An Untimely Frost

Book 1: Lilly Long Mysteries

by Penny Richards

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Solving crimes is not a dress rehearsal.

Chicago, 1881. The idea of a female detective is virtually unheard of. But when famed crime buster Allan Pinkerton opens his agency’s doors to a handful of women, one intrepid actress with her own troubled past is driven to defy convention and take on a new and dangerous role.

Since the age of eleven, when her mother was murdered, the life of the theater is all Lilly Long has known. Now twenty-two, she has blossomed into an accomplished Shakespearean actress. But after her innocence—and her savings—are taken from her by a seductive scoundrel, Lilly vows to leave the stage, enter the real world, and save others from a similar fate. Following in the footsteps of the country’s first female detective, Lilly persuades Allan Pinkerton to take her on.

Lilly’s acting skills are a perfect fit for her real-life role as a Pinkerton operative. But her first case is a baptism by fire as she is sent to the small town of Vandalia to solve the mystery of a pastor who disappeared with his family—and the church’s funds. When Lilly arrives, she finds the mere mention of the reverend’s name provokes enmity or suspicious silence. Shadowed by a second Pinkerton agent with an agenda of his own, Lilly begins to uncover Vandalia’s sordid secrets. But she’ll have to deliver the performance of a lifetime to survive the final act of this drama.

Release date: July 26, 2016

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 284

Sample

Blast it, he’d promised !

Lilly Warner’s rising fury battled with an all-too-familiar disappointment. Pierce Wainwright, the cast’s manager and the man who had raised her from the age of eleven, had finally given her a major role in the troupe’s new play, Society’s Daughter. Tim had promised to come and see her debut performance, but he hadn’t shown up. Another of her husband’s lies, offered for the sole purpose of momentary appeasement.

Too angry to be fearful, she jerked up the hood of her red woolen cape and stepped through the door at the rear of the theater into the darkness of the narrow backstreet. In less than a minute, she entered the main thoroughfare. Tendrils of fog writhed in the flickering glow of the gaslights, turning the few stalwart souls braving the chilly night into wraithlike phantoms.

Annoyance rose with every step as she navigated the four blocks to the boardinghouse where the members of the Pierced Rose Theater Troupe were staying during their brief stay in Chicago. She pushed through the doorway and was greeted by a rush of heat from the foyer fireplace. Pushing back the hood, she marched down the hall, mentally framing a series of questions for her absent husband.

Nearing Pierce and Rose’s room, Lilly noticed their door standing ajar. That was odd; the worldly-wise Rose was generally more careful about such things. Lilly placed her gloved hand on the doorknob, wondering if she should stick her head in and mention the oversight.

While she stood torn between the need to confront her husband and check on her friend, she heard the sound of a man’s voice from inside the room. Sudden uneasiness caused her heart to beat faster. Who could it be? She’d left Pierce at the opera house.

The man spoke again, menace in his low tone. Before she could do more than acknowledge that something was terribly wrong, Lilly heard the sickening, somehow familiar, sound of flesh meeting flesh. She slumped against the wall, squeezing her eyes shut and covering her ears, attempting to block out the memories that sought freedom from where she’d banished them eleven years ago. She fought the craven desire to escape into the dark vortex of unconsciousness.

“Please, God, make him stop. Make him go away.”

The words echoing through her mind were chanted by a child’s voice. Her voice.

Do something!

Lilly whimpered. What could she do? She was only eleven, and someone was hurting her mama....

Another cry, this one laced with an unmistakable pain, scattered the distressing fragments of memory. She opened her eyes. She wasn’t eleven, the sounds she heard were not memories from her past, and the man in the other room was not her mother’s killer, but whoever he was, he was hurting Rose. Lilly couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Not again.

Taking tight hold on the doorknob, she shoved away from the wall and burst into the room, gauging the situation in a single glance. Rose lay across the bed, blood trickling from her mouth, a mark that would become a bruise on her cheekbone, and tears seeping from her eyes into the graying hair at her temples. A man stood over her, a leather pouch clutched in one fist, a small revolver in the other. Lilly’s eyes widened and her footsteps faltered.

“Tim?” Her voice was an agonized whisper. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing, you stupid cow?” He held the money bag aloft. “I came for the money.”

Money? Her heart began an agonized throbbing. “But . . . I gave you money this morning.”

“Barely enough to get my shoes shined.”

Hearing the mockery in his voice, she urged sternness to hers and held out her hand. “Give me my money, Tim. You have no right to it.”

