On either side of the river, the land looked untouched by humans. Growing up in Savannah, I hadn’t fully anticipated the wildness of the state of Alabama. The Georgia and South Carolina coasts were populated with estates of the wealthy, but Alabama was different. Before the Civil War, vast acreage had been cultivated for cotton and crops, but there were also stretches of forest that were virtually unexplored. Moving along the river at night, the isolation touched me.
I’d come to love living at Caoin House in Mobile with my uncle. I’d never thought I’d leave Savannah, but Uncle Brett had sent men to pack my belongings and bring them to Mobile. At first I’d resisted, but finally I’d given in. I had been so alone in Savannah. I would miss teaching my students, but now I would have time to pursue my own writing. My first story would be published in October in the Saturday Evening Post. If I missed teaching too much, I could always seek a position in the Chickasaw school near Caoin House.
Up ahead a ghostly gray landing jutted into the river. I looked down on the lower deck and saw Kerry. He signaled to me, and I waved back. I dashed into the saloon and dragged Reginald out of a conversation with hastily murmured apologies. If he was going to be a ghost hunter, he needed to apply himself.
Reginald stepped onto the deck with a frown. “What couldn’t wait?”
At last it occurred to me that Reginald’s interest in lawyer Gerald Colson might have been more than merely conversational. There had been something between them, perhaps.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” I pointed upriver, where the small dock was only a few hundred yards away. “It’s Wigham Bluff. The ghost.”
“Oh.” He was instantly over his pique and hurried to the boat’s railing to lean out. “I don’t see anything.”
“Neither do I.” Which was something of a relief. Kerry looked up. I shook my head and motioned for him to join us on the upper deck. He disappeared as he went to find the stairs.
I eased beside Reginald as the boat drew closer to the roughly constructed wooden dock that jutted out into the river. The long wooden chute rose up the riverbank seventy feet or more. A cotton bale weighed five hundred pounds. It would hurtle down that height with the velocity of a locomotive. I could only hope Kerry’s grandfather’s death had been instantaneous. If his spirit still lingered and decided to show itself, I’d know soon enough.
Kerry came to stand beside me as the steamboat drew alongside the landing. For a moment I saw nothing. The wooden platform was just large enough to load and unload the cotton and hold a wooden shed some twenty-by-twenty feet. Because the cotton crop was still at least two months away from picking, the platform was empty. We moved abreast, and I was relieved that no one waited there for us.
“I guess he’s shy tonight,” Kerry said.
“Damn.” Reginald brought out his cigarettes and offered, but both Kerry and I declined. “I was hoping to see a spirit.”
And then he was there. I pointed at the man, not old as I’d anticipated, but young and strong, his chest wide and braces holding up his pants. He strode to the edge of the platform and nodded at us as we passed. He looked a lot like the young man standing beside me.
“Grandda,” Kerry said softly and waved.
“I don’t see him.” Reginald was disappointed. “I sense something, but there’s nothing to be seen.”
“Maybe you’re trying too hard,” I said. When I looked again, the dock was empty.
“Why won’t he leave?” Kerry asked me. “It’s wrong that he waits there. He should go to . . . wherever he’s going.”
“His death was sudden. It’s possible he can’t accept that he died. He doesn’t seem distressed or angry or . . .” I let the sentence die. I’d meant to say malevolent, but there was no need to put such things in Kerry’s mind. “From the little I’ve experienced, sometimes spirits are confused. Time isn’t the same for them as it is for us.”
“Poor Grandda,” Kerry sighed. “I wish I could send him on his way.”
I brightened. “Maybe you can. I’ll ask the captain to stop at the landing on the return trip. If he can give you a few moments alone on the dock, talk to your grandfather. Tell him what happened. Maybe once he understands, he’ll know what to do.”
“That might work,” Reginald agreed. “Madam Petalungro says that once spirits accept their deaths, they often move on.”
We’d seen that happen at Caoin House. But I couldn’t guarantee anything. My work with spirits was raw and unproved. My only guidance came from Reginald and what he’d learned from Madam Petalungro.
