A Dagger Cuts Deep

by Kathy L Wheeler

  “Hello, Jackson.” Melinda plunked a cup of coffee in front of him. “Did you happen to notice that woman in the doorway?”

  “What about her? I’m sure she’s a tourist like everyone else in this damn town. Bring me a chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and gravy.”

  She smirked. “Certainly, my lord! Did the sheriff notify the Bishops’ Council about Knox’s death? Everybody’s wondering about a new preacher.”

  “I imagine he did. Why don’t you ask him? I’m not the sheriff.” A fact for which he was eternally grateful.

  Melinda splayed her hand on her slim hip. “Jackson Montgomery, you must realize now that Victor is gone you are the island’s benefactor.”

  Ah, hell. “Just bring me dinner,” he growled, startled by her words. Jackson didn’t like thinking he had a whole host of people depending on him. Wasn’t the fact that he had to marry by October 19th so his cousins could receive their inheritance enough responsibility to bury him six feet under?

  Still scowling at Melinda’s knowing grin, Jackson watched her saunter off. What a busybody she was. Someone ought to marry her and quash her brazenness. He considered that line of thought for himself, for about ten seconds, then shuddered. He’d rather lose his inheritance than be stuck with Melinda for the rest of his life. Not that she wasn’t a good sort. Cute, even.

  But no. He just couldn’t see it.

  His call to Charity last week still had the power to humili—infuriate him. She hadn’t even allowed him an opportunity to explain that he’d quit drinking. It bothered him to realize that even an inkling of his former feelings for her remained. It was that damned kiss he’d planted on her when she’d shown up out of the blue a few years ago. He’d been falling down drunk for God’s sake, and shouldn’t be able to remember the incident at all.

  Yet he did. He barely restrained a groan. Most of what he could recall was her surprise. It haunted his dreams—along with her unexpected response.

  6

  With aching feet, Melinda locked the door of the café. Normally, Josephine Weatherford Smith, Wyn’s wife and Jackson’s cousin, would be walking out with her, but Jo had received a call earlier regarding the Knox’s death and Ruth was hysterical and shouldn’t be left alone. She’d rushed out and hadn’t returned.

  The amount of business Melinda expected to take in during this one week would carry her through a good portion of the year. Lord, she was tired. During the winter, she was usually home a good two hours earlier compared to the height of the summer season, specifically the weeks surrounding the arts fair. But there was one last stop to make before she turned in for the night. She was taking a risk in not calling first, but this errand constituted an emergency. She made the short walk home to pick up her car. A hike through the woods at eight-thirty at night held no appeal.

  The drive to the Montgomery house was short, and Melinda could only hope people were still awake. Minutes later, she pulled into the circular drive, relieved to see lights burning in the downstairs windows.

  “Good heavens, Melinda. Get in here, right this minute.” Esther Delacroix, the manor house housekeeper, was still wearing her apron. She pushed her graying hair away from her face. She’d been on the island for as long as Melinda could remember.

  “Don’t tell me you’re still cooking at this hour,” Melinda said, grinning.

  “I imagine if anyone can understand that, it’s you,” the older woman retorted with a smile. “What are you making for the fair this year?”

  “I’m aiming for something unusual. Frying pickles, maybe.”

  “Mm-mm. That sounds so bad it’s probably delicious. Now, what kind of business brings you to the manor at this time of night?”

  “I was wondering if Ruth was still up and about.”

  “Certainly. She’s in the library. Doubt she’ll be sleeping so well, as you can imagine. Jo and the others have already turned in for the night, so you should have some privacy.”

  Melinda followed Esther through the elegant foyer to a round room housed in one of the faux turrets. The room had a gothic feel with its curved, dark-wood walls and floor-to-ceiling book shelves. Nothing could steal the focus from the large, ornate fireplace and glass terrace doors except perhaps for the portrait of Claudia Montgomery, original owner of the house, hanging over the fireplace’s mantle. Melinda found Ruth huddled on a cushioned bench in the large bay window, staring out at the dark, clear night, with an open book in her lap.

  “Hi, Ruth.” Melinda spoke softly.

