Chapter 32
Despite the bright new furnishings, a gray has fallen over the big house once again. The servants scurry like mice, keeping out of sight. In the reception room, Mrs. Bonefat is clucking her tongue at the walls of our redone hall. She releases a deep, disapproving breath.
Hearing me, she stiffens. She is much too dignified to tell me I should’ve left things alone, but I smell her displeasure, as strong as the lilac perfume she wore the day I stumbled out of Mr. Sanders’s office.
“Mrs. Bonefat,” I begin, feeling like some explanation is needed. “I’m sorry the party did not turn out the way I—”
“Sh!” She cuts me off with a flick of her handkerchief. She does not like hearing my apologies. “Do you know, Mr. Sanders never really learned how to play that.” She points her nose at the Aeolian organ atop its raised stage.
“But I’ve seen him play it.” Few people can play the Aeolian organ, and Mr. Sanders was considered a master.
“He could pick out a few notes here and there. But most of the time he was playing a recording.”
Does she mean that Mr. Sanders was a confidence man? A trickster?
Of course not. He was a visionary, some say brilliant. But maybe not brilliant in every way. Perhaps, to run a massive estate, you need not be good at everything—as long as you look like you know what you’re doing.
She presses her handkerchief to her eyes, and I move close enough to see her face. The tip of her pointy nose is red, and her skin looks paler than usual. She’s been crying. Her cat cameo hangs crookedly from her collar.
A last detail slides into place, one that brings the entire picture to life. “You loved Mr. Sanders.”
“Of course I did,” she says gruffly. “Before you wonder—no, I did not kill him. That day…”
Her voice falters, and I know immediately which day she speaks of.
“That day”—she tries again—“I confessed my feelings for him. I acted shamefully. But do you know what he said?”
I shake my head.
“He said, ‘My darling Wilhelmina—’ ”
Her name is Wilhelmina?
“ ‘—I regret that I do not return your affections, but because of my great respect for you, I have decided to do something I never thought I would. I will get you a kitten.’ ” A laugh escapes her lips, one that causes a tear to fall.
“He hated cats.”
I fear I must take drastic measures, Eva heard Mr. Sanders say when discussing the “housekeeper situation.”
“Yes.”
“So you and Boots are not… keeping company?”
Her eyes become sharp; then she barks out a laugh.
“Certainly not.” Brushing her skirts, she straightens her cat cameo.
“If you must know, Mr. Sanders asked Boots to look after me if anything should ever happen to him.” Her eyes grow moist again, and she shakes her head.
“He will never be replaced. Now if you’ll excuse me.
” She sets off toward the business wing.
I plod up the stairs to my office, marveling at Mrs. Bonefat’s revelations, which somehow make me admire her more.
The telephone is ringing when I enter. I cross to Eva’s writing desk and answer. “Hello? This is Lucy from Sanders Ships.”
“Call from the University of Washington,” an operator says. “Please hold.”
I grip the receiver with two hands, as if it is a live animal that might scurry away. Is it the botanist calling?
A moment later, a different voice, quieter and lower, says, “This is Mary Paul from the University of Washington. I am told the new owner of Sanders Ships has been trying to reach me.” She speaks with the careful articulation of someone speaking a second tongue.
“Yes. Thank you for calling back.”
“I was upset to hear about Mr. Sanders’s passing. I hope they have caught the killer.”
“Not yet. I know you had a phone call with him. I’m trying to understand his last days, and I wondered if you could share what you talked about.
” I bring the candlestick base and the receiver to the window, and gaze down at the sound.
The water is ruffled, restless. “Miss Paul?” Perhaps she did not hear my question.
“Mr. Sanders had heard about my research,” she says slowly.
“Which is?” I press the receiver closer to my ear, wishing she would speak faster.
“I am a botanist, specializing in mushrooms.”
My eyes snap to the prototype of Wilds of Orcas Island on Mr. Sanders’s desk. “Fungi.” I bring the telephone to the desk, trying not to trip on the wire. Setting down the base, I sit on one of the guest chairs and flip to the last page. China blue.
“Yes, fungi. You know your terminology.”
I barely notice Eva entering the room. She takes the guest chair next to mine, and I angle the receiver so she can hear.
“What did Mr. Sanders want to know?” I ask Mary.
Eva whips out her notepad and poises her pen. The botanist takes even longer answering this time. Why is she so reluctant?
“I’m sorry, but he requested that I keep our conversation private.”
