Death in Salem (23 page)

“Will Xenobia be at your house this evening? Maybe Lydia can speak with her,” he suggested. “Another woman … Xenobia may be comforted.”

Twig's eyes widened and he grinned. “Yes. What a capital idea! Please come. She should be home by seven.”

Rees wrapped up the fried bread and the bacon. “Lydia will be wondering where I am. Again. We'll see you later this evening.” He went to reach for his purse but Twig waved his hand away.

“Let me.”

Rees stared at his old friend in surprise. Twig was not usually so sensitive to social niceties; maybe Xenobia's attentions were having an effect. “Thank you. We'll see you tonight.”

When he reached Mrs. Baldwin's house, he found Lydia seated in the kitchen. An empty cup and plate on the table before her indicated she'd eaten some breakfast. When Rees knocked on the door, she stood so hurriedly her chair toppled over. “Where have you been?” she demanded. “I've been worried sick.”

“I brought you some food,” Rees said, holding out the napkin-wrapped bundle. “I went to find some breakfast and ran into Twig.” Lydia took the packet and opened it. She stared at the bread with its white coating of congealed fat and gagged.

“I can warm that up,” Mrs. Baldwin said, breaking the uncomfortable quiet. Lydia handed it over, keeping her face turned away from Rees. “Sit down,” Mrs. Baldwin said to him. He righted Lydia's chair and sat in the seat beside it. From his chair he could see through the open door and into Mrs. Baldwin's shop. After several seconds of silence Lydia sat down. She had bitten her lip in her fury and a drop of red blood stained her chin.

A faint hissing pop sounded from the pan by the fire. Mrs. Baldwin bent and carefully turned the bread over. “Where did you buy this?” she asked.

“The Moon and Stars,” Rees said, fixing his gaze upon Lydia's averted face.

The soft sound of a closing door interrupted the tense moment. A woman in a plain gown but wearing a large straw hat that dipped to hide most of her face stood uncertainly by the front door. “A customer,” said Mrs. Baldwin. “Watch the bread.” She hurried to the shop, directing the instruction over her shoulder to Lydia.

“How could you leave without a word again?” Lydia hissed at Rees as she rose to her feet. “Barely a day after you were attacked and left for dead.”

“I just went to the tavern,” Rees protested, his attention focused upon the woman in the big hat. Could she be the woman seen outside Georgianne's house?

“I didn't know that, did I? For all I knew, you could have been lying dead in an alley. Why didn't you tell me?”

“But you were sleeping peacefully,” Rees protested. He didn't understand why she was so angry. “I thought you needed your rest.”

Lydia turned and glared at him. “You should have found some way of alerting me,” she said. “A note. A message to Mrs. Baldwin. Something so I didn't wake up to find you gone and no one knowing where.” An involuntary sob interrupted the flow of words.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you.” Rees rose to his feet and went to her, holding out his arms. She stepped away from his embrace.

“You are too used to considering only yourself,” Lydia said in a trembling voice.

“Excuse me,” Mrs. Baldwin said from the door. “But this visitor is for you.”

The woman in front of Mrs. Baldwin raised her head. She held back the broad floppy brim of the hat so that Rees could recognize her: Georgianne Foster.

After a few seconds of shocked silence, Rees said, “Where have you been?”

“I'll be in the shop,” Mrs. Baldwin said, looking curiously at Mrs. Foster's back. She paused, but neither Mrs. Foster nor Rees or Lydia acknowledged her. She closed the connecting door quietly behind her.

“I've been worried about you,” Rees said. Mrs. Foster nodded as she untied the broad ribbons beneath her chin and tossed the hat aside.

“This must be your wife,” she said, glancing at Lydia.

Rees automatically introduced them, adding, “We were at your house, when…”

Tears flooded into Mrs. Foster's eyes. “Did you see Isabella?”

“We did,” Rees admitted. “I am so sorry.”

“I wish you hadn't meddled,” Georgianne cried out, taking several steps toward him.

“Mrs. Foster, please,” Lydia said. She moved forward to intercept the other woman. “Sit down, I beg of you.” Taking Georgianne's arm, Lydia pressed her into a chair. “Did you expect someone to assault your cousin?” She sat down beside the other woman.

“Jacob—Mr. Boothe warned us his children would not be made happy by his visits.”

“Warned you?” Lydia glanced quickly at Rees.

