An Untimely Frost (16 page)

“Pierce?”

“Hmm?”

“I've often wondered if . . .” She hesitated, uncertain how to phrase the question. “I wondered if you knew if I . . .”

He smiled, a wry lift of his lips. “You want to know if I'm your father.”

“Yes.” It was almost a whisper.

It was his turn to draw a deep breath. The gaze that met hers was steady, unflinching. He reached out and tucked a stray tendril of her dark red hair behind her ear. “I truly don't know, Lilly. I always trusted that Kate was faithful to me the time we were together, but when I gathered enough courage to ask her, she just laughed and asked me if I really wanted to know. At twenty-six, I decided that perhaps I didn't. I had faults and trouble enough of my own, and even then, I knew she wouldn't be happy if I insisted she marry me.”

“You loved her.” It was as much a question as a statement.

He didn't reply at once. He reached out and covered her hand with his. Its strength and warmth was steadying as always. “A part of me will always love her,” he confessed.

“Didn't she love you back?”

“For a while.” She saw the need to make her understand in his eyes. “Your mother was like the wind, Lilly. Gentle sometimes, sometimes strong and wild, but always restless, searching for the next good time. You're like her in many ways.”

“I certainly hope not!” she cried, and Pierce laughed. “I don't want a parade of men traipsing through my life.”

He smiled. “You're nothing like her in that way,” he assured her. “But you can be as impulsive and headstrong as she was, something that's more apparent the older you get.”

“How?”

“Well, the way you change up dialogue to suit your mood when you're performing, or the way you take impossible jumps when we're riding horses, or—”

“I see,” she interrupted, understanding exactly what he meant. “So you don't really know the answer to my question.”

He offered her a self-deprecating smile. “There's no way I can ever be sure. I will tell you this. In my heart you're my daughter, and I love you completely.”

Lilly felt her eyes fill with tears and saw the sheen in his. Though far from a certainty, it was enough.

“We traveled the same circuit for about five years,” he said, continuing the story, “and every day was hell for me, seeing her with other men. I only stayed as long as I did because of you. Finally, out of self-preservation, I took a position with another troupe.”

“And met Rose?”

“And met Rose,” he said with a smile. “I adore Rose, Lilly. Kate was the love of a young man, but by the time Rose came along, I'd grown up enough to realize what qualities were really important in a woman. Finding her was like finding home again, something I hadn't had since I left England.”

There it was again, the infrequent mention of his homeland. All she'd been able to piece together was that as a young man he'd been studying to become a physician, and for some unknown reason, he had abandoned that dream to come to America. He'd never been back to the land of his birth.

“When I met up with Kate again, you were nine. I saw soon enough that nothing had changed. Kate was still Kate, and though I cared for her in many ways, Rose had taught me about the kind of love that lasts a lifetime.”

“What did she think about your being in such close contact with Kate again?”

“She knew me well enough to know that I would never betray her. After a year or so, I talked with Rose about confronting Kate again about your paternity. We both felt we could handle things if she said yes, but before I could ask her, she was murdered and I was robbed of the opportunity.”

“What did Rose think about you taking me in?”

“She thought it was a wonderful idea. She knew you would need someone. Who better than a childless woman and the man who believed he was your father?”

“Do you have any idea who the baby's father might have been?”

“None,” he said with a shake of his head. “Kate was pretty secretive about her liaisons.”

They saw Rose coming back, and the conversation came to an abrupt halt. After Pierce helped her into her seat, he cleared his throat, and said, “About your investigation. I agree that something more than Purcell taking the money is at the root of the folks in town refusing to talk about him. And you could be on the right track about him indulging himself with the women of the congregation. That would be an embarrassment to everyone, something they'd not want some stranger resurrecting. It's easy to see how your questions might put them on edge.”

His intelligent gaze found Lilly's once more. “Did anyone in the area come up missing about that time? If so, it might suggest who the victim was.”

“No one I interviewed mentioned anyone.”

“Would you feel better knowing for certain the stains are indeed blood?”

Lilly's expression brightened. Since Pierce had been studying medicine before the incident that had forced him to leave his native country and come to America, he was still interested in the subject and he made it a point to keep up with all the newest happenings in the medical world. “Are you telling me there's something I can do to prove it?”

“Indeed there is,” he told her. “Guaiac. It's a compound made from parts of a West Indian tree called Guaiacum. It's been used for centuries to treat syphilis, arthritis, and coughs, but they've found out that if you use it in conjunction with hydrogen peroxide on stool samples it reacts to blood.”

“Pierce!” Rose admonished with a frown. “This is hardly polite dinner conversation.”

