A Lady's Choice (12 page)

Roger hadn't waited until the afternoon to return to his aunt's home. Instead he'd arrived mid-morning and announced it was a lovely day for a picnic. They'd left not too long afterward with Roger carrying the lunch the cook had hurriedly put together and headed for Overton Park on the eastern edge of the city.

Not only had they seen the beautiful fall foliage of the trees, but Roger had insisted they visit the Overton Park Zoo. Together they had laughed at the antics of the monkeys, and Sarah didn't think she'd ever seen him so at ease. Before leaving, they'd even stopped at the new Brooks Museum of Art that had been established recently in the park.

As they drove toward home, Sarah laid her head against the seat and closed her eyes. A satisfied feeling filled her, and she nodded on the edge of sleep. An exclamation of surprise from Mrs. Simpson awakened her, and she sat up straight.

They had pulled into the circle driveway of the house, and a strange Model T Ford sat parked in the front. Two men in dark suits stood near the bottom of the steps and didn't take their eyes off the car as they pulled to a stop.

“Do you know these men, Roger?” Mrs. Simpson asked.

He shook his head. “No, I've never seen them before.”

Sarah studied the two. There was something about the older one that seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place him. The men waited as they climbed from the car.

Roger was the first out, and without helping his aunt from the car he strode toward them. “Good afternoon. Can I help you?”

Sarah held the door for Mrs. Simpson to get out of the car, and they hurried to Roger's side in time to see the older man pull out a wallet and flip it open to reveal a policeman's badge. “I'm Detective Baker and this is Detective Morrison. We need to speak to you.”

Roger nodded. “Of course, but why are you out here? You could have waited inside where you would be more comfortable.”

The man shook his head. “Your maid offered, but we told her we would wait out here.”

Roger swept his arm toward the house. “Then come in. We can talk in the parlor.”

Sarah and Mrs. Simpson didn't speak as they climbed the steps and entered the house. Sarah studied the policeman again. She'd seen him somewhere before, but she couldn't recall where. As they entered the parlor, Roger turned to the detective.

“This is my aunt, who runs this school, and this is one of our teachers, Miss Sarah Whittaker. Do you need to talk with them also?”

The man's gaze darted to Sarah, and his eyebrows arched. “Whittaker? Are you Robert Whittaker's daughter?”

“I am.” The answer to where she'd seen this man popped into her head. “I remember you now. You're the detective who investigated my father's death.”

He nodded. “Yes. I've thought a lot about that case over the past few years. I remember your mother. How is she?”

Sarah blinked back tears as she did every time she thought of her mother. “She passed away in the summer.”

Detective Baker frowned. “I'm sorry to hear that.” He took a deep breath and turned back to Roger and Mrs. Simpson. “I'm afraid we have some bad news for you today too. We have identified the body of the young woman who was murdered on Beale Street Friday night. Her name was Christine Donovan. I believe she's a teacher here at your school.”

Mrs. Simpson's face turned white, and she staggered backward and collapsed into a chair. Sarah and Roger rushed to either side of her. Roger clasped her hand in his. “Aunt Edna, are you all right?”

“Do you need a glass of water?” Sarah asked.

She shook her head and stared at the policeman. “Christine's dead? Are you sure? She taught her classes Friday.”

Detective Baker nodded. “I'm afraid it's so.”

Roger looked up, a frown on his face. “But I don't understand. We read the account of the murder in the paper and thought it was a prostitute. Christine was not a lady of the night after school hours.”

The detective directed an impassive expression at him. “We don't know much about Miss Donovan. It seems she kept to herself a lot. Her landlady had tried for two days to collect the rent. When she couldn't find her again this morning, she came to the police station. On a hunch, we took her to the morgue, and she identified the body.”

Sarah brushed at the tears that ran down her face. “Do you have any idea who might have done this? Maybe her boyfriend?”

Detective Baker's eyes widened. “She had a boyfriend? We didn't know that. Who is he?”

“She didn't tell me his name. She just said she had a man in her life and maybe soon she could quit teaching and become a wife.”

Detective Morrison scribbled something in a small notebook he held and looked back at her. “Did she ever talk about where she saw this man? Her landlady said she never had guests at her apartment.”

“No. That's all she told me.”

