No Mortal Reason (29 page)

Diana knew she had to stop keeping secrets. Lies, even lies of omission, only led to more problems. Not even good intentions were an acceptable excuse.

She glanced at Ben, feeling momentary pity for him because he had not been able to eat much of Aunt Janette’s excellent meal. His injuries continued to cause him considerable pain. But the fact that he’d put off sharing the information that she had a grandfather and aunt living in Liberty had created a new rift between them. She did not know yet how they could bridge it.

The matter of everyone thinking she and Ben were already married was another problem. How did she explain that bit of deceit to her new-found grandfather? She’d had to grit her teeth and force a smile earlier, when her aunt had admired the tourmaline wedding ring.

“We couldn’t help but hear about them finding Elly Lyseth’s bones,” Aunt Janette said now. “I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that she ran off with Racy Darden. My, he was a handsome fella.”

“Racy . . . Darden?” Diana echoed, startled. “Is that the drummer’s name?”

“Well, Horace, really, but everyone called him Racy.”

“So, you knew him?”

“Well, of course. My late husband worked in Kilbourne’s store here in Liberty. The same jobbers who stop at Castine’s place stop there. We even had Mr. Darden to dinner once or twice.”

“Then you know the name of the company he worked for? 

Janette did, but Diana’s question sparked one of her own. “Why so much interest? It isn’t your job to find out what happened. That’s up to the law.”

“Uncle Howd didn’t tell you?” Perhaps he hadn’t yet known when he’d talked to the Torrences. “I earn my living as a journalist.”

Diana’s tale of eloping with an actor, now deceased, had raised nary an eyebrow. Her stories of life in the mining camps of Colorado as a child had been accepted without comment. But this news had her grandfather pursing his lips and her aunt tut-tutting.

“Surely it isn’t necessary for you to work,” Aunt Janette said, shooting a critical look at Ben.

“As a widow, I had no choice.”

“But now, surely—”

Ben cut in, attempting to assure her newfound relatives: “I’m hoping she’ll try her hand at writing novels instead, now that we’re married.”

Diana just stared at him. His words infuriated her, but she did not contradict him. Later, she vowed. Later they were going to have a very serious discussion about their future.

* * * *

“You’re very quiet,” Ben remarked when they’d driven half the return distance to Lenape Springs.

It was a clear, mild night, and the full moon above provided adequate illumination to see the road. The carriage duster he’d placed across Diana’s knees kept any chill at bay but a certain coldness emanated from her that had nothing to do with the weather.

“I’m upset with you.” The words were clipped and she didn’t look at him. “There are a number of things we need to clarify, and I suppose there’s no time like the present.”

That sounded ominous, and since his face still hurt, he was not in the best shape to field questions. He said nothing.

“Just how long have you known I had kin in Liberty?”

Confession was good for the soul, Ben told himself. “Since the first night. When Myron was carrying on about Elmira deserting him and Howd, he mentioned that Will Torrence was a Liberty boy.”

“You should have told me at once.”

“I wanted to wait. To find out if the Torrences were likely to be any more forgiving than the Grants. I was trying to protect you, Diana.”

“Protect me?” Her voice rose.

“From more disappointments.”

“What about honesty, Ben? Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“You weren’t exactly forthcoming with your grandfather. Your father was—”

“I know what he was! That frail old man doesn’t need to.”

“And you accuse me of—”

“You patronize me! Grandfather Torrence never needs to know what his son became. You’d have had to tell me about him sometime.” She drew breath sharply and turned, at last, to glare at him. “You
would
have told me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. Eventually. And I don’t patronize you.”

“You do!
I’m hoping she’ll try her hand at writing novels now that we’re married.
As if that’s so much more respectable than journalism!”

“You may write what you please.” The condescension Ben heard in his own voice made him wince.

“I intend to.” Diana’s back was ramrod stiff. “I hardly need your permission.”

“Diana, this is ridiculous. You know I’d never try to restrict your choices.”

“Hah! You’ve never made any secret of that fact that you don’t want me working for Horatio Foxe.”

