21 Shades of Night, page 444
I was wondering whether I should wait for him here or explore further when Alyse Bone came floating back. True to her nature, I didn’t hear her until she was smack dab in front of me. She didn’t speak, but she did take my hand and lead me through the press of people to Dulcie and Tim. He then led us to Peter, who was enfolded in a knot of people I’d seen at the concert hall.
If he’d bought taffy, it wasn’t evident from any paper bag. His hands were empty. Everyone, including Peter, seemed to be copacetic with wherever Alyse was leading us, no questions asked. Did Peter know Alyse well? I thought he’d just made her acquaintance at that first séance I’d attended. Who was this imposing woman, and what made her the boss? I tamped down my irritation. She was undoubtedly trying to show us some fun.
Alyse led us past the glassed-in area in the back of the shop that held the cooking vats and taffy-cutting apparatus. There were rolls of paper to wrap the taffy in, and different rolls that held tiny Spellbinding labels. An array of wide knives and stirring spoons were affixed to the wall, and the man with the puffy white hair who I’d seen refilling the baskets was there, shoveling fresh taffy into cellophane bags with a broad trowel. He paused to watch us troop toward the back exit, and his gaze fell on me with evident interest. It made me uncomfortable, as he was the cook, and therefore not supposed to ogle the clientele. Plus, he must’ve thought it strange that Alyse was leading an entire posse past his workstation behind the store. How often did this happen?
With an officious rustle of her green gown, Alyse stopped when she’d reached a pantry labeled Supply Closet. She ferried us in and quickly closed the door. I wondered why she would lead us into a cramped pantry lined with cooking vats, oversized molasses jars and a soiled push broom. Especially so, when she held her hands against a wall covered with a line of aprons on hooks and proceeded to shove at it.
I was struck with waves of claustrophobia when, unexpectedly, a vertical slice of wall opened. She nudged us in, where this outlandish door twisted us up in its great circular, spinning parts. It spun us through and then closed as if it had never moved at all.
We were on the landing of a dark set of rickety stairs. Descending in single file, we ended up in a basement storage area, cobwebbed with an odor of mildew… and something else, invisible but pungent. Musky incense.
Dulcie and I exchanged startled yet excited looks, as I braced for an even bigger shock.
And there was one. Alyse Bone rapped on a tall shelf of floor waxes, and a tiny panel popped open in the wall between slats. One eyeball scrutinized us from the other side. When the eye saw Alyse, we heard a bolt slide, and wonders of wonders, this cabinet spun around to reveal a den of iniquity beyond.
We squeezed in, one after the other, like hungry waifs into a stocked grocery. Rebellious excitement charged through me, dangerous and wonderful.
“Well, I’ll be!” Dulcie cried.
“Compliments, Miss Bone,” Tim reverently murmured.
Alyse flashed Tim a dazzling smile, and then turned to the rest of us with a more serious expression. “I trust that you’ll keep the location and nature of Spellbinding’s Speakeasy to yourselves?” It was a command rather than a question. Her gold-flecked gray eyes took a moment to record our silent promises.
“Who owns this place?” Peter whispered.
“Some daring soul,” she replied vaguely with an arch of the eyebrows. “Well, then,” she said. “Let’s enjoy ourselves.”
Tim and Dulcie bounded in first. Following Peter into the dark, smoky chamber, my eyes saw little but gradually adjusted. Black velvet settees were scattered here and there, and elegant folks lounged in them, some smoking with the long cigarette holders I’d seen Alyse use. Men circling around one table played card games, and a gaunt man with a long beard and knit cap puffed on a hookah in a dark corner.
A high counter was set up along one wall as a makeshift bar, and ladies dressed in short skirts with matching cloche hats the same bright colors of the taffy upstairs were circulating to take orders. A jazzy version of “Body and Soul” played on a Victrola.
Alyse settled us in at one of the longer couches shaped in a semi-circle, and a waitress in raspberry-pink took our order. I had no idea what I wanted, so Alyse ordered me a cocktail called absinthe.
When it arrived, it was as glittery green as her emerald ring. It tasted of licorice but was much steamier going down. Peter ordered one too, while Dulcie and Tim, who had joined us, stuck to white wine.
