by Maia Chance
I blinked. “But you hired us to retrieve your rhinoceros trophy before we had ever met.”
“Oh yes, that was a legitimate case. A simple matter easily handled by bumbling women. But Rudy’s death? I never believed for a moment that he was murdered. I only suggested it so I could spend more time with you and, quite frankly, so I could enjoy watching you flounder about, trying to detect. It’s dashed cute, you know.”
“But—”
“Rudy committed suicide, Lola. There never was a murder.”
“What about Glenn Monroe?”
“I told you, someone at the radio station must have killed Glenn.”
Suddenly, eating was the very last thing I wished to do. I set down my fork. My mind dizzily raced through all that Berta and I had learned. Could we truly have imagined all those suspicious words, possible motives, evasive behaviors? Was it all merely Lurid Tales and Spectral Stories clouding our common sense?
No. No, no, no.
Eustace said, “I’ll pop a check in the post for you and Mrs. Lundgren, since I think you ought to be paid for your time, even if it was only for my amusement. Now, I really don’t have the heart to watch your little séance charade, so I’ll be off. Good-bye, Lola. Don’t feel too badly. You really are marvelously pretty.” He stood, lifted his hat, and pushed out of the kitchen.
I sat there at the kitchen table for a few ticks, too stunned to move.
The thing was, I no longer trusted anything Eustace had told me.
25
When I went into the lobby, Berta popped her head out of the parlor. “Are you quite ready, Mrs. Woodby? We have been waiting for you for an age. Miss Murden arrived and we are ready to begin.”
There was no time to tell Berta about Eustace’s lying. That, just like my discovery about how powerboats aren’t legal for oyster dredging, would have to wait. “Coming,” I said.
“Everyone must hold hands,” Berta said once I had taken my place at the séance table. The pocket doors were shut, the electric lights were off, and in the candelabra, four weak candle flames shuddered. The parlor seemed without margins, the ceiling and walls receding in velvety shadow. There were five of us: Berta, I on her right, then Miss Murden, Coral, and lastly Theo.
We joined hands. Miss Murden’s hand was small, sturdy, calloused, and cold. She was still a little breathless from her walk. On the other side of the candles, Coral’s fair face seemed to float, disembodied, and Theo was slouched back into half darkness.
“Goodness, Lola,” Coral said, “what kind of face powder have you been using? You’re shining like a specter in this candlelight.”
Dratted Marie Antoinette Pearlized Complexion Powder.
“We will begin,” Berta said. She chanted, “Spirit of the Lady in White, we summon you tonight—”
“It’s not precisely night yet, you know,” Theo interrupted.
“Must you always spoil the fun, Theo?” Coral snapped.
“Don’t you two sound just like an old married couple,” Miss Murden said, smirking.
“What’s that supposed to mean, you creepy old trout?” Coral said.
Berta continued, “—Reveal to us your secrets of yore, of diamonds bright or golden ore.”
“I thought we were going to ask about Rudy’s death,” Miss Murden said. “I don’t care about that treasure bunkum.”
“First things first,” Berta said. She rearranged her face and closed her eyes. “Spirit, we bring you offerings and, trusting that you enjoy pie, entreat you to reveal the secrets of the Other Side. I will ask questions, O spirit. Rap once for yes, twice for no.”
Was it just me, or was the parlor’s temperature dropping? Maybe it was only a draft coming through the chimney flue.
“O spirit, tell us,” Berta said, “is there truly a Montgomery treasure?”
RAP.
“Is it diamonds?”
RAP RAP.
“Is it gold?”
RAP RAP.
“Is it … money?”
RAP.
“Is the treasure buried on the Montgomery estate?”
RAP.
“This is a waste of time,” Miss Murden said. “Let’s speak to Mr. Montgomery now.” She raised her voice. “Mr. Montgomery, this is your loyal servant, Esther Murden. Tell us, sir, were you murdered?”
Coral gasped. Theo scoffed. Then we all waited.
Silence unfurled in the dark. Miss Murden’s hand perspired.
RAP.
We waited. No second rap. However, a strange gurgling sound emanated from one of the parlor’s murky corners.
