by Ann Parker
Chapter Thirty-eight
Late that night, having finished her shift tending bar, Inez prepared to dress for the séance. Staring into her wardrobe, she was uncertain what to expect with regards to the other attendees. A clutch of women in Reform dress? A sad group of men and women clothed in deepest mourning, still grieving loved ones long gone? Not having any Reform dress options in her wardrobe, she ended up wearing simple black, an accordion-pleated underskirt that allowed easy movement paired with an overskirt notable only for its lack of flounces, shirring, bows, tucks, and folds. Keeping in mind that she would be sitting at a table and there might be fashionable Leadville ladies present, Inez opted for a striking diagonal-closing inverted V-shaped polonaise, hoping the diagonal march of buttons along the front, echoed by similar groupings of buttons along the outside of each sleeve, would at least indicate she was not a fashion outcast. The plain, rounded collar was velvet, providing a little relief from severity. Her sable cloak covered all, night over shadow. Before she left her chambers, she opened the little corner dresser and pulled out the gold and silver corset laces, gleaming like an exotic variety of snake, and dropped them into her pocket beneath her handgun.
As she passed the gaming room, she heard the masculine chatter and commentary indicating a hand in play. Mark sounded as if he had not a care in the world aside from having a good time. He can just switch it on and off so easily. It does make one wonder where the truth lies with him.
The scent of expensive cigars and pipe tobacco accompanied her to the head of the stairs, where it dispersed.
Friday night was in full swing in the saloon. She caught Sol’s eye, raised a black-gloved hand briefly. He nodded in acknowledgment. She’d told both Sol and Abe where she would be that evening because…well, one never knows, does one?
Out the Harrison Avenue door and it was a brisk walk to Alexander’s Undertaking, made quicker by her skirts’ forgiveness of her long strides. Next to the business entrance with its glass-paned windows, a plain door displayed three brass numbers corresponding to the address on Françoise’s calling card. That door, Inez surmised must lead to the Alexanders’ second-floor residence.
Estimating the time at about eleven-thirty, half an hour before the séance, Inez gave the brass twist in the center of the panel an experimental half-turn. A bell gave a metallic ring on the other side of the door. She gave the twist an additional revolution, just to be sure the bell was heard, and waited.
Hurried footsteps pattered down the stairs on the other side, and the door was opened by Françoise Alexander, dressed completely in white, with a black cloak and hood over all. Inez’s eyebrows shot up, and after a warm greeting passed between the two women, Inez inquired, “Have I inadvertently committed a fashion faux-pas for séances? I have not attended one before. Is white the color to wear?”
“Ah!” Her voice was light as she ushered Inez up the stairs to the second floor. “Is no matter. One wears what one wishes. I wear white, because it brings me close to my daughter, who translated to the Spirit land, now one year past. I wear the cloak because it is so cold on the staircase. You agree? It is warm inside, however.” On the landing, she slid the cloak off. Inez saw the sleeves were long and full, the outfit flowing and unusual in style. It reminded Inez of the costumes worn by the aesthetes.
Mrs. Alexander continued, “Spiritualists, we wear white at funerals, for instance, for death is seen as a transforming event. The spirits communicate to us from Summerland. You know Summerland? That is our heaven, where our loved ones live happily, joyously, communicating with us through their knockings and floating orbs, using the medium’s voice to deliver words of comfort, the medium’s hands to deliver messages of the future.”
“Ah,” said Inez, who had not expected this sermon, but was grateful for the fashion reassurance. “And who is the medium tonight?”
“I have found a young man, here in Leadville, Mr. Pickering. He requests a slate and pencil, so we will receive written messages tonight.” Her smile lit up her pale face. “But first, I have a special guest. We will see if he is a natural conduit. I have hopes. So much has aligned to bring him to me. I think you will be as pleased as I am, but no more. It is a surprise.” She opened the door at the top of the stairs, adding, “Among us tonight is a skeptic I hope to convince. But again, we shall see.”
