Katie Rose (9 page)

“Isn’t that sweet! He christened you! You know, they say it’s good luck.”

The two women tittered while Emily gave him a knowing glance. Thomas held his dripping arm away from his body. Luck. He had a feeling that his was running out.

“Excuse me,” Emily said to the man bent over the filing cabinets. “Could I speak to you for a moment?”

Old Doc Johnson, who also functioned as county coroner, was next on her list of people to see. Emily could only pray that the man was more help than the sheriff had been. He would at least be able to verify the cause of her father’s and Rosie’s deaths. And a well-written coroner’s report, she knew, was often a detective’s best ally.

Emily tried unsuccessfully to hide a yawn as the man turned toward her. She had spent a sleepless night tossing and turning, glancing continually at the mirror and waiting for the ghost to swirl into life in the gilt frame. But the phantom had put in no further appearances, and she had almost convinced herself that the earlier vision was due to exhaustion and the strange atmosphere of the bawdy house.

That also explained the strain of being around the overly zealous and attractive Thomas Hall. A delicious smile curved her lips as she thought of him attempting to christen Mrs. Olson’s baby. For a preacher, he’d seemed very inept at this basic task, and obviously had not been at all happy to have her witness the incident. His struggle only made her more certain that he was no minister, although she wasn’t any closer to discovering who he really was.

“Well?” The doctor brought her out of her reverie. A wiry little man with a sheaf of hair carefully combed over his bald pate, he had bright, beady eyes that traveled curiously over her simple dress and bag.

“I’m Miss Emily Potter, and I’d like to see your report concerning my father’s death.” Emily smiled brightly at the man, avoiding the sight of the dissecting table in the center of the room. Swallowing her repugnance, she tried hard not to think about what went on here. But the smell of chemicals and death seemed to fill the air, and Emily heard her stomach rumble in protest. She let her gaze drift over the papers scattered around the office. “I assume you are Dr. Willard Johnson. It occurred on—”

“I know when it occurred,” the man said, his face wrinkling unpleasantly. “And I know who you are! You’re that Miss Potter that everyone is talking about! The one sticking her nose into all kinds of business! Well, I won’t give it to you.”

He returned to his files as if the matter were done.

Emily stared at him in disbelief. Holmes never
had these problems. Forcing a smile, she tried to remain polite.

“I’m sorry that it’s an inconvenience, but I really do need to see those forms. If you’re busy, I can look myself—”

“Don’t you touch my files!” The doctor was as upset as if she’d proposed setting the building on fire. He took a step closer to her. “I’ve organized these files since 1885, when I took over for my father, God rest his soul. No one touches these files now but me.”

He gave a firm nod, as if he had laid down the law, and went back to his work.

Emily watched him in exasperation. “I see. Dr. Johnson, I am sorry about your loss. I am also sorry that you are trapped in a job that you obviously dislike, that you are in love with someone and your feelings are unrequited, and that your secret ambition is to write poetry, not pronounce a body dead. But I’m afraid I can’t help you much in these endeavors.”

The man shut the file so quickly he caught his hand in the drawer. Letting out a howl, he sucked on his finger, then stared at Emily as if she were a witch.

“How did you know all that? Who’s been telling you about me?”

“No one,” Emily responded simply. “But when I see a man filing endless papers, with a half-scribbled poem tucked beneath his forms, it isn’t too hard to guess that he is ill suited for this work. Furthermore, though I can’t read the entire verse, I can see enough to know that it is dedicated to a woman who doesn’t return the poet’s love. It is simplicity in itself.”

“It
is
wonderful.” The man’s bravado, which was really only the thinnest veneer, dissolved completely. “Surely you would have been burned had you lived in Salem two hundred years ago.”

Emily bowed at the compliment, then gave the man a gentle smile. “I am investigating my father’s death. Since you lost your own father, I’m certain you are familiar with my feelings. May I see the file?”

“No.” The doctor shrugged as Emily gaped at him. “I believe you are telling me the truth, and think you would make a fine detective, but I don’t have the file. I lent it out this morning.”

“Lent it out?” Emily repeated incredulously. “To whom?”

“Reverend Hall. He said the sheriff wanted to take another look at it.”

“Thomas Hall.” Emily suddenly wanted to strangle the preacher. “Do you know when he’ll return the file?”

“He should be back any minute,” the coroner answered confidently. “Why, here he is now.”

Thomas entered the room, looking even more handsome than she remembered. His hair may have been a little too long, but it was neatly slicked back, and his black shirt outlined his muscular arms to perfection. He was missing his coat, and he looked in need of a shave, but the rough shadow around his chin only added to his sensual appeal. It was almost sinful that a man look so good. Emily gave him a frosty stare, which he acknowledged with a nod before launching into an exuberant greeting.

“Miss Potter! What a pleasant surprise, though not entirely unexpected.” He stopped next to the grisly table, holding the file under one arm.

Emily didn’t know what was more annoying, his slow grin or cocksure attitude. Obviously he’d beaten her to the punch. Again. “Reverend Hall. Why on earth aren’t you out christening babies?”

“You mean being christened by them,” Thomas corrected, laughter dancing in his eyes. The doctor coughed, and Thomas glanced in the poor man’s direction before looking back at Emily. “What are you doing this morning? Making more friends?”

His veiled reference to the debacle with the sheriff didn’t intimidate her in the least. “Dr. Johnson is quite willing to assist me in my case. Unlike some of the other gentlemen in town,” she stressed the word “gentlemen.” “But I find it quite a coincidence, running into you again in such an unusual place.”

“It is a coincidence,” Thomas agreed, though his gaze twinkled. “One might think we were on the same trail.”