“He was murdered!” Miss Murden cried. “Oh, I don’t believe it!”
“Wow, this is fun,” Coral said. “Say, Rudy, while we’ve got you on the line, tell us, is anyone else going to die?”
Again, the strange gurgling, followed by a muffled hoggish snort.
RAP.
“Oh my dear Lord,” Miss Murden whispered, shrinking back. Her hand in mine was now shaking and slippery with sweat. Theo was looking twitchy, and even Coral’s eyes flicked from face to face around the table.
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Montgomery, is your killer sitting at this table now?”
RAP. Pause. RAP.
No? What was Berta up to?
I sent her a look, and she twitched her nose.
She hadn’t made that last rap. Someone was interfering!
“Mr. Montgomery,” I called, “is your death linked to Miss Murden’s newfound wealth?”
Miss Murden yanked her hand from mine. “How dare you?” she snarled.
RAP RAP.
“Is Theo truly your son?” I asked.
RAP.
“Does his visit to New York City Hall have any bearing on your murder?” I asked.
“Who have you been speaking to?” Theo lunged forward so hard, he hit the edge of the table and sent the candelabra wobbling.
“Don’t let these old girls get under your skin, Theo,” Coral said. “They’re bluffing. Bluffing about everything. I suppose one of them is a whiz at playing the castanets with her feet, or—”
Miss Murden let rip an eardrum-splintering scream. She shot to her feet, pointing at something at the margin of the quivering candlelight.
A blobby apparition in white swayed. Then, to my horror, it lurched toward us.
Wait—was that Coral’s cream-colored coat? Yes, it was, and there was Theo’s houndstooth number. The coats slid off and we were all staring, speechless, at Jimmy the Ant in a striped suit.
“Gollygeebejabbers, why didn’t anyone wake me up?” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I’ve been snoozing on that sofa for hours. What’s going on here, anyway? Is that Boston cream pie? Boy oh boy, somebody gimme a fork.”
Someone—Theo—snapped the overhead lights on.
“Lovely séance, girls,” Coral said, getting to her feet.
“For God’s sake,” Theo said, snatching the coats off the floor. “I’ve had it with your nonsense. Absolutely had it!” He helped Coral into her coat. “I’m warning you for the last time, if I don’t have my diamonds back by midnight tonight, I’m going to the police.”
Coral and Theo left, and Miss Murden clumped after them seconds later.
“Jimmy!” Berta cried. “What are you doing here?”
“Came ta see you, tomato.” He grinned, his glass eye lolling, and slipped a thin arm around her waist.
She wiggled from his grasp. “You have a great deal of explaining to do.”
“Sure do. Hows about I do it up in your room?”
Berta looked at me, flushing.
“We have a few things to discuss, too,” I said. “Those raps, to begin with—which ones didn’t you make?”
“As soon as you began asking the questions, Mrs. Woodby, I made no more raps.”
“Who do you suppose it was?”
“The murderer, of course.”
A chill slithered along my spine. “We didn’t force the murderer into a confession with our séance. We’ve only stir
red up more trouble. And there are a few other things I have learned.…”
Jimmy was covertly caressing Berta’s hand, and she wasn’t really listening to me.
Far be it from me to halt other ladies’ romantic reunions.
“Why don’t you and Mr. Ant talk things over,” I said, “and then we really must discuss what to do next.”
Berta and Jimmy left in a hurry. They were halfway up the stairs when I heard them whispering and giggling.
By the time I had straightened up the parlor, put away the pie, and washed the corn chowder bowl in the kitchen, I was sweaty and a bit sick in the pit of my stomach. I chalked it up to disillusionment. After all, my earl in shining armor had turned out to be nothing but an ass in a tin can.
I’d just go upstairs, have a little lie-down, and allow my stomach to settle before talking over this mess with Berta.…
* * *
When I woke, I was more queasy than before. I checked my wristwatch. After eight o’clock! I’d been asleep for hours.
I coaxed myself out of bed, plodded to Berta’s door, and knocked.
“Is that you, Mrs. Woodby?” came the muffled reply. There was a thump, padding footsteps, and then the door swung open and Berta’s face appeared in the crack. I caught a glimpse of Jimmy the Ant sitting up in bed in a Henley undershirt.