“I was happy to see your grandfather as a healthy young man,” I said.
“Aye, he was brawn and muscle. A handsome devil, like me.”
“Indeed.” He felt better about what he could see, and I was glad.
“You both saw him. I saw nothing,” Reginald said.
“If I could give you my ability, I would,” Kerry said. “But I don’t think you’d want it. At least not all the time.” He took a step back. “Ma’am, sir, I have work to do.”
“Thank you, Kerry. I hope you’re able to help your relative.”
“Thanks.” And he was gone, hustling across the deck until he disappeared. He was a good worker and someone I would call to my uncle’s attention.
“We should retire,” I said. The heat had taken all the energy out of me. By the end of the day, although I’d done nothing in the way of labor or even walking, I felt tired. “We’ll be in Montgomery in the morning.”
Reginald nodded. “My two card-playing friends have given up the game, at least for this river trip.”
“You won too much of their money.” I had to give Reginald credit. Gambling might be a vice, but it was gainful employment from his perspective. “How do you do it?” I asked. “Do you count the cards? I’ve heard some people do that.”
Reginald thought for a moment. “No, I don’t count. I watch the other players. There’s really no such thing as a poker face. There’s always a tell. Most people, if they’re holding a winning hand, show it in their posture or their faces. I fold then.”
“And if you’re holding the winning hand?” I asked.
“I hesitate with my bets. I play for time and pretend that I’m trying to decide what to do.”
“In other words, you deceive them.”
“Ah, look, you’ve caught me.”
“Don’t you see? That skill is as much a talent as ghost sighting. And your ability to read the emotions of the living is vital to our work. I think you’ll learn to see the spirits if we keep practicing, but never feel what you do isn’t equally important to our success.”
“You’re a kind, dear woman.” He kissed my hand, his little caterpillar of a mustache tickling my skin.
“Be careful with your affections or you’ll ruin my reputation. After all, we are traveling together.”
“If only they knew the truth.” And he kissed my hand again before we both called it a night and headed to our rooms.
Tomorrow promised to be exciting. Zelda Fitzgerald would meet us at the docks and drive us into the bustling city of Montgomery.
CHAPTER THREE
Excitement took hold of me as the steamboat docked at Montgomery. Mobile and Montgomery shared the heat and suffocating humidity, but not much else. Unlike Mobile, the state capital of Alabama was an inland city on a bluff. The port’s docks had none of the exotic flavor of the port of Mobile. The soft twang and slower manner of speech of rural Alabama predominated as we passed the stevedores off-loading the supplies the Miss Vandy had brought upriver. The sun showed no mercy. Reginald and I hurried off the dock to where a fashionable—and provocative—Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald waited beside a handsome sports coupe.
I hadn’t expected the woman who’d scandalized New York with her drunken, flamboyant honeymoon parties to be so petite, but her winsome beauty had not been exaggerated. Uncle Brett and his romantic companion, Isabelle Brown, had filled me in on all the gossip about the young woman, who’d been labeled an icon of the
flapper age. Rather than run from scandal, Uncle Brett would have given his eyeteeth to tag along. In fact, he’d ordered me to write him all the details. As much as he loved a good party, Uncle Brett loved adventure and people who flouted convention with style more.
Zelda’s dark-gold curls were tucked beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat, and she wore a summer dress, sleeveless and banded at the hip. The skirt was short, showing off elegant legs. I’d heard she loved to dance—particularly in public and on the steps of the state capitol. Those legs were a testament to her athletic pursuits. When she saw us and realized who we were, she waved and came forward in a long, swinging stride. I liked her instantly; she was a woman who owned the ground she stood on.
“Porter, bring their bags here,” Zelda called. She grasped my hands. “Thank you. Thank you for coming.” She assessed Reginald and then put a hand on his arm. “And you, too, Mr. Proctor. I can’t thank you enough.”