Having him make light of her suspicions didn’t help Emily’s mood at all. One thing was for certain, she had to find out what he was about, and the sooner, the better. “May I please have my file?” she asked coldly.

“Of course.” Thomas handed her the folder, then watched as she opened it. “Although I think you’ll find it a disappointment.”

Emily glanced at him sharply, then examined the documents inside. The Reverend Hall was correct.
The paperwork was obviously completed by someone who paid little attention to detail, and had dashed off the reports as quickly as possible.

“This is ridiculous!” Emily said, dismayed by the shoddy files. “Death by gunshot wounds! A child could have figured that out.”

“It wasn’t one of my more literary days,” the medical man explained weakly. “The truth of the matter is, I don’t like filling out those reports. Writing about death makes me squeamish.”

Emily glanced at the man incredulously, then looked at the minister. Thomas appeared to be trying hard not to laugh. He cleared his throat several times, and even had to walk toward the door, as if suddenly interested in something outside. Emily returned her attention to the folders, but there was nothing else to be gleaned from them.

“I’m sorry they weren’t much help,” the doctor said when she handed the files back to him.

“If you remember anything of use, maybe something that should have gone on record, please contact me.” She handed him a card with her new address scribbled on the front.

“I will.” The little man went back to his files, stuffing the scrap of poem deeply into his shirtsleeve.

Thomas followed Emily outside, then down the boardwalk. She had gotten about ten paces when she turned to him, her eyes sparkling with outrage.

“How could he write a report like that? In Boston he would have been fired a long time ago!”

“I know.” Thomas shrugged. “But this isn’t the
East. There probably aren’t a whole lot of folks out here signing up to be coroners.”

“And I want to know what you were doing there,” Emily continued, facing him down. He had a lot of explaining to do and she was determined not to lose her head, no matter how handsome he looked. “What possible interest could you have in my father’s death?”

Thomas shrugged, as if his purpose were obvious. “The sheriff mentioned the coroner’s report when we met yesterday. He thought it might contain something useful. As you can see, it didn’t.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Emily persisted. “Why would it concern you?”

“I have a special interest in this case,” he said, his eyes locking with hers. “Since a certain young lady seems set on getting herself in trouble over it. I consider it my Christian duty to watch over her, and to assist her in any way I can.”

“So your interest is in … me?” Emily asked incredulously.

“Yes,” Thomas affirmed simply. “Why else would I care?”

That indeed was the question, Emily thought. She stared at him as if he were the corpse and she were a coroner, dissecting him on one of those tables. “I find that very difficult to believe.”

“As Holmes would say, once you remove all the possibilities that couldn’t have happened, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

Emily scowled, not at all happy to have her mentor’s words thrown back at her. “I plan to move
forward with my investigation, no matter what the obstacles.”

Thomas’s expression changed from amusement to stern disapproval. “Miss Potter, that report, feeble as it was, said death by gunshot wounds. This is not a story we’re talking about. Someone murdered your father. Someone premeditated his death, shot him, and left him to die in his own blood on the floor. And they wouldn’t stop at killing you!”

He grabbed her, intending to stop her progress down the boardwalk, but he missed her shoulder and caught her arm instead. She wound up very close to him—too close. Emily could see the crinkles around his eyes that deepened when he got angry, and the lustrous blue that was suddenly even more intense. A strange fluttery feeling welled up inside her, very much like the last time this man had touched her. Her nerves must be getting very bad indeed to react this way.

An elderly woman passed them, and Thomas instantly released Emily. The woman’s gaze went from the handsome preacher to Emily. The old woman smiled at him in approval, then gave her a look that clearly marked her as a baggage.

“Good morning, Reverend. I heard from Mrs. Haines that we had a new preacher in town. You must come to tea. I have a new pig I’d like blessed, and Mrs. Haines said you’re just the man for me.”

Thomas shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, I … you see, I am engaged.…”

Emily picked up her bag and beamed at him.
“Good day to you, Reverend. I wouldn’t dream of detaining you.”

Turning smartly, she left him in the old woman’s clutches.

As she marched away, Emily giggled. The sound would have been astonishing to anyone who heard it, coming from the dour young woman. Thomas Hall was badly in need of a comeuppance, she thought. Perhaps blessing a pig would do just that.

When Emily got home, she went straight to the kitchen, intending to review the case thoroughly. Clutching the coroner’s useless report in her hand, she snatched up her casebook and ignored Watson’s plaintive meow as she marched past him, her mind in a whirl.

Before she could reach the kitchen door, it swung open. Emily gasped, thinking of the incident with the gaslight. She put her hand over her heart in relief as Darrel came toward her, a pile of wood in his hands. The young boy looked abashed when he realized he’d upset her, and he stared at the floor.

“Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“That’s all right, Darrel.” Emily managed a weak smile. “I simply forgot you would be here. Did you find everything all right?”

Darrel nodded. “The reverend helped me make my bed in the barn.”

“Ah, the good reverend.” Emily tried to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “How did you meet Thomas Hall, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Ah … the sheriff told him about me.” Darrel shifted awkwardly, still balancing the logs in his arms. “He asked me if I would come work here.”

“How nice.” Suspicion burned brightly in Emily’s mind. Could the preacher have sent this boy here as his spy? It wasn’t beneath Holmes to use children for such ignoble purposes. Could Thomas Hall be equally ruthless?

Emily bent down until she was at eye level with the boy. “Darrel, what exactly did Thomas ask you to do?”

“Ah … he just asked me to help you. You know, carry wood, sweep. Like I used to for the other ladies.” But he refused to meet her gaze and began edging toward the door. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’m setting to sweep the porch. Is that all right?”