A Dangerous Engagement

by Ashley Weaver

  I glanced at the clock. “Since when do you fall asleep at this hour?”

  “Well, I didn’t intend to fall asleep the minute my head hits the pillow.” He got into bed and pulled the covers back on my side invitingly. “In fact, if you’d like to join me, I’ll keep you up as late as you like.”

  “Do be serious, Milo.”

  His brows rose. “I am serious.”

  I sighed.

  “You needn’t look so cross, darling,” he said wryly, settling back against his pillows. “I withdraw all suggestions of seduction.”

  I gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m very tired, Milo. It’s been a busy day.”

  “All the more reason for you to lie down.”

  I couldn’t argue with this bit of logic, though I felt the unreasoning urge to. With another little sigh of defeat, I went to the bed.

  “It’s just that I’m so worried,” I said, sliding beneath the covers.

  “Try not to worry tonight. Get some rest, and we’ll examine things in the morning.”

  I found this to be an appealing suggestion. I lay down, and Milo drew me against him.

  I was glad we had decided not to go out tonight. Milo had an excessively social personality, and it was not often we found ourselves spending quiet evenings at home. I was beginning to think that when we returned to England we might do well to spend some time at Thornecrest. It would be nice to sit there with Milo before the crackling fire during the cool autumn nights, sipping our tea and listening to the wireless or reading.

  Of course, Milo was likely to be bored by this plan and would no doubt swiftly find some excuse to run off to London. It was nice to imagine it, though.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t have much time to contemplate the idyllic scene or wonder why I was suddenly becoming so nostalgic for a quiet country life.

  Outside the house, there was a sudden loud shout, followed by the unmistakable sound of gunfire.

  9

  THERE WERE FOUR or five shots fired in rapid succession followed by a moment of deafening silence.

  I jumped up from the bed, but Milo had beaten me to it, motioning me to stay back while he moved toward the window. The lace curtains suddenly seemed like a very flimsy defense against whatever was lurking out there in the darkness.

  He pulled one of them back and glanced outside. I could make out the reflection of his face in the glass, his eyes scanning the street below.

  “Do you see anything?” I asked, pulling on my dressing gown.

  He shook his head. “No. I can’t see much from here.”

  “I wonder if we should ring the police,” I said, a feeling of dread filling me.

  “I imagine someone will,” Milo replied. “I don’t suppose this neighborhood is used to that sort of commotion.”

  If they were unused to that, then they were probably wholly unprepared for the shrieks that suddenly began to emanate from the streets below. My stomach clenched at the pure terror in them, the hair rising on my arms.

  Milo grabbed his own dressing gown and pulled it on as he started for the door without hesitation. “You’d better stay here, Amory.”

  This didn’t deserve a reply, so I said nothing as I followed him from the room.

  We hurried down the hall and descended the stairs.

  The screaming had stopped by the time we reached the bottom of the stairs, and somehow the silence seemed almost more unsettling. We found Calvin, the butler, standing with the door open, staring at something outside. We crossed the marble-floored foyer to look past him, and I sucked in a breath at the scene before us.

  Tabitha, who had apparently been the source of the screaming, knelt on the front steps beside a body that lay facedown. Was it Tom?

  My heart seized at the thought, the shock of it hitting me almost like a physical blow.

  But then, something began to make its way through the haze of adrenaline. I realized that the figure lying on the stairs was not tall enough to be Tom.

  Who was it, then? He wore a camel-colored coat and a dark fedora. I thought at first that the coat was dirty, but then I realized that it was dotted with black holes. And there was something dark seeping from them, giving the impression that the holes were swiftly widening.

  My stomach clenched again.

  All of this happened in the space of a moment, though it seemed to me as though time had slowed to an almost excruciating degree.

  Then Tabitha looked up at me, tears streaked across her pretty face. “It’s Grant.”

  Grant Palmer? What had he been doing here at this hour? What was more, who might have wanted to shoot him on the Aldens’ doorstep?

