An Untimely Frost (Lilly Long Mysteries), page 1
Drawing a deep breath, Lilly let her troubled gaze roam the room’s faded elegance once more.
What she saw was neglect, not destruction. Was it possible that the townsfolk were too frightened of the haint rumored to occupy the house to rob it? Strange, since even she knew the furnishings were worth a small fortune.
Recalling what she’d told William about preachers being unable to afford such costly things, her lips twisted into a bitter smile. The grand lifestyle suggested by Heaven’s Gate and its furnishings would have been easily attainable if the reverend routinely fleeced his flocks.
Leaving, she crossed the hall and found herself in a bedroom. A mahogany chest with cabriole legs, claw and ball feet, and decorated with carved shells and scrollwork sat on the far wall. A tin bathtub peeked from behind a carved dressing screen.
Animals had helped themselves to some of the feathers from the rotting feather tick, and the tangle of sheets was stained with rust.
Her breathing hitched. Not rust. Blood.
Lots and lots of blood.
An UNTIMELY FROST
PENNY RICHARDS
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
EPILOGUE
THOUGH THIS BE MADNESS
About the Author
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2016 by Penny Richards
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0603-4
eISBN-10: 1-4967-0603-X
First Kensington Electronic Edition: August 2016
ISBN: 978-1-4967-0602-7
ISBN-10: 1-4967-0602-1
This book is for my friend Linda Card, who,
many years ago, when I was looking for a jumping-off
place for this book, gave me an idea I’d never have
thought of. At long last, here are the results.
Acknowledgments
This book couldn’t have been written without the efforts of many people: Linda Hanabarger, with the Fayette County Genealogical and Historical Society, for the pictures, information, and street map of old Vandalia; Curtis Mann, with the Lincoln Library, in Springfield, Illinois, for the invaluable information about Springfield and especially Chatterton’s Opera House; and Sandy and LaRee as usual, for reading and rereading and keeping me straight. Thanks to everyone at Kensington Publishing for taking a chance on me and working with me on my ideas and giving me such an awesome cover, and lastly to my editor, Tara Gavin, whose belief in me and my writing gave me another “first” and whose spot-on editing always makes the book better.
Death lies on her like an untimely frost.
—William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, act 4, scene 5
CHAPTER 1
Chicago, 1881
Peacock Opera House
Blast it, he’d promised !
Lilly Warner’s rising fury battled with an all-too-familiar disappointment. Pierce Wainwright, the cast’s manager and the man who had raised her from the age of eleven, had finally given her a major role in the troupe’s new play, Society’s Daughter. Tim had promised to come and see her debut performance, but he hadn’t shown up. Another of her husband’s lies, offered for the sole purpose of momentary appeasement.
Too angry to be fearful, she jerked up the hood of her red woolen cape and stepped through the door at the rear of the theater into the darkness of the narrow backstreet. In less than a minute, she entered the main thoroughfare. Tendrils of fog writhed in the flickering glow of the gaslights, turning the few stalwart souls braving the chilly night into wraithlike phantoms.
Annoyance rose with every step as she navigated the four blocks to the boardinghouse where the members of the Pierced Rose Theater Troupe were staying during their brief stay in Chicago. She pushed through the doorway and was greeted by a rush of heat from the foyer fireplace. Pushing back the hood, she marched down the hall, mentally framing a series of questions for her absent husband.
Nearing Pierce and Rose’s room, Lilly noticed their door standing ajar. That was odd; the worldly-wise Rose was generally more careful about such things. Lilly placed her gloved hand on the doorknob, wondering if she should stick her head in and mention the oversight.
While she stood torn between the need to confront her husband and check on her friend, she heard the sound of a man’s voice from inside the room. Sudden uneasiness caused her heart to beat faster. Who could it be? She’d left Pierce at the opera house.
The man spoke again, menace in his low tone. Before she could do more than acknowledge that something was terribly wrong, Lilly heard the sickening, somehow familiar, sound of flesh meeting flesh. She slumped against the wall, squeezing her eyes shut and covering her ears, attempting to block out the memories that sought freedom from where she’d banished them eleven years ago. She fought the craven desire to escape into the dark vortex of unconsciousness.
“Please, God, make him stop. Make him go away.”
The words echoing through her mind were chanted by a child’s voice. Her voice.
Do something!
Lilly whimpered. What could she do? She was only eleven, and someone was hurting her mama....