“That’s true, but it’s because I don’t like or trust Foxe. I’ve no objection to having a wife who is a journalist, but Foxe’s actions when we first met put you in mortal danger. And now—well that was his philosophy you were spouting after Saugus was killed, the concept of playing fast and loose with the truth just to create a good story.”

Diana started to speak, no doubt in defense of her employer, but subsided under the weight of Ben’s scowl. Folding her hands primly in her lap, she refused to utter another word.

When they arrived back at the Hotel Grant it was very late and Ben still had to return the horse and buggy to the livery stable. By the time he joined Diana in their suite, she was already asleep—or pretending to be. She’d made a cocoon of the blankets and turned her back on his side of the bed.

Ben was in no mood to apologize, beg, or cajole. He retreated into the suite’s parlor and opened his medical bag, searching for something to relieve the ache in his jaw. At least she hadn’t left a pillow and quilt on the couch for him. He took what comfort he could from that. When he’d dosed himself with a sleeping draught, he climbed into bed beside Diana.

He was too smart to touch her. Instead, he beat his pillow into a more comfortable shape and closed his eyes, determined to get a good night’s sleep.

First thing in the morning, he decided, he’d pursue the lead Diana’s Aunt Janette had given them. A handsome jobber named Horace “Racy” Darden had been linked to Elly Lyseth ten years earlier. Once and for all, Ben would rule out any connection between the drummer and Elly’s death. Then he’d work his way through the other suspects, eliminating them one by one. Diana still thought Belle Saugus was their murderer. Perhaps she was. He was only certain of one thing—the sooner he and Diana figured out what had really happened to Elly, and to Norman Saugus, the sooner they could leave here, go back to Maine, be married, and live happily ever after.

He smiled to himself as he started to drift off. Perhaps it was only the narcotic making him feel so optimistic, but he was convinced that by this time tomorrow everything would be made right.

Chapter Fourteen

Diana did not want to think about her relationship with Ben. That focused her mind wonderfully on finishing the crime articles for Horatio Foxe. First thing in the morning, suitably attired in rationals and uncorseted, she picked her way through the rubble of the west wing to the spot where Elly Lyseth’s bones had been found.

The scene had been disturbed by the workers who’d made the discovery and by the members of the coroner’s jury, but demolition had been stopped. The construction crew—those who hadn’t decided they’d rather earn their living elsewhere—were now engaged in giving the entire hotel a fresh coat of white paint.

There had been considerable debate over the color scheme. Mrs. Ellington had argued for pale yellow with white trim and green shutters, Mercy for Pompeian red, and Howd for various shades of green. Myron’s vote being the only one that counted, the hotel was being painted cream white with light yellow window trimmings. It would look well with the ruddy brown shingles, Diana thought, glancing up at the pyramidal roofs that topped the towers.

She clambered over debris to reach the hole in the floor with little difficulty. She had no intention of climbing down into it. There was nothing left to find there. What she hoped to gain was a sense of the place as it had been when Elly Lyseth was alive. Turning in a slow circle, head tipped slightly back so that she could look up, Diana tried to imagine the hotel with an intact west wing. It was not terribly difficult. She had the extant east wing to build upon. What was hard was understanding how Elly Lyseth had come to be here. She’d met Uncle Howd somewhere, but the hotel had already been closed for the season. And yet, Norman and Belle Saugus had still been in residence.

She hadn’t asked nearly enough questions, Diana decided. Or, rather, she hadn’t asked the correct questions.

She jumped when she heard footsteps approaching, but it was only her Uncle Howd. She started to say good morning to him, then realized she wasn’t sure how to greet him. He’d known who she was for days and never said a word.

Howd solved the problem for her. “How is your mother, Diana? Is she well?”

“Fit as a fiddle,” Diana replied, then winced when she realized she should have chosen her words with more care.

Howd didn’t seem to notice. “Good. Good. She deserved her own life, you know. Myron was wrong to expect her to stay here. Is she . . . happy?”

That was harder to answer. “I think so. She’s content with the choices she’s made.” Diana didn’t know how much Ben had told Uncle Howd, but trusted her “husband” had been discreet. There was one thing, though, that her uncle should know. “She received a marriage proposal from Ed Leeves awhile back.”

