From This Moment (14 page)

“How could she be floating if her lungs were filled with water?” she asked.

Dr. Lentz gave a patient but uncomfortable smile. “I’m not sure you want to know the answer to that. It isn’t something for delicate ears.”

“My ears aren’t delicate. I’d like to hear everything you’ve got to say.”

“Well,” the young doctor said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, “your sister was alive when she hit the water. When she inhaled water into her lungs, it got mixed with air and the mucus secretions in her windpipe. This creates a foam, which is an unmistakable sign of drowning. Her lungs and respiratory passage were entirely filled with this foam. It would have been enough to keep her afloat.”

“Were there photographs taken?” Romulus asked.

Stella blanched. Never having pondered the procedures in an autopsy, she hadn’t realized there might be photographs. It seemed obscene to take photographs of her sister’s lifeless body.

Dr. Lentz cleared his throat. “It was not deemed necessary. In such a clear-cut case, I rarely take photographs.”

She released her breath. Under no circumstances would she ever desire to look at such a photograph, and relief washed through her, draining her of strength.

The doctor turned Gwendolyn’s file so she and Romulus could see the pages. It was a three-page form, with Gwendolyn’s name, age, and a brief description filled in at the top. Various checkboxes indicated good health in all categories except her lungs. A typed paragraph summarized the presence of foam and river water in her lungs. The last page consisted of a pre-printed outline of a female body, with space for the medical examiner to note any unusual marks or injuries. Dr. Lentz had drawn the two-inch scar on Gwendolyn’s wrist from a childhood accident with a fishing hook. Stella remembered her father stitching
that wound closed, and afterward he had looked more shaken than Gwendolyn.

“That scar was on Gwendolyn’s left wrist, not her right,” she pointed out.

Dr. Lentz raised a brow and consulted the form. “Ah,” he said delicately.

“Your report is wrong.”

He cleared his throat. “I remember the scar was quite old. It had no bearing on your sister’s death.”

It was still a sign of sloppy work. A wall of framed diplomas and accolades testified to Dr. Lentz’s credentials, and Romulus had vouched for Dr. Lentz’s integrity. Was it possible that Gwendolyn’s death at such a young age truly was the result of a tragic accident? Although Gwendolyn had been in the process of documenting corruption at City Hall, that did not prohibit her from falling victim to a normal accident, even though for months Stella had rejected the coincidence.

Stella wanted someone to blame, someone to punish. At the very least, she wanted indisputable
proof
her sister’s death was an accident, but perhaps the autopsy report was the closest she could ever come. Dr. Lentz assured her he’d have his secretary prepare a copy of his report and mail it to Romulus the following week.

She hadn’t expected this meeting to be so exhausting, but she wasn’t even sure if she’d have the strength to stand up and walk to the trolley stop at the end of the street.

Romulus must have noticed as they left the building. He suggested getting something to eat at the Quincy Market, which was only a few blocks away. He needed to buy some buttons, and there were hundreds of vendors there who set out their wares daily. Stella welcomed a chance to free her mind, if only by something as trivial as shopping for buttons.

The marketplace was inside Faneuil Hall, a historic building dating back to the early part of the century. Vendors’ stalls flanked each side of the grand corridor that ran the length of the building. The vendors offered everything from cheese and imported coffee and tea to bolts of cloth and leather goods. Stella had a fiendish infatuation with Belgian chocolates, and she bought a small box that she shared with Romulus as they strolled through the marketplace. They found a stall at the end of the market with a double-wide table overflowing with a staggering array of buttons in all sizes and materials: brass, ivory, pewter, polished wood, mother-of-pearl, and even handpainted enamel.

“Have you any stamped brass buttons with a wide shank?” he asked the big-boned woman overseeing the stall. “I have a wool overcoat that is hopelessly drab and could use some spiffing up.”

Stella watched in amusement as he perused a tray full of buttons with zealous concentration. It was actually a little fascinating. Romulus was so passionate about everything, whether it was the illustrations for his magazine or the buttons for his jacket. He held dozens of buttons to the light, tossed them to test their weight, and asked her opinion. He finally settled on a brass alloy with the imprint of an acanthus wreath stamped onto the surface.

