Comeuppance Served Cold, page 1
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Every bit of this one is for Dave
Author’s Note
This book contains instances of patriarchal, racist, and ableist violence, both verbal and physical.
NEAR DAWN, NOVEMBER 17, 1929
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
SHE PRESSED THE MASK, as light as a silk scarf, against her face. Tiny invisible claws gripped her flesh. Closing her eyes, she pictured the body that would veil her: a tall man with a crown of golden hair. She retrieved her valise from the coat closet and went into the study to make one final check.
The body sprawled on the sofa. Black hair spilled over the woman’s white blouse, and her left hand trailed on the floor. One of her worn shoes hung half off her foot. Green eyes, already clouding, stared up at the marquetry ceiling.
The masked woman shut the study doors behind her, and crossed the marble foyer. Outside, she walked down to the sidewalk, where she stood for a moment, waiting. A cook came out of the house across the street, carrying a market basket. Just what she was waiting for. She turned, one hand pressed to her head, and limped steadily north up the street.
“Mr. Earnshaw? Are you all right?” the cook called after her. She ignored it.
She walked for half a block. In the shadow of a neighboring house, she stopped, imagining a stout woman in black, a maid out on a near-dawn errand. Her skin itched as the mask changed its illusion. She walked for three more blocks. The sky began to lighten. Two sedans, one with a gold shield on the door, sped past her, heading down the street. Around the next corner, a black taxi sat waiting. She ducked behind a shrub, took off the mask, and put it into her valise.
“You said an hour,” the cabbie said as she climbed in. “You cut it close.”
He turned around to look at her, waiting. She lowered the bag of jewelry she’d taken from the vault into a large brown envelope. Her fingers brushed over the small stack of passports tucked into a corner of the valise.
“Where to, miss? The waterfront?”
There was a freighter leaving for Astoria in one hour. In Astoria she could catch the train to Wichita, where her client lived.
“Yes, with a stop first,” she said as he pulled out onto Broadway Avenue. “Violet’s Hat Shop.”
“Miss, that’s a speakeasy,” he said. “They’ll be closed by now.”
She smiled. “They’ll open for me,” she said.
Part One
Orphan
Chapter One
NOVEMBER 4, 1929
(THIRTEEN DAYS BEFORE)
AMBROSE EARNSHAW, Seattle’s Commissioner of Magi, looked over his wide ebony desk at the young woman seated across it. “Mortimer Lester is a good friend,” he said, “but he is not a great a judge of character. I am, and I investigate thoroughly.” He touched the open file folder before him.
The woman nodded. Her expression was serious but not anxious. She was pretty, with green eyes and black hair, unfashionably long, tucked up bob-like under a gray cloche. Her hands were folded, but he could see where a tear in the thumb seam of one glove had been nearly perfectly mended. Her white blouse was impeccably pressed. The gray wool skirt she wore, which ended just below her knee, was not in the latest fashion.
“You came here from California, and you told me you attended Miss Meritage’s Young Women’s Academy in San Diego,” he said.
“My parents died when I was ten, and Uncle John was the only one who could take me in.” She had a low-pitched voice. “When I was thirteen, my aunt got sick. With the four boys, they couldn’t look after me, so I went to Miss Meritage’s.”
“I have her letter here.” He cleared his throat and read aloud, “Miss White was a conscientious and obedient student. Even though she possesses no magical affinity, she is a careful and methodical mixer of potions. She is reliable, punctual, and tidy. If the position you are filling does not require great imagination, she will do well. I recommend her to you.”
If Miss White was hurt by this blunt assessment, it didn’t show.
“You cared for Mortimer’s great-aunt, in Tarzana, until she crossed over.”
“Yes.” Miss White shifted her hands. “I came to Seattle looking for work. Mr. Lester told me you might have a position.”