At first, Inez only saw a young aesthetically pale man draped over the mantelpiece, who was talking earnestly to two other women dressed, like Françoise, all in white. It was only when a black shadow moved away from the window overlooking the street that Inez realized another gentleman was in the room. Her jaw dropped as he turned and she recognized Dr. Gregorvich.
“Good evening, Mrs. Stannert,” he said solemnly.
She snapped her mouth shut and then, as he headed toward her, said, “Pardon me, Doctor. I am just surprised to see you here.”
“As I am to see you.” He sounded jovial enough.
As Françoise moved off to join the animated grouping by the fireplace, he added, “Our hostess is full of little surprises tonight.” He sounded like an indulgent father discussing a small child who was not responding to parental discipline. He added, “Am I correct in my estimation that you, like me, are more of a rational thinker with regards to these spiritualist matters?”
Before she could respond, the young man, who could only have been the aforementioned Mr. Pickering, detached himself from the mantelpiece and came toward them, saying, “As a medium, I must give you fair warning, I am a mesmeric sensitive, susceptive to every dominant influence present here tonight. If there be a positive mind filled with doubt at our circle, that mind will react upon mine own. If there be a scoffing, jeering presence, it will cut into me like a knife. If someone, over-clever,” Pickering drew out the word, “thinks he, or she, has detected or suspected fraud, that suspicion will bite into me and the iron enter my very soul.”
“I endeavor to keep an open mind,” said Gregorvich, courteous as ever. “I am a devotee who worships at the altar of science and the wonders of the mind. Indeed, there is much we do not understand of the brain and mind’s workings. I am fascinated by all the various paths taken in our attempts to further the journey to understanding.”
Pickering looked surprised and pleased at that. He turned to Inez. “Madam?”
She thought how this Pickering reminded her in sound, look, and stance of a certain effeminate Mississippi riverboat cardsharp of many years ago, who took her down to her bootlaces in a bloodthirsty game of vingt-et-un, much to her chagrin and Mark’s delight.
The memory soured her impression of the medium standing before her. He waited, head thrown back, eyes half-lidded, for her reply.
“I am of the ‘wait and see’ persuasion.”
He smiled, his eyes supercilious. “Then I have no doubt you will finish the evening as a convert, madam.”
She smiled back, but not in a friendly way. “We shall see.”
“Please, everyone, let’s begin,” said Françoise.
Inwardly, Inez sighed, disappointed that she didn’t have the opportunity to talk privately with Françoise. I shall endeavor to do so when this charade is over.
The participants took seats at the round table centered in the room. Inez placed herself in the chair closest to the door leading to the staircase and the exit. Dr. Gregorvich took the seat to her right. The medium sat on the opposite side of the table; Inez wondered if he was trying to distance himself as far as possible from the “rationalist” auras emanating from the two of them. The two other women in white sat to either side of the medium. Françoise moved about the room, her white skirt hissing softly across the carpet. She lit a single taper and extinguished all the oil lamps. Whether this deliberate interior twilight was by séance custom or medium request, Inez didn’t know. The candle was placed in the center of the table. François drew the curtains. Darkness invaded, dimming all except for the meager pool of li
ght contributed by the lone candle. The table still held two empty chairs: one to Inez’s left, and the other on the physician’s right. The three on the other side of the table removed their gloves and joined hands. After a moment, Inez did the same, taking the physician’s proffered hand. He had, she realized, enormously large hands, almost paws. However, he held her hand gently, almost tenderly, as if he realized he had to temper his strength.
“Are we missing one?” inquired Pickering.
“Ah, Mr. Pickering, before we begin, I have another who will be trying to reach someone very close and dear. I believe this other has an innate connection to those beyond, and an inherited power.”
