With Autumn's Return (Westward Winds Book #3): A Novel

by Amanda Cabot

  “It looks pretty cut and dried,” he said at last. “Phoebe killed Nelson and tried to kill herself.”

  There was nothing Elizabeth could say, no way to refute the sheriff’s allegations, even though she believed them to be false. She, Jason, and the sheriff were all missing a clue, for the Phoebe Elizabeth knew would not have killed a man she’d obviously favored, and she was an unlikely candidate for suicide. Phoebe enjoyed life too much to deprive herself of a single minute.

  The sheriff looked down at Elizabeth as she bandaged Phoebe’s wound. “You could save the Territory the expense of a trial by just letting her die now. I sure do hate to hang women, even when they deserve it the way she does.”

  Anger, sharp and fierce, flared inside Elizabeth. Even if the sheriff was correct and Phoebe had killed Nelson, she could not be left to die. Elizabeth rose. There was nothing more she could do for Phoebe here. The wound was closed, and Phoebe’s breathing, though shallow, was improving. Once the sheriff left, Elizabeth would ask Jason to help her take Phoebe to her infirmary. She could keep a vigil there, but first she owed the sheriff a response. Looking him in the eye, Elizabeth said, “I will not let her die. I took an oath to save lives, and that’s exactly what I plan to do. If Phoebe survives, she can stand trial.”

  The sheriff shrugged. “It won’t be easy, finding someone to defend her. Lots of folks liked Nelson.”

  “Would you defend her?” Elizabeth asked Jason an hour later. They were sitting in the kitchen that adjoined her infirmary, sipping coffee that Jason had made while Elizabeth tended to her patient. Elizabeth gave a silent prayer of thanks that Phoebe had survived the short ride from her bordello to the infirmary and that her condition appeared stable, though she had not regained consciousness. While Phoebe’s loss of blood might have been the reason for the unconsciousness, Elizabeth was inclined to blame the large bump on the back of Phoebe’s head. She hadn’t seen it at first, but when she’d helped lift Phoebe into the carriage, a few of Phoebe’s intricate curls had come undone and Elizabeth had discovered the lump.

  Jason drained his cup and poured another before he answered. “I know that everyone deserves a defense, but I can’t afford Phoebe. I don’t mean financially, either. People are starting to forget Adam Bennett. If I took on the case of another brutal murder, I doubt I’d have any clients left.” Elizabeth heard the regret in Jason’s voice and suspected what he regretted was disappointing her, not leaving Phoebe with no defense. “Besides,” he added after he’d taken a large swallow of coffee, “Nelson was my client. If anything, I ought to be prosecuting his murderer.”

  “What if Phoebe isn’t the murderer?”

  “She is. The evidence is clear.”

  Though it had appeared that way, Elizabeth was not convinced. “I know Phoebe. She’s a hard woman in some respects—she’d have to be to live the way she does—but I don’t believe she’s capable of murder.”

  Jason’s grip on the mug told Elizabeth he disagreed. Though he’d only defended one murderer, he had undoubtedly studied numerous cases of homicide in law school and was more familiar with murderers’ actions than Elizabeth. Like the sheriff, he believed Phoebe was guilty.

  “People lie.” Jason’s voice was low but filled with pain. “They show you the sides of themselves they want you to see. That’s what Adam Bennett did. He pretended to be a bereaved husband when he was really a violent killer.”

  Elizabeth cocked her head, wondering whether she had heard a sound coming from the infirmary. It might have been her imagination, for the only things she heard were the ordinary sounds of her breathing and Jason’s, the ticking of the clock, and the clinking of the mug when Jason placed it on the table.

  “I know what happened in the Bennett case and how painful that was to you. The problem is, I don’t think this is the same. Even if Phoebe killed Nelson—and I can’t believe that she did—why would she try to kill herself?”

  “Remorse.” Though his voice remained firm, Jason’s shrug said he wasn’t as certain as he sounded. “Maybe in her own way Phoebe cared about Nelson. Something angered her, and she lashed out, killing him, then regretted it.”

  The coffee was strong and hot, just what Elizabeth needed to clear the cobwebs that had taken residence in her brain. Unfortunately, though the coffee was good, the cobwebs remained. What Jason said made sense, and yet . . .

