CHAPTER EIGHT
L eona hesitated on the cobbles in front of the Rackham residence, Brooklynites streaming past her like a river around a stone.
Indecision wrapped her tight. After a moment, she walked on, her best choice to think before acting.
The mild weather encouraged her, the pale milk-blue sky of winter, and the tall dark trees raising their branches above the brownstones.
Leaves the color of copper and brass fluttered in the breeze.
Some days she felt she could walk forever until her mind emptied; today her thoughts marched along with her.
In the old days, some claimed to see devils and witches walking among them.
Superstition and fear poisoned their communities.
A Salem witch judge perched in her family tree, one of the most learned yet most credulous of the century.
After the war, many believed messages came from their dearly departed through mediums and spiritualists who exploited the minds and hearts of the grieving.
Leona’s grandfather had discovered mediums and spiritualists capable of impressive feats of investigation and wrote about them often, exposing their methods.
They mined the newspapers for information about their clients.
Then they presented this material as given to them by the spirits. Was Audrey a believer too?
Leona sighed. For herself she’d never contact the spiritualists on the calling card, Jesper and Millie Frost, to ask Daphne’s spirit where her jewelry lay hidden, who had taken it, or her cause of death.
Or to inquire if Van Wyn were having an affair with Audrey.
Or if she could speak to Jack—oh, Lord, no.
She couldn’t expose herself like that to those phonies.
But what about an affair between Benedict and Audrey? Could they—separately or together—have given her too much laudanum? To keep Daphne from seeing and exposing the truth? Or was this just a fantasy due to Mrs. Rackham’s declining mental facilities?
Chances were, though, her fantasies held a seed of truth.
Had too much laudanum actually been too much?
Leona also didn’t want Detective Day arriving at the house on Cranberry Street looking to speak to Gil, overburdened as he was.
She doubted anything the police had learned so far would save her reputation now.
Too soon. Trial by gossip had listed her among the guilty.
Admittedly, she had broken into the Van Wyn’s home.
But she’d also once lived there as a member of the family, less than four months ago.
How to fix this without making things worse?
Leona kicked at a stone, and, like her thoughts, it bounced along the cobbles.
If Audrey had previously accompanied Daphne on her visits to the Frosts, might she have returned there after Daphne’s death? Leona only wanted to talk to Audrey about Daphne and about what happened that night.
And if Audrey were in danger—?
A tingling awareness prodded Leona into paying attention to her surroundings. Two young bucks in disheveled evening clothes eyed her from across the street. They were up to no good. A dirtier, less healthy-appearing specimen sized her up from a doorway within reaching distance.
The unloaded gun in her reticule pulled at her, heavy and hot. Foolish to not pay attention to her surroundings. She put her arm up for a hackney and froze at the sight of two men deep in conversation, one of them known to her.
Had the malevolent stranger from the other night followed her here?
Before she could react, he melted away into the crowd. A hackney stopped and, shaken, she got in, fresh worry blooming in her mind as the carriage took her home.
***
“M ’UM?” MRS. MCCARTHY placed a full coffee cup in front of Leona, her expression worried.
Leona inhaled, relishing the sharp scent of the coffee. She’d spent the night tossing and turning beside her snoring husband, and her eyes smarted with fatigue. “What is it?”
Mrs. McCarthy struggled for a moment before speaking. “Have you forgotten? Today is your day to host the—”
She yelped. “Brooklyn Ladies Suffrage!”
“Now, now, it’s all right,” Mrs. McCarthy said, following her into the kitchen.
“I did most of the baking yesterday. The savories and sandwiches were just delivered. But I don’t know where you keep your silver service.
And I’m a little behind polishing the silverware.
My granddaughter—you remember Tina? She’s cleaning the good parlor right now, m’um.
You sit, eat your breakfast. If you and I tackle the silver, Tina can set the parlor up for your luncheon. ”
“What would I do without you? I mean it. You’re both worth your weight in gold.” Leona hugged the woman, startling her into a gasp and a blush.
“Oh, shoo, now,” Mrs. McCarthy said with a short laugh.