“I do,” he said. He glanced around the room, stroking his mustache with thumb and forefinger. His study always filled him with satisfaction, from the teak wainscoting to the marquetry ceiling carved of bird’s-eye maple. The rich Persian rugs—chosen by his wife, now five years dead—ran up to the French doors, their thin drapes drawn back to show a view of the flagstone terrace and the autumn garden.
“I’ve done a bit of research about you too, Mr. Earnshaw,” Dolly White said. “I understand you are the Commissioner of Magi, and your eldest child, Francis, is in the Order of Saint Michael the Protector, which I assume is a magical police force. Or part of your commission? I don’t completely understand.”
“The Order is less formal. Our police force is filled with shortsighted fools, too timorous to take necessary action. There’s a need for a volunteer force to pick up the slack.”
A puzzled frown wrinkled her forehead. “A vigilance committee?”
“That’s an old-fashioned term, Miss White. The Order of Saint Michael merely protects the populace where the police cannot.” He shot his cuffs. “As for the Commission, it’s a . . . well, a governing council. We recommend policy on magic to the mayor and the city council, and we investigate complaints. We’re responsible for the licensing of magical practitioners and the collecting of fees.”
“We didn’t have those in California, I think,” she said.
“California is a hotbed of magical crime.”
A silence fell.
“Well,” Dolly said, “I admit I’m confused. You wanted a companion for your daughter, but I’ve seen her picture in the society pages, and she isn’t an invalid, is she?”
“My daughter is a drunkard.”
Dolly White raised her eyebrows.
“Fiona is about to be engaged to Antonio Arbelio, the scion of a fine magical family. But she, lately . . . in the past six months, she has been frequenting a vile criminal enterprise, a speakeasy run by a loathsome colored woman named Violet Solomon. Fiona’s behavior grows wilder and more outrageous each day.” He cleared his throat. “We haven’t even had the engagement party yet. I’ve thought of moving up the wedding date, but—”
“Oh, no, you mustn’t.” Dolly shook her head. “That leaves both families open to the worst kinds of gossip.”
“I see you understand. She’s gotten wilder and wilder. Last week she drove her car into a light pole. As if I didn’t have enough on my mind last week, what with . . . well. Something must be done. The trouble . . . the drinking is even worse, because I believe the gin is spiked with shimmer-shim. That terrible stuff should be outlawed.”
“The herb shimmer has a valid use, Mr. Earnshaw, as a pain reliever.”
He stared then smiled a bit sourly. “I forgot you were a scholar of potions. Well, once Fiona is safely married, there might be a place for you on the Commission staff. Unless Fiona wants to keep you on. If you can keep her away from the precipice until—”
The doors opened, and his troublesome daughter reeled into the room, wrapped in a pink silk dressing gown. Fluffy pink feathered mules covered her feet. “Are you interviewing my new jailor, Daddy?”
“Don’t be flippant. Miss White, my daughter, Fiona.”
Ignoring Dolly’s outstretched hand, Fiona staggered over to the other chair and fell into it. The diffuse afternoon light from the French doors bleached her wavy blond bob to the color of a dandelion crown. “I hope he’s going to pay you plenty, Miss White,” she said. She yawned. “You’ll need it. Lord! I’m tired.”
“How can you be tired? It’s two in the afternoon. You’ve slept through breakfast and lunch.”
Dolly leaned forward, staring into the girl’s face. “You’re under the influence of shimmer-shim right now.”
“Good Lord,” Earnshaw said.
Fiona smiled and closed her eyes. “Gin and shim, my favorite.”
“I can help with this,” Dolly said. “We’ll try an infusion of Paean’s Touch.”
Earnshaw tugged the bellpull once. As Fiona struggled to her feet, a young maid came into the room.
“Inez, get Miss White what she needs,” Earnshaw said.
“Hot water in a teapot, with honey, please,” Dolly said. “And we’ll take it in the drawing room.”
“I hate tea,” Fiona said, “and I hate the drawing room.”
“Too bad for you, then,” Dolly said, taking the girl’s arm. They crossed the marble foyer into the drawing room.
