Chapter Thirty-one

Two days after Remington and Phoebe returned to Twin Star, there was still nothing settled between them. There were apologies, politely accepted, but they changed very little. Phoebe was ashamed that she had left the table so abruptly that she failed to make the acquaintance of the judge and had left Remington and Mrs. Tyler to offer excuses for her. Remington deeply regretted that he had misunderstood their conversation and believed that with his secret revealed, Phoebe meant to marry him before they left Liberty Junction. He was no closer to understanding what it was that she needed to hear before she would marry him, but he was clear that whatever it was, she was not expecting to hear it from him.

Perhaps he should have been relieved to know it, but what he was, was frustrated, and he did not take any particular pains to hide it.

“He’s showing himself,” Fiona told Phoebe.

“What?” Distracted, Phoebe looked up from her book and saw Fiona was intending to join her in the parlor. She managed to keep from sighing and closed A Tale of Two Cities around her finger. “I’m sorry, Fiona. I didn’t hear you.”

Fiona chose to perch in the middle of the sofa. Out of habit, she smoothed her gown and set her hands in her lap. “He’s showing himself. That’s what I said.”

“Who?”

“Remington, of course. Really, Phoebe, you can be obtuse at times. Or is it simply that you do not wish to see?”

“Oh, I think it must be that I’m obtuse.”

“And now you are being perfectly disagreeable.”

Now Phoebe did sigh. She removed her spectacles, carefully folded the stems, and placed them on the table at her side. “Is there something in particular you want to say? Perhaps explain what you mean by Remington showing himself?”

“Why, he’s positively surly. I’ve seen the like before, of course, but not since you arrived. It is quite an achievement that he maintained that façade of cheerfulness for as long as he did.”

“Cheerfulness? I believe that is overstating his general disposition.”

Fiona waved aside the objection. “You know what I’m saying. He is unpleasant to everyone. I am rather more immune than others, but he set Ben back on his heels this morning, pinned that young Johnny Scooter fellow to the—”

“Johnny Sutton,” Phoebe said. “Or Scooter Banks.”

“Does it matter? It was one of them pinned to the corral by Remington’s abusive language. He has barely spoken to Thaddeus in spite of several overtures, and last night he went straight to the bunkhouse after dinner and slept there.”

Puzzled, Phoebe frowned. “Are you pleased? Satisfied? Concerned? Or simply the harbinger of doom?”

“There is no need to wax dramatic. I want you to know him for what he is, Phoebe. I could see you were developing an attachment. I can’t say what I thought he was doing because it would not be polite, but I believe your feelings were becoming fixed. If something happened on your trip to Liberty Junction that changed that, then I, for one, am glad of it.”

Phoebe did not respond immediately. Her quiet had a purpose. She needed it to preface what she wanted to say to Fiona, and she needed Fiona to hear her. When she saw Fiona lean slightly forward in anticipation of her reply, Phoebe judged she could speak. “Nothing happened on our trip,” she said. “My feelings for Remington have not changed; they are as fixed now as they were before we left. As to the composition of those feelings, it is not for me to say to you before I have said the same to him. You should leave it at that, Fiona.”

Phoebe watched with jaded amusement as Fiona flung herself backward on the sofa. She stopped short of placing her wrist against her forehead and a hand over her heart, but otherwise was the embodiment of waxing dramatic. Phoebe was tempted to applaud, but that would have been giving the performance approbation it did not deserve.

“You are in love with him,” said Fiona.

It was no mere statement Fiona flung at her. It was an accusation and it was all Phoebe could do not to recoil. “Am I?”

“Do not play coy with me.” Agitated, Fiona sat up. It was not enough, so she stood, and when that failed to quiet her jangling nerves, she began to pace. “You will have to leave, Phoebe. I forbid you to be in love with him. Distance will help you see him more clearly, and you will be gratified that I stepped in to save you from yourself.”

Phoebe set the book aside and folded her hands in her lap. Her eyes, not her head, tracked Fiona’s movements. She did not respond directly to what was said; instead she advanced her terms. “You need to tell me what happened between you and Remington to make you revile him. I will not leave without hearing it from you. Tell me what he did.”

Fiona made a small huffing noise at the back of her throat. “The last time you put that question to me, you asked what I had done to him. It is small gratification that you recognize the shoe is on the other foot.”

