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

“You two know each other?” Catherine asked.

“I met Rose when I was caring for my mother in West Falmouth in September,” Marie told the shopkeeper.

“Excellent. Here are your tonics.” Catherine handed her several bottles wrapped in brown paper. “Now, do read the dosages, Mrs. Deorocki. These aren’t to be trifled with.”

As she nodded, I again heard the ominous crackle of the rale.

Marie paid, said goodbye, and walked toward the exit, coughing anew before the door shut behind her.

“She’s not well,” I said in a soft tone, even though no one else seemed to be nearby.

Catherine surveyed the store and lowered her voice, too. “No, she’s not.”

“I met her on Elm Street a little while ago as I was going to visit with Dr. Mary Chatigny. Does Marie have—”

“Galloping consumption? She does. We volunteer at the same Catholic charity and have become good friends.”

“She should be resting.”

“Aye, she should. I tell her as much, and so does her husband. She says she has too much to do. I’m afraid she’ll collapse one of these days, and then what will she be able to accomplish?” Catherine set my purchases on the counter and began to tally up the prices.

“How are thy twins, and little Charlie?” I asked.

“Charlie’s a right sturdy lad, and fearless, even though he can’t see a speck.”

A disease transmitted from his mother’s birth passage had blinded the boy after he’d entered the world. I’d asked my sightless friend Jeanette to assist the parents in understanding how to cope, educate their son, and help him navigate the world.

Catherine beamed. “My girlies have been helping to take care of him. Funny, he’s their nephew despite them being only six and him a toddler. Now, what else can I get you today?”

“Nothing, I think.” I peered at the glass-fronted cabinet behind her, which was full of bottles, pills, and powders. “What kind of tonics did Marie buy, may I ask?”

“Mellin’s Emulsion and Dr. Sproule’s tonic, two of our strongest, as well as Dr. Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral Plaster and Beecham’s Pills. She thinks they’ll cure her. That and prayer.”

“Prayer can be powerful,” I offered.

“I suppose. Say, what do you think about that Canuck gent being murdered?” Her eyebrows went up.

“I think it’s a sad and horrible end to a young man’s life, no matter where he was from.”

She crossed herself. “Will you be working with the police again?” Catherine’s witness testimony had helped solve a case a year ago.

“I’ll be poking around as I can. Naturally, the department will be doing the actual investigation.”

“Tell them they ought to . . .” Catherine glanced around the store again, but we were still alone. She spoke in a near whisper. “They might want to look into the wife. Those two were in here yesterday. I overheard her berating the poor fellow. They were behind the paint shelves, and I’m sure she thought I couldn’t hear.” The shopkeeper laughed heartily. “My sainted husband says I have better ears than a dog’s.”

“Interesting. I shall pass that along.” I smiled. “About Luthera Harrington, not about thy acute hearing.”

“That’s fine, then.” She looked me up and down. “You’re with child, are you now, Rose?”

“I am.” My cheeks heated up. “I feel quite blessed about it. But thee could tell? I didn’t think my condition was that obvious yet.”

She gave a knowing nod, with a finger next to her eye. “I’ve borne three, and you and I both helped my daughter-in-law birth little Charlie. But it’s also that I watch people in here all day long. You’ve the look, Rose, and there’s no mistaking it. Your garment is a bit snug, too.”

“Thee has a keen eye as well as keen ears. I’m ordering new dresses from a seamstress to accommodate my growing girth.” I paid her for my purchases and bade her farewell. As I walked up Friend Street, I mused on what she’d said before we started discussing my pregnancy. Would Luthera have been so bold as to shoot her own husband here in a strange town? Perhaps she thought few would know her, and she’d be able to get away with the crime. But why?

Chapter Eight

“Rose, what a surprise,” my niece Faith said at the door to the busy newsroom of the Amesbury Daily News a few minutes later.

“I was passing by and thought I’d stop in. I’ve never visited thee in thy workplace before.”

I glanced beyond her at a room full of desks at which sat men in shirtsleeves and vests, scribbling away or conversing. One leaned back in his chair chewing on a red pencil. The young fellow who had let me in and fetched Faith scurried busily about. When a reporter wearing a visor waved a paper in the air, the lad ran over, grabbed it, and took it into another room.

“Is thee the only female employed here?” I asked.

“Pretty much. There’s a lady who types letters for the boss and makes the coffee, but no other reporters of my sex.” She frowned, drawing her brows together over brown eyes so much like my own. “The editor keeps asking me to cover society events instead of the news. That’s a girl’s purview, he says.”

“It’s a start, isn’t it? And thee is writing for a living, which is what thee has always wanted to do.”

“I know, Rose. And I’m still young. But if they’d even let me cover the Board of Trade proceedings, that would be a start.” She whispered, “The board is gathering in an hour to discuss the effect of the killing on the week’s activities, and it’s an open meeting. Do I get to cover it? I do not.”

I patted her arm. “By and by thee will.”

“But speaking of news—” Faith glanced over her shoulder. “Come into the hall with me.”

We moved around the corner into the hallway where I’d come in.

“Is thee on the case of the Harrington murder?” she asked.

“I spoke with Kevin Donovan about it, but I haven’t really learned anything of interest.”

“Will thee tell me when thee does? If I