“Mrs. Alexander, this is quite unprecedented and upsetting!” he sputtered. “I must be calm and passive to be a fit vehicle for corresponding influences, if I am to be an effective link between the circle and the spirits.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Pickering.” However, she didn’t sound sorry at all but rather eager. The physician’s hand tightened a little. Inez looked over at Dr. Gregorvich, who was gazing at Françoise. His long face, the lines looking almost like gashes in his skin in the uncertain light, was touched with concern.
“One moment, only,” she soothed the prickly Pickering. And she left the room, her white gown floating about her.
A murmur arose on the other side of the table and Inez heard one of the women, who she’d not been introduced to, say, “Most unusual! I hope the spirits are not offended.”
The door opened. Françoise entered, guiding a small figure before her.
Tony!
Inez couldn’t help it. Her grip tightened on Dr. Gregorvich’s fingers. He looked at her curiously.
Tony was looking at Inez with an imploring expression. Two things flashed across Inez’s mind simultaneously: Tony was dressed in her boy’s “disguise upon disguise” garb, and her unusual eyes were shadowed by the hat brim and leached of color by dimness of light—at least at this distance.
Inez struggled to control her alarm as Françoise guided Tony to the chair on Inez’s left. “Hold hands,” she said encouragingly. “It helps to focus the energy and call the spirits.”
She rounded to the other side of the physician, sat, and took the doctor’s hand. Instead of taking the hand of the woman on her right, she said, “Spirit is independent of matter relative to mere existence, yet dependent upon it for its manifestations. To help our little visitor call the one that has so recently left our world for blessed spiritual birth, I have an object, holding the aura of the one who has passed over, which may be used to reach the attention from the other side.”
She pulled a length of diaphanous and glinting fabric from some hidden pocket, leaned past the candle, and dropped the material in front of Tony. “Hold it, child. Call your mother.”
Tony dropped Inez’s hand, grabbed the gleaming puddle of material and clutched it to her chest, then glared at Françoise. “Maman’s sash!” Her voice rose, unmistakably feminine. “Where did you get this? Did you kill her?”
Dr. Gregorvich leaned past Inez, addressing Tony. “Antonia Gizzi?”
Tony flinched in her chair and returned his gaze, her vari-colored eyes exposed by candlelight.
He said softly. “It is you.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Tony couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. When Mrs. Alexander had explained she wanted Tony to be part of her séance, to help find out what happened to Maman, Tony’s first impulse was to say no. But then, she remembered Mrs. Stannert had said she would be there.
And, she was curious. She’d do anything to find out more about Maman.
How did Mrs. Alexander think she was going to “call” Maman’s spirit to the table?
Mrs. Alexander had assured Tony she would make it right with the mister that Tony didn’t do her tasks for the evening. When she promised not breathe a word of Tony being at the séance to her husband, saying,“Non, non, absolument pas. Je te promets,” Tony wavered. Then, Mrs. Alexander asked when was the last time Tony had eaten.
The missus had taken her up to the second story, sat her in a little parlor, cozy with a popping stove, left her with lots of chicken baked with mushrooms, bread rolls not hard as rocks but soft and fresh, and a pot of tea with a little plate heaped with sugar lumps so she could add as many as she wanted. So, Tony sat in the dimness, not completely dark, because there was a window and a teeny slice of moon, and ate, and waited.
She heard people coming, arriving, but couldn’t tell the voices apart. Then, things got quiet. The door opened, and Mrs. Alexander came in. She held a finger to her lips and said softly, “I told no one who you are. We will see what happens.”
“But, I, I don’t know what to do,” she stammered.
“You join the circle with us.” She took Tony’s hand in one of her soft ones. “Your Maman comes to you or not. But I think she will, if you open yourself to the spirit world.”
“Open?” That sounded a little scary. “How am I supposed to do that?”
“I will give you a—how to say?—a ‘key’ to open the door, when we are in the circle.”
When she came into the room, it was pretty dark. Everyone was dressed in black or white. She saw Mrs. Stannert, staring at her. Next to her was a tall man. Dr. G. Why is he here?