Another cry, this one laced with an unmistakable pain, scattered the distressing fragments of memory. She opened her eyes. She wasn’t eleven, the sounds she heard were not memories from her past, and the man in the other room was not her mother’s killer, but whoever he was, he was hurting Rose. Lilly couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Not again.
Taking tight hold on the doorknob, she shoved away from the wall and burst into the room, gauging the situation in a single glance. Rose lay across the bed, blood trickling from her mouth, a mark that would become a bruise on her cheekbone, and tears seeping from her eyes into the graying hair at her temples. A man stood over her, a leather pouch clutched in one fist, a small revolver in the other. Lilly’s eyes widened and her footsteps faltered.
“Tim?” Her voice was an agonized whisper. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing, you stupid cow?” He held the money bag aloft. “I came for the money.”
Money? Her heart began an agonized throbbing. “But . . . I gave you money this morning.”
“Barely enough to get my shoes shined.”
Hearing the mockery in his voice, she urged sternness to hers and held out her hand. “Give me my money, Tim. You have no right to it.”
His beautiful lips twisted into a taunting smile. “Your money? You seem to forget that when you said ‘I do’ everything of yours became mine.”
He spoke the truth. The law favored men in every way. Rose lifted herself to one elbow and swiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. “Let him have it, Lil. It’s not worth it.”
Perhaps Rose was right, but it was money Lilly had been setting aside since she was old enough to do small tasks for the cast. Money she was saving to buy a little house somewhere . . . someday. Money she’d told him she’d given to Rose for safekeeping. A surge of guilt washed through her at the idea that her own naïve trust had brought about this betrayal.
“It’s mine,” she repeated. “I’ve worked hard for it.”
Timothy’s handsome face contorted with disgust. His burst of laughter was short and hate filled. “So have I. I’ve listened to your pious preaching about taking a salesman’s job until I want to puke. Well, I’m not a damned peddler,” he all but growled. “And I might
Both Rose and Lilly sucked in sharp breaths. Old insecurities flooded her. Being beautiful, confident Kate Long’s plain bastard daughter had never been an easy role.
“I’m done with it all,” Tim was saying, “including you.” His lips twisted into a parody of a smile and he shook his head. “What an easy mark you were.”
Stealing her life savings and hurting Rose were hard enough to take, but when Lilly realized that he had taken advantage of her inexperience in the most dreadful way possible, rage overcame her shock. Without considering the consequences, she launched herself across the room at him.
Rose gave a shriek of fear. Not the least threatened, Tim stood his ground. When Lilly was within reach, he simply swung the arm with the pouch and hit her with a backhanded blow that sent her reeling against the fireplace.
Her head hit the mantel with a sickening crack. Pain sent her to her knees and darkness threatened once again. She heard the sound of boots thudding on the planks of the floor, heard a door slam and voices coming from somewhere far away.
Then someone lifted her, and a gentle voice asked, “Lilly, are you all right?”
She wanted to answer, but instead, she slipped deeper into the dark emptiness that held no pain, no frightening memories, and no hateful, lying words or acts of deception.
CHAPTER 2
“C’mon, luv, open your eyes.”
The familiar sound of Pierce’s voice nudged aside the comforting shadows. Lilly moaned at the intrusion. She wanted nothing more than to stay wrapped in the cocoon of oblivion that kept away the memories threatening her self-worth and her peace of mind . . . perhaps even her sanity.
“Lilly. Come, my sweet girl. Open your eyes for me.”
The coolness of a damp cloth dabbing at a place on the side of her head accompanied the voice. Rose. The woman who had taken a young, damaged girl into her home and her heart when her mother was murdered. The woman Timothy might have killed if not for Lilly’s intervention.
She reached out in a frantic gesture. “Rose!” Lilly had trouble making her lips form the whispered word.
“Thank God!” Pierce.
“I’m here.” Rose sobbed and dabbed harder at the aching place on Lilly’s head.
“Stop!” she said crossly, making another aimless grab. “That hurts.”
Pierce’s laughter sent her eyelids fluttering open. She glared at him. He only laughed again. “You’d best stop, Rose. We don’t want to get her all in a pucker.”
“I am not angry,” Lilly managed to mumble in a sulky voice.
“No? What would you call it?”
“Enraged.” She didn’t sound enraged; she sounded exhausted. Recalling the events that had brought her to this point, she struggled to her elbows, an act that sent the room spinning and another wave of pain through her skull.
“Be still,” Pierce commanded. “You may have a concussion—or worse.”
“I’m fine,” she grumbled, gingerly probing the knot on her head. “Just bloody furious. Did he get away?”
