Of Dubious and Questionable Memory (3 page)

Merinda mumbled something I was glad I couldn't hear.

“Our behavior isn't some surprise to either of you,” I said. “We've been doing this for an age. Why are we all up in arms? And on Jasper's birthday!”

“Truthfully, Jemima,” Ray said, “it's because it's getting harder and harder to watch you two humiliate yourselves. Leave this to the professionals, won't you?”

He couldn't have hurt us more if he struck us. Merinda floundered, her face white. “Professionals like second-rate reporters? I am a
wonderful detective! And I will prove it. So will Jem!” She reached into her vest and whipped out a piece of paper.

“Dearest Merinda and Jemima,” she began reading angrily. Then she spluttered and thrust the paper at me, and I continued.

My dear friend Miriam has relocated to Boston and is in need of assistance. Last week she and her sister, Delphina, took the train to Concord for a day's autumn sojourn. Delphina has not been seen since.

The police have been of little help. They feel her disappearance may be the result of a planned rendezvous with a suitor, and they seem unwilling to dig deeper into this mystery. Miri is beside herself and asked about my detective friends in Canada.

I know Herringford and Watts cast their net exclusively in Toronto, but I hope I might persuade you to cross stateside. Miri is more than willing to cover your train trip and any other expenses. She requests you stay with her in her Back Bay home.

Please telephone should you require any further information
—
TRE 2456.

With fondest regards,

Martha Kingston

“Martha!” I cried, delighted to hear the name of a client from a previous case.

“Splendid!” Ray cried. “Now instead of recklessly dragging Jem into danger at home, you can do so in another country!”

I straightened my shoulders. “She drags me nowhere, Ray. I choose to go.”

His eyes flashed. What was eating at him tonight? We had gotten ourselves in far worse scrapes! Almost transported with a female slavery ring, tied up at the mercy of a known killer… For all my playing at detective, I couldn't see what was working behind those black eyes of his.

“So you'll go?” Jasper said. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” said Merinda. “And I propose we put a bet on it.”

“Betting is a sin!” My outrage fell on deaf ears.

“You'll go and find this missing girl?” Ray narrowed his eyes at Merinda.

“We'll be staying with a quite respectable woman in the Back Bay,” Merinda said by way of assurance. “I already telephoned the number. So we will be as safe as houses!”

“And what is the wager?” Ray asked.

“Now, let me see. It's Thursday night. If we find this girl and solve this mystery by Monday, Jasper has to give Jem and me loan of one of those marvelous new motorbicycles for an entire weekend.”

“And if we win”—Jasper rubbed his hands together, sporting his first true smile of the evening—“you two have to make our lunches for an entire week! From a menu of our choosing. No Mrs. Malone to help.”

“I am such a rotten housekeeper that my husband has to win a bet to be fed.” I buried my face in my hands.

“You'd better practice!” Jasper said. “Knowing how long it took you to figure out the Corktown Murders, we may be old and gray before you find the missing girl!”

“Jasper, how fast does a motorbicycle go?” Merinda's eyes drifted, and I could tell she was thinking of the thrill of speeding around the city.

Jasper grinned, and I was pleased to see that a bit of his buoyancy had returned. “You'll have to win this bet to find out!”

Chapter Three

“We'll prove ourselves to Ja… to those imbeciles!” Merinda snarked as she saw to the porter and our luggage on the Union Station platform. “And what fun to speed around Toronto on that bike! For of course we're going to win! There's a whole new fleet of them! We'll take a picnic out to Scarborough Beach! You can stop burning jam, and I will be spared fisticuffs with Jasper!”

She boarded the train ahead of me.

I turned to Ray, who was leaning against the stationhouse. The previous night had ended in silence, and I felt his anger had abated somewhat. But still there lingered an uneasiness between us.

I hoped he might swoop me in his arms and kiss me properly. Instead, he lifted my hand, turned it palm upward, and kissed my wrist gently. “Come back safe, Jemima.”

I swallowed a bit of confusion and hurt. “I'll telephone you the instant I can. You know I'm sorry.”

“I've heard little else for the past day.”

I nodded. “I hate leaving when you're still angry with me.”

“But not enough to keep you from getting on that train?” he hedged, sadly.

“No,” I said, with equal gravity in my voice. “Not enough for that.”

Soon, Merinda was bouncing along with the movement over the tracks while I fingered a tangled mess of yarn in my lap. My incompetent movements didn't even resemble knitting.

As Ontario whizzed by and green Quebec, with its glistening lakes
and towering pines, came into view out the broad window, Merinda and I talked over the information we had on the case. As the details had been minimal, the topic was quickly exhausted, and we turned our discussion to the
Herringford and Watts
sign that hung in the King Street window.

“Maybe we should change the sign to read
DeLuca
,” I suggested, wondering if Ray might consider it an olive branch.

“Everyone knows us as Herringford and Watts. We have been advertising ourselves that way since the beginning. And DeLuca doesn't care. I asked him once.”

“
I
care!” I pointed out. “Besides, you should have asked me and not Ray. He doesn't speak for both of us.”

“A dangerous glint just appeared in your eye, Jemima. You aren't a dowdy married woman after all!” She clapped her hands together. “This is the first big case we have had since your unfortunate nuptials”—she winked at me—“and I'm glad to know you aren't going to be a sniveling, homesick bore.”

Time slid away with our eastward journey. We passed the hours with naps and meals, distracted gazes out the window, and a few hands of cards. Before I could believe it, we screeched to a stop.

