“She was reading about Damon and Sally, remember ?” she replied in a voice pinched with guilt. “We knew this room was a fire trap, but we couldn’t challenge her about habits she denied having. Over here!”
Another stack of magazines flared from its back side, and as Damon dashed over to grab Justine’s blankets, Celesta shoved the rocking chair toward the door, out of his way. Katherine came in for it, choking but determined.
“We’d best save that phonograph and her cupboard of recordings, if we can,” the little woman rasped. “Justine’s too shook up to help, but we’ll never hear the end of it if she loses her French lessons as well as her novels.”
Damon was smothering the last of the flames, so Celesta got behind the wooden cabinet containing the precious Edison wax cylinders and pushed it toward the door. When her aunt came back, the two of them trundled the case into the hallway and then stopped to breathe the clearer air.
Frye joined them a few moments later, winded but relieved. He smelled of singed hair and felt blistered spots on his arms that would bother him for a few days. “Well, it could’ve been worse, I suppose. She could’ve been asleep—”
Or we could’ve been asleep. Celesta mused, yet somehow the circumstances of spotting the fire bothered her more than the what-ifs. She and Damon could’ve roused the dead, thundering across the ballroom floor the way they did, and to be standing here in their disheveled state, so close their arms touched, was the ultimate incrimination. Especially when she realized her gown had no buttons left on it. She caught Katherine’s eyes making that same discovery, so Celesta walked over to check on her other aunt, clutching the placket with one hand.
Justine was seated on the top stair, leaning against the wall. She jerked when Celesta touched her shoulder.
“Are you all right? Were you scorched, or—”
“I’m fine!” she snapped, and then she pressed herself even closer to the wall.
Smiling to herself, Celesta sensed that her spinster aunt was even more embarrassed about the fire than she was about getting caught with her clothes off. She’d had the presence of mind to save an armful of wax cylinders and the dimer she’d been reading. And that cantankerous tone told her the lady huddling beneath the curtain of silvery, waist-length hair might deserve—or even welcome—a bit of needling.
She glanced back at Katherine and Frye, who were talking quietly. “Justine, do you have any idea how the fire started?” she asked cautiously. “Did your lamp tip over, or—”
“Certainly not.” The spinster gazed up into Celesta’s eyes, and then she looked behind them, at Frye and her sister-in-law. “The fire was set, deliberately. Someone in this house tried to kill me.”
Chapter 18
The beady brown eyes leveled their accusation as clearly as the old woman’s words, and Damon’s heart stopped. Justine was dead serious . . . and she was stark, raving crazy.
“Oh, my. Oh, my,” Katherine fretted beside him. “Is she losing her mind, or is she reverting to her belligerent ways?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps after some rest—”
“You can’t think I set the fire!”
“Of course you didn’t, and neither did I,” he assured her in a whisper. He slipped an arm around her shaking shoulders, still watching Justine as closely as she was watching him. “We’re all upset. Let’s get her settled into one of the other bedrooms and pursue this tomorrow. Maybe she’ll realize by then that we all knew she smoked and none of us found it as shocking as she thought we would.”
Settling Justine was another matter, however. She agreed to return to the tower bedroom—she’d slept there all her life, until Ambrose drowned and Katherine couldn’t bear to occupy the master suite alone—but losing so many of her beloved dimers, and discovering that several of her French lesson cylinders were ruined by the fire’s heat, agitated her greatly. She refused warm milk or a toddy, and long after the rest of them went to bed, Justine wandered the halls, muttering.
Sensing her aunt had lost more than Edison records and Westerns, Celesta lay awake. The grandfather clock in the vestibule chimed three before the floor stopped creaking and Justine took to her rocking chair. She was on the other side of the wall from Celesta’s bed, and the insistent rolling of the rockers on the wooden floor sounded more like a child riding a rocking horse than an elderly lady soothing herself. It was frightening, but her concerns about the head of the Ransom family weren’t all that kept Celesta awake.
