He shrugged. “She couldn’t find a hole in a ladder in her state. Besides, I’m not worried. If we can’t find Dupin, she certainly can’t.”
“Then Dupin really is a suspect?”
He coughed and tapped a stack of papers together before nodding to the bowl. “Wet your rag and sit. I’ve work to do.”
His avoidance was answer enough. What had happened that made Dupin a legitimate suspect in a murder case? The man didn’t even exist. Edgar Auguste Dupin was merely a nod to her favorite author and detective. Even her character Billy Poe was a play on the name.
She dropped into her seat and stared at her empty hands. Theresa leaned close and whispered, “Did she say E. A. Dupin murdered someone?”
Lydia could only nod.
“But that’s impossible.”
“You think I don’t know that? What do I do? The police are pursuing a false lead, but I can’t expose m—Dupin’s identity. Word will get out.”
And not just to the police department. The reporters would turn rabid over the chance to expose such a sensational story. Society barely tolerated women writing romances. For a woman to write crime novels went beyond the pale. E. A. Dupin’s books were favorites among readers—yet they were penned by a woman. Her. And now she was wanted for murder.
Her reputation would be ruined. They’d equate her morals with that of a soiled dove. Worse, it would sully Papa’s reputation.
His beloved job as coroner was an elected position. For better or worse, the Pelton name had an unblemished reputation to uphold. If her name was tied to murder—fictional or factual—he might not be reelected next May.
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
Theresa jumped from her seat and dunked the rag Lydia had abandoned in the bowl of water. She rushed back and draped the rag over the back of Lydia’s neck. “It’ll be okay. Let’s get through tonight, and then tomorrow we can figure out how to move forward.”
“You say that like Colonel Plane isn’t going to court-martial you and give you solitary confinement for a month.”
“Okay, so not tomorrow, but I’m sure I’ll be able to climb out my window and escape soon after. For now, tilt your head back and put the rag on your face. Your hives are getting worse.”
The warm rag did little to ease the itching or the growing nausea. Despite Theresa’s insistence they could figure everything out and all would be well, Lydia knew better.
What would Papa think if he discovered she’d been hiding her identity as Dupin from him?
She adored him, and he adored her back. How many other daughters had such wonderful relationships with their fathers?
If he discovered she was Dupin and the reason he lost his job, he’d never look at her the same again. What they had would be shattered.
But a man was dead, and the police were chasing a suspect who didn’t exist. They’d never catch the real culprit if she didn’t confess her pseudonym.
She gulped in air, trying to break through the panic gripping her lungs.
Risk her father’s profession and their relationship or risk a murderer’s escaping because of her silence—how could those be the choices she was stuck between? She wrote her crime novels so justice could be had for all, but could she really claim to be on the side of justice if she allowed a murderer to walk free just to preserve herself and her family?
“Miss, are you in distress?” Officer Blythe’s voice came from the other side of the rag.
She was, but not because of her hives.
“I’ll see to her needs, Officer Blythe.” Papa’s voice announced his arrival.
Normally the smooth baritone notes of his voice would relax her, but now they only added to her anxiety.
He removed the rag from her face, and his eyes widened. “They’re coming with me. I’ll inform Superintendent Carson in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
Papa pulled her to standing and directed Theresa to follow.
“Lydia Ruth Pelton, I don’t know whether to hug you or throttle you. Are you certain you can breathe?”