“Sorry, luv,” Pierce told her with a smile. “Just trying to help. Peroxide alone might be a better choice for this, though. And then of course, there's benzidine, which is used in dye making. It would work, too.”

“Dye making?”

He nodded. “When it comes into contact with blood, it turns blue. The problem is that the stains are so old, I'm not sure any of these compounds would work.”

“Well, I thank you for the suggestion, and it is all very fascinating, of course,” Lilly said, “but the thing of it is that while my curiosity is aroused about what went on in that house, it has no bearing whatsoever on my assignment. My job is to find Purcell and see if he'll sell, which is how I wound up here. This was the only place mentioned they might have come, because of their daughter's tuberculosis.”

“And did you find out anything today?” Rose asked.

“Not much of use. Located three Purcell families living here, and I plan to visit them tomorrow. If none of them is the preacher, I have no choice but to go back to Chicago and admit to William I've failed—but not before going to Chatterton's to see Mary Anderson,” she added with a smile, hoping to turn the conversation to a more pleasant topic.

“Speaking of seeing people, did you get in touch with Nora before you left Vandalia?” Rose asked.

“I did,” Lilly said with another smile. “We shared a late dessert after the play.”

“How is she?” Pierce asked. “Still the same fun-loving Nora?”

“Very much so,” Lilly said. “But she's leaving the theater in a couple of weeks to go to Texas and become a mail-order bride.”

“A mail-order bride! I can't believe it!” Rose said, placing her palms on her cheeks in incredulity.

“Neither can I,” Lilly said. “But she says she's tired of living a nomadic life, and she wants a family.”

“Well, she's a fine woman,” Pierce said. “Whoever this rancher is, he's lucky to get her.”

Lilly said good-bye to them thirty minutes later and returned to her hotel with depression weighing heavily on her. Tomorrow it would be back to the job and asking questions to which she would receive few satisfactory answers. Back to being alone.

As Rose always said, “Be careful what you wish for; you might get it.”

C
HAPTER
30

T
wo of the Purcells Lilly located the next day had no connection to the reverend. The first was a little prune-like man whose gnarled, arthritic hands were covered with liver spots and shook with the palsy. He clearly suffered from dementia. After speaking with him for less than a minute, Lilly wondered how he'd found his way to the door. She thanked him and went to her second stop, a young wife with a baby on her hip and a toddler clinging to her skirts.

It was late morning when the driver pulled the rented hack to a stop in front of the third house, her last hope of finding Harold Purcell in the capital. She approached the Greek Revival–style home, torn between thankfulness that her search was nearly at an end and a deep-seated hope that this final stop would prove to be the right one. Either way, she should be finished with her inquiries by noon. Somewhat disheartened, she banged the brass knocker against the Federal blue door that was flanked by narrow sidelights and topped with a transom of rectangular lights.

However this meeting turned out, she would go back to the hotel knowing she had done all she could to find the preacher and his family. In fact, she would celebrate the end of her inquiries by luxuriating in a hot bath with a generous handful of the rose and chamomile bath salts Rose had given her for Christmas. She would treat herself to a nice dinner at Delaney's French Café and Saloon, which was just down the street from her hotel, and then she would hire herself a cab to transport her to Chatterton's. Tomorrow she would go back to Chicago and see what new assignment William had for her, if he decided to keep her on. She was so caught up in her plans for the evening that when the door opened, she gave a little start.

The years had not been kind to Prudence Purcell, but there was little doubt in Lilly's mind that she was indeed staring at the minister's wife. Though probably in her early fifties, the woman looked much older. Even the red merino Garibaldi blouse worn over a black skirt and belted around her still-slender waist was old, a style more likely to be seen during the sixties. Her blond hair was threaded with skeins of gray. Her delicate features were now drawn and haggard, and the firm lines of her face had given way to sags, wrinkles, and dark pouches that not even a dusting of powder and a touch of rouge could hide. Lilly felt a glimmer of admiration for Prudence's valiant attempt to hold her own against the encroaching years.

“May I help you?”

There was nothing soft about the voice. The older woman's tone was all business, almost sharp. “Mrs. Harold Purcell?” Lilly asked.

“Who's asking?”

Smiling, she extended her gloved hand, where her badge rested. “Lilly Long. With the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

Prudence's eyes widened and then narrowed. She withdrew her partially extended hand.

“There's no need for alarm, Mrs. Purcell,” Lilly said, tucking the badge into her reticule. “I'm only here representing some clients who are trying to contact your husband regarding a business matter.”

The wariness on Prudence's face vanished. “I see. I'm sorry to say that my husband was”—she paused, as if searching for the right words—“cruelly snatched from the life he so loved several years ago, Miss . . .”

