by Megan Hart
Rose answered the door almost immediately. "Good morning, Constantine."
"Morning." I shuffled my feet, cap in hand, more than a little embarrassed.
"Would you like to come in for tea and a cookie?"
"Thank you, but... Well... Is Nephthys around?"
"She's not doing any readings today."
"It's not that."
"And I don't really want her interrogated like some criminal."
"Oh, no. I'd never. That's Seph's - Persephone's - skill anyway. I'm bad at interrogating."
"Then what on Earth do you want?"
I was at a loss, not really certain myself what I wanted. Luckily, feet pounded down the stairs behind her.
"Mama," Nephthys said as she bounded into sight. "We're just going for a walk."
"A walk? In this weather?" She pointed to the sky.
Nephthys slipped on her coat. "He wanted to know where the cemetery was and I thought it might be a gesture of goodwill to show him. Extend an olive branch and all that."
"I don't see that we're the ones who need to extend anything." Rose crossed her arms and stared at the sky. She didn't buy it, I could tell.
"I'll have her back in an hour," I said and placed a hand over my heart. "I swear."
She considered it as Nephthys scooted past her and onto the porch.
"Alright." Rose didn't sound too happy about it. "But if it starts raining on you, duck into Mr. Fitzsimmons's barber shop to wait it out."
"Okay, Mama." Nephthys gave a wave of her hand as she trotted down the walk.
Waving to Rose myself, I hurried after her.
"Thank God you're here," Nephthys said. "I was going crazy in there."
"Why's that?"
"Mama hasn't wanted me to do anything - no readings, no nothing - until this whole murder mess is over. I told her it is over but she said that, until Simon Carmichael has been taken to the county jail, she's not comfortable. I think she's afraid of Persephone."
"Most people are."
"I'm not," she said. There was no anger behind it. She simply stated a fact.
"Did you know the girl? Caitlin?"
"A little." She plucked a twig from a bush as we turned a corner and the houses became fewer and fewer. "I’d seen her a few times on my night walks. She didn't believe in what I do. In any of it. Her parents dragged her along a few times but she got nastier about it each time and it interfered with the energy of the séance, so she stopped coming."
She pulled tiny leaves from the twig, each drifting to the ground as it left her fingers to be taken by the wind and swirled away. I was afraid to ask her what I was thinking, afraid it would insult her and our walk would be over before it had really begun, but if I didn't ask it would have driven me nuts.
"Do you believe in what you do?"
Laughing, she shook her head. "You think I'm a fraud, too."
"No, I just... I don't know. I really don't."
We were quiet for a long while.
Finally, I asked if she'd ever heard of a shut-eye.
"A what?"
"A shut-eye. It's a term used in stage magic."
"No. What is it?"
"Well, it's complicated. But basically, sometimes, a magician is so good at his tricks, they stop feeling like tricks. Happens mostly with mind-reading and whatnot. A magician can get so good at telling people things about themselves, things he couldn't possibly know under most circumstances, that he starts to believe he really does have some kind of supernatural power. That's a shut-eye."
"An illusionist who stops seeing the illusion sounds like a wise man to me."
I couldn't help but laugh at that. "Yeah. Maybe."
She stopped in front of a towering oak tree, the wind blowing her hair about her face. Gathering it in one hand, she pulled it behind her. "When I was six or so, I woke up in the middle of the night from some bad dream or another. My room was pitch black, the drapes drawn and the door closed. I could barely see a foot in front of my face, but there it was. A tiny little hand reaching out from the black and holding my own. I couldn't breathe, couldn't even scream though I felt one bubbling up inside of me. Then this little voice said, 'I used to have bad dreams too.' And then it was gone."
With everything I'd seen and been taught over the last year or so, I knew better than to believe some medium's personal ghost story. But hers was different. There was no wide eyed wonder that had been practiced to the point of perfection. There was no pronouncement from the spirit about how she needed to go forth and help people. And she wasn't bragging about the encounter. Telling it, in fact, seemed to make her smaller.
"That was the first time I saw my brother Francis. I'd seen Papa several times after he passed over, but I was little and hadn't even realized he'd died. To me, it was just like when he'd come home from being on the road. But this... This was different. It scared me and made me so sad. Francis hadn’t even turned four when he'd died." She sniffed back the tears gathering in her eyes. "Once I got used to it all, we played a lot together. He hasn't come to me in a few years now. Guess I’ve grown too old. I miss him."
I didn't know what to say to any of that and so I just stood there, hands in my pockets, staring at the trees swaying in the wind.
"Cemetery's this way," she said and we turned onto a gravel road winding up into the hills.
The storm came and we crowded together in the doorway of an ornate tomb. Nephthys said that one of Gallow's Groves founders was interred inside, a wealthy widow who had poured most of her fortune into building the town and drawing the country's greatest Spiritualists there to live. The tomb itself was dark gray stone, an angel with hands held in eternal prayer carved above us and leaning out over the doorway, rain water pouring from the tips of its outstretched wings and dribbling from its elbows. An iron grate behind us sealed a pitch black hole like a cave, a musty cold radiating from inside. The stone beneath us alternated between dry spots rough against my palms and slick places where moisture gathered.
