21 Shades of Night, page 445
Finally, it was our turn in line. The photo barker turned to us. “Who wants their picture taken with a spirit? And which dearly beloved from the other side are you looking to see today?” he asked.
Tim spoke up. He was more quick-witted than I was when I was angered, and this scene had gotten me hot under the collar. “Take me, if you will.” Tim had mussed his hair and wrinkled up his face in an unattractive grimace to look depressed. “My only auntie passed away a few days ago. I’m heartsick.”
“Sympathies, sir. Tell me, what did she look like?” It was obvious the barker was fishing for clues so he’d know how to fashion the photo.
Tim spread out his hands. “Well, she was a broad one. I’d say her hips were yay big.” He drew his hands out even wider, and I smiled inside at his devilish urge to challenge the grifter at his own game. At this rate, the aunt’s so-called phosphorescence would cover the whole blasted photo.
Rubbing at his jaw, the man gestured for Tim to stand in camera’s range and then popped his head under the armor of the shroud. Oh, how I longed to pull the whole shebang off in one grand swoop. His hands fiddled around in there, and then he ducked inside the tent with the camera. Finally, he emerged, an oily snake slithering toward us.
“Here, good sir, looks as if your dearest aunt, rest her soul, has surrounded you with her own wondrous circle of light.” Clearly, the man had put a ring-shaped device over most of the negative so it wouldn’t process that area. Tim’s blurry face, staring out from the center, was the only recognizable part of the image.
Instead of exposing the man for the fraud he was, I praised him up and down.
“You are an extreme talent,” Tim agreed. We chose four more pre-packaged photos as evidence and then paid for the lot.
“May I ask what one can do to be a Circle of Light member?” I stared into the man’s eyes to gauge his reaction.
He looked startled by my question. “Sir, that’s not for me to say, and I must get back to my photography.” He cocked his head toward the swelling line.
“Just one more quick question. Who decides then?” Tim asked him.
“One moment.” He scurried behind the booth into the tent. Then he and another man emerged. The photographer returned to his camera work while the other man approached us.
He was quite tall, even taller than I was, at 6’3”. And his eyes were a liquid blue and piercing as a hawk’s. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped closely on the sides but left oddly puffy on top. He, unlike the others, had on a red shirt under the white seersucker jacket—a sign of leadership?
“I was told you have questions about the Circle.”
“Why, yes,” I started. “We are quite impressed with the spirit of your work. We’d love to attend a meeting, to learn more, possibly become a part of the Circle, as you call it.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. We don’t induct new members unsolicited. You must be invited, highly recommended. Even then, we rarely add members.”
The man used big words—a highly educated man. “How long does the induction take?” I pressed.
He studied us. The air vibrated with his suspicious, tense energy. “Months of indoctrination, learning the ins and outs. It’s quite a complex set of, um, rituals. But as I said, it’s a moot point.” He started to turn, but I didn’t give him the chance.
“Your name, sir?” I fished in my pocket for one of my calling cards, holding it out to him.
“Dr. Talcott.” He took the card, read its fine print, and then glanced back up at me with a more accessible expression. “You are Mr. Dune, of the Tarot and Séance shop in Asbury Park?”
“That’s me.”
“I’ve heard of you. In the short time you’ve set up business, you’ve gained a reputa—”
“A good one, I hope?”
Dr. Talcott chuckled. “To some.”
I couldn’t let that vagary deter me. “I would love for you to attend one of our séances. Find out for yourself what we do and how good we are at our job.” I handed him one of my newly printed flyers. “It would be grand to have a true spiritualist among us.” I nearly choked on my words, and I couldn’t help adding, “Who are the people not so keen on my establishment?” I hated myself for asking. It showed my insecurity. Yet, it reaped an unexpected benefit.
“Alyse Bone,” he replied. “Has she been in for a reading?”
My blood ran cold. “Why, yes, she has.”
“I bet she has,” he muttered.
This cynicism on his part was a strange response, so I prodded him further. “Do you dislike her?”
Again, he chuckled, this time more darkly. “It isn’t exactly that, Mr. Dune. But I have no doubt that she doesn’t like you so very much.”
“Why ever not, and how would you know?” Tim blurted, apparently unable to contain himself with this new development.
Dr. Talcott’s eyes lit up with a mischievous gleam. “She’s rumored to be a witch—one who doesn’t take lightly to people horning in on her territory. Guaranteed, she wants you banished, like…”
“Like who?” I pierced him with a stare as hawkish as his own.
“Like no one.” He gave a sardonic roll of his eyes. “You don’t believe me? See for yourself. I wouldn’t be surprised if she slinks back for another séance and stirs up a cauldron of trouble. Keep your eyes on her. Good day, sirs.”
With that, he turned and hoofed it back under the tent.
Tim and I blinked at one another like dumb oafs, until I had the presence of mind to call after him. “You’re welcome to visit anytime, Dr. Talcott.”
Riding back to my store in Tim’s Model T, I felt that I’d struck rare gold. Not as much with the Circle group as with the exotic nugget that Dr. Talcott had placed in my hands with his words about Alyse Bone. “I don’t believe in witches any more than the devious spiritualists,” I told Tim.