“A most exciting development has occurred,” Berta said.
“I see that.”
She edged the door shut a few inches. “Mr. Ant is merely, ah, his gout—”
“You need not explain a thing to me. But we do need to—”
“Jimmy has brought the diamonds.”
“He has?” I squealed.
“Shush. Yes. He secretly procured them from one of Lem Fitzpatrick’s safes.”
“He knew the combination?”
“He blasted it open with nitroglycerin,” Berta said in the same tone a mother uses when bragging about her child’s spelling bee victory.
“Lem will have his head!”
“Not if he doesn’t find out. Jimmy replaced the entire safe with an identical one, and put pebbles inside. With any luck, Lem will decide the diamonds were truly pebbles all along.”
“We’ve got to take them to Theo.”
“First thing in the morning, Mrs. Woodby.”
“No, now. Theo was explicit about the midnight deadline.” We were saved! Perhaps. We had to get a move on. I’d tell Berta about the oyster dredging and Eustace’s lies as soon as we delivered those diamonds to Theo … and as soon as my digestive tract stopped its contortionist feats.
Berta sighed. “Oh, very well. I suppose I will sleep more soundly tonight with those diamonds out of my hair. Give me a few minutes to ready myself.”
26
Ten minutes later, Berta, Jimmy, Cedric, and I stepped out of the Old Whaler’s Inn and into a boundless misty night. My queasiness had progressed to a bona fide stomachache, and despite the chill in the air, perspiration dewed my upper lip.
Was it that Boston cream pie I’d eaten? Or perhaps the fried oyster Eustace had urged upon me … Had I eaten a bad oyster? Shucks.
“Come on, Mrs. Woodby,” Berta called from the passenger seat of Jimmy’s Buick. Jimmy revved the engine. “Why are you dawdling?”
“Sorry.” I climbed into the backseat and settled Cedric beside me. “I don’t feel so hot.”
“Lovesick?” Jimmy asked in his grinding-gears voice.
“No. Ordinary sick. I might’ve eaten some bad shellfish.”
Berta swung around to face me. “Did you turn down Lord Sudley’s offer?”
“Yes.”
“Did you leave your food unattended with Lord Sudley?”
“What are you suggesting?” I gulped bile.
“Simply answer the question.”
“No.” Yes—I had turned my back on Eustace and my pie while fetching the fried oysters.
“You did leave your food unattended! Mr. Ant, please drive directly to the hospital. Mrs. Woodby may have been poisoned.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Mr. Ant, please take us to Montgomery Hall.”
Jimmy angled the Buick away from the curb. “Gonna need directions either way.”
“We’re going to Montgomery Hall,” I said.
“Hospital!” Berta yelled.
“If I still feel ill after we deliver the diamonds, I’ll go to the hospital,” I lied.
“You’re as stubborn as a mule, Mrs. Woodby.”
“Thank you.”
Berta rattled off the directions for Montgomery Hall to Jimmy, and we were off.
“Is Mr. Ant not a superb driver?” Berta said over the seat as we barreled along Church Street.
“Swell.” I clawed my fingernails into the upholstery.
“He does not lurch and swerve as you do, Mrs. Woodby. Oh dear. Someone has drawn up very close behind us.”
It was true: the interior of the Buick was flooded with the light of another motorcar’s headlamps.
Jimmy stepped harder on the gas.
The other motorcar sped up.
“Maybe they wish to pass,” Berta said.
“Okay, I’ll let ’em pass, then.” Jimmy swung onto a side street.
Tires screeched as the other motorcar turned, too.
“Oh dear,” Berta said. “Oh dear oh dear oh dear.”
“Don’t you worry about a thing, tomato,” Jimmy said, gunning another turn. We were on a street of modest clapboard houses leading toward Carvington College.
“They are gaining on us,” Berta said. She fumbled with her handbag, pulled out her Colt .25, and began to crank her window down.
“What are you doing?” I cried.
“I shall extinguish their headlamps and force them to stop.”
“Naw, sit back, tomato. What’s this up here? Some kinda school?”
