Читать книгу The Widow's Secret - Sara Mitchell - Страница 16

“I promise he won’t arrest you or threaten you.”

“But you can’t promise that he’ll believe me.” Jocelyn glanced at the man seated beside her in the hansom cab, then, clearly uncomfortable, shifted her attention to the street.

It was a dreary afternoon, the sky a dull smear of gray, the buildings stolid rows of brick and stone. Over the clatter of the wheels, a train whistle tooted a warning; seconds later the hansom stopped, and a Pennsylvania Railroad locomotive pulling several passenger cars rumbled across Maryland Avenue on its way toward the depot. Moments later, the driver flicked the whip and the hansom lurched into motion once more.

Beneath the layers of her blouse and walking suit, Jocelyn’s heart fluttered like a captured rabbit. She still didn’t know quite how Operative MacKenzie had persuaded her to accompany him to the Treasury Building—except she’d been reluctant to thumb her nose at a summons from the head of the Secret Service.

As though he’d been reading her mind, after the sound of the train had faded in the distance, Operative MacKenzie observed, “I can’t speak for Chief Hazen, but I might make the observation that I’m not sure you believe me.”

She jerked her head around, searching the shuttered face. The rocking motion of the cab made her queasy, and she fought the incipient panic rising in her throat. “It’s difficult, when I know I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing! Yet you’ve frightened me, hounded me, and now you’ve bullied me into a situation I don’t want to be in. I returned your evidence, so I don’t understand what I can possibly say to your chief that I haven’t already explained to you.”

An unexpected smile kindled in his eyes, crinkling the corners, then beneath his mustache a corner of his mouth tipped up. “If that’s how you perceive me, I’m fortunate you’re here at all, Mrs. Tremayne. Ah…you’ve placed me in an awkward position, especially after hearing your interpretation of my actions. You see, once he meets you in person, I don’t think Chief Hazen will have any lingering doubts about you.”

Instantly wary, Jocelyn stiffened. “And why is that? You believe someone who looks like me is far too…noticeable…to engage in criminal activities? I’m too easily picked out of a crowd? Oh, yes—I swoon when confronted by murder.”

“I could pick you out of a crowd of a hundred redheads,” Operative MacKenzie said, his voice deepening. “Besides which, the lovely young woman I met a decade ago still lives somewhere inside the woman sitting beside me now. Regardless of how much you may have changed in the intervening years, Mrs. Tremayne, I don’t believe you’d ever knowingly be part of anything illegal.” A soft pause as potent as the touch of his fingers seeped into Jocelyn. “And you didn’t swoon. You’re harboring a terrible fear inside you, Mrs. Tremayne. But I also see a rare strength of character, not to mention a formidable temper.”

Hot color whooshed from her chin to her hairline. If she leaned sideways a scant six inches, their shoulders would touch, and she would feel again the strength of him, of muscles tensile and tough as her oak banister. An evocative scent of starch and something uniquely masculine flooded her senses. If only she’d met this man when she was seventeen, still bubbling with hope and a heart full of dreams. Instinctively, her hand lifted to press against her throat in an effort to calm her galloping pulse. “I—You shouldn’t say such things to me. I don’t know how to interpret them. I wish I…” She bit her lip, tearing her gaze away from Micah MacKenzie.

With a jerk the hansom came to a halt. “Treasury Building,” the hack announced.

The imposing building loomed before her, its seventy-four granite columns reminding Jocelyn of massive bars on a stone prison cell. When a warm hand gently clasped her elbow, she jumped.

“It’s really not the lion’s den,” Operative MacKenzie murmured. “But if it were, even if I couldn’t close the mouths of the lions, I’d protect you with my life.” When her startled gaze lifted, she discovered that despite the light tone, his eyes probed hers with an intensity that stole her breath.

With his hand supporting her, they climbed the stairs into the main entrance. Jocelyn realized with a spurt of astonishment that she actually looked forward to engaging the chief of the Secret Service in a spirited defense of her position.

Richmond

A week had passed since Jocelyn and Katya returned from Washington, and life settled back into an uneasy rhythm of sorts. For long clumps of time, Jocelyn almost forgot about the man who had burst into her life with the force of a runaway locomotive, then chugged off toward the horizon. Operative MacKenzie was somewhere in the Midwest—St. Louis? Chicago?—chasing after counterfeiters while Jocelyn struggled to believe his parting words.

“I’ll be back,” he promised. “Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me, Mrs. Tremayne.”

“You’re like the wind, Operative MacKenzie,” she retorted, disguising desolation with flippancy. “Blowing here and there, and nobody can hold it in one place, or capture it inside a basket. I plan to go back to living my life as though none of the past week ever happened.”

“Mmm. I gave up playing pretend games when I was, oh, about six years old.” Then he touched the brim of his hat. “But for now, I’ll leave you to yours. Be careful, please. The police are keeping an eye out, but—”

She wondered now what words he’d swallowed back, but refused to invest much effort in an exercise that would only trigger a plethora of memories.

Tonight she was attending a musicale at the Westhampton Club with friends—an enjoyable diversion that might allow her to forget, if only for a few hours, Micah MacKenzie and the Secret Service. During the days she filled the hours with mindless activities, while the nights taunted her with their emptiness as she searched in vain for peace of mind.

There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked.

The poisonous verse slapped at her like a vindictive hand.

