Lanterns and Lace

Chapter 15

Winking at Mimi, Grant took a big gulp of coffee. “Wonderful breakfast, simply wonderful.” He spread strawberry jam between the flaky layers of a buttermilk biscuit.

“Don’t you flash those green eyes at me, Dr. Andrews.” She shook her silver head at his one-handed attempt to stretch the preserves over his biscuit. “Breakfast has nothing to do with your wonderful mood.”

“Of course it does. It’s Saturday morning,” he said between bites. “There’s a breeze blowing in through the window behind you. You’ve fixed my favorite scrambled eggs, sausage, gravy, and biscuits. I have my weekly Houston Post to catch up on all the news . . .”

“You’re avoiding the obvious.” A twinkle lit up her midnight-colored eyes.

Grant popped the remains of the hot biscuit into his mouth, licked his fingers, and reached for another one. “Mimi, is something on your mind?” He spooned a generous amount of preserves between the layers of another biscuit.

“No, I was just taking note of your good nature this morning.” She refilled his coffee and handed him the plate of sausage patties.

“And why is that?” he said between mouthfuls.

“I believe it has something to do with the company of a certain young lady last night.”

“Our Miss Mischief?”

“No, not our Rebecca. Who’s left?”

He peered at the older woman in feigned bewilderment. “Surely you don’t mean Jenny?”

“Love is blind, my dear boy.”

“I’m not in love,” Grant said. “I don’t want to be. I refuse to be, and a woman doesn’t fit into my life right now, especially Miss Jenny Martin. When it’s the right time, God will put a lady in my path. Besides, I may never get married.”

“Who said anything about getting married? Or who said anything about love?”

“You were thinking it,” he said. “Jenny and I may be approaching friendship, but that’s all. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was using my affections to get Rebecca.”

“So now you have affections? But—” She raised a brow. “Sounds like you’ve thought it through.” She took a sip of her coffee.

He reached for another biscuit, but this time he snatched up the honey. “I thought I had Miss Jenny in proper perspective until you brought up the matter. Remember, she’s not a Christian. A courting relationship with her isn’t sensible.”

“I didn’t know you were considering courting. Let me point out to you that the heart doesn’t work on logic,” Mimi said. “Neither does God. You both are too stubborn to see what is plain as day to me. And her heart is softening to things of God. I can see it.” She stood and took her plate to the kitchen.

Grant heard her mumbling. “You aren’t talking to yourself, are you, Mimi?”

“No, sir. It wouldn’t be sensible,” she said from the kitchen.

He gathered up the newspaper, chuckled, and took a gulp of coffee. He imagined his housekeeper tying a crisp clean apron around her slightly plump waist and bustling around the kitchen. How he loved every smoky-gray hair on her sweet head. “Would you come back in here so we can discuss this?” he said, unable to put his mind at ease about Jenny.

Mimi exited the kitchen and sat beside him, folding her hands primly in her lap. “All right, let’s discuss you and Jenny.”

Her knowing smile frustrated him. “I changed my mind. I don’t want to talk about her at all.”

“Then read your newspaper while I clean up breakfast. My guess is Rebecca will sleep quite late.”

“Don’t you want to hear the latest news?” he half-questioned, half-implored.

She rested her folded hands on the table. “Of course, read to me. There’s obviously something you want me to hear.”

He combed his fingers through his hair and winked at her. “Let’s see, there’s more talk about admitting Utah as a state and Hawaii as a republic. Um . . . President Cleveland is facing opposition again. He can’t make everyone happy when the country’s coming out of a depression.” He reached for his coffee, skimmed the article, then read on.

“Some folks don’t like the way the President has dealt directly with the treasury rather than with mortgage foreclosures, business failures, and unemployment. Although he has been able to maintain the treasury’s gold reserve.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers. She yawned and blinked. She wasn’t the slightest bit interested in the state of the nation’s treasury, and at the moment he wasn’t, either. But he needed a distraction from Miss Jenny Martin. “I have my own opinions on his methods, but it looks like the Democrats are criticizing him, too.”

“Any good news?”

“Oh, you can always find good news,” he said from behind the paper.

“Especially this morning.” She laughed heartily only to receive a disapproving look from him.

He folded the Post haphazardly in his lap and proceeded to finish his coffee. He’d already resolved to keep Jenny at a distance. A woman didn’t fit into the life of a busy doctor and father. Even so, it might be nice for her to settle in Kahlerville for Rebecca’s sake. Providing she gave up that fool notion of taking his daughter back to Ohio. The town could use another good teacher, but Jenny still had a teaching obligation to fulfill beginning in September. Naturally, at the end of summer, his life would go back to normal—whatever that might be.

Admittedly, Jenny had touched on a protected area of his heart, a portion he wasn’t quite ready to concede. Most important, she needed a relationship with the Lord. That was certainly a matter of prayer for him and the rest of his family.

The morning sped by quickly. He read the latest medical journal, saw four patients, and prepared a bank deposit. Rebecca awoke midmorning, and her crabby disposition caused him to question his logic in keeping her up so late the night before, except she did have a very good time at the wedding. So did her papa.

During lunch, Rebecca fell asleep against his chest, a partially eaten sandwich in her hand. Grant thought seriously of joining her but decided to check on Mrs. Lewis instead.

