21 Shades of Night, page 455
Fiera had filled in some of the gaping holes in time with anecdotes of my shameful behavior—my thrashing around on her bed, vomiting into her trash can, moaning crazy things about warlocks and witches, not to mention the fact that I’d appeared at her door wearing one shoe. Despite this, she’d welcomed me in, tended to me, wrapped me in her own blankets, and later, in her tender arms. The memory sent overwhelming shivers of heat and desire through me. I wished with all of my heart that I could spend more time with her now she was finally letting down her barriers. Now that I’d let mine down. Sweet Fiera on fire.
I thanked the apple seller, who looked oddly familiar… or was that just some déjà vu, perhaps an old school friend of Gertie’s who had moved to Manhattan? Pocketing one of the apples for later, I polished the other on my coat and took a bite. Delicious. I wolfed down the rest within minutes.
No more daydreaming, time to investigate, I told myself as I rang the buzzer of the first house.
“May I help you?” asked a bespectacled elderly fellow with suspenders.
“I’m looking for a room to let,” I lied.
“I don’t rent rooms,” the man explained. “This house has been in the family for years.”
“May I ask one more question, sir?” I wasn’t giving up yet. “I wonder—do you have any gray paisley linoleum in your kitchen?”
“Is this some kind of joke?” The man began to shut the door.
I held it open. “No. I, well… collect the stuff. I’m a linoleum connoisseur, an interior designer.” I chuckled. “I would pay you grandly for a piece of it.”
The fellow scratched his head, frowned at me. Shook his head. “Sorry, bub, no gray paisley linoleum in here.”
“Have you fixed the place up since you moved in? Replaced the flooring?”
This time, he slammed the door in my face with no answer.
Undeterred, I moved on to the next place. It looked like a tenement house with laundry lines strung like crossroads in front of the windows, and I rang the bell.
A lady with a tribe of screeching children opened the door. I had to yell over them to make myself heard, but this time, she said there was one room to let.
I’m in luck, I told myself, following her swaying behind, curtained under voluminous skirts, up four flights. The apple gurgled irritably in my belly from the effort. She showed me the fourth apartment, which had a small kitchen. But the floor treatment was black-and-white checkered linoleum. I asked her about the types of finishes on the other floors.
She cocked up a wide hip and rested her arm on it. Screwed her face up at me. “Why you looking to know, mister?”
“Yeah, why?” echoed one of her big-eared hooligans. He stuck his tongue out at me. She swatted him away, but from behind the safety of her skirts, he stuck his tongue out at me a second time.
“I’m a private detective,” I admitted, flashing my card. “Researching an unsolved mystery on this very block. It was connected to a kitchen with gray paisley linoleum.”
“A crime?” Now her face was open, eager, and her son had sidled up to her for a good listen as well.
“A mystery. Have you heard an odd story about doings on this block?”
“The witch story,” blurted her son.
His mother swung around and threatened to swat her boy again. “Hold your tongue, Jim. The man don’t want to hear that crazy stuff.”
“Oh, but I might.” I kneeled down. “Jimmy, will you tell me the story?”
The lady rolled her eyes as her son spoke, but she didn’t try to stop him. “They say a witch killed people down the street,” he relayed with wide, blue eyes. “They say she put a spell on a bunch of people and got some kids disappeared.”
“Thanks, Jimmy.” I stood and asked his mother about it. She nodded with clear reluctance. “What exactly have you heard?”
“I don’t know about any children, but they say she killed the old landlady, about twenty years ago. The poor lady’s body was never found. Poof! It weren’t no witch, though. Some thievin’ sonnuva gun done it for the money.”
I looked back at Jimmy. “Where did this old lady live? Did your buddies on the block tell you which house number?”
Jimmy’s mother wagged a finger at me. “Don’t go filling my Jimmy’s imagination with nightmares, mister. You ain’t the one having to put him to sleep at night.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” The house number? I mouthed at Jimmy.
The boy pointed to the adjoining wall. “Next door. Can I come with you, mister?”
His mom grabbed one of his donkey ears. “Stay put, you hear?”
