by Janet Fox
The knocking was soft at first, a quick thump, thump, thump.
Then louder. Then, “Jo? Jo?”
I sat up, heard someone fumble with my door, and then a key in the lock; in my stupor, I didn’t know where I was. For an instant I thought it was my dream—the fire, haunting me—and I was awake in a snap.
My uncle opened my door, the keys dangling from his fingers. “Jo?” And my aunt swept in, my uncle framed in the doorway behind her.
My aunt’s hair was tied in a wad of rags; I tried to wrap my mind around what was happening. It wasn’t a fire. I took a breath. My aunt sat on my bed, the light from the door silhouetting her face, which I couldn’t see.
“What?” My mouth felt like it was filled with cotton. “Aunt Mary?” I flipped on the bedside lamp.
“Jo. Your father’s all right. He’s fine. He’s gone to join your mother.” My aunt rocked back, her mouth working like she was searching for words. “They’re both fine and far away, now.”
“What?” The cotton was gone; now it felt like a thousand icy needles were stabbing me behind my eyes.
“Your house, Jo. I’m sorry. It’s gone. Lost in a fire.”
“A fire…?”
“Burned, honey. I’m so sorry.” My aunt hugged me hard, then pulled back again. “Today. While your father was out of the house, thank heavens. He might’ve been inside, but he wasn’t, he was here. But everything else is lost. Your house was burned to the ground.”
Fire.
The scar on my back ached and tingled with remembered pain.
CHAPTER 29
Lou
Did Danny do anything bad with his own two hands? Not to my knowledge.
He might have asked for things to be done. He might’ve said, “Take care of it.” I don’t even know that for sure. I am pretty sure he wasn’t a killer, at least not from the time we met. He swore that to me, up and down, when I asked, especially after what Cook said that time. ’Cause how could I have stayed with—loved—a guy who pulled the trigger and then came home and gave me a kiss?
Oh sure, Danny was a tough guy, no question. But he didn’t need to be the one to take care of things, you know? He had people for that.
Ryan and Neil, I didn’t like those two goons. I watched out the window when they came up that day, and they stood around the fountain talking to Danny. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, thumbs out, that Italian jacket smooth on his body, not a wrinkle. Golly, he looked swell. Those other two guys, they might’ve dressed natty, but they couldn’t wear it like Danny could. They always looked like they were about to eat something. Or someone.
So that day they came up, and everyone had this long talk in the driveway. Danny was all control, which was one of the things I loved about him. Those boys were all smiles and winks and nudges. Goons. Then Danny made his way out to the greenhouse while they drove the car around to the side. Show over.
Later on I heard the gardener complaining that he couldn’t find the petrol he used for that new machine Danny had gotten for cutting the grass. I figured those boys were up to something, and if they needed petrol, it was something hot.
Speaking of hot, if Danny knew how much I spied on him, my goose would be cooked. But a house like that, with all those rooms and all those windows? And me with nothing to do all day but paint my nails and keep myself looking nice for him, for those times when he wanted me to look nice? What else was I supposed to do?
All I wanted was to keep my Danny. I’d have done whatever it took. So sure, I spied. I had plans for Jo Winter. My hands with those pretty painted nails, I could keep them clean, too, and maybe find people of my own.
But did I? Keep listening, Detective. This is where the story gets interesting.
CHAPTER 30
MAY 25–JUNE 1, 1925
Sure, his hair is red, his eyes are blue,
And he’s Irish through and through!
Has anybody here seen Kelly?
Kelly from the Emerald Isle!
—Lew Fields, “Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly,” from The Jolly Bachelors, 1910
Jo
The next few days were a blur. Aunt Mary insisted on dosing me periodically with Wampole’s Preparation, as if my drinking an elixir of cod liver oil would bring back my family home and keep them safe.
Uncle Bert made the trip up to White Plains to investigate the ruin; Aunt Mary forbade me to go.
“Your mother is trusting me with your care. She doesn’t want you upset by what you’d see there.” Aunt Mary’s face was gray, and dark circles had formed beneath her eyes. “Besides, it’s danger—” She stopped.
“It’s what?” My own stomach was in knots. It wasn’t only the things that we’d lost that bothered me. Yes, I felt a keen loss for my simple, sweet home, my room with its peeling flowered wallpaper. Rather, it was like a part of my soul had been stolen while I slept. “What, Aunt Mary?”
She finished the word. “It’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous.” My voice rose. Of course it was. I knew just how dangerous Daniel Connor was. I’d hesitated giving Connor what I knew about Teddy, and Connor had exacted his punishment. At least Ma and Pops had a refuge that was far, far away. At least they would know nothing about my future dealings with Connor.
Because, clear as day now, the only way to stop any further madness of this sort was to give Danny something: Teddy, or myself.
