Whispers of Warning

by Jessica Estevao

  “It shouldn’t have come down to that. If only that woman hadn’t had the constitution of an ox,” Mrs. Doyle said. “She should have taken to her bed and stayed there for at least a couple of days, maybe more.”

  “What exactly were you planning?” I asked.

  “I told you she was not going to get away with tainting what we do here at the Belden. Not as long as I could possibly help it. I dosed her food with a bit of this and a bit of that. It wouldn’t have caused any lasting damage but she should have found it difficult to venture far from a bathroom.” I remembered all the peppermint wrappers and digestive powder packets littering Sophronia’s bedside table when Officer Yancey and I had searched her room. That explained them.

  “But it didn’t work?”

  “No. It didn’t. I had promised you there was no chance you would find yourself on the platform for a reading and I was becoming quite desperate. Miss Foster Eldridge had already begun marching down Grand Avenue when I thought of firecrackers. I just meant for her to be scared off the stage. I never meant for anyone to be injured. Or to cause the stage to collapse.”

  Mrs. Doyle’s dejected demeanor encouraged me to choose my words carefully. “I don’t think you were responsible for the stage toppling over. And as far as I know, no one was actually hurt from the firecrackers. Yes, they were startling but it was the rocks and the bottles and the running and the grabbing by the protesters that was responsible for any harm that came to the marchers.”

  “Are you certain that is so?” Mrs. Doyle sat up a little straighter and squinted at me ever so slightly. I was relieved that I was not trying to pass off a falsehood as the truth. Even in her demoralized state I was sure she would have detected any lies and felt all the worse for it.

  “Officer Yancey said so himself. He isn’t interested in investigating the firecracker incident any further. But one problem remains.”

  “Which is?” She scowled harder.

  “Officer Yancey is not going to believe you simply took a notion to disrupt the march. If he asks, we will have to provide him with a convincing reason and I shouldn’t think it would be in our best interest to give him any more reasons to question the authenticity of the services we offer. I don’t need to confess to him that you were saving me from committing public fraud,” I said. Mrs. Doyle slumped back in her chair once more.

  “How shall we explain it to him? What possible excuse can we give?”

  “We won’t unless we are directly asked to do so. Why borrow trouble?”

  “And should he raise questions about it?”

  “We’ll stick to the truth as closely as we can. After all, he is a detective and is likely almost as experienced at separating lies from the truth as you are yourself,” I said. “I’ll just have to tell Officer Yancey that you weren’t trying to hurt anyone but rather that you had a terrible feeling something bad was going to happen if I took the stage. I’ll say you tried to convince me not to participate after the commotion at the rally the other day but like all young women I wouldn’t listen to sense. You became even more concerned after Honoria dreamt of danger coming to the Belden and decided you had to frighten me enough to make me back down.”

  Mrs. Doyle slid forward in the rocker and planted both feet firmly on the floor in front of her. I was relieved to see her skin-blistering scowl reappear on her face. She looked me over this way and that before speaking.

  “That entirely convincing excuse just occurred to you on the spur of the moment?” she asked.

  “Yes, I suppose it did.” Every time I turned around, evidence of my former life on the medicine show emerged. No matter how hard I tried to leave the past behind me it kept catching up to me anyhow.

  “You really are a very accomplished liar. I am still not quite sure what to make of you.”

  “Aren’t you the one who told me about white lies?” I asked.

  “I am indeed. I suppose one more won’t do any harm.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  I never liked entering the Sea Spray Hotel. It was much grander than our own establishment and the owner, Robert Jellison, had done his best to force Honoria out of business in order to acquire her property on the cheap and so expand his own. The Sea Spray boasted a ballroom, accommodations for 150 guests, and a grand bathhouse.

  Mr. Jellison made mention of its many features in all his advertisements, going so far as to claim it was vastly superior to its undersize neighbors in every conceivable way. But I told myself, needs must. I mounted the wide wooden steps and walked through the oversize lobby doors.

  If luck were with me I would find the congressman within and would have more answers than I had arrived in possession of. Even though I was investigating at Yancey’s behest, I didn’t have the backing of the police. I couldn’t barge in and start asking questions. There were social niceties to be observed and I couldn’t think of a better way to strike up a conversation than at the tea tray.

  I followed enamel and brass placards in the direction of the dining room. Chandeliers the size of carriages dangled from the ceiling, and a plush floral carpet muffled the sounds in the room. A young man dressed all in burgundy approached and showed me the way to tables set for tea at the end of the vast room.

  I asked if the congressman was amongst those already seated. He regretted to inform me that Congressman Plaisted was out at present. I was preparing to turn around and go when Phyllis Cheswick signaled to me with a wave of an outsize, ostrich-plume fan. I had no desire to spend time with George’s odious sister-in-law but there was no gracious way to refuse to be seated with her. I took a calming breath and approached with what I hoped was a confident stride.

  She looked me up and down before motioning for me to sit in the empty seat beside her. Phyllis called over a waiter. “You will join me for tea as there is none to be had at the Hotel Belden.” It was not a question. I nodded and she waited for the waiter to hurry away before speaking.