“I’m not wicked!” Jocelyn announced aloud, anger and pain twining her in thorny vines. “I’m not….” When her voice broke, she bit her lip until she tasted blood. Throat aching, she snatched up her gloves and evening cloak and swept out of the room, firmly shutting the door behind her.

The night was warm, more like summer than late fall. Air thick with humidity clung to trees and buildings. Despite his considerable bulk, a man walked in soundless stealth along the city’s back streets until bank buildings and stores gave way to lumber and tobacco warehouses. For a block or two he followed the railroad tracks. Eventually, he reached a neighborhood where, in daylight hours, he could never risk showing his face.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew this task was both reprimand, and restitution. Still, it gave him the shivers. He was a professional, but he had a few standards; he’d never snuffed a woman. He’d stolen from ’em plenty, he’d cut a few as warnings, but he’d made it plain that he wasn’t after anything worse.

But a job had to be done, and he had to do it. His reputation after the last botched assignment was hanging over his head, a noose about to drop around his size 19 neck. He’d explained. Unfamiliar city, poor directions—no time to study patterns, so the old man’s death wasn’t his fault.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Orders were orders, and money was money. And his own life was on the line.

“Find these items, and you’ll be rewarded accordingly. Fail, and your usefulness might come to an end.”

There. White porch, two columns. Getaway alleys on either side. At last, luck was running his way.

He slid one hand inside to make sure the knife was within easy reach. Next he fit his brass knuckles over the fingerless gloves. Ten minutes later he slipped over the windowsill and into the house’s parlor.

“I refuse to stay inside this place another day!” Jocelyn stabbed hat pins in place while she glared at her obdurate maid. “It’s been three days. We’ve cleaned everything up, nothing is missing. The police assure me they’re doing everything they can to—What?”

Katya wrote with a furious speed that mirrored Jocelyn’s frustration, her double chin quivering like calf’s-foot jelly. Need to wait for—she hurriedly searched the list of correctly spelled words she kept inside her apron pocket—Mr. MacKenzie.

Sergeant Whitlock, the policeman who was still investigating Mr. Hepplewhite’s murder, was the officer who had appeared on her doorstep to investigate her report of vandalism. More policemen had followed, as well as a nattily dressed detective wearing a dark suit and spotted yellow bow tie instead of a blue uniform.

Operative Micah MacKenzie’s name had been mentioned several times. But nobody saw fit to enlighten Jocelyn as to when he would return to Richmond, or whether or not he concurred with their hypotheses that the villain who had torn her house apart was connected with Mr. Hepplewhite’s murder.

Jocelyn crumpled Katya’s words into a ball, stomped across to the parlor fireplace, hurled the note into the flames, then returned to the foyer where Katya hovered like an over-wrought governess. “For the last time, I doubt we’ll ever see Micah MacKenzie again. What’s the matter with you, anyway? No—don’t answer that, it’s just a rhetorical question. And before you ask what that means, a rhetorical question is one for which I don’t expect an answer. They’re not meant to be answered—Oh, botheration.” Her gloves weren’t cooperating with her fingers. Jocelyn gave up and threw them down. “I’m going downtown. You can either stay here and fret, or do what the police sergeant told you to do and come with me.”

Katya gave her a wounded look as she wrote. I fetch my coat.

They walked the two blocks to the streetcar stop in silence.

“I’m sorry,” Jocelyn said after they boarded the nearly empty car and sat down, side by side but an ocean apart. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper, or taken it out on you.”

A self-righteous sniff was Katya’s only response, but when Jocelyn glanced sideways, she spied a twinkle in her maid’s eyes. “Come now, confess,” she coaxed. “You’ve been wanting to go to town as much as I have. We’ll stop by the bakery, and buy some of those nutmeg doughnuts you love so much.”

When Katya dug into the folds of her voluminous sack coat for her pad and thick charcoal pencil, Jocelyn almost wept with relief. The further evidence of her crumbling fortitude drained her. Her desperation for any connection with another human being, albeit through the silent scribbling on a notepad, reduced her to a tearful puddle.

Katya tugged her arm. Their stop had arrived. Jocelyn corralled her gloomy thoughts as they joined the throng of pedestrians spilling across the tracks to the sidewalk. As long as she and Katya stayed together, Sergeant Whitlock counseled her, and confined their meanderings to the busy downtown, they should be safe.

After they strolled along East Main for several blocks, she relaxed enough to point out a display of ladies’ shoes in the window of a shoe store, even laughed with her companion over a man on a bicycle bumping his way down the cobbled street scarcely a dozen paces ahead of a horsecar. She lingered in front of the bookshop until Katya thrust a piece of paper in front of her face.

Bakery.

“Oh, all right.”

They walked up Sixth Street to Bromm’s Bakery on East Marshall. Several moments later they emerged from the shop, carrying fragrant sacks of confections. A mule-drawn delivery wagon pulled up in front of the bakery and a wiry dark-skinned man jumped down, tying the mule to the hitching post. Katya’s entire face lit up as she pointed to the straw hat on top of the mule’s head, its long ears poking through holes cut on either side. When she indicated that she wanted to go pet the mule, Jocelyn waved her on without a second thought.

“I’ll wait for you here. I’ve no desire to spoil the fragrance of our doughnuts with eau de mule.”

Sometimes she forgot how young Katya was, she mused, watching the girl gesturing with her hands to the driver, relieved when he obligingly introduced her to the flop-eared mule.

How had Katya endured the nightmares in her short life, yet retained the capacity for joy and hope?