The Devil's Teeth (Ravenwood Mysteries #5) Page 5

  8

  A Flurry of Telegrams

  Fancy marrying a pauper with two daughters? -R

  * * *

  A gold mine didn’t suit me one bit. -B

  * * *

  That’s a relief. -R

  * * *

  Did your hat obsession finally land you in the poorhouse? -B

  * * *

  I may have to sell my collection. -R

  * * *

  We’ll join the circus. -B

  * * *

  Being a clown will suit me just fine. -R

  * * *

  Not a ringmaster? -B

  * * *

  I knew I forgot something. -R

  * * *

  I don’t expect a ring from a pauper. -B

  * * *

  Our luck may turn. LW is working on it. -R

  * * *

  Smart man. Any luck finding a tutor?-B

  9

  Acute Paranoia

  ISOBEL

  Isobel shut the book. "I can't stand this."

  "Reading, or life in general?" Lotario asked.

  "This book." She brandished The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes.

  "Are you still angry at Conan Doyle for killing your favorite detective? It's been six years."

  "The 'Final Problem' didn't do Holmes justice," Isobel said.

  "I thought it noble."

  "It's riddled with holes. Moriarty is never mentioned before 'The Final Problem'. Then a 'Napoleon of crime' appears out of thin air—a mastermind whom Holmes suspected for years, but there are no details."

  "The Strand has limited space," Lotario said dryly. "Besides, Watson was married and distracted, which I'm hoping will happen to you when you enter into that blissful state. Again. In the meantime, write another scathing letter to the author. That always cheers you up."

  "My letters keep being returned."

  "Here's an idea: why don't you stop reading 'The Final Problem'?"

  "Why don't you stop buggering men?"

  "I don't do the buggering," he said cheekily. "Does this have anything to do with your last case?"

  Isobel stuttered to a stop. "No."

  "Hmm."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Lotario sighed, and closed his book. "You and Atticus faced your own Moriarty."

  "But Bak Siu Lui is still alive, Ari. And I'm not so trusting of her word as Riot is. Three years of self-imposed exile doesn't mean she can't manipulate things in San Francisco from afar."

  What Isobel wouldn't give to face that woman on the edge of Reichenbach Falls, or better yet on a nice cliff along the coast. She'd certainly sleep easier at night.

  "Do you really think someone was trying to kill you with a magnifying glass? I doubt the silver frame would throw light that far.”

  “Someone was in that meadow shining something at me. Even if murder wasn't the intent, it may have been a warning—a reminder that the business with Bak Siu Lui isn't finished."

  Lotario rolled his eyes, and returned to his book. After a time, he mused aloud, "If Holmes had survived the duel with Moriarty, do you think he would have developed paranoia?"

  "I'm not paranoid."

  "You're in an asylum, dear sister. Your opinion on the psyche is suspect." Lotario glanced at his twin out of the corner of his eye. "Let the magnifying glass go," he urged softly. "No one is trying to murder you—a rifle would have been easier. Personally, I'd use poison."

  Isobel ignored the threat. "You're not even curious?"

  "My curiosity is on holiday. Can I please read in peace?"

  Isobel stared silently at her twin, until he put his back to her. In the end, she pressed her lips together, and looked out across the mineral pool. Patients floated like crispy seals in the water, while others lounged on divans. At least two of the women had been admiring Lotario for the past half an hour. One of them had a pale line encircling her finger.

  What was it like, having a still mind? One that would allow her to drift the day away in leisure?

  A shadow blocked her sun, and a grunt followed. Isobel glanced up to find a large man standing over her. The left side of his face and body looked like it had melted.

  Isobel beamed up at the man. "Samuel."

  Never able to meet her eyes, he ducked his head. A bit of drool had slipped from the corner of his mouth, and was stuck to his stubble. He thrust a Western Union slip under her nose. "Telly."

  "Thank you," she said with feeling. "You're the only other man I look forward to seeing here." She ripped the missive open, and read the telegram.

