She'd been too much of a "treasure" for Diana's mother to let her go under any circumstances. And perhaps old Morris would be there, too. He'd done odd jobs for the family for as long as Diana could remember, even before her father struck it rich. She was sure she could persuade Dorcas or Morris to let her stay at the house. She wasn't so certain what her mother's reaction would be.

"I'll have you there in a jiffy," Irish Harry said. He clucked to the horse and they were off, splashing a hapless pedestrian as the gig's wheels went through a puddle. "Sprinkling tankers leave those," he commented. "City uses water to keep the dust down." The paving was the same hard gravel and clay Diana remembered.

On Seventeenth Street, one of Denver's busiest thoroughfares, they were swallowed up by heavy traffic. Landaus, traps, and dogcarts vied for space with dray wagons and men on horseback, all competing with the horse-drawn cars of the Denver Tramway Company.

Irish Harry spat in the general direction of the tracks and muttered, "electric street railway," in a tone of disgust.

He glanced at Diana. "Be glad they're back to four-legged power," he told her. "Up till last year the tracks had underground power conduits. Trouble was, folks trying to cross the street got shocks if they stepped on the mid-track slotway and one of the rails at the same time. So did horses. Caused a lot of rearing and bolting before they abandoned the system. I hear they're putting in new underground cable traction now. Supposed to work this time. Hah!"

Tired as she was, Diana could not fail to notice how much Denver had grown since her last visit. There had been a spate of new building along the fourteen blocks that separated Union Station from Broadway, still mostly of orange-red brick, but here and there a structure of gray limestone rose above the rest.

The smell had not improved, she thought. The stench from the South Platte was faint but pervasive. People living here got used to it after awhile.

Diana sincerely hoped she wouldn't be staying in Denver that long.

When the gig turned onto Broadway, businesses quickly gave way to expensive private homes. Here there were more trees, mostly cottonwoods, planted in rows along sidewalks laid with large flagging stones. The trees were well irrigated. A steadily flowing stream bubbled along the gutters.

Diana's tension increased as they neared her old home. Her shoulders felt stiff, her chest tight. What had happened to her mother? Had she been arrested? Was she even now sitting in a jail cell awaiting trial? Or had the real killer been caught?

She prayed the crisis was past, that her trip here had been unnecessary, but by the time the big bay came to a halt, her hands were clenched tightly in her lap and she'd gnawed her lips until they were raw. She dabbed absently at her mouth with one hand, barely noticing the tiny bloodstain she left on her glove. Leaning forward, she fixed her eyes on the house that had once been her home. At first glance, it appeared unchanged.

With the narrow frontage typical of Denver houses, the Torrence mansion stretched back on its lot. The gate opened on wide, high steps leading to a front porch, which her father had called a piazza and her mother the veranda.

For an instant, Diana was catapulted back to the time she'd first seen the rugged rhyolite facade with its contrasting sections of smooth red sandstone. She'd been awed by the sheer size of the place, even before she discovered there were twenty rooms inside, each one decorated with fancy imported wallpaper. She recalled being particularly impressed by the steam heat and indoor plumbing. 

She'd been nine. After years of poverty, her miner father had struck silver in the mountains west of Denver. The first thing he'd done was commission an architect and build himself a house. The second was to hire tutors for his daughter. She was going to be a lady, he'd told her, whether she wanted to be or not.

"Will you be staying here, ma'am?" asked Irish Harry.

"Yes," she said with more confidence than she felt. "Please bring my bags to the porch." Mother would not turn her away. Nor, if Elmira Torrence was in jail, would her servants.

She tipped the hackman as generously as she could—she had not yet had an opportunity to cash Horatio Foxe's bank draft—and alighted from the gig, leaving her driver to transport her belongings. Chin thrust out and shoulders thrown back, she marched towards the ornate front door with its glittering glass knob.

Out of the corner of one eye, Diana caught sight of a lawn decoration that had not been there six years earlier. Surprised, she stumbled, then stopped to take a closer look. The bronze statue represented a deer, and it was not the only one. Several more, together with a half dozen bronze staghounds, stood scattered among the flower beds. Diana frowned, unable to imagine the mother she remembered choosing such rustic ornaments.

Then again, she didn't suppose she'd ever really known either of her parents. At fourteen, she'd been sent away to finishing school. At eighteen, she'd married Evan. For all Diana knew, her mother had redecorated the entire house with a deer and dogs motif.

Turning her attention back to the door, she rang the bell. The black ribbon fastened to it forcibly reminded her of why she'd come. Her father was dead. He'd been murdered.

Diana had to fist her hands to stop them from shaking. A long moment passed during which she feared she was about to lose whatever thin veneer of composure she had left. It was the sound of the latch being lifted that brought her back from the brink.

A young maidservant with coffee-colored skin answered the door.

"Yes, mum?" Her black cloth dress was very plain, but over it she wore a froth of an apron ruffled with lace.

"I am Mrs. Spaulding," Diana said. "William Torrence was my father."

The girl, who had not been in the family's employ when Diana had last visited this house, looked confused. "I expect you'll be wanting to see Mrs. Torrence, then," she said after a moment. "You'd best come in."

"Mrs. Torrence is at home?" Diana's heart leapt. She had scarcely dared hope her mother would be able to avoid arrest. In the dispatch, the chief of police had sounded so certain he had the right suspect.

"Yes, mum," the maid said, stepping back to allow Diana to enter.

