Chapter Six
Until he sawthe rosebushes with the cut stems, Solomon had been ready to throw in the towel, in the parlance of the prize fighter. There had seemed to be no other clues to collect and no threads of inquiry worth following. For reasons of his own, Kellar found it hard to accept Caterina’s death, but there was no evidence pointing to anything other than the heart failure diagnosed by her doctor.
During their quick luncheon at the Silver and Grey offices, Constance argued, “It makes no real difference. We already decided Caterina herself had slipped out of the house at night to collect the roses. She could just as easily have crossed the road and picked them herself.”
“She could have,” Solomon agreed. “But if she was as careful of her rest, as Mary said, then why would she?”
“It would give us two bouquets of red roses,” Constance said. “Is that not too great a coincidence?”
“Not for someone like Caterina. And in any case, we only have Darrow’s word that he gave them to her and that she took them to the theatre.”
“Why would he lie?” Constance demanded.
“I have no idea,” Solomon admitted. “But I don’t think we’ve solved the mystery of the roses yet. We can at least go to the theatre this afternoon and see if someone there can make sense of it.”
She sighed. “I suppose so.”
Solomon watched her eat in silence for a few minutes before he said lightly, “Tired of mysteries, Constance? Do you want to retire?”
She opened her mouth to deny it, then thought about it a moment longer. “No. I’m just not afraid of stopping anymore.”
He raised his brows. “You were afraid to stop?”
“I thought if we did, I wouldn’t see you anymore.”
He reached across the desk and threaded his fingers through hers. “I thought up the partnership in the first place as a means of keeping you with me.”
She smiled. “And a means of distracting me from the establishment.”
“That too, though it didn’t work out quite so well, did it? I didn’t understand, then, what you were doing. Or even what I was feeling for you. I just wanted more.”
To his delight, color seeped into her face. “So did I. I didn’t trust the emotions, but I always seemed to trust you. We don’t need the mysteries anymore.”
“But do wewantthem?”
She searched his eyes, her soft, slender fingers caressing his palm. “I do. Just not this one. Do you?”
“In general, yes. And in the case of this one, I wouldn’t feel right if we left it as it stands.”
She sighed. “Neither would I,” she admitted. “Though I don’t have to like it.” She rose and dragged his hand to her lips before collecting his plate and putting it with her own for Hat to wash when they were gone. “Then let’s get it over with.”
“In a moment,” Sol said, standing and taking her into his arms.
In fact, it was about ten minutes before they emerged from the office and walked arm in arm to the opera house.
The front door of the theatre was closed, the notices outside still proclaiming that last night’s performance ofRigolettohad been canceled, presumably out of respect for the dead. The date had notbeen changed to today, so perhaps Caterina’s understudy was due to perform instead.
All of which sparked another suspicion in his mind. Was there not a huge amount of backbiting and jealousy amongst theatrical people? If foul play was involved in Caterina’s death, was it not more likely to come from here than from the people who loved her at home?
The stage door, when they eventually found it and Solomon had battered at it for some time, was opened by a glowering porter who demanded belligerently, “What?”
Only then did he look Solomon up and down and take in Constance’s presence.
“Are you leaving flowers for Mrs. di Ripoli?” he asked with greater civility.
“We have already paid our respects to her husband,” Constance said. “On his behalf, we were hoping to speak to Mrs. di Ripoli’s dresser.”
“And her understudy,” Solomon added.
