Rituals

by Mary Anna Evans

  Faye was an introvert by nature, filling her human need for sociability by surrounding herself with a few cherished friends and family members. Yet there were those times when she met someone and immediately felt a potential for friendship. Something about the keen mind behind Toni’s bright eyes, augmented by her confident friendliness, appealed to Faye.

  “When the museum reopens,” she said to Toni, “make sure to read all the captions. I may leave a few outrageously non-historical Easter eggs for you to find.”

  “Well, hurry up with it. Samuel has kicked me out of the museum until you have that grand reopening, and I’d like to finish my book before I’m sixty.”

  “You’re writing a book? About Rosebower? Why?”

  After she said it, Faye realized that the “Why?” was probably rude. There was no writer alive who did not believe that his or her topic was completely fascinating.

  “You’re not surprised, are you? You know better than anybody else what happened around here. The abolition movement. The fight for women’s rights. The founding of the Spiritualist movement, hot on the heels of the Second Great Awakening of the Protestant religions. Joseph Smith and his golden Bible. In the 1800s, this part of New York was as busy and alive as an anthill after somebody stirred it with a stick. Of course, I can get a book out of that. Anybody could get a book out of all that.”

  Faye nodded to concede her point. She noticed that Toni had fallen in beside her as she walked.

  “Are you planning to hit the bestseller lists with the story of Rosebower?”

  Toni laughed and said, “I highly doubt that. Maybe it’ll sell a few copies and maybe it won’t. I’m doing this for fun.”

  “I hear that tourist traffic in this town goes up every year. It’s been years since New Age stuff got fashionable, but it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, and those people are interested in anything metaphysical. They keep coming here to see the places where Spiritualism got its start. This is like Mecca to them. I think you’ll sell a lot of books in the local gift shops.”

  Toni laughed again. “Yeah, and maybe that’ll cover what I’m paying to rent a house for a year. I figure it’ll take about ten years of gift-shop sales to do that.”

  “If you don’t think it’ll be profitable, then why do it?”

  “I’m retired so I can do what I want to do. I want to write this book. If I were motivated by a steady paycheck, I would have stuck to teaching.”

  “You’re writing a book. Does that mean you were an English teacher?”

  “Physics.”

  “I loved physics! I took a few courses in college, just for fun,” Faye said, surprised to be so comfortable with this woman that she was willing to be unrepentantly nerdy upon first acquaintance.

  “Then meet me at Dara’s show tonight at seven. I can tell you how she makes cards disappear and tables fly.”

  “My daughter will be with me.”

  “Bring her.”

  ***

  As Toni the Astonisher watched Faye Longchamp-Mantooth walk toward the front door of Myrna Armistead’s house of mourning, she wondered at herself. It was no secret to anyone in Rosebower that she was in town to write a book. Samuel knew she’d burned many hours in his museum. But why had she outed herself as a physicist? And why had she promised to tell Dr. Longchamp-Mantooth the secrets behind Dara Armistead’s psychic abilities? It would do her work no good for the inhabitants of Rosebower to be warned about the exposé coming their way. She had acted on instinct, but it was done. There was no sense in second-guessing an action that might prove to be the right one.

  A performer, particularly one whose act is based on illusion, must be gifted with intuition. A rapport between a magician and her audience is essential. If the people watching do not follow her into a world where magic might be real, then they cannot willingly be fooled.

  In Toni’s opinion, the ability to sense an audience’s belief or disbelief was not a matter of psychic talent. It was an ability to sense the subtle stirrings that said her audience was bored, so she’d better by God say something funny or she would lose them. The sound of the shifting of human butts on upholstery fabric told her when she should quicken the pace of the next illusion, or maybe even skip it.

  Toni did not believe that this special sense was magical. She believed it was a part of human nature. Her sense of Faye Longchamp-Mantooth was that she would be deeply interested in Toni’s work. That sense also told her that Faye could be trusted.