Rose gave a disdainful sniff. “Took out of here like a scalded cat,” she said. “He almost knocked Roxie over as she came in from the theater. She’s sent for the police and a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” Lilly insisted, struggling to sit up. “It’s just a bump.”
“Maybe so, but I’ll feel better if you’re checked out,” Rose insisted, propping her up with a couple of pillows behind her back.
“So will I,” Pierce added. “As for the police . . . I don’t know how much good they’ll be. I have a feeling your Tim’s done this sort of thing before.”
Before Lilly had time to consider that, a knock sounded at the door. It was the physician, a middle-aged man with rounded shoulders and thick spectacles, who spent the next several moments asking questions about what had happened, poking and prodding, checking her pupils, and even pricking her hands and feet with a pin.
“Well,” he said, removing his stethoscope from his ears and hooking it around his neck. “You’re a fortunate young lady. It appears you have nothing wrong except a very nasty bump on your head.”
“Thank God,” Rose said.
“Of course, there is no way to completely rule out the possibility of a concussion or even a skull fracture, but in light of your responses and state of awareness, I’m not inclined to think the injury is that severe.” He offered a dry smile. “You’ll probably have the devil of a headache for a few days, so I advise that you stay in bed and get as much rest as possible.”
“I’d like to return to my own room if that would be all right,” Lilly said, the expression in her brown eyes pleading. Though she feared it was a fool’s errand, she wanted to check on the small stash of money she kept there.
“Fine, fine,” the physician agreed with a nod. “But I insist that someone stay with you for at least one night. Mrs. Wainwright?” he queried, looking at Rose.
“You couldn’t keep me away,” Rose assured him.
Several minutes later, Lilly was settled into the room she’d shared with Timothy. While Pierce walked the doctor out, Lilly allowed Rose to continue her motherly fussing. It seemed the least she could do. She was about to ask Rose for details about the robbery when Pierce poked his head in and announced that the policeman had arrived and wanted to speak with Rose.
“And I want to speak with him!”
Rose gave the quilts a final pat. “The doctor gave me a wee bit of laudanum to ease your pain and help you sleep, but I left it in my room. I’ll be back with it just as soon as I talk to the copper and get my night things.”
Lilly whispered her thanks and gave a compliant nod. As soon as the door shut behind Rose, Lilly opened her eyes and let her troubled gaze roam the bed chamber. Tim’s straight razor and soap mug were gone from the shaving stand. The carpetbag that held his clothes was no longer in the corner where he’d left it. No trace of his presence lingered except the faintest scent of bay rum that clung to the sheets. She ran her palm over the place where he’d slept and blinked back the threat of angry tears.
Tim had belittled the most precious gift she’d had to offer—her purity. His cruel words hurt far more than the physical pain he’d inflicted. Did the innocence she’d brought to their marriage bed truly mean so little to him? Why had he thrown away everything over the silly argument about money they’d had earlier that morning?
When he’d asked for more money, she had braced herself for yet another battle and reminded him that she’d given him money the day before. To her surprise, he hadn’t come back with his usual snide remarks. Instead, he’d looked at her with a tortured expression on his handsome face and told her that he wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.
He’d seemed so pitiful that she felt churlish for denying him. Wanting everything to be right between them, she’d given him more money from the bag she kept in her trunk. Grateful, smiling, and incredibly attractive in his victory, he’d kissed her and apologized and taken her to bed. No doubt he’d been plotting to steal her money even then. How could he claim to love her one minute and do such a terrible thing hours later?
“You should know that a man will say anything to get what he wants.”
Ice-cold and laced with contempt, the scornful words were so vivid that the man who’d spoken them might have been standing next to her. Somehow she knew the words were those of her mother’s killer, a man who’d lied to get what he wanted from Kate just as Timothy had lied to get what he wanted from Lilly.
With an angry murmur, Lilly sat up, an action that set off a fresh wave of pain. Moving with care, she eased to the side of the bed and slid the few inches to the cold floorboards. Crossing to the trunk, she yanked open a small drawer, scraping aside the rose-scented garments and tumbling the contents of the other drawers in a frenzied, futile search for the pouch.
Gone. Every cent.
For the first time, she took a hard, objective look at her husband and herself. Tim was an opportunist, plain and simple. And though the live-and-let-live, nomadic lifestyle of the theater was liberating in many ways, that way of life had shielded her from much of society’s ugliness, which left her inexperienced when it came to many of the world’s workings.
