“Nonsense. I can’t teach you how to be the second-best detective if you’re off scampering around on your own. We’ll discover what kind of woman Miss Pelton is together. A criminal mastermind or just a talented author.”
As long as he kept in mind she was a schemer, Abraham would be fine. At least he prayed so.
CHAPTER14
THE POUNDING AT THE FRONTdoor wouldn’t stop, no matter how many times Papa yelled for the protesters to go away. Not that they could hear his voice over their chanting.
“Murderer!”
“Strumpet!”
“Bring her out!”
And a few others that were far too descriptive of what they would do if that last demand were obeyed.
Lydia wrapped her arms around her waist as she watched the veiled outlines of the angry group through sheer curtains. They’d wasted no time in coming. The newsboy had only delivered the paper an hour ago. How long would it be before the number of protesters exceeded those who’d picketed the publisher?
Two more people crossed the street, their voices raised above the rest and shouting things that would make the citizens of Sodom proud.
She rubbed her arms, though no movement she made warmed the cold that iced her veins. Why was this happening? Her Billy Poe novels weren’t evil, and they never crossed into the obscene as these people suggested. Her detective was valiant, good, and just. Billy Poe was a lauded hero.
But no. It wasn’t him they were here to throw stones at. They wantedher. She was the villain in everyone’s eyes.
Yes, she had misrepresented herself to get published and had persuaded officers to provide information, but she wasn’t a criminal. She hadn’t killed anyone.
If you hadn’t written those books …
She forced the thought away. The pen might be mightier than the sword, butherpen certainly hadn’t the power to end someone’s life.
“Come away from the window, dear. What if they should see you?” Momma’s pinched face belied the calm, steady click of her knitting needles.
The task was one that always calmed Momma’s nerves and allowed her to donate copious amounts of socks, gloves, hats, and scarves to those in need at the church. By the number of socks she’d finished since Papa told her of Lydia’s second identity last night, she’d been a perpetual ball of nerves.
At least Momma had the good sense to sit on the far side of the room. Lydia couldn’t drag herself away from the window. Perhaps if she stared at the scene long enough, she’d discover this was a nightmare. She would wake up to the world that existed before Billy Poe became a murderer and Dupin his accomplice.
Furniture scraped in the hall, and a moment later Papa rounded the corner with a sheen of sweat across his brow, his breath labored. “That should prevent any attempts at breaking in.”
“Do you think they’d try?” Lydia asked. The crowd was angry, but surely they wouldn’t stoop to vandalism or breaking and entering.
“The bigger the crowd, the less they think and the more they act on impulse.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “Henrietta, send Miranda home. Then I want you, Madelyn, and Lydia to pack your bags. We’ll go out the back and stay with the Planes until it’s safe to return.”
Lydia would never argue against staying with Theresa, but the idea that Lydia’s stories were cause for her family to flee from their home? It was absurd.
“Can’t we send for the police and have them disperse the crowd?”
“I’ve already made the call, but their presence will only be temporary. It is not safe to remain here.” He jammed the handkerchief back into his pocket and paced as he plotted his next move.
Lydia clutched her necklace, trying to soothe her anxiety, and returned her attention outside. More people had arrived within the span of their short conversation. Who knew how long they had until the crowd became bold enough to break in. Thank goodness Papa had the foresight to have a telephone installed as soon as they became available. Too bad Detective Hall was unlikely to be the officer to respond. Although, if they specifically asked for his assistance, he’d probably come, even if he hated her. That was just the kind of man he was.
She sighed. What she wouldn’t give to have a second chance with him—or maybe it was a third? Regardless of how many chances she was offered, he wasn’t likely to give her another.
Still, a part of her desired … What? Friendship with the man? Something more?
She shook her head. That was the foolishness of being an author—the imagination dragged the heart into its dreams.
Another person joined the crowd. What were they up to now, two dozen?
“Detectives Lawson and Hall, sir.”