  ***

  Amande knew her mother had no idea that Ennis LeBecque was stalking them.

  Oh, okay, maybe he was just stalking her. This was the first time she’d been out of her mother’s sight in the twenty-four hours since Ennis first laid eyes on her, yet here he was, not five minutes after Faye walked out the door. And here he still stood, lingering in the doorway from the museum’s display area into the work room and thereby blocking her primary exit. Her logical mother would agree that the timing suggested that he had been lurking outside, waiting for Faye to leave.

  Amande didn’t look at the closet behind her, but she was glad to know that there was an exterior door in there, intended for deliveries. Maybe Ennis knew about it and maybe he didn’t, but the rising hairs on the back of Amande’s neck were saying, “Make sure you’ve always got a safe way out.”

  Ennis stood there, lean and gawky, wearing a goofy smile. All he said was, “Hey.”

  God, this man was smooth. She fastened her eyes on him, but gave him no answer.

  “Are you gonna be in town long?” he asked, looking so pointedly at her chest that she wanted to say, “The girls and I will be here for another month or so.”

  But she didn’t really want to say that. She was pretty sure she wanted him to go away, almost sure, so she decided to remind him that she didn’t like him.

  “How’s your aunt? Did you leave her strapped in her chair and staring out a window?”

  He didn’t rise to the bait. “She’s taking a nap. And she’s got me on speed dial.” He held up a cell phone. “There’s no place in Rosebower that’s more than five minutes from our house. Some people live in houses so big that it’d take that long to find an old lady if she got hurt.”

  This was true enough. Amande laid her gloved hand flat on the Armistead letter, not because she thought it wasn’t safe when Ennis was around, but because she felt the need to touch something old and comforting.

  He took a step toward her. “Anybody ever tell you that you’re pretty?” Another step. “Real pretty?”

  “Yes. My dad. He’s twice your size and he makes these for fun.” She reached into the box of stone tools on her desk and groped for the wickedest spear-point she could feel. It was longer than her hand, and its finely wrought flint retained an edge that would meet the exacting sharpness standards of an eye surgeon.

  She held it up for him to see. Both of its honed edges extended from end to end. Her thin cotton glove would be only the barest protection from those edges, if she tried to use it while gripped in her hand. Still, Ennis was no bigger than she was. Amande was pretty sure she could hurt him bad enough to make up for the lacerations her hands would suffer while she was doing it. If she had to. If he quit taking steps in her direction, then this spear point could remain what it now was. A rock.

  “I only want to talk to you.”

  Maybe this was true. Having spent the first sixteen years of her life as a social outcast, and having spent the past year alone with her family on an island, she didn’t know how to talk to men any more than Ennis knew how to talk to women. Maybe those stupid hairs on the back of her neck were standing up because she was attracted to him but, more likely, it was because he creeped her out. She had no idea how to tell the difference.

  Since she saw no immediate need to defend herself, she palmed the point and rested her hand in her lap. Then she sat and listened. It seemed that Ennis di
dn’t care much what she had to say, as long as he could stand there and look at her while he talked.

  “Don’t you ever just want to do something crazy?” He gestured vaguely at the window behind her. “Don’t you ever want to run down the road…no car, no suitcase, no nothing…and get away from jobs and grown-ups and laws that say we’re too young for a goddamn can of beer? Well, don’t you?”

  He was standing still, so the hand holding the stone point held still, too.

  “From what I’ve seen of the things goddamned cans of beer do to my worthless relatives, I wish the law would keep them away from everybody. How old are you, Ennis?”

  “Twenty. Old enough to fill out a draft card, but not much else.”

  “I think twenty is too old to be talking about ‘grown-ups’ like they’re somebody else. From where I sit, you are a grown-up. I’m seventeen and I’m damn sure not a kid. Twenty is old enough to be grateful to the woman who puts a roof over your head. And it’s old enough to get a job that earns you a roof of your own. Speaking of jobs—”

  Amande nodded her head at the work spread across her desk, but Ennis didn’t take the hint.