The sky, as dark as the stone, lit with the occasional flash of lightning. Thunder cracked the air and seemed to shake the very ground beneath us. The clean smell of fresh rain filled the air and small drops were occasionally blown onto our already damp clothes and faces. Nephthys leaned against me, my arm around her, and it wasn't long until we were kissing again.
I don't know how long the storm lasted, but it simultaneously felt brief and eternal.
She finally pulled away as the worst of the storm passed, pressing her head against my shoulder and watching the still dark sky, the occasional thunderclap now sounding from a distance. We didn't talk, simply sat and held one another as we waited for the rain to pass.
When we approached her house later, she told me it might be best if I kept walking.
"Mama will be mad," she said. "We've been gone a while now and I'm soaked."
"I understand."
"Will I see you again before you leave?"
"Neph, an army of the Hun couldn't keep me away."
She laughed and pulled her hand from mine. "Good. Guess you better head that way now." She pointed down the street that split off and lead to the inn.
"Guess I better."
Smiling like a damned fool, I skipped off.
"Connie," she called out.
I stopped and turned.
"Persephone's seen him too. That's what he told me."
"Who?"
"Francis," she said. "Our brother."
Then she turned and hurried down the street.
15
Seph's room was empty when I got back and the shed doors closed, so I left her to it and worked on my reading the rest of the day. I was getting better. Good enough to read signs like the one she'd posted on the shed and get through some kiddie books, but still not ready to read one of Sir Doyle's novels on my own. For some reason, after spending the day with Nephthys, I was anxious to hurry my studies along.
The next morning, Persephone sipped coffee at the breakfast table as I walked in.
She had that weary look, dark circles and all, that told me she'd been up all night. Her clothes were dusty with small oil stains here and there and the smells of sawdust and cigarettes hovered around her like a cloud.
"Good morning, Connie."
"Morning," I said and poured myself a glass of apple juice. "You look awful."
"Thank you," she said. "All I need is a nap and a bath and I'll be right as rain. Heard you spent yesterday with my sister."
That shocked me. "How'd you know?"
"It's a small town, Connie, and people love to talk. Especially about their current star. Don't worry. I don't mind at all." She sipped her coffee, eying me over the cup. "Learn anything?"
I didn't know how much to say. Not wanting to betray Nephthys's trust, I also owed Persephone and did whatever she asked.
"She believes that what she does is real," I finally said.
"Oh? You're positive?"
"A hundred percent."
"A shut-eye," she said. "So Rose is the one behind it all."
"But don't Rose believe?"
"Doesn't."
"Sorry. Doesn't Rose believe in all this stuff?"
Persephone didn't answer that.
"She told me something else, too."
"What?"
I hesitated, knowing that I crossed some boundary but feeling like I needed to.
"Spit it out, Connie."
"She said she used to talk to Francis."
"Of course she did. I wouldn't expect otherwise."
"She said that he told her he used to talk to you, too."
She stared at me, coming up with some joke about that, I thought. But then she sat her coffee cup down and walked upstairs without another word.
The Senator came by again later. Persephone had taken both her nap and bath by then, but still kept him sitting downstairs for several minutes. The way she made Knights and Senators wait on her like common men still makes me chuckle.
Growing impatient, he stood and examined a bookshelf. "How long have you been with Miss Gale, Donnie?"
I didn't correct him because it was obvious he didn't really care. "Year and a half or so."
"She always get to the bottom of things?"
"Yeah. Never seen her get too tripped up."
"Good.” He opened a book and flipped through it. "I'd hate to see my son go away for this unfortunate situation."
Persephone stepped into the room as though she'd just remembered we were waiting. "Senator. I do apologize."
He closed the book and slid it back onto the shelf. "Did you receive the check I sent over?"
"I did. It was quite generous. Thank you."
We all sat, the Senator crossing and uncrossing his legs like he had a difficult time getting comfortable.
"Miss Gale," he said, "as you know, my wife is very ill. She's been confined to a wheelchair for the last few years but I fear even that has become too taxing. This mess with our boy is taking its toll. If he isn't released soon, I'm afraid it may kill her."
"I am so sorry for what you're going through, Senator. You and your wife. But I do think I'm closing in on proving the fraud."
He leaned forward. "Oh?"
"Yes. I'm working on something out back that should show exactly how these little séances are conducted. Once that's been revealed, there will be no case against Simon."
"Good." He leaned back, relieved. "Excellent, in fact."
"I did come across some information that the Sheriff is using against him."
"That son-of-a-bitch. Pardon my language, Miss Gale, but the Sheriff ran against my boy for mayor and lost. He's had it out for him ever since."
"Be that as it may, I must ask you a question, Senator. Are you and your son running an illegal gin mill out of the old library?"
He stared at her unmoving, blue eyes cold and one finger tapping slowly against his knee.
She stared right back.