His beautiful lips twisted into a taunting smile. “Your money? You seem to forget that when you said ‘I do’ everything of yours became mine.”

He spoke the truth. The law favored men in every way. Rose lifted herself to one elbow and swiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. “Let him have it, Lil. It’s not worth it.”

Perhaps Rose was right, but it was money Lilly had been setting aside since she was old enough to do small tasks for the cast. Money she was saving to buy a little house somewhere . . . someday. Money she’d told him she’d given to Rose for safekeeping. A surge of guilt washed through her at the idea that her own naïve trust had brought about this betrayal.

“It’s mine,” she repeated. “I’ve worked hard for it.”

Timothy’s handsome face contorted with disgust. His burst of laughter was short and hate filled. “So have I. I’ve listened to your pious preaching about taking a salesman’s job until I want to puke. Well, I’m not a damned peddler,” he all but growled. “And I might also mention that the thrill of bedding an innocent lost its appeal weeks ago.”

Both Rose and Lilly sucked in sharp breaths. Old insecurities flooded her. Being beautiful, confident Kate Long’s plain bastard daughter had never been an easy role.

“I’m done with it all,” Tim was saying, “including you.” His lips twisted into a parody of a smile and he shook his head. “What an easy mark you were.”

Stealing her life savings and hurting Rose were hard enough to take, but when Lilly realized that he had taken advantage of her inexperience in the most dreadful way possible, rage overcame her shock. Without considering the consequences, she launched herself across the room at him.

Rose gave a shriek of fear. Not the least threatened, Tim stood his ground. When Lilly was within reach, he simply swung the arm with the pouch and hit her with a backhanded blow that sent her reeling against the fireplace.

Her head hit the mantel with a sickening crack. Pain sent her to her knees and darkness threatened once again. She heard the sound of boots thudding on the planks of the floor, heard a door slam and voices coming from somewhere far away.

Then someone lifted her, and a gentle voice asked, “Lilly, are you all right?”

She wanted to answer, but instead, she slipped deeper into the dark emptiness that held no pain, no frightening memories, and no hateful, lying words or acts of deception.

“C’mon, luv, open your eyes.”

The familiar sound of Pierce’s voice nudged aside the comforting shadows. Lilly moaned at the intrusion. She wanted nothing more than to stay wrapped in the cocoon of oblivion that kept away the memories threatening her self-worth and her peace of mind . . . perhaps even her sanity.

“Lilly. Come, my sweet girl. Open your eyes for me.”

The coolness of a damp cloth dabbing at a place on the side of her head accompanied the voice. Rose. The woman who had taken a young, damaged girl into her home and her heart when her mother was murdered. The woman Timothy might have killed if not for Lilly’s intervention.

She reached out in a frantic gesture. “Rose!” Lilly had trouble making her lips form the whispered word.

“Thank God!” Pierce.

“I’m here.” Rose sobbed and dabbed harder at the aching place on Lilly’s head.

“Stop!” she said crossly, making another aimless grab. “That hurts.”

Pierce’s laughter sent her eyelids fluttering open. She glared at him. He only laughed again. “You’d best stop, Rose. We don’t want to get her all in a pucker.”

“I am not angry,” Lilly managed to mumble in a sulky voice.

“No? What would you call it?”

“Enraged.” She didn’t sound enraged; she sounded exhausted. Recalling the events that had brought her to this point, she struggled to her elbows, an act that sent the room spinning and another wave of pain through her skull.

“Be still,” Pierce commanded. “You may have a concussion—or worse.”

“I’m fine,” she grumbled, gingerly probing the knot on her head. “Just bloody furious. Did he get away?”

Rose gave a disdainful sniff. “Took out of here like a scalded cat,” she said. “He almost knocked Roxie over as she came in from the theater. She’s sent for the police and a doctor.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” Lilly insisted, struggling to sit up. “It’s just a bump.”

“Maybe so, but I’ll feel better if you’re checked out,” Rose insisted, propping her up with a couple of pillows behind her back.

“So will I,” Pierce added. “As for the police . . . I don’t know how much good they’ll be. I have a feeling your Tim’s done this sort of thing before.”

Before Lilly had time to consider that, a knock sounded at the door. It was the physician, a middle-aged man with rounded shoulders and thick spectacles, who spent the next several moments asking questions about what had happened, poking and prodding, checking her pupils, and even pricking her hands and feet with a pin.

“Well,” he said, removing his stethoscope from his ears and hooking it around his neck. “You’re a fortunate young lady. It appears you have nothing wrong except a very nasty bump on your head.”