  “I’m grateful to my aunt. Really, I am. You saw me lose my patience with her once. Just once. How many meals do you think I’ve fed her? For all you know, that was the only time. If you were in my shoes, maybe you’d crack, too.”

  Amande had heard the waitress say that it wasn’t the only time, but she’d also heard her say that no one had ever seen Ennis mistreat his aunt physically. Sister Mama didn’t look neglected. In Amande’s mind, Ennis had two strikes against him, but not three.

  She decided she was willing to listen to what he had to say. Nevertheless, she intended to hang onto the rock in her hand until he was gone.

  ***

  Faye found it hard to look at the burnt hulk of Tilda’s house, across the street from where she stood on Myrna’s doorstep. Virginia Armistead’s historic letter, still fresh in her mind, reminded her of the history consumed by flames. When had Elizabeth Cady Stanton visited Tilda’s house? Was it before or after she added the right to vote to the list of women’s demands that spilled out of Seneca Falls in 1848, then stood her ground against the delegates who thought the notion was too radical?

  She could hear Myrna’s heavy footsteps approaching the door. How long would Myrna and her memories be here?

  Time passes, and people are temporary. Human memory is ephemeral. Even physical remnants of the past eventually succumb to flames and rust. Somebody needed to find out what Myrna knew about her remarkable family, so that her memories could be preserved. It occurred to Faye that this someone was her.

  Samuel had contracted her to organize his museum and develop a plan to display its contents. These days, the public expected a museum to entertain as well as educate. A professional approach went further than that, seeking to engage the community in an exchange that went beyond linear transmission of prepackaged facts. Multi-media displays weren’t just fashionable. They were expected.

  A video display of Myrna Armistead talking about women’s rights and Spiritualism would be a killer exhibit. All Faye needed to do was convince Samuel that he wanted to pay a little extra for video production.

  And photography. Side-by-side photographs of Tilda’s house after the fire and Myrna’s house, still standing, would make an arresting display. People would love to look at those photos while listening to a recording of Myrna’s voice saying something like, “Frederick A. Douglass slept in the front upstairs bedroom of my sister’s house, but he took his meals in the dining room of my house while he was in town. My great-great-grandmother was known far and wide for her cooking and Mr. Douglass was partial to her roasted onions.” Myrna could help her bring history back to life.

  Myrna’s stories of visiting activists could be illustrated by photos of the burned remains of the chairs that had once supported the derrieres of two heroines of women’s rights—Lucretia Mott and Elizabeth Cady Stanton. Faye had no doubt that Myrna owned photos of both chairs before they burned. Finally, she was excited about this project.

  The door creaked open slowly and Myrna greeted Faye with an endearing smile. It broke Faye’s heart to see that smile light a face sagging with fatigue. She loved the idea of working with Myrna to record her family’s stories but, from the looks of things, Myrna might not be around long enough to tell them.

  Chapter Eleven

  Three cubic centimeters is not a great deal of fluid, not when one considers that there are seven hundred and fifty cubic centimeters in a bottle of wine. Three hundred and fifty-five cubic centimeters fit into a measly can of Coca-Cola. Even a teaspoon will hold three cubic centimeters, with room to spare.

  It doesn’t take long to draw that much fluid into a syringe, and it doesn’t take long to inject it someplace where it can do some good. Neither does it take long to inject it someplace where it can do some harm. And there is no arguing the fact that small quantities of liquid have the potential to do great harm. For example, a half-teaspoon of water, barely noticeable in a cocktail, can kill a cell phone stone cold dead.

  A medical syringe might be a tortoise-slow way to deliver a deadly something that is assuredly not water, but it is capable of getting the job done, three cubic centimeters at a time.

  The needle jabbed its way home, injecting its dark payload yet again.