That was the last I heard from either one, because I was already beating a fast trail out of there.
I rang and rang at the next house, to no avail. My nerves were frayed. Glancing at my pocket watch, I saw that I only had less than an hour until I needed to get to the wharf to board the party boat. Finally, an angry man stuck his head out the window and yelled, “Landlady ain’t here. Take a hike!”
I waved up at him. “Can I see about a room?”
“No spare rooms, bud.”
Before he could close the window, I yelled out one more question. “When does the landlady get home? Not for a room, just to say hello.”
He thought for a moment, probably deciding whether it was worth responding. Then he pointed across the street and yelled, “She’s over in Saint Marks Square, selling apples. But I told you, the place is full up.” With that, he slammed the window shut.
The apple lady! Perhaps my earlier uncanny déjà vu stemmed from the fact that I would return to speak with her on a very different matter than the price of her apples.
I ran across the street, dodging a honking car and a boy on a bicycle, who both yelled curses at me. Then I had to wait in line again, for apples were a popular item. When it was my turn, Apple Lady offered an odd frown, as if trying to recall where she’d seen me.
“Pardon me, ma’am, do you manage the building across the street?” I pointed to the one in question.
She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Who’s asking and why?”
“Just me. I’d love to have a look at one of the apartments, if you have time, after you finish at the market…” None of that sounded good. I sounded like a man who was after more than a room to let.
“Who told you I managed that place?”
“The little boy next door.”
“Which one? There’s about fifty of ‘em.” She grinned, revealing a toothy gap between her front teeth.
I explained as much as I could without sounding creepy. Luckily, she was getting ready to close up shop. I helped her take down the umbrella and carry the remaining wooden box of apples across the street and into her apartment.
“I shouldn’t let a strange man in, but you look like a gentleman.” There was an awkward pause. “Well, aren’t you?” She turned to appraise me once she set down her wares on her dining room table.
“Oh, aboveboard, miss. I’m trying to solve a mystery and…” I glanced at my watch again. “My time is fast running out; I have to board a ship soon.”
“Busy man.” She grinned again. “Well, tell me what you’re trying to solve and I’ll see if I can help you.”
“The little boy next door told me there was a rumor going around about a woman who killed an old lady, some years back.” Apple Lady gave a sobering nod. “And, well—”
“—the body was never found, right?” she whispered, filling in my last words.
“How did you know?”
“They say she lived upstairs.” Apple Lady took me up to the second floor, which held the biggest kitchen, and when I saw the floor linoleum, I inhaled a sharp breath. Gray paisley. Exactly as in my fevered trance visions.
“What do you know about the woman who was living here at the time?” I asked her, getting out my notebook.
“They say she was pretty, kept to herself…” She tugged at a stray lock of hair. “They say she owned a business out in Brooklyn.”
“What kind?”
“A lace factory?” She tugged again on her lock of hair, which seemed to help her recall things. “No, that’s wrong. It was a factory that made store dummies.”
I felt an acute pinch in my gut. This was playing out in sickening clarity, and it didn’t look good for Alyse. But then again, I had not one shred of evidence of any foul play. Only rumors, tall tales, and a rectangular strip of gray linoleum. I paced back and forth on it, studying its surface to see if I could detect any dark stains. Nothing. Glancing at my pocket watch, I realized I was on the verge of being late for the Morro launch.
I leaned toward Apple Lady and shook her hand. “Thanks so much, Miss…?”
“Miss Malarky.”
Malarky? Jiving nonsense? Her name sent a flurry of unsettling superstition through me. Get a hold of yourself, I scolded silently, or you’ll become as gullible as your sister Gertie. It was one thing to go by intuition, and quite another to be a slave to delusion.
“Well, good day, Miss… Malarky. Thanks for your help. Your apples are quite delicious,” I added. Immediately, I scolded myself again for sounding so forward.
But she simply let out a good-spirited bray and walked me to the door. “Best of luck with your investigation, Mr.…?”
“Dune.” I tipped my hat and hurried off to the dock, with a very bad hunch about the upcoming voyage, and a strong desire to call Fiera and fill her in on my finds. There was absolutely no time at all. It would have to wait until my return.
