by Beth Byers
“Perhaps.” Ro paced. “You should buy into it too. We could both buy into it enough to help design what we love.”
“Oh!” Hettie nodded, wondering if whoever owned the bulk of the company would let her come play too. The memory of Reginald returned and Hettie added, “Yes! I want to. Should we survive.”
Hettie rose and called down to the front desk. A few minutes later and with a very large promised gratuity, Hettie had their rooms exchanged for a new suite. The only one that had been available was even larger with three bedrooms, a personal dining room, a sitting room and an office.
The two of them explored, selected their bedrooms each, and then had the manager of the hotel put the name on the registry as H. Smith instead of H. Hughes. Perhaps if Reginald did return to murder them in their sleep, he’d only stumble across their emptied room and be caught by the hotel staff.
“Do you think we’re being a little, ah, ridiculous?” Ro asked.
Hettie shook her head. “Someone murdered our husbands. After today, I feel certain it was Reginald instead of Mr. Stone, but it is better to be careful and survive than be persuadable and die horribly.”
Chapter 17
The next morning appeared steeped in cloud cover and a depressing, drizzling rain. It befitted the previous night. Ro had dreamed of being smothered, hanged, thrown out a window, shot, stabbed, poisoned, and drowned. The first dream left her shaking; the drowning dream had her pacing her bedroom at 3:00 a.m. She tried to sleep again after pacing until her body hurt, but the moment she closed her eyes, she felt as though water were closing over her face, her lungs ached, and a pseudo-chill made her half-asleep mind feel certain that she was in icy waters, dying slowly.
Every time she started to die in a dream, she woke with a gasp and the feel of Reginald’s gaze on her as though he were standing over her in that moment, pillow at the ready. She finally gave up on sleeping entirely, padded to her bathroom, looked in the mirror, and groaned at her appearance. Her dark curls were twisted and frayed and the dark circles under her eyes gave away her exhaustion. After a few frustrating minutes with powders and a comb, she looked as presentable as she was likely to get and met Hettie in the dining room.
“You look terrible, Ro.”
Ro stuck her tongue out at Hettie. “Of course I do. I was murdered over and over again by that horrible Reginald. Did you see the way he was calculating my death right in front of us?”
“Clearly, darling. We switched rooms, didn’t we?” Hettie nodded. “Drink tea. You obviously need an excess of it.”
“He is going to kill me, I feel sure.” Ro poured herself a cup of tea and considered pouring a second and bringing them both to the table. No, she thought, that would be odd and walking to refill her teacup might help her stay awake now that she needed to remain alert.
“He did look to be plotting your death. He seemed to think that he could slaughter you right there and scoop up the investment papers or whatever you get when you own part of a company.”
Ro shuddered.
Hettie continued almost thoughtlessly as she said, “He seemed to be soothed by the chance of killing you.”
“He did!”
“It was disturbing to say the least.”
“It was!”
“Yet,” Hettie continued, “he knew that the will had been changed. I think we must determine whether Mr. Stone was the culprit.”
“Oh,” Ro said, rubbing her arms to smooth away the goose pimples. “I suppose. I still feel certain that he is going to…to…I don’t know…jump out of that wardrobe and break my neck.”
“When I was a little girl,” Hettie said with a smile, “I dreamed that this very tall man, all in black, was chasing me. He was going to kill me. For days and days afterwards, I felt as though I could feel his eyes on my back, my neck. My face when I was looking the other way.”
“That is how I feel,” Ro declared, setting aside her manners to guzzle her tea. “It’s as though his eyes are on me now, even though I know that he isn’t anywhere near.”
“So,” Hettie said, standing to take Ro’s teacup and refill them both. Hettie handed back the teacup. “Mr. Stone.”
“Mr. Stone.” Ro scowled and glanced about wearily as if expecting him to step out of the wardrobe next. “I suppose. Now we’ve got to figure out how to get a confession out of Mr. Stone and then how to keep Reginald from destroying me and taking my pretty, new fortune.”