  “Although, how your aunt can consider her establishment a hotel at all, considering her guests need to leave the premises to meet their basic needs, is beyond me. I suppose, considering the size of the place, I should be grateful there is dinner available in the dining room.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell her you are not satisfied with your experience. I am certain she will be able to fill your room with someone whose needs are more aligned with what the Belden does offer.”

  “Perhaps I have spoken in haste. It was very accommodating of your aunt to find a place for us, such as it is, after George created his unfortunate mishap with that candle nonsense.”

  “I’m sure she was pleased to do so. Honoria is the most hospitable woman I have ever met,” I said.

  “George has had only complimentary things to say about her over the years,” she said. “He has formed quite an attachment to her.”

  “Honoria is very fond of him, too.”

  “And a good thing it is, too, that there are people who are happy to help him. Lord only knows he needs rescuing most of the time.” Phyllis drained the contents of her cup then tipped it toward me to reveal the leaves. “I suppose you read these?” From the tone of her voice the comment was not meant as a compliment. I had the sense she thought very little of George’s psychic pursuits.

  “My specialty is mediumship. But I shall be sure to mention your interest in tasseomancy to my aunt. Perhaps she will add a tea leaf reader to the faculty at the Belden.” I gave her a smile that I hoped said her sarcasm had gone unnoticed. The waiter returned bearing a large silver teapot and proceeded to pour with an elegant flourish into Phyllis’s empty cup. After he had filled mine as well, Phyllis returned to the unfortunate subject of George and her conviction that he was in need of charity.

  “It seems to me with so many psychics amongst his acquaintance George should have had someone who could have warned him of the dangers of playing with fire. Instead, as usual, all the responsibility
falls on my Osmond.”

  “I was not aware George had made any demands on his brother.” That was the plain truth. Honoria hadn’t mentioned anything of the kind and as far as I knew, George had not turned to his brother for help when he found himself without a roof over his head. If Osmond had come to the rescue why was George sleeping on a rusticating cot in the Belden’s family parlor?

  “Osmond hates to take credit and George would not wish the world to know how he threw himself once more on his brother’s mercy. I hate to speak ill of my husband’s family but cannot tell you the number of times George has come to Osmond with his hand outstretched.”

  Phyllis stretched out her own hand and lifted a plump raisin bun from a tiered serving plate before indicating I should do the same. As I had not eaten in hours I availed myself of the opportunity. I helped myself to a slice of pound cake and took a small bite. Mrs. Doyle would be pleased to hear her offerings at the Belden were vastly superior. I took a sip of tea to wash down the dry crumbs making a nuisance of themselves in my throat.

  “I had no idea George had run into such a string of misfortune as to require repeated assistance,” I said. “I think of George as a man of stable temperament and measured habits. It surprises me greatly to think he would find himself living beyond his means.”

  “Vice can be found in the least likely of places. Your aunt must have sensed something of the sort from him. Why else would she have refused his suit all these years?” Phyllis peered at me over the rim of her teacup.

  “I believe she has no desire whatsoever to marry. I think it safe to say that George bears no responsibility for her refusal.”

  “Nonsense. Every woman wishes to marry. George and his profligate ways are to blame for that courtship coming to naught. Osmond remarked that if he had not dissuaded Honoria from marrying him through his irresponsible behavior she would have been the one financing his foolishness rather than us.”

  “It sounds very generous of you both.”

  “I should say it was. You cannot imagine the thousands of dollars we have poured into his coffers over the years.” Phyllis let out a snort then clattered her cup back down to her saucer. “George hasn’t even had the decency to thank me for the gifts.”

  “Perhaps he has simply been so busy he has forgotten and will be by soon to thank you.”

  “That would be a first. In all the years we have been supporting him he has never once thanked me. And I ask you, what sort of a man forgets the princely sum of five thousand dollars?”

  Chapter Forty

  Five thousand dollars. My head spun just thinking of it. All the way home I turned over the idea that gentle, well-mannered George was the sort of man who lived off his brother’s generosity and never even bothered to thank him for the kindness. It simply didn’t tally with what I had seen of him with my own two eyes or even the comments Honoria had made about George in the weeks I’d known them both. If George had no money why would Honoria have believed that he did? Could she know her friend far less well than she believed she did?

  I arrived at the Belden before I drew any conclusions and went looking for the one person I could count on to tell me the unvarnished truth. Mrs. Doyle’s apron front was white with flour, and the rhythmic thump of her rolling pin filled the kitchen with the promise of pie with dinner. A heaping bowl of late strawberries shone in a sunbeam slanting through the window. It seemed she was back to her usual self.

  “What brings you back into my domain looking so muddy?” Mrs. Doyle squinted at me as she always did when assessing my aura. It was a habit she couldn’t seem to break no matter how often she saw me. Muddy auras worried her more than almost any other kind.

  “I’ve just heard something that I don’t understand,” I said. Mrs. Doyle plucked a gleaming strawberry from the bowl and handed it to me. “I thought you might be able to clear things up.” She picked up her rolling pin and attacked the pastry once more.