“Thank God,” Rose said.

“Of course, there is no way to completely rule out the possibility of a concussion or even a skull fracture, but in light of your responses and state of awareness, I’m not inclined to think the injury is that severe.” He offered a dry smile. “You’ll probably have the devil of a headache for a few days, so I advise that you stay in bed and get as much rest as possible.”

“I’d like to return to my own room if that would be all right,” Lilly said, the expression in her brown eyes pleading. Though she feared it was a fool’s errand, she wanted to check on the small stash of money she kept there.

“Fine, fine,” the physician agreed with a nod. “But I insist that someone stay with you for at least one night. Mrs. Wainwright?” he queried, looking at Rose.

“You couldn’t keep me away,” Rose assured him.

Several minutes later, Lilly was settled into the room she’d shared with Timothy. While Pierce walked the doctor out, Lilly allowed Rose to continue her motherly fussing. It seemed the least she could do. She was about to ask Rose for details about the robbery when Pierce poked his head in and announced that the policeman had arrived and wanted to speak with Rose.

“And I want to speak with him!”

Rose gave the quilts a final pat. “The doctor gave me a wee bit of laudanum to ease your pain and help you sleep, but I left it in my room. I’ll be back with it just as soon as I talk to the copper and get my night things.”

Lilly whispered her thanks and gave a compliant nod. As soon as the door shut behind Rose, Lilly opened her eyes and let her troubled gaze roam the bed chamber. Tim’s straight razor and soap mug were gone from the shaving stand. The carpetbag that held his clothes was no longer in the corner where he’d left it. No trace of his presence lingered except the faintest scent of bay rum that clung to the sheets. She ran her palm over the place where he’d slept and blinked back the threat of angry tears.

Tim had belittled the most precious gift she’d had to offer—her purity. His cruel words hurt far more than the physical pain he’d inflicted. Did the innocence she’d brought to their marriage bed truly mean so little to him? Why had he thrown away everything over the silly argument about money they’d had earlier that morning?

When he’d asked for more money, she had braced herself for yet another battle and reminded him that she’d given him money the day before. To her surprise, he hadn’t come back with his usual snide remarks. Instead, he’d looked at her with a tortured expression on his handsome face and told her that he wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.

He’d seemed so pitiful that she felt churlish for denying him. Wanting everything to be right between them, she’d given him more money from the bag she kept in her trunk. Grateful, smiling, and incredibly attractive in his victory, he’d kissed her and apologized and taken her to bed. No doubt he’d been plotting to steal her money even then. How could he claim to love her one minute and do such a terrible thing hours later?

“You should know that a man will say anything to get what he wants.”

Ice-cold and laced with contempt, the scornful words were so vivid that the man who’d spoken them might have been standing next to her. Somehow she knew the words were those of her mother’s killer, a man who’d lied to get what he wanted from Kate just as Timothy had lied to get what he wanted from Lilly.

With an angry murmur, Lilly sat up, an action that set off a fresh wave of pain. Moving with care, she eased to the side of the bed and slid the few inches to the cold floorboards. Crossing to the trunk, she yanked open a small drawer, scraping aside the rose-scented garments and tumbling the contents of the other drawers in a frenzied, futile search for the pouch.

Gone. Every cent.

For the first time, she took a hard, objective look at her husband and herself. Tim was an opportunist, plain and simple. And though the live-and-let-live, nomadic lifestyle of the theater was liberating in many ways, that way of life had shielded her from much of society’s ugliness, which left her inexperienced when it came to many of the world’s workings.

Tim had no doubt taken one glance into her eyes and known that she was as green as grass, and he’d played to that naiveté every step of the way. She’d fallen for an inveterate schemer, following in Kate’s footsteps despite every effort not to. What was the old saw? Oh, yes. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

She’d been a child when her mother was murdered, bound by a child’s limitations. As a woman grown, she was free of those constraints. She wasn’t certain what tomorrow might bring, but she knew exactly what she had to do tonight, and she swore that she would never again be taken in by any man.

Lilly dressed as quickly as possible. She was anxious to be gone before her plan to go looking for Tim was thwarted by Rose’s or Pierce’s return. Assuming Tim had not yet left the area, narrowing down his whereabouts was simple. He was probably at MacGregor’s, a combination drinking establishment, restaurant, and hotel within walking distance of both the boardinghouse and the theater.

Dressed and bundled in her red cape, she left her room, sidling furtively down the hall and out into the cold night once again. She grimaced against the icy wind that blew clouds as insubstantial as her marriage across the face of the quarter moon. Rain clouds. Weather typical of early March in Chicago.

