Chapter Thirty-Four The Performer
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Performer
The scent of moth repellent burned the inside of my nose.
My fingers flipped indecisively between catalog paper, the edges slightly warped from how many fingers had handled the pages.
Even with less modern wares, my seamstress was the best. The shop was a nondescript hole on Fifth, but no better work came from elsewhere.
I first came here to fit my ballet costumes; later, I came for everything else.
I couldn’t decide between different sets of combinations. New colors were in fashion, yet I wasn’t sure how it mattered, since nobody but your maids and husbands would see.
The thought made me pause, some new clarity dawning on me.
Did Arkady have preferences? Not that he really spoke of them.
I suppose it was a good sign that he hadn’t voiced anything that would make me think I had to change.
Did he like one color more than the other?
Did certain fabrics irritate him to the touch?
Were there details he didn’t care for? Or perhaps it was all the same to him, and I was thinking myself into a paralyzing hole.
The shop door slapping its bell made me startle, my heart leaping out and yanking me from the back of my mind.
“Petronille?”
I glanced over my shoulder. “Helen.” I nodded politely.
“You know, you’ve always been so pretty.” A sly smirk across the haughty features. “It must be nice to have attention even when not in the spotlight.” She turned to one of her flock. “Don’t you agree? Isn’t she darling?”
“I’m not sure I’d like to know where the sudden compliments are coming from.” I kept my expression steady, careful of any and all reactions. Everyone knew that jealous compliments were bad fortune, even worse for those who reacted incorrectly.
“Nowhere in particular.” She giggled, turning to the other girls. “Should have known we would find you here.”
Their fleeting gazes flicked to and from us as they shielded their laughter with gloves or fans.
At the beginning of the season, this may have bothered me some. But now, I felt that not only could I not understand the catty jokes, I didn’t care to either.
“Have you spoken with Lorelei lately?”
I looked at her again; this time, she seemed less of an antagonist. “No.”
“I doubt that. I’m sure you finally succeeded at talking her out of the ballet.”
“I’m not her mother, her actions and whereabouts are her own and none of my business.”
“Could have fooled us.” She smirked, a couple of flighty laughs from either side of her. “I should be thanking you if you did, as her understudy. William was furious when she didn’t show for her debut.”
“You are awfully optimistic.” I clenched my jaw, now feeling the soreness tense in my neck and head.
“I can’t help but shine at a bright future.” She pointed her chin in the air, a smirk of victory. “Well, as the old passes, so come the new. I sincerely hope you are enjoying your retirement.”
I stopped looking at her, keeping both hands on the catalog to prevent them from seeking out the supple flesh of her face. Another hard chime of the door slapping the bell to mark the other customer’s departure, the high-pitched irritants muffling with distance.
I slowly let out a long sigh, like holding it would keep unsavory words from forming after the interaction.
The small optimist in my head told me to ignore it and continue on with my day, but the overwhelming pessimist that was cemented in my personality told me to go home and hit something in private.
As I was in no mood to take any functional highway, I did as my lower sensibilities craved. There was no need to be outside today anyway.
The arrival back home was as regular and ordinary as the walk there. I walked up each of the seven steps to my townhome, was at eye level with the window flower boxes, and to the left corner of the door was the daily paper.
I knelt down to grab it, the curled wad of paper dry, as a familiar face jumped at me.
I flipped the paper tube over to move up the headline.
What is this?
I scrambled to open the paper, unfolding and nearly tearing it with the force I pried at it.
This can’t be real . . . no, it must be a sick dream. I am ill, I am asleep, it must be the fever.
I crumpled it, tossing it aside. Pressing my palms into my eyes as if to will the news away; it was a prank and not something printed across every paper in the city.
“Petronille Kamenev?” The gruff voice spoke behind me as if to clear his voice.
“Yes?” I frowned, turning to see not only Mr. Hunt but two uniformed men from his office. “What is this about?”
“Your presence is requested at the station.”
“Am I under arrest?” I couldn’t hold my voice, which wavered at the very words. My throat closed up, threatening to choke me, not caring if it was suicide.
“I can certainly do that, if you’d like,” he said as if in a somber joke. “I’d rather not give the press any photos of you in cuffs. What do you say? I just have a few questions down at the station.”
The commissioner was a poor actor. Despite his words, he was giddy about it all. His hand fiddled impatiently with the cuffs at his side as he pretended to be a patient and merciful man. In reality, he loved this. Like one who hunts for sport, not for sustenance.
I smoothed my skirt, stepping down from the front of my townhome and back onto the street.
Even with ill intentions, he was correct. I couldn’t afford the bad press.
“Coffee? Water?”
“Tea?”
“No can do.” Mr. Hunt shook his head. “Water, then?”
I blew a frustrated breath from my nose, crossing my arms as I leaned back in the chair.
Mr. Hunt stalked over to his desk, sitting comfortably as he interlaced his fingers and propped up his elbows. “Thank you for coming down here without a fuss.”
“Right, because you gave me so many alternatives.”
“Mrs. Kamenev”—the name was awkward in his mouth, as he was chewing enough that I barely recognized who he was addressing—“where were you the day of Vincent Carlisle’s disappearance?”
