AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He sat back again, chewing and swallowing, and blithely stating, “It’s Rose. Rose Alcott. William’s wife.”
I nearly choked.
So I had to force out, “Rose is William’s wife? Record scratch and go back. William had a wife?”
He took a sip of his coffee, studying me, and then said, “Yes. As you know, some Alcott men have a tendency to stray. Why are you reacting like that?”
“I’ve asked about her before.”
“I wasn’t keeping anything from you, Daphne. I just hadn’t got ’round to telling you that part yet.” Another downward dip of his brows. “Are you angry with me?”
I set the photo aside and didn’t answer his question. Not because I was angry at him, because I was weirded out and needed answers myself.
So I asked my own.
“What happened to Rose?”
“Well, she was briefly considered a murderess after Dorothy took her fall,” Ian told me. “But she was quickly discounted.”
“Why?”
“Several reasons, the primary one was she had an alibi.”
“Do you know what that was?”
He seemed stricken for a moment before he said, “It was her husband.”
By damn.
“Tell me now, Ian, who do you think murdered Dorothy?” I demanded.
He stared me in the eyes, reading my tone, and said, “I think she became too messy for David, so he had her killed. I don’t think he did the deed, like he didn’t kill Joan, because he probably wouldn’t be caught dead belowstairs either, absolutely no pun intended. But he needed her out of the way to marry Virginia, so he killed her. And he was sure to be out with Virginia when Dorothy was pushed to her death.”
“Have you read her nephew’s book about her?”
“Certainly.”
That morning’s tenseness came back again, a thousand-fold, especially after last night’s dream, and what that might mean about the other ones besides, and you could hear the strain in my voice when I asked, “Did she die in a shocking-orange dress?”
“Although you will never fucking see them.” My tone had been tense, his voice was a growl. “I have. The police took pictures of her dead body. Possibly it was about the investigation. The fact they made the rounds and are easy to find even to this day, it was more about her fame and the macabre thrill of her death. But although it’s black and white, it’s known she was in a custom-made Schiaparelli sheath. And it was black.”
I let out a huge breath.
“What’s this about?” he demanded.
“I’m having dreams.”
“I know. You’ve said.”
“They’re very vivid. Last night, unbelievably real.”
“You’ve said that too.”
“I dreamed she died in an orange dress.”
“Because you know of Clifton’s book. But have you read it?”
I shook my head.
