No Mortal Reason (30 page)

“I stayed here awhile after she left. Thinking.” I got back to the hotel around two and caught hell from Myron for disappearing like that. There was a lot of work to be done. We were closing up for the season.”

“You didn’t see her again?”

Howd started to lean against a section of sagging railing but thought better of it. “No. I was working outside. She should have been inside. I . . . I don’t know if she was or not. The next day, after we knew she was gone, Tressa said something about her chores not being done, but that didn’t mean much. I am loath to speak ill of the dead, especially of a girl I was thinking of marrying, but Elly was, well, a slacker.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I was a damned fool, Diana. I look back now and I can’t think what I saw in her. She wasn’t half the woman Tressa is.”

He’d seen a pretty young woman paying flattering attention to an older man, Diana thought, but she wouldn’t hurt him for the world by saying so aloud. “It’s time I started asking more questions,” she said instead. “Someone must have seen Elly after she left here. Are you certain no one knew about the two of you?”

“We were careful. Unless she said something or—” He broke off, his face going a shade paler. “The locket. It’s distinctive. And it has my picture in it.”

“Uncle Howd, you’re talking as if knowing you’d given her a gift would be reason enough for someone to kill her. That doesn’t make sense.”

He just looked miserable.

“Who would have recognized the locket?” she prodded.

His voice was so low she almost missed it. “Tressa.”

Outraged, Diana was on her feet and across the gazebo in an instant. “Howard Grant, you’re a bigger fool than you think if you can suspect, for even an instant, that Tressa Ellington would kill someone.” That she’d added Mrs. Ellington to her list of suspects early on was irrelevant, Diana decided. She’d never seriously considered the older woman capable of murder.

“I knew she was in love with me back then,” he confessed. “But Elly . . . Elly took my breath away.”

“Tressa Ellington is
still
in love with you,” Diana said. She was quite certain she was correct. All the signs were there, particularly the way Tressa referred to Howd as an “old fool.” “And I think you’ve been in love with her for a long time now. Why don’t you tell her, Uncle Howd? There’s no reason for either one of you to be alone anymore.”

A few minutes later, Diana left him alone in the gazebo, at his request, so that he could think about what she’d said. She returned to the hotel, mulling over her uncle’s revelations. Tressa wasn’t the only one who’d have recognized that locket. Mercy would have. And Myron. It was even possible someone who had been at the hotel all that summer might have seen it in Howd’s possession and recognized it when Elly wore it. Belle, perhaps?

Belle, who had suspected Elly was also carrying on with her husband?

Diana frowned. But had she? There was no doubt Belle was a criminal, but the more Diana reviewed her interview with the woman, the less likely she thought it was that she was a killer.

The elusive memory she’d been unable to recall a few days earlier had been the exact sequence of words she and Ben had overheard that first night. The exchange was still open to interpretation. Belle had shouted “that girl.” Elly? Saugus had bellowed “whore!” Elly? Or Belle herself? Then Belle again, with a long speech out of which only two words—scoundrel and crimes—had been recognizable. That, at least, was clear. Saugus was both scoundrel and criminal. The last part of the argument had been conducted in low tones once more, and the word “stage,” which Diana had first taken to mean Belle had been an actress, now had a different interpretation. He could have been referring to the stage his plan for the hotel had reached. That made more sense if she assumed he was upset because the discovery of the bones was a setback for his schemes. An unexpected setback . . . because he hadn’t known they were there?

It had been Saugus who’d used the word “murderer.” Should he, more accurately, have said “murderess?” That question nagged at Diana as she returned to the hotel. She must speak to Belle again. Soon. But first, since she’d set out this morning to find out where everyone had been when Elly Lyseth died, she would complete that task.

Squaring her shoulders, she marched into the kitchen and confronted Tressa Ellington.

“I’ve been thinking about that ever since they found her bones,” Mrs. Ellington said. “I saw her out slip out of the hotel around four in the afternoon. She was supposed to be sweeping out the bedrooms. I remember I almost went after her, but I decided she wasn’t worth the bother.”

“Did you speak to her at all that afternoon? See her close up?”