“Just the right mix of classical formality and a touch of botanical charm,” he said as he tucked the sack of newly purchased buttons inside his coat pocket. They started strolling toward the Long Wharf, where flags snapped in the breeze and a salty tang blew in from the harbor. He was hungry and insisted the best clam chowder could be had at a tavern near the wharf. She nodded and followed, even though she’d rather eat anywhere other than a tavern overlooking the water.

But she refused to show weakness in front of Romulus. She followed him to the tavern, which was crowded and dim inside,
but there were plenty of places at the tables outside. Romulus ordered two large crockery bowls of chowder and carried them outside to her.

It seemed half the people in the tavern had ordered the same, and she could tell why on her first sip. Rich with cream and seasoned with onions, celery, and a hint of smoky bacon, the clam chowder was both filling and comforting. She and Romulus ate in companionable silence while they watched schooners in the harbor. Romulus seemed unusually pensive. Normally he rambled from topic to topic so fast she could hardly keep pace with him. Finally, he set down his spoon and looked at her.

“So. After speaking with Dr. Lentz, has it changed your mind about what happened to your sister?”

“No. I’m not denying that she drowned, but I can’t believe it was a simple accident.”

He stared at a distant schooner, his eyes tracking it as it sailed along the horizon. He looked troubled.

“You don’t believe me,” she said.

“Everything points to an accidental drowning.”

“Not Gwendolyn. She was a strong swimmer. She wasn’t clumsy, careless, or suicidal. I refuse to believe it was an accident. And Dr. Lentz’s report was sloppy. He got the location of Gwendolyn’s scar wrong, and it throws his credibility into question.”

Romulus stood and adjusted his vest before offering his arm. “Let’s head back to the trolley station. I’m not sure I can convince you.”

“Perhaps because I’m right?”

He said nothing as he stared straight ahead, but she could tell by the tension around his mouth that he was dying to say something but holding himself back. He was practically champing at the bit.

“Go on,” she prompted. “Say whatever it is you are thinking.”

“You probably don’t want to hear it.”

“Say it anyway.”

They walked several more paces before he spoke. “It occurs to me that you are not in a position to make a rational judgment about this. You are so loyal to your sister that you may not be able to . . . don’t look at me like that . . . you asked my opinion. You aren’t displaying sound judgment in this matter, but it’s not entirely your fault. Few women in your position would.”

“You said few
women
. Are you suggesting that because I am a woman I am not fully capable of rational thought?”

He said nothing for a maddening amount of time. Ever since stepping out into the world as an independent woman, she had dealt with men condescending to her for nothing more than the fault of being female, but she hadn’t expected it from Romulus.

“I don’t think it’s a secret that women can sometimes be irrational,” he finally said. “Last year,
Scientific World
published an article on the chemicals released by the female pituitary gland, which seem to regulate moods. It seems some women are biologically prone to irrational mood swings and—”

She whirled to face him, stopping him in his tracks. “Yes, I am irrational about this,” she said. “So irrational that if the only way I can learn what happened to Gwendolyn is by crawling over broken glass on my hands and knees, that is what I will do.” She pointed her index finger at the hollow of his throat and spoke in a low voice vibrating with intensity. “And if you
ever
insult my intelligence like that again, I will cram those fancy brass buttons down your throat.”

Romulus folded a gentle hand over her pointing finger and lowered it. His face and voice were calm. “Try it again,” he said.

“Try what?”

“Try putting me in my place without getting surly and aggres
sive. It’s counterproductive, and your attitude is probably the reason you’ve failed to get Boston’s authorities on your side.”

Her gaze flew to his. Humor glinted in his eyes, and she realized she’d walked into his trap. Just this morning, he’d advised that her technique for blasting through opposition was causing problems, and already she had been slipping into her old ways.