Detective Morrison flipped his notebook closed, and Detective Baker looked back at Sarah. “If you remember anything else, please get in touch with me.” He bent over Mrs. Simpson, who had clamped her handkerchief against her mouth and shook with sobs. “I'm sorry to bring you such upsetting news. I may need to talk with you later.”

She didn't respond, and Roger stared up at Sarah. “Would you show the detectives out? I'm going to get Aunt Edna some water.”

Sarah nodded and led the way to the door. When she opened it, she stepped back for the men to exit. As Detective Baker stepped onto the porch, she called out to him. “Detective Baker.”

“Yes?” He turned and faced her.

“Did you close out my father's case, or is it still an open investigation?”

“It was officially ruled a suicide, but I've always had my doubts. I still believe the hobo told the truth when he said he saw somebody exit the building around the time of your father's death, but there haven't been any new leads.”

“And you never found his lucky piece he carried all the time?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“We moved from our house, and I also cleaned out my father's office. It was nowhere in either place. I believe he was murdered and the killer took it from him.”

Detective Baker's forehead wrinkled. “But why would the killer want a trinket from a World's Fair?”

“I don't know. Maybe as a souvenir of what he'd done.”

The detective's eyes narrowed, and he nodded. “It could be, Miss Whittaker. I don't know how to prove it, though, unless we find a killer.”

He turned and walked down the steps to the car. Sarah watched as they pulled onto Adams Street and turned toward downtown. Only then did the reality of their visit hit her. Christine was dead, murdered by someone who had placed his fingers around her neck and choked the life from her. It was too horrible to imagine.

Sarah closed the door and fell against it as she succumbed to the grief pouring through her body.

Two months later, there had been no new clues in Christine's death. Detective Baker stopped by from time to time, and Sarah looked forward to his visits. She told him of her mother's last days and their move to Richland Creek. He had grown up in a rural area north of Memphis, and he seemed to enjoy her stories about church picnics, baseball games, and neighbors who were there when you needed them. She didn't speak to him about Alex, though.

In addition to the loss of Christine, another change had taken place in Sarah's life. Her concern that some of the Memphis suffragists would resent her picture being in the paper had proved unfounded. In the weeks after the meeting at Mrs. Windsor's house, the group had embraced Sarah as the new face of suffrage in Memphis—a symbol of modern young women who would not rest until they achieved enfranchisement for generations to come. She found herself a celebrity in the growing circle of supporters in the local group.

Now talk had turned to sending some volunteers to Washington to work with Alice Paul, the head of the National Woman's Party. This group had begun to apply pressure to the Democratic-controlled House and Senate in the past few months, and women were flocking to Washington to take part in this historic confrontation. Sarah hoped she would be one of those to go.

“Sarah, where are your thoughts tonight?”

Mrs. Simpson's voice penetrated her mind, and she sat up straighter on the sofa. The fire Dora had laid earlier blazed in the fireplace and warmed the parlor on this cold December night. Sarah yawned and stretched her arms over her head. “Lost in my thoughts, I guess. It's so good to spend a night at home.”

“It is.” Mrs. Simpson frowned and glanced at her watch. “I wonder where Roger is. It's not like him to miss dinner.”

“Don't worry, Mrs. Simpson. He's been putting in a lot of hours at work lately trying to make up for the time he misses when he's working on our group's projects during the day. I don't know how he does it all.”

Mrs. Simpson smiled. “I know. He's really thrown himself into the suffrage activities since you've come back to Memphis. I think you inspire him, Sarah.”

Sarah chose to ignore the remark and picked up the evening paper that lay on the table at the end of the sofa. Her eyes widened as she skimmed the articles on the front page. “Oh, I didn't know my name was in the paper.”

Mrs. Simpson laughed. “It seems to be nearly every day now. What is it this time?”

“It's a write-up about the meeting at Mrs. Harrison's home last night. It quotes some of the things I had to say.”

“Well, read them to me, my dear.”

Sarah grew excited as she glanced over the article. “This is what the article says. ‘Miss Whittaker, poised and confident, appealed to the group with well-researched material. She related that at present time women comprise one-fifth of the Tennessee workforce. Many work ten to twelve hours a day for wages one-half to one-third that of men. Employers justify this by claiming that women only provide a secondary income. In addition to jobs, they also must care for their families at the end of a long workday.'”

