by Jo Goodman
“Do not play coy with me.” Agitated, Fiona sat up. It was not enough, so she stood, and when that failed to quiet her jangling nerves, she began to pace. “You will have to leave, Phoebe. I forbid you to be in love with him. Distance will help you see him more clearly, and you will be gratified that I stepped in to save you from yourself.”
Phoebe set the book aside and folded her hands in her lap. Her eyes, not her head, tracked Fiona’s movements. She did not respond directly to what was said; instead she advanced her terms. “You need to tell me what happened between you and Remington to make you revile him. I will not leave without hearing it from you. Tell me what he did.”
Fiona made a small huffing noise at the back of her throat. “The last time you put that question to me, you asked what I had done to him. It is small gratification that you recognize the shoe is on the other foot.”
“I am not asking a question now,” said Phoebe. “Tell me.”
Fiona stopped pacing so suddenly that she seemed to vibrate before she went completely still. “You will not like it.”
“That is the one thing of which I am certain, and it does not matter. Tell me.”
Fiona’s bosom rose with the fullness of the breath she took. She spoke as that same breath rushed out of her. “He propositioned me.”
“Propositioned?”
“He wanted me in his bed. Is that plain enough for you? I am his father’s wife and he wanted to fuck me.”
Without inflection, Phoebe said, “That certainly is plain speaking.”
“You’re a cool one, aren’t you, Phoebe?”
“I don’t know what you mean. It’s rather a lot to take in. I don’t want to make hasty judgments.”
“What are you saying? You wanted to know what happened, and I told you. I sincerely hope you are not judging me. I am the wronged party.”
Phoebe nodded, though not in response to what Fiona said. “Why do you suppose he did it? Proposition you, I mean.”
“Why did he—” Fiona could not finish, not just then. She took a steadying breath and went on as evenly as she was able. “Why did he want me in his bed? Could you possibly be more insulting? Why wouldn’t he want me?”
Phoebe stared at her. “Of course that was a slight against you, Fiona. How could I have meant anything else by it? You are offended if a man doesn’t show interest in you.” Fiona opened her mouth to speak, but Phoebe cut her off. “Let us say I believe you—because I don’t doubt that you believe yourself—can you not imagine another reason besides your devastatingly fine face and figure that a man like Remington might want to compromise you?”
Fiona’s eyes widened fractionally. She said nothing.
“Perhaps he hoped the two of you would be found out and Thaddeus would send you packing. Or perhaps it was Remington who wanted to go and couldn’t find the courage to say as much. Maybe he hoped his father would send him on his way. Could you consider either of those possibilities? No? Then I’m certain you are right. He must have wanted to fuck you because he is a man and that is what men do because they are helpless when confronted by their baser needs. You told me that, remember?”
Fiona shook her head. She clasped her hands together because they were trembling. Her denial was barely audible. “I never.”
“You did, but I have always believed it was in aid of arming me with knowledge meant to protect me. You still don’t remember? Think back to Alistair Warren. You beat him bloody with his cane, drove him out of the theater. You explained the facts of what happened to me later. Mr. Warren was acting according to his nature; therefore, it would always fall to me to seize control. That is what I’ve observed you doing, Fiona, so it is difficult for me to imagine that in any encounter you had with Remington, you were not the one with the upper hand.”
“You have a knack for twisting my words, Phoebe. You twist everything to suit your perspective.”
“That’s interesting,” said Phoebe. “Do you know the one about the pot calling the kettle black?”
Fiona curled her upper lip, not amused. “Go back to New York, Phoebe. I cannot abide you remaining here while Remington poisons you against me. We are better friends, you and I, when we are not breathing the same air.”
“And there, in a nutshell, is the fundamental difference in our perspectives. It has always been you who insisted that we be friends. I don’t think we are. I don’t think we can be. I blame myself for that. I know now that I held out too long hoping you would want to be anything else.” Phoebe stood and squarely met Fiona’s gaze. “But then, you always said I was stubborn. I intend to remain so. I am not leaving, Fiona. I want to stay here even if it means we must breathe the same air.”
