The spinster glanced around to be sure no one would overhear them. “I...I have a feeling I’ve not been myself lately, Celesta. I used to account for every activity during the days and weeks, but now it seems there are ... pieces missing. Is it my fault that Mr. Frye’s moved out, and that Eula Perkins doesn’t visit Katherine anymore?”
Celesta stopped breathing. Her aunt had never sounded more sincerely puzzled, and in order to prevent hurting her feelings or upsetting her, she had to keep her own emotions in check. The woman gripping her arm didn’t seem to remember railing at Damon or sending the Perkinses packing, and complete honesty wouldn’t make her memory return.
“You’ve been a little . . . testy since the fire in your room,” she replied softly, placing her hand over her aunt’s. “It’s perfectly understandable. We were all upset.”
“Oh.” Justine blinked and then nodded absently. “Damon’s a dear man . . . such a compelling voice. I—I hope I haven’t spoiled things between you. It’s hell to grow old alone, and I wouldn’t wish it on anybody.”
She swallowed hard to keep her voice under control. “No, you . . . everything will be fine, Aunt Justine. I—I think Damon’s finally taking serious notice of me.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful! Bless you, child, you’ve brightened all our lives.”
It was the hardest thing she’d ever done, but Celesta forced her tears not to fall as they proceeded down the sidewalk toward the market. People smiled and told her aunt how well she looked, and she returned their pleasantries graciously. They chose a plump chicken—and then another one, on the condition that Celesta would invite Mr. Frye to dinner after they raked the lawn. She thought he’d be picking up the second set of bathroom fixtures instead of coming over, but she agreed wholeheartedly to invite him, because only Damon could chase away the gloom that made her smile feel pasted on. Justine Ransom, despite the new bloom in her cheeks, seemed to be losing her reason even as Celesta watched.
And yet, as they raked great mounds of red, golden, and brown leaves over the edge of the lawn, Justine was more robust than either she or Katherine. She sent the acorns rolling down the stone walkway with brisk strokes, laughing when the squirrels chattered at them. When she paused to catch her breath, she looked wistfully out over the river as though searching for the memories that were lost to her now. “Perhaps Father will be home tonight,” she said softly.
Katherine’s smile fell as she glanced at Celesta for support. Neither of them had the heart to correct the poor woman’s wish, and when she sagged onto the gazebo swing, suddenly tired, they suggested she nap so that she’d be good company when Damon came for dinner.
Justine scowled. “I thought we agreed he was no longer welcome in our home.”
Running her trembling hand over her brow, Katherine tried to hide her intense frustration. “But you and Celesta brought home two hens so we could invite him—”
“We’ll eat one tonight and have the other tomorrow,” the spinster snapped. “It’s ridiculous, walking to town every day at my age.”
She left them abruptly, and although Celesta sensed she was reading and listening to her phonograph, neither she nor Katherine dared slip upstairs to see. They put the rakes away and started dinner as usual, but the aromas of fried chicken and corn casserole didn’t bring Justine downstairs. When Celesta peeked in on her, she was sprawled across the bed, sleeping sweetly. She pulled the lace counterpane around her and left her to her dreams.
“Maybe Damon can come tomorrow night,” a downhearted Katherine said as Celesta joined her at the table.
“I’m not sure I want to burden him with this,” she replied sadly. “Now that his men have the pipe laid, we just need him to open the valves for the water. Perhaps he should wait to work on the downstairs bathroom, until...”
Celesta didn’t want to finish the sentence, and although she’d longed to share the news of her engagement all day, this hardly seemed like an appropriate time. They cleared the remains of their barely eaten meal and spent an evening of preoccupied silence in the summer parlor. While Katherine began yet another sampler, Celesta tried to concentrate on a book of Sherlock Holmes stories, but the British mastermind’s brilliance depressed her. In order for him to show off his powers of observation and logic, there had to be a body . . . a distressing thought, because Justine didn’t stir all night long.
And in the morning, she was gone.