“I already answered this!” I huffed. “I was home.”
“I understand, we are just doing our due diligence,” he said sincerely, but I could feel something coming on. He glanced down at his notepad, his woolen brows clenched together. “You said you were at home?” He glanced up without moving his face back to mine.
I stared back. My breath held hostage as I thought, as if all oxygen must be used to remember. Damn it, remember.
“Yes,” I said slowly.
He pursed his lips, nodding as he pulled the notepad closer. “When I first visited you, you said you were at your sister’s.”
“Y-yes, that’s where I was that morning. You didn’t specify a time,” I replied carefully.
“Was that Félice’s home or Cosette’s?”
“Cosette, we were having tea. She asked for biscuits, she has been craving them throughout her pregnancy,” I lied, hoping that if asked, Cosette would just assume it was correct that the event was a couple days earlier.
“So when were you home?”
“I came home after.”
“Did you leave your home later in the day?”
“No.”
He nodded, pausing to reach over for his rounded spectacles. They sat crooked on his face as he produced a pen from his pocket and wrote something down on the pad. “Can anyone confirm you went home?”
“Lorelei . . .” I paused, gulping, picking at my fingers. “My friend used to stop by often. She may have come by, I don’t remember.”
“I spoke with her.” He began writing quicker but didn’t elaborate.
“You did?” I nearly laughed. “And what did she say?”
“She had some interesting things to say about your whereabouts.”
“How long did you harass her before she agreed to play along in this petty investigation?” I watched his hand carefully; he stopped writing.
He placed his pen down, leaning back in his chair. “She volunteered this morning, actually.”
Caught you, liar.
I eased into my own seat, uncrossing my arms and leaning back, elbows on the arms of the visitors’ chair. “We don’t speak much anymore. Her testimony would be as good as snake oil.”
“I will need someone other than your husband to corroborate.”
“My sister, then. Félice and Cosette saw me leave.”
“But they didn’t see you in your home.”
“I don’t see why I would lie about going home.”
“Your husband seems to lie about going to his studio, so why not his wife lying about being home alone?”
I balled my hands in my skirt, a physical representation of my grip on my temper. I lifted my chin, raising my brow at him. I knew this game; it wouldn’t work.
“I appreciate your concern for my marriage and well-being, Mr. Hunt,” I said with the sweetest of smiles, “but I trust my husband wholeheartedly. He has odd hours, odd schedules. He is an artist.”
He chuckled as he folded his spectacles, tucking them into his vest breast pocket. “Are you aware that your husband comes from a troubled home? Several, in fact.”
“I don’t see how someone’s childhood is of any concern to their current life.”
He smiled at me. “That’s interesting that you say that, Petronille.”
He reached down to his drawer, which squeaked as it opened, and produced a file. He placed it on the table before him like he was about to unwrap a Christmas goose and eat it in front of me. He opened it and leafed through a page, then another, in no rush to share his insight.
“Violent outbursts. Evidence of antisocial personality. Unnecessary cruelty toward his peers and staff. Disordered sleep schedule. Threatening his foster family with a splintered yardstick. Threatening a nun in service at Saint Lucia’s.
” He stopped, holding the papers up but out of reach.
“It was severe enough to be evaluated by an alienist.”
I shifted in my seat, unsure how to defend the behavior. There had to have been a reason. There must be. It didn’t sound like him at all.
“I will ask this once, and I need you to find it within yourself to answer honestly.” He tucked the folder back into his desk before settling. “Where was your husband the day of Vincent’s disappearance?”
“At his studio. Maybe until eight in the evening?” was all I could say with confidence. “His hours are unpredictable.”
“That’s all right, you are an honest woman, I appreciate any answers at all,” he assured me. “Do you know where he was on your wedding day?”
“At the wedding.”
“No”—he pulled up his notepad—“the papers detailed that your wedding was held privately in the afternoon.” He leaned in slightly. “Do you know where he was earlier that day?”
No, we met at our wedding, I wanted to say.
“I don’t know. It is bad luck to see the bride in her dress before the wedding.” The answer was almost a sneer. “Why does it matter?”
“There was a disappearance of a couple.” He slid over a photograph. Two people in a portrait, of good wealth but not of good breeding. They seemed lovely, young.
“I’m sorry, I don’t see how this has anything to do with me.”
“You will understand,” he said cryptically. “You can ask him yourself. I will move on.”
“Please,” I insisted.
I knew the commissioner thought of me as dim, as well as most women, but I didn’t appreciate his attempts to drive a wedge between myself and my husband.
“Are you aware that your husband visits the morgue nearly three times a week?”
I squinted at him, waiting for the other shoe.
“Interestingly enough, they’re missing some files,” he mentioned. “You wouldn’t know a thing about that, would you?” Mr. Hunt slid over a piece of paper—a visitors’ log.
On the list, there was Mr. Kamenev.
But there was also another stack beside it, the cremation logs.
It was like gravity was about to grab me by my ears and slam me down.
He knows. He knows about the deliveries.
I looked up at Mr. Hunt, his expression some mix of victory and satisfaction, a stare that pierced me to my core, seeing straight through me.
He knew this would not just distress me but violate me.