Alyse whispered something to Raspberry Taffy Girl, and she minced away, only to return with a brimming basket of green taffy with pastel blue swirls.
“What do these do?” Dulcie asked Alyse.
“Lots,” Alyse cryptically answered. “They go exceedingly well with absinthe.” At her recommendation, I took one.
It tasted like cool, bountiful nectar of the gods. I helped myself to two more, and then, when Peter held his share out, a whole handful. It felt as if I couldn’t get them in my mouth fast enough. I stuffed them in when he wasn’t looking so I wouldn’t seem piggish.
Peter asked Alyse where she worked. So, he didn’t know her after all. In her cagey fashion, she simply stated that she was managing a few businesses in the area.
She asked where he hailed from. He said he’d come east from Kansas to make his fortune. She applauded him on his wise move, saying all he would’ve made out there would’ve been pennies in dust and tumbleweeds.
She asked me where I’d gone to school. I gave a vague answer about a girl’s day school. Then she asked where I lived and worked now. Something told me it would be wise to be as brief as she was. “I’m a nanny.”
“How delightful,” she purred. “I adore children.” Her tone was absolutely false in that regard, and we exchanged knowing looks saying as much.
The absinthe soon put me in a dreamy state. Added to the mix was the sensual comfort of sitting next to Peter, who served as a buffer between Alyse and me. Something about her still put me on edge even though she was beautiful and elegant. Well, maybe because she was.
Tim asked Dulcie to dance. I waved languidly to them as they gamboled off.
Somewhere in the room, a chorus of faint voices floated around, high and sweet. Or was the sound merely in my head? How could it be? Peter asked me a question, but it took three repetitions for me to understand him over the low-slung jazz notes infused with the chorus of invisible soprano cherubs singing at me.
“Have you always had a talent for the unseen?” I finally heard him ask.
“Whatever do you mean? It was you who saw things that weren’t there.” I had to right myself because I found myself swooning and swaying so much I nearly fell into Peter’s lap.
“But it was you who eked it out of me.”
“Little old me?” I giggled.
“Yes, you,” Alyse agreed. “I was there, too. You have some strange talent. Can you describe it? How it works? You must be aware of it.”
Everything was turning light and frothy like a magical cake icing. The barkeep was chatting up the fellows at his counter, the card players exhaled in cheery gusts of laughter, and the waitresses flounced around like so many sunny meadow flowers. I didn’t see the harm. “I do sense things. Yes. Always have.”
“What kind of things?” Peter and Alyse asked in precise tandem. How very coincidental. Their unexpected accord perfectly matched the soprano voices singing harmoniously in and around my head.
I giggled again. “Do you hear them?”
“Hear what?” Peter looked around, spooked.
“Little children, little voices.”
Alyse’s brows creased. “What are they saying?”
“They’re singing.” But the entire mood of the room had changed in an instant. Their radiant energy soured. The little children of the ether weren’t singing any more. They were starting to weep, over something very sad.
Over me.
How did I know this? No idea, but I knew. A hard frost shot through my bones. I took a big gulp of the absinthe. Perhaps it would block out the voices, the wailing of innocents.
“What is it?” Peter took my hand in his. His concerned touch cut through the horrible, chilling ache and melted me. “What’s the matter, Fiera?” His face paled, and right then, I knew he heard them too. “They’re crying, aren’t they?” he whispered in my ear, tickling my soft lobe. “They’re crying over you.”
“Yes.” I leaned on him, letting the voices cry for me.
We hugged and I swear I felt his sudden, hot tears melt through the shoulder fabric of my dress. It was infinitely sad, infinitely tender.
“Peter!” Tim’s reedy voice cut through my reverie. I looked up only for a minute to see Tim staring over at Peter with a look of distaste. Why? Oh, who cared? I rested my head again on Peter’s shoulder.
The invisible cherubs whirring inside my head took translucent form and slipped out of me. They soared around the room like hardscrabble angels, flitting past Dulcie as she danced; sliding, their soft baby feet gliding over the long bar counter, and right through the man with the hookah. He glanced up for a moment as if he, too, felt the supernatural breeze. Then he bowed his head back down and took a pensive draw on his smoking device. Even when I closed my eyes, I saw green paisleys and floating leaves, the rushing of a cold stream bubbling under me, which filled me with terror. I came to with a gasp.
