Page 3 of Written in Secret (The Art of Love and Danger)

C HAPTER 3

L YDIA TUCKED HER FEET BENEATH the plush chair and adjusted the borrowed rubber coat tighter around her body as the booking clerk of the Oliver Street station house ogled her again. What had she been thinking when she agreed to wear trousers? As a novelist, she should’ve considered what would happen if they were arrested. Even with Officer Hall’s attempt to conceal their appearance by borrowing raincoats, their scandalous apparel was still drawing the attention of everyone who passed.

It was either that or her red, hive-ridden face.

The clerk winced, then returned to processing paperwork.

She faced Theresa. “Please tell me it doesn’t look as bad as it feels.”

“I don’t know how it feels, but it looks bad. Really bad.”

Lydia dug her nails into a raised hive on her cheek. “Tell me again why we used oil paint instead of buying greasepaint.”

“Stop picking at it.” Theresa pulled Lydia’s hand away before anything resembling relief could be had. “I already had plenty of white oil paint in my paint box, and I needed my money to purchase Tipsy. I didn’t see the sense in buying something else when that would work as well. Although perhaps we should have stuck to removing it with soap instead of turpentine.”

Only perhaps ? Lydia’s immediate reaction to the chemical ensured that hers was a face no one would forget, especially when displayed among the rogues gallery.

Officer Hall arrived with a rag in hand and a deep-set frown. “I’m afraid all I can offer is this. I didn’t find anything that would help in our medical supplies.”

The care in his molasses-colored eyes was as sweet as the cookies she often overindulged in. Too bad she couldn’t give up the cookies and indulge in endless eye-gazing instead. It’d be better for her waistline.

“Thank you.” She took the proffered wet rag that fortunately appeared new, leaned her head back, and draped it over her face.

The coolness helped, but clawing off every agonizing welt would be better.

“Are you certain that you shouldn’t go to a hospital or have a doctor sent for?”

She’d already assured him of that twice. “I’m having no trouble breathing or indications that I will. The only doctor I need is my father.” As much as she didn’t want Papa to know of her arrest and be disappointed in her, she trusted only him.

“I wish to notify him personally, but there’s one more thing I must do before I can leave.”

It seemed Officer Hall was intent on attending personally to everything connected to her arrest. She’d be surprised if anyone else knew she was Dr. Pelton’s daughter. But he knew, and his preferential treatment of her and Theresa both disappointed and made her dreamy.

She’d never been on the criminal side of things. The experience of being treated like a common crook would do wonders for adding realistic details to her stories. Unfortunately she hadn’t even seen what a holding cell looked, smelled, or felt like. Just imagine the information she could glean from actual criminals if placed in a cell! She’d ask where they socialized, if they had code words, and how they chose their targets.

But how could she hate the attention of a man with enough Mr. Darcy qualities to make her wish she were Elizabeth Bennet? At least the Elizabeth Bennet after visiting Pemberley.

“I’m fine.” She removed the rag to make speaking easier. “Do what you need to, but are you certain you shouldn’t put us in a holding cell so you don’t get into trouble with your superiors?”

“I’m certain. Just do me the favor of keeping out of trouble from here forward. I don’t wish to ever see you on the wrong side of my job again.”

“But you wouldn’t mind to see me on a proper one?”

Oh, that’s a good line. If only she had a pencil to write it down for future use in a romance novel.

“I’m not sure there is a proper one. In my line of work, there are only victims and perpetrators.” His gaze roved her face for a moment. “If your symptoms worsen, tell Officer Blythe immediately. He’ll take you directly to the hospital. There is a pitcher and a bowl at the desk for you to refresh the rag as needed. I’ll be back to check on you before I leave.” He strode off with the perfect masculinity of every hero in every dime novel she’d ever read or written.

And just like her heroines, she sighed audibly with a touch of swoon. Oh yes, he needed to be the hero of a novel—sooner rather than later.

Theresa elbowed her side. “You like him, don’t you? I’ve never heard you flirt so boldly before.”