“Speaking of fortunes and the changes in ours, what do you think about learning to operate an automobile?”
“Yes,” Ro agreed. “I’m delighted by the idea and, well, why don’t we buy a car! Once the dust has settled, of course.”
“Oh,” Hettie agreed, “a makeup company, an automobile. We’ll run your Reginald down before he runs us down. I’ll have my man look into it for us. Speaking of dust, shall we discuss funeral arrangements?”
“I suppose we must.” Ro sipped her second cup of tea more slowly. “The need becomes more intense with the knowledge that my parents and his will be shortly appearing and meddling if I haven’t already taken care of it.” She hated funerals desperately, so having to pretend that Leonard wasn’t horrible would make it all the worse. Unlike Hettie, who was discovering that Harvey could have been worse, Ro wasn’t able to find the same attributes.
“Good. I’ve done a bit of research—”
“You mean you had your man do a bit of research?”
“Naturally,” Hettie said. “Being wealthy means having this extraordinary ability to take care of things that are difficult for others. By, of course, paying someone else to take care of it for you.”
“Of course,” Ro grinned.
“I’ve selected the gentlemen who can help us. Alvine and Hewitson. Upstanding fellows, or so I understand. I’ll have my man bring them to the hotel, and we can plan together.”
“Are you suggesting that we have the funerals at the same time?”
Hettie’s head tilted, but her eyes brightened. “I hadn’t considered that, more like help each other plan them at the same time so we only have to deal with this once.” She pursed her lips in thought. “Although, perhaps you are onto something. They were friends, they died together and it would mean we could be there for each other. Together in life, together in death for them. It will help me explain why I buried Harvey here instead of sending him home.”
Ro’s mouth twisted. “I know I’m independently wealthy now instead of depending on my husband or my aunt, but it does delight me to save money burying him. One set of flowers, one officiator. I’m sure we’ll need two coffins although my mood this morning says we should shove both of those fools into one coffin.”
Hettie snorted and she had to press her napkin to her face. When she recovered she spoke with authority. “One funeral, two caskets. Shall we bury them next to each other like husband and wife, since they were both wedded to their philandering ways?”
Ro laughed and then what they were saying struck her. She paused, tapping her toe as she considered, and she shook her head at herself. “Hettie, we are positively heartless. Be warned, I will cry at this funeral. I’ll be crying for what could have been and I’ll be mourning for what my marriage turned out to be, but I’ll not be grieving for what the rest of them will assume.”
They both had tears in their eyes that were a mixture of sadness and humor.
“I will as well.” Hettie stood and arranged their plates, though it was clear she was simply moving to move. She paused after a few minutes, then exclaimed, “Oh!”
“Oh?” Ro asked.
“I have a brilliant idea!”
“Do you?” Ro asked, examining her makeup in her compact.
“Mrs. Stone. I’ve a scheme.”
“A scheme?” Ro’s eyes glinted at the mischief on Hettie’s face.
Her red curls were bouncing in the light, her eyes shone, her lips were fighting a grin. “A nefarious scheme. I have realized how to clear your name. Our names?” Her grin was wide and en
gaging as she shook her head. “No, really only your name. I think they’ve realized that I’m innocent. The detectives probably have a list of innocent people who have revealed themselves to be near-angels and my name tops it.”
Ro laughed and then crossed to Hettie and hugged her. She whispered her gratitude for making her feel better.
She then let Hettie go and took on a mocking tone. “Oh, Hettie, whatever in the world would I do without you? You are the most wonderful best friend a girl could ever desire.”
“You mock me?” Hettie asked in her own playful voice. She winked before smoothing her hair as though it weren’t a cloud of wild curls.
“Only because I love you. Now, tell me what it is you have planned for—and I can’t believe I’m about to say this—poor Mrs. Stone.”
“It’s not all that clever,” Hettie admitted. “We need to talk to Marilyn again. She was rescued from the yacht. If we can get her to talk to the detectives, if we can offer her something, some…some…helping hand, perhaps she will say what she knows.”