  Milo, ever calm in a crisis, moved beside the body and reached down to feel for a pulse on his throat.

  “We’ve got to help him,” Tabitha said, looking from Milo to me to Calvin, then back at the prone figure.

  Milo looked up at me and shook his head. So Mr. Palmer was dead. I’d already suspected as much, but the confirmation caused another jolt in my chest.

  “We’ve got to move him inside,” Tabitha said, her voice rising slightly, though she was talking to no one in particular. “We’ve got to call for a doctor.”

  Milo’s eyes were still on mine, calming me with their steadiness, silently communicating what needed to be done. I drew in a breath.

  “Come here, dear,” I said gently, moving to Tabitha’s side. She was obviously in shock—I could see her entire body trembling—and the best thing I could do was to remove her from the scene. We couldn’t help Grant Palmer now.

  I took one of her arms and Milo took the other, and we helped her to her feet.

  “He shouldn’t be lying on his face,” she said. “He needs to be moved.”

  “I’ll take care of him,” Milo said. “Go inside with Amory, Tabitha.”

  There was something calming yet slightly authoritative about Milo’s tone that seemed to break through her stupor. She looked at him and nodded. “All right. Yes … all right.”

  I held her arm as we negotiated our way back up the stairs. Poor Tabitha was forced to step over one of Mr. Palmer’s arms, flung out across the top step.

  “Ring for the police, will you, Calvin?” Milo asked the butler as we reached the door. He still stood stiffly where he had been when we had descended the stairs, as though frozen, his face ashen. Milo’s request seemed to recall him to his duty, however, and he nodded.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, turning to go back inside.

  As Tabitha entered the house, I took one last look over my shoulder.

  Grant Palmer lay motionless on the stairs, blood pooling beneath him and dripping down to the next step. The handsome, carefree young man was gone forever.

  * * *

  IT SEEMS THAT my life is a carousel that, instead of brass rings, always brings me back to the moment when stern-faced policemen are asking me questions.

  There were two officers in this case. One was a tall, heavyset man of middle age with a dark complexion and even darker eyes who had introduced himself as Detective Andrews. His black hair was sprinkled with silver, and he looked as though he hadn’t shaved that morning, or perhaps even the day before. Nor had his suit been pressed. It was a bit rumpled, as was the trench coat he wore over it. Overall, he gave the impression that he had been working for quite some time without rest.

  His partner was called Detective Bailey. In contrast to Detective Andrews, he was tall, thin, and fair, his most distinguishing feature the unusual color his eyes. They were a pale, clear green, like pieces of bottle glass worn smooth by the sea. There was something calming about his gaze, though something searching, too, I thought.

  They interviewed us each in turn. Andrews asked most of the questions, while Bailey listened and watched.

  I thought neither of them looked at all shocked by what had occurred here. Detective Andrews in particular seemed completely unfazed. If anything, he appeared slightly put out that it had no doubt required him to stay on duty longer than he had planned. His ma
nner was brusque as he asked what seemed to me a series of perfunctory questions.

  I really hadn’t much to tell. After all, I had only heard the shots. Everyone in the general vicinity had likely done the same. This was apparent by the number of people who had begun pooling from their houses by the time the police had arrived, subjecting Grant Palmer to the indignity of having his bullet-riddled body gaped at by most of the neighborhood.

  It was just toward the end of the interview that Detective Bailey asked his first question, something that seemed to hit a bit closer to the mark than Detective Andrews’s inquiries.

  “Did you know that Mr. Palmer was going to be coming to the house tonight?”

  I shook my head. “No. I hadn’t heard that he was coming.”

  “Who might he have been coming to see?”

  I looked at him. I wasn’t sure why he had asked this question. Surely it didn’t matter who Mr. Palmer had been coming to see. No one in the house had killed him … had they?