“What is it?” Alyse’s eyes narrowed. How could I tell her of this suffering, shot through with spectacular floating objects, and my strange, sudden affinity with Mr. Dune?
“I see children weeping,” I admitted. “They’ve been hurt.”
“How?” Her voice grew anxious.
I silently asked them. They couldn’t reply. Maybe they were too young, only babies, really. They hadn’t learned how to talk. “They can’t say.”
When I looked over at Peter, it was obvious he was in the same deep trance he’d been in when we first met. His eyes were glazed as if whatever he was experiencing was far from this dingy basement speakeasy. “What is it? What do you see?” I whispered in his ear.
“They’re fading. They’re dying. They’re being—”
“Snap out of it, Mr. Dune.” Alyse gave him a stern shaking. “You’ve had way too much absinthe. You must slow down.”
“It’s not that,” I insisted. “It’s not!” I reached out and clasped one of his arms.
“Then tell me what it is, Fiera,” she insisted.
“It’s a vision. Of something real.”
“From where?”
“From long ago.”
“How long ago?”
“As long ago as there is a long ago.” I sounded ridiculous. Yes, Alyse Bone was right. The absinthe was crazy making. Or was it the taffy? I leaned into Peter’s limp shoulder, reached over, and hugged him. Shook him, too, but with more patience than Alyse Bone had.
His eyes fluttered open, and he gazed at me with that same calm as when he awoke after the séance. But as before, his expression was clear of emotion, blissfully unaware of what he’d whispered to me only minutes ago.
“Well, there you are,” he slurred. “You look positively ravishing.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Dance?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” I bumbled to my feet.
“You two really drank the coffin varnish.” Alyse gave an unbecoming snort. “Glad you finally snapped to.” She rose up and drifted away, seemingly irritated with our boozy haze.
Perhaps I was too far gone, but I didn’t care. Peter and I danced and danced. The room filled with the overflow from the convention hall dance—young lovers, bootlegger types with wide ties and cigars, older women with twinkling earrings and heavy bosoms, even a prostitute or two. I thought so anyway, because they wore way too much rouge and came alone to sit brazenly up at the bar with the gin rummies.
This time, I couldn’t say whether I stepped on Mr. Dune’s polished wingtips. He probably couldn’t be sure if he knocked his bony legs into mine or what. We had many more nips of absinthe, and I wolfed down another green-swirl taffy. Before I knew it, I was leaning provocatively against Peter and laughing like a wild banshee.
I remember gaping up at him to see his black hair all disheveled and him indistinctly mumbling. And I, thinking that he was the most gorgeous human being I’d ever seen. I remember Dulcie grabbing one of my arms, and Peter grasping the other. I remember all of us howling at the crescent moon over the ocean, and the shocked sideways glance of the hotel proprietor as we all stumbled in.
I recall pulling out the Tarot he’d given me, and laying them out on the bedroom rug. I recall babbling at him—about a witch and a swindler and a boat—not necessarily in that order. I can still picture his expression of shocked surprise, but not at what.
And I remember Peter’s lips branding my forehead—how could I ever forget that—while shocks of his lush black hair dangled deliciously on my burning cheeks. The last thing I recall before things went dark was kicking off my shoes.
Chapter 5
THE FAIRGROUNDS AT Belmar-by-the-Bay were a lively melee of booths, and food vendors and tourists out for some morning entertainment. Set in a rangy expanse of well-mown lawn grass, there was room for folks to park around the perimeter. I had to admit it was a better location for a spiritualist fair than Asbury Park’s neighboring Ocean Grove, which hosted a Methodist Church Camp every July. As anti-spiritualist as I was, I was also a skeptic when it came to bible thumpers.
My head was splitting from last night’s absinthe that I’d vowed not to guzzle. But guzzle it I had, in my anxiety around Fiera’s strong presence. However, I couldn’t afford to spend this morning in bed with a damp washcloth pressed on my eyes. Tim and I were at the fairgrounds on important business. The Circle of Light group had a large booth here, and if we couldn’t yet infiltrate their private meetings, this was second best. The bureau was pressing me on my findings down here, and I had too few notes for them.