  “I understand why you’re such a successful attorney. You almost convinced me. Almost. I still don’t believe Phoebe’s a murderer.”

  Jason merely shrugged, indicating that nothing Elizabeth said would change his mind. They were at an impasse. Elizabeth glanced at the clock hanging over the table. “The concert must have ended by now.”

  “And no one got to see your gown.”

  She gave her dress a rueful smile. “It’s ruined. I’ll never get the bloodstains out.” Elizabeth fingered the silk, carefully skirting the patches that were stiffened with blood. “Charlotte will claim she doesn’t mind, but I know this was one of her favorite gowns. I hate the fact that I ruined it.”

  More than the gown had been destroyed by the events surrounding Nelson Chadwick’s murder. Jason’s plans for the evening had been ruined. He’d gone to so much trouble and expense, even arranging for box seats, and then Elizabeth’s responsibilities as a physician had interfered. “I’m sorry, Jason.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t be. I know you didn’t plan this. You did what you had to do, and I . . .” He broke off and cleared his throat. “If you’re going to stay here with Phoebe, why don’t I ask Gwen to give me some fresh clothes for you?”

  It wasn’t what he had planned to say. Elizabeth knew that. The solemn expression in Jason’s eyes told her she wasn’t ready to hear the rest of his incomplete sentence. Not tonight. Tomorrow would be soon enough to listen to him admit that their courtship must end, that he was not willing to marry a woman who could not promise him more than a portion of her heart.

  Forcing a smile, Elizabeth said, “That would be wonderful. Would you also tell Gwen that I may not be home for a few days? I don’t want her to worry.”

  Gwen might not worry, but Elizabeth did. She worried about Jason. She worried about what her life would be like when he was no longer a part of it. Most of all, she worried about Phoebe. Though she knew the sheriff and Jason were convinced otherwise, Elizabeth could not picture Phoebe killing Nelson.

  “Why won’t you wake up, Phoebe?” she asked as she checked on her patient. “I need you to tell me what really happened.” That was the only chance Phoebe had of clearing her reputation.

  Once again, there was no answer. Until Phoebe regained consciousness, there was nothing Elizabeth could do other than pray that her wounds would heal. Pulling back the sheet she’d placed over Phoebe, Elizabeth checked the bandages, nodding when she saw little seepage. The bleeding had stopped, and though it might be her imagination, Phoebe’s breathing seemed a bit stronger.

  Gently, Elizabeth turned Phoebe’s head to the side so she could examine the contusion. Though the skin was not broken, Phoebe had an egg-sized bump. How had she sustained that injury? Elizabeth wouldn’t have been surprised if Nelson had had a similar lump on his head. He had landed on his back. But she had found Phoebe facedown. It made no sense. As another thought teased her brain, Elizabeth pulled back the sheet and looked at the bandages again. Exultation raced through her veins.

  She was right.

  “Phoebe didn’t do it,” Elizabeth announced the minute Jason returned. While she was grateful to see that Gwen had sent several complete outfits and enough food for both Elizabeth and Jason to have breakfast, she was barely able to contain her excitement over what she’d discovered. That was far more important than food or clothing.

  “Did she waken and tell you that?” Jason asked, his skepticism evident in his raised eyebrows and the tone of his voice.

  “No, but I know it. Something felt wrong about the whole scene in Phoebe’s sitting room, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Now I
know.” Elizabeth pulled out a chair and seated herself at the table, waiting until Jason took the other one before she continued. She wanted his undivided attention. “The bump on Phoebe’s head has been bothering me. I couldn’t figure out how she got it. I kept thinking that we were missing something and that there had to have been a third person in the room. Now I know I was right. Phoebe couldn’t have stabbed herself.”

  Cautious curiosity colored Jason’s expression. “Why is that?”

  “Because she’s left-handed. Look, Jason.” Elizabeth extended her left hand, fisting it as if she were holding a knife. “If I were going to stab myself, here’s where I’d do it.” Her fist moved naturally toward the right side of her chest. “The wounds were on the other side, which would make sense if they’d been inflicted by a right-handed person. But it would have been awkward for Phoebe. The angle’s all wrong.”