  It occurred to me suddenly that no one but Milo and I had been at the house when the murder occurred. Mr. Alden had gone out, and Tabitha had been attempting to catch a cab at the corner when she heard the shots. If someone in the Aldens’ circle had wanted to kill Mr. Palmer, they might have done it. I was not going to mention this to these detectives, however. They seemed clever, and I was sure they could work this out for themselves.

  I answered tactfully. “He was a close friend of Mr. Tom Smith and a member of the wedding party. It’s my understanding that he’s been here quite often as of late.”

  “Even at this hour?” Detective Andrews asked. He had a very casual way of asking questions, as though the answers weren’t particularly important. But I knew better than that. He was getting at something. But what?

  “I’ve only been here a few days. I’m not very familiar with the patterns of the house.”

  He watched me for just an instant longer than he might have had he found my answer unremarkable, and I thought that he must not believe me.

  “Is there anything else you have to add?” he asked at last.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “No idea who might have killed him?”

  “Certainly not.” I answered the question automatically, but I paused as a thought came to me. “Although…”

  He waited.

  “It was my understanding that Mr. Palmer was involved in some way with bootleggers.”

  If he found this interesting, he gave no sign of it. In fact, I rather had the impression that he was amused. “Involved how?”

  “I don’t know. It was just a rumor I heard.”

  “From who?”

  I hesitated. Well, I supposed he would find out anyway. He was a detective, after all. “From Miss Alden.”

  “Did she mention any particular gangster?” Detective Bailey asked, those pale green eyes watching me with an unreadable expression. Detective Andrews, meanwhile, smirked.

  “Leon De Lora, I believe. But I don’t know much else. Perhaps she can give you more details.”

  Detective Andrews gave a short nod. “Okay. I think you can go, Mrs. Ames. I’ll let you know if I have any more questions.”

  “Very well.” I rose to leave and he stood, a bit stiffly it seemed, and walked me to the door. Detective Bailey remained where he was, seemingly lost in thought.

  They were an odd pair, and I happily left them and went back to the sitting room where Milo sat with Tabitha on the cornflower-blue sofa.

  Milo’s eyes met mine in the way he had of assessing my feelings at a glance, and I gave him the barest of smiles to let him know that I was all right.

  They were drinking coffee that a pallid but stoic Calvin had brought to us in a silver pot. I wasn’t sure we needed any additional stimulation at the moment, but it was nice to have something to do with one’s hands.

  “I just don’t know who could’ve done this,” Tabitha said. She was still pale, and I had noticed the trembling of her hands when she had come from her interview with the detectives. She had not had the past experience with the police that I had, and even I had found the men a bit unnerving. There was something very intense about the combination of Detectives Andrews and Bailey.

  I had just taken a seat and picked up my cup of now-cold coffee when Mr. Alden arrived home. We heard him before we saw him, the raised sound of his voice and the heavy footsteps pounding along the hallway.

  The body had already been moved, but I assumed the police were mulling about the premises, and no doubt the blood was still pooled on the front steps. In seeing the uproar that was taking place on the stoop of his house, he had hurried inside, calling Tabitha’s name.

  “I’m here, Dad,” she called, rising from her seat.

  “Tabitha … thank God.” His face was white, and he reached out to grip the door frame of the sitting room as though to steady himself.

  “I’m all right, Dad,” she said, going quickly to his side. He embraced her, and I thought that he looked limp with relief.

  “What’s going on?” he asked at last. “What happened?”

  His eyes moved to Milo and me over Tabitha’s shoulder, looking to us for answers. It was Tabitha who broke the news to him, however.

  “It’s Grant,” she said, drawing back to look up at him. “He’s been killed. Oh, Dad…”

  She dissolved then into the tears that she had been holding back since I had found her kneeling by Grant Palmer’s body. Mr. Alden held her close, patting her back in a distracted way.

  I had watched his face carefully as she said the words, but there was very little reaction. He did not seem shocked.

  Detective Andrews came in behind him a moment later, no doubt drawn by the commotion.

