21 Shades of Night, page 446
“Aw, let’s at least have one more meal, one more stroll down the boardwalk. What do you say?” She looked so sad, and so hopeful that I had to agree to it.
* * *
SOMEWHERE BETWEEN THE hotel and the trek to Beach Joe’s Burger Palace, I rediscovered my appetite. Dulcie and I ordered burgers with fried onions, and I washed mine down with a cold Coca Cola. She was right—food did help a hangover. My headache lessened, my body felt stronger, and my stomach calmed down.
Afterward, we walked along the beach collecting shells and then sat for a spell on a boardwalk bench, facing the ocean. The marine breeze soothed my soul and the sun relaxed me. “I’m already feeling nostalgic for my time here.” That was hard enough to admit; it would’ve been impossible to add that I was jealous of the carefree children jumping the breakers and making sandcastles. I’d never had a chance to see the coast growing up in the Brooklyn orphanage. But I wasn’t one to feel sorry for myself, so I shook off my brooding.
Dulcie handed me a piece of paper that she’d scrawled her address on. “Promise you’ll write.”
I slid it in my dress pocket. “‘Course I will.” She tore off another piece of her notepaper and lent me her pen so I could I write my address for her. “You’ll have to make sure to write In Care of Madame Cuthbert.” Checking my watch, I added, “I’d better get back if I’m going to catch the train.”
We walked back at a fast clip, and I snuck in while the proprietor was busy with paperwork. I’d already told him I was leaving early, and he’d given me a look of disgust, no doubt recalling my outrageous behavior of the previous night.
When we reached my hotel door, Dulcie looked as if she was about to cry. “Can you come in, just for—?” Just as she was about to finish her sentence, we heard the proprietor having angry words with a man downstairs.
“No, you cannot come upstairs!” the proprietor exclaimed.
“I must! I won’t stay long.” That low, husky voice sounded so familiar.
“Dulcie, yes, let’s do step in your room for a minute.” I realized the plaintive bass voice belonged to none other than Peter Dune.
His voice, filtering upstairs, grew unrelenting. Dulcie fiddled with her key until the second before he came bounding up the stairs.
We ducked inside, and she gasped. “Fiera? Whatever is wrong?”
But she didn’t have to wait for the answer because Peter Dune proceeded to rap wildly on my door, across the hall. “Fiera? Are you in there? Open up. I need to speak with you. Now.” He knocked harder.
Dulcie’s eyes got big and her face paled. “Hide! He’s acting awfully boorish.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Peter Dune gave up banging on my door and began to bang on hers, which prompted me to wriggle under her bed. The floor was full of cobwebs and dust, and I had to pinch my nose to keep from sneezing. So much for the chambermaid’s cleanliness!
“Dulcie? I know you’re in there,” he insisted. “Give me a moment of your time.” He rapped more determinedly. “Dulcie, it’s important.”
To my horror, I saw her heeled sandals move toward the door and heard her swing it open. “Yes?” she cooed, a perfect illusion of innocence.
“Oh, thank you,” he exclaimed. “I’m searching for Fiera. The manager said she checked out today. Have you seen her?”
“No. In fact, I walked her partway to the train station. Her vacation ended a little early due to unforeseen circumstances.”
Never was I so grateful for a deceitful friend.
“What kind of circumstances?” Peter Dune was waiting for an answer that was not forthcoming, so he barreled on. “Do you have her address in New York?”
“No, Mr. Dune.” Good Dulcie, she’d even reverted to the more formal mister.
“You don’t have to call me mister,” he refuted. Good heavens, was he going to flirt with my friend now that I was out of the picture? It was all too shoddy.
“Can I give her a message?” Coldness seeped into Dulcie’s voice.
“No. No, I’ll locate her myself. Good day, Dulcie.”
“Good day.” With that, the door swung shut.
Locate me himself? Why and how would he do that? I waited until his footsteps cantered downstairs before rolling out from under the bed and shaking out my dusty skirt. The movement brought back my queasiness, but I swallowed hard and took a deep, refreshing breath.
Dulcie was sitting on the covers, looking spooked. “You were right. He was acting like a downright lunatic.”