  Ruth gave a violent start. Her hand splayed her chest. “Oh, Melinda. You frightened me.”

  That didn’t surprise Melinda. As she remembered Penelope from years ago, Ruth was her sister’s complete opposite. “I wanted to speak to you about the house.”

  Ruth’s already pale countenance drained of blood. “I-I can’t go back there.” Her eyes filled with unshed tears. “Oh, Melinda, what am I going to do?” She dropped her head into her hands and her body shook with silent sobs.

  Melinda hurried over and eased down beside her. “I think I found someone to stay at the cottage until a new preacher arrives. Perhaps, she won’t mind packing things up for you in lieu of rent.”

  Ruth lifted hope-filled eyes. “Do you really think so?”

  “I can ask. I just wanted to make sure it was all right with you first.”

  “Yes. Oh, yes. Please ask her, Melinda. I will be eternally grateful.”

  Melinda glanced around at the warm, cozy library. “What will you do?”

  “Jo said I could stay here for a while. I’m sure I can find someplace after the summer crowd leaves.” Her features took on their normal bleakness. “I know that’s an awful long time to impose on the Weatherford sisters and Jackson.”

  Melinda patted her hand. “Don’t worry about it, dear. There’s room enough here at the manor house for an army.”

  7

  The next morning Deidre was at the café when it opened and was handed excellent news. Ruth Knox had agreed to let Deidre stay at the church’s cottage in exchange for packing it up. She greeted Lori and Mrs. Phillips at the ferry with the agreement she could pick up her bag on the way to their new lodgings. Apparently, the Island Inn was on the path to the house.

  Her heart swelled at Lori’s exuberant hug, and returned Deidre it with great enthusiasm. “You shall have an excellent time, Lori. There is an arts fair here and it starts in a few days.”

  Deidre gave Mrs. Phillips the directions to the small cottage-style house located on a drive that split from the church on South Church Road.

  “Take the path to the right, Mrs. Phillips,” Deidre directed her. She wasn’t quite ready to mention the actual reason they were able to stay at the cottage. And telling Mrs. Phillips it was rent-free would mean more questions than Deidre was prepared to answer at the moment.

  Mrs. Phillips parked in front of the house and the three of them went up the steps to a wide veranda with dust-coated chairs. They entered the unlocked house into a small dark entryway, moving quietly to the first open door and stopped.

  “My goodness.” Mrs. Phillips spun in a slow circle.

  Deidre wrinkled her nose. “It smells stale.” Deidre followed the older woman’s gaze around the small, over-stuffed parlor. There was no dust that Deidre could see. It was just stuffy. A lot of knitted and crocheted items covered every available surface in every color. The small room was badly in need of airing. There was a rickety, aged settee in a green so gray there was almost no green left. She moved to its worn backside and tugged open a window, letting in the warm sea breeze. It mingled with the scents of the island’s fir trees, instantly refreshed the stale air.

  Lori clung to Deidre’s legs. “Mama, are there toys?” she whispered.

  “No. I don’t believe any children have lived here for a long time, darling,” she said.

  Mrs. Phillips’ turned in a slow circle and ended back on Deidre. “How on earth did you come upon this place? It�
��s very quaint.”

  “I told the, uh, agent…”

  “Agent?”

  “The go-between. The individual who suggested this place, that we would, um, pack things up for the previous tenants.”

  “Hmph.” Mrs. Phillip’s hands moved to her back. “I see.”

  “Er, why don’t we take a look at the rest of the house.”

  “What happened to the previous tenants?” Mrs. Phillips asked.

  “The, ah, minister died and his daughter, well, she didn’t feel comfortable returning.” It wasn’t a lie, Deidre told herself. “The good news is that we have the house until I’m required to return to work.” She took Lori’s hand and led her back out to the foyer with Mrs. Phillips on their heels. “I haven’t seen the house, though from what I understand there are three bedrooms, and a tiny office.”

  The kitchen was small, though not as small as the one in their Queens lodgings. To Deidre’s relief, there was no spoiled food or dirty dishes left lying about. In fact, the kitchen was immaculate down to its shiny floor, yet it was still unbearably stuffy. She reached up and unlatched a window over the sink and pushed it open. Thankfully, the cottage appeared to have running water.

