Redeemer

by C. E. Murphy

  "Listen," Rosie said, hearing determination creep into her own voice. "You know what, who knows, maybe the guys you work for really are creeps. Maybe they're the bad guys, just in a different way, or maybe they're not. Right now you feel like you've been hung out on a limb, but look, you're the only limb I've even got. I'm trusting you, okay? We're in this together, so we're going to find this demon nest and take care of it. After that we'll figure out if Ex Libris is good or bad."

  "And if they're bad?"

  Rosie took a deep breath and stood up. "Well, then, I'm a Redeemer, and if they want me on their side, they're gonna have to straighten out or watch me start a new branch of the library."

  FIFTEEN

  She talked big, Rosie thought later, but she didn't have a clue how to follow up, not really. She and Hank stayed up late at the library, poring through books to find any scrap of information about Redeemers—Hank wrote the word down in French, Latin, German and even Greek, although there were only two books on his shelves written in that language, so she could scour the pages—until Rosie finally caught herself jerking awake over a page she hadn't turned in ages.

  Hank pushed his own studies away at that point, too. "I'll drive out to Toledo in the morning. I'll talk to the cops, see if there have been any unusual deaths, anything that points to a demonic presence, and I'll hunt around for hints of a nest. I'll feel like a right prat if it's been out there all this time."

  "Like a what?" Rosie laughed. "British library man. I should go with you."

  Hank shook his head. "Not a chance. You haven't learned to sense them yet and we don't know if they can sense you. If there is a nest out there, I don't want you walking into it unprepared. If I lose you, I don't have anything." He cleared his throat. "I mean, nothing to help me figure out if I've been set up here. Besides, you'll want your beauty sleep for the party tomorrow night."

  "Are you saying I need beauty sleep more than you do?"

  Hank blushed. Rosie grinned over that the whole drive home. A light shone in Marge and Wanda's room, but not the main house, and Rosie slipped in quietly, just as happy not to deal with any of her housemates except Irene. But even Irene had already fallen asleep, leaving Rosie to climb under her covers, where she slept better than she expected to. She woke up early Tuesday morning, early enough to slip out of the house again without having to see Barb or Dorothy, and went to the public library, sitting on its front steps in the morning haze until it opened.

  The librarian, short, plump, white-haired and grandmotherly, with sparkling eyes behind her glasses, and who had been old as long as Rosie could remember, smiled when she saw Rosie waiting on the steps. "Goodness gracious, Rosie Ransom. I haven't seen you sitting there like that since you were a little girl, in a hurry for another story."

  "I'm in a hurry for more now, I guess, Mrs Deforest. Let me get that." She took Mrs Deforest's purse and a large bag of books while the old lady unlocked the doors and peered curiously over her shoulder at Rosie.

  "What kind of stories? You used to like adventures."

  "I still do. Stories about women like Joan of Arc. Women soldiers."

  "Oh." Mrs Deforest clicked her tongue. "There aren't so many of those written down, Rosie. Mostly, they're legends, like Athena. But there are a few. Boudicca was one. I remember reading about a woman called Artemisia, after the goddess. There must be others."

  "Those are a good start. Thanks, Mrs Deforest."

  The librarian laughed. "You're all grown up now, Rosie. You can call me Emily."

  "I'm not sure I can." Rosie smiled and went to pull books on the women Mrs Deforest had mentioned, not really expecting to learn anything about Redeemers but hoping there might be an unexpected hint or two hidden in popular lore, now that she knew to look for it. After a few hours of reading, nothing had sprung to her attention, but it had seemed worth a shot. On the way out of the library, she called Jean, offering to bring lunch over, and stopped at a deli for sandwiches that were only a little wilted by the time she arrived. Jean greeted her at the door with a cup of coffee, and Rosie could smell that Jean's had whiskey in it. She handed the sandwiches over and took Jean's coffee cup in exchange. "Eat these before you drink any more of that."

  "The funeral's on Saturday," Jean said bleakly. "I don't think I can stand it if I don't keep drinking."

  "We'll be there for you," Rosie said. "We'll go to the party tonight, take your mind off it a little—"

  "I'm not going."

  Rosie took a breath to argue, held it, then blew it out again. "Okay."