Leona ate her egg and toast, trying to put her mind to the luncheon despite more pressing concerns.
In her pocket sat the business card of the spiritualists Daphne and Audrey had visited, but it had come at a great cost. And that strange man in the yard after dusk and today on the street.
So much had happened since that evening, he’d gone out of her mind, but here he stood now, plain as day.
She’d speak to Gil first, of course. He was sure to have something to say about it, and they would have to pay another visit to the police station.
What if the constables never found Henry or the money? How would they pay the loans back, without taking what little Helen had left? If only Leona had the opportunity to peek into Gil’s little notebook and see how much they’d lost and how much they owed.
How badly were her adventures from yesterday and the day before going to affect them socially? She hoped Charlotte had advice for her.
And where had her memoir disappeared to?
She took the card out of her pocket and peered at it again. The pull to seek answers there grew strong. Was contact with the spirit world real, ever? The Great Awakening started in Rochester, New York with the sisters Fox in the ‘50s—was there something to it? What if—
Temptation searing along her nerves, Leona closed her eyes and tucked away the card. First, silver to polish, the parlor to inspect, and guests to attend to.
***
I N THE GOOD PARLOR , Tina had thrown open the curtains to the autumn afternoon sun.
A tall oak tree outside the window, leaves gone a deep red, laced the walls with shadows and light.
Not a speck of dust marred the tables and shelves, and the scent of beeswax polish filled the room.
A small fire burned in the white marble fireplace.
Silvery blue and white paper covered the walls, and the carpets on the floor where she paced were deep.
Leona came to a standstill in front of the largest painting in the room with her hands on her hips.
She tipped her head back to the beautiful mountain summit view her cousin Ada had captured in early October of ’59.
Unable to absorb the peace it radiated, she sighed.
“And then what happened?” Charlotte demanded. “Did you find the folio?”
“Why didn’t Detective Day arrest you for trespassing?” Ruth asked.
Before Leona could even open her mouth, Charlotte said, “You’re practically a member of that family, for heaven’s sake. If Geneva had been there, she would have said so.”
Leona said, “Geneva was not there, and I would not have expected her to speak up for me from the way she behaved toward me at Daphne’s wake.
And I did not find the folio, but Detective Day did appear to believe me about it.
And—” She sat between her friends on the long sofa, white silk with pale yellow stripes, re-arranged her skirts, and reached for her tea on the table before her.
“He said everyone connected to the household will be investigated. I suppose they have not ruled out Benedict and Geneva for the theft, either.” She glanced at the clock—seven minutes before two.
“They’ll be here soon. To complete my sad tale, I went to see Francine Creighton, but she refused to see me, too. ”
Charlotte gasped. “Francine? I’m shocked.”
“None of Daphne’s friends would see me. Except for Eliza Rackham.”
“Her mind is so disordered by old age, you couldn’t have gotten a coherent conversation from her, anyway, or so I’ve been told.”
“Oh, that’s sad,” Ruth commented. “All those memories gone.”
Leona thought back on her visit. “She is childlike and silly acting, but she did appear to have moments of lucidity, a kind of waxing and waning. When she remembered who she was. I suppose my questions might have achieved this, recalling her friend Daphne and their visits to the spiritualists.”
“Oh?” Charlotte’s cup clacked down into the saucer. “Who had they gone to see?”
The carriage clock on the mantel began to chime the hour.
“Don’t tell me you attend seances now, Charlotte?
” Leona rose and surveyed the room once more, nerves gripping her stomach.
Everything in its place. She picked up a blue velvet pillow with embroidered flowers and squeezed it nervously, then gave it a light plump before setting it down again.
Brushed at imaginary crumbs on the lace collar of her green silk day dress.
Pushed the fingers of her gloves tighter.
“I might have, when I was young,” Charlotte said.
“Millie and Jesper Frost, down near Cobble Hill,” Leona replied, but Charlotte shrugged.
She and Ruth rose and prepared to greet Leona’s guests with her. Charlotte wore a dress of dark and light brown velvet with the usual profusion of ribbon and lace trim. Ruth’s dress of severe blue wool with a white blouse suited her well.