Katherine’s startled cry brought Celesta out of her room only half-buttoned. “What’s the matter? Is Justine—”
“Disappeared!” her aunt whimpered. “The bed’s made and her room’s tidied, but—”
“Perhaps she’s downstairs waiting for us,” Celesta prayed aloud. “She went to bed so early, she must’ve wakened before dawn. And she’s always at her best in the mornings.”
But a quick search of the first floor made them even more frantic. Justine, pinched thin though she was, never missed a meal or went out before she’d fortified herself with coffee.
“I’ll go into town,” Celesta said, quickly slinging a shawl over her shoulders. “She always takes the same route. The shopkeepers will know she’s not herself and look after her for us.”
But none of the men had seen her. Most were just opening their shops, and they shook their heads in concern as Celesta hurried on through the gray morning mist. She hadn’t bought cigarettes or westerns, hadn’t stopped to dicker over produce, hadn’t gotten her mail.
Bill Thompkins frowned behind the post office counter. “It’s early enough that I haven’t missed her yet, but if she comes in I’ll get her home first thing. Could be she’s figured out her mistake and walked back already.”
Celesta paused outside the building, her breath coming in white puffs as she looked desperately up and down the street. Had Justine gone to see Damon? Proper ladies wouldn’t dream of calling upon a man—especially before breakfast—but if she fancied herself as his lover . . .
She was hurrying toward the Park Hotel when Damon spied her, emergency written all over her urgent face. “Celesta!” he called out, and as he strode after her he sensed that their worst fears about Justine had come to pass.
She turned, her ebony hair spilling into the wind over a shawl that was much too light for the brisk autumn morning. Her cheeks were flushed, and her huge green eyes betrayed a fear that startled him as he approached. “What’s happened to your aunt?”
“We can’t—I thought she came to see you, so I—”
“Where have you looked?”
“Everywhere! No one’s seen her, and—”
“Then, we’ll head back along the riverfront, just to be sure she didn’t wander over that way,” he said, draping an arm over her shoulders. “She’s fine, Celesta. That sixth sense we talked about has probably already guided her home.”
The warmth of his body as they walked along soothed her, and as always, the unruffled confidence in his voice quieted her runaway heart. “You may be right. Yesterday she looked out over the river as though she expected the Phantom to show up. Suggested Grandfather might be coming home.”
“Oh, Lord. I imagine Katherine’s beside herself.” He strode as quickly as Celesta’s legs could carry her, searching the lumber yards and docks along the river, but no one there had seen Justine, either. Hoping he sounded more convinced than he felt, he said, “I imagine she’s back, wishing you’d get there so Katherine can set breakfast on.”
“I hope to God you’re right.”
They were ascending the hill that led to the Manor, and Celesta thought her heart would pound its way out of her chest, frightened and breathless as she was. The beauty of the fuchsia sunrise was lost on her. The wet leaves were slick beneath her feet, and twice Damon kept her from slipping.
He pointed to the ridge of dirt that resembled an oversized brown snake alongside the road. “That’ll pack down around the pipeline eventually. I’ll seed it for you so the grass’ll have a good start before winter.”
Celesta barely heard him. She
was looking ahead, to where the gazebo swing creaked tightly beneath Katherine’s slumped form. She broke into a run at the same moment Damon did, so filled with dread she didn’t dare call out to her aunt.
Frye slid onto the swing and wrapped his arm around Katherine, who was shivering from more than the cold. Her pale gray eyes were huge and haunted, red-rimmed from the tears that still slithered down her chapped cheeks. “What’s happened?” he whispered, glancing at Celesta, who stood anxiously in front of them. “We looked everywhere, but—”
“The best I can tell, she headed for town but took a wrong turn. Got to the edge of the lawn and slipped in the—my God, what possessed her to—”
Katherine’s sobs choked off the rest of her sentence, and Celesta turned toward the river, heavy with dread, while Damon cradled her aunt. Just beyond the stone pathway, where they’d raked hundreds of leaves and acorns over the bank, was a path of disturbed foliage that led all the way down the steep bluffs to the water’s edge. A wicker basket dangled from the protruding root of a tree, and below it, swirling gently against the shoreline in the lapping water, floated the flower-shaped folds of Justine’s black skirt.