Boston stole my soul from the moment we disembarked at South Station. The day was crisp, the sky cerulean, and though I was tired from our trip, my heart thudded with the prospect of a new city, a new country, a new adventure.

We were met at the station by our hostess, Miriam, who insisted we call her Miri just as Martha did. She settled us into the automobile, our luggage in the boot, and we rambled along. The curtain of history peeled back, and suddenly I was skipping over cobblestones steeped in the stories of the past. Whispers shrouded the Old South Meeting House and all of State Street. The voices of the martyrs erupted from the site of the Boston Massacre. The Granary Burial Ground marked the resting place of some of the most brilliant minds of any age. It was a city of steeples, of red brick, of refinement.

The car turned at Boylston and brought us to the Back Bay, where townhouses stood sentry, holding hands, manicured shrubbery
springing green and bright. The boulevards erupted with small public parks, boasting statues of polished wood and pewter. We slowed at Beacon Street, overlooking the glassy Charles River, and alighted just before Gloucester intersected Massachusetts Avenue.

The closer we got to her house, the more distracted Miri became. I pestered her with questions to distract her. “Where are the fens? Is there a nice walking path along the Charles River we might easily find? We've heard lovely things about the Public Gardens and the Common, might you show us? What train would we take to arrive in Concord?”

Once inside the brick townhouse, I peered in awe at the gold wallpaper and cozy corners. Miri felt we would want to freshen up and pointed out the fresh towels she had instructed the maid to put on our beds. Our rooms were at the top of the oak staircase, the lavatory in between. I stole a look into Merinda's bedroom. It had a decidedly blue theme and the dearest bookshelves built up and around the fireplace and mantel. The colors of my own room were softer and more feminine. The fresh potted flowers on the mantelpiece inspired a twinge of jealousy as I thought of the brown weeds on the windowsill at my own home.

I rearranged my hair and happily accepted the teacup and biscuits the maid brought on a tray. Miri Winthrop and her husband basked in affluence indeed. This was just their house in town, the maid explained as she unpacked my clothes and dainties. The Winthrops owned a house on what she called “the Cape” and another in New York State.

Not half an hour later, I gathered Merinda and we went downstairs for dinner. There we met George Winthrop, a tall man with a daintily clipped moustache, a receding hairline, and a certain penchant for digging his index and middle fingers into his bespoke vest.

We sat around the walnut table as the first course was presented.

“Miri has so enjoyed your little escapades as relayed by Martha Kingston,” George began. Merinda's eyes locked with mine.
Little escapades!

“Yes, that is how I found you!” said Miri. “Martha sends me clippings as a bit of amusement. She follows all the papers, and I knew
that if I should ever find myself in a bind I would need women daring enough to do a man's job.”

“Rather ridiculous, I thought,” George sniffed. “Wouldn't want a woman of mine dressing in trousers.”

Though his tone was cordial, his words had Merinda gripping her soup spoon so tightly her knuckles went white. Indeed, when George began railing about Martha Kingston herself being foolish enough to take on a man's job, Merinda had one of two options: stab him with her salad fork or smother herself with her napkin. Happily, she chose the latter.

George filled the air with business talk, one tedious account after another. As he dropped hints about the markets and cities ranging from Philadelphia to Nashville, I surmised his work was in finance and trade. He seemed to spend a great deal of time traveling.

I set down my soup spoon. “Do you ever accompany your husband, Miri?” I wondered, thinking how thrilling it would be to see this great country, to enjoy each other's company on long train trips. A never-ending honeymoon, perhaps.

“I did when we first married,” Miri replied, looking at her spouse. “But soon I… well, there are so many things to tend to around the house, and George likes to know I keep the hearth lit for the chilly nights he returns home late.”

“I don't need some wife of mine sitting in a hotel room while I see to my brandy and cigars. Far better she keep the run of things here,” George said, cutting his steak and leaving a red trail on his plate.

Merinda choked on her water goblet, and I shot her a glare. But I shared her confusion. The Winthrops had a perfect staff and a well-kept house. Why could he possibly want his wife to stay at home instead of traveling with him?

Miri coughed and changed the subject. “I was so looking forward to having Del here,” she said. “We had planned the trip for days and plotted out all our excursions, of course. We spent our childhood pretending we were at Orchard House or wandering the woods near Walden Pond.”

I was happy someone finally mentioned the missing girl, finding it
quite strange that her family was so relaxed, their appetites so strong, when Delphina was unaccounted for.

Merinda snapped up the opportunity to ask about Delphina in greater detail, and Miri related the story of her sister's disappearance. It was almost remarkable in its simplicity, and we learned little more than what Martha had told us in her letter. One minute Delphina was there, and the next she was gone. Miri exhausted every logical explanation: She had wandered back, she had grown faint and rested on a rock, she had left a message with someone.

She had vanished into thin air.

George became visibly riled. “My wife is not what you would call a rational and calm person,” he said through a mouthful of roll. “She can plan a meal or two, but at her core she's hysterical, like all you ladies. No, no. Don't be offended. It's biological. I attended a lecture on the subject at Harvard.” The way he said
Harvard
made my nose tickle. Merinda sat with her water goblet poised and slightly tipped in his direction. It might become a projectile weapon at any moment, I thought. “But I have to give the old girl some credit,” George droned on. “She's been handling it all so well. So well, in fact, that after the police proved useless, I decided to give her a little treat and hire whichever investigative service she desired.”