Chapter 21
DULCIE, OPAL, AND I strolled along the boardwalk. We’d gone swimming and sunned on the beach until most of us were chestnut brown. We changed in the beach lockers, and then feasted on hamburgers and chocolate ice cream. As we walked, we attracted winks and appreciative nods from young men. We were the cat’s pajamas. Dulcie wore a yellow sundress with white pinstripes and a delicate gold locket necklace. Opal wore a plain but pretty red shift. I had on a new blue jumper with a matching pair of Foster Grants. I had fun pretending we were Hollywood starlets, arm in arm. It was one of those afternoons full of golden sun and lazy smiles.
Except I already missed Peter. The memory of his strong arms pulling me in electrified me; the memory of his masculine firmness pressing down on me still gave me shivers.
With Peter gone, it was good to spend time with my friends. They kept the edge off my loneliness and helped distract me from my worries. Who knew what Peter was actually doing on the Morro? Might he spend time with other ladies, more suitable ones who had no strange powers to make cards fly and men faint? He’d be out on that colossal vessel for an entire week, and as comfortable as I was becoming with the sea, the Morro would be too far to swim to.
An hour ago, under the delicious green waves, the mysterious siren had again called to me. Once again, I was able to hold my breath and propel forward a very long way toward the glowing emerald light and the rippling woman beside it. My heart raced as I saw the beautiful siren, her green hair swirling in the undercurrents. I’d worried it was all a dream, but no, she was still there, waiting. For me? Or was she simply waiting for anyone brave or foolish enough to swim all the way out there? Would she have a message? What did she want?
But I didn’t swim all the way to her. I couldn’t. For Dulcie was up on that sandy beach, waiting, wondering. I could feel her coiled, questioning energy. Dulcie, unlike Opal, had no idea of my underwater explorations, the strange, green goddess who hovered there. I couldn’t tell her, not yet. Not until I knew more. The last thing I wanted to do was frighten her.
It was enough that Opal knew. It helped that she took my strange adventures in stride, as though they were hardly out of the ordinary. As though everyone could swim on and on and on without breathing underwater. As if it were normal to know what a grimoire was.
Up on the boardwalk, the first chilly breeze of the afternoon rustled my clothes when we walked past Spellbinding Taffy. The cold penetrated my heart when I saw Alyse walking toward us. She was always impeccably put together, and this afternoon was no exception. She was decked out in a red Tallulah Bankhead movie-queen skirt that swirled around her ankles, a black silk double-breasted shirt with billowing sleeves, and an equally coal-black straw hat with a wide brim. She held her ever-present cigarette holder between two elegantly arched fingers.
“Why, look who we have here,” she gushed. “It’s the little triplets of Asbury.”
A swell of icy air chilled me just as it had the night I first met her.
“Good afternoon,” Dulcie chirped, clearly blissfully unaware of Alyse’s cold side.
“How are you, Miss Bone?” I managed. For I was fuming that her damned taffy had made my sweet Peter so sick.
Opal, being Opal, stared at Alyse without uttering a word. Despite my normal show of manners, I secretly hoped Alyse would be offended by Opal’s unsympathetic scrutiny.
Alyse ignored Opal. Turning to me, she said, “I wanted to tell you, I think you have real talent with the cards. I’d love to get a reading.” She leveled a formidable gaze at Dulcie and then Opal. “Alone. I think the spiritual and etheric energies will be strongest that way, don’t you agree?” Her questioning eyes pierced me as if she could see my doubts about her—that she’d threatened Peter, made snide comments about Talcott, had a strangely hostile reaction to hearing about the grimoire. I constructed an imaginary shield over my mind, to protect it from her mental invasion.
“Well?” she persisted, bestowing one of her bewitching smiles. It transformed her already pretty face into serious diva radiance compared to our kittenish-grins. It dazzled. It was easy to picture grown men being absolutely taken by her.
Had Peter Dune been drawn in too? Was that why he’d eaten so much sickening taffy? One couldn’t exactly blame that on anyone but the person who inhaled the confection.
