“Someone other than you?” Martin asked baldly. “No. As you must know, she was a disagreeable woman, more likely to give offense than receive it. People in her employ or those who served her tended to grit their teeth and bear it. I know I did. Think what you will of me for that.”

  “Did she make the acquaintance of anyone in particular?” asked Ben. “Assignations? Trysts?”

  “None. It was my job to know where she was, what she did. There was nothing like that. She arranged to meet Mr. Shepard at the library yesterday, but he was working out of town.”

  “We’re aware,” said Ben.

  “You have no suspects?” asked Martin. When his question went unanswered, he went on. “You’ve questioned everyone at the hotel? Mr. Butterworth? Fedora Chen? What about Mrs. Shepard? Perhaps she thought she had motive.”

  At his sides, Roen’s hands clenched. He said nothing.

  “We’ve been thorough, Mr. Cabot,” Ben said. “I’m still not clear why you were not staying at the Butterworth if you were hired by Miss Headley to look after her.”

  “It was a combination of her preferring that we maintain a distance and her unwillingness to pay for the more expensive room. As with her car on the train, I was never invited to her room. I took my meals at the Butterworth, which allowed me to attend to Miss Headley’s whereabouts and plans.”

  “Miss Chen’s also,” said Roen.

  “I suppose,” Martin said, shrugging. “She worked there.”

  “My mother said you specifically asked for Miss Chen to wait on your table.”

  “That’s true. She didn’t chatter, didn’t spill things. She came and went silently. I appreciated that. Forgive me, but I fail to understand what one has to do with the other.” When no one responded, Martin said, “I’ve satisfied myself as to the truth of Miss Headley’s death, and I will be making my own inquiries. Mr. Headley will expect it of me even though my contract was with his daughter. And although it is wholly inadequate, it is also the only way I have of making amends for what appears to have been a tragic oversight.”

  “Oversight,” Ridley said under her breath. She bent her head to hide the derisive curl of her lip.

  “I cannot stop you from looking into the circumstances of Miss Headley’s murder,” said Ben, “but not only is it unnecessary, you could easily complicate and compromise our investigation.”

  Martin gave this the consideration he thought it was due, which is to say he gave it none at all. “As you said, you cannot stop me. Gentlemen. Doctor. If there is nothing else, I assume I am free to leave.”

  “Yes,” said Ben. “Yes, of course.”

  Martin tipped his hat to Ridley and bade them good day. When he was out of sight of the surgery window, he consulted his pocket watch again. Pleased that there was still time for him to gather his bags and get to the station, Martin Cabot proceeded to the boardwalk, whistling softly. It was some time before he realized the tune was “The Band Played On.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Roen, Ben, and Ridley retired to her office adjacent to the surgery. Ridley sat at her desk while the men took seats opposite. The housekeeper appeared to ask if they required refreshment. Since none of them had eaten, Ridley asked for coffee and breakfast rolls.

  Roen sat back in his chair and stretched his legs to the side so his boots did not touch Ridley’s cherrywood desk. Ben did not show the same consideration. He set the toes of his boots against the ornate scrollwork that bordered the bottom edge. Ridley set her elbows on the desktop and steepled her fingers so her chin rested on the tips. She looked from Ben to Roen and then back to her husband. “Well?” she asked. “Mr. Cabot was either wholly inadequate to the task of watching over Miss Headley or he did the deed himself.”

  Neither man spoke to her assertion. Roen said, “Did you notice he was carrying?”

  Ben nodded. “Don’t see many shoulder holsters like that around here. You might be the only other person I know who has one.”

  “You still have it in your office?”

  “Sure. You want it back?”

  “Yes. I think I do. Cabot wasn’t wearing his when we spoke to him earlier. What do you suppose changed?”

  “We surprised him before.”

  Ridley’s eyebrows rose. “What did he expect this time if he felt the need to be armed?”

  Ben shrugged. Roen shook his head.

  “I don’t like this,” said Ridley. When silence followed her observation, she knew it was the same for them.

