Body at the Crossroads

by Cate Martin

  "Not necessarily true," Brianna interrupted. "You're assuming she was killed and pushed through the time portal, but it's just as likely she was murdered somewhere else, carried to the house, and then pushed through the portal."

  "That means the murderer didn't push her through the portal by accident," I said. "They knew it was there."

  "Which brings us back to the 'why haven't they tried to use the amulet yet?' question," Sophie said.

  We all lapsed into silent regard of our coffee for a long moment.

  "What else were you going to say?" I asked at last.

  "Hmm?" Sophie said, still mostly regarding her coffee.

  "Either the murderer didn't know Cynthia was part of the school or…" I prompted.

  "Oh," Sophie said. "They didn't know, or they didn't care. They weren't afraid of Miss Zenobia."

  "Who wouldn't be afraid of Miss Zenobia?" Brianna asked in a whisper. "Even if you didn't know she was a witch, she was fearsome. That glower. She had an energy. I bet her students were in terror of her."

  "Not all of them," I said. "She was putting all of the energy to bear on us to get us to swear. And Cynthia for one really seemed to love her."

  We lapsed into another thoughtful silence.

  "So if we don't think it was Otto," Brianna said after some time. "Who else could it be?"

  "We didn't exhaust Coco's list of possible suspects," Sophie said. "Some were clearly ridiculous, but others might not be. In prohibition, it was really easy to get tangled up in the mob because they had their fingers in so many pies. What if someone was trying to get protection money from Miss Zenobia?"

  "I think that someone would be dead," I said. "But there is another thing. Mr. Brown's cane."

  "Long and narrow," Sophie agreed. "But the heavy bit at the top was awfully round."

  "We don't have the actual autopsy report," I pointed out. "We have a summary of a summary."

  "Still, he had an alibi too, right?" Sophie said.

  "That's two degrees away from actual proof too," Brianna said. "We have to trust that Edward is right about the housekeeper and that the housekeeper watched as diligently as she said she did. If the murder happened at three to five in the morning, was she still as alert as she thought she was after being up all night tending to a sick man?"

  "We'd also have to question her being right about how sick he was," I added. "A sick man couldn't hit that hard."

  "Not a physically sick one," Sophie agreed.

  I sighed. "We might not be able to solve this."

  "Hey," Sophie said, catching my hand and squeezing it. "Remember, Cynthia believed in you. She believed in all of us. She didn't know this was going to happen to her, but I'm sure if she did she'd trust in us to bring her killer to justice."

  "We just need to work a little harder," Brianna said.

  "We need more clues," I said. "And all the clues are in the past. And we didn't find them when we were there before. Now it's been days since the murder. I doubt there's anything left to find."

  "It depends on where the primary crime scene was," Brianna said. "If it was somewhere remote, it could still be untouched. We just have to have a little hope."

  "Hope," I repeated. I doubted I could muster much of that. "What we need is a plan."

  "I need to do some research," Brianna said. Clearly, that was her answer to everything.

  "I'm going to do some exercises," Sophie said. "Sometimes that helps me think. Maybe I'll come up with something good." Her little shrug was as dejected as I felt.

  "What about you, Amanda?" Brianna asked.

  "Me? I guess I'll just go for another walk."

  "That helps you think?" Sophie asked.

  "I guess so," I said.

  In truth, I had never had a pressing need to think about much of anything before. I had lived a pretty boring life up until a few days ago.

  I reached out with my senses, trying to feel that old compulsion that told me what to do. It had told me when to stay home, when to go into work early, to never, ever leave my hometown until Cynthia came to find me there.

  But it was silent now. I was on my own. And I was so unprepared.

  Chapter 23

  I got about five blocks away from the house before the rain started. There was no warning feeling of mistiness to the air, no occasional drops building in frequency. No, it was like the sky above me just opened up and dumped everything.

  I ran back to the house, but not fast enough. By the time I got there, I was soaked to the skin. And I had nothing clean to change into.

