Theresa cut a glance to Lydia and grimaced. Colonel Plane would put them in front of a firing squad for this. Or, more likely, he’d set them to cleaning the baseboards and floor seams with a toothbrush.
Papa rushed into the room with his shirt half tucked into his pants, barefoot, and his black bag in hand. When his eyes landed on his newest patient, they widened. “Good heavens! What happened?”
“Ummm … We might have booby-trapped the room and forgot to tell Mrs. Hawking.” Lydia eyed the dangling rope that still held the pitcher’s handle within its loop.
“Of course you did. No, don’t sit up, Mrs. Hawking. I must determine if it is safe for you to move first.” He pulled Lydia to her feet and waved Theresa to do the same. “Put your wrappers on and collect your clothes for the day. You’ll dress across the hall so I have the space necessary to treat her.”
They did as bidden and left Papa feeling for breaks in Mrs. Hawking’s skull. Detective Lawson and the other officers he’d brought gathered in the hall. Before Lydia could enter the room her parents shared, the detective gripped her arm.
“It wasn’t Billy Poe, was it?”
“No. Only Mrs. Hawking taken unawares by our trap.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at your creative means of protection, given your stories.” Detective Lawson glanced to where Mrs. Hawking’s prone legs and feet could be seen through the open door, and shook his head. He returned his attention to Lydia and eyed the rolled-up dress and underpinnings. “Once you’re ready, meet me in the parlor with your manuscript. Poe never showed, but that doesn’t mean he won’t still try. We’ll figure out a safe place to store it until this is over.”
“There’s no need. My friends should arrive soon, and we’ll burn it not long after.”
“I still say that’s a rash decision.”
“You can think what you wish, but it is my story to do with as I please, and it would please me very much to know I’ve stolen the identity of Billy’s last potential victim from him.”
Detective Lawson frowned but nodded.
By the time she and Theresa emerged from the room, Papa had assisted a concussed Mrs. Hawking back to her quarters and Nora and Flossie had arrived. Lydia retrieved the manuscript box from the bottom of Theresa’s armoire while Theresa retrieved the kindling bin from the kitchen. Then Lydia locked the four of them plus Flossie’s puppy in the parlor. Abraham had barged in on her yesterday. She would not allow Detective Lawson to do the same and attempt to steal even a single sheet for his purposes.
Lydia faced her three friends, already forming a line in front of the fireplace. The ceramic Guardian brooches Flossie had designed and fired in her home kiln stood out prominently on their dresses, declaring this was no ordinary meeting among friends. From a distance, someone might assume the design a flower, but upon closer inspection, four swords came together over a shield of blue and purple with some greenery spreading out at the bottom. The colors were specifically chosen to represent the group’s ideals of justice, harmony, and loyalty. Whatever would she do without these ladies?
Harold didn’t seem impressed by the display of bold friendship and chose instead to chase his fluffy tail.
“Thank you for coming.” Lydia clutched the box with the unfinished pages to her chest. “The first order of business is to protect the identity of Billy Poe’s next victim by”—emotion she hadn’t expected lodged within her throat, and she had to swallow hard to continue—“burning my latest story.”
Unrestrained compassion showed on her friends’ faces, and some of her burden lifted.
“I’ll remove the summer cover and attach the grate.” Theresa broke from the line and prepared the coal fireplace.
“And I’ll go get coal.” Nora started toward the door.
“We won’t need it,” Lydia said. “I intend to burn my manuscript box as well.”
Nora stopped and stared at her. “But that was your first purchase to celebrate becoming a published author.”
“And it will be the coffin for the last manuscript I ever write.” Though Lydia had tried to sound confident and unaffected, the tears that built pressure behind her eyes also warbled her voice.
Flossie scooped up Harold and exchanged him for the manuscript box. “You need the love of a puppy.”
Harold’s tongue immediately began exploring Lydia’s face. “At least I’m finally getting kissed by someone.”
Theresa snorted from her squatted position as she attached the coal grate to the surrounding frame. “I think Detective Hall was quite successful doing that last night.”
“Not too successful. You interrupted him,” Lydia muttered.
Flossie squealed. “You finally got your first kiss?”
“He insisted it didn’t count. Our lips barely touched.”
“Oh, what a disappointment. You’ll have to try again.” Flossie said it so flippantly that, if Lydia didn’t know better, she’d think Flossie kissed every man she met. But Flossie would never allow a man who did not first support and encourage her suffragist activities anywhere near her lips. So far, such a man proved as elusive as a unicorn.
“Ignore Flossie.” Nora retrieved scraps of wood from the kindling bin and handed them to Theresa. “The only kisses she knows are Harold’s.”