  Our best candidate is the resident in RW's old consultation room. -R

  Isobel choked in surprise.

  "Is something a matter?" Lotario asked.

  "Would you hire a prostitute as a schoolteacher?"

  Lotario arched a brow without looking up. "You're asking the wrong whore," he murmured under his breath.

  Isobel glanced at Samuel, but he stood like a stone by her side, waiting. He gave no indication that he understood their conversation. She fished out paper and pencil from her satchel, and penned a reply.

  Tread carefully. -B

  "I never imagined I'd want a telephone at hand," she muttered. The closest telephone was in town, miles from Bright Waters. Unfortunately, her six month sentence prevented her from making the trek. She folded the slip of paper and handed it to Samuel. Without raising his eyes, he gently took it from her.

  "Como está?" she asked. But her question in Spanish elicited no more reply than if she had asked in English. Samuel Lopez had the mind of a child and the build of a bull, but he seemed a gentle sort. Always bringing his dog, Bebé, along, or stopping to pet Mr. Darcy, the rabbit. Julius Bright hired him for odd jobs, but lately Isobel had commandeered his exclusive services. The flurry of telegrams she and Riot exchanged daily would feed Samuel for a year.

  "One moment." She fished for a coin, and dropped it into his palm. "No Bebé today?"

  Samuel gave his head a violent shake, curled his hand around the coin, and loped off at a quick pace. Her responding telegram would be delivered within the hour.

  Isobel opened her mouth, a question on the tip of her tongue.

  "No," Lotario bit out.

  Isobel sighed. He knew what she had been about to ask. To swap identities. Just one more time. She needed to talk with Riot. There were too many reporters loitering around telegraph stations. It was forcing them to exchange cryptic messages, and letters weren't any safer. They could be intercepted, too.

  Maybe I am paranoid.

  With that thought, she told herself to relax, and closed her eyes. Sunlight caressed her skin, and water lapped against the edges of the pool. Conversations drifted on a breeze along with the scents of earth and leaves. Lotario yawned. A page flipped. A nurse's heels clicked on terra-cotta tiles. A bumblebee buzzed by her ear. A flap of wings. Click, click, click. A burst of laughter.

  Isobel opened her eyes. "I'll go mad at this rate!" She needed to stir the waters.

  Carelessly, she stripped off her summer dress. Eyes widened in shock, and Lotario's admirers called for a nurse, but the cry was cut short as Isobel dove under the water. If there was one benefit to an asylum, it was that she was expected to be insane. Social niceties be damned.

  "Miss Amsel!" A nurse came trotting from a wing. "Your clothes!"

  Cooled and refreshed, she pulled herself out of the pool. A thin chemise clung to her body, and a puddle formed around her feet. The nurse attacked her with a towel.

  "You know the rules, Miss Amsel."

  "I forget them."

  The nurse eyed her sharply, and pushed the loose dress into her arms.

  "That's why we infirm need your reassuring presence, Miss Floyd. To guide us from our misery and folly," Lotario drawled.

  "I'm simply doing my job, is all."

  "You go above and beyond, while brightening my every day," Lotario crooned.

  "Oh, Mr. Amsel. You're too kind." Miss Floyd blushed. "I do try. Can
I get you anything more? Another lemonade? A pillow? You do look pale today…" She continued to fuss over her favorite patient, forgetting all about the convicted criminal. In short order, Lotario sent the nurse away with a smile on her face.

  Isobel plopped down on the divan beside her twin. "A bit overdone, don't you think?"

  "Miss Floyd reads poetry and romance novels featuring long-haired poets in her spare time."

  "Your Miss Floyd also likes to drag combs through the gnarled hair of her patients."

  Lotario lifted his good shoulder. "Everyone finds a way to cope. If you found one, I wouldn't need to help you so often."

  "Help me?"

  "I've been distracting everyone here to keep you out of trouble."

  She snorted. "Is that what you call it? I thought you were trying to make me sick."

