Riddle of the Prairie Bride Page 8
“I called hello when we came in,” Ida Kate invented quickly. “I called, but you didn’t answer, so we thought you must be in here with the baby, and then when we got to the door, we heard him cry, as Martha said, and so we came in to get him.”
Martha whirled over to the crib and smiled gaily down at the baby. “Hello, little lamb,” she crooned, then flashed a bright smile back at Caroline. “He’s sooo precious! May I please hold him?”
Caroline nodded, distracted. Her gaze swept over Ida Kate. Could Caroline tell that Ida Kate had the dagger in her pocket? Ida Kate’s blood felt like ice in her veins. She gave what she meant to be a cheerful little laugh, but it came out sounding rather like the cluck of one of their hens. “Shall I change his diaper?” she asked. “How long has he been napping?”
“About an hour,” Caroline said. “Enough for me to get some weeding done in the garden. And—yes, please do get him ready. I’ll cut some slices of bread if you’re hungry. And there’s freshly churned butter …”
“Thank you!” Martha lifted Hanky into her arms and nuzzled his cheek.
“That sounds good,” Ida Kate said weakly. “I’m surely famished.”
Caroline gave her a long look, then left the room. In a flash, Ida Kate raced over and shut the door. Martha placed Hanky back in the crib and knelt on the floor by the bed. She dragged out the reticule.
“Oh, Martha, not now!” protested Ida Kate in a whisper.
“Of course now,” Martha whispered back. “While she’s busy.”
Martha opened the cover of the photograph album, and Ida Kate pressed close to see. The sepia-tone photographs had been slipped into openings in the heavy cardboard pages so that each photograph appeared to be framed, like a painting, in an ornately decorated mounting. There was only one photograph per page. Most were portraits of bearded men in uniforms or pictures of stern-faced ladies dressed in black standing next to formal bouquets of flowers. There were a few photographs of children in ruffles and lace, sitting astride a wooden rocking horse or holding a toy sailboat or doll, all gazing without expression into the distance. There was one photograph of a chubby baby sitting in a wicker pram. The baby looked older than Hanky and didn’t have his curly hair. There were no names penned in the album identifying any of these people. Ida Kate closed the photograph album.
Hanky pulled himself up in the crib, banging his hands on the top rail. “Could you change his diaper, Martha?” Ida Kate murmured. “Otherwise he’ll start to howl and Caroline will come back!” She was replacing the album in the reticule when a loose photograph slipped out from the back. She picked it up and stared.
The picture was faded and a bit blurry. It was of two young women, standing with their arms about each other in a casual, friendly pose. One of the women was the impostor! Both wore big white aprons over their dresses. The hair of the woman Ida Kate knew as Caroline was messy, as if wind were blowing. She wore no hat. Neither did the other woman, who was taller than Caroline, and thin. Her hair, a long, thick braid, was wrapped around the top of her head and pinned into place. The background was a fanciful landscape of tall mountains and lush valleys, clearly painted, not real.
Caroline and this other woman appeared to be friends, Ida Kate decided, even though the smiles on their faces looked frozen—as smiles in photographs always did, since it took so long for the studio photographer to take the picture. Ida Kate turned the photograph over. On the back, written in the elegant handwriting Ida Kate recognized from Caroline’s letters, were the words Lucy and Caroline—two working girls!
Ida Kate frowned, trying to puzzle it out. The shorter woman was recognizable as the very same Caroline who was preparing their snack in the other room. The taller one wearing the coiled braid like a crown was unfamiliar. The handwriting on the back belonged to whoever had written the letters to Ida Kate and her father. Yet the Caroline Ida Kate knew did not write such a fine hand.
Lucy and Caroline. But which was which?
Ida Kate held out the photograph for Martha, who was standing by with a freshly diapered Hanky in her arms. “Hmm,” said Martha thoughtfully, studying it.
Ida Kate slipped the picture into the deep pocket of her pinafore along with the dagger, the letter, and the recipe. She was gathering quite a collection of stolen goods. Evidence, she told herself resolutely. For showing to Papa.