Opal sparked to life and spoke bravely for me. “Fiera, I’m not sure Peter would want you conducting your séances alone. It might not—”
“Hush, assistant,” Alyse scolded. “Fiera, here is the master card reader now that… well that Peter Dune is—”
“Is what?” I studied her shifting expressions.
Alyse shrugged. “I heard he’s away for a brief time, on business.”
“He almost didn’t make that trip, with all the taffy you fed him,” I rudely blurted. “Honestly, I think I should wait until—”
“Until when? Does Peter control you? You have more talent than he does in your little finger.” Alyse leveled a critical frown at me, and suddenly, I longed to please her. “Besides, I pay well, Fiera, quite well.”
“Taffy? When did Mr. Dune get sick on taffy?” Dulcie looked thoroughly confused, poor dear. She hadn’t heard the full saga of Peter’s blue dream sickness.
Alyse chortled, her head thrown back, her ebony hair cascading down her back. The sound of her laugh was captivating, putting my misgivings to rest. “You can’t blame me for Mr. Dune overdoing a good thing,” she said.
Peter had been a candy hog. I shuddered, wondering why I was suddenly critical of Peter. Was this woman’s influence on me really that strong? “Well, all right, I don’t see what harm there is in giving you a private reading.”
“Wonderful!” Alyse gushed.
We made arrangements for her to stop in the next evening, on Opal’s night off. After we said our goodbyes, and Alyse was beyond hearing, Opal took my hand, unusual for her. “I don’t like that woman.”
“I know; I know.”
“She is rather full of herself.” Dulcie hoisted her carpetbag higher up on her shoulders.
I sighed. “She said she’d pay me generously. Money is money, gals.”
“Good point, dear.” Dulcie slapped me gamely on the back.
But Opal was having none of it. She mumbled something under her breath. After that, she was quiet as seagulls were before a storm.
Chapter 22
I MET DICKERSON and his team on the piers. Ironically, the Dickerson army of nondescript guys in black fedoras and gray suits stood out like swarming black ants in the festive tropical fruit bowl of Morro passengers.
Tim was there with a tidy new haircut and a dyed green carnation in his jacket. He looked away as he saw me approach, clearly trying to avoid eye contact. Fine, I was tired of him, too, weary of the whole lot of them. Judging from Dickerson’s cordial handshake and usual barked hello, he had no idea yet that Talcott had confiscated their rented recording device. I wasn’t keen on cluing him in either.
The wide boarding ramp was teeming with fancy ladies, whose porters struggled under the weight of their over-packed steamer trunks. I recognized a real starlet from the picture shows. It was Irene Ware, and she was on the arm of none less than Bela Lugosi, in a dark outfit matching his Dracula persona. Reporters snapped photographs using blinding flashbulbs while a phalanx of burly bodyguards held people back from hounding them for autographs.
“Will wonders never cease?” I muttered. Aside from the impending nightmare of the Dickerson meetings, the pomp of the Morro Castle liner might prove to be a fascinating affair. I wished Fiera were with me though. No doubt, she’d get a kick out of seeing Mr. Lugosi and Miss Ware so far from a Hollywood movie set.
Another hullabaloo exploded on the gangplank a couple of minutes after the first stars entered the Morro. The fellow next to me and his wife pointed out two more celebrities in the process of boarding. One was Elsa Schiaparelli, the great Italian fashion designer. Craning my neck, I spotted her vamping up the deck, her dark bob glued flat and downy feathers fluffing up from her neckline. A dapper fellow in a jazzy suit and a sky-blue hat accompanied her. He had a pencil-thin moustache. As he walked by, another man elbowed me and hissed, “Hey, bub, that’s Salvador Dali!”
“Who?”
“The great Spanish artist. The painter of strange dreams.”
I wasn’t up on art, but this fellow surely dressed the part.
On the deck, the fanfare continued. A live salsa band was luring us into the Cuban party spirit. Colorful umbrellas and chairs were set up at intervals, and everywhere I looked, balloons bobbed in the wind. A waiter whooshed past, his wide tray filled with amber-hued drinks topped with pineapple garnishes. He offered one to me.