  "I doubt being near to death with pneumonia would keep you inside the asylum."

  He knew her too well. Isobel would crawl off the grounds to die. "At least in a prison, I wouldn't be as tempted. I'm not sure what's worse: knowing I can escape at any time or being trapped behind walls."

  "Now you're just whining."

  The memory of her time confined to a jail cell during the trial drove her out of bed each night. Isobel hugged the towel to her breast.

  Lotario's gaze slid sideways. "When is Atticus due for a visit?"

  "I don't know."

  "It's been a while."

  "He has a life. Work. Cases. The children."

  "You."

  "What drivel are you reading?" she asked, nodding to his book.

  "I'm on holiday."

  "A holiday away from your stress as a dancer and a whore?"

  "And opera," he added, ignoring her stab. "Forced recuperation has been good for my voice. Although I've had trouble finding a spot to practice my scales without drawing notice."

  "There's a cave a few miles—"

  "No!" He swallowed. "No caves," he said in a weaker voice.

  Isobel said nothing, which was far worse than prodding him about it.

  "Oh, say it," he growled.

  "Dr. Bright is worried about you."

  "He should worry about you instead," Lotario said.

  "He'll worry when I strangle the next nurse who speaks soothingly to me. I need stimulation."

  Lotario opened his mouth.

  "Mental," she growled.

  "Have you made any attempt to converse with your fellow patients?" he asked instead.

  Isobel arched a brow. "I've talked with Samuel, Dr. Bright, Miss Meredith, Mr. Darcy, and you today."

  "A rabbit doesn't count." Lotario stretched, his sleek muscles rippling. He winced at the last, and quickly shifted. Isobel bit her tongue. "What about those two?" he asked.

  "You mean the two women who have been admiring you for the past hour?"

  He glanced at his nails. "Oh, have they?"

  "Yes. And no, I haven't spoken with either of them. She'll only tell me what I already know."

  "Which one?"

  Isobel made a gesture with her fingers. A code they had developed early on. Touching her right thumb to pinky. Six o'clock. "She recently lost her husband, in death."

  "Liars go to hell."

  "I'm not making it up."

  Lotario huffed.

  "If you used your brain, you'd come to the same conclusion." There was a challenge in that. Lotario turned a casual eye on the woman, then made an appreciative sound. "Delightful, but you're wrong."

  "I don't think so."

  "You're guessing," Lotario challenged.

  "It's obvious."

  "So you say."

  Isobel took a breath. "The loose folds on her arms indicate rapid weight loss—a side effect of childbirth or grief. There's a pale line around her digitus medicinalis, but the rest of her is tan. She's been here a month, but the ring's impression is still there. She removes the ring when she goes into the mineral baths out of fear that it will slip off. Sentimentality of that sort can only be for a husband she still loves. She would hardly be wearing a ring of the man who abandoned her. It's possible she lost a child, too."

  "And yet she's been admiring me."

  "As one admires a classical sculpture."

  Lotario fluttered his lashes, and shifted his leg ever so slightly to display a well-shaped calf. But flattery had not won him over. "It's easy to speculate," he said.

  "It's not speculation."

  Lotario waved a hand. "Yes, yes, it's deduction, but how do you confirm your far-flung theories?"

  "I don't need to."

  He rolled his eyes. "Arrogant witch."

  "Go ask her," she challenged.

  "And bring on a fit of hysterics?"

  "A dollar says I'm right."

  Lotario pursed his lips. "I don't flash an ankle for a dollar, dear sister."

  Isobel scowled at her twin. Lotario was not a pauper, but he had expensive tastes and large holes in his pockets. "You won't go talk with her because you know I'm right," she said.

  Lotario ignored the observation, and changed the subject. "What about the quiet one over there?"

  "Easy. Circles under her eyes. Recently shorn hair. Cracked lips. And she's brought out to sit in the sun every day at noon. She's recovering from pneumonia."

  "Wrong," Lotario said with relish.