"Yes," he said. "Though that makes it sound pedestrian. It's a gentleman's club of sorts. A place for local businessmen to unwind and talk shop. From what I've heard about you, I can't imagine you care much about illegal alcohol."
"I don't. Well, that's not true. I care deeply about it, but only so much as I can drink myself."
They shared a smile and it reminded me of how her and Simon flirted with one another.
"No, Senator, the reason I ask is because a witness claims Simon and Caitlin began seeing one other at this gentleman's club of yours."
"Oh? I don't see how that's possible. Not only are the meetings held in the strictest of confidence, they are for men only."
Persephone gave him her "You're full of shit" smile and proceeded to tell the story Sheliah Preston told us. She left out Sheliah's name, only referring to her as "some other girl." The way she told the story, one of the other men there that night could have been the witness.
"Caitlin was seen on several occasions after that sneaking out at night," she concluded.
"And who is this witness?"
"I haven't found out yet," she said. "But that's the story the Sheriff is using as evidence for the séance. That and the fact that the girl was pregnant."
"She was? That’s certain?"
"Coroner's report proves it."
He scratched his chin and thought for a moment. "So it's possible someone else who was there that night was her secret patron."
"You took the words right out of my mouth, Senator."
"And I would wager this person is also the one who made a statement to the Sheriff. Wouldn't you say?"
"It's possible," she said, knowing damned well it wasn't true but keeping the Prescott girl out of it.
"Would it help if I demanded the Sheriff tell me who the witness was?"
"No," she said. "I don't think he would give you that information and it would only make you look weak."
"True.” He nodded. "I would be seen as trying to influence it all. Do you think you'll be able to discover who this man is?"
"Oh, most definitely. More importantly, though, will be exposing the séance as a fraud."
"Yes," he said. "That must be done. Is there anything else you need from me?"
"No, Senator, I don't believe so. Not now, at any rate."
"Good." He stood and smoothed out his jacket. "Don't hesitate to ring if you do."
We walked him to the door.
"And please, Miss Gale. Donnie. Keep this gentleman's club business secret, would you?"
"Well, the police already know."
"Yes, but once the charges are dropped everything they say will be tainted and lose credibility."
"This is true."
"In the meantime, I would like to keep all of this from becoming common knowledge. I'm an important man doing important work and I would hate for something as trivial as the occasional alcoholic beverage to threaten that."
She smiled and nodded. "Of course, Senator."
"Thank you." He turned and left.
"Well," I said. "What's next?"
Persephone stood in the doorway a moment longer watching the Senator's driver pull away. "I need to work," she said and hurried past me toward the back door.
"Well, okay, then. Guess I'll read," I called after her.
She didn't hear me.
Right before bed that night, I thought I'd check in with Persephone. The whole Francis thing weighed on me and I wanted to apologize. She wasn't in her room so I went down to the shed. A padlock on a chain held the doors closed and there was no light on inside. I pounded a few times until one of the other tenants at the Inn leaned his head out the window and none-too politely asked me to keep it down.
I didn't know where she had gone, but also didn't think much of it. Persephone was more than a little wild and it hurt my brain to try and keep up with her. Heading back inside, I read a little more and then went to sleep.
16
At about three in the morning, my door yawned open. Half asleep, I fumbled for the light. Soft footsteps limped across the wooden floor toward m
y bed and all I could think of was Neph's story of Francis.
The bed creaked as someone's weight came down on it.
Fumbling with the light, I managed to turn it on.
Persephone lay on the bed, her hands and face covered in blood, one eye swollen shut and her mouth working like she wanted to say something but couldn't.
I screamed.
17
Gallow's Grove was too small for any kind of hospital, the closest one being in Larchmont. It did have a doctor, though, a young guy with a brace on his leg and a scar running down his neck. His name was Lawson and, when Mrs. Massey came to see what my screaming was about and saw Seph, she called him. He hit the doorstep in about ten minutes, panting and lugging a giant leather valise.
He told us not to move her and set to work cleaning the blood away on my bed.
"I don't see a wound," he said.
"You sure?"
"She has bruising on her face and throat, a few scratches, but no wound."
Mrs. Massey and the others had been shooed out to make room, so I was the only one in there with Dr. Lawson.
"Maybe you just missed it. It could be hidden, under her hair or—”
"It's not."
"Do you even know what you're looking for?"
He sighed. "Son, I spent two years in a trench pulling shrapnel out of doughboys with a sharpened spoon. I know what a wound looks like."
That shut me up.
"I know you're worried, but calm down or I'll have to ask you to leave."
"Okay. Sorry. I just want to help."
"Then hand me that stethoscope."
I did and he went to work listening to her breathing.
"What's it mean? That there's no wound?"
Satisfied with whatever he heard, he removed the device from his ears. "It means the blood isn't hers."
We held cold compresses against her face the rest of the night, Mrs. Massey worried we would use up all her ice before the delivery man came with more in two days. Dr. Lawson assured her that no one would mind drinking lukewarm water if we did.
Her ankle was swollen too, though the doctor examined it and said nothing seemed broken. He wrapped it with gauze and, sometime after morning, went into a vacant room to sleep.