  Deidre looked around. The stove was wood burning and there was a small kitchen table with four chairs. “Where’s the icebox?”

  Mrs. Phillips stalked over to a door that led out onto a back porch. “Out here,” she said. “It’s an old one, although it does plug in. Oh, the air compressor is one that sits atop the box. I’ve seen this before. It emits a great deal of heat from that turret on top of the cabinet.” She frowned. “It uses sulfur dioxide as the refrigerant.”

  Deidre grinned. “You never cease to amaze me, Mrs. Phillips.”

  The older woman’s head angled with her intense thoughts. “Hm. Sulfur dioxide is corrosive to the eyes. It can cause loss of vision and painful skin burns. The fumes are highly flammable if they are inhaled or ingested. I suppose it’s a good thing that it is out here.” Mrs. Phillips turned to Lori. “Stay away from the box, dear.” She opened the box’s door. “There’s hardly any food. I shall take care of the shopping this afternoon, Deidre.”

  “I would greatly appreciate it.”

  Mrs. Phillips shut the door and faced Deidre. “Perhaps we should locate our rooms?”

  With her arm around Lori’s shoulder, Deidre backed into the kitchen. “Oh, yes. They must be upstairs.”

  Back inside, Deidre poked at another door off the kitchen, revealing a small formal dining room. That table seated six. Again, no dust and highly shiny wood.

  The staircase was also off the kitchen. Taking each other’s hands, Lori and Deidre traipsed up to the second level.

  The bedroom door closest to the landing was shut. Deidre turned the knob. It resisted slightly as if it hadn’t been used in some time. She peered inside and was shocked to see a room decorated in pinks that had faded and white that had yellowed with age. The musty smell tickled her nostrils and she sneezed. She stepped over the threshold and was certain she could feel ghostly fingers touching her neck. Again, she went to a window. She tried to open it, but it was stuck, and after a moment, she gave up. With a sight she surveyed the room. Her gazed landed on an ornate, long-handled hairbrush sitting atop a vanity. At the foot of a twin bed was a cedar chest covered in dust.

  “I like this room, Mama. But I-I don’t wanna sleep here,” Lori whispered. Deidre glanced at her. Her wide-eyes scanning the room with a tangible wariness.

  “You’ll sleep with me, darling.” Deidre went to the closet and peered inside. There weren’t many dresses, and the ones hanging were a good ten to fifteen years out of fashion, despite their conservative “minister’s daughter” cut. She rifled through the staid wardrobe, feeling for the girl who’d worn these garments. Ironically, they were similar to the ones Deidre had worn in her own teen years. Deidre’s hand paused as another type of garment altogether caught her attention for all its dull shine. Charity had often worn this sort of dress in a fit of rebellion. Again, the dress was from over a decade ago. Only the more risqué members of society—flappers—had worn them. It was covered in faded silver fringe, showing the black sheath beneath. It was very daring, considering the childlike room they stood in.

  Deidre’s gaze moved down the length of the dress to the floor. She crouched down and pushed aside a pair of patent leather Mary Jane’s and lifted a small, decorated box, the kind of box in which a young girl on the verge of womanhood would store her most precious keepsakes. She lifted the lid and considered the contents, her smile tugging at her.

  A tube of lipstick, a pot of rouge, mascara, and set of tweezers. Clearly, the girl who’d resided in this room had balked at being a minister’s daughter. Was she the same one who was so upset by her father’s death that she couldn’t come back to the house? Deidre closed the box and set it back down. She had questions for her new friend Melinda.

  “Anything interesting?” Mrs. Phillips asked.

  “No.” Unwilling to disturb anything further, Diedre stood and went to the door and took Lori’s hand again. She shut the door and led Lori and Mrs. Phillips down the short hall to the next bedroom. It was another sparsely furnished room with a twin bed. The only other furnishings included a bedside table, one wooden chair, and a dresser, without a single frill. Oddly, there was no mirror. Deidre felt as if she’d stepped inside the cell of a sixteenth century nunnery. Unlike the previous bedroom, this room was as dust free as the kitchen. She went to the dresser and found another wooden-handled brush and its matching mirror. That struck her as more normal. She let out a held breath.