  Or at least, no clean, modern clothes to change into. Not having a lot of other options, and no idea where to find Mr. Trevor, I tromped up the stairs, first to the bathroom on the third floor to get a towel for my dripping hair, then up to the attic.

  As I climbed the last few steps, I heard sounds coming from the attic, a soft swoosh and tap, swoosh and tap. I crept up to the doorway to see Sophie spinning down the length of the room. One complete spin, stopped by a touch of her toe, then another spin and stop, the entire movement tracing a long oval around the room.

  She had pushed the various chests and boxes up against the walls where the sloping ceiling was too low for her to dance under. But she hadn't taken a broom to the dusty floor; I could see the places where her slippered feet had disturbed the gray accumulation of decades of neglect.

  I watched her spin to the very back of the house, not quite brushing against the cupboard doors, then start spinning back the side of the room opposite the door. Her eyes were closed, and her arms were trying out different arrangements. Something told me she was practicing not dance but magic, reaching out with her senses and moving her arms, hands, and fingers through the invisible forces she could feel flowing around her.

  I didn't want to disturb her, but I was getting cold in my wet clothes, so as quietly as I could, I crept along the length of the room to the cupboards. I gently eased one of the doors opened and grabbed whatever came first to hand, then scurried back to the door and down the stairs to my bedroom.

  I had grabbed what looked to be the sort of dress a farmer's wife would wear, sturdy and built for work. I hadn't taken any underwear or shoes, but that wouldn't matter.

  I left my own things draped over furniture to dry then headed downstairs to see what Brianna was up to.

  Brianna was in full mumbling to herself mode, moving from book to book, turning pages and occasionally jotting something down in her own notebook. Not the little one she carried in her pocket, but a large tome with cream-colored pages, unlined and full of as many illustrations as writing.

  I'm guessing the illustrations were more of her string theory drawings because none of it looked like anything to me.

  Clearly, she was just as engrossed as Sophie, if not more so, and I didn't want to disturb her either. Still, every so often in her hunt for this bit of information or that she would pick up one of the halfdozen or so teacups that were scattered across the table among and even on the books. Each cup proved empty when she tried to drink from it, and she set them back down and promptly forgot them.

  Well, making Brianna more tea was one contribution I could make. I went down to the kitchen.

  While waiting for the kettle to boil, I dug through the butler's pantry until I found a little bamboo tray just large enough for tea for one. In one of the cupboards was an array of those little teapots that sit atop matching cups. I grabbed one that was covered with owls with large, wise eyes and brought it and the tray back into the kitchen.

  I grabbed the sugar bowl to add it to the tray, but it felt light in my hand. I lifted the lid and gave the bowl a little shake, but it was quite empty.

  Where would Mr. Trevor keep the rest of the sugar? Or was he hoarding it like the maid at the Thomas house that was driving Helen crazy? What was her name? Molly?

  I saw a row of canisters on the top shelf of one of the cabinets, too high even for me to reach, and I had to pull over a chair.

  It was at about that point th
at I started to feel the deja-vu. It got stronger as I took the canister down from the shelf and, still standing on the chair, looked inside.

  You could hide anything inside a canister of sugar if you buried it deep enough. Was anyone going to give it more than a cursory glance?

  I don't know how long I stood on that chair staring down into the canister of sugar. The deja-vu feeling was so strong it was like I was outside of myself, watching myself slowly step down from the chair and sit on it, still looking down at the sugar.

  I had never met Molly, the maid Helen had so distrusted. I wasn't sure what motive she could possibly have. By Helen’s own account, she had been an admirer of Cynthia’s, and Cynthia had been lending her books and encouraging her to pursue her own Education.

  But I should have at least met her, asked her a few questions.

  Like, how long had she worked for the Thomases? Was she aware of what Cynthia did every day? Did she have a clue what the amulet did?