  Jean's shoulders hunched in surprise. "Okay?"

  "Well, what am I gonna do, honey? Drag you out by your hair? It's enough of a mess already."

  Jean put one hand to her hair before glaring at Rosie. "That's a dirty trick."

  "That's some dirty hair," Rosie said. "Sit down and eat, Jean. I'm not going to make you go to the party if you don't want to, but I am going to call your folks or even Ruby's Nan to come stay with you."

  "I don't need anybody here!"

  "Of course you do," Rosie said gently. "Being alone and blotto isn't going to help. At least be with someone if you're going to get drunk. That way your friends know somebody's taking care of you."

  Jean whispered, "Ruby was supposed to take care of me," and curled into one of the chairs. Rosie took the sandwich bag and went to the kitchen for plates, returning again with the food and glasses of water to go with them before risking saying anything.

  "I know she was, but she'd want the rest of us to try now when she can't, Jean. You know she would. How's her Nan?"

  "Old," Jean said. "She didn't seem old last time I saw her, but she's old now, Ro. She loved Ruby so much."

  "Just like you did. So it'd be good for you two to be together and take care of each other for while, maybe. Should I call her?"

  "No." Jean took a few bites of sandwich, then put it down. "No. Call my folks, I guess, if you have to call somebody. I wish you'd just leave it alone, though."

  "You know I'm not going to do that." Rosie did call Jean's parents, and Mrs Diaz's gratitude at being needed, if not welcome, more than made up for Jean's sullenness about asking her. "They'll be over in about an hour," Rosie said when she hung up. "What time is the funeral?"

  "One o'clock."

  "We'll be there."

  "We who? You and your new boyfriend?"

  "Maybe." Rosie smiled as Jean jerked her gaze up to Rosie's. "Hah, I got you. He's still not my boyfriend, but I surprised you, anyways. How are you?" She finally sat on the couch across from Jean's chair. "Not about Ruby. I can see how you are there. But what we did, what you did at the factory on Sunday, did that … make it worse?"

  The surprise that had been in Jean's eyes changed to a different kind of flash, this time more ferocious. "It helped. It made me feel like I could do something. Something, at least. I know I should be sick over killing somebody, but—"

  To her own surprise, Rosie laughed. Offense flew across Jean's face, but Rosie shook her head. "No, it's just I know exactly what you mean. People keep saying how upset I should be, but all I'm really upset over is getting fired." She took a sharp breath after that, trying to quell the pinch of nausea at reminding herself, and sympathy shadowed Jean's features.

  "We're a hell of a pair, aren't we," the other girl asked, and Rosie exhaled again, a hard little jolt of agreement. After a few seconds of uncertain silence, Jean said, "But we're going to be okay, right?"

  "Yeah." Rosie leaned across the table, offering Jean her hand. "Yeah, Jeannie, we are. Believe it or not right now, we're going to be okay."

  Jean took her hand and held on hard, even though she looked away with her eyes crushed shut. "I believe it." Her face crumpled and she pulled her hand back to press knuckles against her mouth, but she nodded again and repeated, "I believe it," hoarsely.

  "C'mere." Rosie reached for Jean's hand again, tugging her to her feet and around the table. Jean sat beside her and Rosie wrapped her arms around her, bowed her head ov
er Jean's, and felt tears leak down her own face as Jean cried, almost silently, for a long time.

  They were both half asleep with exhaustion when the Diazes arrived, Mrs Diaz sweeping in with an expression of heartbreak and concern as her husband hung back looking worried and uncomfortable. Rosie smiled wearily at both of them, promising they were all right, then extracted herself from Jean's embrace so Mrs Diaz could take her place. Mr Diaz looked even more helpless, and Rosie gestured him toward the kitchen, where she couldn't help but smile at his nervousness. "Can you cook at all, Mr Diaz?"

  Affront chased nerves from his features. "Of course not!"