“Oh yes,” Ro agreed, “because we show up with barely condescending smiles and ask nicely, she’ll tell us everything. Assuming we can get past her terrifying husband.”
“This won’t do. If Mr. Stone is there, he’ll never let anyone like us see her.” Hettie faced Ro. “Especially you.”
“Me?” Ro demanded. “Look at you. Young, pretty, bright eyes. You’re delightful.”
Hettie rolled her eyes and then glanced down at her clothes again. They were delightful, Ro wasn’t wrong about that observation. She looked towards the office and went to make a few telephone calls.
While Ro paced and considered what they could offer Mrs. Stone, she finally went to her bedroom and found the paperwork that had been packed the night previous. She pulled out several bills and a picture.
The plan might work, it might not, but it had to be attempted.
Chapter 18
Peterson brought the auto to a halt in front of the brownstone mansion. It had wrought iron fences, ivy growing up the side, stained glass windows, and screamed old money. It was the kind of old money that proclaimed itself with a long history of land-owning, relationships to the nobility, and the ability to trace one’s roots back to the Conqueror.
Hettie and Ro stepped out. To onlookers, they looked like acolyte nuns, complete with collared white blouses, long black skirts, sturdy shoes, and wimples. They each had a large simple cross at their chest and they held black books along with pamphlets for a local charity. They looked like a cross between Catholic novitiate and ministers from the Salvation Army. They weren’t looking to present themselves as any one thing but as those who might be allowed past the doorways of the stone house.
Ro glanced at Hettie, giggled, and then tried to assume a posture of feigned humility.
“This idea will not work if you can’t stop laughing, Ro,” Hettie chided. There was an undertone of laughter in her own voice, though, which completely undermined the scold.
Ro pulled herself together and whispered back, “You are right. This is a genius idea. The thought of us going from wife to widow to nun in two days tickled my funny bone. I’ll hold it together, I promise.”
Her promise was chased by another laugh and Hettie sighed. “You would be a terrible actress.”
“I always have been,” Ro agreed.
“Don’t speak. I’ll do all the talking or you’ll ruin everything. You just stand there with your arms folded across your chest and look at the floor. And frown, Ro. Frown and stare down with bashful humility and modesty.”
“Yes, Hettie.” Ro bit down hard on her bottom lip while Hettie knocked on the door, arranging her Bible to have the cover facing outwards.
“Yes?”
“We’ve come to see Mrs. Stone in a mission of mercy.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Stone is not receiving guests.”
Hettie’s brows lifted and she tried, “Is Mr. Stone available?”
“I’m afraid he is currently out of the house.”
“I believe there has been some confusion. As you can see, Sister Lavender and I are emissaries of the good word.”
“Be that as it may,” the maid started, but Hettie held up a hand.
“We’ve been sent for by Mr. Stone to pray and ponder with his wife after her recent trial.”
Seeing as how that episode was supposed to be secret and that there was no way these two women dressed as generic missionaries could know, the lie worked. “This way please.”
“Fool,” Ro whispered, choking on a laugh that was quickly cut off at Hettie’s harsh look. They were led up the stairs, past a set of double doors that obviously led to a master bedroom, and reached the room directly after.
Mrs. Stone was alone in her room, her eyes closed. Hettie had to bite back a terrible gasp when she saw the split lip, the dark bruises on Marilyn’s face, and the swollen eye. Ro swallowed on a dry throat and Hettie stepped forward.
Mrs. Stone’s gaze widened at Hettie’s appearance.
“Mrs. Stone,” Hettie lied, “we’ve come to pray with you. This is Sister Mary Lavender, and I’m Sister Mary Rose.”
Mrs. Stone shook her head and Hettie turned to the maid and said firmly, “Leave us. And bring tea.”
The moment that the maid left, Hettie rushed over to Mrs. Stone. “Have they given you anything for the pain?”
Mrs. Stone’s bitter laugh was answer enough.
“Ro, search the bath and the desk. Surely you have something?”