  Had she taken it and hidden it deep inside the sugar, then put the canister up high? She must have been about to be caught with her mistress's jewelry and only had a moment to act.

  Then the deja-vu feeling faded, and I took a deep breath. I was no longer feeling like every present moment was a memory I was just remembering, which was a relief. Really, deja-vu that lasted longer than a flash was quite unsettling.

  I put the chair away and was just spooning tea into the basket inside the pot when quite a different feeling came over me.

  I had to go back to 1927. I knew it; it was a surety. I was compelled.

  I knew this feeling, this compulsion well, but never like this. Never suddenly dawning in the middle of a day. It had always been a feeling I woke up with before. What did this change mean?

  Perhaps later I could talk to Brianna and Sophie about it. Maybe it was a magic thing, but maybe it wasn't. In the meantime, the one thing I knew for sure was that I had to go back to 1927.

  The kettle whistled, and I filled the pot, set the lid over the brewing tea, and carried the tray up to the library.

  "Brianna," I said as I set the tray down on the end of the table.

  Brianna looked up. Then her brows drew together. "Why are you dressed like that?"

  I looked down. I had almost forgotten that I had changed my clothes.

  That was awfully convenient. Was it too convenient? Was fate trying to steer me around?

  But this was no time for paranoia. So far as I knew, nothing we did affected the weather, so I should just chalk that up to coincidence.

  "I need to get back to 1927," I said. "You can do it alone, can't you?"

  "I can, now that Sophie and I have tinkered with the integrity of the portal itself," Brianna said. "I'm not sure it's a good idea."

  "I still need to walk," I said, and Brianna looked at me with deep confusion. "It's raining outside," I said, pointing to the window behind her. The glass was being pelted so hard with gigantic drops of rain it was impossible to see the tree just a few feet away.

  "Oh," Brianna said. "You think it will be sunny in 1927?"

  "Not just that," I said. "I'd like to see Mr. Thomas again."

  "I think that would be nice for him," Brianna said. "He's missing his wife so much."

  "You and Sophie are both working so hard, it's the least I can do," I said. "Plus I'd like to talk to his servants. I mean, everything we really know about Mr. Brown came from Edward talking to the workers in the kitchen, and we never did that with the Thomas house."

  "Oh, yes, I see," Brianna said. "That's why you're dressed that way. You look like a member of their social class, I guess.”

  Ugh. Another point for fate, I guess.

  "Yes," I said as if that had been my thinking all along. The table was between us so she couldn't see my period incorrect footwear. "I hate to disturb you, but it will just take a minute."

  "Of course," Brianna said, then finally noticed the tray I had brought with me. "Hey, tea! Thanks for that."

  "No problem," I said.

  We went down the back stairs to the solarium, but Brianna caught my arm before I could march back out into the pouring rain.

  "Hold on," she said, whispering a word and raising her arm up over her head. I didn't see any change, but she smiled in a satisfied way and linked her left arm through mine, still holding her wand high with the right.

  We stepped out into the rain, but not a drop of it touched us. I looked up and saw it spattering against and running down the surface of some invisible barrier like a force field. Warm, dry air circulated around us, drying my soaked shoes.

  "Nice spell," I said.

  "Thanks," Brianna said. "Like I said, most of my spellwork is small, handy things. Like magic umbrellas."

  We walked to the center of the orchard. Brianna had to dismiss her magic umbrella to use her wand to open the portal, but the trees protected us from the worst of the rain.

  "I'll come back out and open this up again at sunset," Brianna said. "Will, that be enough time?"

  "Perfect," I said. "Just don't forget about me."

  "Of course not," Brianna said, then smiled a mischievous smile. "Say hi to Edward for me."

  "I will if I see him," I said.

  "Oh, I'm sure you'll see him," she said.

  Then she waved her wand and spoke a few words. I blinked, and the rain turned to bright, warm sunshine.

  I was back in 1927.

