by Liz Bradbury
“Hi Marc,” I said to Freligh. His crisp uniform and carefully combed dark brown hair were in direct contrast to O’Brien’s rumpled raincoat and nearly bald head, yet they were both skilled at their jobs.
“Henshaw says he thought he was blind until he saw light coming through those sidewalk prisms,” I said, pointing to the ceiling.
“Huh, I never even noticed... What are they, like glass stuck in the sidewalk or something?”
“Yeah, exactly. They’re solid shafts of glass about the length and shape of cardboard wrapping paper tubes, standing on their ends in the cement. They used them at the end of the 19th century to cast a little bit of light into underground spaces. City engineers are careful not to cover them over when they replace the sidewalks. They’re all over the city, but I always thought they just let light into basements. They must light all the tunnels.”
O’Brien pointed his flashlight at the rubble blocking the tunnel.
“Can’t get through there anymore.”
“It must have been a sinkhole,” said Sgt. Freligh.
“Remember that one back in the ’90s? Big water main, size of a semi, broke in the center of town. Washed away tons of dirt underground. Street fell in. Swallowed half a building at Hamilton and 7th and ruined the foundations of six others. So much water gushed out of the main, the reservoir went down three feet,” said O’Brien.
“Too much limestone. It wears away and then the pipes break. Now, any time the street cracks the city digs it up, pours fill in, and cements it over. This one caved in the alley behind the Majestic’s parking lot. It closed the theater for a week. The chief of police’s wife was in a community production of Fiddler on the Roof and no one could park for the play.” Freligh grinned.
“They just filled one down on 5th Street near the art museum the week before Christmas,” said O’Brien.
“I remember. It detoured traffic for days,” I said idly, but I was too busy thinking about death, love, and friends to pay much attention to small talk. I blinked my eyes to will away emotions.
Kathryn had said just before she left, “This is the downside of the private eye business, isn’t it?”
“Want to quit?” I’d asked.
“No, no, I’m your sidekick. I’ll stumble through,” she had said sincerely.
“Gonna show us how you found all this?” O’Brien asked me.
I took O’Brien and Freligh back up to the studio, down the other stairs and all the way underground to the stone ramp. I pushed on the oak lever, and the hole in the tunnel’s ceiling opened up.
“Holy mother of God,” O’Brien said climbing up into the crypt.
Bright daylight made us cover our eyes.
“Huh, looks like we’re going to have six more weeks of winter,” said Freligh, blinking at the ground.
“Nobody would ever believe this! I better call the street department to put one of those big metal plates over the door here, we have to seal this off as soon as possible. We’ll seal off the Majestic, too. Can’t get down into that basement from the theater anyway. We had to break down a door,” said O’Brien punching in numbers on his phone and arranging it.
“Are you guys going to talk to the husband?” I asked.
“We’ve sent someone. They took him to the station. We’ll question him, but with that alibi, unless we find out he took a round trip red-eye, we sure don’t have anything to hold him on,” said Freligh.
After O’Brien had made sure the steel plate would be covering the crypt opening within an hour, he and Freligh disappeared back into the floor of the crypt.
I stood marveling at the ingenious hidden entrance. No slap-dash affair. Masterful craft, probably done in secret too. Must have cost a fortune to build.
*******
“Jessie feels terrible,” whispered Farrel at the door.
We went into the kitchen where Kathryn and Jessie were drinking tea at the table by the window.
It was late afternoon. The sun was going down. In its last rays I could see the backyard koi pond was rimmed with ice. It would have been solid but a tiny heater kept a round section liquid. Dozens of different kinds of birds flitted around the only open water in the city. Jessie watched the birds silently as they queued up to take a bath.
“What’s going on with the investigation?” asked Kathryn, taking my chilly hand. She didn’t want to upset Jessie, but both she and Farrel were desperate to know.
Jessie exhaled and shifted in her seat but didn’t turn from the window.
“They sent someone to take Gabe to the station,” I said.
“She was killed?” asked Jessie, turning red-rimmed eyes to me.
“It seems that way. The last time you saw her was Christmas Eve, wasn’t it?” I asked, “Did she have a reindeer sweater on?”
Jessie nodded. “Yeah, she had the sweater on. I can’t stop going over it in my mind. She came in the morning to drop off some empty cookie tins. She said... she said she had presents for us, but that she would bring them by Christmas morning. She was working on her new book... She’d found something significant and she wanted a second opinion. She said she’d tell me all about it but she was late for an appointment. She was only here a minute.”
Jessie paused to think back. “Gabe had already gone to England. With him gone, she had a lot of time to work. Later in the afternoon, I got a text from her saying she was at the airport because she had to go out of town and would I take care of Buster.” Jessie stopped speaking abruptly and turned toward the window again. Farrel stood up and put her hands on Jessie’s shoulders. Jessie pulled Farrel’s arms down to wrap around her.
“We ended up taking care of Buster until a few days after Gabe came back in mid-January,” said Farrel. “Gabe didn’t seem worried that she’d gone away. She’d done this before, just going away on a trip.”