Until yesterday, Mrs. Lewis had shared her home with Ellen. The new Mrs. Kahler fretted over the widow living alone, but the older woman refused to move in with the newlyweds. Just like Ellen, Grant planned to check on her regularly. Of late, he’d heard the widow’s heart skip a beat more than once, and it worried him. She’d never complained about chest pain, but Ellen had voiced a concern over her lack of appetite and strength.

Grant decided to take his medical bag and walk the three-quarters of a mile to her house. Halfway there, the afternoon heat and humidity got the best of him.

I’m getting weak. He wiped the beads of sweat from his brow. He needed to get outside more, even help out at the ranch regularly. Throwing his jacket over his arm, he endured the remainder of the walk. By the time he arrived at Mrs. Lewis’s house, perspiration rolled down his forehead and into his eyes, stinging and blinding his vision.

The widow’s front door stood wide open, and it surprised him. She prided herself in maintaining a neat, well-kept home, and he hoped this oversight didn’t indicate a problem. He mounted the porch steps and called her name several times before apprehension settled over him like the calm before a twister.

Maybe she’d decided to take a walk, but he doubted that possibility in the middle of a hot afternoon. Cautiously, he stepped inside, still calling for her. The only reply came from a clock ticking on the fireplace mantel. The small parlor appeared to be in order. His gaze swept over faded shades of wine-colored upholstery and tapestry-covered chairs. A cherry buffet against one wall held the photographs of many cherished friends and family members. The drawers were open, but Grant dismissed them as indicative of Mrs. Lewis feeling poorly.

He turned his attention to the right, where he knew the woman slept. She’d contracted pneumonia last winter, and he’d made daily house calls until she responded to rest and medication. The widow had accused him of wearing down a path to her door. Unfortunately, she didn’t recover well from the illness, and the weakness made it difficult for her to fight other sicknesses.

Grant gasped at the condition of her bedroom. Dresser drawers stood open, their contents thrown everywhere. A chair leaned on its back legs precariously in one corner, and its cushion lay in shreds on the floor. Sheets and pillows had been tossed from the bed, then rolled up into a rounded heap in another corner. Feathers from the ticking lay on every visible inch of the wooden floor. He picked up a pillow and saw that it and the mattress had been slashed in multiple areas by a sharp, pointed object. Finding no trace of Mrs. Lewis, Grant rushed past the parlor into the kitchen.

He instantly took in the open cupboard with broken dishes and shattered glass scattered across the floor. He stepped over a pine pie safe heaved upside down with such force that the doors were off the upper hinges. All the while, he searched the room for signs of Mrs. Lewis. He continued to call her name, not really believing she’d answer, but certainly not wanting to find her hurt—or worse.

Grant moved toward a second bedroom where Ellen had slept and found it in a more deplorable condition than the other: torn bed linens, slashed pillows, and broken furniture littered the once neat abode. Even the curtains had been yanked to the floor and the window cracked. Grant caught a glimpse of the widow’s frail body in a hideous twisted form near the foot of the bed.

He bent to examine her but found no fluttering of a heartbeat or movements of breathing, only the pale gray pallor of death. Gently closing her eyes, he searched the body for signs of a struggle or violence. Finding no marks upon her, he surmised the widow died of a heart attack when someone broke into her home.

A surge of anger burst through his veins at the thought of someone frightening her into heart failure. Catching his breath in the midst of indignation, he knew he must fetch Ben and inform the undertaker. The latter might be difficult to locate on a Saturday, for he also owned the livery and traveled about as a blacksmith. Covering the body with a crumpled bed sheet, he mentally listed what he needed to do the remainder of the afternoon.

Poor Ellen. Mrs. Lewis dies of a heart attack, and her house is ransacked the day after the wedding. To the best of his knowledge, the widow didn’t have a single possession worth stealing. Her treasures were memories and friends. Once when he called on her last winter, she had talked the afternoon away reminiscing of days gone by: children grown with families of their own and her heartfelt prayers for all of them. She had shared with him a precious box of treasures: an inexpensive brooch given to her by her late husband, a polished rock sent from back East by her great-grandson, a faded photograph of her mother, and pieces of yellowed lace from her wedding gown. Stepping back into Mrs. Lewis’s bedroom, he saw that the small, carved wood box had not been touched.

Walking back into the room where the widow’s body lay, he peered around, wondering why it had been damaged more than the rest.

Ellen had slept in that room, he reminded himself. The bedclothes looked like torn rags around the body. Why would anyone want to destroy the widow’s home? What was the intruder looking for? A twisted thought grabbed hold of him. Could the intruder have been someone Ellen had known before she left the brothel?

Shaking his head, he hurried from the house to get help. With the intense heat, the odor from the lifeless body would rise profusely in a few short hours. He stopped long enough to write a note for any passersby before heading into town.

The sun beat down hard, and almost immediately, perspiration dripped onto his face, but this time Grant was too deeply engrossed in thought to be bothered by the heat. His emotions ranged from fury to grief. Why would anyone want to do this to a sweet old lady who had nothing but a gentle spirit? He’d seen how Mrs. Lewis and Ellen scraped pennies to sustain day-to-day living.

He dreaded telling Ellen. She’d be devastated and most likely blame herself for the widow’s death. Grant had never considered himself vengeful, but this death provoked his normally controlled temperament. For certain, Grant didn’t need to learn the name of the guilty person. This wasn’t an accident.