“Thanks for covering for me.” I hugged her. “I really must be going now, Dulcie. My train comes soon. I promise to write.”
“Please do.” She sounded truly forlorn. I didn’t want to look back at her for fear I’d never have the gumption to leave my kind friend and this wonderful beach hotel.
I grabbed my suitcase from my room, went downstairs, and plunked my key on the front desk. Hurrying out to the street, I scouted in both directions to make sure Mr. Dune was nowhere in sight, and then I marched up to the boardwalk for one last inquiry.
Spellbinding Saltwater Taffy looked decidedly different in the daytime. The scarves draped so seductively last night looked dingy in the sunlight. And there was a fine sheen of grime coating the picture windows. I scurried around from basket to basket, passing the one full of pink-striped confections, and the lemon-orange ones. It seemed as if I’d gone through every color of the rainbow before my eyes focused in on the green ones with the blue swirls—from last night. They were near the back, by the glassed-in cooking area.
Funny, there was no big sign boasting what miracle they supposedly performed. I picked up one of the wrapped taffies and read its fine print. “Truth Serum Taffy.” Icy dread chilled my chest. “Truth telling, eh?” I murmured.
“May I help you?” A girl was suddenly behind me. I nearly leapt into the glass wall from the surprise.
“Miss, so sorry to scare you.”
I looked into the seagull-gray eyes of a beautiful girl of about seventeen. She wore the purple Spellbinding apron and matching purple earrings. Her lush, peach-hued hair was swept into an elegant bundle of curls, tamed only by golden hairclips, and her cheeks had a light spray of freckles.
I finally found my voice. “Is, um, Alyse Bone here?”
“Alyse?” The girl furrowed her artfully tweezed brows.
“She says she comes here a lot. She brought me last night with my friends. I thought maybe she owned the place. Tall, jet-black hair, wears rather high heels.”
The girl’s confused expression shifted to a more relaxed one. “Ah, Miss Bone. She’s not the owner, but she does help manage the store. Haven’t seen her today.” She glanced down at my scuffed suitcase. “If I do, should I give her a message? Might you care to tell me your name and your nature of business with Miss Bone?”
Odd that this girl who claimed confusion would abruptly admit Alyse sometimes helped oversee the store. Strange also, if she hardly knew Alyse, to be inquiring as to what my business was with her. But whatever it took to send Alyse word. “Tell her Fiera came to say hello. And tell me…” I held up the green-swirl taffy. “Do people really think that eating this will induce one to tell a deep, dark truth?” I gave a laugh to indicate that I, for one, did not believe.
“Some do, some don’t,” the girl said.
It was then I saw the old man with wild, white hair lurking in the background, slowly refilling one of the baskets with blue taffy. He was staring at us. I wasn’t sure why, but a wave of mutual recognition seemed to pass between us. What was it exactly—an alliance, a mistaken recognition of a long-lost relative, or the acknowledgment of a similar sensibility? I had no clue. He took out a pipe from his apron pocket and tamped down its tobacco with his thumb.
All I knew was that this place, and these people, were truly alarming, to say nothing of Peter Dune. I was suddenly glad to be leaving, to be going back to a place where no one stared at me, and no one asked me intrusive questions. Where no one fed me taffy that said Truth Serum, and where I didn’t act like a daffy nymphomaniac and later forget my own actions.
“Thanks, I must be going,” I said.
“Where are you off to?” she asked in a voice so honey-laden that my breath was taken away and I almost forgot why I was there, or that I had a train to catch in a mere twenty minutes.
“Um, uh, nowhere important,” I managed and raced out. A small triumph—my mind was returning to normal. Yet, like an itch one must scratch, some incorrigible urge drove me to look back. The white-haired cook was standing in front of the store, smoking his pipe and gazing with unwholesome interest at my departing figure.
Chapter 7
IT WAS HARD to memorize the address, but I managed. As soon as I got outside, I asked some passerby to borrow his pen, and promptly jotted the East Sixty-Fifth Street address on my forearm. Once I managed that, I took off at a breathless pace to the Asbury train station—only to see Fiera’s train rumble off in the distance, while I stood, aghast, on the platform. “Damn it all, to hell!” I swore loudly, too late to quell it.
