Roen said, “He wants to see Victorine’s body, so he is going to meet Ben at Ridley’s surgery. I’m going to go to see the station agent about that telegram. I told him I wanted to know right away about a reply, but perhaps he forgot or he’s busy.”
Both Ben and Lily chuckled at the idea of the station agent being busy. Except for those times when a train was due to arrive or depart, Mr. Winslow napped in the back room or read a newspaper at the counter.
Lily explained to Roen why they’d laughed. “Why don’t I go to the station and inquire about the telegram and you go with Ben?” She added hurriedly, “Unless you’d rather not. I thought you might like an opportunity to revise or confirm your suspicions.”
“That’s a good idea, Lily,” said Ben. “Roen? What do you think?”
Roen nodded. “I’ll go with you. Lily, if Victor’s telegram is there, bring it to me straightaway.”
“And if there’s none? Do you want to know that as well?”
“Yes. Come to the surgery regardless.”
“Of course. Should I compose a reply?”
“If he requires one, I trust you’ll know how to answer him.”
“All right.” She stood and retrieved her coat. Roen helped her with it, angled her hat just so, and then wound her scarf around her neck and the lower half of her face. She yanked it down so she could speak then changed her mind about telling him anything. Careless of Ben’s presence, she kissed her husband instead.
Grinning crookedly, Ben watched her go. Under his breath, he said, “I’ll be darned.”
“How’s that?” Roen handed Ben his coat.
“Talkin’ to myself.” Ben took the coat; his smile didn’t fade. “Just talkin’ to myself.”
•••
Lily stopped at home to inform Fedora that she would be a while longer. She didn’t share details that she’d heard from Ben and Roen, but she did say that Mr. Cabot would not be leaving soon. Fedora was more resigned than disappointed, and Lily tried to reassure her that Mr. Cabot would not trouble her again in any manner. “He’s meeting Ben and Roen at Ridley’s surgery and there will be more questions for him to answer. I imagine he will be occupied with matters concerning Miss Headley’s death. Her father will require explanations that only Mr. Cabot can provide.”
“He’s coming, then?” asked Fedora. “Mr. Headley, I mean.”
“We don’t know yet. I’m going to the station to see if a response to Roen’s telegram has arrived. Either way, I have to let Roen know. Will you be all right?”
“Lizzie and I will be fine. We are changing the beds and washing sheets.”
“Oh, Lord. Don’t let her betoohelpful.” Lily was encouraged by Fedora’s lilting laughter. Everything would be fine. There was truly no reason to believe that Fedora was in any danger; it was only that there was a tightness in Lily’s stomach, a wretched feeling that had been coming on in small increments that she associated with impending threat.
Lily stepped outside. She was halfway to the end of theflagstone walk when she heard Fedora close the door behind her. She had an urge to look back that she forced herself to ignore. Victorine’s murder, Fedora’s injuries, this violence against women; Lily understood it was related to why she was finding it difficult to draw a full breath and why her skin prickled even though she was not cold. She hadn’t been fully honest with Ben and Roen about why she went to the sheriff’s office to wait for them. Yes, she wanted to know what they had learned from Mr. Cabot, but it was truer that she wanted the comfort that was her companion in Roen’s presence.
It was a short walk to the train station. Hank Ketchum, owner of the livery, tipped his hat to her as she passed, his normally taciturn expression brightening momentarily as he greeted her. She smiled in turn and was relieved to know it wasn’t forced. Perhaps the fist around her heart was beginning to loosen ever so slightly.
Solomon Winslow, the station agent in Frost Falls for as long as Lily could remember, smoothed the broadsheet he was reading across the countertop when Lily’s entrance blew the corners back. He did not trouble himself to hide his annoyance at the interruption, but he did have the grace to look abashed when he saw who it was crossing his threshold.
“Lily Salt,” he said, folding the paper and pushing it aside. “As I live and breathe.”
“Lily Shepard now, Mr. Winslow.”
“And so it is. Seems it was just a week or so ago that you were Lily Bryant. Can’t figure out if change comes too quick or my brain’s too slow. Probably a bit of each.” Solomon slid off his stool. Long legged with a short torso, the agent was the same height on the stool as he was off it. “Now what can I do for you, Miss Lily?”
Lily unwrapped the scarf around the lower half of her face. “Has there been a reply to the telegram my husband sent this morning?”
“Ah, I thought that might be it. I promised I’d get word to him as soon as I heard, but I reckon he’s anxious, her being who she is and all and him working for Northeast. Damn shame, if you’ll pardon the language. ’Course I only met her the once. That was the night she arrived, and I can’t say I was pleased to make her acquaintance. A woman like her, shedoesn’t breathe air the way you and I do. Shesniffsit.” Solomon put his sloping nose in the air and sniffed to demonstrate Victorine Headley’s expression of disdain.
“She’s dead, Mr. Winslow,” Lily said. It was not an admonishment, simply a matter of fact.
“So she is.” His haughty countenance vanished. “Did you notice the car on the side track? It’s down a ways. You’d have to step outside to see it. That’s her private car.”
Lily hadn’t noticed. “What will happen to it now?”
