Deep in the Heart of Trouble

by Deeanne Gist

  Tony nodded. “I’ll read them today and have ’em ready for you in the morning.”

  Walker hesitated. “Well, I was hoping to get them back right away.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, I, um, need to return to Beaumont.”

  Tony thumbed through the documents. “I’d like to oblige you, Nathaniel, but it’ll take a while for me to sort through these. Even if I could finish them by tonight, it’d be after the evening train’s already left.”

  “They’re just standard papers, Tony, transferring everything from Darius’s name to yours.”

  “I understand. I’d still like to read them, though, before signing.”

  “I see. Well,” he said, clearly affronted. “I guess I’ll have no choice but to come by first thing in the morning, then.”

  Tony nodded. “I appreciate your understanding, sir. Meanwhile, Finch is staying at the Commercial. I know he’d love to see you.”

  “Tony Bryant Morgan!” Mrs. Lockhart marched into the office, slamming her cane down with each step. “Just what in the Sam Hill is going on?”

  She was wearing her bloomers. The really poofy ones. And charging into the jailhouse like a schooner in full sail.

  The men quickly rose to their feet.

  She pulled up short and gave Russ the once-over. “Well, now. Aren’t you the kind of fellow who could carry his bride out of a fire?

  You married?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, casting Tony a sideways glance.

  She sighed. “Well, of course you are.”

  “Mrs. Lockhart, may I present my friend Mr. O’Berry, and my attorney, Mr. Walker.”

  She waved her cane at Tony. “Don’t you try to distract me, young man. I want to know where Essie’s diamond ring is.”

  “I’m a bit occupied right now,” he answered. “Perhaps you could come back a little later?”

  “It’s all right, Tony,” Russ said. “We don’t mind. Besides, we’d like to know about this diamond ring, too. Wouldn’t we, Walker?”

  Walker blinked. Tony groaned.

  Russ placed a hand on the back of his chair and held his other out to Mrs. Lockhart. “Please, ma’am?”

  Accepting his hand, she settled herself in the chair as if it were a throne. “Now,” she said. “Where’s her ring?”

  “Right here on my desk.”

  “Don’t you know whether you’re on your head or your heels? It’s supposed to be on her finger. Why isn’t it?”

  “Mrs. Lockhart—”

  She slammed the end of her cane on the floor. “Do not patronize me, sir. In Love’s Chain Broken, you will remember Mr. Tittle and Miss Vermilyea treated the elderly Mrs. Coughenburger with disdain, yet if they had just taken but a moment to heed her words, much of their pain and misery would have been avoided. Tell me you remember that part?”

  Tony felt his face heat. “Yes, ma’am. I remember.”

  Russ’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

  “Then you will also recall that in Her Only Sin, Miss Klingenfluss was gravely misunderstood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And Mr. Longanecker had to do a great deal of groveling to get back in her good graces?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She folded her hands on top of her cane. “So what are you going to do about that, then?”

  Russ, Walker, and the sheriff all stared at him.

  He cleared his throat. “Grovel?”

  She smiled. “I think that would be the best course of action.”

  Tony nodded. He’d already come to terms with the Lord and had planned on coming to terms with Essie—even before Mrs. Lockhart arrived. He still loved his fiancée and wanted his ring back on her finger. Wanted her as his wife. The question was, did she still want him?

  chapter THIRTY-ONE

  FIVE DAYS had passed since the Velocipede Club last convened. In the meanwhile, Essie’s members had taken quite a shine to sleuthing. No need for Mr. Holmes or Dr. Watson in this town—not when they had the ladies of the Corsicana Velocipede Club. But now the novelty had worn off a bit, and the women found themselves hitting one dead end after another.

  Graying clouds blocked out the morning sunlight but produced a cooling breeze through the clubhouse’s high windows. Members filed in, their voices quiet, their expressions gloomy. Shirley called the meeting to order and one by one the women stood and reported what they’d discovered about Darius—or rather, what they hadn’t discovered.

  Essie smoothed her glove over each of her fingers. Since she’d given Tony his ring back, she’d begun to wear her gloves again, thinking it would keep her from noticing her bare left hand. But it hadn’t. She missed his ring. And she missed him.