  Roen said, “I’d like to look around Victorine’s private car. I don’t feel especially confident that I’ll find anything, but it can’t hurt.”

  Ben nodded. “Good idea. I’ll go with you. You can pick up your shoulder holster on the way.”

  Mrs. Rushton appeared just as the men were getting to their feet. They looked at each other and then at the tray with coffee and a pyramid of sweet rolls. Without a word or a glance between them, they sat down again.

  Ridley chuckled. “You’ll think better with something in your belly.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Lily read several stories in the broadsheet before she set the paper aside. Solomon was sorting mail. Since there had been no train since yesterday morning, his deliveries were already a day past due. Lily smiled to herself. Nothing moved particularly quickly in Frost Falls.

  She came to attention when the telegraph machine began to tap out its code. Solomon dropped the half-dozen envelopes in his hand and took the pencil from its resting place behind his ear.

  “This is what you’ve been waiting for,” he told her.

  Lily stood and went to the counter, where she set the newspaper aside. The rhythmic tapping meant nothing to her, but she observed that it was a language Solomon Winslow understood very well. He scribbled on the notepad, his fingers ceasing to move only after the machine had stopped communicating in a series of dots and dashes and the letters appeared on the dial. She leaned over the counter, trying to read Solomon’s scrawl upside down. “Is it from Victor Headley? What does he say?”

  Solomon read: “‘Express train arranged. Arrive the 18. Bring daughter home.’”

  “The eighteenth,” Lily said under her breath. “That’s only three days.”

  The station agent shrugged philosophically. “He does own a rail line. There’re benefits to that.”

  Lily ignored him. “May I?” she asked, holding out her hand.

  Solomon folded the paper and placed it in her palm.

  Lily removed her mittens from her pockets and put the note in one of them. “Thank you.”

  “No reply?”

  She shook her head and began to put on her mittens. Turning to go, she stopped suddenly as a figure crossed in front of the station window. “You have a customer, Mr. Winslow.”

  “Been expecting him. That’s Mr. Cabot. That’s the fella I told you about who came in first thing this morning for a ticket on the earliest train out.”

  Lily turned back to the counter. “First thing?”

  “First customer of the day. Only customer, come to think of it. Your husband was the second but that was later. And you’re my third. Slow day.”

  Martin Cabot opened the door and stepped into the station. He dropped his bags on one of the benches and approached the counter. “The train’s running on time?” he asked the agent.

  “Haven’t heard otherwise. It’s been known to show early. Afraid you were going to leave it until too late.”

  Lily wound her scarf around her neck and the lower portion of her face and backed away from the counter. She ducked her head slightly, turning away from Mr. Cabot, and made for the door. He was a stranger to her. For all that she had heard about him, she had never laid eyes on the man, but she doubted the reverse was true. If he gave her any attention at all, he would be able to identify her. At the moment, she was unimportant to him, not worthy of notice. That was precisely as she wanted it.

  Roen and Ben would be very interested to know that Martin Cabot had already arranged to leave town before they ever spoke to him this morning. As far as Lily was concerned, there was only one reason for him to prepare for a hasty departure. He had murdered Victorine Headley. It was his misfortune that today’s earliest train wasn’t arriving until just before noon. If he had been the least bit familiar with the countryside, he would have been better served to hire a mount from Hank Ketchum and head out. He would have had a decent start, although his chances of not being run to ground by Ben and a posse were slim indeed.

  Lily had one foot out the door when she heard her name. He spoke it softly. There was nothing menacing in his tone, nothing that should have alarmed her, and yet experience with exactly that sort of tone warned her she should be alarmed. The skin at the back of her neck prickled and blood drained from her face. She was cold. She recalled moments when she had been this cold before. The last time was the night of the fire that destroyed her home and almost destroyed her life.

  Lily considered pretending she hadn’t heard, but she had already paused and the length of that pause had certainly given her away. She stepped back inside, turned, and closed the door. “Yes?”