Phoebe smiled. The effort was faint and forced, and she wished she had not tried. “Excuse me.”
Fiona reached out but was too far away to stop her. “Wait, Phoebe. Please.”
Phoebe’s step faltered. She shook her head and kept going.
It was Remington who ruined her exit, not that she had intended a stagy departure, but she had hoped for a dignified one. He caught her by the upper arms and steadied her before she walked straight into his chest. It was indicative of the state of his mind when he did not apologize. She looked up at him. His dark eyes were not implacable now. She saw very well that he was troubled.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
He didn’t answer her. Instead, he looked past her to Fiona. “Would you mind leaving us?”
“Leave you? With no explanation?”
Remington did not argue. “Phoebe, will you come with me?” His hands dropped to his sides so there would be no question that she was forced.
“Of course.”
Fiona’s cheeks puffed with the strength of her exasperated sigh. “Please. Don’t give me a thought. I’m leaving.” She brushed past them before they could properly step aside and marched down the hall.
Phoebe was reminded again of Remington’s state of mind when he did not comment. She took him by the hand and led him into the parlor. She stopped in front of the sofa but not because she had any wish to sit. “What’s happened?” she asked again. “Is it Thaddeus? Is that why you asked Fiona to leave?”
He shook his head quickly. “No. Not Thaddeus. In fact, he’s out on the porch speaking to the sheriff. It’s Blue Armstrong, Phoebe. He’s dead. Murdered.”
Phoebe thought he could tell her anything and she would remain standing. She was wrong. Her knees folded and she sank to the sofa. “Murdered? I don’t understand.”
Remington joined her on the sofa. He spoke carefully, evenly, repeating what Jackson Brewer had come to Twin Star to tell them. “He never left Collier after escorting Miss Carolina home. In fact, he never left her room. Miss Carolina was with him. Also murdered. The madam found them the morning after they returned. Brewer was notified late last night. He went to Collier, spoke to their sheriff, and arranged for Blue to be brought back. He’s here now because of what he thinks Blue’s murder means.”
Phoebe closed her eyes and pressed fingertips against one eyebrow. Her stomach was roiling and she could taste bile at the back of her throat. “Miss Carolina,” she whispered. “And Blue. Jumpin’ Jesus on a griddle.” She tried to choke back the nervous laughter that bubbled inappropriately on her lips. “I’m sorry. Sorry. I don’t—” She stopped, opened her eyes, and stared at Remington. “I am so sorry.”
He took her hands in his, pressed his thumbs lightly against the backs of them. “I know you are. I am, too.”
She nodded, kept her eyes focused on his. “How?” she asked. “Were they shot? Does anyone know who did it?”
“Only because you asked,” said Remington. “I hoped you wouldn’t. No shots. No sounds. Blue was strangled. Miss Carolina suffocated under her pillow. You don’t want to know more.”
He was right. She didn’t. “This is about the ring, about
the robbery. That’s what Sheriff Brewer thinks, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Blue’s been a regular at Sylvia Vance’s house for years, and Miss Carolina was his preference, but Sylvia says he never behaved as if he thought she were exclusive to him. In other words, no fighting other patrons for her favors. Everyone who was in the house around the time the murders are suspected to have occurred has been accounted for. All the girls. All the customers. Names all around. Most cooperated. Brewer will follow up their sheriff’s interviews. He will not let this rest, but there were more immediate concerns to address.”
“Like coming here. To warn us.”
“Yes. A precaution. He can’t be sure their murders are related to the ring, but it would be foolish to ignore the possibility. Apparently Miss Carolina had shown it off even before she showed it to Blue. Someone wanted it or someone wanted it back.”
“What about the man who gave it to her? Couldn’t he have done it?”