It took just two blocks for her to realize that wrath and righteous indignation could carry one only so far. Her head ached dreadfully, her stomach churned, and for the first time since conceiving her impulsive plan, she became aware of the unfamiliar darkness surrounding her, taunting her with its dangers.

Buildings bordered either side of the street, their storefronts indistinguishable beyond the glow of the flickering gaslights. Raucous, masculine laughter mingled with a shrill female giggle. Raw wind tugged at her cape, carrying the scent of approaching rain and the faint, ever-present stench of rotting flesh and burning hair from the Union Stock Yards in the distance. Faint though it was, the revolting odor robbed her of her tenuous hold on her nausea and she doubled over, emptying the contents of her stomach into the gutter.

Drawing a handkerchief from her reticule, she wiped her streaming eyes and mouth and leaned against a brick building until the pain and dizziness subsided, rousing only when an owl’s chilling whoo hoo echoed from somewhere in the inky blackness. A frisson of unease slithered down her spine. People disappeared at an alarming rate in Chicago. Reminded again of the dangers of the desolate streets and shadow-shrouded alleys, she quickened her pace.

She was wondering if she would make it when she saw light spilling from the windows of a brick-fronted establishment, illuminating a sign beside the door in the shape of a crest. Red letters outlined with white spelled out MACGREGOR’S. She paused, wondering at the best way to proceed. When she’d left the boardinghouse in a vengeful snit, she’d had no plan beyond finding Timothy.

A sudden memory of her newest character, the irrepressible Priscilla Dunlap, sprang to mind. With no fear of what others thought of her or her actions, that incorrigible miss would march into the tavern as if she frequented such places every day. She would belly up to the bar and demand answers. She would not act uncertain or afraid. As an actress, Lilly could do the same.

Taking a breath, she lifted her chin and stepped inside. Assorted impressions assaulted her senses: welcome heat from a nearby potbelly stove. The clink of glassware and dozens of individual conversations. There was so much smoke her eyes and nostrils burned. Rough male voices overwhelmed the backdrop of feminine laughter and the tinny tinkle of a piano in dire need of a tuning.

She hesitated in the doorway, fighting another round of queasiness and allowing her gaze to move around the alien world.

In keeping with many Irish-owned saloons, MacGregor’s boasted a standup bar. Tim had done his best to convince her that taverns were not necessarily dens of iniquity. Besides offering drinks, they were places laborers learned of employment opportunities, paychecks were cashed, and the latest gossip could be overheard. Some establishments offered free lunches, usually something cold, though the more fashionable taverns offered fancier fare. A few even boasted restrooms and safes for items too precious to leave at home, a notion Lilly now realized held considerable worth.

Though hard-used, MacGregor’s was relatively clean, and its patrons looked prosperous enough. Several men knocked back shots of whisky while squinting through a fog of smoke at a skimpily clothed chanteuse belting out a naughty song in a liquor-roughened alto.

Most of the women, whose painted faces were less pretty than pathetic, wore nothing but undergarments that pinched their waists to unnatural smallness and pushed their bosoms scandalously upward. They moved from table to table, bleakness in their eyes, forced smiles on their painted lips as they leaned suggestively over men who sat with one hand clutching a spread of cards, the other toying with a pile of chips or grasping a drink or cheroot.

And to think that much of society looked down on actresses! More than a bit scandalized, and seeing no sign of Timothy, she was about to cross to the bar to question the bartender when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She whirled, an action that caused the room to dip.

A very large man, with biceps the size of her thighs and a handlebar mustache that nearly hid his mouth, stood before her. His narrowed eyes were dark with menace beneath heavy eyebrows that were drawn together so that they looked like a single bushy ledge.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but if you want service, you’ll have to come in through the rear door.”

Accustomed to the more impartial treatment women of the theater received from their male peers, Lilly had little patience for the silly customs the male-dominated world sought to impose on women. A knock on the head was not about to change that. She bit back a reply unsuitable to a lady and responded in an arrogant tone that would have done Priscilla proud. “I am not here to be served, sir. I’m looking for my husband.”

The brute crossed his arms across his massive chest. “Rules is rules, ma’am.”

Lilly met his gaze head-on and schooled her tone to one reeking with calculated patience. “As you can see, sir, I am already inside, so what good is it for me to go out and come in another door? Now,” she said, as if the matter were settled, “would you kindly point out the owner?”

Uncertain how to handle the situation without resorting to for. . .