  All the women knew she and Tony had had a “tiff,” as they called it, but none knew the reason. Most assumed it was due to his being in jail, and they were none too happy with her for not standing by his side. Little did they know it was Tony who’d renounced her, not the other way around.

  She was sorry she’d given the ring back, though. If she’d realized it would create such turmoil and division in the club, she wouldn’t have. Her decision to break their engagement was in no way a reflection of her belief in his innocence.

  So she’d minimized their estrangement. Told the ladies it was her way of teaching him a lesson. They shook their heads and explained there were plenty of ways to do that without removing the ring, but now that the deed was done, they advised she not take it back too quickly, else all would be for naught.

  So when Tony sent her a message via Harley Vandervoort requesting she come by at her earliest convenience, she’d prevaricated. Not just because the ladies expected her to, but because she wasn’t quite ready to face him again.

  “Mr. Tony wants to see ya,” Harley’d said as he waltzed into her office at the Velocipede Club.

  “He does?” she’d asked, putting down her pen.

  “Yep. Said fer you to come by soon as ya could.”

  She’d glanced at the door, resisting the urge to leap to her feet and run all the way to the jailhouse. But what would she do when she arrived? Nothing had changed and they couldn’t say what needed to be said with anyone else listening in.

  Howard wouldn’t be there, of course, not since Uncle Melvin had dismissed him, though she’d heard he was still in town. And he’d wasted no time in announcing to any who would listen that she’d had an affair with Adam.

  She hoped no one would believe him—that they’d attribute his tales to sour grapes over losing his job. But with all the new people in town, not everyone knew her. So he might be able to persuade some.

  Still, she couldn’t discuss the matter with Tony. Not under the current circumstances, for even her uncle’s presence would embarrass her. And with Howard spreading rumors, she dare not sneak out at night to rendezvous at the jailhouse.

  Besides, it was a little irksome to be summoned in such a highhanded manner. As if Tony did, in fact, expect her to drop everything the moment he crooked his finger.

  She’d picked her pen back up. “I’m not sure I can go, Harley. I have an awful lot of work to do.”

  His eyes widened. “But he has somethin’ powerful important to tell ya. He ain’t gonna like it if’n you don’t come.”

  “Tell him to write it down, then.”

  That had been two days ago. He’d sent Harley around three more times, but with nothing more than further curt invitations.

  She’d politely, but firmly, declined.

  “He’s gettin’ kinda testy about all this, Miss Essie,” Harley’d argued. “He says I weren’t to leave unless I had ya in tow.”

  “In tow?” she asked, stiffening. “He expects you to tow me down there? Were those his exact words?”

  Harley started backing up out of her office. “Don’t worry none.

  I ain’t gonna make ya do nothing you don’t wanna.”

  “You most certainly aren’t. And let me give you a little advice, young man. If you ever decid
e to woo a lady, you do it with gentle persuasion. You do not demand she do this or that, and you definitely don’t have her towed somewhere.”

  “What’s pur-sway-shin?”

  “When you try to make someone change their mind about something.”

  “Now, how’s Mr. Tony supposed to do that when ya won’t even talk to him?”

  She blinked. “Well, I don’t know. With a kind note? Maybe something poetic? Seems to me he could figure it out, considering all those silly romance novels he reads.”

  She sighed. She should have known better than to lose her patience. Harley was far from discreet, so every person in town knew she’d not only refused his requests, but that, according to him, she’d demanded romance.

  It wasn’t romance she wanted, however, but divine intervention.

  So she hadn’t quit praying. Or quit loving him. Or quit trying to help find the real murderer.

  “We’ve come full circle, then,” Shirley said to the group. “We’re no closer now than we were on Sunday.”

  Essie reined in her thoughts and looked around the room, but no one had observed her inattention. Mrs. Bogart worked her fan. Young Miss Davis picked at a snag in her skirt. Mrs. Owen shooed a fly.

  “Perhaps we’re taking too much for granted,” Anna Morgan said. Her mother had not returned with her to Corsicana but had stayed behind in Beaumont, too distraught to venture out again. So Anna had taken up residence with Mrs. Lockhart.