Her uncle’s brows lifted in surprise. “The same Ed Leeves who’s been conspiring with young Sebastian? Well, well.”

“I’ve telegraphed Mother. She’ll put a stop to it.”

“Will she? As I recall, Elmira could hold a grudge every bit as well as Myron does. And Ed . . . well, I wouldn’t put it past Ed Leeves to think a bit of revenge on the Grant brothers was a suitable present to bring to a bride.”

“Well, he’s not going to. I promise you.” Although Diana had been obliged to be careful what she’d said in the telegram she’d sent to Denver, she’d made what she hoped was a potent threat—to expose details of their respective businesses to the readers of the
Independent Intelligencer
—to keep both Elmira Torrence and Ed Leeves in line. That it was also an empty threat was irrelevant. Her mother didn’t know her well enough to be certain she wouldn’t carry it out.

Uncle Howd took her arm to help her back out of the west wing. “What were you looking for in there?”

“Inspiration. How did she get there, Uncle Howd? Where was she that day? Who saw her? Who talked to her? You said you gave her the locket. Where did you go to be private?”

A dull red color crept up his neck and into his face. “We went into the woods, mostly. Well, she lived at home with her parents and my room is right next to Myron’s . . . “

“And that day?”

“That day we took a couple of the lunch boxes Tressa packs for departing guests for their return home trips.” A fond smile softened his expression. “You’ll not have seen any yet this year, but they’re made of very thin, light wood, dovetailed, and attractively tied. Guests call for the Pullman car porter to bring one of those little tables when they’re ready to eat. You know the sort? They hook into the wall between the chairs and have a support on the other end that drops to the floor. Anyway, each box contains two sandwiches, a hard boiled egg, a wrapped pickle or olives, fruit, an attractive napkin, and a little salt and pepper shaker.”

Since some response seemed called for, Diana said, “They sound lovely.”

“Tressa’s idea. So were the etched glass carafes we use to serve water in the dining rooms. ‘Fragile but elegant,’ she said, with pictures of the hotel on the sides, and she got just what she wanted. Of course it was Myron who insisted on putting Tremont’s likeness on the top of the stopper.”

“Tremont? The
goat
?”

“Hasn’t anyone told you the story? It was a sick goat that led my grandfather, Matthew Grant, to discover the healing properties of the spring. Local Indians told him he should take the goat there to drink. He did, the goat recovered, and the Grants promptly laid claim to the land. That’s the legend, anyway.”

“Do you believe the waters are medicinal?”

“I think they stink, but as far as I know drinking from the spring has never hurt anyone.”

They had been following the boardwalk that led to the spring while Howd talked but were only partway there when he stepped off and offered Diana his hand for balance. Once on the ground, he escorted her across a pretty glade, its beauty marred only by a pair of fallen trees.

“They came down in the blizzard,” Howd said, noting the direction of her gaze. “Uprooted. We haven’t had time to cut them up for firewood yet.”

“As a child, I’d have loved finding something like that,” Diana said. “I’d have crawled inside—it’s something like a cave, you see, only open to the light—and imagined myself defending a fortress.”

“That’s quite an imagination you’ve got,” Howd said.

A nearly invisible path led away from the glade on the opposite side. A few minutes of rough walking brought them to another small clearing, this one containing a dilapidated gazebo.

“This is where Elly and I used to, er, meet.” Howd’s face crumpled. “I haven’t been here for ten years. I hadn’t realized it had gotten so run down.”

White paint had peeled away. The roof had partially collapsed and one section of railing was broken. The bench that ran around three quarters of the inside was covered with leaves and other natural debris. Uncle Howd brushed off a section so that Diana could sit but was too restless himself to roost.

“How long were you here that day?” she asked him.

“Only a short time—less than an hour. There was a strain between us. I had been hoping . . . well, she didn’t exactly throw herself into my arms and agree to marry me, did she?”

“Do you remember what time of day it was when you parted?”

His brow furrowed as he tried to recall details of that long-ago afternoon. “It must have been right around noon when we came out here. She was gone by one.”

“Did you return to the hotel separately or together?”