The Widow's Secret. Sara Mitchell
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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 and pictures invited intimacy, instead of overwhelming the visitor.
Successful interrogation, Micah had learned, required a deft balance between diplomacy and intimidation. Silence either bridged a gap or spurred a confession. After a comprehensive assessment of the room, still without speaking, he trained his gaze upon the woman sitting across from him.
A pearl of moisture trickled below one of the vivid curls arranged at her temple. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap, betraying her nervousness, and a gut-wrenching suspicion grew inside Micah. When the silence in the room stretched to the shattering point, he leaned forward.
“You seem ill at ease, Mrs. Tremayne. Is it because you’re widowed, and a strange man is sitting in your parlor?”
“Perhaps my husband is at work in the city, Operative MacKenzie.”
He admired her audacity even as he shook his head at her as though she were a naughty child. “I gather information for a living, remember? The Secret Service tries to work closely with local authorities, you see. Your police department has been efficient, and cooperative. Better for everyone involved. Except for counterfeiters. Or—” he added, his index finger idly stroking his cheek “—anyone with a guilty conscience.”
“If anyone should have a guilty conscience, it would be yourself, for prying into innocent lives.”
“Usually my prying reveals a depressing lack of innocence.”
Beneath the freckles her skin paled, and she turned her head aside. “I beg your pardon. You’re right, of course.” He watched as one by one she separated her fingers, focusing on the task as though her life depended on it.
Feeling like a heavy-fisted clod, Micah sat back with a sigh. “I like your home,” he announced abruptly. “Though it’s a home without a man inhabiting it. No spittoons, no masculine-size gloves or top hats or canes on the hall tree, no lingering odor of tobacco in the air, no photographs on your piano. You purchased it three years ago, and listed your status as widowed.”
“Again, you’ve made your point, Operative MacKenzie. Yes, I am a widow. What of it?” The tremble in her voice leaked through her stillness; she continued to stare fixedly at the line of silk tassels fringing the drapery that covered the top of her piano. “I should have covered every inch of that wretched piano with photographs,” she murmured. “But…I’ve never mustered the courage. I can’t face the memories, and photographs serve no purpose other than to remind me of everything I’ve lost. And now…” She stopped, swallowed several times.
“I understand,” Micah told her, gentling his voice. “It’s difficult, isn’t it, losing your spouse at so young an age.”
“I will not discuss my husband’s death. Ever.”
“Death, not deaths? So you’ve been married only the one time, then?”
Chapter Three
The lump in Jocelyn’s throat swelled until she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to breathe, much less speak. This man was too quick for her, too intelligent. “Yes,” she finally managed, once again picking her way through half truths. “I…I reverted to my family name, after he died.” She took quick breath that allowed her to finish, “I told you I will not discuss the matter.”
“I’m not asking you to. Yet.” He’d been carrying a leather satchel, and now placed it on his lap. “One of the reasons I’m here today is to ask about Benny Foggarty. I have witnesses who signed affidavits that, after entering the store, he crowded next to you and Mr. Fishburn while you were standing up front, talking with Mr. Hepplewhite.” He withdrew a much-handled photograph and passed it to Jocelyn. “Was it this man?”
With a concentrated effort