“I think not. Likely I didn’t want to. She was a disagreeable young woman. As a rule, I had as little to do with her as possible.”

“But you were the housekeeper then, as you are now. Weren’t you the one that hired her?”

“To get her parents, we had to take Elly, too.”

“And are they such rare prizes?”

“They’re hard workers, both of them. A pity they didn’t pass that trait on to their daughter.”

Neither Uncle Myron nor Cousin Mercy remembered seeing Elly Lyseth at all that afternoon. Celia Lyseth agreed to talk to Diana only after Myron Grant exerted his authority as her employer and insisted she cooperate.

 “Your husband said you sat up all night waiting for Elly to come home. That she’d said terrible things to you before she left. But when did she leave, Mrs. Lyseth? Do you remember?”

“She went off to work that morning and I never saw her again. She didn’t come home for supper. Lord knows what she was up to.”

Diana recorded this version of the story in her notebook, filling the last page. She sighed, beset by the suspicion that she was just wasting paper.

“Anything else?” Mrs. Lyseth asked, seeming slightly less hostile. “I have work to do.”

“What do you think happened to your daughter?” Diana asked.

“The Lord called her to His bosom. It was her time.”

* * * *

“Diana, we need to talk.”

“I haven’t time. I only came back to the suite for a fresh notebook.” Then she looked at him and her eyes widened. He had donned trousers and a percale shirt that fastened down the front, but he hadn’t bothered to button it, nor had he yet attached his collar or tied his cravat. His shoes were still in the closet, rather than on his feet. “Are you ill?”

“My jaw aches like the very devil,” he informed her. His bruises had turned a variety of interesting colors.

Diana seated herself in the cream colored chair. He’d have preferred it if she’d chosen the sofa, at his side, but she was close enough to touch. That was all that mattered.

Carefully keeping his hands occupied with the coffee Mrs. Ellington had brought up earlier, he watched for Diana’s reactions as he spoke. This impasse between them had gone on long enough. It was time to get a thing or two settled. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, deliberately choosing to make a suggestion that would annoy her, “that your family’s story of the lost Indian mine might make an excellent basis for fictional tale.”

Yes, he’d been right. He saw the temper flare in her eyes. She didn’t think she had any talent for writing fiction. He wasn’t so sure about that, but he wasn’t prepared to risk their future by arguing about it. What he was prepared to do was listen—really listen, this time—to what
she
wanted to do.

“I am a journalist, not a novelist,” she informed him.

“Are you happy delving into murder? Can you really mean to follow Horatio Foxe’s lead and put anything in print that will sell newspapers? Casting suspicion on innocent people ruins lives, Diana. I thought you knew that.”

The appalled expression on her face reassured him. “I never meant—. I don’t want to invent stories, Ben, those that pass as news
or
fiction. And I shouldn’t like to write about nothing but crime. But there are other newsworthy issues and events that interest me. I think women, for example, should have the vote in elections in this country.”

“Even if their husbands object?”

She made a face at him.

“Never fear, Diana. I will not try to control you in any way.”

“I wish I could be certain of that. You keep trying to steer me away from what I do best.” When he tried to protest, she held up a hand. “You do. First you tried to convince me to write humor. Do you recall? I can sometimes inject humor into an article, but it is not so easy to be funny, Ben. I could not make a living at it.”

“You’ve no need to make a living at all. You’ll be married to me. I’ll take care of you.”

He knew as soon as the words were out that he’d made a mistake. She’d learned the hard way not to depend on anyone but herself.

“I don’t want to take away your independence,” he said as he reached out and took both her hands in his. “I love you, Diana. I want you to be happy.”

“Then let me find my own way through this dilemma. I won’t give up earning my own money and writing articles for the newspaper is the way I do that. The only real question is what kind of reporting I will pursue in the future. I enjoyed the few weeks I spent writing about crime in New York City. They weren’t all stories of murder. There were other interesting cases, too.”

“I worry about you, that’s all.”

“I know.” She patted his hand and he tried not to wince.