  “You are Mrs. Shepard, aren’t you?” Cabot asked.

  Lily looked past Cabot’s shoulder to Solomon. The station agent was watching them curiously. “Excuse me,” said Lily, “but you are . . .”

  “Oh, of course. Where are my manners? Martin Cabot. I imagine your husband’s spoken of me.”

  Frowning slightly, Lily feigned thinking it over. “Not that I recall, Mr. Cabot, and I believe I would remember.”

  “Hmm.”

  Lily couldn’t help but notice that his genial smile did not touch his eyes. “Was there some reason you stopped me?”

  “Only to make your acquaintance. I spent time with your husband this morning. Twice actually. Once at Mrs. Brady’s rooming house and again at Dr. Madison’s surgery.”

  “Mm.” She nodded in Solomon’s direction. “Thank you again, Mr. Winslow. Good day.” Opening the door for the second time, she managed to step outside with both feet before she was abruptly pulled back. Mr. Cabot blocked her exit.

  “Hey!” Solomon Winslow called out, starting to come around the counter bent on aiding Lily.

  “Stay where you are,” said Cabot. He took a threatening step forward but did not draw his weapon. He pushed Lily toward the chair. “Sit there. Don’t move.”

  Lily stumbled over her own feet but stayed upright. She dropped into the chair, tugged at her scarf, and breathed in deeply. “I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, you do. Don’t play me for a fool, Mrs. Shepard.”

  “Well,” said Solomon, “I sure as hell don’t understand.” He looked at Lily for an explanation.

  “Back behind the counter,” said Cabot.

  Solomon hesitated but not long. When he turned to retrace his steps, Cabot clubbed him with the butt of his gun. Solomon was momentarily draped over the counter until Cabot pushed him over it and let him drop to the floor. The station agent moaned, got clubbed again, and then lay silent, still, and out of sight.

  Cabot turned. Lily hadn’t taken the opportunity presented by his distraction to try to leave. She sat pale and motionless in the chair. It was as if he had clubbed her. He slipped his gun back into the holster under his jacket. “You know why I can’t let you leave, Mrs. Shepard.”

  Lily did not reply.

  “I am paying you the high compliment of being a perspicacious woman. Please do not offend me by pretending otherwise. I should like to hear the reason for your visit here. You have no bags, so I can safely assume you have no travel plans.”

  Lily kept her gaze fixed on the large slate behind the counter with the train schedule recorded in neat block letters. The letters turned fuzzy the longer she stared. She remained mute.

  “Was it your husband’s idea to send you here?” asked Cabot. “Why? What are his suspicions?”

  Lily did not respond to his question. “May I look after Mr. Winslow? You have no idea how badly you may have hurt him.”

  Cabot looked over the counter. “He’s breathing. Your concern is unwarranted.” He took a step toward her, and although it was not done in a threatening manner, it still struck him as curious that she did not flinch. “Are you fearless, Mrs. Shepard? Is that it? A fearless woman. Such a rarity. I don’t believe I have ever made the acquaintance of one such as you.” He consulted his pocket watch. “Twenty minutes.”

  Lily removed her mittens again and stuffed them in her pockets.

  “You dropped something.” Cabot pointed to the floor beside her chair, where a neatly folded piece of pale yellow paper lay. Lily started to bend sideways with the intention of picking it up with her fingertips, but Mr. Cabot stooped and swept it up. He held it out to her without opening it. Lily took it without comment and carefully slid it back in a pocket.

  “Telegram?” asked Cabot. When she said nothing, he merely shrugged. “Do you imagine I intend to hurt you, Mrs. Shepard? Let me set your mind at ease. I do not. Your continued silence is an annoyance, nothing more.”

  “You hurt Mr. Winslow.”

  “He had violent intentions. I know. I’ve seen his kind before. Thinks he’s half his age and twice as strong as he was then. It doesn’t end well.”

  “Why did you murder Miss Headley?” asked Lily.

  Cabot blinked. “Just like that? You have nothing to say and then you ask me that? I’m not admitting anything, you understand, but answer me this: Why do you care?”

