Page 11 of Written in Secret (The Art of Love and Danger)

C HAPTER 11

A brAHAM GAWKED AT THE MANUSCRIPTS before lifting his gaze to a suddenly green Miss Pelton.

“I’m going to be sick.” She lunged from her chair toward the waste bin in the corner.

Though she did not retch, she clung to it like a beloved doll.

Monroe strode to her side and placed a hand on her shoulder, proclaiming apologies for his inability to protect her.

But it couldn’t be true. The deaths Dupin outlined in his novels were as vile and sinister as the crimes committed by his villains. Only a soul as dark as the evil lurking in the world could contrive such endings. Miss Pelton’s romance novels had been far-fetched, yes, but full of light and laughter. They’d been beyond reproach. But Dupin’s novels …

They couldn’t be written by the same person.

“Come now, Miss Pelton,” Lawson spoke in soothing tones. “Calm yourself. You’re not in trouble, but I have quite a few questions that need answered.”

She moaned, and heaving followed.

A gag choked the back of Abraham’s throat, and Lawson fled the room under the excuse of obtaining water for her. Even Monroe patted her shoulder while facing away.

By her physical response, the revelation was true. Somehow both dark and light lived inside that woman, and yet God had declared that an impossibility. Good trees could not yield bad fruit, and bad trees could not yield good. Just who was this woman who’d managed to yield both in her writing?

Abraham ran a hand through his hair and momentarily tugged.

This could not be real. Miss Pelton’s character revelation aside, Dupin was their only lead.

Was.

Miss Pelton couldn’t possibly be physically capable of murder. She was by no means a small woman, but she lacked the height and strength necessary to kill those men. Joseph Keaton had been dragged a considerable distance through back alleys before being staged to match his original crime. But even if she’d had help, she couldn’t be in two places at once. Stealing that goat had given her an alibi that no one could question.

The heaves in the corner subsided, and Monroe aided Miss Pelton to her seat.

With Lawson gone, it was up to Abraham to continue the line of questioning—and he had plenty he wanted to ask. Not all relevant to the case. But he was a professional. Now was not the time to succumb to the personal shock of having fallen prey to the idea of a woman rather than the reality.

He withdrew his notebook and pencil from his coat and focused.

This must be like any other interview. Collect the facts, identify new suspects, and determine how she had gained access to details she shouldn’t have had.

Monroe sat close to Miss Pelton, his arm stretched across the back of her chair like she was his. For all Abraham knew, she could be. The woman had proven herself a criminal through and through. Con women flirted and used their wiles, beau or not. Still, it irked him that he’d assumed her unattached and allowed even the beginnings of attraction to set in. He should have known better.

Abraham cleared his throat. “Given the details included in your Billy Poe stories, you are far more acquainted with the crimes of these men than what the papers shared. How did you come by your information? Did your father provide it?”

She jerked upright. “No! He would never share such things. He doesn’t know that I’m Dupin.”

“Then how did you gain access to details you shouldn’t have?”

The large splinter sticking up from the edge of the table suddenly had her full attention. “I … sneaked peeks into his files whenever I visited him at the morgue. If I couldn’t get the information I needed there, I flirted with a couple of the officers who’d worked the cases and used their bragging to fill in the missing pieces.”

Only further proof that she was a good confidence woman. She must have chosen her targets well. Not many officers fell for the wiles of a woman who frequented a police station, even if she were the daughter of their coroner. Once the news reached Superintendent Carson’s desk, reprimands would echo through the hallway for hours.

Miss Pelton continued. “For writing the settings of each book, I visited the crime scene locations to collect details that I couldn’t determine from the photos.”

Of course she’d examined the photos. Scenes that he’d rather never see again were forever carved into his memory because of his job. But for her to seek them out and revel in them? What hardness of heart did it take for a person to find enjoyment in such a thing? Had she pursued something honorable with such persistence, cunning, and resourcefulness, he’d admire her. But this only served to turn his admiration to ashes.

He’d been right. Dime novels were a source of depravation, and Miss Pelton was a prime example of it.

Lawson returned with a glass of water that he offered Miss Pelton, then reclaimed his chair and indicated Abraham should continue.

Abraham obliged, though he wished the man would take the lead and leave him to process the ramifications of this whole fiasco. “Why do you write under Dupin if you already have a successful career as a romance novelist?”

“I actually wrote crime novels first.” She glanced at him and shrugged at whatever response she saw on his face. “I know. It doesn’t fit what a proper woman should read or write. But I’ve always loved Edgar Allan Poe, and with Papa a coroner, my fascination with crime and the human mind only grew.” She wrapped her hands around the glass and stared into its contents. “Papa runs his practice out of our home when not at the morgue, and officers often come in to seek medical attention for themselves or victims of a crime. When I was a child, I’d hide in the office connected to the examination room and eavesdrop on their conversations. The stories of injustice I heard broke my heart, and I wanted to write stories where the hero always won and those who’d been hurt would get the justice denied them. That’s why I write my Billy Poe novels.”

The concept was admirable, but the execution lacked the same nobility. “And you write romances for Mr. O’Dell, because …?”