There was an urgency in her grip, in the intensity of her blue eyes. “I’ll tell you all about poor Camilla as soon as I get you home. I know you must be exhausted. A quick tour, then a bath and a stiff drink. That’s what’s called for.” She hurried to direct the porter to load our baggage onto the rear of the car. “Scott bought this sports coupe with his first check from the publisher. He wanted a red Stutz, of course, but I love this car.”
As soon as we were seated, Zelda set the vehicle in motion. “I’ll run you around Montgomery. It won’t take long,” she said. “I have a bit of a reputation here, as does my friend Tallulah, who’ll join us for breakfast. Pay the gossips no mind. It’s a love-hate relationship, as I tell my father. The upright citizens of Montgomery love that I scandalize them so that they can pretend to be shocked. They’re only jealous that I do what they’re afraid to.”
I’d heard stories of the flesh-colored swimsuits that made her appear to be nude, frolics in the public fountain in downtown Montgomery, and the tribute to Greek goddesses she and actress Tallulah Bankhead had performed in front of the courthouse. It was hard for me to believe that this publicity-seeking paragon of public misconduct was only twenty. She’d just married F. Scott Fitzgerald in April, and here she was, home to help her friend three months later.
Zelda gave us a whizbang tour, talking with great animation as she drove. The main street of Montgomery was filled with the bustle of a small city. When we passed a trolley car, I pointed with delight.
“Montgomery has twenty-nine miles of electric trolley track,” Zelda said. “I can give you a tour of the statehouse, the courthouse, the city. I was a city hostess for the Montgomery Tintagil Club . . . until they lost their nerve and completely did away with the city hostesses. I think they were afraid of what Tallulah and I would get up to.”
The look she cut over at me told me how much she enjoyed her notoriety.
The city of forty-four thousand still bore the scars of new roads cut into the red clay, raw lumber, and a sense of good prospects. Zelda made a turn around the business center before heading out of town again. She relayed a wealth of information as she drove. Montgomery had been the first seat of the Confederacy, but the lack of railroad connections had made travel difficult, so the Confederate capital had been moved to Richmond, Virginia. Since the 1860s, though, the railroad network had been vastly improved, and the city on the banks of the Alabama River had thrived.
“Daddy says Montgomery is on the brink of a boom,” Zelda said with a doubtful shrug.
She drove through a wooded section of hardwoods mixed with pines and turned into a neighborhood of large, shaded lawns and two-story homes. Reginald and I were staying at the Sayre house as guests of Judge Anthony and Minnie Sayre. I knew only that Judge Sayre was a respected jurist who sat on the Alabama Supreme Court. I suspected he was not the fun-loving man my uncle was, and Zelda’s expression when she spoke of her father told me I’d guessed accurately.
“Tell us about Camilla,” Reginald gently probed when we’d turned down a quiet neighborhood street.
“She’s a peach,” Zelda said. Her tone changed, and her driving slowed. “She’s not violent. Not in the least. She’s a tender girl. There’s no explanation except a spirit of some kind has taken control of her.”
“Tell us from the beginning,” Reginald said, leaning forward in the backseat. “Remember, we know only that your friend is in trouble. We have none of the details.”
Zelda dived into the story. “Camilla Granger loves David Simpson, and she wants to marry him. More than anything she wants to be his wife. But first she wanted a summer to be free. To be”—she sighed heavily—“to be her own person instead of a wife.” A shadow fell across her face. “I shouldn’t have encouraged her.”
I had no idea how Camilla’s desire for independence might have played into her current plight.
“Why don’t you tell us about Camilla and her problems before we get to your parents’ home,” I suggested.
A big sycamore shaded a portion of the street, and Zelda stopped beneath it. “I’ve known Camilla most of my life, though she’s two years younger than I am. Before I ran off to New York City and married Scott, Camilla and Tallulah and I began to socialize.” Her gaze focused on something in the distance. “I never wanted to stay in Alabama. Never. Tallulah loves the stage. She’ll leave Alabama, too. We shouldn’t have filled Camilla’s head with dreams. She can’t leave Montgomery. Not really. She just wanted a chance to be a woman before she became a wife. Just a few short months.”
