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

good thing, because shortly after Hilda and Patrick had finished picking at a cold lunch, the sky was riven by a lightning bolt and a clap of thunder shook the house. “Here it comes!” Patrick cried, and ran to close windows and doors. Hilda insisted on leaving the back porch door open. The linoleum on the kitchen floor would take no harm if water came in through the screen, and she basked in the cool, sweet-smelling air that blew in with the rain.
    It poured all afternoon, and both Patrick and Hilda napped, grateful for the respite from the punishing heat. Then in the evening the rain moderated to an on-again, off-again drizzle that made a lovely sound as it pattered on the roof. Everyone in the house, servants included, was yawning by nine o’clock. Eileen unearthed a light blanket from the linen closet and put it on Hilda and Patrick’s bed, and they were glad of its warmth as they snuggled in. “At last,” said Hilda with a deep sigh, laying her head on Patrick’s chest. “Tonight I will sleep.”
    Her sleep was doomed to be short. Long before there was any morning light in the sky, there came an agitated knocking at their bedroom door, and Eileen, candle in hand, put her head in. “Please, Mr. Patrick, it’s sorry I am to wake you, but Mr. Malloy is callin’ for you on the telephone. He says there’s a fire down at the store, and he needs you!”
    Patrick made muffled noises, sighed, and pulled himself out of bed. “You go back to sleep, darlin’. Likely it’s nothin’ serious, and I’ll be home before you even wake up.”
    She tried to do as he said, but could not. How could she sleep when Patrick might be in danger—and not only Patrick, but his job, their livelihood? She got up, wrapped a warm robe around as much of herself as it would cover, and went down to the kitchen to make coffee. At four in the morning, she was safe from Mrs. O’Rourke’s disapproval, and she, Hilda, still made better coffee—strong, proper Swedish coffee.
    The rain continued, slow but steady. Hilda pulled her chair close to the stove, which still exuded some warmth, and sipped her coffee, and thought.
    This fire had reawakened all her questions, all her fears. True, it had nothing to do with a train wreck—or did it? When so many terrible things happened so close together, could they not be part of a pattern? But try as she would, even after several cups of coffee, Hilda could not make a pattern in her mind that would encompass train wrecks, random fires, and labor unrest. It was, she thought, like one of those new puzzles, jigsaw puzzles, they were called. Hilda had played with one once. There were so many oddly shaped pieces of the picture, and if even one were placed incorrectly, the picture could not be completed—the other pieces would not fit.
    None of these pieces seemed to fit. They did not even seem to be from the same puzzle. Locomotives, flames, angry laborers marching, angry soldiers and police firing weapons—the pictures formed and re-formed in her mind’s eye and began to blend, a picture in red and black with no shape, no meaning....
    â€œIs there any more of that coffee, darlin’? And what are you doin’ in the kitchen? Mrs. O’Rourke’ll likely skelp you.”
    â€œPatrick!”
    She rubbed at her eyes with her knuckles, looking so much like a sleepy child that Patrick’s heart ached a little with his love for her. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing, after all, if their baby turned out to be a girl, looking like her mother. There was plenty of time for a son, after all. He kissed her gently. “What are you doin’ down here, me girl? You’d no need to get up.”
    â€œI could not sleep. You are wet, Patrick, and you smell of smoke. Take off your raincoat and tell me. Was the fire bad? Is the store all right? Is Uncle Dan all right?”
    â€œThere was nothin’