She quickly put the album back in the reticule and was shoving it under the bed when Martha’s voice stopped her. “Wait—there’s still the tin!”
Ida Kate picked up the round tin. Quickly she levered off the lid. She and Martha stared down in astonishment at what was inside: not Kauffman’s Finest Biscuits at all, but a thick, coiled braid of auburn hair, tied at each end with a blue hair ribbon.
A strange hush settled over the bedroom as Ida Kate slowly withdrew the photograph from her pinafore pocket. Yes—there was the same sort of braid wrapped around the unknown woman’s head.
The girls looked at each other. Could it really be the same braid—and what if it were? What did this mean? Why would Caroline have brought her friend’s long hair to Kansas?
Her tall, thin friend’s long, auburn hair.
So—was the woman wearing the braid in the picture the real Caroline Fairchild? But that would mean the other woman, the one they recognized, was somebody named Lucy.
Why would Lucy come to Kansas pretending to be Caroline? Why would she hide her friend’s hair away under the bed? Why would the real Caroline have given Lucy the long, beautiful braid, anyway? And if it hadn’t been given … could it have been taken?
Hesitantly, as if reaching for something that could prove quite dangerous, Ida Kate lifted the heavy braid out of the tin and held it up at arm’s length. It was very long, almost three feet. And beneath it in the bottom of the tin was a packet of letters tied with string.
With a stifled cry, Ida Kate dropped the braid and snatched up the letters. She recognized these letters. These were the very letters she and Papa had sent to Caroline Fairchild.
Ida Kate turned to Martha with wide, troubled eyes. “I can scarcely believe …” she began in a whisper.
“Yes, you can,” Martha whispered back, her eyes glinting with fearful excitement. “And I believe it, too!” She reached out and stroked the braid with one trembling finger. “I believe your mail-order bride isn’t merely an impostor … she is a murderess.”
Ida Kate pressed her hand hard against her mouth. But why else had the woman with the braid not come searching for her stolen baby? Surely she would be searching everywhere—if she were still alive.
Little Hanky leaned forward in Martha’s arms, trying to grab the length of hair. When Martha held it out of reach, he lunged for the photograph in Ida Kate’s hand. “Mama?” he said. “Mama!”
CHAPTER 10
MURDERESS!
The little house seemed to pulse with tension as Ida Kate and Martha sat eating their fresh bread and butter at the table, with Hanky on Ida Kate’s lap and the impostor—Lucy!—stirring the pot of stew on the stove.
Ida Kate felt she couldn’t bear for Martha to leave. “Can’t you sleep here?” she muttered. But Martha shook her head vehemently, her mouth full of bread. “No, your father is going to take me back soon.” She glanced furtively over at the impostor at the stove. “I think it might be … better … if you slept at my house instead.”
She means it would be safer, thought Ida Kate. She looked desperately around the little house, wishing for Papa. And just then she heard the latch on the door. In came Papa. He smiled at everyone. “What a lovely sight! Three fine ladies and one little imp.” He lifted Hanky off Ida Kate’s lap and tossed him high in the air. “And the incomparable smell of freshly baked bread. Not to mention the scent of your stew, Caroline, my dear. Bottle it as perfume and make your fortune!”
Ida Kate’s stomach clenched at her father’s happiness.
Caroline—the false Caroline—laughed gaily at Papa’s remarks. “I doubt many ladies would care to go about sm
elling of chicken stew!” she said, then added sweetly, “The promise of such a husband as you is fortune enough for me.”
They gazed at each other for a long moment while Martha kicked Ida Kate sharply under the table and whispered, “See? See? She does think she’ll be rich once she marries him …”
“I don’t think that’s what she meant,” Ida Kate began—when Papa interrupted.
“Well, Princess Martha, your carriage awaits. I’ve hitched up Thunder, and I’ll need to take you home right now so that I get back in time for my chicken stew.”
“I’ll come, too, Papa!” said Ida Kate, hurriedly standing up. She did not want to be left with the impostor—not even for the half hour it would take Papa to drive Martha home and return.