  Isobel arched a brow.

  "Her beloved pet died, so she butchered her own hair. You two share something in common."

  "Have you spoken with her?"

  Lotario waved a hand. "It's obvious."

  Isobel studied the woman with renewed interest. "It wasn't a dog. It was a cat."

  "Did you just steal my deduction?"

  "That woman hates dogs. She has an aversion to Samuel's dog."

  "This is precisely what you're lacking, Bel. You might be able to name every poison under the sun, but when it comes to human nature, you're as blind as they come."

  "If her dog died, why would she hate dogs?"

  "Because seeing Samuel's dog brings up painful memories," Lotario pointed out.

  "Possible," she conceded. "But wrong."

  "Only a moment ago, you claimed it was pneumonia."

  "I'm certain of it."

  "How?"

  Isobel scrunched her brows together in consideration. Too far away. Determined, she set her book down, walked over and stopped beside the woman's divan. The woman looked up in alarm. There was a wrap around her short hair, red nose from crying, loose clothing that all the patients wore, pale… Yes, all the signs were there. Then what was wrong? "Your pet cat recently died," Isobel stated with authority.

  The woman inhaled sharply. "Do I know you? Miss…?"

  "Amsel. Isobel Amsel."

  "Tibbles didn't die, I had to give her to a new home."

  Isobel blinked. "She's not dead?"

  "No!" she sniffled, and sneezed. "I developed severe allergies. It nearly killed me."

  With head held high, Isobel marched back to Lotario and sat. "I was right. It was a cat." She thrust out her hand, waiting for payment.

  "Her cat didn't die," he said out of the corner of his mouth. "That was horrid, Bel."

  "What was?"

  "The woman is crying now."

  Isobel frowned. "She has allergies."

  "On second thought, please don't interact with the other patients." Lotario sighed, closed his book, and walked over to the woman. Instead of a frown, Lotario was welcomed with a shy smile. The two fell instantly to talking.

  With nothing to do, Isobel sat back and plucked the magnifying glass from her satchel. As she turned the handle over, she watched a pair of nurses stroll along the veranda. Their blue dresses and starched aprons made them stand out from the patients. And in town…

  Energized, she stuffed the glass back into her satchel, and hurried towards the main building. Bright Waters was not a secure asylum. It relied on its remote location to keep patients in place. She could walk about freely, and as long as she (or Lotario) checked in every morning and n
ight, no one appeared concerned with her whereabouts.

  Escaping wasn't the issue, it was recognition. During the trial, her likeness had been plastered all over the newspapers from California to New York. Depending on the person, she was either a local legend or an infamous harlot. What Isobel needed now was something even more recognizable. Something to distract the eye.

  A man of her own age drifted down the hallway, shuffling his feet with a scratch, his eyes vacant, his movements aimless. The right side of his face was horribly scarred, and he had lost his right arm. A soldier who had fought, and probably wished he had died, in some far-flung war. She thought of her older brother, Merrik, fighting in the Philippines. Would he return? And if he did, would he come back whole?

  Two nurses walked down the hallway, each with a stack of blankets. Isobel shook her head when they asked if she needed anything. "That one-armed fellow might need some help. He looked lost."

  "That'd be Mr. Stewart." They both nodded in understanding and picked up their pace.

  Isobel waited at the end by the stairwell. Most nurses were busy with duties elsewhere—taking care of patients outside in the gardens or in the baths. Julius Bright believed nature was the ultimate healer. Perhaps he was right, but it was certainly no cure for curiosity.

  Isobel slipped into a nurse's room, and gently shut the door. She went straight for the wardrobe.

  "Well, hello," she whispered to a blue dress. Recognition was a funny thing. It caught ones attention, but as soon as the mind categorized a thing, the niggling question of 'who' was dismissed. She reached for a dress, and the door behind her opened. She nearly dropped the garment.

  Isobel spun around, an excuse on the tip of her tongue. "Lotario," she hissed.