Had Damon set the fire? Justine’s glare had certainly accused him of it—and he’d mentioned stopping on her balcony, and how absorbed she was in her entertainment. If she hadn’t heard them running down the stairs, she certainly wouldn’t have noticed Frye striking a match behind her. Justine’s instincts about people couldn’t be discounted, either: the eldest Ransom had sharpened her tongue on many a reputation, but she never spoke without analyzing the situation first. It explained Frye’s mysterious statement about the spinster never threatening them again, as well as his tardiness before their tryst.
Nipping her lip in the darkness, Celesta searched for other possibilities. Now that Damon had finally charmed her old maid aunt with his wit and workmanship, it seemed unlikely he’d try to kill her. After all, she’d asked him to install another water closet just this evening! The more projects she offered him, the longer he could lodge at the Manor and enjoy their food and company . . . which he certainly took advantage of tonight.
No, it seemed Katherine’s explanation was the best: Justine’s cigarette—which probably dropped during a hot spot in the Damon Dare story—had ignited a stack of dimers, and the old maid was too embarrassed to admit she smoked or read such stories, much less that she could start a fire without knowing it. She had to blame somebody, though, so Frye, as the outsider, seemed the likeliest scapegoat. Perhaps she’d even seen him outside her balcony door and just hadn’t acknowledged his presence.
This line of thought cleared Damon, but it also made Celesta toss restlessly. She was far too enamored—had heard nothing but warnings, from Frye himself, that his heart had a hole in it—yet she threw herself at him every chance she got. His lovemaking had lulled her into a false reality, an altered state similar to the one his champagne had created. As Sally Sharpe would put it, she’d lost her objectivity. The facts had a dreamy, rose-colored quality because she fancied herself in love with him.
Guilt burrowed into her heart like a worm into an apple when Celesta realized how many weeks had passed since she acted upon Mama’s murder. Except for trying to trap Patrick by provoking him every time they met, she hadn’t done a damn thing to catch the killer. The Girl Detective had taught her how to probe the dark underbelly of clandestine situations, but she’d been too caught up by Damon Frye to heed her heroine’s help. Only the most uncaring, slothful daughter would be waylaid by a handsome architect—and one with such a shady past as Damon’s, no less!
Starting tomorrow, things would be different. No more falling blithely under Frye’s spell every time he smiled at her! No more waiting for Mama’s poisoning to solve itself while a killer—a person she knew well—walked among them!
She would resume her quest for answers just as Sally would: by taking charge of the investigation and demanding answers—by cutting so close to the bone with her questions that people got nervous. And by stepping outside her grief for Mama and her infatuation for Frye to face the case objectively. She hadn’t taken a positive step since she sneaked into the Perkins’s pantry for a sugar sample, and this lackluster attitude was going to change!
Filled with resolve, Celesta snuggled into her pillow and smiled. Before her twenty-first birthday, she vowed to catch Mama’s killer. No matter whom she inconvenienced ... no matter whom she accused.
Justine pulled the rug from under Celesta’s plan the next morning. She appeared for breakfast looking tired but as starched as ever, and no one was surprised that she ignored Damon completely. But when ten o’clock came and she hadn’t returned from her shopping, Kat
herine began to unravel.
The two of them were digging the caladium bulbs from the bed around the gazebo, although her aunt accomplished little because she was watching the road that came up from town. “I had a feeling this would happen,” she fretted, knotting her dirt-caked hands. “After a lifetime of controlling her emotions, Justine can weather any storm with barely a hair out of place. But this is different. She can’t admit, even to herself, that her smoking might’ve cost us our home ... or her life. Your aunt’s losing her grip, Celesta.”
It seemed ironic that after doubting Katherine’s stability so many times, she was now witnessing the decline of her stronger aunt’s faculties. “Shall I take the buggy in and look for her?”
“She’ll be mortified if anyone sees her riding home,” the little woman mused, “but it’s our best alternative. Lord only knows where she might’ve roamed.”
Celesta nodded and stood the spade upright in the garden. “She goes to the same shops every morning. Surely the storekeepers will notice if she’s varied from her routine; or if she appears disoriented, they’ll help her.”
“Would you ask her if she’s lost?”