  As Jason repeated the exercise, Elizabeth watched the skepticism drain from his face. “You could be right,” he admitted.

  “I am, Jason. I know I am. It also explains the blow to her head.” Elizabeth had thought of little else since she’d had the revelation. “I think there was a third person in that room. That person hit Phoebe on the head, knocking her unconscious, maybe so she wouldn’t struggle. That same person killed Nelson, then stuck the knife into Phoebe, planning to kill her and make it appear to be a murder-suicide.”

  Jason nodded slowly. “That sounds plausible, but there are still some inconsistencies. Why was Phoebe facedown? I can understand that she would have fallen that way if she was hit from behind, but the killer had to have turned her over to stab her. It would have been easier to just leave her that way.”

  “I agree.” Elizabeth nodded. “I think the knife hit one of the stays in Phoebe’s corset.” When she’d pulled the knife out, Elizabeth had noticed that it had gone in at an oblique angle. Later, when she’d removed Phoebe’s corset, she’d seen that the stays were steel rather than whalebone and that the corset cover had been ripped, as if the knife had twisted. “If the killer was in a hurry, the easiest way to kill Phoebe was to turn her over and let her body’s weight impale her on the knife.” It was a grisly thought, but Elizabeth could find no other reason for the change of position.

  Jason was silent for a moment, considering Elizabeth’s hypothesis. “It’s possible,” he admitted. “Of course, that raises another question. If Phoebe wasn’t the killer, who was?”

  24

  So, who did kill Nelson?”

  Jason laid a hot towel on his face, the first step in his shaving process. He hadn’t planned to tell anyone that Phoebe was still alive and that he and Elizabeth doubted she was a murderer, but as Mrs. Moran would have said, the cat was already out of the bag. When Richard had entered Elizabeth’s office, intending to drive her to her appointment with Miriam since his coachman was indisposed, he’d seen Gwen and Rose emerging from the doctor’s kitchen and had discovered that Elizabeth had a patient in her infirmary. It hadn’t taken the skills of a detective to realize that the patient was none other than Phoebe Simcoe, the woman most of Cheyenne believed had died of self-inflicted wounds after murdering Nelson Chadwick. As soon as he’d delivered Elizabeth, Richard had returned to Central Avenue and had knocked on the door to Jason’s private quarters.

  “I wish I knew,” Jason said, his voice muffled by the towel. Removing it and beginning to brush on a generous coating of soap foam, he continued. “The sheriff is convinced Phoebe was responsible. I think he’s still hoping she’ll die, and that’s the reason he hasn’t contradicted his initial report. He looked almost annoyed when I explained that Phoebe was left-handed and couldn’t have stabbed herself.” Jason picked up his razor and prepared to shave. “I thought the sheriff would listen to me, but he dismissed Elizabeth’s theory, claiming that Phoebe must be ambidextrous.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the sheriff. I always thought he was fair.” Richard frowned. “Of course, I’ve never met the woman, so I can’t say whether his claim is valid.”

  “Elizabeth’s met her many times, and she says that’s hogwash. Phoebe had trouble with crutches when she broke her ankle, because her right hand isn’t as strong or flexible as the left one.” As he scraped the whiskers from his cheek, Jason tried not to frown. “Phoebe is not ambidextrous, but even if she survives, I’m not sure she’ll get a fair trial. As the sheriff said, no one will want to defend her.”

  “Including you.”

  “Well . . .”

  Richard had been heading toward the window, but he spun on his heel and faced Jason. “Is that hesitation I hear in your voice?”

  Jason gave a small shrug. “I have to admit that I’m reconsidering.”

  “Love will do that to a man.” Satisfaction rang from Richard’s voice. “I told Miriam no matter how it started, eventually that courtship of yours would become real when you realized that you loved Elizabeth.”

  Richard was far too astute. It would be easy to admit that his friend was right, but Jason had no intention of doing that. Elizabeth would be the first to hear his declaration of love.

  “Love? We’re talking about defending a woman, nothing more.”

  “Surely you’re not going to deny that you love Elizabeth. It’s plain as can be that you do. And since you love her, it only makes sense that you’d want to prove her theory.”

