Chapter Twenty-Eight The Performer
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Performer
The walls were moving, spinning, on my descent to the first floor, weighed down by my heart. Last night was a warning, the universe telling me I was a drunk walking too close to the water’s edge.
The living room was empty except for the dust and abandoned organization. It was like I cleaned one section, then another would become more cluttered than the last. My own Sisyphean task.
I grasped at my hip.
No chatelaine.
Battling against my vertigo, I stumbled back up the stairs, catching myself with my palm on the step as I scrambled.
I pulled open the drawer to my nightstand, trinkets clattering against the inside before my hands could rummage through. Another minute of frantic clawing, knowing it wasn’t there. The keys weren’t there.
“Shit. Shit!” I cursed, my throat clenching in distress as I already found myself skipping steps on the way back downstairs.
I yanked the miscellaneously shaped pillows and cushions off the sofa. Nothing but spare change and crumbs were revealed before I was flat on the floor, squinting under the couch at silhouettes of dust and a long-dead insect or two.
I sat up on my knees, raking my nails through my hair.
Slowly, I balanced on my wobbly legs, sore from the sudden burst of panic, undoubtedly expending whatever energy my poor body would have saved for the day.
“Please,” I exhaled up at the ceiling, praying to the cracks in the plaster. “Please let it not be so.”
With steady steps, I stood in the hallway, eyeing the door at the end. As I approached, some details inspired hope. The carpet was unmoved, the floorboard underneath creaked the same way it did before, unfixed.
The padlock on the door was firmly in place, no signs of damage, and still locked.
Arkady’s coat and bag were hanging on the banister, things I wouldn’t imagine he would stray too far from. He would be returning.
If these things were true, I attempted to reassure myself that nothing was amiss.
With raw fingers pushing on the back of my aching neck, I went to the kitchen for my routine. Nothing was unusual, nothing aside from my own imagination.
Then, on the counter, I saw it.
My chatelaine, keys intact.
I sighed with deep relief, my elbows hitting the cold counter as my fingers tangled in the fine chains, holding it firmly to remind me they were here and all was well.
With the chatelaine secured to my skirt, it was time once again to dig through the mountain of hand-me-downs my sister had so graciously given me. I couldn’t imagine how I would ever get the house clean. Perhaps today I would work on the boxes of smaller items.
I sat at the table, pulling a box forward. It wasn’t terribly heavy, and it seemed to be a file box, something with papers. I swore that if this were expired tax reports or other rubbish, I would be having a word with her about getting their own waste disposal instead of handing it off to me.
I slid the lid off the box, a bit of dust puffing from it when it finally released. The good news was that it may not have been garbage, after all.
I pulled out a stack from the top, photographs of our old home in France. Tournon-sur-Rh?ne,’87 scrawled on the back corner. New York was a sight to behold but nothing compared to the south of France.
Stone houses lined the street, tall, rocky hills overgrown with grass just beyond the steeple of the square. It looked to be spring or summer; it was hard to tell from buildings and lighting alone.
Another of an orchard, taken from the top of a hill. A river could be seen just past the trees. This would be late June, as there was someone picking apricots.
Then another—people, this time.
There was a woman and a man who resembled softer versions of my parents. My father, absent of a stiff-starched collar and wrinkles in his eyes. My mother in lighter clothes and shoulders, her hair dared to be tucked out of place, effortless. Then there were my sisters, standing side by side.
I should have been there, but I wasn’t. The only other person was another grown woman, a bit younger than my mother. She looked to be the help, as she stood on the side of Mother, a hand on Félice’s shoulder as if to keep her still for the photograph.
I checked the back, only to see: The De Villier Household, ’79.
I should have been in this picture, I thought. I would have been two.
I tucked the photograph in my pocket, containing the rest in the box and closing it. Something about this mysterious box made me feel like Pandora. There were secrets in there that I wasn’t sure if I wanted or cared to know.
I needed more than just an afternoon to dig, and I had other investigations planned for the day.
I returned to the coroner’s office, a bottle of wine in hand. A man at the front desk spotted me, nodding as I passed. No one questions you when you walk with purpose and have something expensive in hand. I knew where to go this time, I remembered the way.
The edges of the stairs were clear, the concrete of the walls more detailed upon second passing. The office was where it was supposed to be, unlocked due to the absence of its owner. Down the stairs, third—no, fourth—door on the left, tucked just around the corner of the hallway where it split.
I took great care to look both ways, then again to make absolutely sure no one would bear witness. I turned the knob quietly, carefully. Not one creak from the door as I slipped inside, closing it delicately so as not to make any loud clicks as it settled back into the doorframe.
Now, I could get to work.