“Okay,” Reginald said. “I can see why that might upset her parents or her fiancé, but it isn’t like she robbed a bank.”
“Oh, you don’t know Maude Granger. She is a dragon. David is the best catch in Montgomery. He has family and money. Mrs. Granger insisted that Camilla plan her wedding without delay. Since David proposed, there have been endless engagement parties, bridal showers, china patterns selected, a whirlwind of nuptial business. The dragon wanted to be sure there was no backing out of the wedding by either bride or groom. To do so would mean social ruin.”
“But if Camilla loved David—”
“It wasn’t about David. Not really.” Zelda looked miserable. “Mrs. Granger had her thumb on Camilla, and she kept pressing harder and harder until . . .” Her knuckles on the steering wheel whitened. “Camilla seemed to snap. She tried to stab David.”
I didn’t know what to say. This didn’t sound like a haunting.
“Was Camilla charged with a crime?” Reginald asked.
“No. David hushed it up. He would never bring charges against her. No one knows about it except a few close friends. Our family physician, Dr. Abbott, secured a place at Bryce Hospital for Camilla in the hopes the doctors there could diagnose her and find a cure.” She tapped the steering wheel with her painted fingernails. “Mrs. Granger’s told everyone that Camilla has gone to a finishing school in preparation for becoming David’s wife.”
“Surely they’ve postponed the wedding?” I couldn’t believe a mother would continue to push her daughter toward a marriage if her mental health was at risk.
“Mrs. Granger isn’t going to let this opportunity slip away. And David still wants to marry her. If only he could wed her now, he’d be in charge of her fate, which is the best option—believe me. He’d elope with her, but Mrs. Granger is insisting on all the formalities and a huge wedding.”
Across the street, a young mother pushing a baby pram walked out the front door of a two-story brick home. She stared at us, then walked in the opposite direction.
“Why do you think we can help your friend?” Reginald asked.
“Camilla had another episode after the first one. It’s only David she tries to harm. Only David. That’s why I think she’s possessed. These things only happen when she’s with David, as if he triggers something.”
“Has she had an episode since she was institutionalized?” I asked.
“No. At Bryce she’s docile as a lamb. The old Camilla.”
“And where is David Simpson?”
“At Roswell, the house he bought and has been renovating for her. It’s magnificent.”
“What does he believe?” Reginald asked.
“He thinks she’s possessed, too.”
“Have you spoken with a priest?”
Zelda released her tight grip on the steering wheel. “It’s not a matter for a priest. And we don’t have time for all that mumbo jumbo. Incense and Latin aren’t going to help Camilla. Mrs. Granger’s decided that Camilla needs a new treatment, and a priest isn’t going to change her mind. It’s a surgical experiment.” She shifted so she could see both of us. “It’s supposed to make people submissive.”
After receiving Zelda’s letter, I’d researched the latest psychosurgical tactics some doctors were performing. A portion of the skull was removed, and the “white matter” of the front of the brain was severed or destroyed by an alcohol injection. Although the results were mixed, the procedure was still in use.
Reginald stiffened. “From what I’ve heard, it’s ghastly and the results are unreliable.”
“Dear God.” I touched my forehead instinctively. “Her mother wants this done to her?”
“She’s demanding it. It’s the only way she thinks she can make Camilla obedient enough to marry David. She also claims that Dr. Perkins has made improvements to the surgery. A technique developed in Europe that isn’t so disfiguring.”
“And what does David say?”
“He’s opposed. But he would marry Camilla in any condition to get her away from her mother.”
“Surely Camilla can object to this procedure.”
“She’s willing to do whatever is necessary to prevent another episode of violence toward David. Her mother and Dr. Perkins have convinced her this is the answer.” Zelda composed herself. “My father has tried to reason with the Grangers, but Maude Granger won’t hear of it. She blames me for Camilla’s illness. I’m forbidden from seeing her.”
The House of Memory (Pluto's Snitch Book 2) Page 2