“I asked Brewer about him. He didn’t have the name on his list of men who were there. Remember, Blue hadn’t had an opportunity to speak to him about what we learned at the Boxwood. If Blue and Miss Carolina were murdered to get John Manypenny’s name, then the whiskey drummer could well be in danger. Perhaps he’s already met the same end. He is the first link between the ring and men who took it. If I had committed that robbery, I would surely want to find and dispose of Mr. Manypenny.”
“Then Sheriff Brewer must find him first.”
“I had the same thought. That’s why I am leaving with him. I volunteered, but he swore me in as his deputy anyway.”
“Because you know the law.”
“Because I can shoot.”
“Oh.” She worried her bottom lip. “It seems an unlikely coincidence that they were murdered so soon after they returned from Liberty Junction. Why not before? She had the ring then. It doesn’t make sense. And wouldn’t the men who stole it know who they sold it to?”
“Not necessarily, especially if it traded hands, but they might never have asked in the first place. Now they know they made a mistake and have to backtrack.”
“Were they followed? Blue and Miss Carolina. Is that what happened?”
“I don’t know.”
She spoke as if he had not. “Mrs. Tyler could be in danger. Her son. We all heard the same information. What if the robbers were there in the dining room? All three of them, eating Sunday brunch, and observing everything, just as if they had a right to sit among decent folk.”
“We don’t know that they were there. There is more we don’t know than we do. It’s not helpful to get ahead of ourselves.”
“I understand.” She said nothing more. It was the wrong time to tell him she had been thinking about her wedding dress.
Chapter Thirty-two
“What about Ben?” asked Jackson Brewer. “He want to come along?”
Remington shook his head and turned his horse to come abreast of the sheriff. “I asked him when I was saddling Bullet. He thinks it’s better if he stays here with Phoebe. She’s more worried about people in Liberty Junction than she is about herself, so I agree with him. It’s probably best.” Remington had other reasons for thinking so, but he did not share these now. “Thaddeus needs the help around the ranch as well.”
“Your father was ready to join us. I had to talk him out of it. I did that while you were speaking to Phoebe. Fiona helped me there. She did not favor the idea of him leaving.”
“It’s not often that she and I are of a like mind. In fact, I don’t know that it’s ever happened, but I can stomach it this time.”
Brewer knuckled the coarse salt-and-pepper stubble on his jaw. “No love lost there. I see Thad’s right about that.”
“I don’t suppose I’ve hidden it well. It’s mutual.”
“He told me that, too. Pains him some.”
Remington merely nodded.
Brewer said, “I get the impression that maybe you feel different about her sister.”
“Your impression, huh?”
“Thad might’ve given me reason to think so.”
“Phoebe’s special.” He looked over at the sheriff. “And I like her just fine.”
“Subject’s closed, then.”
“That’s right. Subject’s closed.”
“I got another one. Subject, that is. How do you think Ellie’s going to take hearing about Blue’s murder?”
“You don’t know? You didn’t tell her?”
He shook his head, shrugged a little helplessly. “She didn’t come out on the porch while I was there. Thought it was odd, her generally being so welcoming and all.”
Remington found it odd, too. Ellie greeted all comers, not only because she was friendly, but also because she was curious. She was the person at Twin Star most likely to know something about everything. “Maybe she heard you talking to Thaddeus from inside the house and retreated to her room.”
“Could be. Thad said he’d talk to her. Preferred it that way, in fact. I know Blue had feelings for her, but I can’t say that I ever thought they were returned in the same way.”
“You’re right, but she showed him some special attention when he was out here last. I think she enjoyed his company, and God knows, he enjoyed hers.” He sighed inaudibly. “The branding. That was not a week ago yet.”
“I know. Hard to believe.”
They rode ahead in silence, Blue a presence for each of them. Jackson Brewer was grieving. Remington Frost was grim.
• • •
Fiona sat at the piano in the front room and ran her fingertips up and down the keys. Occasionally she depressed one enough to make a sound, but that was by accident, not by intent. She did not know how to play. No one at Twin Star did. The piano had been Mary’s, and Thaddeus could not bring himself to part with it. She understood his attachment to the instrument, to the memories it invoked. She did not fault him for wanting to keep it, but his refusal to have it tuned bothered her. Jackson Brewer’s wife gave lessons, and Fiona had expressed an interest in learning, but Thaddeus showed no inclination to support it. He never said that he could not bear to hear it played again; that was her interpretation.