“Warned you that someone might come after you?” Rees asked.

“I don't think he expected murder. But he talked about not understanding people as well as he thought.” Mrs. Foster's brow crinkled as she struggled to bring the memory forward. “That even those most loved could grow into strangers.”

“Sounds like he was speaking about one or more of his children,” Rees said, wondering what exactly Jacob Boothe had suspected.

“Becoming a second wife, especially when there are grown children, is always difficult,” Lydia said, throwing a quick look at her husband. Rees, startled, wondered if Lydia had felt David's initial reserve as dislike. But he couldn't pursue that inquiry now.

“But there … I mean he…” Georgianne stopped talking and took in a deep breath. “He never talked of marriage, either before or after Anstiss's death. Jacob loved his wife and he never behaved improperly. I know Isabella believed he would turn to her, once he was widowed. She hoped so anyway.”

And so did you, Rees thought, regarding Mrs. Foster's downcast eyes in growing sympathy.

“I am not so sure it would ever have happened. He loved his wife so much.”

“How did you know him?” Lydia asked.

“Through the Widows and Orphans committee. That's how we became friends. But we were never anything more.”

“But even his children believe…” Rees stopped. He couldn't find a way to suggest what they thought without offense.

“Yes,” Georgianne said. “I know. A friendship between Jacob and me sounds unlikely, doesn't it? It's just that, well, we were alike on some level. We discussed many serious topics and almost always agreed. When Isabella came to live with me, Jacob liked her, too. She was so gay and lively. But somewhat,” she searched for the right word. “Shallow.” Raising her eyes to Rees, Georgianne added, “But Isabella always believed he called on us to visit her. And that someday they would be married.” Rees, whose opinions had undergone several rapid shifts during the conversation, thought now that Isabella had probably never had a chance. It was more likely Boothe would have married Georgianne, just as Lydia thought.

“May I offer you tea?” Lydia asked her, standing up and moving quickly to the fireplace. A swift shake confirmed that the teakettle was full of water. She put it on the hook and swung it over the fire.

“And where were you the day Isabella was…” Recollecting the tender feelings of the woman before him, Rees stopped abruptly.

“Murdered?” Georgianne said on a sob. “I say that word over and over to myself. I suppose I'm trying to believe it really happened.” She sighed. “I was at a meeting with some of the ladies from the Widows and Orphans committee.”

Lydia nodded. “Mrs. Weymouth confirmed that.”

“When I came home,” Georgianne continued, “the street was crowded with people. One of the women told me there'd been a fire.”

“I think that was accidental,” Rees said. “It looked to me as though the candle had been knocked to the floor.”

“I approached the house as closely as I dared. I overheard Mr. Swett saying he wanted to question me.” She shuddered. “I didn't know Isabella had been found dead until several hours later, when I was told by the people I'd fled to.”

“She didn't suffer,” Lydia said as she poured the boiling water over the tea leaves. Georgianne nodded and wiped her eyes upon her handkerchief.

“You didn't go in?” Rees asked, recalling the street urchin's description of a woman in a big hat. She shook her head. “You're sure?”

“There were too many people. And I was so frightened. It never occurred to me then that Isabella had been killed.” She gulped. “I feared for my own life, you see.” Her voice broke and she paused. Neither Lydia nor Rees spoke while she struggled for composure. “What happened?” Georgianne asked at last. “No one seems to know. Was it the smoke? Or was she shot, as Captain Wey— as someone else heard?”

Lydia poured tea into a cup and placed it before Mrs. Foster. But she did not drink. Instead, she turned the cup around and around, her eyes fixed blindly upon it.

Finally, as the silence grew uncomfortable, Rees said, “She was strangled. I believe she was already dead before the fire took hold.” Mrs. Foster nodded slowly, horrified but not surprised.

“The two people I care most for in the whole world,” she said in an exhausted voice. “Murdered.” She wiped away her tears with a sodden handkerchief. Lydia offered her a fresh linen square. “How could this happen?” she asked. Lydia patted Georgianne's hand. When she was calm enough to take a few sips of tea, Rees continued.

“The question is this: was Isabella murdered in your stead, because someone thought she was you? Or did the murderer know who she was? And if so, why kill her? Did he believe she was Jacob Boothe's mistress?”

