Page 77 of Dalliances & Devotion (The Truitts 2)

“But, back to this charity. Is it really that controversial enough to make her a target?” Will tented his fingers under his chin, his eyes pensive.

“Is it? I don’t know.” Could it really be? David tapped a finger against his lips as the facts all flitted through his mind, combining and recombining in various combinations, now pushing facts that once seemed so unimportant to the forefront. “But she did everything anonymously, so...”

Thad gave him a shrug, sinking a little lower in his seat, with a yawn. “Well, the family knows. Obviously. We make that sort of thing our business. Though even some rudimentary digging would yield information as she’s very involved. But I agree with David, could those things really be a motive? There’s always the Jewish thing, but the fund hasn’t received much attention. And yes, a single aggrieved husband might have it out for her, but this seems like much more than that. And yet, what else is there?”

David froze. The column. But that was a worse motive than the charity. Wasn’t i

t? He coughed. “There’s her job, at the Inquirer. That’s engendered quite a bit of controversy, actually. Which is rather silly, but I suppose people have killed for less...”

He rubbed his eyes. “I’d forgotten to tell Amalia. There’s a woman in Indianapolis on a mission to kill Amalia’s column. After writing a bunch of letters criticizing the writing and disputing the advice, she asked the paper to...how do you say it? ‘Sack’ her?”

Where were those papers? He patted around the table. He’d planned to give Amalia the information after everything was over so she could take it to her publisher. The ones identifying the rival who thought she could shut down the competition—not as witty as Amalia’s by a long shot. All very proper society matron sort of things, advising women to stay indoors to keep their skin fresh and stay away from evils like cosmetics.

“It’s around here somewhere.” What had gotten into him? There was a point where the desk had been organized by location and then by time.

“You might be messier than Amalia.” A snicker from Thad, and another yawn. His friend had been up all night—post office, to jail, to the Centerville house, back and forth, over and over. At least his parents had approved of the plan—busy is better than brooding, whatever that meant.

David returned to his search. “And I still have a system...it should be right...here.” He slapped his hand down over it. He plucked it, opened the binding and pulled out the first sheet. Her name was... Cadence Whittaker. Cadence Walker Whittaker. “Fuck.” He leapt to his feet.

“Channeling the good general, rabbi?” Will smirked at him.

“Maybe. He was the best of us.” He held the paper aloft and waved it around. “Let’s just say I’ve solved it, ahead of the boys in Chicago. Even if I’m just muscle. Well, at least I sort of solved it. I think, maybe. We need to send word to the agents in Indianapolis.” His mind raced. He glanced back at the paper.

Louis Walker was Cadence’s brother and he might not have two hundred dollars, but his sister’s husband had made a fortune in munitions—had factories all over the Midwest. And since all the people who attacked Amalia were from Indianapolis, it made sense.

Both letter writers were one and the same.

“Come on, boys,” he called as he sprinted towards the door. “Let’s wrap this up so we can tell Amalia she’s finally safe when she wakes.”

And she would wake—would get better, because there was no other option.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A scraping noise as well as a dull throbbing in her bones woke Amalia. She blinked into the light and groaned. “If that is one of your cats using any of my silks as a scratch post, Mother, I will catch them all and make them into a coat.” She pushed herself up and winced. “As soon as I get use of my arm.”

“It’s Isis, not any of the kitties.”

The elderly macaw, the least objectionable of her mother’s pets, flew from the curtains to one of the bedposts.

In turn, her mother moved from a chair and settled on the bed, next to Amalia’s legs, which she gave a pat. “And your threats don’t frighten me. You’d never hurt anything smaller or weaker than you.” She smirked a little. “And you hate the sight of blood.”

“How long have I been asleep?” Amalia glanced around the room at the bright sunlight and fresh linens. Empty. Just her mother and the bird. No David.

Her shoulders slumped a little, causing another bout of pain. She’d have to remember not to move her right side. Blasted bullet.

“Almost a week.” Her mother sighed, before reaching around Amalia and adjusting the pillows behind her head. “You had a bit of an infection, but Meg is very skilled. Better than the local doctor.”

The door swung open. “I’m just more experienced.” Meg was at the bedside in a moment, her hand on Amalia’s forehead.

“No, you’re brilliant. Thank you.” Amalia closed her eyes for a moment. Because it could’ve been worse, much worse. Her innards twisted at the memory of what David had told her about Simon’s last hours. Her poor, poor brother.

Amalia’s mother gave her an expectant frown. Meg nodded, a half smile on her face while she proceeded to fuss over Amalia’s arm, pulling up the sleeve of her gown to inspect.

“Don’t fully thank me.” Meg grimaced a little. “You may not have full use of the limb for a while, or ever. Your hand as well and I know you write with that one.”

“But I’m alive.” Which was the important part. She drew in a deep breath through her nose. Lavender. Her mother must have ordered the sheets scented. Glorious. “And I can still dictate.” She could and everything would be fine. Somehow.

“You have plenty of relatives with lovely penmanship,” her father added in a too-bright voice from the doorway. “Or several friends.” He drew into the room. “One of whom has been at your bedside over and over, especially since he solved the case.” The sunlight hit the silver in his hair so it glistened, illuminating what had to be new wrinkles on his brow and dark circles beneath his eyes. Still dapper as ever, but oh how he’d aged. A new wave of guilt washed over her.

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