She closed her eyes, gathered her thoughts, and forced the tension to drain from her muscles. When she looked at him again, she had the poise of a duchess. “While a medical doctor can diagnose the physical cause of death, his knowledge of the behavior and habits of the victim is limited. This is where the insight of a family member will prove beneficial in helping him form a conclusion.”

“Well done,” Romulus murmured.

“Is it going to get him to reopen the case?” After all, that was the only thing that really mattered.

“I doubt it.”

“This won’t end here, Romulus. I don’t believe Gwendolyn drowned, and I think Dr. Lentz did a sloppy job. As soon as I get a copy of that report, I’m going to look in to this further.”

“May I suggest you actually read his report before you sally forth demanding a revision? Being a product of Cornell, I accept you are tragically disadvantaged compared to a Harvard graduate, but I live in hope that you can overcome your educational deficiencies.”

“Possibly. But how sad that manners weren’t a part of the curriculum at Harvard.” She struggled to keep the laughter from her voice. They began walking toward the streetcar stop, her arm tucked companionably in his. “And in case I wasn’t clear, I find you to be a perfectly awful human being.”

“What a lie,” he replied. “You’re just having difficulty with a man who doesn’t fall to his knees the instant you grace him
with your presence. Just because you aren’t the sort of woman I typically squire about town—”

“Trust me, you aren’t my preferred sort, either,” she interjected.

He almost stumbled. “I’m not?”

“I like nice men,” she said. “The type who can accept a compliment without demanding another.”

“Nonsense,” he said dismissively. “I’m exactly your kind of man. Admit it. You need someone like me to keep your ego a manageable size.”

Oh, the irony. There was something charming about the way he so freely flaunted his high opinion of himself. He didn’t flinch from her, didn’t pander to her, and she liked that about him.

“My goodness,” she said. “I’m impressed you are able to walk with the weight of that gargantuan ego in your head.”

“You’d be surprised at my dauntless strength. Don’t let the fine tailoring deceive you. I am a man of awesome abilities.”

“Yes indeed. Romulus of Rome, just popped down to say hello to the mere mortals.”

She enjoyed walking alongside him. For a moment, she didn’t have to dwell on the injustice of Gwendolyn’s death and the despair weighing her parents down. She was just a healthy young woman trading insults with the most charming man in Boston, and it was fun.

Even though it had hurt when Romulus said she wasn’t his type. She was drawn to him like iron filings to a magnet, and she’d assumed the attraction was mutual. How mortifying to learn otherwise. She must not forget that when she’d kissed him on the cheek the other day, he hadn’t moved a muscle to encourage her. Was it possible he really felt nothing for her?

She hid her confusion behind a bright façade of indifference and strolled alongside him, keeping up the flirtation simply because it was so enjoyable.

But it also wasn’t getting her closer to her objective. She still needed to find A.G., and Romulus had promised to get her a directory of city employees. “And when can I get that list of personnel working for City Hall you promised me?” she asked him.

“I’m still awaiting a promised fertilizer advertisement,” he said. “One extolling the virtues of processed manure in a fashion I’m sure only your creative genius can do justice.”

His grin was confident as he tossed off the compliment, and her heart fluttered anew. Even the way he complimented her was thrilling.

“I shall design you the Taj Mahal of manure advertisements,” she said, still having no idea how she could blend the necessary threads of artistic beauty and scientific information into a single image, but she’d always liked a challenge.

8

O
ne of the things Stella liked about Boston was that most of the finest restaurants in town permitted women to dine alone. Other cities looked askance at such women, but since its founding, Boston had been a thriving community of radicalism, revolution, abolition, and suffrage. If a woman strode into one of Boston’s fine restaurants and ordered a meal, the only thing that mattered was if she had the ability to pay for it.

And thanks to her healthy bank account, money was the least of Stella’s worries. Even after being dismissed from City Hall, she could support herself for years, especially if she continued to live at Mr. Zhekova’s modest boardinghouse. Stella didn’t need luxury, but she did need a spacious table and suitable light in order to draw. She owed Romulus three proposed sketches for the first fertilizer advertisement, and a table by the window at the restaurant on Washington Street was a perfect place to draw.