“I see.” Frustration clouds my vision. Mr. Sanders kept many secrets, but this one seems especially important to unlock. He spoke to Mary the day he wrote my letter. What is the significance? Or is there any significance?
People listen when they know it is you talking. I can hear Flossie’s voice in my ear.
“Miss Paul.” I try again. “Before I inherited the estate, I was Mr. Sanders’s research assistant for the book he was writing. I know he found a species called China blue. If I just knew what that was, it would help me understand… why I am here.”
Eva stops writing and gives me a solemn nod.
Our heads press close, waiting for a reply but only getting static. Have we lost the connection? The phone’s buzzing, crackling noise seems to bury itself in my chest, and I take a deep breath to loosen it.
“Caeruleum sinensis,” says Mary at last. “Mr. Sanders knew of my research into this species. China blue is a very rare and valuable medicinal herb and aphrodisiac.”
“Aphrodisiac?”
“Yes. And it can induce hallucinations. China’s late Empress Dowager supposedly paid a hundred dollars for a single stalk, which is enough to make a pint of tincture.”
The memory of a warm cup of tea presses into me. Jasmine is Empress Dowager’s favorite tea. The interpreter Wai’s voice returns to my head. She was certainly a lady who enjoyed her brews.
“It needs the perfect climate to grow, and it must be cut at the perfect length,” Mary adds.
Buried golden treasure… rotting to its perfect measure. The words of Mr. Sanders’s riddle as told to me by Father Pinnyhorne slide into my thoughts. Fungi decompose, or “rot”—dead organic matter. Was Caeruleum sinensis the “fortune” my father and Mr. Sanders found on Parish Isle?
Something’s been took from that demon, and it wants revenge, Gilly’s gruff voice echoes. It won’t stop until it gets its bloodfill.
“What sort of climate?” I ask.
“Year-round fog, but not too chilly. A pristine environment kept free of natural predators, like land slugs, spotty beetles, certain bacteria.”
That definitely sounds like Parish Isle. “Did he say where this place was?”
“No. He said he would arrange for me to visit when the time was right. He needed my assistance to make sure he had found the right fungus. There are mirror mushrooms that resemble China blue but are poisonous, you see.”
I shudder. Evil mirrors are everywhere. “What does China blue look like?”
“It’s actually white, not blue, and grows about four inches long when mature. Some people say it has the shape of asparagus.”
My eyes snap to the vase of mystery plant on the shelf. White asparagus. “Why is it called China blue?”
“When soaked in ethanol, it turns the liquid blue. Its poisonous mirrors do not.”
Eva crosses to the call panel and presses Buddy’s button.
“One last question, Miss Paul. Is it possible that China blue could grow on a populated island like ours?” Koa said the wild boar on Mount Consternation had been turning in circles after consuming the plant.
The one on Jawbone Beach had reared up and boxed the air.
Perhaps the animals had been hallucinating?
“It’s possible, but if there are predators, it likely wouldn’t survive. Once disturbed, it desiccates quickly due to its elongated morphology. On the other hand, quick desiccation makes for easy packing and transport.”
“So it would’ve made a profitable export.” A hundred dollars for a single stalk.
“Most definitely.”
After thanking her for her time, I hang up.
Buddy glides into the room, holding an empty jar plus a bottle of Mr. Sanders’s favorite Caribbean rum, which Eva must have requested. “Are you certain you don’t want a squeeze of lime with this?” he asks. “Or ice?”
“No, thank you, Buddy,” I say. “That will be all.”
My skin feels charged with electricity, and my pulse has become a drumbeat in my ears. After Buddy leaves, Eva watches me drop one of the mystery plant stalks into the jar and set it on the desk. “You do it. My hands are unsteady.”
Eva uncorks the rum and carefully pours.
The clear liquid turns deep sapphire blue the instant it touches the dried fungus.
“China blue,” I whisper, screwing the lid on the jar.
Is that why the boars have been acting so strange?
Not a demon, but a mushroom. “Mr. Sanders said he would arrange for Mary to visit ‘when the time is right.’ What do you think he meant? Fungi grow without regard to season, as long as the climate suits.”
“Maybe the time didn’t refer to China blue.” Eva frowns at Mr. Sanders’s entry on the open page of Wilds of Orcas Island. “He wrote that after talking to you. It must have been the right time.”
That was the day I gave Mr. Sanders the picture of Shadow and Scull and saw his eyes grow tearful. I’d given him proof of my sea-wolf sense.
An ocean roars loud in my ears. “He was waiting for me to be ready?”
She nods.
Only you can calm the wolves.