Louisa and the Missing Heiress by Anna Maclean

Author:Anna Maclean
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group, Inc.
Published: 2011-06-06T16:00:00+00:00

“COME IIINNN!” THE diva sang out as soon as Cobban had pounded on the door, and her voice seemed better offstage than on. Cobban opened the door and a strong scent of attar of roses floated out to us. I held my breath, expecting to see a backstage scenario of swooning suitors carrying armloads of flowers and jewels, hoping for a word from the beloved; stage managers begging to extend the run; a bohemian dressing room filled with colorful costumes and strange mementos.

In fact, the only gentleman in Miss Mendosa’s dressing room was a somewhat portly fellow who quickly fled when he saw Cobban, and the only flowers were a wilting bunch of daffodils stolen from someone’s window box. The disappointment was almost unbearable. For Miss Mendosa, too, it would seem.

Obviously, from her sour expression, she was expecting a different type of visitor, not two other females and an officer of the law, for Constable Cobban was still in his loud brown plaid working attire, with the conspicuous badge pinned to his lapel. I eventually suspected that the young man, notoriously poorly paid as a Boston policeman, had no other suit. Or perhaps he was one of those men who feel inadequate unless they are clothed in garments of authority.

“I had nothing to do with it! Nothing! Nothing!” Miss Mendosa shrieked upon seeing him.

I know that theater professionals often lead lives less than law-abiding or at least lives of freethinking morality, but her instantaneous denial of a crime of which she had not been accused revealed a conscience more than usually burdened with guilt, I thought.

“I’m sure. But nothing to do with what?” Cobban asked, puzzled.

“Ah,” she said, growing quieter, realizing that her defensive outburst might have given away more than silence would have. With a small, almost covert gesture she removed the bracelet she had worn during the performance and tucked it under a pillow on her settee.

I realized that the bracelet was probably stolen. Was Miss Mendosa a pickpocket? That seemed unlikely, as this bracelet was clearly a present a man would give a woman and not something a woman would purchase or even steal for herself. The “weaker sex,” I knew even then, are far more practical than the dreamers known as men.

But perhaps it did belong to someone else—someone else’s wife—and Miss Mendosa knew she had taken a risk by accepting the gift from a male admirer and not asking many questions. What if the bracelet were Dorothy’s?

But at that moment, I thought not of the hastily removed bracelet but of Miss Mendosa herself, who had decided to say nothing about whatever matter had made her so quickly proclaim innocence. She turned to me, her dark eyes glowing with venom.

“So!” she hissed, leaning backward as snakes do before the strike. “You haunt me! Go away! Go away!” Obviously she remembered me from our brief chance meeting at Edgar Brownly’s studio.

“I wanted to congratulate you on an excellent performance,” I said, posing as an adoring fan. My

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