“Neither do I, fellow,” Tim agreed as we drove past a line of hotels with striped awnings. “But it says something about her character—or lack of it.” We exchanged curious looks. “I mean, where there’s smoke, there is bound to be fire. Is there not?”
“Copacetic with that,” I said. “We should keep an eye on Miss Bone—invite her for another séance, the sooner, the better.”
“Or meet her for drinks in the gin joint. Get her pie-eyed so she’ll squeal her secrets.” Tim turned onto my street and parked in front of my shop. We headed inside. “Shall we have a cigar and compare notes?” he asked to the jingle of my door chimes. He began to walk back to my secret office, but I rushed ahead of him.
“Um, not today. I’m still feeling punkish. I need a nap.” I made a show of rubbing my forehead. “Still hurting.”
“Aw, all you need to cure that is a little hair of the dog.” Tim took out his flask and kept walking toward the interior office, where it was our normal custom to put our feet up on the desk and wind down after an investigation.
“Hey.” I spread my arms across the inner office door. “It’s a fright in there.” I nervously chuckled. “Late night, you know, my shirt and old socks… you don’t want to go in.”
He snickered. “That wild, eh?”
I forced a sheepish grin. Let him think what he wanted, if he went in there, he might have worse suspicions about me. “I’ll ring you up tomorrow.” With that, I slipped inside my office and quickly locked the door.
On my interior desk lay two bags of Spellbinding taffy, one of the packs torn greedily open, and wrappers scattered across the desk.
I could not allow Tim—or anyone—to see them. In my stupor last night, I’d bought one bag of green Truth Serum taffy, and another bag of Luck in Love. Did I think they would work? No chance. I was a hardened nonbeliever. Then why on earth had I purchased these cellophane bags of silliness?
My thoughts shifted to Fiera—beautiful, unfathomable Fiera. Somehow, she was the key to so many unclear directions, sensations. Whenever I allowed my mind to wander, my head filled with images of her—sitting across from me at that séance, laughing at my clumsy efforts to dance, us cross-legged on the carpet as she read my fortune in her hotel room, of her practically falling into my lap. Of me helping her to bed, slowly unzipping her dress… and then the heated thoughts and emotions that I dared not feel poured in.
I was here on an undercover mission. If she knew I was deceiving her about my identity and mission here, she would hate me. Forget about the irony of the taffy I’d bought—she could never find out my true job.
Whether I admitted it, whether I liked it, Fiera was a catalyst. Last night at the speakeasy, she’d done it again—made an ethereal connection with my heart and mind, the part of me that was so deep I had no idea how to access it—without her. The bond might’ve been spectral, but it was as binding as if we’d been tied together by thick ropes.
Again, I’d all but forgotten our conversation in the moment of connection. This greatly disturbed me for I was a man of reason, of science. I didn’t subscribe to spiritualist malarkey. I needed to find out what I’d said to her and make her swear to secrecy. I couldn’t leave random words floating out in the world that might incriminate me.
I had to go see her. Now. This bizarre connection must be explored again. It suddenly seemed the most vital part of my research, more important than any of the Circle of Light antics. I simply had to find out if it were real or not.
If it was, then everything I’d ever believed in might be a lie, and what I’d assumed was a grand hoax just might be real. Snap out of it, Peter, I scolded. You know it can’t be real. Perhaps what upset me most was that I’d have to expose her bag of tricks when I was actually starting to like her.
On my way out, I grabbed a Lucky in Love taffy, unwrapped it with trembling hands, and ravenously chewed it. Then, with my pulse pounding in my neck, I locked up the shop and hastened down the boardwalk to her hotel.
Chapter 6
THE SUN STREAMING through the windows was over-bright. My head was threatening to explode. It throbbed mercilessly, and my eye sockets ached. I attempted to sit up, but my stomach lurched. Easing myself gingerly back on my bed, I frowned while last night’s events shambled into mind.
There was the convention center and the formal dance with Rudy Valley’s band. There were Alyse Bone’s odd interrogations in the powder room, our venture to the taffy store, and down to the speakeasy below.
It was there my memory got spotty. Very spotty.
And the bits that wafted in were disturbing to say the least! There I was, sprawling half into Mr. Dune’s lap. I’d said something about floating cherubs, and then he was crying into my shoulder. Something else about hot tears for the ones who got hurt? What in God’s name? There were sharp looks from Tim and Alyse. Then, dancing with Peter, us wallowing on each other like drunken saps.
Me telling way too many truths and half-truths about my life. To people I didn’t trust, like Alyse. To people I didn’t really know, like Peter Dune. Yes, I would revert to calling him by his full name. Ha! As if they were my best of friends, I’d blurted out things I’ve never told anyone.
What was I thinking? I wasn’t! What was in those drinks? That taffy?
As I sat unsteadily, my stomach immediately rebelled. I got to the bathroom just in time to heave up the contents of my stomach in a distinctly unladylike fashion. Afterward, I glanced in the mirror and cringed. Not only did I look like hell on earth, I was naked except for my brassiere and short tap pants.