Ambrose Earnshaw waited until they left the room. He opened a small wooden box on his desk. Inside, a green jewel nestled into a nest of gold wire. He
* * *
The room’s pale silk drapes had been drawn open, giving Dolly a view of the mansion’s garden. Fiona winced and covered her eyes.
The maid carried in a tray. Dolly poured a cup of water, added a dollop of golden honey, and dropped in a Paean’s Touch sachet from her bag.
“Are you poisoning me?” Fiona’s pupils were the pinpricks of someone doped up on shim. “Surely Daddy wouldn’t have spent a week checking the bona fides of a poisoner when he could hire one in an hour.”
Dolly thought the girl had swallowed a shot of shim within the last hour. Plainly, she had the stuff in the house. “You think this behavior embarrasses your father,” she said, “but it just strengthens his position.” She handed Fiona the cup. “Here, blow on this. It’s hot.”
“Aren’t you bold behind Daddy’s back,” Fiona said. The cup rattled slightly on its saucer.
“I’d say it to his face,” said Dolly. “Now drink it.”
Grumbling, Fiona drank the tea. She set the cup on the tray and dropped back into the chair. “He’s impressed you, hasn’t he? Seattle’s White King of Magic.”
“He seems to care about you.”
She shook her head. “You don’t know anything about my fam—” She sat up. An expression of surprise crossed her face. “I—I feel . . . awake.”
Dolly nodded. “And you can continue to feel awake, and better, as long as you avoid alcohol and shimmer-shim. It’ll take about three days for Paean’s Touch to drive the shim out of your system.”
Fiona pouted. “What if I don’t want it out of my system?”
“Ask me that question again in four days.”
Fiona laughed. “Aren’t you clever! I’m hungry. Let’s go to the kitchen and get Mrs. Chambers to make us something to eat.”
* * *
Earnshaw monitored the change in his daughter’s tone. Miss White seemed to be a good choice. Her references were realistic, not the glowing testimonials he instinctively distrusted. She was poor but not a pushover, and clearly, she had Fiona managed.
He closed the file, pushed it to one side, and reached for some Commission paperwork. An hour later, long strides clapped across the foyer.
“So, is Fiona’s duenna here yet?”
Earnshaw looked at his son, Francis, lounging against the doorjamb.
“Her name’s Dolly White. She’ll be helping Fiona until the wedding is on track. Perhaps she can even assist with the planning. She seems organized.”
Francis smiled. “Tony Arbelio can help with the planning too. That little cake-eater could even do the flowers.”
Earnshaw stared at his son. Francis gazed back, half smiling.
“Arbelio may disgust me too,” Earnshaw said, “but we need this alliance. We need it more than ever since Black Tuesday.”
“You do,” Francis said, as if agreeing.
“My needs are your needs, Francis. I won’t clean up after you anymore.”
Francis sketched a mocking military salute in his father’s direction and turned away from the door.
“Francis? No trouble with this girl. I mean it.”
“The poor mouse? Sure, Dad, sure. Semper Servo.”
* * *
The cook was a cheerful Irish woman who had married a sailor and ended up in Seattle. She made a cheese sandwich and poured a glass of milk for Fiona and offered Dolly some soup. She was delighted to see Fiona awake and eating.
While Fiona was finishing her sandwich, Inez entered the kitchen to tell Dolly Mr. Earnshaw wanted to see her. She returned to the study. They shook hands on a monthly stipend, and Dolly stood while Earnshaw spoke a long litany of strange-sounding words. “The house has a magical lock as well as physical ones,” he said. “It recognizes you now. You will be able to come and go without difficulty.”
Inez showed her up to her room. Across the hall from Fiona’s, it was about half the size, since it shared a wall with the servants’ staircase. Fiona’s room was papered in peach-colored wallpaper—an Art Deco depiction of ginkgo leaves—with a large window looking down over the lawn and garden. Pale-pink paint covered Dolly’s new walls, and her window was half the size of Fiona’s.