“That reporter gave an accurate of account of your speech.” Mrs. Simpson leaned forward. “What else did he say?”

Sarah cleared her throat and directed her attention back to the page. “‘Miss Whittaker ended her remarks by stating that women stand at the threshold of victory. She urged all present to band together to oppose those who would deny women the liberty for which our ancestors struggled. With defiance in her voice, she raised her fist as she delivered her parting statement. “I say to you, let us go forth with the same resolve the valiant patriots of the American Revolution declared. No Taxation Without Representation!”'”

“Excellent! Excellent!” Mrs. Simpson clapped her hands in glee.

Sarah continued to stare at the paper in disbelief. “I'm overwhelmed. I had no idea this would be in the paper.”

“What's in the paper?” Roger's voice asked from the doorway.

Mrs. Simpson motioned him into the room and pointed at the paper Sarah held. “Sarah is quoted in tonight's paper. She made quite an impression last night.”

Roger took the sheet Sarah offered him and read through it. When he had finished, he smiled at her. “This is wonderful, my dear. Evidently you gained some new followers. I'm pleased with this report, and you should be also.”

“Oh, I am.”

Roger walked to the fireplace and turned his back to it. “I think you've just become a leader in the Memphis movement.”

Sarah shook her head. “Oh, I don't think so.”

He nodded and cocked an eyebrow. “But I know you have. I've just come from a meeting with the executive board of our group, and they want to send you to Washington to work with Alice Paul.”

Sarah's mouth dropped open, and she stared in stunned silence at Roger. Finally she managed to speak. “Me? They want me to go?”

Roger threw back his head and laughed. “They do.”

“But, but Roger, why would they want to send the youngest person in the group?”

“Because the face of opposition is changing. We need to get the young women out there, and you are perfect.”

“Was there any opposition to my going?”

Roger sighed and nodded. “I'm afraid there was some. A few people were reluctant to send a young girl who is alone in the world into the political arena of Washington, but that's all taken care of now.”

“How do you mean?”

“I assured them Aunt Edna and I wouldn't dream of letting you go alone. So we'll accompany you to Washington.”

Sarah shook her head. “No, you've both done too much for me already. I can't let you put the responsibilities of your job and this school aside so I can follow my dream.”

Roger stepped over to her and took her hand in his. “But it's our dream too. Now is the time for us to push our cause in Congress, and I want to be a part of it too. I have influence on Capitol Hill, and I will do everything in my power to help by using it. Aunt Edna wishes to volunteer her services to Alice Paul's campaign too. The three of us will be welcomed by the suffrage leaders in Washington.”

Tears pooled in Sarah's eyes, and she looked from Roger to his aunt. “I don't know how to thank you for all you've done to help me. You took me in and gave me a job and a home, and you've helped me work for a cause I'm very passionate about. And now you tell me I may get to go to Washington. It's more than I can imagine.”

Roger smiled. “Well, imagine it, my dear. We'll start making our plans now to leave when the second semester ends in May.”

Sarah bit down on her lip. “That reminds me of something I've been meaning to talk with you about. You know the students have been very upset over Christine's death.”

Mrs. Simpson nodded. “I know, but you've done a wonderful job counseling them. The parents are very appreciative too. I feared some of them would withdraw their children, but none of them did.”

“I'm glad. It will be good for them to be home for a few weeks with their families when the semester ends. While they're gone, I'm planning to go to Richland Creek to visit my aunt and uncle for Christmas.”

Roger's hands curled into fists, and his body went rigid. “You're not going to be here for Christmas?”

“No, my uncle and aunt were very good to my mother and me while we were there, and I would like to see them again.”

He took a step toward her. “Are you sure it's them you want to see and not someone else?”

Sarah's eyes grew wide. “What are you talking about, Roger?”

“Are you sure you're not planning to meet some man there?”

She straightened her shoulders and glared at him. “Don't be ridiculous.”

His chin trembled, and his eyes narrowed. “Since you're not denying it, there has to be a man. Is it that fellow you told me about? Alex Taylor, who works for James Buckley?”