“I am not asking a question now,” said Phoebe. “Tell me.”

Fiona stopped pacing so suddenly that she seemed to vibrate before she went completely still. “You will not like it.”

“That is the one thing of which I am certain, and it does not matter. Tell me.”

Fiona’s bosom rose with the fullness of the breath she took. She spoke as that same breath rushed out of her. “He propositioned me.”

“Propositioned?”

“He wanted me in his bed. Is that plain enough for you? I am his father’s wife and he wanted to fuck me.”

Without inflection, Phoebe said, “That certainly is plain speaking.”

“You’re a cool one, aren’t you, Phoebe?”

“I don’t know what you mean. It’s rather a lot to take in. I don’t want to make hasty judgments.”

“What are you saying? You wanted to know what happened, and I told you. I sincerely hope you are not judging me. I am the wronged party.”

Phoebe nodded, though not in response to what Fiona said. “Why do you suppose he did it? Proposition you, I mean.”

“Why did he—” Fiona could not finish, not just then. She took a steadying breath and went on as evenly as she was able. “Why did he want me in his bed? Could you possibly be more insulting? Why wouldn’t he want me?”

Phoebe stared at her. “Of course that was a slight against you, Fiona. How could I have meant anything else by it? You are offended if a man doesn’t show interest in you.” Fiona opened her mouth to speak, but Phoebe cut her off. “Let us say I believe you—because I don’t doubt that you believe yourself—can you not imagine another reason besides your devastatingly fine face and figure that a man like Remington might want to compromise you?”

Fiona’s eyes widened fractionally. She said nothing.

“Perhaps he hoped the two of you would be found out and Thaddeus would send you packing. Or perhaps it was Remington who wanted to go and couldn’t find the courage to say as much. Maybe he hoped his father would send him on his way. Could you consider either of those possibilities? No? Then I’m certain you are right. He must have wanted to fuck you because he is a man and that is what men do because they are helpless when confronted by their baser needs. You told me that, remember?”

Fiona shook her head. She clasped her hands together because they were trembling. Her denial was barely audible. “I never.”

“You did, but I have always believed it was in aid of arming me with knowledge meant to protect me. You still don’t remember? Think back to Alistair Warren. You beat him bloody with his cane, drove him out of the theater. You explained the facts of what happened to me later. Mr. Warren was acting according to his nature; therefore, it would always fall to me to seize control. That is what I’ve observed you doing, Fiona, so it is difficult for me to imagine that in any encounter you had with Remington, you were not the one with the upper hand.”

“You have a knack for twisting my words, Phoebe. You twist everything to suit your perspective.”

“That’s interesting,” said Phoebe. “Do you know the one about the pot calling the kettle black?”

Fiona curled her upper lip, not amused. “Go back to New York, Phoebe. I cannot abide you remaining here while Remington poisons you against me. We are better friends, you and I, when we are not breathing the same air.”

“And there, in a nutshell, is the fundamental difference in our perspectives. It has always been you who insisted that we be friends. I don’t think we are. I don’t think we can be. I blame myself for that. I know now that I held out too long hoping you would want to be anything else.” Phoebe stood and squarely met Fiona’s gaze. “But then, you always said I was stubborn. I intend to remain so. I am not leaving, Fiona. I want to stay here even if it means we must breathe the same air.”

Phoebe smiled. The effort was faint and forced, and she wished she had not tried. “Excuse me.”

Fiona reached out but was too far away to stop her. “Wait, Phoebe. Please.”

Phoebe’s step faltered. She shook her head and kept going.

It was Remington who ruined her exit, not that she had intended a stagy departure, but she had hoped for a dignified one. He caught her by the upper arms and steadied her before she walked straight into his chest. It was indicative of the state of his mind when he did not apologize. She looked up at him. His dark eyes were not implacable now. She saw very well that he was troubled.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

He didn’t answer her. Instead, he looked past her to Fiona. “Would you mind leaving us?”

“Leave you? With no explanation?”

Remington did not argue. “Phoebe, will you come with me?” His hands dropped to his sides so there would be no question that she was forced.

“Of course.”

Fiona’s cheeks puffed with the strength of her exasperated sigh. “Please. Don’t give me a thought. I’m leaving.” She brushed past them before they could properly step aside and marched down the hall.