Chapter 23
“... ashes to ashes and dust to dust, we commend the spirit of our sister Justine to your eternal care. Amen.”
As Katherine wept quietly beside her, Celesta surveyed the all-too-familiar scene in the graveyard. Damon supported her aunt on the other side while Eula and Patrick Perkins stood slightly behind them. Bill Thompkins fidgeted nearby, his eyes on the lowering casket, and other friends—mostly the shopkeepers Justine had pestered every morning for more than forty years—lingered at a polite distance to pay their respects.
There was no question that the head of the Ransom family had drowned. But had she become disoriented in the predawn darkness and slid down the treacherous hillside, or had she stepped over the edge of the lawn on purpose? Both possibilities were fertile ground for speculation, as was the future of the Ransom estate now that all of Ambrose Senior’s children were gone.
Celesta, however, had other things on her mind, and as she glanced at her mother’s simple headstone and the grass on the slightly mounded grave, she was plagued by the thought she’d once deemed ridiculous: Death comes in threes. Katherine had spooked her with that wives’ tale, and now that Mama and Justine had passed on within three months of each other, the omen took on more credence.
She didn’t think someone had directly killed Justine, but ever since the fire in her room the old maid’s mind had deteriorated at a much faster rate than seemed natural, considering her exceptional fortitude and intelligence. If someone had helped her insanity along, that meant one of the two people standing beside her was indirectly responsible for her death.
She looked at Katherine, who was leaning against Damon as he offered her his handkerchief. Her aunt had endured a barrage of sharp remarks over the years and had feared Justine might put her out. Was that motive enough to drive her over the edge—to take advantage of the Ransom heir’s confusion and secure her future a little faster?
Celesta doubted it. Katherine grumbled about her stiff, eccentric sister-in-law, but in truth the two were each other’s closest friend. Loneliness was a far greater enemy to the little widow than Justine ever was, and it seemed highly improbable that she’d knowingly cause her physical or emotional harm.
Which left Damon Frye, her dashing, compassionate fiancé. He had no family, no fortune that they knew of, and his recent intimacy with Justine gave him the perfect opportunity to hurt her in ways no one else would suspect. These past few weeks her maiden aunt had shown implicit faith in him despite casting him out earlier ...his hand held the toddy that made her sleep each night. Had he dosed it with something more lethal than laudanum or alcohol . . . something that killed her slowly on the inside until she could no longer bear to live?
She didn’t know. They’d all three trusted him because they all loved him. And with Justine dead, Celesta remained as the one blood heir to the estate and shipping fortune her grandfather had amassed—an extremely uncomfortable position, under the current circumstances. Death comes in threes...
Her suspicious nature was putting her into a quandary, so Celesta concentrated on the mourners who were shaking their hands, offering them comfort. That was a problem, too, because with all these people saying how sorry they were she couldn’t dodge her own grief any longer. Justine, crotchety and sharp as a thorn at times, had in the end given her the unconditional approval of her writing that every author craved. In her better moments, she’d been witty and gruffly warm and always aware of peoples’ foibles and fortes—a soulmate of Sally Sharpe—and Celesta had loved her more than she’d ever admitted to herself before now.
She dashed away a tear when Bill Thompkins approached them, brushing back his hair with a pudgy hand. He gave Katherine a brief hug, which she clung to longer than he’d anticipated. “Justine’s at rest now,” he said in a low voice, “and she never wanted to be a burden. You’ll be fine, and you have Celesta—”
“And we have Mr. Frye,” her aunt said in a quavery voice. She looked at the younger man and reached for his hand. “I was appalled when she ordered you out, Damon, and I’d feel so much more secure if you’d come back. It’s such a large, lonely house....”
“Of course I will,” he replied suavely. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll return tonight.”