“I’d like you to stay with me,” said the impostor. “You can mind Hanky while I fry up the apple fritters.”
“Mmm, yes indeed,” Papa said. “Stay with Caroline. I need those fritters!”
“But, Papa!” Ida Kate blinked back sudden tears.
Martha squeezed Ida Kate’s hand. “See you at school tomorrow,” she said, but her expression was mournful. “Good luck.” She flushed. “I mean, good-bye!”
When Papa and Martha had driven off, a strained silence settled over the little house. Ida Kate played with Hanky, building him little towers of wooden blocks to knock over. She peeled apples and started to slice them—but the impostor stopped her.
“Here,” she said, handing her another knife. “Use this one. A sharp knife is very important.”
Very important for cutting off people’s hair after you’ve stabbed them to death with your dagger?
Ida Kate watched the false Caroline wield another sharp knife, snapping through the innocent apples. She saw again in her mind the way this impostor had sliced through the rattlesnake. Was that how easily you might slice your victim’s neck?
It seemed to her now that the false Caroline’s expression was furtive. Every motion and every word took on new and dreadful significance. Ida Kate was hugely relieved when Papa returned.
They sat down to supper together, and the stew was delicious. Papa and his intended bride leaned their heads close together as they talked about their day, sharing jokes, laughing together. Ida Kate could tell that her beloved Papa had fallen in love with this woman. She knew he had hoped for a pleasant partnership with his new bride—the sort of partnership that made up so many frontier marriages—but he had not expected to find love again after Mama’s death. Their wedding date was set already, just two weeks away.
If Ida Kate did not warn Papa, his very life might be in danger. A person who had killed once would not hesitate to kill again.
The fact that the impostor was still at large must mean that the death of the real Caroline had appeared accidental. A brutal stabbing would not have been easy to hide … Ida Kate’s thoughts were racing now. The impostor might be very good indeed at arranging “accidents.” She might be a strangler, or a poisoner … Ida Kate looked at the impostor’s strong hands spooning up stew for Hanky. She looked down at her own bowl. She couldn’t eat another bite of stew.
It was too much to bear when, later that evening, Papa asked for a haircut, and the false Caroline brought out the sharp scissors from the bedroom.
Ida Kate stood watching, hands clenched into fists, as her father sat at the table with a towel wrapped around his neck to catch the hair. The false Caroline stood over him, sharp scissors poised, and surveyed her intended husband. She reached out—Ida Kate flinched—and snipped at his beard.
“This needs just a little trim,” she said. “That’s all.”
Then she set about cutting his shaggy dark mane of hair. “Watch out,” Papa joked as she snipped around his sideburns. “You nearly took my ear right off!”
He caught her fingers, and Ida Kate watched as he held them tenderly for a moment. Then the woman he thought was Caroline replied laughingly, “Sit still or you’ll have only yourself to blame if the scissors slip!”
Had the imposter stabbed the real Caroline with those same scissors during a haircut—the braid!—and somehow managed to make it appear accidental? Ida Kate rubbed her eyes. Nothing made sense.
“This is a fine job,” Papa said appreciatively when the haircut was over and the false Caroline handed him the small mirror. “You must have had a lot of practice. I expect you learned by cutting your husband’s hair?”
“Yes, indeed, whenever Claude needed it. The last thing I want to see across my table is a shaggy ape of a man! I guess little Hanky will come in for his share of trims, but not yet. Those sweet red curls are just right—”
“Clivedon,” Ida Kate interrupted loudly.
They stopped talking and turned to her. “Clivedon, not Claude,” Ida Kate said. Her hands were sweating, and she punched them into the pockets of her pinafore. She felt the dagger there, and the letter. The recipe. The photograph. “Your husband’s name was Clivedon Fairchild—at least that’s what you wrote to us.”
Her father just stared at her. But the woman at his side grew pale. Then she shook her head ruefully at Ida Kate. “Of course I said Claude, my dear. It was Clivedon’s middle name—the one his family always used. But he preferred Clivedon for business purposes. Thought it sounded more prestigious.” She smiled and turned back to Papa.