“Suzanne emailed from her phone,” said Jessie. “Her message said something like: Thanks for Buster. Research breakthrough. Don’t know when I’ll be back. Important. So, we ended up just bringing Buster here.”
“Much to Griswold and Wagner’s chagrin,” added Farrel. “The email also said the signal was weak in Mexico.”
“When we brought Buster back to Gabe,” said Jessie, “he said Suzanne had dumped him. He sure seemed like the wounded husband, but in a week he was redecorating and was moving on with his life. I bet he pushed her in a fight or something.” Jessie hesitated, then shook her head.
Farrel peered carefully at Jessie. “You think Gabe could really do that? He’s a weasel, but to kill her on purpose?”
“He could have done it.” She faltered, then said, “Jealously, passion?”
“Really? Gabe’s never seemed to care much about anyone other than himself, Jessie. It’s not like he’s going to inherit a ton of money or anything,” said Farrel. After a moment she patted Jessie’s shoulders. “OK, I’m going to make a big plate of nachos.”
“I’ll do it, Farrel,” said Jessie moving to stand up.
“No, Jessie, take a break. I’ll make the food. Maggie, you can open some wine.”
“I’ll help,” said Kathryn.
I found a bottle of red wine in their rack. Kathryn found some olives, fresh red peppers and green onions in the fridge and began to chop them up. Farrel put full-sized tortillas in the oven and while they baked she grated cheese. When the tortillas were crisp she spread salsa and mounded on chopped peppers, cheese, olives, and onions, then topped it all off with cilantro leaves. She pushed the tray of tortillas into the huge oven. Within ten minutes we were digging in.
Two bottles of wine and a few toasts later the sadness yielded to sweet stories about Suzanne that made the mood a bit lighter.
When there was a pause, Jessie said, “Please, someone, tell me another story.”
“I know,” said Kathryn. “The journals. We found them in Victoria’s studio. They’re parts two and three of Victoria’s set. We could read them. Oh wait, you don’t really know about the first one, do you?”
&n
bsp; Kathryn unfolded the story of Victoria’s adventures. There was a lot of low-pitched snickering as Kathryn read from her notes about the Charlotte Cushman encounter.
“I studied Cushman when I team taught art history,” said Farrel.
“Forget about her. I just want to know what happens when Victoria comes to Fenchester. I need a happy ending,” said Jessie.
“Um, Evangeline only has two years before she falls from her horse in the forest,” I said.
Jessie groaned.
Farrel said, “But do they hook up or not? That’s the question.”
“Let’s see what Victoria has to say. I’m used to her handwriting.” Kathryn took the thick little journals out of her bag, then hesitated. “I could use some latex gloves.”
“I have a supply in my bag.” The three of them stared at me. “For crime scene investigations, there’s such a thing as fingerprints, you know. Honestly... minds in the gutter.”
Kathryn pulled on the gloves and gently flipped to the end of the third journal. “Oh my, it ends in the 1930s. That’s decades after Evangeline died. But the second one continues right on from the first volume. I’ll read from that. Um, here are some things about travel arrangements to Philadelphia to present her piece for the Centennial Exhibition and all these pages are about getting ready for the opening of the exhibition. She talks about how many people were there on opening day. It was in Fairmount Park on the Schuylkill River and she says over 180,000 people attended the opening. And here she talks about the Women’s Centennial Exhibition Executive Committee honoring her work in a special gallery along with Edmonia Lewis’s... ”
“Kathryn,” said Jessie, “history is fine in its place, but could we hear about something a little more... uh...”
“Erotic?” suggested Farrel.
Kathryn laughed. “Ah, here’s something about Fenchester.” And then in her most sexy bedroom voice Kathryn read from the flowing script:
May 18th, 1876
The train to Fenchester was horribly late. My journey did not end until past midnight when the locomotive pulled into the station in the dead of night. The city was silent save for a crew of gandy dancers working by lantern light far down the track, where it curved out of the city.
“What’s a gandy dancer?” asked Farrel. “Sounds like a group of hoochie koochie girls?”
“No,” I said, “the gandy men were train track workers. They had to shift the track back in place at sharp curves. They used big long bars called gandys and they sang songs that helped them all push at the same time.”
“You know everything,” said Kathryn, winking at me.
“I wish I did,” I said softly.
“Read, read,” said Jessie.
Kathryn resumed,
When the train pulled to a stop I was not surprised to see the station deserted, but then to the delight of my heart, my angel appeared from a dark corner and rushed to meet me. When she was just a few feet away, she stopped short in profound hesitation... until I lifted my arms. She flew into them and held me fast, bringing me increasing joy.
I was deeply aware that this bold demonstration of emotion was unlike the Evangeline I had known in Rome. Although her letters over our three years apart had been quite personal and increasingly affectionate, while we had been together in Rome she had been all the more reserved than the other women at Charlotte’s house. Even when we had had tea tête-à-tête, she was shy to look in my eyes, and when we walked together through the ruins, she did not take my arm. Upon our final parting, she simply offered her hand, though the tears in her eyes told me what I had hoped was more.
But, now, here she was, wrapped in my very fond embrace, which I sorely hope is quite more than a simple greeting from someone lonely and fearful of dire personal events.