  Of course not. Rosie struggled to keep her smile in place. "Maybe now would be a good time to learn. Think how much they'd appreciate it, Mr Diaz. Now let's have a look at what Jean's got here." She popped cupboards open until she found a jar of wieners and a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese. "Perfect. When it gets near to dinnertime, around a quarter to five, you just come in here turn the heat on the burner, like this, see?" She showed him how, cajoled him into trying it himself, then turned it off again and dug around for a frying pan and two pots. "These will do. Now, first you'll start the macaroni and cheese, because the water takes a few minutes to boil. You follow the instructions strictly, you hear, Mr Diaz?" She smiled at him and he nodded uncomfortably. "The most important thing to remember is once you put the macaroni in, you turn the heat down so it doesn't boil over, and you give it a couple of stirs. Got that? Once the macaroni is in, you put a bit of margarine in the bottom of the frying pan and let it melt, then put the wieners into it and fry them up until they're hot, it's just a few minutes. Turn them over a couple times, and while they're cooking, you can take this …" Rosie opened the fridge and made a sound of triumph. "Take this broccoli, it's already even all cut up, and put it into a pot and turn the heat on under it until it boils too. The whole thing won't take more than half an hour, and they'll be so impressed, Mr Diaz. You'll be a regular hero. A regular hero, taking care of his girls when they need him." She patted his shoulder and left the kitchen wondering how men survived without women in their houses. Some of them must learn to cook or clean. Either that or they starved and lived in squalor. Still shaking her head over it, she hugged Jean good-bye, then waited in the heat for the next tram, thinking of a sponge bath when she got home.

  Finding the house empty came as a shock. For a moment she couldn't understand why, before she realized everyone else wouldn't be home from work for two or three hours yet. Delighted, she took another bath, cool instead of hot this time, and, mindful of having teased Jean about her hair, borrowed Irene's hair dryer to set fat waves into her chin-length brown hair. A clip kept her bangs to one side, and the result in the mirror looked 1920s enough to satisfy her. She left the bathroom just as Barb and Dorothy arrived home.

  They stopped short upon seeing her, then both giggled as if they'd been caught doing something they shouldn't. Dorothy grabbed Barb's hand and they ran to their room, where another burst of giggles reminded Rosie of teenage girls being cruel to another. She held still, trying not to let it affect her, but heat crept up her cheeks until her eyes prickled. At least she hadn't put any makeup on yet. She went to her room to sit on the edge of the bed and wait for her breathing to calm.

  Irene came in a while later, hot and pink from work, and started gaily telling Rosie about the day before cottoning on to Rosie's careful posture and fixed gaze. "It's that nasty Barb, isn't it," she said. "Don't pay attention to her for a minute, Ro. You look swanky and you're only in a day dress. Just wait until your sheik gets here with the costumes. Where's Jean?"

  "She decided not to go. Her parents are with her right now. Oh, Rene, your hair looks swell!" Irene had undone her white hair kerchief to reveal big curlers, and as she unwound the curlers, long waves fell around her shoulders in auburn ripples. "Daniel Franklin's going to swoon at your feet! Want me to do your makeup? And then you can do mine when my face isn't so puffy anymore."

  "I could just kick that Barb for making you cry," Irene snapped, but her pleasure over Rosie's approval of her hair swept her irritation away. "You should do your own makeup, though, after you do mine. You're better at it than I am. A real artist. You should go to Hollywood, Ro! You could do makeup for the stars!"

  "Maybe if you're one of the stars." Rosie smiled and did Irene's makeup with thin eyebrows and lips, then washed her own face with cold water again and, after drying it, did her own with bow lips and smoky eyes, to go with the Roaring Twenties bob she'd created for her hair. "I hope our dresses are right for the makeup."

  "I hope our dresses are right for our skin tones!"

  "Irene, you look good in everything. It's one of the advantages of being beautiful."

  "Rosie?" Marge's deep voice called from the living room. "There's a man here to see you. He's got clothes with him."

  "Hank!" Rosie jumped to her feet and ran to the living room with Irene trailing behind her. Wanda, in dungarees with her bare feet on the couch, peered over the edge of her book at Hank like she didn't want to be noticed looking at him, but Marge, still holding the door, examined him with interest, then whistled as she saw Rosie and Irene.

  "You two look swanky. Going to a party?"

  "Hank's mom invited us to a dress-up party. Gosh. Hank. Wow. Wow!"

  He handed their dresses over, then spread his arms as if seeking approval. "Will I do?"