I fell to my knees in front of the drawer, digging around in my pocket. I produced the dull keys caked in remaining flakes of plaster. It was dark, the desk lamp wasn’t very bright, so it was a struggle to find the keyhole. I scraped it along the brass lock until it finally clanked into place.
It wouldn’t turn.
I flicked to the next one, shaking as the key clattered clumsily against the hole; this one was too large.
“Come now,” I cried quietly, squinting at the ring of keys as I moved to the next one, then the next.
The smallest key worked, sliding in easily, and took very little effort to turn.
The drawer was heavy, papers shifting and falling out from fullness.
I gathered the small pieces of paper, catching a couple more as the drawer opened farther, until I could see some of the mess inside.
There were folders, many. Varying in thickness, some photographs loose from the piles and haphazardly thrown in.
It was like they wanted to be found, practically leaped into my hands.
The first one was a woman, a robust figure, curved in every way, her neck and arms soft in feature with no detectable sharp angles.
The next was a group of women in nightgowns, a candid of sorts. Not completely staged but not completely genuine.
Then the last one shifted between my fingers, reminding me of why I was here.
A ballerina, awkward in stature, soft in nature, and a smile not yet grown into.
A tremor overtook my body, my limbs becoming cold. The adrenaline was wearing off, fully actualizing my predicament. I dug through the folders.
Madeline. Dolores. Adelaide. Mary. Margret. Anne. Mary-Anne Margret.
Then—Petronille.
The pads of my fingers left small smears on the folder as I held it, my name written across the stiff pulp. It would almost make me feel better if this were a folder detailing my death, rather than my life.
The folder was spilling, the papers within thick and numerous. A few photos had slipped out when I disturbed it. I dug into the drawer. Not one must escape.
Then, echoes of fine shoes in the hallway, each slap of a sole traveling off the concrete walls like gunshots—and I was the rabbit in the way.
I shoved the drawer closed, gathering the file to my chest and tucking myself under the desk, pressing against the wood.
“Seems the janitorial staff left it open. I’ll have to speak with them about closing the doors.” A familiar accent.
“Is the coroner’s office always this indisposed?” Mr. Hunt’s gruff voice accompanied the scuffling of shoes.
“I couldn’t say, I haven’t seen him much at all, never mind in his office.”
Shoes dragged along the cold floor, a pair coming into view next to the office chair.
I pressed my hand over my mouth and nose, taking careful inventory of each breath going in and out, slow and silent.
“He only really comes by every week, less so now, since I assume he has more important things to do for the upcoming reelection,” Konstantin said, then laughed. “I suppose there isn’t too much competition for his spot. Those who’ve stepped up in the past dropped out pretty early on.”
“It’s a hard job that not many men are cut out for,” Hunt grumbled, leaning over the desk, the sliding of papers hissing against the wood. “I appreciate you letting me take a look. Did he have any logs? Visitation and employees?”
“I do, but you will have to get a warrant. It’s policy, apologies.” Nervous laughter from the young mortician. “The living as well as the dead are accounted for in a place like this.” A crude attempt at a joke.
There was a contemplative silence from the commissioner, then shifting weight on his feet. I could see his shoes, smell the leather, they were so close.
“Well, is there anything missing lately? Any odd behavior you’d want the police to know about?” Mr. Hunt asked.
“Missing? No, nothing is missing. Not anything out of the ordinary, of course. Well, what I mean is that sometimes the bodies have missing things—but they come that way.” The mortician stumbled on his words, a nervous chatter not unlike a bickering bird.
“Well, you know who to call if you do think of something,” Mr. Hunt said, stepping away from the desk.
I let out a breath all the way. I was safe, I just had to wait a bit for them to leave.
Then, he stopped.
I didn’t need my hand to muffle my breathing; I held it.
His hand reached down, I could see it by the drawer. The key was still in it.
No!
He hooked his finger under the handle, sliding it open. There was a pause, then a breathy laugh. He lifted his hand, rustling in his coat before his hand reappeared with a handkerchief, reaching for something in the desk.
“Ah!”
I nearly hit my head on the desk the way I jumped at the mortician’s sudden exclamation.
“His secretary—she may know more about the coroner’s travels and schedule, if you are concerned about his whereabouts and safety. Here, let me write you her address.”
Mr. Hunt reluctantly stepped away from the desk, not even closing the drawer as he walked away.
“That would be especially helpful, I appreciate your willingness. Not everyone nowadays is dedicated to keeping our city safe.” His voice got quieter, more distant, before it echoed into the hallway, words disintegrating into mumbling patterns.
That was close. Too close for comfort. I could feel the absence of blood making my head light, my neck cold.
I clutched the folder with sweaty palms, tipping my head back just for it to knock against the wood of the desk.
It was over, I could rest. I could lay my worries to die.