Murder in Burnt Orange by Jeanne M. Dams Page B

examining him. “He is not a young man, but he has great strength. There is some hope for his recovery. He must be taken home at once and given the best of care. With rest and calm and no excitement, he’ll survive this. Otherwise...” The doctor spread his hands.
    Patrick had telephoned Aunt Molly, so she was ready when Dan arrived home in the care of Doctor McNamara, a nurse, and Patrick. She ignored the mud on their shoes and the water they were dripping on her precious Persian rugs.
    â€œPatrick,” she asked in an undertone, “was this—what brought this on?”
    â€œClancy,” he replied. “I’m sorry to have to tell you.”
    â€œI thought as much.”
    She turned away and gave her full attention to getting Dan settled and comfortable. Patrick helped where he could and got out of the way when he saw that he wasn’t needed.
    He was about to leave the house when Riggs, the butler, approached him. “Excuse me, Mr. Patrick. Your aunt would like you to stay for a moment if you have time.”
    â€œOf course, as much time as she wants. This is a terrible thing, Riggs.”
    â€œYes, sir. Mr. Malloy is a very fine gentleman.” The old man’s face worked a little. He turned away.
    â€œHe’ll pull through, Riggs. Oh, and your orders about my cousin Clancy?”
    â€œYes, sir?”
    â€œThey stand. If you so much as see his face around here, call the police.”
    Riggs nodded, looking grim. “Yes, indeed, sir.” He, too, had suffered much at the hands of Clancy Malloy.
    Aunt Molly came downstairs looking tired, and shockingly to Patrick, old. It had never before been so forcefully brought home to him that his aunt and uncle would age like everyone else, and someday would die.
    She sat down in her favorite chair in the drawing room, her tiny feet up on a needlepoint footstool.
    Patrick knelt by her side and took her hands in his. They were ice cold, despite the little lace mitts she wore.
    â€œHow is he?”
    â€œComfortable, they say. He looks...” Her mouth quivered and she turned away, like Riggs.
    â€œAunt Molly, he’s strong. He’ll pull through this.”
    Molly waved that away, her mouth firm again. “I think he will. It’s not that that’s eating away at me. His own son, Patrick! My son.” She bit her lip so hard it bled a little. She touched her handkerchief to her mouth.
    â€œHe’s changed since I knew him,” said Patrick, trying to find a way to comfort her. “Bad associates...”
    â€œHe chose his associates.” Molly had herself under full control again. “He has made his bed, and he must lie in it. I won’t turn him in to the police—not yet—but I will not, I will not allow him to harm his father anymore.” She paused. “Patrick, yesterday I went to Hilda and tried to make her promise she would go no further with this investigation. I suppose she told you?”
    Patrick nodded.
    â€œAnd I suppose she told you she made no such promise.”
    He nodded again.
    â€œI have changed my mind. Yet again. She will think I am as vacillating as a windmill.”
    â€œThat she will not. She knows you.”
    â€œWell, then, tell her from me that I want her, I need her to find out anything she can. It will be difficult and very likely dangerous. You, of course, may have something to say about the matter. She’s your wife, and it’s your child she’s carrying.”
    Patrick shook his head. “I won’t tell her what to do. I’ve made her promise not to do anything foolish, and to tell me before she does anything at all. Beyond that...”
    â€œPatrick.” Aunt Molly looked at him fixedly. “You know the truth, do you not?”
    â€œI—Aunt Molly, what do you mean?”
    â€œAh, Patrick, don’t try to pretend with me. I’ve been able to see right through you since you were two. You know as well as I