“I see your point,” she replied with a sigh. She squeezed her aunt’s shoulder, noting the way the morning sun made Katherine’s crowsfeet look deeper today. “Don’t worry yourself sick over it. The three of us can keep track of her.”
“Poor Damon. I wouldn’t blame him if he moved out.”
Celesta nodded and walked toward the stable, cleaning her dirt-encrusted fingernails on her apron. She’d hoped to escape to town this afternoon to speak with Mr. Settles, the undertaker, concerning the details of Mama’s burial, but Justine’s safety and Katherine’s sanity were more pressing issues at the moment.
She was pulling the harness from its peg when Katherine called excitedly to her. Hurrying toward the gazebo, she heard the clopping of hooves on the driveway and then saw that Bill Thompkins was bringing Justine home in a buggy. “Hello!” her aunt sang out with a little wave. “Wasn’t it sweet of Mr. Thompkins to bring me home, hot as it is? I’ve invited him for lemonade, but he says he can’t stay.”
As their burly friend helped the spinster down, Celesta exchanged a wary glance with Katherine. This was definitely not the pillar of stoic self-reliance they knew, and Justine’s sunny greeting made them even more sure she’d lost her grip on things. After thanking Thompkins, she hurried inside with her wicker basket as though nothing were amiss.
“Thank you,” Katherine began in an urgent voice. “Celesta was just going into town to look for her. We were afraid—”
“Pardon me if I’m out of line,” the postman interrupted, glancing toward the house, “but your
sister-in-law seems a bit ... odd this morning. Kept rattling on about a fire, when usually she just barks a hello before she leaves with her mail.”
“She dropped a cigarette last night, and if Damon and Celesta hadn’t noticed the smoke, those dime novels she reads would’ve burned us out,” the little woman confided. She gingerly patted her upsweep with her soil-smeared hands, smiling at Thompkins despite her distress. “You can’t know how much we appreciate your looking after her, Bill. I—I’m afraid we’re going to have to watch her very carefully until she recovers from the shock of this incident.”
Thompkins smoothed his beard, his expression thoughtful. “That explains the cigar stub she slipped into her pocket when she came in, then. I thought I was seeing things.”
“Oh, my . . . are you sure I can’t get you a glass of lemonade for your trouble, Bill?”
“No, no, I’d best be getting—”
“Or a cookie?” Celesta asked quickly. “Katherine made oatmeal-raisin ones just this morning.”
His eyes lit up, and her aunt didn’t wait for his reply to head for the pantry. Bill’s girth was a testimony to his sweet tooth, a fondness all the unattached ladies in town played upon. “If this keeps up, Justine could become a problem, independent as she is,” he stated quietly. “I hope you’ll tell me if I can be of help. Katherine’s bearing up well, but this must be a terrible worry to her.”
“She’s better already, now that you’re here,” Celesta said with an encouraging smile. “Katherine loves company, and she thinks the world of you, Bill. Feel free to come see us any time, even if Justine has nothing to do with it.”
Thompkins blinked behind his spectacles, resembling a startled owl. “I—I imagine she still misses Ambrose—”
“It’s been more than a year. That’s a long time for a woman who adores dances and parties to keep herself locked away,” she replied quietly. “Damon’s presence has cheered her immensely, but a man her own age would probably bring her into bloom again.”
“Yes, well—here she comes,” he breathed, seeming enormously relieved. Celesta smiled at him again and excused herself to check on Justine.
Had she embarrassed Thompkins by being so blunt? Bill didn’t seem awkward around women ordinarily, but her suggestions had made him stammer like a schoolboy. Perhaps he’d been waiting for just such an opportunity, and was flustered at the idea that Katherine might welcome his company. Celesta hoped she hadn’t ruined her younger aunt’s chances for a little romance.
Companionship was the farthest thing from Justine’s mind, however. Hearing the creak on the landing, she came to meet Celesta at the top of the stairs, glowering. “I don’t need a nursemaid, if that’s why you’re up here,” she snapped.