An old lady, glaring at me like a plucky parrot, poked her parasol in my direction. “For shame,” she spat.
“Beg pardon,” I muttered. At least I had Fiera’s New York address. Her friend, Dulcie, had carelessly left the note wide open on her side table. And while she was making a show of avoiding my questions, I was committing it to memory.
This temporary fumble gave me time to go home and do more research into the identity of Alyse Bone. After that, I would take an afternoon train to the big city. Shadow Fiera. Learn her haunts. I would get back to the Circle of Light soon enough. The thought of seeing Fiera again and in her own element was at once thrilling and guilt inducing. I quashed down my guilt. After all, I was a special vice squad agent, and I was committed to do my job.
* * *
PORING OVER THE research I’d gathered and the rest that Tim had gotten from the Asbury civic society and the local businesses, it was clear that Spellbinding Saltwater Taffy was not Alyse Bone’s only business. She owned a seashell store in Point Pleasant, a dog grooming parlor in Asbury, another speakeasy up in Manhattan by the name of Madame Lu’s, and a mannequin factory up in Brooklyn. Mannequins and dog grooming, really? Whatever her predilection, Miss Bone was quite the business mogul. She cannily operated under various names: Lady Lu, Madame Bellmore, and Mistress Moon were her three most colorful ones. I sniggered at Mistress Moon, fantasizing the kinds of shady businesses she could conduct with that pseudonym—a dominatrix lounge, a rich women’s lunatic asylum, and a dance parlor for insomniacs.
Oddly, half of her businesses were based in New York. So, what was she doing loitering on the Jersey shore when she had more important commerce to attend to up north?
Unless, that was the point. “Ah-ha!” I exclaimed, pleased with my vague hypothesis. Perhaps the most important business was here—or the most important person. But who could be so important to her, here in Asbury? And if Dr. Talcott, the man from the Circle of Light cult was right, who did Alyse Bone consider such a threat to her so-called queendom?
Or was she was hiding from someone more key in Manhattan?
I jotted all my questions and theories in my leather notebook, no matter how farfetched. Sometimes, it was the least rational theory that triumphed as true blue. And among my questions was one I felt most important—What exactly is the definition of a witch?
I fixed a strong pot of coffee and a ham sandwich, and then I packed a small suitcase. Jotted down a note for Tim informing him of my brief jaunt to New York, and making a request for him to please watch over Peter’s Tarot and Séance. As I was slipping my pen in my vest pocket, the door chimes rang. Locking the inner sanctum, I scurried out, making sure that the gap in my back office was tightly sealed.
My young assistant stood in the doorway. In my haste to finish my research and pack a bag, I’d forgotten Opal was scheduled to work. “Good afternoon.”
“Likewise, Mr. Dune.” Opal always looked a trifle hungry, sad and disheveled, and today was no exception. Her pastel blue collar stuck up at a crooked angle, and the hem of her skirt was frayed on one side. I suppose I had a weakness for people who needed a leg up. No doubt, it came from my sister, always a dollar short and terribly enfeebled from her opium use.
Fishing in my pocket, I pulled out a handful of bills. Pressed them into Opal’s fragile hand. “I’ll be traveling for a day or so. Get yourself a plate of hot food and perhaps, a new frock. Soon after I return, we are holding another séance.”
Opal’s eyes, already bulbous, widened as she examined the cash. “Why, thank you, Mr. Dune. I surely will.” She stuffed them into her rather flat bodice.
“Oh, and Opal?” I reached into my briefcase for some of the séance flyers I’d quickly gotten printed and handed them to her.
“Yes?”
“If that woman who was at our last séance, Alyse Bone, or the younger one, Fiera, come in, please tell them they are invited to the séance on Friday night. Give them each one of these.” Today was Tuesday. I hoped that would be enough time to track Fiera down and convince her to attend. I needed all of them there in order to do a proper study, including Dr. Talcott. I left some flyers for Tim to distribute to the upper echelons in the Circle of Light as well. “Can you do that, Opal? Do you remember Miss Bone and Fiera?”
“Yes, sir. How could I forget?”
Indeed, how could anyone forget them? Especially Fiera.