  Chapter 24

  It was indeed another warm, sunny day in 1927. I looked up at the empty house for a moment, still curious whether it would ever be possible to bump into Miss Zenobia in the past. But now wasn't the time to test that theory. I followed the stepping stones around the side of the house to the front walk and set off for the Thomas house at a brisk pace.

  I kept my head down, but I still caught people noticing the shoes on my feet, the star logos prominent on the ankles in an age where no one wore that sort of thing. A few shot me an odd look, but no one said a word.

  When I got to the Thomas house and ran up the steps to knock on the door, I realized that wouldn't be necessary. The door was standing halfway open, creaking back and forth gently in the breeze. All of the curtains were still pulled close, and I could see nothing but darkness beyond that door.

  "Hello?" I called, giving the door a little tap with my knuckles. I would think someone wanting fresh air on a warm day would start with those windows, but I didn't want to make any assumptions.

  Then I heard someone answer my greeting. I couldn't make out any words, just a little grunt of voice.

  I didn't like the sound of that grunt.

  "I'm coming in," I announced, and pushed the door fully open.

  And saw Frank Thomas desperately trying to crawl towards me, one hand raised imploring. Blood dripped in little rivers down the sides of his face.

  I ran forward, falling to my knees beside him just as whatever energy he had managed to summon abandoned him.

  "What happened?" I asked as he labored for breath in my arms. I touched the top of his head, and my fingers grew sticky with blood.

  Then I touched the back of his head and felt the sunken place, so like the one on the back of his late wife's skull.

  "Mr. Thomas! Who did this to you?" I asked. He looked up at me, his mouth working but not forming words. His voice was only a whistle of breath until that too died away.

  His eyes stayed locked on mine for a moment after his breath failed. I think there was something like relief there, that he hadn't died alone. I found his hand and squeezed it tight until the light left his eyes.

  I laid him gently back down on the floor, but my hands were shaking. Not with grief, and not with fear.

  I was angry. I didn't even know it was possible to feel so angry.

  I was angry at whoever did this, sure, but mostly I was angry at myself for being too late.

  The feeling that I had always relied on to guide me to where I needed to be in the nick of time had let me down. If it had come in the morning when it was
supposed to, I would have been with Frank since breakfast. I could have prevented this.

  But the feeling had come too late. I had come too late.

  There was nothing I could do with the anger I felt towards, I guess, the fickleness of fate. But the anger I felt towards the murderer? That I could direct to good use.

  I got up from the floor, wiping my hands down the front of my dress, and headed for the kitchen.

  "Hello?" I called, less friendly this time. "Is anyone else still in this house? No need to hide now."

  Surely whoever had done this had fled out the front door, but someone else should have been home at the same time. If Molly had done it, then Helen might be lying dead or dying on the kitchen floor even now. If someone else was to blame, it might be the maid bleeding out on the floor.

  The only way to know was to go into the kitchen.

  I pushed open the door and looked inside. Broken crockery covered the floor, dusted over everywhere by spilled flour and sugar and tea.

  But there was no sign of another body.

  There was no way to step inside without leaving very distinctive footprints in all that flour. I leaned as far into the room as I could, craning my neck to see all of the way back to the pantry, but whoever had done this damage was gone.

  All of the crockery smashed. Had they been looking for something? Something hidden in the sugar or the flour?

  I glanced up at the hutch, but nothing lurked atop it.

  It looked like the culprit had even searched the ice box. The door hung open, just as the front door had. The food had been pulled out and left piled up on the floor in front of the appliance.

  The marble holder for the marble rolling pin sat empty still inside the icebox.

  My eyes scanned that pile of food over and over, but I was quite certain it wasn't large enough to conceal that rolling pin.

  You know, the heavy, long, narrow object that would make an injury just like the one on both of the Thomases’ heads.

  If I was right, if that had been the murder weapon, both it and the amulet were now gone. A smart murderer would even now be destroying them both to cover up the crime.