Tony felt sick. She wasn’t sure the chicken was going to stay down. The room was creepy. Everything felt “wrong.”
Then, Mrs. Alexander sat her down. Mrs. Stannert grabbed Tony’s hand, and that helped, but only for a moment, because then Mrs. Alexander put Maman’s sash in front of her, and Tony just had to grab it, hold it tight, and then Dr. Gregorvich called her by her real name and—
The table bucked violently, flying away from Tony, up and over in the air, smashing down onto Dr. G.
The candle flew off the table, rolled onto the carpet, and went out, plunging the room into darkness.
Hands grabbed her and slithered off.
Then…
Maman screamed.
Her voice filled Tony’s head: Run!
Chapter Forty
Chaos. Pitch dark.
Screaming.
Françoise cried out something unintelligible in French.
Pain raged through Inez’s right knee and the toes of her right foot where her vicious and desperate kick had connected with the underside of the table, which, thank goodness, wasn’t of solid mahogany or walnut but something lighter. It felt as if she’d nearly bitten her tongue off when, after shouting at Tony to run, she’d thrown herself atop the overturned table. Her hope was to trap Dr. Gregorvich underneath, pinning him down long enough for Tony to escape.
She clung to the table legs to either side as the table jumped and rocked beneath her, like a horse intent on throwing a rider from its back. Under all the exclamations, the thumping and bumping as, she supposed, those not trapped tried to reach the window to pull back the curtain, she heard the quick flutter of footsteps racing down the stairs.
Good! She’s running!
Inez’s relief was short-lived as with a loud oath and roar from beneath, Dr. Gregorvich heaved the table up and off. The end of the table swung up, pivoting on its thick rim. Inez braced to keep it on end and from crashing back all four legs. In the process, she slid down the underside and onto the floor. The table wobbled, then balanced on its thick rim, rolling slightly. She tried to get her feet underneath her to stand—the rug was all rucked up—then someone’s flailing foot smacked her hard in the back.
“Son esprit est ici! Drina, Drina, we want to help you! Who did this to you? Who took your life?” cried Françoise on the other side of the wall formed by the tabletop.
Someone pulled the curtain partway back just in time for Inez to see Dr. Gregorvich rise from behind the barrier like one of the undead from the grave. Inez huddled in the deep shadow on
the other side.
“You absurd, brainless, asinine woman!” the physician roared. “That was no spirit! The child has gone! I must find her. Where would she go? Where would she run? And who,” he thundered, “had the brilliance to scream run? When I find out who that was…”
Inez fumbled at her skirts and cursed silently. Her pocket revolver was in her cloak, hanging on the landing of the staircase that led down and out.
Françoise was still crying somewhere behind the table. Inez could see the medium standing by the partially drawn curtain, off to the side. He was frozen in place, staring at the physician and most likely Françoise on the floor on the other side of the table from Inez.
Dr. Gregorvich’s head disappeared from Inez’s sight as he bent down behind the table, apparently pulling the weeping woman upright. Both of their profiles reappeared above the rim, above Inez’s head. “Where would she go?” he roared at her. Inez saw Mrs. Alexander’s head wobble back and forth, and she imagined Dr. Gregorvich was shaking her by the arm. “If you do not tell me,” his voice lowered, “I shall go to the law.” Inez suspected his words were not audible to anyone besides Françoise, to whom his speech was directed, and Inez, who crouched unseen on the other side of the table. “I shall tell them what I know about your husband. How he was the instrument of death for not just this seer of yours but for the young Englishman as well. He bought the laces used as a garrote. I was a witness to the purchase. The law has those laces as evidence, and they will tie him to the murders as surely as I stand here. No one would suspect me of such doings. Your husband will bear the burden and the consequence. So, you silly woman, tell me, and tell me now! Where has the girl gone?”
“She, she, goes to find her mother,” gabbled Françoise. “To the cemetery?”
Inez put her forearms on the underside of the table, intending to push the table over and trap them again if she could.