“Long,” Lilly supplied again, taken aback by the news of the preacher's death. “I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Purcell. Please forgive me for bringing up such a difficult topic.”

“That isn't a problem, Miss Long. There is no way you could have known.”

“Do you perhaps handle your husband's affairs now?” Lilly asked.

“With the assistance of my attorney,” she said with a nod.

“I hate to impose, but would it be possible for me to come inside and discuss the matter with you? It won't take long, and I've traveled some distance to locate you.”

“Certainly, my dear. I was just brewing a pot of tea, and you can join me. Do you mind waiting here for just a moment, while I put the dog in another room? Strangers upset him.”

“Not at all.”

Prudence was back in no time, stepping aside and leading the way to the parlor. “Please make yourself at home. The tea will be ready in a few minutes.”

It was getting on toward noon, and Lilly was glad for the offer of refreshment. From the kitchen, Prudence's low, soothing voice could be heard as she spoke to the dog.

While her hostess was preparing the tea, Lilly pulled off her gloves and strolled about the room, examining the décor and hoping to find some clue to the personalities of the occupants. The walls were papered with a panoramic landscape, something only the very wealthy could afford. The oak floors gleamed with beeswax and lemon balm. Delicate lace and crisscrossed draperies in heavy bronze-green brocade graced the leaded glass windows, and two crystal chandeliers hung suspended from the ceiling.

The preacher had spared no expense, either in purchasing the house or in its décor, using his ill-gotten money on ornate furnishings reminiscent of those at Heaven's Gate. This house, too, was stilted and formal, far too elaborate for Lilly's taste, not to mention it was somewhat depressing. It was as stripped of personality as the Purcell family photograph in her carpetbag.

There were no photographs sitting around the parlor, no portraits on the wall, no knitting bag with a half-finished muffler trailing over the side, and no books that might suggest an outside interest. Only a cabinet of bird's-eye maple displaying a collection of pistols gave any clue to the homeowners' personalities.

From her shooting days with Pierce, who felt it necessary to study various aspects of anything that snared his interest, Lilly recognized a .67 caliber weapon, reported to be the choice of George Washington; a flintlock, which was considered the first accepted military pistol; a breechloader; a percussion pistol; and a fancy little derringer with a scrimshaw grip. The others were unfamiliar and fancier, no doubt crafted as much for their beauty as their usefulness.

She was contemplating the inadequacy of her own little derringer when Prudence returned bearing a gleaming silver tea service and a plate of coconut cookies.

“Harold collected those.” Prudence set the tray on an intricate inlaid table that sat in front of a medallion-back sofa upholstered in Indian-red velvet.

Lilly imagined she heard disapproval in her hostess's voice. “It's quite a nice collection.”
But a strange one for a preacher.

“Oh, yes,” Prudence said, settling onto the couch and concentrating on pouring the steaming tea into a delicate Spode cup. “Harold was quite the collector . . . of many things. Sugar?” she asked, the silver tongs poised over a plate of sugar cubes.

“Two, please,” Lilly said, taking a seat in a paisley wing chair. “No cream or lemon.”

She took the bone china cup and added a couple of the proffered cookies to her plate. While they shared the tea, the two women chatted about the beautiful spring weather, books they had read, and Mary Anderson's upcoming performance, which Lilly confessed she planned to attend that evening.

She finished the cookies and declined a second cup of tea. “That was delicious, thank you. It was kind of you to offer it.”

“I enjoy a good cup of tea,” Prudence said with a slight smile. “But there is seldom anyone around with whom to share a cup.” Refilling her own teacup, she leaned against the sofa's back. “Now what was it you wanted to discuss?”

“As I said earlier, the agency I work for was approached by a couple who would like to buy Heaven's Gate. They hoped to turn it into a home for unwed mothers, but they were unable to locate your husband to see if he might sell. They contacted the agency, and Mr. Pinkerton asked that I try to locate the reverend.”

From the room next door, a loud crash sounded. Prudence stood, her eyes narrowed once more, and her thin lips turned upward at the corners into a semblance of a smile. She gave a despairing shake of her head. “That scoundrel dog! I know better than to bring him inside. Forever into something. He'll be sorry when I get in there to him. Please excuse me, Miss Long.”

Lilly offered an understanding smile.

Prudence was back in a couple of minutes, a smile of satisfaction curving her lips. She did not speak until she'd taken another sip of her tea. “Where were we? Oh, yes, the home for unwed mothers. I must say it is quite noble of your clients to want to help young girls who find themselves in such dire straits.” Her tone and expression suggested thoughtfulness.

