commercial, but vacant lots outnumbered those developed for either usage. Transplanted cottonwoods, elms, and maples lined its parkway and would eventually shade the earthen street.
At midblock, a pinkish sandstone mansion was ablaze with light. Every mullioned window, of which there were multitudes, vanquished the darkness. An amber flood streamed out of the open, double-doored entrance.
Rubberneckers gathered on the manicured lawn, unmindful of flower beds, shrubbery, and common decency. One enterprising lad had climbed onto the fountain, affording himself a ringside perch and a bath in the massive, scalloped bowl.
Jack halted the buggy in the crushed stone driveway. He stepped out, holding the reins for my slide across the seat. “I hate leaving you to drive yourself home.”
“It can’t be helped. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
He kissed my cheek and smiled, though I could see his mind was already fixed on what horrors might be found inside the house. “Straight home, Joby. And keep your eyes peeled for ruffians.”
I promised I would. I didn’t promise when that journey might commence. Before Jack’s broad back disappeared into the mansion’s glowing maw, I took a small notebook and pencil from my reticule, then cached the bag under the seat.
Izzy’s black coat shone with lather from his southward lope. Poor fella was blowing some, too. I patted his mane and told him his pluck and patience would later be rewarded with an apple and a bucket of oats.
Just inside the Abercrombies’ foyer, an urn of Grecian design full of hothouse flowers had been toppled from its table onto the white marble floor. On a bench curved to conform with the muraled wall, a Negro manservant comforted a maid sobbing into a dishtowel. Both were dressed in nightclothes.
The manservant glanced up. His red-rimmed eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“I’m Josephine Sawyer, of Sawyer Investigations.” I displayed my notebook. “There are questions I must ask of you momentarily, but do take this respite to compose yourselves.”
He nodded, returning his attention to the maid, now hiccoughing with every breath.
A relieved sigh blew through my lips. Acting with authority was often as good as having some. The Denver City police force employed no women, but my dark blue suit was as tailored as a uniform and had small brass buttons at the placket and cuffs.
My gaze tracked the elegant, serpentine stairway from where disembodied voices drifted downward. Turning, I surveyed the distance from the top of the stairs to the mahogany front doors. Heavy brass locks, as sturdy as they were decorative, gleamed against the ruddy wood.
A plush runner of tapestried wool protected the stairway’s treads and muffled the footfalls of anyone trafficking upon them—most certainly, mine. The voices guided me down a wide corridor painted a rich egg cream color and trimmed in purest white.
At its end, in a soft-lit room, a girl of perhaps eighteen sat in a wing chair drawn up beside a bed. Wisps of hair had escaped their pins and veiled her features. She was murmuring to a gray-haired man lying beneath a shawl, a hand tented over his face. A Bible marked with a scarlet ribbon lay open on the end of the bed.
Colonel Abercrombie, I presumed, and his daughter. Her name I’d read in the newspaper’s society page, but couldn’t recall. Thinking of all the bedside vigils I’d sat with Papa when he’d come home sick, or hurt, or nigh delirious from exhaustion, a stab of envy startled, then shamed me. Just because my father was lost to me in this life, it was horrid to begrudge Miss Abercrombie hers.
An open door on my left revealed a boudoir decorated in blush pinks, golds, and ivory. Jack knelt beside the figure of a woman clad in an aqua dressing gown. She was sprawled on her back in a most indelicate position. Her hair was long, wavy, and the color of chestnuts. I guessed her to be in her early thirties.
What had been a fair complexion was splotchy
At midblock, a pinkish sandstone mansion was ablaze with light. Every mullioned window, of which there were multitudes, vanquished the darkness. An amber flood streamed out of the open, double-doored entrance.
Rubberneckers gathered on the manicured lawn, unmindful of flower beds, shrubbery, and common decency. One enterprising lad had climbed onto the fountain, affording himself a ringside perch and a bath in the massive, scalloped bowl.
Jack halted the buggy in the crushed stone driveway. He stepped out, holding the reins for my slide across the seat. “I hate leaving you to drive yourself home.”
“It can’t be helped. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
He kissed my cheek and smiled, though I could see his mind was already fixed on what horrors might be found inside the house. “Straight home, Joby. And keep your eyes peeled for ruffians.”
I promised I would. I didn’t promise when that journey might commence. Before Jack’s broad back disappeared into the mansion’s glowing maw, I took a small notebook and pencil from my reticule, then cached the bag under the seat.
Izzy’s black coat shone with lather from his southward lope. Poor fella was blowing some, too. I patted his mane and told him his pluck and patience would later be rewarded with an apple and a bucket of oats.
Just inside the Abercrombies’ foyer, an urn of Grecian design full of hothouse flowers had been toppled from its table onto the white marble floor. On a bench curved to conform with the muraled wall, a Negro manservant comforted a maid sobbing into a dishtowel. Both were dressed in nightclothes.
The manservant glanced up. His red-rimmed eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“I’m Josephine Sawyer, of Sawyer Investigations.” I displayed my notebook. “There are questions I must ask of you momentarily, but do take this respite to compose yourselves.”
He nodded, returning his attention to the maid, now hiccoughing with every breath.
A relieved sigh blew through my lips. Acting with authority was often as good as having some. The Denver City police force employed no women, but my dark blue suit was as tailored as a uniform and had small brass buttons at the placket and cuffs.
My gaze tracked the elegant, serpentine stairway from where disembodied voices drifted downward. Turning, I surveyed the distance from the top of the stairs to the mahogany front doors. Heavy brass locks, as sturdy as they were decorative, gleamed against the ruddy wood.
A plush runner of tapestried wool protected the stairway’s treads and muffled the footfalls of anyone trafficking upon them—most certainly, mine. The voices guided me down a wide corridor painted a rich egg cream color and trimmed in purest white.
At its end, in a soft-lit room, a girl of perhaps eighteen sat in a wing chair drawn up beside a bed. Wisps of hair had escaped their pins and veiled her features. She was murmuring to a gray-haired man lying beneath a shawl, a hand tented over his face. A Bible marked with a scarlet ribbon lay open on the end of the bed.
Colonel Abercrombie, I presumed, and his daughter. Her name I’d read in the newspaper’s society page, but couldn’t recall. Thinking of all the bedside vigils I’d sat with Papa when he’d come home sick, or hurt, or nigh delirious from exhaustion, a stab of envy startled, then shamed me. Just because my father was lost to me in this life, it was horrid to begrudge Miss Abercrombie hers.
An open door on my left revealed a boudoir decorated in blush pinks, golds, and ivory. Jack knelt beside the figure of a woman clad in an aqua dressing gown. She was sprawled on her back in a most indelicate position. Her hair was long, wavy, and the color of chestnuts. I guessed her to be in her early thirties.
What had been a fair complexion was splotchy
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