Chapter 18
My barely touched breakfast plate is moved to a credenza, and a chair is added to our small table. Flossie busies herself refreshing my coffee and refolding a napkin into a swan. Eva sits straight, alert as a flag before the pledge.
“Before I explain further, I must warn you that what I am going to share is troubling and must be kept confidential for everyone’s safety.”
Flossie’s eyes grow large. Eva’s pencil begins to tap.
“If you do not think you can, I will release you from the burden of hearing it, and we shall speak no more of it.”
Neither woman stirs. Perhaps they are too stunned. Perhaps each is waiting for the other to blink. “If you are willing, say the word, er, ‘mycelium.’ ” It sounds more formal than “mushroom network.”
Flossie tugs the end of her braid, which I now notice is twisted into an intricate multistrand plait, maybe the flying spindle hairstyle she has been learning. “Is that a bad word?”
“No. It has to do with mushrooms.”
“Oh.” Her eyes graze my mark, visible above the loose neckline of the nightgown, and I cover it with my hand, more out of habit than from embarrassment. It feels cool, but I have noticed it warming and cooling with more regularity ever since the encounter with Jupiter.
Flossie fills her lungs. “If a lady’s maid can’t keep her lady’s secrets, she ain’t worth a slug penny.”
“These are not the kind of secrets a maid should be required to keep,” I say, rolling the lace of my cuffs between my fingers.
“Doesn’t matter. You saved me from the lion’s den, and I will take your secret to my grave.”
I guess the lion’s name is Dora, with whom she shared quarters before the lion was moved to another room. A lady’s maid must have her privacy.
“Mycelium,” Flossie pronounces with the gravity of a priest performing last rites.
We both look at the secretary, who stares at the calendar, as if reading the future.
Eva licks her lips. “Mr. Sanders was a great man. If your secret brings justice for him, then… mycelium.”
I fetch Mr. Sanders’s letter from where I store it in my nightstand, the contents of which I have memorized. Then I fill my lungs with more hope than air.
The young women take the news better than I expect. There are no hysterics, even at the mention of the third seal head found on Jawbone Beach. Eva looks almost relieved, her shoulders dropping, her pencil scratching again.
Flossie’s mouth has drooped open. “Sure and all, that’s one boiled kettle of fish.
” Her pert nose wrinkles, watching me refold the letter.
“That needs to go somewhere safe. I can store it in my room. When Dora’s bed was moved, I discovered a loose floorboard underneath, where I’ve been stashing my diary. ”
“That is hardly a safe place for it,” Eva says crisply, not looking up.
Flossie’s thin brows point like knitting needles. “Well then, what about Banker’s safe?” she ventures, referring to the vault kept by our treasurer near Chapel Hill.
Eva taps her pencil with impatience. “Banker checks the contents daily.”
Flossie crosses her arms, lips clamped in annoyance. She is used to Dora’s cheek, but something about Eva rubs her wrong.
“Floorboard, for now,” I decide. “Keep your door locked and carry your key. I’ll give the letter to Mr. Cosmos when he returns. He will know what to do.”
Eva’s gaze drifts toward the window. “So someone killed your father, and Mr. Sanders wanted to protect you from the murderer.” The words roll cautiously from her tongue.
“We have two theories. Theory A: the deaths are unrelated.” Her pencil draws emphatic lines.
“Theory B: the same killer struck both. Perhaps this person realized Mr. Sanders was onto him and silenced him. The closeness of timing—your conversation, same manner of death—makes this plausible.”
Eva’s logical nature is a cooling salve to my anxious mind.
I sip lukewarm coffee. “The sheriff said no investigation was done on the Can Man. He thought it mostly fable.”
“Then let him pursue theory A,” Eva replies smoothly, “while we focus on B.”
“What do the seals have to do with the murders?” Flossie blurts.
“It’s possible they aren’t related,” I throw out. “The seal killings could be a prank.”
“Or the Orkus.” Flossie slaps a hand to her mouth.
“It’s okay.” Better to say it aloud than let the word prowl in shadows. “It is not the work of a demon, but it may be the work of some ordinary devil.”
Flossie’s gaze climbs around me. “Maybe, in order to catch this devil, you need to find out who your da was. Me own da had more enemies than mates, mostly folks he owed money. Your da worked at the cannery, did he now? Mr. Gotze might remember him.”
“Do you think Mr. Gotze and Mr. Tavernish would meet with me?”
Eva’s longish nose twitches. “Unlikely. They are both of the mind that women should mind the parlor. Perhaps if Nash were the one meeting with them…”
I drop my head in my hands. If Nash met with them, how could I possibly examine them?
“Throw a party,” Flossie says abruptly.
“I’m sorry, this is hardly the time to throw a party, even if I had any friends—”
“The maid is right.”
Flossie bristles at the title, despite Eva’s support.
Not noticing, Eva lifts herself out of her chair and paces.
“A party will allow you to question Mr. Tavernish and Mr. Gotze without raising suspicions. And we can invite Mr. Zephyr, along with the other customers who’ve requested to meet the new ‘president.’ ”
More animated than I’ve ever seen her, Eva returns to her chair and begins ticking off the numbered items on her status report. “Three: A party will give the staff something to do. And”—her eyes sharpen—“one has already been planned.”
Flossie gasps. “The Gatheround.”
“Yes. We’ve been planning it for months. People will assume it has been canceled, but we can revive it.”
“And you can finally wear that toe-stubbing man-tamer,” Flossie says with a triumphant finality. “It’ll make all the boys trip.”
“B-but,” I say, my thoughts as sluggish as walking on sand, “we are in mourning…”
“We make a statement that the party is in celebration of Mr. Sanders’s life.” Eva holds her head high, looking as determined as a buoy in choppy waters.
The thought of asking Nash for another favor makes me want to impale myself on the closest conifer. But if throwing a party is what it takes to catch a killer, bring on the man-tamer.