“It is,” Lilly agreed. “It seems it is always the females who are doomed to suffer the consequences of an unfortunate liaison, or . . . worse.” As soon as she said the words, she wished she could call them back. The last thing she wanted to do was remind Prudence of her husband's indiscretions, if indeed he
had
sullied his marriage vows.

Prudence's smile never reached her eyes. “I agree wholeheartedly. Men are much more callous—even indifferent to a woman's lot, yet we love them anyway, don't we?” Her steady gaze met Lilly's. “Have you ever been in love, Miss Long?”

What a strange question coming from someone she'd just met. Nevertheless, she considered how Tim had made her feel, at least for a short time. Again she wondered if her feelings were love, or if she'd been in love with the notion of loving him. “I'm not sure,” she said at last. “At the time, I believed I was.”

“Then you know full well that when you love someone you'll do anything for them, don't you?”

Lilly thought of how she'd given Timothy money, knowing he would use it to fuel his gambling habit, knowing he had no intention of replacing it, no plans to change his life.

“Unfortunately, I do.” Uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation and the reminder of her misplaced feelings, she sought a more neutral topic.

“I went out to Heaven's Gate before coming here. The house needs a lot of work after sitting empty for so many years. Many of the furnishings are in bad condition, but others need only a cleaning up, and the bric-a-brac and dishes and such are all intact. I would think they would fetch you a good price, if you decide to sell. Or perhaps you'd like to keep some of the nicer pieces for yourself.”

“I have all I need right here,” Prudence said. “And I want nothing from there to remind me of that time in my life.”

Lilly immediately thought of the baby boy who'd died. She recalled the name on the headstone: Joel David Purcell. Then there was a daughter's sickness and a husband's thievery and possible unfaithfulness. She didn't blame Prudence for wanting to leave it all behind.

Her hostess dabbed at her mouth with a damask napkin and set down her cup. “I do wish these nice people success with their venture, Miss Long, but Heaven's Gate is not for sale.”

Expecting Prudence to jump at the chance to rid herself of the reminder of her unfortunate past, Lilly was stunned by the firmness of the decision. She struggled to form a suitable reply besides the obvious
why
. “Perhaps you're saving it for Sarah, then,” she said, trying and failing to make sense of the refusal.

“Sarah?” Prudence repeated with a puzzled frown. “Oh, dear, no.” Her eyes clouded with memory. “Sarah died before we left Heaven's Gate.”

It was all Lilly could do to hide her shock. Why had no one in Vandalia told her? Poor, poor Prudence! A scoundrel for a husband, and all her children dead. “I . . . I must apologize again, Mrs. Purcell,” she stammered. “Had I known, I would never have brought up the subject. Her passing must have been quite grievous for you.”

“Her loss was . . . very difficult for both of us,” Prudence replied, “but I believe her father took it the hardest.”

There was something in the older woman's tone that Lilly couldn't put her finger on, so jumbled were her thoughts. “Was that Sarah's grave out back, then?” Lilly asked. “The one with the wooden cross?”

For a moment, Prudence looked confused, then a bit agitated. Then she smiled a bright, artificial smile. “If there is a grave there, then I suppose it must be, mustn't it?”

What a strange answer. But then, Prudence Purcell was a strange woman. Why could she not recall the grave of her daughter? Was it possible she suffered from hardening of the arteries?

Clearly disturbed, the older woman rose and went to stare out the window. “I did what I could, Miss Long . . . what I had to do. Harold was in a hurry to leave, and there just wasn't time . . .”

Guilt, then. She feels guilty because there had been no time to have a proper headstone made before she'd left Heaven's Gate and was forced to use a wooden cross.
“Was your time cut short because of the money Harold took from the church?” Lilly asked, finding the nerve to pose the prying question.

Prudence turned toward Lilly, her face pale, her eyes wide with shock. “Harold took money from the church?”

Either Prudence knew nothing of the theft, or she was a consummate actress, Lilly thought. “You didn't know.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I had no idea.” Prudence gave a shake of her head.

“Do you think he'd done it before, in other places you lived?” Lilly asked, daring to put forth one of her theories.

Clasping her hands together against her chest, Prudence shook her head and turned back to the window. “I have no idea. He handled all our finances, of course. He told me his family sent him money. His part of a trust fund or some such thing.”

Lilly's already low regard for the preacher sank to new depths. Harold had left the impression that it was Prudence who received money from someone. She longed to probe deeper, to ask about the bloody bed, but she'd already ruined the woman's day by dredging up painful memories and breaking the news that her husband had been a thief. She sighed. Besides, as she'd told Pierce and Rose, her own curiosity had nothing to do with her assignment, which she had now completed.