Oh, holy mother! Peter Dune had been carousing in my room. Had we done anything I should be ashamed of? I looked down at my disheveled state—my bra straps hanging halfway down my arms.
Walking as slowly as I could to avoid further sickness, I returned to my bedroom and took a scathing survey. The Tarot Deck was scattered across my rug, and there were taffy wrappers flung about. My stockings were in spirals under my side-table, and my slip and dress were flung carelessly over my chair.
Threading my hands through my hair to tame it into passable waves without using my hot iron, I stared down at the Tarot cards as more distressing flashes came to me. Of Peter and I hugging on the speakeasy settee, me reading his fortune for him in this hotel room, and his shocked look at my words. Him peeling off my stockings one by one, and my sighs of pleasure at the process. Good gravy, what else? I didn’t want to know.
I sat frozen and yet burning with humiliation. There was no way I could see him again. We’d gone too far in our impropriety, so there was no chance that he would view me as a proper lady now. Nor was he a suitable gentleman. He, who would tramp up into a lady’s hotel room and take advantage of her in her helpless state of inebriation. What a foul and forward act! Who was this Mr. Dune, and what did he want with me other than to seduce and discard me, under the pretext of a gentlemanly date? In truth, I had no clue, because everything had piled on much too furiously and fast for my comfort.
Although I had three more days of vacation time, I decided that I must immediately return to New York. I couldn’t face Peter Dune, but even worse, I couldn’t face Dulcie. The image of me hanging off her arm last night and her hauling me up the stairs of the hotel was too horrid. All I could do for a while was hug myself and rock.
* * *
I WAS FILLED with regrets when I threw my scarce belongings into the used suitcase Mrs. Cuthbert had given me. I would sorely miss Dulcie; she’d been nothing but lovely to me, and generous beyond measure, paying for my beach chair, loaning me her evening dress. I gasped. The dress! I would have to see her again to return it. And who should come knocking on my door at that very minute?
“Fiera? Are you in? Hello?” She knocked harder. “Are you well? You were in quite a state last night, Fiera.”
My heart was pounding to the beat of my bleary headache. I ran to the door and flung it open before realizing I was still in my underwear. “Oh! Come in,” I exclaimed and ran for my robe, already in my open suitcase. Flinging it around me, I tied it.
Dulcie stepped inside, her mouth dropping open at the sight of my suitcase all packed. “Don’t you have more days left here?”
“Yes.” I handed her the dress she lent me, its gauzy, full skirt tossed with flowers spilling over my arm. “I can’t thank you enough for loaning me your beautiful gown.”
“I was happy to do it.” As she took her dress, she eyed my suitcase again. “Why are you packing?”
I sighed and hung my head. “I can’t stay here, Dulcie. I did dreadful things last night.”
“Like what? Did you murder someone?”
“Of course not. Well, I did murder my own reputation.”
“Oh, that.” She let out a peal of laughter, which I have to say, lifted my spirits an inch. “We all went a little crazy! It was a hoot!” she said. But when she saw tears start to roll down my face, she hurried over and held me at arm’s length to look closely at me. “Are you sick?”
“I was, this morning. My head is still throbbing.”
“You did drink a lot of that… what was it?”
“Absinthe.” At the word, my stomach performed a sickening flip. I willed it to still.
“Poor dearie.” Dulcie guided me to my bed. “Sit and rest. And then we can go out for a bite to eat on the boardwalk later.”
I groaned. “I don’t think I’ll ever have an appetite again.”
“You will. A little food will be the best thing for you. Helps a hangover.”
“How would you know?”
“Fiera, I’m not quite as angelic as I look. I’ve had my nips now and then at parties.”
“It’s just that, I can’t face Peter Dune again, Dulcie. He was up here last night, and I woke up with only my underwear on. Who would come carousing in a girl’s hotel room with her as crocked as I was?”
This time, she threw back her head and bellowed like a jaded sailor. “Oh, honey, he’s smitten with you. That’s what for!”
My belly flipped, this time not from sickness. “Smitten?” I shook my head in disbelief. “More like free favors from a floozy.”
“Absolutely not! He did nothing of the sort,” she pronounced. “He left with his clothes on. And before that, I heard you talking his ear off, telling him his fortune.”
“What was I predicting?”
She tapped a finger against her bottom lip. “Well, I didn’t hear the exact words. Just things like, ‘Your future will be such and such, and I see a vision of so and so’—things like that. I could hear you all the way across the hall. So I highly doubt there was time for much… play.” Dulcie’s report was some comfort, but I detected a creeping look of doubt in her eyes, in the way her delicate mouth pursed.
The fact was that I still felt dirty, sinful and utterly humiliated. “I’ll consider what you said, but Dulcie, I can’t face him. I have to go.”
“Please don’t,” she wailed. “I’m staying here all summer, and it will be so dreadfully boring without you.”
“I’m flattered, I really am.” I patted her hand. “But even if this incident with Peter Dune hadn’t happened… My money’s running out. I’m not as well off as you.”
“Don’t fret about that. It’s a terrible time for most folks. I’m just lucky that Daddy has money from his buildings. I’ll spot you.”
“That’s not right either. I’d feel owing. It would be unbalanced, Dulcie.”