Dolly unpacked her valise, which Mr. Earnshaw had sent Inez to fetch from the boarding house. Her three frocks and two skirts looked lonely in the corner of the armoire. Blouses and underthings barely filled a drawer. She drew off her gloves. Mr. Earnshaw’s sharp gaze had certainly noted where she’d mended a ripped seam. Last, she lifted out a knitted doll shaped like a sock. At the top of the wool tube, two knots of green yarn and a red crescent made a simple face. Strands of black yarn tumbled down from the top. The skirt was made of long strips of bright silk and linen. Dolly nestled the doll against her pillow and spent a few minutes writing in a clothbound journal using the personal shorthand Miss Meritage had taught her.
That evening, she joined the family for dinner in a small, salmon-colored room with a bay window overlooking the kitchen garden. Earnshaw introduced Francis, his firstborn, a tall man with hair a darker shade of gold than Fiona’s. He wore a tan suit with an expensive yellow shirt, topaz cuff links, and a ruby tie tack.
Fiona, who had changed into a pale-blue dress, sat across from her. Earnshaw sat at the head of the table while Francis took the other end. The plates carried a geometric platinum pattern Dolly had seen once at Gump’s in San Francisco.
Fiona looked lucid but fragile, a lamb caught between two dogs.
“The Doucettes are having a tea dance at the Vance,” Francis said. “A reception for a girl cousin who just came out from Duluth.”
“I saw that in the newspaper,” Dolly said. “An established Seattle family, isn’t that right? Of French descent?”
“Ancestry does not confer respectability,” Earnshaw said. “I’m shocked at the Vance. It’s a fine, upstanding hotel, or it used to be.”
“I wonder what they’ll serve at the buffet. Raw meat?” Francis speared a piece of roast pork loin. “You look frustrated, Dad,” he said.
Earnshaw sipped from his wineglass. “Dealing with the spineless,” he said. “I can’t get the Commission to investigate Lazlo Penske, down on the waterfront.”
“That’s serious,” Francis said. “We have to take care of him. What’s the delay?”
Earnshaw made a gesture with his glass. “Our informant is a fishmonger, and the greengrocer’s shop is closer to the end of the pier. That milquetoast Sargent persuaded the other commissioners that our informant’s motives are suspect, and there is no other evidence.”
“Sargent’s the worst, that coward.” Francis said. “‘Live and let live!’ Gah. He’s as bad as Cahill used to be.” He smiled at Dolly. “You’ll have to excuse me, Miss White. I’m used to shoptalk at dinner.”
“I wonder how much Sargent lost last week,” Fiona said to her plate, “following Daddy’s investment advice. Black Tuesday? Isn’t that what they’re calling it?”
Dolly studied the girl over her water glass. Fiona’s defiance wasn’t just fueled by shim. “Excuse me,” she said. “Who is the greengrocer? I thought you were talking about a magus.”
Earnshaw smiled, and Francis laughed outright.
“We’re terrible with slang, Miss White,” Francis said. “A ‘greengrocer’ is someone who traffics in potions, elixirs, and magical artifacts. All unlicensed and hot as hell, of course, or most of it, anyway.”
“Francis means illegal,” Earnshaw said. “Most of these people are criminals.”
“And a fishmonger?”
Francis guffawed. “Sells fish!”
Dolly smiled. “I see.”
Fiona pushed minted peas around on her plate.
“The Commission will come around,” Earnshaw said. “These people can’t be left unregulated. Penske may even be using elemental magic.”
“The Order should pay Mr. Penske a visit,” Francis said.
His father shook his head. “Not necessary. I don’t want it to look as if I just go around the Commission whenever I can’t get my own way.”
“But that is what you do,” Fiona said.
Earnshaw frowned. “Don’t blather, Fiona, about things you don’t understand.”
“I do understand,” Fiona muttered, staring at her water glass.