I said simply, “My dear.”
She said softly in my ear, “I have dared not beg you come, but I cannot express how glad I am that you are here, dear Victoria.”
“Her embrace loosened finally and I held her at arm’s length to look at her in the moonlight. She seemed tired, but her beauty has increased five-fold since we have been apart. Her sweet young features of three years ago have become the definition of grace, elegance, and allure.
My Evangeline had come to the train station to meet me with her sisters and had stayed the lengthening hours when she found the train lacked time. When her sisters grew faint-hearted and left for home as twilight fell, Evangeline stayed, chatting with the station master’s wife and when that good lady left for home, Evangeline tarried alone save for a porter asleep on the platform next to a baggage carriage.
Evangeline woke the porter and I gave him directions to bring along my larger bags to Evangeline’s home in the morning, whilst I carried my carpet bag by my own hand. I found myself guiltily pleased that her income had been reduced, so that likely there would be no guest room and thus I would be required me to sleep in a bed warmed by her entrancing form.
Alas, when we finally arrived at her small home, not really more than a tradesman’s townhouse and yet curiously charming and comfortable, I found that indeed we would be sharing a bed. But also sharing it was her sister Adelaide, who woke when we opened the front door and flew to the front room to ask me all course of questions about my travels.
Addy is a kind and well-meaning girl of 18, though sharpness of wit is not her forte and she has only the merest shadow of Evangeline’s striking features. (Same can be said for the youngest sister of the family, Geraldine, who shares a small alcove with Carlton, their young brother). When I finally was allowed to retire, Addy insisted on sleeping next to me, and indeed snored in my ear for the rest of the night.
I must see if there is a suitable hotel in town... Perhaps Evangeline might see her way clear to join me there. Yes, I shall commit to make that a certainty.
“I bet,” said Farrel. “This is... um...”
“Remarkably frank for the Victorian era?” said Kathryn
“Well, I was going to say hot, but I agree it’s also frank.”
Kathryn was gently flipping through the pages of the journal. “Don’t skip any of the good parts!” said Jessie.
“Well, this is all about retrieving her luggage, which was lost for a while. So much for things being different in the olden days. And this is about sending for her tools and supplies to be brought to Fenchester to begin her commission for Irwin. It even has the name of the company that she hired to bring them. This is really a find.”
“You’re going to write an article about this aren’t you?”
“Farrel, I’m going to use this as a basis for a significant book. It’s a gem...”
“I wonder...” I thought for a minute. “I wonder if Suzanne found the first book in the library stacks. That would have made her excited.”
“She might have been excited about any sort of research.”
“Yeah, but she was found in Victoria’s...”
Jessie sighed.
“Keep reading Kathryn,” I said.
May 21st, 1876
Today, Evangeline and I had the entire afternoon together. I confess I am both elated and distraught. She told me quite directly of her serious financial problems, but I would have felt them not insurmountable, were I to help.
However, Evangeline also said, “Victoria, when a woman such as myself, who has no real skills and no family protection, and who has admittedly the serious responsibility of a family far less capable and far more desperate, it’s simply a matter of making a good match. Surely my mother insists it is so and it seems to have been so, because I have consented to accept the proposal of General Merganser Hunterdon and having done this, I have secured future financial relief for my family.”
I confess that when she said that to me today, I felt as though I was falling from a great height and it took me several moments to recover.
Finally I was able to ask meekly, “Do you love him?”
And much to my relief she replied, “My dear Victoria, I not only do not love him
but I have an odious dislike of him. In fact, his advances have been unpleasant. He seems only interested in the most lurid aspect of matrimony, perhaps shadowed only by the support my family name can lend to his respectability.”
“Oh no!” said Farrel, “Evangeline Fen’s about to sell her virtue. Is this a romance novel or what?”
“Farrel, stop interrupting,” said Jessie. “Go on, Kathryn.”
“Hmmm, this is more about her luggage finally arriving and she’s sending it to the Hamilton Hotel where she secured a suite. OK... Here’s something. It’s three days later...”
I have taken it upon myself to embark on serious research as to the root of Evangeline’s financial problems. Whilst certainly true that the entire country has suffered from the bank panic and indeed many have been ruined, as far as I can see, a significant amount of the Fen family holdings are not only intact but flourishing. Particularly the farms and lumber mill.
Evangeline insists that her financial advisors, Auerbach, Shilling & Scand, have presented her with reams of papers showing crippling debt and she has carefully reviewed them. She really is quite astute when it comes to numbers, yet I fear she trusts these advisors far more than is their due. After all, whilst the dollars and cents add up to a loss, one does have to ask where the numbers have come from. It is not as though Evangeline is actually in the cornfield counting the bushels. The sums are brought to her for her review.
Debt comes from unlucky speculation and there is no indication that the shares Evangeline’s family held were on margin. While overhead is a concern, the profits from the production areas of her holdings are clearly more than double the costs involved. So where, indeed, is this debt coming from? Who is doing the borrowing, and why? Are her advisors nefarious or just fools? Perhaps there is more than an obvious reason why they deign to use their initials in their signage.