“The college,” Berta said, “but you are not supposed to—”
Jimmy bumped the Buick up the curb, through the brick archway, and we sailed flat out across the grass. “Goin’ kitty-corner,” he said.
Our headlamps bounced off the buildings, people shouted, and we dinged one of the streetlamps before we passed through another brick archway, flew off the curb, and joggled onto the street.
A tooth-rattling smash behind us. I corkscrewed around to see that the other motorcar had hit a brick pillar.
“Lost ’em,” Jimmy said. “Heh-heh-heh.” He floored the gas.
Vomit. Vomiting would be pleasant. As we rumbled along the main road, I wondered in a distant, sweaty way if it could be Eustace pursuing us. Miss Murden and Theo had spiffy motorcars. Clementine had a motorcar, too. Maybe she wasn’t really gone.
“The gates to Montgomery Hall are just up here on the right,” Berta said.
“Gotcha.”
“Here. Slow down—stop! The gates are closed!”
Jimmy rammed the Buick through the gates, and we were zooming up the dark wet driveway beneath arched black trees.
Then, the growl of an engine behind us, and a single headlamp appeared in the rearview mirror.
“For the lova peach cobbler,” Jimmy muttered, and pitched off the driveway so suddenly, Cedric and I were tossed to the opposite side of the backseat. We swerved through the forest, branches screeching along the Buick’s sides and rocks clanging on the chassis.
“Where are you going?” Berta cried.
“Dunno,” Jimmy said. “What’s out this way?”
“THE SEA!”
The other motorcar had somehow gained on us—I woozily figured that it must’ve come down to more cylinders—and then—holy cow!—a gunshot popped and a bullet dinged off the Buick.
“That is it,” Berta said. She checked her Colt’s chambers, twisted herself out of the window, and aimed—
Just as Jimmy hit a rock. We jounced, and Berta’s gun flew out the window into the night.
“Drat!” she cried.
Why hadn’t I brought my handbag? I could’ve vomited into my handbag. What about my hat? It
was a favorite, a navy felt cloche, but under the circumstances—
We burst out of the trees. Out to the right, the lighthouse flashed rhythmically into the abyss. Oh, and straight ahead?
A long stretch of dock, golden in the headlamps, and beyond that the maroon-black sea.
“Stooooooop!” Berta wailed as we catapulted onto the dock. The boards under our tires made a hollow thunkety-thunkety-thunkety.
Jimmy braked, but the dock was slick with rain. We skidded along, soared into the darkness, and with a jarring smack that made me hit my head on the ceiling, we splashed into the water.
“I cannot swim!” Berta wailed.
“I’ll save ya, tomato.” Grunting, Jimmy shoved open his door.
The Buick wasn’t, for some reason, sinking, but I grabbed Cedric and climbed out the window. I lost my balance and dunked into the freezing water, holding Cedric tight to my chest.
And oh, thank sweet baby bejeezuz, my feet touched the bottom. Well, sort of touched—I was wearing pumps, and the bottom of the sea was lumpy and jagged underfoot. I scrambled and sloshed to stay upright, finding that the water, though choppy, was only up to my waist. We might turn into ice cubes, but no one was going to drown.
Wait. These sharp lumpy things underfoot …
“Oysters,” I said. “Sewant Cove is full of oysters. Remember that file in Rudy’s study, the one that said ‘Oyster Preserves’? It referred to this. This is a wild oyster preserve! The Murdens must be poaching here.”
Berta was preoccupied with rattling her door handle.
Then it dawned on me that the other motorcar had crashed nose-down on the rocky seawall beside the dock. Two men were clambering out. One was tall and gangly; one was puny. They were peering out at us, and I saw the metal glint of handguns.
Not Eustace. Not Theo.
The gangsters from the Merchants Limited train.
“Um, Berta?” I whispered.
She didn’t hear; she was still stuck inside the motorcar, bumping her weight against the door, and when Jimmy yanked it open, she poured out into the water. “Aghh!” she cried.
“Don’t worry ’bout a thing, tomato,” Jimmy said, attempting to slither his arms around her.
“Not that!” Berta cried. “I’ve dropped the diamonds in the water!”