“I wasn’t flirting. I was being witty and charming. I have to test, on occasion, what my heroines say, just so I know what a man’s real reaction would be.”

“So you’re claiming research, are you?”

“Everything is research. Including flirting. The good news is that you were right. This experience has not only resurrected my creativity but also inspired a whole new story.”

Theresa scooted closer. “Would that be a romance published under your own name or a crime novel published by our mutual friend?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Mm-hmm. And should I expect the hero’s initials to be A. H.?”

“Maybe.” Lydia covered her face with the rag and smiled.

She could have a lot of fun with a hero like Officer Hall. First impressions weren’t something to base a real romance on, but fiction only needed a spark, and, good gracious, did Officer Hall set off sparks. With a little encouragement, she could flame a whole series to life. She was unsure if Officer Hall’s response to her flirting was discouragement, but she’d liked it all the same. Victims and perpetrators. It was such a police-like thing to say. Her publisher had asked E. A. Dupin—the pseudonym she used for her crime novels—to write more books a year. Perhaps she could start a new detective series in addition to her Billy Poe novels, one with a romantic interest who shared her name. She giggled. It wasn’t like anyone but her closest friends knew she was E. A. Dupin. The hero could be named Detective Abe Darcy as a private joke.

“What have we here?” The unfamiliar male voice interrupted her musings.

Lydia tamped down a growl of frustration before it escaped. She much preferred imaginary characters to real people. Especially the nosy kind.

“The most interesting cases always come in during the night. Tell me, ladies”—the word ladies hinted at sarcasm—“what brings you here tonight in such attire?”

Lydia yanked the rag off her face.

Surprise lifted the brows of the man in front of her before they settled into curiosity.

The lack of uniform made it obvious he wasn’t an officer, but she’d seen him around Papa’s office enough to recognize his thin, determined face. A reporter. If she recalled correctly, one who behaved like he had something to prove. Ambition could be a great quality in a man, but not when it risked her identity.

Theresa stiffened in her seat next to Lydia, no doubt ready to launch into a defense that painted the circus as evil and them valiant.

Lydia clapped a hand over Theresa’s mouth. “I don’t believe that is your business, Mr.—”

“Eugene Clemens, from the Cincinnati Commercial . It’s my job to report arrests for the sake of public awareness, so your story is my business. Unless you are the victims of a crime.”

She knew better than to take the bait, but responding posed a challenge. Silence indicated guilt. Speaking up risked revealing too much.

“Your story’s in cell two, Clemens.” Officer Hall appeared with crossed arms.

Mr. Clemens glanced between them, and a smile edged its way up. “I assume you’re referring to that aerialist you arrested for burglary. I’ve got what I need there, but I think the story sitting here will be of far more interest to my readers.”

“Shouldn’t you be heading to that murder scene just telephoned in?”

“Nice try, Hall, but I know a distraction tactic when I see one.”

A pair of officers collected jackets, lanterns, and truncheons from the closet and rushed out the foyer door.

The confidence on Mr. Clemens’s face faltered.

“Gilbert Avenue and Morris Street. Body’s in the woods.” Officer Hall nodded toward the door.

Mr. Clemens frowned and visually vacillated between his two options. Stay for a potential story or go after a certain one? His decision became apparent when he took off at a run.

“Did you really just give him the address of a murder scene?” Didn’t that break some sort of investigation rule?

“No. If he isn’t smart enough to tail the officers, he’ll find himself at Eden Park on the opposite side of town.” A mischievous grin appeared.

Gracious, that man’s smile could make a heart stutter. Where was her fan when she needed it? Detective Darcy definitely needed his own story, and soon.

His heat-inducing smile died. “You didn’t give him your names, did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. I’m on my way to inform your father of your situation. Is there anything you need before I leave?”

“A promise that I’ll see you again?” She batted her lashes like the ladies in novels and immediately felt foolish. Did women really behave this way, and did it really attract a man?

Next to her, Theresa giggled and then whispered, “More research?”