  “She was a human being.”

  “Barely.”

  “Deserving better.”

  “Again, barely.”

  “You’ll be caught and charged and hanged for it.”

  “You sound very sure. I admire your confidence in your sheriff.”

  “And my husband. And Miss Headley’s father. They are a formidable triumvirate.”

  “That remains to be seen.” The station floor vibrated under his feet. “Feel that? That’s the train approaching. Still a ways off but definitely on its way. About time for you to stand up now. Take my bags. They will occupy your hands. Stand here. In front of me.”

  Lily stood and hefted a valise in each hand then stood where he indicated, her back to him.

  “No hesitation? No questions? Perhaps you are not fearless after all, Mrs. Shepard. Perhaps you know nothing but fear. Is that it?”

  “Yes, Mr. Cabot. You have it exactly.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Roen pointed to the lone car on the side track as he and Ben rounded the corner of the station. “That’s hers. That’s the Headley crest on the wrought iron rails at the back.”

  “Pretentious,” said Ben.

  “Victor Headley can trace his family to the New Amsterdam settlement, or he says he can.” Roen stepped on the track. “I can feel the train coming on.”

  “Then we should cross here before it pulls in.”

  “Shouldn’t we let Mr. Winslow know we’re going to search her car?”

  “Solomon will make noises for five or six minutes and then he’ll tell us to go ahead. I aim to save those five or six minutes for kissing my wife. I’m doing you the same favor.”

  Grinning, Roen nodded. “I think I’ll enjoy kissing your wife.”

  Far from taking offense, Ben gave a bark of laughter. It was largely swallowed by the oncoming train’s whistle as it approached the station. The men hurried across the tracks and over the rough gravel on the side beds.

  “I doubt it will be open,” said Roen as they climbed onto the small balcony at the rear of the car. He twisted the handle. The door didn’t budge. Shrugging, he pulled on the sleeve of his coat so it was tight around his arm and jammed his elbow hard into one of the window panes in the door. Glass shattered. He cleared it out of the frame then stuck his arm inside and jiggled the knob and opened the door. “There.”

  Ben smiled, amused, as he followed Roen inside. He stopped once he crossed the threshold and whistled appreciatively while Roen walked deeper into the room. “Ain’t this something?”

  “Indeed,” Roen said wryly. The car’s appointments were spare owing to the size of the space, but every piece was quality, from the ornately carved walnut headboard of the three-quarter bed to the round dining table and four matching chairs with the same cabriolet legs and ball and claw feet. The vanity had a large gilt-framed mirror and was cleared of everything except a fine layer of dust. Women’s fashion magazines, apparently the only publications that Victorine read, were scattered on the golden yellow damask divan.

  Ben began searching the small drawers in the vanity while Roen looked in the drawers that were built into the base of the bed. They moved methodically around the room, examining the narrow wardrobe and linen closet and the inside of an upholstered bench that stretched the length of two side windows. There was no writing desk in the car, but there were papers scattered on top of the table. Roen divided the papers and gave half to Ben to look over.

  “Correspondence to her father,” said Ben. “Nothing about the pregnancy. She writes here that you proposed and the wedding will be in January.”

  Roen shook his head. “When is the letter dated?”

  “It’s not.” He handed it to Roen.

  “It would appear she was keeping her options open. Planning for every eventuality. The correspondence I was reading informed her father the marriage had already taken place. Again, no date. I think she was amusing herself.”

  Ben nodded. He picked up something else to read. “Here’s the contract between her and Mr. Cabot. I wonder why she left it here.”

  “Perhaps it’s a draft.”

  There were no papers of any consequence and they left the correspondence and contracts in a neater arrangement than they’d found them. Roen stood in place and slowly turned, his eyes taking in the interior space, top to bottom, side to side. He stopped suddenly, arrested by the neatly made bed. “Victorine never made a bed in her life,” he told Ben. “And she had no travel companion to make it for her. Help me with the mattress.”