“I can't imagine,” Georgianne said. “Certainly, Isabella and I went out together frequently.” She paused and added slowly, “And when Jacob accompanied us, an onlooker might be forgiven for assuming she was his interest. She was such an affectionate person. She clung to him.”

Rees imagined the scene. The more reserved widow standing aside while her cousin took Mr. Boothe's arm.

Suddenly Georgianne's face crumpled. “I asked Isabella to accompany me that afternoon, but she refused. She said it would be tedious.” She looked up at Rees and Lydia. “I should have insisted. She would still be alive.”

“That isn't your fault,” Lydia said warmly. “Her death is attributable to the villain who murdered her, not to you or anyone else.” Mrs. Foster gulped and tried to nod. She forced herself to take a small sip from her cup.

“Where are you staying?” Rees asked. “It's probably better that you don't return to your house, not immediately anyway.”

“With friends,” Georgianne said. She attempted a smile. “I know; the murderer could come after me next. I've been advised to write the deputy sheriff.”

“No,” Rees said forcefully. Mrs. Foster looked at him in shock. “I am sure he wishes to speak with you,” Rees said, tempering his vehement tone. “But I would hate to see you put in jail. He's a lazy investigator. Give me a few days to unravel this knot. If you're safe where you are, that is.”

“Yes, I think…”

The smell of burning, of which Rees had only barely been aware, suddenly intensified, and a stream of oily black smoke began pouring into the room from the fireplace. The door to the shop opened very abruptly. “Oh my,” Mrs. Baldwin gasped, hurrying to the fireplace.

“I have it, Mrs. Baldwin,” Lydia said, using a folded towel to push the spider away from the hearth. The fried bread and bacon that Rees had brought from the tavern, unnoticed during the conversation, had begun to char. Now a blackened mess, it filled the kitchen with an acrid stink. Mrs. Baldwin grabbed the towel from Lydia and, picking up the pan, quickly rushed the carbonized food to the back yard. Lydia and Rees followed her, watching as she tossed the mess into the yard. Unappealing as it appeared to Rees, the food became a battleground between a band of chickens and a flock of seagulls that screamed down from the sky.

“I'm so sorry,” Lydia said as Mrs. Baldwin returned to the house. The three of them returned to the kitchen, the air still pungent with the stink of burning.

“I reminded you to watch the bread,” Mrs. Baldwin said, turning her reproachful gaze upon Lydia.

“I know you did. But we— I lost track of it.”

“I'm afraid we were all rather intent upon our conversation,” Georgianne said to Mrs. Baldwin. “I am happy to see your shop doing well. And how is that son of yours? He must be quite grown up by now.”

“I wondered if that was you,” Mrs. Baldwin said, stretching out her hands. Georgianne clasped them. Turning to Rees and Lydia, Mrs. Baldwin explained. “I know Mrs. Foster. She was with the group of ladies that helped me.” She looked around at the kitchen. “I owned this house. When my husband was lost at sea, they gathered the necessary funds so I could convert the front rooms into the shop.” She bowed her head in Mrs. Foster's direction. “I'm happy to be able to repay your kindness, even in some small way.”

Georgianne nodded and dropped the shopkeeper's hands. Directing her gaze to Rees, she said, “I should not have been so quick to blame you. It's just that Jacob was worried and I thought, if no one knew about our friendship … but of course people saw us. Of course they did. The villain who murdered Isabella would have found us eventually, with or without you. Poor Isabella. She harmed no one. And I don't think she should be blamed for dreaming of marriage and a family of her own.” She looked around for her hat.

“Where are you staying?” Lydia asked. “In case we have more questions for you.”

“Apply to Mrs. Weymouth. She'll send word to me.” Georgianne tied the ribbons under her chin and after bidding everyone farewell, turned to leave. Mrs. Baldwin escorted her out of the kitchen.

As they disappeared through the door and into the shop, Rees asked Lydia in a quiet voice, “Do you believe her?”

Lydia smiled. “About what? She was clearly in love with Mr. Boothe. Still is.” Rees nodded. “I don't think she much enjoyed having her cousin visiting either. But, with that said, I doubt Georgianne Foster is responsible for Isabella's death. I think she told the truth when she denied any romantic connection with Jacob.” She hesitated, frowning as she tried to find the most appropriate words. “Georgianne would have looked and sounded different if they were intimate. Mr. Boothe is that unique specimen: a faithful husband.”