Ben realized now what the problem was. Diana saw his confidence in her as a failure to pay attention to what she’d been trying to tell him. Perhaps she was right, but it was hard not to want the best for the one you loved. He started to suggest, again, that she apply for a position at the local Bangor newspaper, then repressed the impulse. The
Whig and Courier
was small compared to the New York dailies. He wasn’t even sure they would hire a woman, let alone allow her write anything of importance.

“I’d quit my job before I left New York for Colorado,” Diana reminded him. “I let Horatio Foxe hire me back because he did me a favor. I’m still in his employ, and I have an obligation to complete my current assignment.”

Ben repressed a growl. “What about later? Are you going to be at his beck and call all your life? Will Foxe send you away from home to cover stories
after
we’re married?”

“He may want to. That doesn’t mean I’ll go.”

Ben released Diana, picked up his cup, and took a sip of cold coffee. He wished now that he’d insisted she marry him before they’d left in Denver, but he hadn’t wanted their wedding to be rushed—that was too similar to what she’d had with Evan Spaulding.

“We spent some time on the journey here planning a June wedding,” he said when he felt a bit calmer, “but we haven’t talked about what will happen after the ceremony. Do you want to live with my mother and brother?”

Startled by the change of subject, she just stared at him.

“Diana?”

“It’s your home. I guess I . . . I don’t know what I thought. I hadn’t looked that far ahead.”

“We could live above my office instead, although the living quarters there are rather small.”

This seemed to fluster her even more. He was about to suggest they build a house when she stood and headed for the door. “I can’t talk about this now. I have people to question.”

“Who?”

“Floyd Lyseth. Emma Cas—”

“I’ll take Lyseth. He was on my list.”

“I’d rather you go into the village. You know the people there better than I do. You helped young Freddy.” She was gone before he could object and he had no idea what had made her run away.

* * * *

Fifteen minutes later, Ben entered Castine’s store. Myron was already there, trying to get his money back on the casket he’d bought for Norman Saugus. “The widow’s going to be paying for it,” he insisted.

“But you already did,” Emma Castine reminded him. “Cash. And I don’t extend credit to the likes of her. When she comes in and lays her money on the counter, I’ll refund what you gave me, but not a moment before.” She crossed her arms over her bosom, tucking her hands into her armpits, as if to give him a visual demonstration of how difficult it would be to get her to part with a cent.

Disgusted, Myron stormed out.

Immediately, Mrs. Castine relaxed. “What can I do for you, Dr. Northcote? After the way you took care of young Freddy, the whole family owes you.”

“Just information, Mrs. Castine. Do you recall if you saw Elly Lyseth the day she disappeared?”

“Can’t say I do. It
was
ten years ago.”

“What about Horace Darden? Did you ever see him again after that?”

She frowned. “Curious you should ask. I did think I saw him once, but it couldn’t have been.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, it was at a camp meeting.”

“I thought sinners went to such things to be saved?”

“Well, yes, but you see, this man was already saved. He was one of the fellows working with the ministers.”

“Working?”

“As a helper—bringing people forward to say their piece; finding those who came in hope of being cured of something.”

“When was this, Mrs. Castine?”

“Oh, it must have been three or four years ago.” She looked a trifle embarrassed. “I used to go to camp meetings quite a bit when I was younger. For the socializing, you know.”

“So this wasn’t the meeting at which Pastor Riker met his future wife?”

“Oh, no. This was at least a year or two earlier.”

Ben stopped at the post office, asking the same questions, and then went to the livery stable. By then a vague idea had begun to form and he asked Luke to harness Old Jessie to the surrey.

It had been barely ten in the morning when he’d reached Lenape Springs and it was still well short of eleven. He had plenty of time for what he had in mind, especially if he didn’t return to the hotel first to tell Diana where he was going. The sooner he went, he reasoned, the sooner he’d be back.

* * * *

Diana was unable to locate Floyd Lyseth. Secretly, she felt relieved. She hadn’t relished another conversation with the taciturn handyman. He obviously didn’t like to talk about his daughter, and he wasn’t going to appreciate her questions, which revolved around discrepancies in what he and his wife had told her previously.