  “What do you mean?” Shirley asked.

  “I don’t know, really,” she said, sighing. “What do you think, Mrs. Lockhart? Has there ever been a horrific state of affairs in one of your books where things were not as they seemed?”

  Essie closed her eyes, trying to suppress her exasperation. They were not going to find the man who murdered Darius Morgan by examining romance novels.

  “Well,” Mrs. Lockhart said, tapping her cane, “in From Out of the Gloom, everyone thought Mr. Bumpus had been strangled, when, in fact, he’d been poisoned. But the killer made it look like strangulation to confuse the authorities.”

  Essie gripped her hands together and kept her mouth firmly closed, reminding herself it was Mrs. Lockhart who had comforted her in her hour of need. Mrs. Lockhart who’d taken in Anna. Mrs. Lockhart who’d made sure meals were delivered to Tony on a regular basis. Essie would, therefore, be still and let the dear woman refer to as many books as she wanted to.

  “Actually,” Mrs. McCabe said, “it’s interesting you should bring that up. When my husband laid Mr. Morgan out to rest, he mentioned to the doctor that the deceased’s stomach was inflamed and his skin rather yellow.”

  Shirley frowned and turned to the doctor’s wife. “Is that normal for someone who’s been stabbed, Mrs. Gulick?”

  “Indeed, it isn’t.”

  “What was Dr. Gulick’s response to your husband’s remark, Mrs. McCabe?”

  “Well,” she said, “he sort of laughed and jokingly said perhaps Mr. Morgan had been poisoned with arsenic. I thought nothing of it at the time, because it was so clearly obvious that Mr. Morgan had been stabbed. I mean, blood was everywhere.”

  Moaning, Mrs. Bogart turned white and swooned. The ladies sitting next to her exclaimed and jumped up, one supporting the elderly woman’s head, another putting her fan to vigorous use and yet another patting the woman’s cheek.

  “Oh dear,” Shirley said. “Seems our conversation has upset Mrs. Bogart’s sensibilities. Does anyone have smelling salts?”

  The next few minutes were spent reviving Mrs. Bogart, while Essie’s heart began to hammer. Even though the basis for Mrs.

  Lockhart’s suggestion was a romance novel, Essie could not dismiss it out of hand. Not after hearing the comments of the doctor and coroner.

  “For argument’s sake,” Shirley said, continuing even though Mrs. Bogart had not yet fully recovered, “let’s pretend Mr. Morgan’s death was due to poisoning. Well, if that were the case, why in the world would the killer go to the trouble of stabbing him?”

  “Because he needed to implicate Tony,” Essie said, eagerness stirring inside her. “And that meant using his knife and leaving it where the sheriff would be sure to find it.”

  Mrs. Zimpelman shook her head. “Then why not just stab Mr.

  Morgan to death and leave the poison out of it?”

  Mrs. Bogart fainted again. Miss Davis alternately fanned the elderly woman and wiped her brow with a handkerchief.

  “Perhaps the killer is of small stature,” suggested Mrs. Pickens, her bug eyes overwhelming her reedlike face. “Mr. Morgan was a very large man and, I would imagine, rather hard to subdue in a fight.”

  “But doesn’t it take a while to poison someone?” Shirley asked.

  “Not necessarily,” said Mrs. Gulick. “There was that woman over in Walker County who put arsenic in her husband’s eggs. He died within the hour.”

  Excitement began to buzz throughout the room.

  Shirley rapped the gavel on the lectern. “Mrs. Pickens? Who’s purchased arsenic at the Flour, Feed and Liquor Store lately?”

  “Well, heavens to Betsy, any number of people. Mr. Flouty bought some rat poison. Mr. Pennington, some paint. Deputy Howard, some paste.” She lifted her bug-eyed gaze to the rafters as if visualizing the patrons who visited her mercantile. “The Buntings are putting up new wallpaper.”

  Shirley gasped.