Sarah clenched her fists at her side. “Let me remind you, Roger, you are not my father. I don't have to tell you anything.”

He reeled as if she'd slapped him. “Your father? Is that how you think of me?”

She was immediately sorry she'd said those words. The hurt look in his eyes made her heart lurch. She took a deep breath. “I'm sorry, Roger. I didn't mean to hurt you. But I really want to see my aunt and uncle. I have no idea if Alex is going to be home for Christmas or not. He's been in Memphis the whole time I've been here, and we haven't spoken. So I don't see any reason we should in Richland Creek.”

Mrs. Simpson jumped to her feet and took his hand in hers. “Roger, we can't control Sarah's personal life. We just have to show her how much we care for her.” She squeezed his hand. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Aunt Edna.”

“Good. Then I'll leave you two to straighten out this misunderstanding.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Good night, Roger.”

“Good night,” he mumbled.

She turned to Sarah. “Good night. I'll see you at breakfast.”

Sarah nodded and waited until Mrs. Simpson had left the room before she turned back to Roger. “Is everything all right now?”

He swallowed and stepped closer to her. “Sarah, I'm so sorry for the way I acted. You're right. It's none of my business. You've been a part of our lives ever since you came to this school when you were six years old. I suppose I thought that gave me the right to question you. Please forgive me.”

“Of course I'll forgive you. We've known each other too long to let anything come between us. I'm sorry I spoke so sharply to you. Now I think it would be good if we dropped this subject. I'm going up to bed, and I'll see you at dinner tomorrow night.”

His gaze drifted over her, and he sighed. “Good night, Sarah.”

Before she could respond, he turned and walked from the room. Then the front door slammed, and she realized he'd left. She sank down on the sofa and buried her face in her hands. The moment she'd been dreading had arrived, but she thought it had ended well. Maybe by tomorrow he would regret the things he'd said. If not, there would only be one solution to the problem. She'd have to quit her job and move out. But the bad thing was that without Roger and Mrs. Simpson's support, she would no longer have her contact with the suffrage group.

She had to find a way to preserve her position in the group so that she could get to Washington. Right now all she wanted was to stand with Alice Paul against those who would deny them their rights.

Alex sat at the kitchen table where he'd eaten most of his meals in his life and stared down at his hands wrapped around the cup in front of him. His head ached from lack of sleep, and his body felt drained of energy. He hadn't thought coming back to Richland Creek for Christmas would be so hard, but after nearly a week here, he knew he'd been wrong.

Everywhere he looked, he saw something that reminded him of Sarah. It had started almost as soon as he walked in the door. He'd gone to his old room to hang up his clothes and had spotted his baseball shirt first thing. It had only gotten worse since then.

His horse reminded him of the ride through the rain to try to persuade her to change her mind. The buggy even made him think of how embarrassed she'd been to be caught barefoot when he'd driven Ellen to her house. Even Ellen's cooking brought to mind the picnic and the time he'd shared with her.

All he'd wanted was to get away from his increasing workload at the firm and Larraine's constant attention and come home to the peace that Ellen always provided. That had turned out to be a joke too. He'd hardly seen Ellen since he'd been home. She spent most of her time with Edmund, and Ellen acted differently when he was around.

Another surprise had awaited Alex at the farm. Augie had recently celebrated his seventeenth birthday and talked about his hope of joining the army one day.

Alex set the cup down and rubbed the back of his neck to relieve the ache that spread across his shoulders. Maybe it would have been better if he had stayed in Memphis for Christmas. Larraine had certainly begged him to, but he wanted to be with Ellen as he had every Christmas of his life.

A sound at the back door caught his attention, and he glanced up as Ellen walked into the kitchen carrying a basket of eggs. She set the basket on the table and hung her bonnet on the wall hook. “I thought I was gonna have to drag you out of bed this morning. What's the matter? Rough night?”

Alex concentrated on the hot coffee in his cup before answering. “I didn't sleep well. I guess I needed a few extra hours this morning to get me started.”

Ellen shook her head and moved to the stove. “Do you want me to fix you somethin' to eat?”

“No, the coffee will be enough.”

Ellen came back and sat facing him. “Alex, what's wrong? You ain't seemed happy since you got home. It's Christmas, and I don't see none of that spirit in you like you usually have.”