Phoebe was reminded again of Remington’s state of mind when he did not comment. She took him by the hand and led him into the parlor. She stopped in front of the sofa but not because she had any wish to sit. “What’s happened?” she asked again. “Is it Thaddeus? Is that why you asked Fiona to leave?”

He shook his head quickly. “No. Not Thaddeus. In fact, he’s out on the porch speaking to the sheriff. It’s Blue Armstrong, Phoebe. He’s dead. Murdered.”

Phoebe thought he could tell her anything and she would remain standing. She was wrong. Her knees folded and she sank to the sofa. “Murdered? I don’t understand.”

Remington joined her on the sofa. He spoke carefully, evenly, repeating what Jackson Brewer had come to Twin Star to tell them. “He never left Collier after escorting Miss Carolina home. In fact, he never left her room. Miss Carolina was with him. Also murdered. The madam found them the morning after they returned. Brewer was notified late last night. He went to Collier, spoke to their sheriff, and arranged for Blue to be brought back. He’s here now because of what he thinks Blue’s murder means.”

Phoebe closed her eyes and pressed fingertips against one eyebrow. Her stomach was roiling and she could taste bile at the back of her throat. “Miss Carolina,” she whispered. “And Blue. Jumpin’ Jesus on a griddle.” She tried to choke back the nervous laughter that bubbled inappropriately on her lips. “I’m sorry. Sorry. I don’t—” She stopped, opened her eyes, and stared at Remington. “I am so sorry.”

He took her hands in his, pressed his thumbs lightly against the backs of them. “I know you are. I am, too.”

She nodded, kept her eyes focused on his. “How?” she asked. “Were they shot? Does anyone know who did it?”

“Only because you asked,” said Remington. “I hoped you wouldn’t. No shots. No sounds. Blue was strangled. Miss Carolina suffocated under her pillow. You don’t want to know more.”

He was right. She didn’t. “This is about the ring, about the robbery. That’s what Sheriff Brewer thinks, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Blue’s been a regular at Sylvia Vance’s house for years, and Miss Carolina was his preference, but Sylvia says he never behaved as if he thought she were exclusive to him. In other words, no fighting other patrons for her favors. Everyone who was in the house around the time the murders are suspected to have occurred has been accounted for. All the girls. All the customers. Names all around. Most cooperated. Brewer will follow up their sheriff’s interviews. He will not let this rest, but there were more immediate concerns to address.”

“Like coming here. To warn us.”

“Yes. A precaution. He can’t be sure their murders are related to the ring, but it would be foolish to ignore the possibility. Apparently Miss Carolina had shown it off even before she showed it to Blue. Someone wanted it or someone wanted it back.”

“What about the man who gave it to her? Couldn’t he have done it?”

“I asked Brewer about him. He didn’t have the name on his list of men who were there. Remember, Blue hadn’t had an opportunity to speak to him about what we learned at the Boxwood. If Blue and Miss Carolina were murdered to get John Manypenny’s name, then the whiskey drummer could well be in danger. Perhaps he’s already met the same end. He is the first link between the ring and men who took it. If I had committed that robbery, I would surely want to find and dispose of Mr. Manypenny.”

“Then Sheriff Brewer must find him first.”

“I had the same thought. That’s why I am leaving with him. I volunteered, but he swore me in as his deputy anyway.”

“Because you know the law.”

“Because I can shoot.”

“Oh.” She worried her bottom lip. “It seems an unlikely coincidence that they were murdered so soon after they returned from Liberty Junction. Why not before? She had the ring then. It doesn’t make sense. And wouldn’t the men who stole it know who they sold it to?”

“Not necessarily, especially if it traded hands, but they might never have asked in the first place. Now they know they made a mistake and have to backtrack.”

“Were they followed? Blue and Miss Carolina. Is that what happened?”

“I don’t know.”

She spoke as if he had not. “Mrs. Tyler could be in danger. Her son. We all heard the same information. What if the robbers were there in the dining room? All three of them, eating Sunday brunch, and observing everything, just as if they had a right to sit among decent folk.”

“We don’t know that they were there. There is more we don’t know than we do. It’s not helpful to get ahead of ourselves.”

“I understand.” She said nothing more. It was the wrong time to tell him she had been thinking about her wedding dress.