The Widow's Secret. Sara Mitchell

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СКАЧАТЬ her fingers brushed against something hard and round. Puzzled, Jocelyn withdrew what turned out to be a man’s watch.

      What on earth?

      Jocelyn laid the shopping bag on the seat of the hall tree without taking her gaze from the watch case. It was a handsome thing, made of gold, with an intricate design engraved in bas-relief on the bottom half of the lid. But when she flicked it open, instead of a timepiece, she found a piece of paper. When she unfolded it, to her astonishment it turned out to be a ten-dollar bill. Inside the bill was a ten-dollar gold piece.

      Jocelyn turned the coin over and over, not recognizing its markings, knowing only that it was not like any coin she’d ever seen, or spent. As for the ten-dollar bill…Carefully she smoothed it out, turned it and saw that the engraving on the back was slightly blurred, the print not as crisp as it should be. Goodness, but she was holding a counterfeit bill! Written in a hurried black scrawl across the blurred engraving were the words “Remember to use…” That was all.

      Fear crept into her mind, dark as a blob of ink staining the paper. Trembling, she stared down at the forged bill, the coin and the innocent-looking watch case until her icy fingers cramped.

      She couldn’t stuff the thing away in a drawer and pretend she didn’t have it, nor could she pay a visit to the police station.

      Nobody in Richmond, or even in the state of Virginia, knew that the widow Tremayne was legally the widow Bingham, whose husband, Chadwick, had hanged himself from the fourth-story balustrade of their Hudson River estate in New York, precisely five years and twenty-six days earlier.

      A flurry of telegrams throughout the next two days left Micah exhausted, edgy and exhilarated. Chief Hazen, head of the Secret Service, had been furious over his blunder with Foggarty, yet placated by Micah’s assurance that he had stumbled onto the possibility of the first solid lead in a case plaguing the Service for eight years.

      Micah steadfastly refused to divulge names, or details, citing his concern over accusing an innocent civilian in the absence of definitive proof.

      An express letter from Hazen arrived while Micah was eating breakfast at the Lexington Hotel. Your obfuscatory explanations are duly noted. A contradiction exists between what you deem a “solid lead,” and your fears of unjust accusations. While strict adherence to Agency policy is required, obfuscation is not appreciated.

      As he drove the rental hack toward Grove Avenue, Micah chewed over the implications…and faced squarely that, for the first time in his eight years as a Secret Service operative, he was a hairsbreadth away from allowing personal feelings to interfere with his professional responsibilities.

      He might have been alarmed, except for the anticipation singing along his nerve endings over seeing Jocelyn Bingham-now-Tremayne again.

      When he arrived at the Grove Avenue address Mr. Hepplewhite had supplied, he spent a few moments studying the place while he collected his thoughts. She lived in a plainly appointed but attractive brick town house with two sturdy white-painted columns supporting its front porch, a much smaller dwelling than he would have expected, considering who her former husband had been.

      The door opened. A plump young woman with dark hair and wary brown eyes appeared, swathed in a soiled apron, with a mobcap tilted precariously on her head. She smiled a lopsided smile at Micah but did not speak.

      “Good afternoon. I’d like to see your employer. Mrs. Tremayne, isn’t it?”

      Recognition flared in the bright eyes. She bobbed a curtsy and stepped back, gesturing with her hand. After a rapid assessment Micah noted the droop in the facial muscles on the right side of her face, the lack of movement on the right side of her mouth when she smiled. He revised any plans of interrogating her; his estimation of Mrs. Tremayne rose at this evidence of charity toward a woman unable to speak, though there appeared to be nothing wrong with her hearing. Few households employed servants with any sign of deformity or, if they hired them, relegated them to menial work, where they remained out of sight.

      Mrs. Tremayne allowed her maidservant to answer the door.

      “Katya? Did someone knock? I thought I heard—Oh!”

      The woman who, along with the telegrams, had disturbed his sleep all night stood frozen on the staircase. Above the frilly lace bow tied at her neck, her throat muscles quivered, and the knuckles of the hand resting on the banister turned white.

      “What are you doing here?” she finally asked. Then, her voice taut with strain, “Who are you?”

      At her sharp tone, quick as a blink, the maid darted over to barricade herself in front of her mistress, her gaze daring Micah to take one more step into the foyer. Nothing wrong with her hearing, or her loyalty, he noted with a tinge of satisfaction. Somewhere inside the evasive and haughty Mrs. Tremayne still lived the forthright bride he remembered, whose handicapped servant sprang to her defense.

      “I need to ask you a few questions. Nothing ominous,” he answered. “My name, since we didn’t get around to formal introductions yesterday, is Micah MacKenzie. Operative MacKenzie, of the United States Secret Service. We’re part of the Treasury Department, assigned to protect the national currency by tracking down counterfeiters.” After flipping open his credentials, he pushed aside his jacket to reveal the badge, also revealing his .45 Colt revolver.

      Though brief, he caught the flash of raw fear before all expression disappeared from Mrs. Tremayne’s befreckled face. “Are you here in an official capacity, Operative MacKenzie? Accusing me of the crime of counterfeiting?”

      Hmm. Somewhere over the years, along with a patina of social smuggery, she’d also learned how to reduce a person to the level of an ant. “Depends on what you have to say, Mrs. Tremayne.” Glancing at the maid, he added, “I imagine I interrupted your maid’s work. She’s free to go about her tasks while you and I talk.”

      “I’ll decide for myself whether or not Katya remains.” She descended the rest of the stairs. “She’s my friend, as well as my housemaid. You’ve no right to dismiss her as you might a pet dog.”

      Claws, as well, and equally protective, Micah noted, irrationally pleased with her. “That was never my intention.” Doffing his hat, he stepped forward, directing all his attention to the wide-eyed maid. “Katya, I’m here to speak with Mrs. Tremayne on personal as well as professional business.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs. Tremayne snapped. “Katya, it’s all right. Go ahead with your cleaning. Mr.—I mean, Operative MacKenzie and I will talk in the parlor.”

      Lips pursed, Katya subjected Micah to a head-to-toe inspection that left him feeling a need to check his fingernails for dirt. Then she nodded once, and whisked out of sight down a hallway. After the maid left, Mrs. Tremayne gestured toward the room behind Micah. “Shall we?”

      As he followed her into the parlor, Micah found his attention lingering on the graceful line of her spine, delineated by a seam in her day gown that ran from the back of her neck to a wide band of rich blue velvet at her waist. The glorious red hair was gathered in a severe bun at the back of her head. But she’d cannily arranged snippets of curls to frame her face and cover her ears, which not only softened but distracted.

      “You may as well sit down, Operative MacKenzie.” She dropped down onto an upholstered couch, leaving Micah to ease himself into an ugly Eastlake-style chair across from her. He glanced around the room. Like Mrs. Tremayne, it glowed with rich color and a profusion of textures. For some reason the plethora of trinkets and plants СКАЧАТЬ