“Now, hold it right there, Henry, my dear. There’s just a little bit at the back here that’s uneven …” The scissors clicked. She looked over at Ida Kate across Papa’s bent head, and her expression was triumphant. “There now. Perfect!”
CHAPTER 11
FALSE SPRING
Ida Kate was running along the trail to school—no, it was the path to the graveyard. There was Mama, waving to her! There was Papa, calling her name! She raced along and the sun was warm and the sky was blue and her feet lifted her so high that soon she was floating along. Yes, she was flying now, flying toward Mama and Papa, brimming with warm happiness because at last they would all be together again …
But who was that? Up ahead, next to Papa, another woman waved to Ida Kate. It was a tall, thin woman with a long red braid coiled about her head. She held Hanky. They were both waving—and Mama was fading, as day turned to darkness. Mama was gone, and Caroline Fairchild—the real Caroline Fairchild—stood next to Papa. But not for long—because there behind Papa came another woman … She came sneaking along, and Ida Kate knew what the others did not know: it was the impostor, and she was coming to kill Caroline.
“No!” Ida Kate tried to shout a warning, but the sound came out a grunt, like a pig’s. “Stop—look behind you, Papa!” she tried to cry. She saw the impostor raise her arm high—she saw the dagger in the impostor’s hand, poised to strike! “Caroline! Papa! Hanky!” screamed Ida Kate, and she tried to run to help them, but her legs wouldn’t move. She just floated, slow as molasses, above the path.
Then Caroline faded away, and so did the baby. And so did the impostor. Papa was left alone. Ida Kate felt his loss and her own wash over her like a wave, and she started to cry.
The dream girl was crying and the girl in the bed was thrashing from side to side. All night Ida Kate had been tortured by one awful nightmare after another. Now she was finally awakened by a gust of air blowing across her face like a splash of cold water. She gasped in relief and opened her eyes. She was in her bed in the storeroom, with morning light seeping through the cracks around the door.
The door was closed, so where had the cold breeze come from? Ida Kate remembered with a stab of longing her mother’s cool hand soothing her forehead after other bad dreams.
“Mama?” she whispered. But there was no answer. The quilt was twisted tightly around her legs. No wonder she’d felt she couldn’t run.
Ida Kate burrowed down into her pillow, wishing to hibernate. But then, from the main room, she heard Papa’s laugh and Hanky’s high-pitched shriek of delight. She heard the impostor’s voice—not sounding half so southern as it had the day before—and she shivered, remembering her dream.
But what about Hanky? Would the impostor take the baby away? Ida Kate was stabbed by the same sense of loss she’d felt in her dream. The truth was, she wanted Hanky to stay.
The truth is, you want them both to stay.
Was that Mama’s angel voice in her head? Ida Kate scrubbed her fingers into her hair, hard. Well, Mama was wrong this time, even if she was an angel. Of course I don’t want a killer in our house, Mama!
Ida Kate jumped out of bed and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. She opened the storeroom door and stepped into the main room.
It was warmer there. Papa, with Hanky on his lap, was finishing his breakfast of eggs and mush and bread. The false Caroline sat across from them. She smiled uncertainly at Ida Kate. “I was just going to come wake you, dear,” she said. “So you could say good-bye.”
Relief washed over Ida Kate like a warm rain—but mixed with a gust of sorrow, too. “You’re leaving us!” It was the best solution, she told herself. This way there wouldn’t have to be any nasty accusations; this way the impostor bride would simply disappear out of their lives. But then why was some part of Ida Kate crying out, How can you do this to me?
“Leaving us?” Papa sounded surprised. “Of course not. I’m the one who has to leave, I’m afraid.” He set Hanky down on his blanket on the floor and stood up. “I’m off to Hays City for the day. Got to buy a new plow blade—the other one broke yesterday, darn thing. And I can’t work without it. I’ll be back in time for supper, or at least I hope I will.” He glanced out the window, worry creasing his brow. “If the weather holds.”