“No, no!” Celesta fibbed. “I was just—”
“I imagine Katherine was knitting herself into knots because I was later than usual,” she continued brusquely, “but I felt compelled to apologize to Damon for my conduct last night, and we discussed the refurbishing of the master suite. Since I’m the mistress of this house, such tasks naturally fall to me.”
Was Justine truly as collected as she appeared? As the three of them removed the smoke-soiled bedding from her room and rolled up the ruined carpet, Celesta sensed her oldest aunt’s dourness had returned with a vengeance—as though she were peeved at herself for causing such a crisis but would never admit it to anyone.
But when Damon returned from his work at the mansion, the story took on a different light. He scowled slightly when Justine mentioned their morning conference, and then followed Celesta into the kitchen under the guise of helping her clear the table. “What’s she talking about?” he whispered. “I heard from a couple shopkeepers she was behaving strangely, but she never came to see me.”
Celesta’s heart sank. “So the poor woman’s missing a few marbles after all,” she sighed. “The way she talks, you chose new paper for the master suite—after she apologized for her behavior last night. She thinks all’s been forgiven and that her room will soon be restored.”
Frye let out a long breath. “Well, I do have a few of my men coming tomorrow to repair the walls. I’ll pretend to reconfirm the paper pattern she wanted, and get it bought first thing in the morning, so we don’t upset her,” he said quietly. “Celesta, I think you should follow her into town for a while. Just to be safe.”
“I was thinking the same thing. Damon, I—I’m worried,” she said in a tight voice. “There was a time I couldn’t tolerate that woman’s blessed routine, but now that she doesn’t know she’s gotten out of it, I ... I hate to think what might happen.”
He quickly wrapped his arms around her. “We’ll keep an eye on her, hopefully without her realizing it. I brought something home that might help.”
The four of them talked about the room renovation as they ate Katherine’s cookies with vanilla pudding, and Justine seemed as cordial as she was before she accused Damon of setting the fire. She herself brought up the subject of the wallpaper, so everyone played along carefully.
“I think that lavender stripe-and-floral pattern we saw at Pickford’s will be a nice change, don’t you?” she asked sweetly. “The colors Mother and Father chose are so faded. Pity I didn’t notice that until the fire forced me to, and with those lace curt
ains and matching counterpane I ordered from Birmingham’s, I’ll just need a rug to have a whole new room!”
Lavender and lace, for Justine? Katherine, Celesta, and Damon looked at each other cautiously, and then he rose to fetch a box he’d set beside the buffet. “And while you wait for your new room, I thought you’d enjoy these to play on your phonograph. Some of them are songs, and some are the same French lessons that were destroyed in the fire.”
Such a beatific expression had never graced Justine Ransom’s face as she fingered each of the cylindrical cardboard boxes and read their labels. “Why, Mr. Frye, this is the most thoughtful gift, I ... I’m just speechless.”
Touched by her gratitude, by the fragile vulnerability that edged her brown eyes, Damon squeezed her hand. “Friends look after each other, Justine. And I’m pleased we’re friends.”
Katherine was misty-eyed, and Celesta herself felt brimming over with happiness at his gift: he’d bought the Edison records before he realized Justine had supposedly made up with him, knowing how much she loved to listen. And when he pulled a flat sack from the top drawer of the buffet, with a twinkle in his eyes for her, she held her breath.
“I saw something I thought you’d like, too,” he said, offering her the sack.
Unable to suppress a grin, Celesta pulled a piece of sheet music out. “Aren’t you the sly one, hiding presents like it was Christmas,” she said with a low chuckle. The front sheet featured a sketch of a Negro she’d seen before, and she read the title aloud. “‘The Maple Leaf Rag,’ by Scott Joplin. Isn’t he from Missouri?”
“Sedalia,” Damon confirmed. He’d hoped the gift would please her, and her smile relieved the worry that had lurked on her face all evening. “I heard him perform once, and this piece is so new you’ll be among the first to play it. I predict Mr. Joplin’s ragtime will be all the rage before—is something wrong, sweetheart?’’
Celesta’s eyes bugged as she glanced at the flurry of notes on the inside pages. “I hope—this looks so hard, I—”
Missouri Magic Page 20