  ***

  Faye had enjoyed her cup of tea with Myrna, but it was time to get back to work. She had successfully dodged all offers of licorice. Its fragrance followed her out the front door, where the scent of smoke still hovered. A single rainstorm would wash away even the last odor of a house that had stood for nearly two hundred years.

  She saw Avery sitting across the street from Faye, in the side yard of Tilda’s burned house. The woman sat in a folding chair strategically placed in the shade of a spreading oak, where she looked like someone who was more comfortable being outside than in. Hard at work tapping notes into her tablet computer, the arson investigator started when Faye spoke.

  “I’m sorry if I scared you. I just wanted to ask what will happen to what’s left of Tilda’s house.”

  Avery looked up at the burned house, squinting like someone who needed a minute to refocus after doing too much up-close work. “It’ll have to come down, and soon. Obviously. Myrna’s been in touch with Tilda’s insurance company.”

  “It’s a shame. Every day, I learn something new about the historical significance of that old house.”

  Avery nodded, looking up and down a street lined with homes almost as old and fine as Tilda’s had been. “I hate to see houses like these go. You should see what goes into them. When they come down, I get a really good look at how they were built. When there are bricks, they’re handmade, perfectly laid in beautiful patterns. Masons worked cheap in those days. And the carpentry…”

  “Mortise-and-tenon joints? And hand-whittled pegs instead of nails?”

  “Yeah. It’s really something to see. You sound like you know something about historic buildings. But I guess you would. You’re an archaeologist.”

  “And I live in a house older than this one was. I know quite a bit about leaky roofs and very old plumbing.” Faye felt an idea bubble up. “Can I take pictures while the house is coming down? And maybe collect a few bricks and pegs for the museum?”

  “It’s Dara’s house now. The bricks and pegs belong to her, so you can have them if she says so. You’ll have to stay a safe distance away during demolition, but there’s nothing to keep you from taking pictures.”

  The notion of being able to display something in Samuel’s museum that was actually interesting made Faye ready to go right back to work, but Avery wasn’t finished talking.

  Avery looked her in the face, and Faye realized that it was the first time she’d seen the investigator’s eyes without their customary professional veil. They were an unusual color of ha
zel, flecked with light and dark shades of amber, but the noteworthy thing about Avery’s eyes was their forthright expression.

  “You were in the séance room with Tilda, Myrna, and your daughter, not long before the fire.”

  “Yes. You and I talked about that yesterday morning.” Faye had a thought so unexpected that it came out of her mouth before she’d fully examined it. “Did we talk about the fact that Myrna and Tilda communed with the dead in that very same room after dinner every single night?”

  Avery couldn’t hide her surprise. “No, we didn’t, and Myrna hasn’t told me.”

  “She probably didn’t think to mention it. Nightly séances aren’t abnormal in Rosebower.”

  Avery was making notes. “You’re right. I need to remember that I’m working in the Downtown of the Departed.”

  She looked up again. Faye saw concern on her freckled face, but she couldn’t read the woman well enough to suss out its source.

  “I’ve been thinking through the sequence of events leading up to the fire.” Avery paused, as if to give Faye a chance to do the same thing. “It seems obvious that someone barred the door to the séance room and set the house on fire.”

  “By throwing the burning lamps at the door?”

  “Yes. You saw the evidence. And then the killer threw some more accelerant around, just to make sure the fire was big enough to do its job. I took samples to identify the accelerant and to confirm my suspicions, but the burn patterns are pretty clear.”

  “So the accelerant means that an arsonist intended to burn the house down. And the barred door says that the arsonist thought someone—presumably Tilda, since it was her house—was still in there. It also says that the arsonist thought she should stay there while the house burned. That’s premeditated murder.”

  As Avery nodded, another thought struck Faye. “Anybody who lives in Rosebower would know that the Armistead sisters went in that room every night and closed the door behind them. Do you think the killer thought they were both in there? Myrna told me she went home early, because their time with us had been all the spiritual communion she needed for the day. She blames herself for Tilda’s death, thinking that she could have helped her sister if she’d been there.”