Page 47 of Unbroken
A stern housekeeper in a black dress and crisp white apron answered Irene’s knock. “May I help you?” she asked coldly.
Irene smiled and held out her card. “Miss Irene Endicott, calling on Mrs. Rice. Is she available, by any chance?”
The housekeeper hesitated, gaze skipping past Irene to the rest of them. “And who are they?”
Drat. Sebastian opened his mouth, intending to spin the first lie that came to mind, but Tubbs spoke first.
“Paul Tubbs. I’m—I was—Penelope’s brother-in-law,” he said curtly. “Please tell Mrs. Rice that I know Penny was killed by sorcery, and I won’t leave this property until I get some answers. If she calls the police, I’ll—I’ll chain myself to the fence!”
Mortimer sighed loudly. The housekeeper looked shocked, but only said “Wait here,” before shutting the door in their faces.
“Mr. Tubbs,” Sebastian began.
“Don’t you ‘Mr. Tubbs’ me!” he exclaimed. “I’m done with this—this insanity! Rulkowski died rather than tell us what the hell—excuse my language, Miss Endicott—is happening, and I’m tired of it. I will find out why Penny died, who killed her, and why they disturbed her eternal rest one way or another!”
The door swung open, revealing the housekeeper again. “Follow me. Mrs. Rice will see you in the parlor.”
She must have realized the only way to get rid of them once and for all was to grant them an audience. Even so, Sebastian was a bit surprised she’d given in so easily.
The parlor was just off the front door, a large, airy room stuffed with vases of cut flowers: hydrangeas the size of bowling balls, great spears of delphinium, and white roses like banks of drifting snow. A portrait on the wall showed what must have been the Rice family in happier times: a plain-looking woman and man in late middle age, sitting together on a couch. A younger man who resembled them posed behind the couch, one hand on each of their shoulders. Judging by the style of their clothes, it was at least twenty years old, painted before the murder that took the son, the heart trouble that blotted out the husband.
An older version of the woman in the portrait sat in a chair beneath it, her back straight as a steel rod. She matched the bouquets in the vases, with light blue eyes, white hair, and a pale purple dress. Her gaze passed over each of them and clearly found them wanting. “Introduce yourselves,” she ordered.
They did so. Her gaze lingered on Sebastian, and she said, “You’re a very impertinent man. I should report you to the police for harassing me with your telegrams.”
Sebastian didn’t bother to keep his frustration hidden. “We’re trying to save your life!”
She lifted a tea cup to her lips. “My life isn’t in danger,” she said with such simple conviction he found he believed her. “I wouldn’t ordinarily reward such rudeness, but I suppose Mr. Tubbs deserves some answers.”
Tubbs shot him a triumphant look. “Thank you, Mrs. Rice.”
“Don’t thank me.” She pointed to the chairs and sofa. “Sit.”
They obeyed, Irene and Mortimer on the sofa, Sebastian in the chair closest to Mrs. Rice, and Tubbs directly facing her. She took another sip of her tea, eyeing them over the cup’s rim. “Are you certain you wish to know, Mr. Tubbs? I speak from experience when I say that knowledge isn’t always a comfort, and you may not enjoy hearing what I have to say.”
He nodded firmly. “I want to know.”
She put her cup down. “Then I will tell you.”
CHAPTER 22
“The membership of the Widdershins Horticultural Society is, for the most part, carefully curated,” Mrs. Rice said. A clock ticked softly on the wall, filling in the gaps between her words. “The old families have no interest in such benign pursuits, if you will excuse me saying so, Mr. Waite.”
“I can hardly be angry at you for speaking the truth,” he replied with an elegant shrug.
To Sebastian’s surprise, a tiny smile appeared on her lips for a moment, before vanishing again. “At the same time, the society wishes to uphold certain standards. Our annual membership fee ensures a certain quality of applicants and keeps out time-wasters.”
They only wanted members of their own social class, in other words. “Of course,” Sebastian said, as neutrally as possible. Even so, the look she gave him suggested she wasn’t fooled by his tone.
“I only mention this because we do make exceptions.” Mrs. Rice reached out to the nearest vase and plucked a white rose from the arrangement. “The most recent was a young artist who came to our attention: Miss Victoria Zimmerman.”
Sebastian sat forward slightly. An artist—that explained the paintings on the walls.
“Daniel—Mr. Rulkowski—originally hired her to illustrate his manuscript on orchids,” Mrs. Rice went on. “He showed us the paintings at one of the meetings, and we were all very impressed by her skill. Ian Fuller had some exotic plants he’d brought back from distant lands, and wanted color illustrations he could send to other botanists with whom he was corresponding. She was a portrait painter as well, which one needs even in this era of photographs.”
The portrait on Mrs. Norris’s wall had been the one thing not destroyed in the room. “Was Miss Zimmerman…unusual in any way?” he asked carefully.
“Not then,” Mrs. Rice said in a tone that indicated she knew exactly what he meant. “She was simply a brilliant artist who was flattered when the WHS offered her a complimentary membership. Naturally, once she accepted, it would be gauche for her to charge her fellow members for her work.”