  “I do a lot of cleaning and clearing around here as well you know. What’s on your mind?”

  “Do you know anything about George being in the habit of asking his brother for money?” I asked. Mrs. Doyle banged the rolling pin down on the worktable and jammed her floury hands onto her ample hips.

  “Where have you been hearing such ugly lies?” She squinted at me some more and I reminded myself not to let her scowl bother me.

  “Mrs. Cheswick said George was forever asking them for money for one thing or another.”

  “What would you be doing asking questions of Mrs. Cheswick?” I hesitated. Yancey had asked that I not share my part in the investigation with anyone. But Mrs. Doyle wasn’t just anyone and I was certain if I lied she would know anyway. Besides, it was in the interest of the hotel for Sophronia’s murder to be solved and whatever was in the interest of the Belden was guaranteed to garner Mrs. Doyle’s wholehearted support.

  “Yancey and I both think Sophronia was not the victim of an accident. Because Chief Hurley has ordered her case closed Yancey asked me to help by quietly asking some questions of the people who might have been involved.”

  “You’re looking for her killer?” Mrs. Doyle clamped her lips into a thin line.

  She scowled and squinted some more and I knew my aura was under scrutiny. It was enough to make me momentarily wish she were still sitting morosely in the corner rocking chair.

  “How about we say I am not comfortable answering your question and leave it at that?” I asked. “Besides, you haven’t said why you believe Mrs. Cheswick to be lying about George.”

  “In the first place, George is the responsible one of the Cheswick brothers. If money needed to be given, without a doubt it would flow from George to Osmond, not the other way around.”

  “But I thought Osmond and his wife were quite wealthy.”

  “She is. He used to be before he wasted his inheritance on God only knows what.” Mrs. Doyle folded the pastry crust and draped it over a waiting pie dish. “When they were both just little things Osmond would pinch candy from the shops and George would go along behind him giving the storekeeper a penny to keep his brother out of trouble.”

  “That sounds much more like the George I know than the one Phyllis was describing,” I said. “She said he never even thanked her for the gifts over the years.” I looked over my shoulder to be sure we weren’t being overheard. I imagined George would be devastated by such remarks.

  “George has come into the kitchen and personally thanked me for every meal he has ever enjoyed in this house. That sounds like so much nonsense to me.”

  “Do you think Mrs. Cheswick was deliberately lying to me?” I hadn’t gotten the sense that she was telling untruths. But none of the people for whom I conducted readings ever seemed to realize when I was embellishing the truth, either.

  “Knowing Osmond I’d be more inclined to wonder if she was misinformed.” Mrs. Doyle deftly sliced a plump strawberry into a large mixing bowl.

  “Why would Osmond lie to his wife about his own brother?” I had little experience of marriage. Since my mother had died when I was such a small infant and my father never married again I had seen no such relationship in close quarters. I knew my father had kept company with some of the more willing women on the medicine shows we worked but none of those encounters were lengthy or legally binding.

  Part of me wished Honoria had married George just so I could get a close look at what a marriage might be. From what little I had observed from crowds at the show or from guests at the hotel many, if not most, marriages proved an unhappy alliance.

  “I shouldn’t like to speculate. I will say George has always said Phyllis kept a close eye on the family finances. And she would, wouldn’t she?”

  “I don’t know. Would she?”

  “Well, when a man marries for money either the wife tells herself that he didn’t and gives him complete control in order to forget about all that sort of unpleasantness”
—Mrs. Doyle shook her head—“or she keeps a close eye on the bottom line and never lets him forget which side his bread is buttered on. You’ve met Phyllis. Which sort of woman would you say she is?” Mrs. Doyle paused and tapped a juice-stained finger against her lips.

  “She seemed quite shrewd to me.” I reached for the bowl of berries and began prying hulls from the fruit. “Is it common knowledge that Osmond married her for her money?” I tucked away that nugget of information to share later with Yancey.

  “I doubt it. I know because Honoria mentioned it to me. You see, George had been quite worried about Osmond’s financial situation before he became engaged to Phyllis. In fact, things between them had become estranged when George refused to continue to pay off his debts or to front him any more money.” Mrs. Doyle clucked her tongue. “In fact, George was surprised to be invited to Osmond and Phyllis’s wedding.”

  “They don’t seem to be on very good terms now though, either.” I wasn’t going to embarrass George by carrying tales about his infatuation with Sophronia if I could help it. But I did want to know if there was another explanation for the coolness in their relationship on his part.

  “I have wondered about why they continued to be estranged. But if Phyllis believed George to be a leech on their finances she would not have encouraged them to be close.”

  “Why did they pay a visit to him, then?”

  “Desperation, I suppose. His wife was absolutely determined to be part of the opening of the pier. Osmond must not have attempted to make arrangements soon enough to secure rooms,” Mrs. Doyle said. “He turned to George as a last resort.”

  “The George I know would not have liked to create a scene by refusing them.”

  “Of course he wouldn’t,” Mrs. Doyle said. “Now run along with you and leave me in peace. All this talk of such ugly things is sure to affect the taste of these pies.”