“Because it was the only option I had at first. When I mailed my first detective novel to Mr. O’Dell, he accepted it eagerly—until he discovered L. R. Pelton was a woman. He accused me of passing off a man’s work as my own. In his opinion, the only thing women are capable of writing is romance. So I took my novel home and wrote a romance instead. They’re fun, but my heart lies with Billy Poe. Eventually, I decided to try again with my crime novels, but this time, I submitted under the pseudonym E. A. Dupin. Mr. O’Dell liked them so well, he agreed to the terms I set for protecting E. A. Dupin’s real identity.”

“So you lied to get what you wanted.”

She frowned at his response. “No. E. A. Dupin is my pseudonym. I made that clear upon the submission. Mr. O’Dell made his own assumptions. I just worked around his prejudice and didn’t reveal that Lydia Pelton and E. A. Dupin are the same person. There are plenty of authors who write under pseudonyms. It’s part of the business.”

Abraham firmed his mouth to keep from pointing out that there was a difference between using a pseudonym and hiding behind one for deceptive purposes.

“It’s true.” Monroe came to her defense. “Even the famous Mark Twain is only a pseudonym. They help protect the identities of writers from unwanted attention, and, in this case, consequences. Dime novels are not well received in many circles. Many of our authors circulate among those who despise them and advocate banning their stories. Having a pseudonym is not a crime. It’s a safety precaution.”

“Perhaps, but Miss Pelton’s reluctance to come forward has cost the department a week or more of investigation.” Abraham turned his attention back to her. “Do you realize the injustice you’ve participated in by keeping silent?”

Her face fell, and her voice turned pleading. “I understand your position, but can you not see mine? I’ve been stuck between providing the justice I desire and ensuring that those who are dearest to me are not hurt. My letter was the best I could offer.”

“No, it wasn’t. You could have told me when I came to the house to inform you the charges were dropped. Instead, you chose to save yourself. Now that we know who Dupin really is, we can act accordingly.”

“You’re not going to reveal who I am to the papers, are you?”

The end of her question tremored with fear, and Abraham felt a prick of compassion.

“We assure you, your secret is safe with us.” Lawson leaned forward and patted her hand in fatherly comfort. “You have nothing to fear. The city will turn its attention elsewhere soon enough. Just hold out until they print their next story.”

“How long will that be?”

He leaned back. “I can’t say for certain, but soon. We need a new lead that will satisfy the city. I don’t suppose you have any theories as to who is claiming to be Detective Billy Poe?”

“No. None.”

Another lie, or does she speak truth on occasion? The harshness of the thought made Abraham shake his head. He would not allow his merciless streak to direct his investigation. Maybe she just didn’t know she likely had an idea of who reenacted her stories.

“Do you have any letters from fans of your Dupin novels?”

“A few, but they’re at home.”

“I’ll need every one of them.”

She shrank in her chair, her voice matching the action of her body. “Could I bring them to you tomorrow while my father is away?”

“You still want to hide that you’re Dupin from him?”

“It’s for the best.”

“The best for whom?” Abraham felt for the man. It would be a hard blow to discover his daughter wrote such dark stories. “Tell him before he finds out through other means.”

“I don’t suppose telling him can be avoided at this point.” She slouched so much it was a wonder she remained in her chair.

Had the woman learned nothing about keeping secrets? “No, it cannot, and you owe it to him to tell him yourself.”

She nodded but said nothing further.

Monroe rose from his seat. “I assume Miss Pelton is free to go?”

Lawson rose as well. “We’ll have more questions later, I’m sure, but for now I think Detective Hall and I will return to the station.”

Monroe offered his arm to Miss Pelton. “I’ll take you home and tell your father that it was at my insistence you used the pseudonym and kept it secret.”

Another snake. Abraham’s world was filled with them, but at least he could step on this one. “I’d be wary of the man who encourages you to lie, Miss Pelton. He’s no hero.”

Monroe’s face darkened. “A true hero does what is necessary to protect those he loves.”

“And he does so without breaking God’s law. I’d bear that in mind, Mr. Monroe.” Those two deserved each other, one liar to another. “You may leave now. I’ll be by this evening to collect the notes.”

Monroe huffed in response, but Miss Pelton’s chin dipped toward her chest.

When Monroe opened the door, Clemens leaned against the frame with a smug serpent’s smile.

“Well, I’ll say, Miss Pelton. You are one talented woman. A romance author and a crime novelist? Won’t that just shock my readers. I can see it now.” He swiped his hand across the air like reading the headline. “‘The Queen of Romance Is a Killer at Heart.’ Can I have a quote for tomorrow’s edition?”

“You can quote this.” Monroe drew back a fist and landed it against Clemens’s mouth.

Abraham tried not to grin. How often had he desired to punch Clemens? Too bad he would need to arrest Monroe for assault now.

Lawson beat him to it. “It appears I’ll be taking you down to booking, Monroe. Clemens, you’re with me. I’ll have to write up a report for this, and I’ll need your statement.”

“I don’t want to press charges.” Clemens spoke through a bloody lip.

“That’s fine, but I’ll still have to fill out a report. Hall, escort Miss Pelton home. I’ll take Clemens’s statement here and then meet you at the station.”

That was one way to keep Monroe and Clemens away from Miss Pelton. Not that she didn’t deserve the consequences of her deception, but Lawson and Abraham had promised to protect her, and Abraham was a man of his word—even if she wasn’t a woman of hers.