Tim jabbed me in the side. “Hurry up, fella, or are you carrying too big a torch for a certain lady to think straight?” He squinted at me in amusement.
I ignored the comment. To get Tim started was always a mistake unless one wanted to have a back and forth lasting hours. Shading my bloodshot eyes with my hand, I surveyed the crowd, scouting for the Circle of Light banner—a crescent moon with black gothic lettering around it. “Ah!” I pointed ahead and to the right. “Over there.”
Shorter than me by a good foot, Tim had to stand on his toes to see above people’s head’s. “Yes, I see them. Let’s hurry before the line gets too long.” I was in no shape to run, so he bounded ahead.
At their booth, they’d strung up a line of large photos with clothespins. Some boasted strange, shimmery lights; others displayed disembodied heads, even feet, or elongated ghostly forms. In boxes on their long tables, they’d assembled many more copies of the same prints for sale. People were scrambling for them, even at the elevated prices. It turned my stomach to think of all the money good people wasted on this twaddle, and I was tempted to round up all of their bogus merchandise. But I’d need additional hard evidence of fraud.
The photographer, dressed in a white seersucker jacket and summer pants, had a Circle of Light logo on his pendant. He was in the process of snapping a photo of two pretty little girls. When he was done, he fished around inside his big camera box covered by a swath of black fabric, then took the apparatus from its stand and carried it inside the tent. In five minutes or so, to great fanfare, he marched back outside and presented the photo to the family. “You see? This sphere of light is clearly your baby boy floating above your two girls. He’s come down from the heavens to say hello to them.”
Their two daughters worked their way to the front for a better look. “Mama, Papa, look at Ellis!” screeched one of them while her sister emitted gasps. This prompted a wail from the mother and a choked sob from her husband.
“Ellis is safe now, dear,” the man said to his wife, and she nodded, a grim smile brightening her tears.
Finagling a spot behind them, I examined the photo and suppressed a disgusted snort. The photo was blurry, so much so that one couldn’t say for sure whether it was these girls or two other children entirely. Yes, there was a hazy orb of light above the figures.
But it was still a hoax, a clear alteration of the image. There were a few ways to alter photographic paper—smearing the process inks, covering the developing paper in sections, so that wherever the paper was covered, the photograph would remain white. Or simply the bait and switch of a bogus print, taken days or weeks earlier—my department had seen it all.
Still, so far this was nothing worse than what I told people at my own séances. We both gave people false hope. But there was a difference, I decided. These people were lining their pockets with cash, while my paranormal theatrics were strictly to lure in local spiritualists and report on their activities.
“Peter, shake a leg,” Tim called from his place at the end of the line. Customers were starting to wind all the way around the booth.
As we waited our turn, we heard the photographer tell many a lie about his supernatural photos to each client whose turn it was next. He declared that a lonely man’s wife had just appeared in a circle of light around his baldpate. To a desperate young man who’d lost his fiancée to rheumatic fever, he claimed he saw her spirit in what looked to me like an intentional smear of photographic ink. And there was an intelligent, well-dressed woman who swore she saw a ghost dog in the exact shape of her dearly departed bloodhound, Mumsy. So even the upper-crust intellects were gullible prey.
“Distressed folks will see a magical nymph in a pile of stinkin’ dog poo,” Tim whispered in my ear.
“And whittle down their fortunes like incorrigible gamblers,” I muttered back under my breath. We dared say no more. We had to play the part of eager clients. Nevertheless, I surreptitiously scrawled notes in my leather pocket notebook—on the nature of the images in the photos and the outrageous promotional jargon. One sign said Only $1.99 to Walk Across The Circle of Light’s Bridge to Your Family in Heaven. Another stated Your Loved Ones Want to Talk to You. Ask About our Circle Séances for $2.99. I also jotted down the physical descriptions of each Circle of Light salesperson. There were three others, and the white seersucker jacket, which initially looked like cheerful beachwear, was clearly more a uniform. Every Circle of Light follower wore one. They also wore the pendants. I noticed they were all men. I wrote that in my book as well.