Officer Hall frowned. “That, I cannot give.” Then he retreated out the door like Jonah avoiding his calling to Nineveh—with all haste.

Theresa burst into full-fledged laughter. “I think you’ve discovered how to make a man run away.”

“At least an upstanding one.”

Lydia refreshed the rag and endured an interested side-glance from Officer Blythe. Based on the hopeful gleam to his smile, he expected her to flirt with him too. The man would have to live with disappointment. She’d had enough uncomfortable interactions with men who took too much encouragement from her playful research. Officer Hall, however, had felt strangely safe from the moment she’d crashed into him. If a person could really determine such a thing in such a short time.

She settled onto her chair and under the rag. Perhaps she could finish plotting a Detective Darcy story by the time Papa arrived.

Unfortunately, plotting couldn’t distract her from the intensity of her itching. By her dozenth trip to the bowl at Officer Blythe’s desk, the water had warmed and failed to provide sufficient relief.

The foyer door rattled before opening. A thin woman in bedraggled clothes and reeking like she’d fallen into a keg staggered toward Officer Blythe.

Now there was a potential character for her books. Lydia discreetly held her breath as she lingered over the water bowl, repeatedly dipping the rag and then wringing it out.

“I demand”—the woman stumbled but caught herself—“I demand to sh-sh-shpeak to … to the de-de … officer in charge.”

By the sounds of it, the woman hadn’t just fallen into a keg, she’d drunk her way out of it as well.

To his credit, Officer Blythe didn’t lean away when spittle flew at him. “Are you here to report a crime, ma’am?”

“Report it?” She slapped the desk and leaned forward so far, she almost lay down on it. “You’ve known ’bout it for weeks. Dupin killed my boy!”

Lydia dropped the rag. Dupin? But that was impossible. E. A. Dupin was just a pseudonym. Her pseudonym, and the only people she killed were fictional.

Officer Blythe straightened. “And you would be?”

“Mrs. Finn. My boy’s Daniel Finn—”

“Daniel Finn?” Lydia’s whole body turned to ice. “The same Daniel Finn who slaughtered a man for cheating at cards?” The one on whom she’d based an entire Billy Poe novel?

Mrs. Finn spun and tottered toward Lydia. “My boy weren’t no murderer. He was tried and ex-ex … let go.”

Yes, because of “missing” evidence and a key witness who refused to testify thanks to Mr. Finn’s backdoor political connections. The entire city had been in an uproar. But what could the honest citizens of Cincinnati do? It was well-known that the city’s leaders controlled the elections, regulated the police force, and manipulated judge and jury alike.

So Lydia had used the only means available to give the public what they desired—she’d written a story where Daniel Finn met an untimely end while under investigation by Detective Billy Poe. It was a poor consolation compared to real justice, but that didn’t mean she wanted the real Mr. Finn dead.

This had to be a misunderstanding.

“And you’re saying your son has been murdered by E. A. Dupin? The author ?”

Officer Blythe cut around the desk and stepped between them. “I am afraid that is an ongoing investigation. Anything said is pure speculation.”

“‘Speculation,’ my foot!” The woman jabbed a finger at his chest and lost her balance, landing on the floor. “Billy Poe himself left a letter claiming the deed, and Dupin wrote Billy Poe. Since Poe ain’t real, it has to be Dupin. Why ain’t he arrested yet?”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Finn, but go home. You can visit Central tomorrow, when Detective Lawson is available to answer your questions.”

She spat on his shoes before pushing to her unstable feet. “Forget it. I’ll take care of Dupin myself.” Threat after vile threat against Dupin spewed from Mrs. Finn as she weaved through the exit.

Heavens above! What would Mrs. Finn have done if she’d known the real E. A. Dupin stood next to her?

Lydia turned to Officer Blythe. “Is it wise to allow her to leave?”

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?”

She forced a deep, slow breath. “I can.”

“Good, then when we get home, I want a full explanation. If what Officer Hall says is true, then we’ve got a big problem on our hands.”

Hopefully he’d never have to know how big it really was.