She moved down the bench and patted the space beside her when Phoebe approached. “It is terribly sad about Deputy Armstrong,” she said. “I keep thinking about him at the branding. I believe he ate an entire apple pie.” Her smile was pensive. “And talked to Ellie almost exclusively. I don’t think she minded. Was that your impression?”
“Yes. Yes, it was. I went to her once, thinking she might need rescuing, but that wasn’t the case at all. Where is she? I don’t hear her in the kitchen.”
“She was in her room for a while. Thaddeus spoke to her, and she retired there, but then he went outside and she went out soon after.”
Phoebe’s eyes narrowed. There was something more that Fiona was not saying. “She probably went in search of Ben.”
“Yes. That’s probably what she did. They’re close.”
Phoebe found Fiona’s agreement unconvincing. She laid one hand over Fiona’s, stilling the movement of her fingers over the keys. “Since she’s out, and very likely grieving, we should make dinner. What do you think about that?”
“Together? The two of us in the kitchen?”
“I know there are knives in there. I’ve seen them. I shall endeavor to control myself. Can you?”
“Oh, I think I can manage.”
Phoebe stood and waited for Fiona to join her. They walked into the kitchen together and looked over what Ellie had begun preparing. Phoebe checked the oven. There were six potatoes inside, none close to being fork ready. The chicken stock on the stove had not yet begun to simmer. She handed Fiona a long wooden spoon and pointed to the pot. “Give it a stir.”
Fiona did. “What are we having?”
“I think she had baked potato soup in mind
. We can manage that.” She checked the bread drawer. “There’s plenty here that we can warm.”
“The men will want meat.”
“You’re right. The smokehouse. I’ll be right back.” She returned minutes later with a three-pound fillet that Les Brownlee cut down for her. She laid it on a dishtowel on the table and wiped it down, then trimmed it and removed the fat. “Les will be bringing in more vegetables from the root cellar.”
“Les? Which one is he?” When Phoebe gave her a reproachful look, Fiona removed the spoon from the stock and used it to emphasize her point. “They all look alike. Same hats. Same shirts. Same boots. It’s worse in the winter. Same scarves. Same coats.”
“Les Brownlee is the one with the narrow face and the weak chin.”
“Oh. Well, I know him. The chin is an unfortunate distinguishing feature.”
Shaking her head, Phoebe put butter into a skillet and set it on the iron stove. The butter hadn’t started to melt when Les appeared at the back door with a sack of vegetables from the cellar. Phoebe relieved him of his bounty and thanked him before he left. “Do you want to clean and cut these?” she asked as she placed carrots and onions on the cutting board.
“I’ve got my hand full stirring the stock,” said Fiona.
Phoebe chose a lethal-looking chef’s knife with a six-inch blade and placed the hilt solidly in the hand Fiona wasn’t using for stirring. “I’ll take the spoon. You should put on an apron. They’re hanging in the pantry. Get one for me.”
“Have you always been this bossy?” asked Fiona.
“Yes.” Phoebe thought Fiona accepted the answer with surprising equanimity. Maybe they could breathe the same air for short periods of time. She hoped so because Fiona was now in possession of the knife. When Fiona returned with the aprons, Phoebe put one on before she placed the meat into the skillet. The butter hissed and spat at her.
Fiona scrubbed the carrots and then sat at the table to peel and cut them. “What if I went back to New York with you?”
Phoebe turned away from the stove and stared at Fiona. For a long time the only sounds in the kitchen were the sizzle from the frying pan and Fiona’s rhythmic chopping. When Phoebe finally found her voice, it was a harsh whisper. She pointed to the back door. “Anyone could walk in. Why are you bringing it up again? We settled this.”