  “You’re the owner of this house?”

  Mr. Alden looked over his shoulder. “Yes,” he said distractedly, releasing Tabitha and turning to face him. “Yes, I’m Benjamin Alden.”

  “I need to have a few words with you.”

  Mr. Alden drew in a breath, summoning his focus, and nodded. “Of course.”

  “I think that’ll be all for now, Mr. and Mrs. Ames, Miss Alden,” Detective Andrews said, glancing at us. “I don’t need anything more from the rest of you for the time being. You can go to bed now if you wish.”

  With that, he turned and left the room. Mr. Alden cast one last glance over his shoulder at Tabitha, gave her a somewhat bewildered smile, and then followed the detective from the room.

  It was Milo who broke the silence. “Well,” he said, rising from his seat. “We may as well try to get some rest.”

  “I don’t know how we possibly…” Tabitha’s voice broke as fresh tears filled her eyes.

  I moved to her side, sliding an arm around her shoulders. “I know it’s been a terrible shock, dear, but things will look better in the morning. There’s nothing more that can be done tonight.”

  “I … I suppose you’re right. I wish … I wish Tom was here.” She looked as though she wanted to cry again, but she managed to suppress it.

  “Shall we telephone him?” I asked.

  We had considered doing so immediately after the tragedy but, given the lateness of the hour and the fact that the police had been ever-present, as though watching our every movement, Tabitha had decided to wait to deliver the news that his best man had been murdered. I was surprised, however, he had not telephoned or come to the house when Tabitha hadn’t met him for dancing as planned.

  “No,” she said. “I’ll call him in the morning.”

  “Do you want me to come and sit with you, then?” I asked. Truth be told, what I wanted more than anything else was to lie down in my own bed without moving for the next twenty-four hours. But if Tabitha needed my company, I would give it to her. I knew well the trauma of discovering a body.

  She considered for a moment and then shook her head. “No. I’ll be all right. Thank you.”

  We all went up the stairs together and Tabitha gave me a quick hug before she disappeared into h
er room.

  It was nearly three o’clock in the morning as Milo and I returned to our bedroom. I felt weary to the bone. Weary and terribly sad. It was not the first time I had been witness to a senseless death, but no amount of exposure to such a thing could lessen the impact. I wondered how policemen did it, seeing death day after day. They always seemed so unaffected by it, but I supposed one never knew what went on beneath the surface.

  I dropped into the little sofa with a heavy sigh. What a dreadful evening this had been.

  I felt sorry for Mr. Palmer. He had been a scoundrel, perhaps, but he certainly hadn’t deserved this. What was more, I was certain there had been some hint of a vulnerable young man beneath that careless, carefree façade. Now we would never have the chance to discover what else he might have been.

  “Are you all right, darling?” Milo asked, coming up behind me and putting a hand on my shoulder.

  “Yes, I’m all right.” I reached up to cover his hand with mine, relishing the contact, the steadiness I somehow felt I was deriving from the warm pressure against my shoulder.

  “Do you want to go to bed?”

  I shook my head. “Not just yet. I won’t be able to sleep.”

  He came around the sofa to sit beside me, his arm sliding around me, and I leaned into him, resting my head on his shoulder. For a moment, neither of us spoke.

  “I wonder if someone has told Tom already,” I said at last. I knew the young man was likely to be very upset by the death of his friend. I hoped that Tabitha would be the one who was able to give him the news, rather than some unsympathetic policeman.

  “I imagine he’ll find out soon enough.”

  “I wonder what this will mean for the wedding.” It was the first time this aspect had crossed my mind. Would they go on with things now that the best man was dead? I wasn’t exactly sure what the proper etiquette might be in this situation.

  I supposed that wasn’t the most pertinent thing to consider at present, but I couldn’t help but think about it. I stared into the fireplace, the implications of what had happened swirling through my head in a kaleidoscope of jagged, ugly thoughts.