A Changing Light by Edith Maxwell (feel good books to read txt) 📕

body would think it was time to make another baby already.” Jeanette patted her bosom with a grin. “Do you know he weighs twenty-five pounds at five months?” She shook her head.

“He was thirteen pounds at birth, and long, to boot,” I said.

“Yes, he certainly was.” Jeanette nodded. Her second labor and birth had gone surprisingly easily, despite the baby’s remarkable size. “Listen, Rose. Frannie here heard something interesting, and I convinced her we should come straightaway and tell you.”

“You have information, too, Jeanette,” Frannie said.

“Yes, I might.”

I glanced from one to the other. “Is it about the murder?”

“I think so,” Frannie replied. “I have a kitchen girl, but she only comes twice a week, as it’s only Mr. Eisenman and me at home now. She mainly does for Mr. Bailey.”

“Which Bailey?” I asked.

“Mr. Ned Bailey.”

Ah. I waited for her to go on, then thought of a question. “Is Ned married?” He hadn’t been when he was pestering me to step out with him, but his circumstances might have changed.

“No,” Frannie replied. “The man doesn’t have much luck with the ladies. He lives alone.”

“I’ve met him,” Jeanette said. “I’m not surprised he’s still a bachelor despite being well up in his thirties. He’s like an overeager puppy, that one.”

I smothered a laugh. It was an apt description for Ned.

“In any event,” Frannie began, “my girl said she spied Mr. Bailey hiding something in his bureau the morning the poor visitor’s death was reported.”

“It was Tuesday,” Jeanette offered.

“Yes.” Frannie nodded. “He went off to the Opening. Later she was putting away his clean laundry, and what did she find? A gun. A gun, I tell you! In his unmentionables drawer.”

I stared. Lighthearted Ned? He didn’t seem like a killer to me. On the other hand, he had cast a peculiar look at me after I’d mentioned hearing about his uncle’s plans being stolen.

Jeanette nodded sagely. She’d clearly heard the story.

“Goodness. Is she willing to speak to the police?” I asked Frannie.

“I doubt it. She’s pretty much fresh off the boat from Greece, and she doesn’t trust anyone in uniform. I think someone in her family was maltreated by either the police or the military.”

“Would thee be willing to report it?” I asked Frannie.

She wrinkled her nose. “I’d have to give them her name, and then she’d quit on me, I’m sure of it.”

I suspected this was very likely in both cases.

“Can’t you find some way to tell your detective buddy, Rose?” Jeanette asked. “I mean, a way not involving Frannie’s girl?”

“I can try. I assume the girl left the gun there.”

“Naturally,” Frannie said. “She was in quite a tizzy about even seeing it. She never would have touched it.”

The clock was inching closer to nine o’clock, when my first pregnant lady was due to arrive. “I’m sorry, but I have a client coming in ten minutes. Jeanette, did thee say thee had information to share, too?”

“Perhaps. I haven’t yet returned to my live interpreting job at the court, but a lawyer I know brought me a paper yesterday to translate into Polish along with another document in French he needed put into English. We chatted a bit, and he said the Parry factory is in dire straits.”

“I heard something about Parry having financial problems, too,” I said.

“He also mentioned Zebulon Weed,” Jeanette continued. “He’s a fellow Quaker, isn’t he?”

My heart sank. “Yes. What did he know about Zeb?”

“He’s representing young Zebulon.”

I stared at her. “Was Zeb arrested yesterday?”

“I don’t believe so, but the senior Weed seemed to think his son needed a lawyer.”

And maybe he did.

Chapter Twenty-three

I didn’t get to the police station until half past one. Making a telephone call to Kevin about Ned’s gun would be a very bad idea. This was a talk we needed to have in person. And we hadn’t spoken about the murder since Third Day, the day after it happened.

A dazzling sun shone on the snow, which was melting fast, and the air smelled fresh and clean. After I popped in to check on Esther and baby—both blessedly thriving—I walked into town rather than cycling through the slush. A robin hopped on a bare-limbed oak. A squirrel leaping onto a branch in an elm overhead plopped a clump of wet snow squarely on my bonnet. The wheel of a wide dray pulled by a tired-looking gray mare dipped through a puddle and splashed me. My shoes and hems were soaked through by the time I arrived at the station. The fresh-faced young man usually behind the counter had been replaced by a florid older officer with what looked like a permanent scowl etched onto his face.

I greeted him with a smile, anyway. “I’d like to speak with Kevin Donovan, if thee pleases.”

“Not here.”

“When does thee expect him back?”

“Don’t know.” He nearly barked the words.

I erased the smile from my face and stood up to my full height. “Please inform him Mrs. Rose Dodge needs to speak with him at his earliest convenience.”

He gave one slow nod and didn’t write down my name. I suppressed a sigh at this unhelpful man’s lack of response. Weren’t police officers public servants with an obligation to help the citizens of our fair town? This one must have forgotten the service part of his training. Was it that he disrespected my faith, which was always revealed by my speech and bonnet? Or maybe this was how he treated all females. Perhaps he thought my gender had no place inquiring into police business.

I turned toward the door but stepped out of the way when it opened. A young officer tugged on a middle-aged woman, holding her upper arm in a tight grip.

“Come along now, Mrs. Weed,” he said. “You know I’ve got to charge you.”

My jaw dropped as I took a second look. This was indeed Prudence Weed, Zeb’s mother. She wasn’t wearing a bonnet over curly graying hair escaping its hairpins. Her round face was flushed, her eyes bright and bloodshot, and her coat flapped open. I brought my