Bill appeared startled but was too polite to do more than nod and approach Celesta, who felt an inexplicable uneasiness about what she’d just seen. Katherine doted on Damon, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t lived at the Manor before, and they were engaged, but—
“Celesta, I hope you can be strong for your aunt. She’s going to need it,” Thompkins murmured as he
grasped her hands. His eyes betrayed an emotion she couldn’t quite read, and he adjusted his spectacles. “I—I hope I haven’t let her down. Things are more complicated than they seem.”
With a smile that looked more like a grimace, he left the grave side, falling into step with a few other friends. Katherine was in the throes of another tearful outburst, and before she could offer Damon assistance, Celesta felt an insistent tug on her sleeve. Eula and Patrick, the only remaining mourners, were pulling her aside as though what they had to say was a matter of her own life or death.
“Celesta, doesn’t she know how this looks?” Mrs. Perkins whispered, her lips pursed with disapproval.
“That’s hardly the point, Mother,” Patrick joined in. “We heard Justine accuse him of setting the fire, and I suspect he had a hand in her drowning. He might be after Katherine next—or you!”
He was pursuing a path she hadn’t allowed herself to follow, but she couldn’t admit her suspicions to a man whose motives were even less easily explained than Damon’s. Celesta watched Frye holding her aunt, drying her tears with a tenderness she found touching, yet so ... confusing. She’d given her heart to him in a moment of passion, and more than once she’d wondered if her wild, soaring devotion was misplaced.
“I appreciate your concern,” she said, “but I can’t just throw him out. Katherine—”
“It’s your house now,” Eula reminded her pointedly, “and your aunt’s known for being easily overwhelmed, easily misled. It’s up to you to—”
“I’ll deal with it when we’re all a little more rational,” Celesta said with sudden firmness. “Damon was a tremendous comfort to Justine in her final days, and I won’t deprive Katherine of his companionship for the sake of appearances. If nothing else, he needs to finish the remodeling we’ve paid him for.”
Her words came out more harshly than she intended, and when she saw Eula’s wounded expression Celesta regretted her tone. “Katherine needs your company as well, you know,” she added softly. “Justine’s unpredictability has kept her away from her meetings in town lately. I’d appreciate it very much if you started visiting her again, or asked her to the social functions she used to enjoy. Friends are her best medici
ne.”
Did her words sound as forced as they felt? Celesta hoped not, because Katherine needed the support of ladies her own age now that she was suffering this second loss so soon after Rachel’s passing. She was hoping Patrick noticed that his name wasn’t mentioned in her invitation, but right now she couldn’t concern herself with her own prejudices. She had an aunt to comfort.
During the next several days Damon proved himself indispensable, a long-suffering shoulder for Katherine and a pillar of practical strength when Celesta needed him. He came home for noon dinner to check on them, bringing groceries and supplies. At Katherine’s request, he played the piano evenings and often read aloud, his soothing voice a balm to both their souls. How could anyone believe this man to be Death’s accomplice? Celesta accepted his gentle ministrations, her doubts dissipating when she saw how essential he was to their well-being these long, trying days.
At her aunt’s insistence, he now occupied one of the guest rooms rather than the cellar. “It’s cold down there,” Katherine said, “and he’s so far away if we need him in the night!”
This made Frye’s eyes narrow suggestively when he looked at Celesta, yet he seemed to understand that she needed his comfort more than his advances. Katherine would go to bed with a sleeping potion, leaving them to talk quietly in the parlor, and then they’d part in the upstairs hall after a chaste kiss. Celesta knew this limited contact left Damon as unsatisfied as she was, yet she held herself in check, watching him. Waiting for the jury in her mind to declare him a callous killer or the perfect man to spend the rest of her life with.
Sensing her aloofness was more than grief, he kept his arm around her one evening when she suggested they retire. He smiled, following the ebony hairline around her heart-shaped face with a gentle caress. “Stay awhile,” he whispered. “I don’t want to be alone.”
Celesta gazed at him with eyes that were slowly regaining their sparkle, although she often let her weariness show after her aunt went up to bed. “You’ve been so strong for us, I forget that you miss her, too,” she said quietly.
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