My aunt went on. “A smoldering ruin is no place for you. Your uncle will save anything that can be saved, and he’ll make sure that it’s all taken care of.”
But nothing could be saved. The house had burned clean to the ground, and Pop’s small storehouse with it; the alcohol must have aided the fire. Uncle Bert came home after two days, worn-out.
“There’s a small insurance policy to be paid out,” he said. “The property is still yours.” He sat in the living room in his shirtsleeves with his vest unbuttoned, mopping his brow, his jacket thrown over the chair. “But it’s all ash. That’s all that’s left. I tried to find whatever I could. I took a rake to some of it….” His voice dropped away, and I went to him and hugged him, mainly so he wouldn’t see my tears. “Your father was lucky not to be home. Neighbors said it exploded in flame. He’d never have gotten out. I’m sorry, my dear. Terribly sorry.”
Aunt Mary spoke up. “But you have a home here, as long as you need it.”
Uncle Bert looked past me to her, and I couldn’t read his expression. I straightened and backed away.
“Isn’t that right, Bert.” It wasn’t a question.
He hesitated before saying, “Yes. Of course.” He smiled at me. “Don’t you worry, Josephine.”
Ma and Pops were safe; that was the true consolation. I could barely keep track of the days, what with fire investigators asking questions and the exhaustion that stole over me. I received a letter from Ma, postmarked from Helena, Montana, about five days after the fire.
Your father arrived last night. We’re both weary, but Lizzy’s place is big and she is grateful for the company. Why, you should see the skies here, Jo. So grand and sweeping, and the blue mountains ringing us like a fortress. I’d forgotten, it’s been so long since I was last here. I think your father is overwhelmed. But Lizzy has put him right to work fixing the roof on the henhouse, and I can see already that this physical labor will take his mind off of things and do him good. You stay right where you are, Josephine. You promise me, you’ll stay right there. No harm will come to you as long as you rest in the care of your aunt and uncle. Your father made some mistakes, and that’s why this happened. So you stay put, please. Be good to your aunt and uncle, as they are being exceedingly generous.
I didn’t have much choice in that. I didn’t have much money—only what Melody had slipped me here and there—so I wasn’t sure I could even get to Montana, nor could I find Lizzy’s ranch, even had I wanted to. I read on:
Josephine, your father still wants you to consider marriage as an acceptable way out. Love from us both.
An acceptable way out of what?
I was living on borrowed time. Or at least, that’s how it felt. Ma and Pops thought that by leaving me here I’d be safe; I wasn’t. Here in this Park Avenue apartment, with my kindly but mentally wandering—and now frightened—aunt and uncle, it was like the first shoe had dropped, and we all waited on the thud from the other one.
I closed my bedroom door after dinner a couple of days later, and my eyes rested on the library copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles sitting on my dresser. I hadn’t picked it up since the night I’d learned about the fire. I opened it and leafed through it once more, wishing Teddy’s missing pages would simply fall out.
And then it came to me in a flash. I had my own copy of Doyle’s story on my shelf. Teddy had given me the volume for my last birthday before he disappeared.
I pulled the book from the shelf. No pages slipped into my hand, but as I opened it and leafed through I could feel it—a thickness at the back cover. The flyleaf bulged.
My hands were shaking as I peeled back the flyleaf, picking the glue with care to reveal Teddy’s missing journal entries. I unfolded them and pressed them flat, both estatic I’d solved the puzzle and dreading what I’d find written there.
December 5, 1919
John suggested the upstate house and Uncle Bert and Aunt Mary agreed, and I drove Melody up there today. Just in time is my feeling. There’s a staff, and she’ll be well cared for. I think John is better than decent. I wish I could tell him the truth about me, but I don’t think he’d hear it.
January 23, 1920
If I ever lay my hands on the guy…At any rate, the family is coping.
There was a series of entries about John and his brother, about the work that Teddy was doing for John. I noted that Teddy had gone from calling him by his last name to calling him by his first. Teddy seemed to like what he was doing:
March 14
I’m beginning to feel whole again. This is the right place for me. John’s as decent a fellow as one could wish.
March 22
This stuff about the Irish nationalists is driving me crazy. Conspiracy theories are everywhere. There’s a “red” under every bush; “Bolshevicks” hide behind every door. Just because there are a few radicals out there doesn’t mean every Irishman in town is dangerous.
John and I argue about it. He thinks we ought to close our borders. I know some of those guys now, and while a few might be up to no good, most are decent and hardworking folks. I think the war was bad enough, and we need to move on.
Well, times are good, anyhow. There’s a lot of money to be made. The whole country seems to be in for a party.
Drinking even when it’s illegal, wild new music, automobiles on every street, money in every pocket, girls in skimpy dresses—yup, we’ve recovered from the Great War, right?
