Murder in Burnt Orange by Jeanne M. Dams Read Free Book Online Page A

Tippecanoe Place, however convenient, was not an appropriate way to reach him. The phone would either be answered by the butler, who would be incensed at being asked to call a servant to the instrument or, worse, answered by Mr. Studebaker himself, or his secretary. No, it wouldn’t do. She debated for a moment, then went to the desk in Patrick’s den, wrote a note, and rang the bell.
    â€œEileen, would you ask Mr. O’Rourke to take this note to John Bolton, please?”
    â€œHe’ll not be pleased at havin’ to take the horses out on such a hot day, ma’am,” said Eileen. “I could take it meself. I’m not very busy.”
    There was a note of eagerness in the maid’s voice, and Hilda hesitated. John Bolton was a handsome man. He was also a man of doubtful probity where young women were concerned. Hilda, when she worked at Tippecanoe Place, had had to fend off his attentions more than once. But Eileen was scarcely more than a child, and she could surely come to no harm in a brief visit on a summer afternoon. “Very well. Do not hurry. It is too hot. But do not waste time, either, or Mrs. O’Rourke will be angry with both of us!”
    â€œYes, ma’am!”
    The clock had just chimed the half hour when Hilda heard the clatter of hooves on the brick pavement. A moment later, Eileen tapped on the parlor door. “Mr. Bolton, ma’am.” Her face was pink and her cap slightly askew. Hilda decided to attribute both to the heat of the day.
    â€œCome in, John. Thank you for coming. Eileen, would you—”
    But Eileen had vanished. Probably something cool would be forthcoming soon.
    â€œSit down, John. It is good to see you again.”
    If Hilda had expected John to be somewhat abashed in her parlor, when her former milieu had been the servants’ hall, she was disappointed. He lounged back in her best chair and gave her an impudent grin, his head tilted to one side.
    â€œMarriage agrees with you, Hilda, my dear. Oh, I beg your pardon—Mrs. Cavanaugh, it is now.”
    â€œIt is, yes. And I should call you Mr. Bolton.”
    John grinned even more broadly. “As you wish. Eileen said you wanted to talk to me, and loath though I am to rush you, Mrs. George wants the carriage at five. So...”
    â€œYes. I need to know what you know about Eugene Debs.”
    The grin faded. John sat forward. “Why do you want to know about him? He’s—he can be an unpredictable man. Sound principles, mind you, but he sometimes goes too far.”
    â€œHow far? That is what I want to know. Would he wreck a train?”

6
    It is easier to be a lover than a husband...
    â€”Honoré de Balzac, letter to a friend,1829
    So that’s what this is about! I might have known you’d be poking into that affair. But is it wise for you—that is, just now?” Even John seemed slightly uncomfortable discussing her condition.
    Hilda felt herself blushing. It was difficult, this transition from servant to lady. She and John had been friends, easy in one another’s company, though she had occasionally had to scold him for over-familiarity. Now...
    She made a decision. “John, I am the same person I always was. You are the same person. Except when other people are around, I am Hilda. You are John. Yes, I am looking into the train wrecks, because Mama and Aunt Molly asked me to do it, but I cannot easily leave the house. So I must talk to other people and learn what I can. So. Do you think Mr. Debs could be organizing the wrecks?”
    John sat back again, but his grin was gone. “Hilda, I don’t know. I don’t think he’d go so far.”
    Patrick had said the same thing, Hilda remembered.
    â€œHe’s on the side of the railroad men, of course. He’s head of the ARU—American Railway Union.”
    â€œBut in that strike years ago—the Pullman Strike—railroad men were killed. That does not make