  Jason rinsed the razor, then began to shave his other cheek. “The only reason I’m considering taking Phoebe’s case is that I owe it to Nelson to make sure his murderer is punished.” And that brought Jason full circle, wondering who could have killed his client.

  Who had killed Nelson? The question reverberated through Elizabeth’s brain. She was seated in Miriam’s bedchamber, sipping a cup of coffee. Though she had hated to leave Phoebe, she and Jason had agreed that it was best that Elizabeth maintain her regular schedule. She would make her daily call on Miriam and keep the office open for other patients. With Phoebe still in a coma, there would be no sounds to announce the presence of a patient in the infirmary. Unfortunately, Richard’s arrival for a meeting with Jason had been unexpected, and he had seen Gwen and Rose entering Elizabeth’s office. With typical childish candor, Rose had announced that Aunt Elizabeth had a lady sleeping in her office. Fortunately, Richard could be trusted to keep Phoebe’s presence secret. Elizabeth could not say the same of his mother-in-law.

  When she’d arrived at Maple Terrace, Elizabeth had found Miriam’s mother with her, and judging from the questions Miriam had asked during her examination, the primary topic of conversation had been Nelson’s murder. Now, once Elizabeth had pronounced Miriam and her baby in good condition, Mrs. Taggert was back in the room, pouring coffee for the three of them and talking about the scandal. According to her, the city was buzzing with the news that Phoebe Simcoe had killed Nelson, then stabbed herself with the same knife.

  “I just came from the Chadwick house, and Tabitha’s heartbroken,” Amelia Taggert said as she stirred sugar into her beverage. “I’ve never seen a woman cry so much.”

  “Death is never easy for the survivors.” And that included Phoebe. When she emerged from the coma—Elizabeth refused to consider the possibility that she would not—Elizabeth would have to tell her about Nelson.

  “Poor Tabitha said her only consolation was that woman was dead.”

  Elizabeth bit her tongue. Though Richard now knew that Phoebe had survived the knife wounds, she had asked him to say nothing to anyone other than Miriam. The fewer people who knew that Phoebe was in her infirmary, the better. Elizabeth had enough to contend with, trying to keep her patient comfortable, without worrying about a lynch mob storming the office.

  “It’s a shame, a downright shame,” Amelia continued, “that we allow women like Phoebe Simcoe in Cheyenne. We ought to have run them all out of town. Their very presence taints honest people.”

  Though she suspected she would gain nothing by objecting, Elizabeth could not remain silent. “Our Lord associated with prostitutes.”

>   Amelia sniffed. “That was different.”

  A jury would probably agree with Amelia. Elizabeth took another sip of coffee, trying to hide her expression. The only way to save Phoebe was to identify the real killer.

  When she returned to her office, Gwen was in the kitchen with Rose, who was sitting on the floor, playing with her doll.

  “What happened to her?” Elizabeth asked, gesturing toward the doll’s bandaged head.

  “Dolly’s sick,” Rose explained. She pointed toward Elizabeth’s medical bag. “I need to listen to her.” The child had been fascinated by the stethoscope from the first time she’d seen it.

  “All right, but first I need to check on my patient.”

  “She’s been very quiet,” Gwen told her.

  There appeared to be no change in Phoebe’s condition. She lay on her back, her eyes closed, her expression as peaceful as if she were sleeping. But this was no natural sleep. Elizabeth knew that. She had been taught that a coma was one way the body healed itself and that the patient would regain consciousness when the healing was complete, but she could not repress the fear that Phoebe might never emerge from the coma. All Elizabeth could do was continue to pray.

  Returning to the kitchen, she placed the ends of the stethoscope into Rose’s ears, then laid the diaphragm on the doll’s chest. “Do you hear anything?”

  Rose nodded solemnly. “She sounds healthy. I think she wants me to take the bandages off.”

  “Are you certain she’s fully healed?” Elizabeth played along with the child. “Sometimes patients are in a rush.”

  “I’m sure. Dolly is healed.” She unwound the bandages, then lifted the doll and smiled. “All better.”

  “You’ve got a new admirer,” Gwen told Elizabeth as she helped Rose button her coat. It was time for them to go home. “While we were coming here, Rose told me that she wants to be a doctor like you when she grows up.”