Clasping my overnight bag, I pocketed a Lucky in Love and Truth Serum taffy, and then rushed down the street to the Asbury Park train station.
Chapter 8
AT PENN STATION, I bought Terrence a balsa-wood plane with some of my last money. The salesman claimed that they were a favorite with four-year-old boys. There was another small treasure stashed away in my suitcase for him, as well. It felt strange to be back in the oppressive heat and loud bustle of Manhattan after the cooling salt breezes and soothing whir of the ocean tides.
Haphazardly, I bumped into people while worrying what Mrs. Cuthbert would think of me returning so early. They returned my clumsiness with scowls and eye rolls. I hadn’t taken full advantage of my employer’s precious vacation gift. Yet, I wouldn’t be able to give her back her money for my unused hotel days. I’d tried my best to get them refunded, but the curmudgeonly proprietor had refused to reimburse me. He’d argued it was too late to rent my room to someone else. What a terrible waste. But I had to leave. All the way uptown on the elevated line, I fretted over which lie I might tell. I didn’t dare tell Mrs. Cuthbert my real story—about the séance, the speakeasy, of Mr. Dune’s strange behavior, and, truth be told, of my own.
* * *
IT SEEMED I had intruded in the middle of a lively tea party Mrs. Cuthbert was giving. She gaped at me, her teacup half-drawn to her opened mouth. Five ladies dressed to the nines sat around her fancy living room, chatting. After I walked in, everyone got quiet, as if an unwelcome spirit from the Land of Night had floated in.
After a moment, Mrs. Cuthbert rose and walked toward me. “Why, Ivy, you’re home awfully early.”
I’d grown so used to being called Fiera in a mere three days that Ivy sounded like a stranger’s name. It was as if I’d been away for months rather than days. I didn’t reveal my new name to her. I simply nodded and ad-libbed, “It was a wonderful first day… and then I was bitten by a jellyfish minutes before I was hauled out to sea in a dangerous riptide. Nearly drowned. Yesterday, I contracted food poisoning from rancid steamed mussels. I was sick all afternoon, in a weakened state and, well… here I am, better, but back early.” Such flimsy excuses. “I missed Terrence, too,” I added for good measure, “and I so want to thank you for the stay at the hotel, and my time at the beach.”
I glanced around the room, too embarrassed by my own lies to look directly at anyone. Most of Mrs. Cuthbert’s furniture was comprised of ancient mahogany chairs and tallboy cabinets. She wasn’t much for modern Art Deco, but she did have a spiffy Bakelite radio. Right now, it was tuned to an afternoon big band show. I stared at its cream-colored ridges until they blended and warped.
“Oh, Ivy, how terribly unfortunate.” Mrs. Cuthbert came closer and laid a chilly hand on my shoulder. She ferried me off me to the back of the large duplex apartment, past the ladies and their curious side-glances. The second I left the drawing room, their clamor swelled right back to its previous volume.
I’d heard their gossip before, about which society matron was buying which painting, and which married gentleman was flirting salaciously with which loose lady. Nothing too focused on the harsh realities of the day—about who’d lost their job or who was standing with their hands out in a food line, eating cold beans from a can.
I happened to know a little about that bleaker world. Every time I walked past the Hooverville shanties on the Great Lawn in Central Park, I couldn’t help but see ragamuffin children and homeless people hunched around fire barrels, roasting their food. It was heartbreaking, and it could’ve so easily been my home if Mrs. Cuthbert hadn’t hired me. I tried my best not to judge her rich friends who complained about what I saw as trifles—a trip to the dentist for a filling or an inconvenient tear in a stocking.
“Terrence is back here. Old Lorraine was watching him as best she could around her cooking work. But surely, he’s climbing the wall with boredom,” said Mrs. Cuthbert. “So, perhaps your return was opportune.” This time, she offered me a warm smile. “Can you put your things in order quickly and take him straightaway to Central Park? Mind you, nowhere near the Great Lawn shanties. Stay near the Fifth Avenue exit so you can flee easily if a derelict bothers you.” I nodded. “It’s supposed to rain later, so time is of the essence.”
That was her favorite line. According to her, time was of the essence in getting to her bridge club, making it to a fancy dinner or the theater on time, or giving Terrence his bath.
