Of Dubious and Questionable Memory (8 page)

I coughed. “Not so far below—”

“And completely ill-suited.” If Del heard my interruption, she ignored it. “I just
knew
you would side with us when the truth came out.”

She flashed us a saucy smile and proudly flourished her left hand, where a small, shiny diamond caught the sunlight in the dusty shadow.

“Quite the elaborate plan,” Merinda snickered. “All of this just to escape a temperamental fiancé? It's not like he'd put a gun to your head!”

The irony of this statement was proved not five minutes later when Merinda and I walked out of the homestead and straight into the barrel of Robert's pistol.

“Cracker jacks!” Merinda seethed. “You're not only boring, you're a buffoon.”

“A silly idea to insult the man who has a gun to your face.” He moved his finger to the trigger.

“How did you find out we were here?” I asked.

“The walls at George's are paper-thin,” he said easily, leaving Merinda and me to ponder how far we had to come as amateur detectives and mentally kick ourselves in response.

“Why do you want to marry a girl who went to such extraordinary lengths to be kept from you?” Merinda wondered.

“That inheritance is my inheritance.”

“Aren't the Huttons rich enough?” Merinda spat.

“Is Del in there?” His lurid eyes sought out the curtained windows of the homestead.

“You can't marry her if you shoot her,” Merinda scoffed. “Nor if you're in jail for murdering me.” Merinda stomped her foot, warming to her theme. “Also, I never read any of the author's silly books, but Jem here assures me this is a very important historical place. A corpse on its sacred ground won't endear you to anyone.”

“Drop it,” said a curt voice from behind my shoulder. I slowly turned to see the confident face of Nicholas Haliburton.

“I have a gun!” Robert reminded us.

“Yes, we can see that,” Nicholas quipped. “Shiny one too.”

I could almost hear Merinda crack a smile.

“I called the police… ” Nicholas started, threateningly.

“The police is
one person
.” Robert laughed.

“You didn't let me finish,” Nicholas said. “
Along with a few friends!
”

From behind the grand old Philosophy School, Nicholas's tribe of handymen strolled toward us, swinging axes and hammers and all manner of tools with them.

Robert let the gun fall to his side, and Del slowly came out of the front door of Orchard House.

“It's too late, Robert.” She held up her hand. “Nicholas and I were married three days ago.”

Robert had opened his mouth to begin what promised to be a string of threats and insults, but he cut off abruptly at the sight of the diamond glinting on her hand. He watched, flabbergasted, as Nicholas and Del strode off over the soft grass and to the overrun field yonder to adventures beyond. Nicholas's men cheered and Merinda and I gaped stupidly at each other.

“Jem,” said Merinda, “did we actually win a bet if there wasn't a mystery to be solved?”

Chapter Seven

At the end of “A Scandal in Bohemia,” Irene Adler, the only woman ever to outsmart the great detective, gives up the life of a prima donna to marry barrister Godfrey Norton, taking great pains to ensure that the king of Bohemia will not expect any further attachment with her. Her short wedding ceremony is attended by Sherlock Holmes, in disguise, acting as witness. Afterward, she presses a coin into the detective's palm, and he keeps it always.

I remembered the story, thinking on life and love and the way that our paths wind and turn far from any expectation. More still how love—“the essence of God”—must take on as many shapes and forms and mysteries as He does.

On our last morning in Boston, we sat at tea while the chauffeur saw to our luggage. I looked across the table at a woman who had not married for love, but rather expectation, with a feeling of sympathy that countered whatever sense of betrayal I suspected Merinda was muddling under.

Miri handed me tea in a delicate cup from her matching set. “My house
is
perfect,” she boasted, stealing into my thoughts.

“Yes.” I held out my cup in a slight toast. “And your dishes. Just what I dreamed of as a little girl playing with dolls.”

“I have control over this sphere.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I keep it perfect and pristine.”

Before envy may have welled up in me. Now I kept my voice level as Merinda found great amusement in a plate of tarts: “Your husband must be so comfortable when he returns from his business trips to this golden home.”

We sipped our tea. “You married for love, Jemima.” Miri's voice was defensive. “Del married for love. I know my husband doesn't love me, but I did my duty to our family. I protected the fortune.” She picked at a thread on her skirt. “I didn't want Del to have my life. I would shoulder the inheritance. Invest the money wisely. Look good on my husband's arm. Bear golden-haired sons to keep the family name alive.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but there were no words.

Miri stared at her tea with a rueful smile. “But I learned I couldn't even have children to fill my days. So I am a cog in this clockwork of existence. And I wanted so much for my sister. I wanted Del to have the love of her life.” She laughed bitterly.

“Miri, I don't know what to say. I wish… ”

She shook her head. “I wrote my husband a letter, pretending to be Del. A terrible risk, wouldn't you say? Except that I knew he was not even familiar with my own hand. That's how little attention he pays to me.”

The butler announced that our luggage was packed and we had better make a move to the station. After we said goodbye to Miri, Merinda stopped me at the top of the walkway overlooking the grand street and off toward the winking, dimpling Charles River. “Funny, Jem,” she said. “I don't want to prove myself so much as go home and hug Jasper so tightly his hat falls off.”