  In the closet, she found dresses that were as outdated and conservative as those in the previous room, in the same dark colors of navy, black, gray, and brown. There was no box of keepsakes in this room. The shoes were sensible and highly polished. Deidre wandered to the bedside table and picked up a lone book—Little Pictorial Lives of the Saints with Reflections for Every Day of the Year. It was the only thing in sight that resembled a personal effect. “This must be Ruth’s room,” Deidre said.

  “Ruth?”

  “The parson’s daughter.”

  The last bedroom obviously belonged to Reverend Knox room. A shiver snaked up Deidre’s spine. The bed was large enough to accommodate her and Lori, and this room, like the kitchen and the previous bedroom, was clean as a tack. The room bothered her, and she was suddenly glad that she’d have her four-year-old niece with her at night.

  Still, it was the only arrangement that made sense. “Mrs. Phillips, you take Ruth’s room. Lori and I will sleep in here.” Deidre didn’t bother looking in the closet.

  ~~~

  “By the time I got home last night, my wife was snug in bed and the rest of the house was sound asleep.” Wyn strolled over to his desk and sorted through a stack of envelopes. “Jo said Melinda visited with Ruth last night. Any idea what they talked about?”

  “I think I was one of those other occupants sound asleep when you reached the house.” Jackson kicked back in his rolling chair and put his booted feet on the desk that was situated across from Wyn’s in their shared office. It was strange that Wyn and Jackson shared the same address after so many years, but since Wyn’s marriage to Jo, and Victory’s posthumous dictates the mandate was necessary. “Yeah. One of her customers was being kicked out of the inn today. They’re booked to the gills. Melinda learned this person needed a place to stay. Since Ruth is refusing to go back to the cottage, Melinda told Ruth the woman was willing to help pack up the house in lieu of rent for staying there. Hell, with Knox’s murder, I can hardly blame Ruth for not wanting to return.”

  “Agreed. By the way, I notified the Bishops’ Council of Knox’s demise. They are sending a replacement for him as soon as possible.” Wyn dropped into his chair. He leaned back and the squeak was monumental.

  “Not much they can do before the arts fair.” Jackson clasped his hands at the back of his head, his elbows out. “Who’s t
he woman? What’s she doing here?”

  “Melinda didn’t elaborate.” Jackson shrugged. “Same reason everyone is here this time of year, I imagine—the arts fair.” He frowned. “Problem is, I haven’t had a chance go through anything at the house that might account for Knox’s murder.”

  Wyn’s fingers drummed the armrest of his chair. “It’s probably not an issue. This is a murder investigation. I’m sure the tenant won’t have a problem allowing you to search. But if she does—”

  Jackson dropped his feet back to the ground and grinned. “Then I’ll just pull out my detective’s badge.” He grabbed a pen and tapped it on the wood surface. “I went back to the church early this morning to meet Hobbit Jones. He’s taken Knox’s body to Bridgeport. Said he’d call the medical examiner in and ask him to check for anything out of the ordinary.” Jackson snorted. “As if you could call a stab to the chest ordinary.”

  Jones owned the Rest Easy Chapel across the bridge. Jackson’s dealings with Jones stirred up too many memories, he thought, thinking of Penelope’s demise in 1924. It had devastated the island community. They’d all been kids at the time. Jackson had even harbored a crush on her, but Knox had been staunchly against any boy taking an interest in his eldest daughter.

  The younger set, including Penelope, had spent their evenings in the summers hanging about the beach and lighthouse around Serpent’s Point on the farthest eastern point of the island. The beach at that end of the island, while more accessible, was still rocky and quite dangerous when the tide came in.

  Penelope, however, hadn’t died near the lighthouse. She had died on the path high above bluffs, the one that led to the Montgomery’s manor house. The same one Victor had plunge over to the rocks below.

  The image of Penelope’s torn dress, blood matting her short, crimped chestnut-colored hair; her pretty brown eyes, staring up at the night sky, still haunted him. And next to her, bare chested, was Wyn, his best friend, his shirt draping her exposed body. The memory still sent chills through him every time he thought about it.