Relief, and the trepidation that followed hard on its heels, left her feeling a trifle lightheaded. The reunion she both dreaded and longed for was upon her and she had no idea if she would be welcomed with open arms or sent away. When she turned too swiftly to pass through a door to her left, her vision blurred. She tripped over the edge of the carpet, clumsy as a newborn foal.

"If you'll wait here, mum?" Regarding her warily, the maidservant backed out of the room.

"Er, yes. Yes, of course," Diana murmured.

Left alone in the sitting room, her first thought was that she was glad the girl hadn't shown her into the more formal parlor, the scene of her final confrontation with her father. She did not want to revisit that memory just yet.

She drew in a deep, steadying breath. This was no time to behave like a weak and helpless female. She was a strong, independent woman, self-sufficient, well-traveled, and intelligent. Diana smiled a little at the egotism of that assessment, but it would not do to show a lack of self-confidence before her formidable mother.

Calmer now, she idly studied her surroundings while she waited for the coming confrontation. The fine oriental rug on the floor of the sitting room was the same one she remembered, but the golden oak woodwork had dulled with time and lack of attention. Diana frowned, finding that strange. Her mother had always been a great one for dusting and polishing.

The heavy brocade drapes and the pressed
papier mâché
wallpaper were new. So was the rubber plant given place of honor in the bay window. Its shiny green leaves also needed dusting.

Unfamiliar furniture—chairs, footstools, and occasional tables—was much more ornate than the pieces that had previously been in place, and there was a great deal more of it crammed into the room. The pedestal that had once held a small marble statue, a tasteful nude, now displayed a plaster cast replica of the Venus de Milo with an eight-day clock in her midsection.

Diana was not surprised to see that electricity had been installed. Her father had always liked to be up-to-date. He'd insisted upon having a telephone as soon as service became available, even though there'd been few others here in Denver with whom he could converse.

She turned in a slow circle, seeking other changes, and froze when she noticed the painting above the mantel. Her hard-won self-control faltered and a knot of anxiety settled in the pit of her stomach. That spot should have been filled with a rather stern-looking likeness of Elmira Torrence. Now it contained the portrait of a young, attractive blonde with amber eyes, delicate facial features, and a figure remarkably similar to that of the plaster statue.

The soft sound of wood brushing against wood made Diana turn towards the pocket doors that led from the dining room. The woman in the portrait stepped through.

"Mrs. Spaulding?" she inquired in a soft, pleasantly-modulated voice. Barely five feet tall, she was what gentlemen called a "pocket Venus." Her small, shapely form was clad all in black, her skirt and waist trimmed with folds of English crepe, but a cluster of yellow ringlets tumbled around her face, brushing against pink-tinged cheeks.

"I am Diana Spaulding," Diana agreed, "but I'm afraid you have the advantage of me."

"I am Miranda Torrence," the young woman said. Silk swished as she approached. She was, at most, a year or two older than Diana. "Mrs. William Torrence."

"M-m-mrs. Torrence?" Diana felt the color drain out of her face. The possibility that her father had remarried had never occurred to her, in spite of Senator Tabor and his "Baby" Doe, let alone that he'd have brought his new bride to live in Elmira Torrence's house.

"I didn't know," she stammered. "I expected . . . someone else."

"Elmira, I suppose?" Even with an expression of extreme vexation on her face, Miranda Torrence managed to look attractive.

"Er, yes."

"Elmira Torrence left this house four years ago when William divorced her and married me."

Diana heard what Miranda said, but it made no sense to her. Her
father
had sued for divorce? But that meant he must have charged her
mother
with adultery. Impossible!

Miranda's eyes narrowed. "Just who are you, Mrs. Spaulding?"

Diana had to swallow several times before she could speak. "I told your maid. William Torrence was my father."

"That girl!" Exasperated, Miranda planted her hands on her hips and glared at Diana. "One cannot find well-trained servants these days. She should have known not to let you in."

"Were you expecting me?"

"Why should I be?"

"Because my father died?"

Miranda waved a dismissive hand. "He'd cut you off. Years ago. The lawyers told me so."

"The
lawyers
did?"

Tiny frown lines formed around her mouth. "William never spoke of you, except to warn me once that strangers tend to come out of the woodwork any time there's an inheritance to be claimed. It doesn't matter. You don't get a thing. He may once have intended to leave you something, but he didn't. I get it all. Every penny. I've seen the will."

"He kept his promises," Diana murmured. He'd even, it appeared, kept his vow never to speak her name again. She suppressed a sigh. "I have no claim on his fortune, nor do I want one. As you say, Father disowned me years ago. I only came to this house because I thought my mother still lived here. Since she plainly does not, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me where to find her?"

"If I knew that I'd be a happy woman! She killed William. Murdered him in cold blood."

"No. That's not possible." Diana took a step closer, desperate to convince the other woman that she must be wrong.

Miranda's eyes filled with sudden fear. "Stay away from me," she warned, and reached up to yank on the bell-pull used to summon servants.

Surprised by Miranda's reaction, Diana wasn't sure whether to apologize or pursue the advantage it gave her and try to appear even more threatening. With a sigh, she backed off. "Just tell me where to find my mother and I'll leave."

"I'll tell you where she ought to be. She
belongs
in jail, but she got away from that fool of a police chief."

"She's . . . she's a fugitive?"

"The U. S. Marshals are looking for her." Miranda jerked on the bell pull a second time, putting so much force into it that she almost tore the braided rope loose from the wall.

"My mother is a fugitive?" Diana repeated, stunned. Without thinking, she took another step in Miranda's direction, only to stop short when the other woman gave a shriek of alarm.