I breathed in the sweet first moment of home as we disembarked from Union Station, the zip in the air tickling my cheeks.

Exhausted, I saw Merinda into her own taxi and splurged on a cab for myself. Down Carlton and into the heart of drab Cabbagetown, the antithesis of Miri's grand Boston Street. The clouds were heavy with the promise of snow, and the breeze whispered around, a cadence that matched the rhythm of the carts and the horses and the automobiles swishing out of my way.

I took the last tired steps up the front walkway. Opening the door, I heard rustling in the back of the house.

As I followed the noise in the direction of the kitchen, I collided with Ray. My nose found his cheek. There was a smear of something there, sticky to my touch. He wore a light cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows under his suspenders, the two top buttons customarily undone and sugar on his face.

“Jemima! There you are!” His smile was as bright as the electric marquis at the Elgin Theatre. He clasped my hand, our fingers sticking together. He tugged me into the kitchen where, on the counter, a dozen jars were filled to their brims with lemon jam.

“Where did you learn to make jam?” No burnt salt concoction here, and the besmirched kitchen had been scrubbed from top to bottom. I licked a stray spoon. “Ray DeLuca, this is delicious.”

“My Nonna made it when Vi and I were little,” he explained. “She taught me how. Said I could impress a girl someday.”

I leaned in a bit and brushed away the hair that had fallen over his forehead. “This might be the loveliest thing anyone has ever done for me. Making lemon jam out of season.”

“If you could try it, so could I. I went to three different grocers before finding lemon at St. Lawrence Market.” He ducked his head a little. “I even consulted that book of yours.” Flora Merriweather's name sounded out of place in his voice.

I took a deep breath. “I wish we never quarreled the other night.”

Ray turned from me a moment and began twisting lids on each jar with his long fingers. I took a few and helped. There we stood, side by side, me stealing a glance at his profile and long, downturned lashes now and then.

He said, slowly, “You have no idea how badly you hurt me, Jem.”

I blinked. “Hurt you?”

“Thinking that I was angry over the state of our kitchen and missed dinner.”

“You're right to have an expectation for our home, Ray.”

He shook his head. “I didn't
notice
the kitchen! I just noticed the door open and you gone. And you didn't come home for hours.”

“I hadn't thought of—”

“You didn't think of
us.
Broken dishes, a stove still sputtering, and the door open. It doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to surmise what could have happened!”

I kept my eyes on my jam pots. “That's why you were so angry.”

He nodded. “I know someday there's going to be a case that will make you step into something dangerous. It's not going to get any easier. But I can't live with you thinking that I'll be home waiting for dinner on the stove, or that my first thought might be that you left a mess. I was driven right mad. Is this the day, I wonder, when it won't just be some silly rooster? Is this the day when she'll go too far and the best part of my life will be taken away from me?”

Heat sprang to my cheeks. “You were worried about me.”

He blew out a breath. “I should have just talked to you about it. I was foolish enough to want to hurt you the way you hurt me. That's why I acted the way I did at Jasper's party.” He trailed off, bit his tongue, and then lightened his voice. “If you start making perfect dinners and keeping house, then what about me? You'll start noticing when I saunter in late. You'll start noticing when I fall asleep on the sofa with my shoes on.” He smiled sheepishly. “The only expectation I have when I walk up the step is that hopefully there will be a Jem inside. Sometimes you'll be off looking for your missing suffragettes, and sometimes I'll forget to ring home and fall asleep at my desk. But you know I am trying. I want both of us to try.”

I loved him too much in that moment to string a sentence together. Instead, I held up a little jam pot with the brightest, most beaming grin I could conjure. “So I found a missing girl who wasn't really missing.”

He shrugged and with an easy smile said, “And I made jam.”

In several of the romantic books I read, the author breaks a deepening kiss with a series of ellipses, allowing the reader's imagination to fill in the blanks after the abrupt cutoff. In my case, it was Merinda's voice from the front hall. She never bothered knocking.

I rolled my eyes at Ray and went to meet her, pulling him in tow as he disentangled the apron from around his neck.

She was bouncing in the doorway in trousers and hat. “Jem, you will never believe what Jasper has!”

We peeked out. On the rim of the curb Jasper was leaning against a motorbicycle. And there was something else tucked under his arm.

“Did we actually win the bet?” I yelled down to Jasper. “You do know the girl wasn't
actually
missing!”

Jasper switched the motor off, but his voice still compensated for its chug and roar. “Merinda and I called off the bet.”

Ray snickered. “Merinda's too competitive.” He looked down at her. She punched his arm.

“No, DeLuca, he's right.” There was a slight hint of sincerity in Merinda's surprisingly subdued tone. I sensed she was recalling George and Robert. Then she tugged me down the walkway while verbally shooing Jasper off the bike.

Then I could see what Jasper was carrying under his arm.

My eyes went wide. “What—why—for goodness' sake—”

The bird seemed to erupt in a flurry of feathers. Jasper struggled to keep it under control, finally shoving it toward me with both hands. “Here you are, Jem,” he said. “Something I brought for you and Merinda.”

“A
rooster
!” I took a closer look. He was a fine fellow, a proud red wattle dangling under his chin. “But why… ”