April 10
That’s it. These guys I’ve been meeting with are too radical for me, suggesting dangerous and destructive things. They’ve gotten desperate, but that’s no excuse. They are true anarchists. I broke ranks with them.
I did learn they had a benefactor—a moneyman—but I don’t know who he is.
Maybe John’s right in a way. But no, I don’t believe that. But I also don’t believe in the way they want to handle things. Got to lay low for a while.
May 19
Mel home. Everyone on edge.
July 10
Went to Coney Island for the 4th. Too many fireworks. Too many memories. Heard bombs in my head for days. I won’t make that mistake again.
September 18
I did make that mistake again. I wish I could’ve died because then the nightmare would be over.
September 19
In the wrong place at the wrong time. I can’t chase the horror from my mind. All that blood, all those bodies, the sound, the sound! That terrible noise ricocheting around and around the square, and when I ran outside the building, I was deaf, just like before. All I could do was fold myself in, cover my ears, cover my eyes, I couldn’t help them.
I couldn’t help him. He was lying two feet away from where I fell, John’s brother Frank, and I couldn’t help him. John was shouting at me, but I was deaf. He shook his fist in my face, but I was frozen.
Frank was dead, anyway. I know death when I see it. I wish it had killed me, too. That’s twice I escaped when I couldn’t save anyone around me.
Oh, heaven help me. Now John knows what a pathetic fool I am. How I’m no hero. Now he understands.
September 20
It’s all a mistake, a ghastly mistake. Rushton is not speaking to me. How could he think I’d do a thing like that? I was in the wrong place, that’s all. But he won’t believe me. I said too many sympathetic things about the Irish and Italians, and now he won’t listen.
He’s convinced I did it.
Someone gave them financial backing. I wish I knew who it was. Then I could prove my worth.
I’d kill the guy. Yes, I would.
October 1
I have to leave Rushton’s employ. Bitter and sad. But of course, so is he.
I leaned back and rubbed my eyes. Teddy took care of Melody; he worked for Rushton; he was present for that terrible bombing that happened in September 1920; he had to leave Rushton’s employ. Why would Teddy have removed these pages—I still didn’t understand.
The next entries had him working for Connor. He needed the work, that much was clear.
May 12, 1921
Danny Connor’s all right, but I don’t much like Patrick. Oh, he’s a charmer, and that’s half the trouble right there. But he’s lazy and likes to pick a fight and drinks a heck of a lot.
Danny wants to do right by the Irish community. He spends a lot of his time and money down there. It makes me feel different about him.
June 16
Patrick and I went at it today, and Danny’s boys had to pull us apart. I’m not much for fighting, but Paddy had it coming. He’s ruined more than one girl, and I wasn’t about to stand by this time.
June 23
A whole shipment came for Danny today, and when I saw the contents, I had to bite my tongue. Still, I have to give him credit. He spends a lot of time and money working for the brotherhood. He’s not what I had figured. Maybe I was wrong about him. And heck. Everyone’s in on the booze. Everyone.
Maybe it’s Patrick. Maybe…This is something I don’t want to get mixed up in but don’t have any choice.
I have my suspicions. Patrick talks a whole lot when he’s drunk. Says things nobody would say in their right mind. And what he said the other night made me think. Was he messed up in that business? Should I do something about it?
I do think about John.
And heck. There is dough to be made here. Maybe…since I’ve already lost my honor, who cares? It could sure make Pops happy. Why not?
July 10
Took Jo back to the Met today. I wonder if she’d ever understand. How can I make her understand?
Back to the Met. Something about all the trips Teddy and I took to the Met had bugged me before, and now clearly they were more important than I’d thought. Maybe going back there, like I’d meant to the day I’d met Charlie, would help me think it through. And at the moment a brisk walk would do me some good. I needed to clear my mind and think about what I’d just read.
I put the missing pages where they belonged and closed the journal again, hiding it deep in my drawer, and headed down in the elevator, pressing a dime into Joey’s hand and picking up a big grin.
The sun had passed overhead as I stood looking down Park Avenue. The city was alive with afternoon bustle. I hadn’t left the apartment since learning about the fire, and it felt good to be out.
Ed was, as always, friendly, but he stopped me as I was about to walk up Park.
“I’ve been asked to keep you from going out, miss,” he said. His smile dissolved into an uncomfortable frown.
“Oh, jeepers.” I wasn’t angry with Ed, but I thought my aunt and uncle were going overboa
rd. “I’m only going up to the Met for a few hours.”
“Then would you at least consider taking a taxi?”
I relaxed. The day was warm. Much as I loved walking, I could indulge Ed in this.
He stepped right out, raising his gloved hand and blowing his whistle with such vigor that his cheeks grew bright pink.
I loved the echoey marble expanse of the Metropolitan. The crowds trailing in hushed clusters, the reverential cathedral-like atmosphere. Teddy had brought me here a half-dozen times or so after he came back from the war.
