The Problem Child (Emerson Pass Historicals 4)

Viktor

When I entered the library, Daisy, one of the maids, was on her knees scrubbing at the blood left behind on the couch from Flynn's wounds. A bucket of bloodied water was beside her. From what I could tell, she was managing only to soak the cushions and make more of a mess. Blood, my father often told me, was nearly impossible to get out of certain fabrics. The light blue velvet couch was apparently one of them. Blood would have seeped into the fibers, determined to settle there for the rest of the sofa's existence.

She startled at the sound of my footsteps. “I’m sorry, Daisy. I didn't mean to scare you.”

She ducked her head and fixed her gaze on the bucket. “It's all right. I'm shaken up with all this. Poor Master Flynn. Will they be able to save him?”

“God willing,” I said. “Theo and Dr. Neal are skilled doctors.”

“But a bullet wound?” She sat back on her heels, the folds of her dress damp from the cloth she didn't seem to remember she held in her hands.

“We must have faith,” I said.

“Indeed.” She returned to her work, scrubbing with more vigor than even before, as if her hard work could alter the outcome.

While I waited for Cym and Fiona to come downstairs, I sat by the fire, overcome by the events of the evening. Despite the idyllic setting of our town, an undercurrent of darkness occasionally wove its way into our lives. Tonight, like the one in which Josephine almost lost her life, was one of them. Only this time I couldn’t save anyone.

Flynn had brought that darkness to the surface. Running a distillery out of your own basement for your own purposes, or even for the underground club here in Emerson Pass, would have stayed under anyone's notice. What Flynn had done was to bring attention to himself. With that came the interest of folks who didn't have Emerson Pass's best interests in mind.

Now that I thought about it, neither did Flynn. His father had built this town under a set of guiding principles: God, family, and community. A distillery that distributed illegal gin to multiple cities, towns, and counties was not within those principles. Not at all. Did Flynn think only of himself and lining his own pockets with gold? Not the boy I’d known. Or even the young man who had come back from the war five years ago. What had happened to him that had changed him so?

I was thankfully drawn away from my thoughts when Cym arrived. She approached poor Daisy scrubbing away. “Oh, Daisy, you’ve done your best. There’s not much more you can do with this anyway. We may have to throw the entire thing out. You may go. Get some rest.”

Daisy stood and dropped the rag in the bucket. “Thank you. I’ll take my leave then. Miss Cymbeline, you'll let the staff know, won't you? If anything happens one way or the other?”

“Yes, we’ll be sure to tell Jasper the moment we know anything. Or Lizzie. Whomever I see first in the morning. But the staff is to get their rest tonight. We'll need you tomorrow more than we do tonight.”

“Yes, Miss Cymbeline.” Daisy bobbed her head in our direction and scampered out of the room, spilling drops of water from her bucket as she went.

Cymbeline sank onto the other couch. “What a horrid night after such a wonderful day.”

This afternoon seemed like a lifetime ago. I looked at Cym’s hand. Yes, the sparkling ring was still there to prove that it had truly happened.

Fiona arrived, breathless. She'd changed into a plain dress and had a knit shawl wrapped around her shoulders. “I can’t seem to get warm.”

“Would you like tea?” I asked her.

“Something else, perhaps?” Fiona asked.

Cym absently shook her head. She was far away from me, lost in her thoughts. I knew better than to pry. She would talk when she was ready.

Fiona sat next to Cymbeline and tilted her head back to stare up at the ceiling. “It all feels like a bad dream.” She lowered her gaze to the bloodstained couch, as if she were seeing it for the first time. “But that's real, isn't it? Flynn’s blood.”

I blinked away the image of Theo and Isak carrying Flynn inside to this very room. Each had lifted one side, practically dragging him into the library and easing him onto the couch. In the dim light and with his dark suit, the blood hadn’t at first been apparent. The way the bullet hole had torn through his jacket, though? That had been visible.

Cym nodded, answering Fiona’s rhetorical question. “When I heard the gunshot, I thought someone had dropped something heavy. My mind took a moment to understand that wasn’t the case.”

“I didn’t at first comprehend what the men wanted,” I said. “Or even that they were the men we saw the other night.”

“Did Flynn seem afraid to go with them?” Fiona asked.

I shook my head. “That was the strange thing. Not at all. He was defiant. I remember thinking so at the time.”

“Perhaps that's what got him shot.” Cym’s pretty mouth twisted as if it couldn't decide between a smile or a frown.

“It caught my attention,” I said. “Flynn’s lack of fear. Just like when we were kids.”

We all sat for a moment in silence. As I stared into the flames I thought about Flynn and the nature of his character. He had a lack of any sense of danger. A recklessness that had taken him down to the enrollment office at sixteen to fight a war across the seas. A sureness that defied logic.

What he didn’t seem to recognize? Choices had consequences. Every action had a reaction. Tonight had proved that.

“Who are these men? Where do they come from? Who do they work for?” Cym’s questions tumbled from her mouth.

“We know their names but not much else,” I said. “Rossi and Chetta. Chetta, the big one, never said a word, other than a grunt. He seemed like the one who—” I cut myself off, alarmed at what I almost said.

“We know what you were about to say.” Cymbeline got up from the sofa to sit on the arm of my chair. She rested her hand on my shoulder. “You don’t have to treat us as delicate flowers.”

“I know, but a man feels that way anyway,” I said softly. “It’s your brother. Shot in your very own front yard.” My eyes stung. The image of Flynn’s gray skin and fluttering eyelids played before me. Thinking of it, I felt sure he would not live. He’d looked bad.

“Rossi and Chetta,” Fiona said. “Possible mobsters. In our house.” She said it without a hint of wonder, only fear. “Viktor, thank you for staying with us.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m glad to be here.” I placed my hand over Cym’s where it still rested on my shoulder, spreading warmth through my cold body.

“Did they say anything else?” Cym asked. “Anything that would give us a clue as to who they are?”

“Even if they did, it would mean nothing to us,” I said. “We’re not privy to the details of organized crime. We know all we need to know. They want Flynn’s distillery and don’t intend to go quietly.”

“What a mess he’s made,” Fiona said.

We settled into a quiet abyss of our own thoughts. Cymbeline moved from my chair back to sit with her sister. The night wore on. Soon, the clock struck midnight. I continued to put logs on the fire. The ladies had started to fade. Twice I’d caught Fiona twitching in her sleep. I encouraged them to rest. “Sleep here on the sofa if you must. I’ll stay up.”

I found two blankets and covered them, one on each end of the sofa so that they looked like fetching bookends. When they were settled, I returned to my chair and this time faced the window, watching the darkness like an eagle waits for a fish.

I drifted off, dreaming of skating around and around the ice with Cymbeline. When I jerked awake, I didn’t know where I was at first. In a flash, it all came back to me.

The clock said it was after three. Cym and Fiona were both asleep with their hands tucked under one cheek. I wandered over to the bookcase and chose a book at random, an Agatha Christie mystery called The Man in the Brown Suit.

I stretched my feet out toward the fire and opened to the first page. Soon, I was engrossed in the story. Another hour went by as I turned pages. Thank goodness for novels that helped a person escape, I thought. Otherwise, waiting would be unbearable.

Around four, lights flooded the windows. I leapt to my feet and went to look out, barely making out the figures of Lord Barnes and his wife in their car. What did this mean? They were home instead of calling on the telephone. My legs wobbled at the thought of what that meant. They’d have called if it was good news. If it were bad, they would want to tell the girls in person.

I drew in a deep breath to prepare for the worst. But that was impossible. The human heart could not prepare for the unthinkable.