  "Holy heck, will you ever! Turn around, let me look at you!" Rosie laughed as Hank cocked an eyebrow but did as she asked, turning slowly to show off a short-waisted tuxedo with tails. His hair was bright and glossy and smoothed over in a parted wave. In his right hand he carried a cane of golden wood that Rosie swore came within an inch of matching his hair. "You clean up good, mister. Marge, Wanda, this is Hank. He's with the police."

  "Ladies," Hank said gallantly. Wanda blushed and Marge let go a deep bark of laughter.

  "Try not to eat him up while we get dressed," Irene breathed. She and Rosie went back to the bedroom together to finish getting ready, with Irene wiggling into an ivory gown she needed Rosie to zip, and Rosie slipping a straight-cut crimson flapper dress on without really looking at it. She zipped it under her arm, then snugged Irene into her dress before stepping back to look at her.

  "Oh, Rene."

  "Ro," Irene said in the same tone, and turned her to face the tall mirror in their room. Rosie protested, still wanting to gape admiringly at Irene, then fell silent as she saw them both in the mirror. Irene's sleeveless gown fit flawlessly through the bodice and loosened at the hips to fall in shimmering satin waves to the floor. With her hair in thick waves, she looked like a redheaded Veronica Lake, porcelain-skinned and perfect. Rosie towered over her, but she didn't look big, just different. More Clara Bow than Veronica Lake, with black fringe whispering over crimson silk on a dress short enough to be scandalous.

  "There's a headband," Irene said, and tucked it over Rosie's hair, catching the waves and pinning it in place with the clip Rosie had put in earlier. "Rosie, you look swell."

  "You look like Hollywood." Rosie hugged Irene, and, clutching hands, they returned to the living room, where Hank, who had taken a seat in their absence, jumped to his feet, then stood there speechlessly while Marge let out a low whistle and Wanda's jaw dropped.

  "Look at you two," Wanda said in astonishment. "There better be a photographer at this party, because you two need to be recorded for posterity. You three!" She nudged Hank's leg with a bare toe, startling him into speaking.

  "I think I'd better say thank you right now for letting me be the guy who walks you in to this party. My whole life is going to be a disappointment after that. Nothing will match up. You look beautiful."

  Irene laughed and hugged Rosie's arm. "I guess we're not too shabby. Oh, gosh, Ro, do you think we'll need coats?"

  "Wraps," Marge said firmly. "I'll lend you a couple of mine—"

  "I have some in the car," Hank said in embarrassment. "I forgot to bring them in. I'll go get them."
>
  "Don't worry. We can wrap them around ourselves in the car. Oh, shoot!" Rosie glanced toward the window. "You don't have the Jag, do you?"

  "Mum thought I should bring it, but I thought you might have taken some trouble with your hair and wouldn't appreciate it getting blown all over the place."

  "You were right." Irene stepped forward to put one hand on Hank's arm and gathered her skirt in the other, encouraging him to escort her out the door. He shot a conflicted glance over his shoulder at Rosie, who smiled and shook her head. Irene's skirt brushed the floor, and Rosie would have to crawl to risk tripping on her skirt, so she didn't need the support as much. They also made a beautiful couple, with Irene small and curvy and ivory beside Hank's tall, slender, gold-clad form. Rosie couldn't imagine she'd look so good with him, even if her dress did shimmy when she moved. Marge said, "Have fun," as they went out the door. Rosie, smiling, waved at her, and tried not to remember she intended to spy on Harrison Vaughn all night, at his own party.

  SIXTEEN

  A band of Negro musicians in white tuxedo coats, occasionally visible through a throng of people so beautifully dressed Rosie could barely look at them, played at the back of the Vaughn's huge foyer. Doors were flung open all over the downstairs, not just to the living room Rosie had been invited into earlier, but to a dining room big enough to be considered a dining hall, and to another room with hardwood floors and all the furniture cleared away so the room's center was left open for dancing, and to a third space like a living room only more formal, where Rosie caught a glimpse of Daniel Franklin holding court amid a bevy of admiring women. She caught Irene's hand and nodded toward Franklin, gratified to hear her friend's almost-soundless squeak of excitement. It made her feel less alone and overwhelmed by the casual wealth and beauty on display in the Vaughn home. She bet every pearl, ruby, and diamond she could see was real, and that, unlike her dress, none of them had been borrowed.