“I don’t think aspirin is going to help.”
Hettie winced. “I suppose it won’t relieve the pain, but it should take off the edge.”
Ro found the pills and filled a glass with water from the bath.
“We’re going to help you,” Hettie told Mrs. Stone firmly. “And you’re going to help us.”
“How?” Mrs. Stone croaked.
Ro did her best to hold still, a Bible gripped in one hand, while Hettie tried to connect to the woman. Neither of them liked Mrs. Stone. She’d taken their place in their marriage beds, manipulated their husbands, and managed to find the kindness and attention their husbands had to offer and had taken it for herself.
Hettie, however, had what appeared to be a preternatural ability to reach into Mrs. Stone’s heart and connect to her despite their differences. Hettie whispered low, commiserating and making the woman acknowledge what she was facing.
“He will kill you eventually,” Hettie finished gently, brushing back Mrs. Stone’s hair. “He’ll kill you. The only reason he hasn’t yet is to watch you crumple and fall. To make you realize that he owns you.”
Silent tears were rolling down Marilyn’s face. Hettie handed over a handkerchief. “We don’t have to take the way they treat us anymore.”
“There isn’t a way to divorce him.”
“You don’t have to divorce him if he goes to jail for murder,” Hettie said flatly. “Your husband took a boat to where you were enjoying an evening with friends, removed you, disabled the ship, and left everyone else to die. And people did die. All you have to do is tell the truth.”
“I…” Marilyn shook her head, nearly hysterical. “I can’t believe he did it. I told him he shouldn’t have done it, but he came and grabbed me off the yacht, telling me that we had to leave right away and that he hoped I loved Mr. Ripley the way my husband loved me so I would feel the pain of his death as he felt the pain of my betrayal.”
“So tell Detective Truman,” Ro said, finally speaking up. “Tell him what you’ve seen and experienced. They know someone disabled the ship, they know someone was taken off. They’re going to find you eventually. Scotland Yard might be focused on others for now, but they will find you. There were too many witnesses. Certainly your husband intended everyone to die, but he didn’t get what he wanted, did he?”
The door to the bedroom opened and a maid stepped in with the tea that Hettie had demanded. Ro crossed to take the tray and paused at the sound of a shout. It was a voi
ce that she knew well and her blood cooled in her veins. For a moment, she thought Leonard had come back from the grave before realizing it wasn’t Leonard, it was Reginald.
What was Reginald doing here? His voice got closer and Ro reacted quickly.
“Go,” she ordered the maid. “To the kitchens. It’s worth your position to not be seen.”
The maid’s gaze widened and then Mr. Stone’s voice roared.
“Now!” Ro hissed. “Now, or you’ll be losing more than your position.”
Marilyn Stone was weeping and Hettie leaned down and whispered, “They’re not coming up here. You’re safe. We won’t leave you alone.”
A moment later, Hettie grabbed Ro’s arm and hissed, “We need to hear.”
“But…”
“There was a space at the top of the stairs where we can hide. If they’ve gone into an office, we’ll eavesdrop.”
“What about the servants?”
“Surely they’re hiding.”
The two of them crept out of the bedroom and down the hall, hands grasped tightly.
“You shouldn’t have moved!” Reginald shouted. “You ruined it all.”
Mr. Stone’s cold voice carried easily through the house and Hettie dared to peek over the banister down to the great hall below and Ro did so as well. The office door had been left opened and, as Hettie guessed, all the servants had disappeared.
“I already told you, Reginald. I tried to call my men back but it was too late. Your brother was your responsibility. You knew he was playing games with the will. You should have prevented him from making it to the solicitor if you wanted to inherit. How hard is it to distract a fool like Leonard Ripley? You could have bought him a cognac and challenged him to poker.”
Ro’s gaze was wide, and she was back to biting her lip to keep her exclamations in check, and she knew Hettie’s mind was doing the same arithmetic as hers. They had been working together. Too many hands in the pot. Reginald hadn’t been able to stop the plan from taking place.