  “Oh dear,” she said, wringing her hands. “I didn’t mean to—”

  Shirley held up her hand. “It’s all right, ma’am. I’m quite sure my parents didn’t poison Mr. Morgan with their wallpaper.” A smattering of giggles flitted throughout the room. “Still, it is best to be thorough with your recollections. Please continue.”

  Mrs. Pickens listed at least a half dozen more names, none of whom were at all likely to have murdered Darius.

  “We need to ask the Crooks,” said Mrs. Vandervoort. “Perhaps someone bought something from the Slap Out.”

  Mrs. Pickens stiffened. “I’m sure if there was arsenic to be had, the person in need would have come to the Flour, Feed and Liquor Store. As a matter of fact, even that Mr. Morgan bought soap and arsenic to kill the bedbugs in his mattress.”

  Essie’s lips parted. Silence blanketed the room.

  “What?” Mrs. Pickens asked, looking from one woman to the other, then her eyes all but popped right out of her head. “Good heavens, I don’t mean our Mr. Morgan. I meant the other one.”

  “The dead one?” Shirley asked, confused.

  “No, no. The other one. The Frenchified one.”

  “Finch?” Anna asked. “Finch Morgan?”

  “Yes, I believe that’s his name.”

  Anna shook her head. “It wouldn’t have been him. He was Darius’s constant companion. They were more like brothers than cousins. He would never have wanted Tony to inherit.”

  “What about Deputy Howard?” Aunt Verdie asked.

  “An unpleasant man, for certain,” Shirley said, “but what possible motive could he have?”

  “It is no secret he’s been sweet on Essie,” Mrs. Lockhart said. “Maybe he implicated Tony to get rid of his competition?”

  The ladies murmured to one another.

  Essie cleared her throat. “Mr. Howard knew full well he had no chance with me even had Tony never stepped foot in our town.”

  “Well,” Shirley said, “let’s meet again tomorrow morning to discuss this further. In the meanwhile, we will ask Mrs. Pickens to check with Mr. Pickens so we can be sure we haven’t overlooked anyone. And Mrs. Vandervoort? If you would visit the Slap Out and see what you can find out from the Crooks, we’d be most appreciative.” She struck the lectern with her gavel. “Meeting adjourned.”

  Essie opened the door to find Harley on her front porch. His boots were scuffed, one of his stockings had slid all the way down, and dirt-encrusted knees peeked out from beneath his short pants.

  “This is fer you, from Mr. Tony,” he said, handing her a note card, now smudged with dirty fing
erprints.

  “Tony wrote this?”

  “Yep. And he made me cross my heart, hope to die, that I’d not let anybody read it but you.”

  “I see.” She slid her finger under the wax seal, breaking it open, then unfolded the piece of paper.

  Dearest Essie,

  In the tale of Lord Birmingham’s Daughter,

  Miss Dye thought her beau didn’t want her.

  He exclaimed, “That’s not so!”

  She said, “Tallyho,”

  Then came back and he did like he oughter.

  Yours, ABM

  She bit her lip but was unable to suppress her smile.

  “Uh-oh,” Harley said. “Yer not gonna give in to him, are ya?”

  She tilted her head. “I thought you wanted me to. Don’t you like Mr. Tony?”

  “Oh yes, ma’am. I like him plenty. But I just figured out that if you go see him, he’ll quit payin’ me two pennies to bring you messages, and I’ve made ten cents in three days. Besides, my ma said you wouldn’t give in easy. She says the fellers in Miz Lockhart’s books like stuff better when they hafta work fer it.”

  “Good heavens.” She widened the door. “Come on in and wash your hands. I’ve some warm cookies on the cooling tray.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  He ran to the kitchen, but she slipped into Papa’s study, sat down at his desk and took up his pen.

  Dearest Tony,

  I enjoyed your limerick very much. However, I have it on good authority that Lord Birmingham’s daughter never appeared too eager. Since you hold this tome in such high esteem, I will maintain my distance but look forward to future correspondence.

  ES

  “You needn’t stay in Corsicana any longer, Russ,” Tony said a few days later, leaning his arms on the table. “Spreckelmeyer says it looks like he’s going to have to take me up to Fort Smith for a trial sometime next week and we should be able to clear everything up then.”