Miss Lizzie

by Walter Satterthwait

  “Fine, Mr. Slocum. Excuse me, I’ve—”

  “Roger,” I said to Mr. Slocum with an innocence as sweet and genuine as saccharine, “is going to write an article about Miss Lizzie for the newspaper.”

  Mr. Slocum smiled. “Good for you, Roger.”

  Roger scowled at me, then said to Mr. Slocum, “Well, sir, it’s not all that big a deal—”

  “Roger thinks,” I said, still with that heartless innocence, “that Miss Lizzie killed Audrey.”

  “Does he now,” said Mr. Slocum, raising an eyebrow. “Well, Roger, you’re entitled to your own opinion, of course. Opinions are wonderful things, like collar stays. Everyone should have a few. But you want to be careful with them, you know. Don’t want to poke yourself.”

  “Yes sir,” said Roger, and laughed. A bit shakily, I was pleased to note. There were also a few gratifying beads of sweat along his upper lip. “That’s a good one, sir. Ha-ha. Collar stays. I’ll have to use that some time.”

  Smiling, Mr. Slocum bowed his head. “Consider it yours.”

  “Yes sir, thank you. Well, yeah, I guess I better be going. Good-bye, sir.” He turned and nodded uncertainly toward Boyle, to whom he had not been introduced, then turned to glare at me. “Good-bye, Amanda.” Coldly, flatly.

  “So long, Roger,” I said pleasantly, holding the door open for him. “Do come again, whenever you can.”

  He scowled, then slipped through the door. I shut it behind him, smiling.

  Boyle turned to Mr. Slocum. “Looks a little young for Richard Harding Davis.”

  “Oh, Roger’s all right,” said Mr. Slocum. “A tad overenthusiastic, maybe. I’ll have a word with Benedict, the owner of the Sun, and make sure he and his people understand the merits of discretion.” He turned to me. “Well, Amanda, how are you today?”

  “Fine,” I said. “And you?” He was certainly an extremely handsome man.

  “Not at all bad. Do you think you could find Miss Borden for us? Our prize witnesses should be arriving soon to rake in their just deserts.”

  “I’ll get her.” And then, remembering my manners, I said to Boyle, who was digging a pack of Fatimas from his shirt pocket, “How are you, Mr. Boyle?”

  “Swell, kid. You holding up okay?”

  I told him I was, and went off for Miss Lizzie.

  The witnesses—three of them—were waiting in the sitting room. Mr. Slocum, Boyle, and Miss Lizzie would interview them one by one in the parlor, behind closed doors. I was merely a supernumary, a witness to their witnessing.

  The first of them, led in by Mr. Slocum, was a stocky woman carrying a gray carpetbag and wearing a flowing white silk dress that reached almost to the soles of what looked like white satin ballet slippers. It was an unusual dress, a composite that resembled an ancient Greek gown, Empire waisted, onto which a seamstress with nothing better to do had stitched a pair of loose triangular sleeves. It gave her a vaguely hieratical air and might have made her seem almost imposing, had she not been shorter than I and nearly as short as Miss Mullavey, the police stenographer. When she sat, draping the carpetbag across her ample lap, her plump tiny feet hovered just above the floor.

  She did not seem, initially, an attractive person. A helmet of brown hair, laced with gray, lay close to her scalp in tight determined curls. Beneath a broad forehead and bracketing a slightly upturned nose, her small brown eyes were deeply set between horizontal folds of flesh. On either side of her wide meaty mouth were slack jowls that, in conjunction with her bright-red lipstick and bright-red rouge, gave her rather the look of an effeminate bulldog.

  But her smile, when Mr. Slocum introduced her, was one of those, like Miss Lizzie’s, that immediately transforms the face from which it shines, making it younger and sweeter and causing a flicker of guilty confusion in the observer. And her voice, as she said her hellos, was low and musical; disconcertingly so, when what one half-expected was a canine growl. Her name was Mrs. Helene Archer.

  “Now, Mrs. Archer,” said Mr. Slocum, “I understand you have some information about the death of Mrs. Audrey Burton.”

  “I do, Mr. Slocum,” she said in those soft melodious tones. “I spoke with Mrs. Burton only last evening.”

  Mr. Slocum sat back and crossed his right ankle over his left knee. “I see,” he said, and nodded sagely. “You do know, of course, that Mrs. Burton died two days ago.”

  She smiled back. “I prefer to use the phrase passed over.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Slocum. “And why might that be?”

  “Because it describes more accurately the active nature of the soul’s condition. After, that is to say, the cessation of activity in the physical being.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Slocum. “I take it that you’re a believer in spiritualism.”

  Mrs. Archer smiled again. “Yes. Of course.”

  Boyle, slumped down in the chair to Mrs. Archer’s left, blew a perfectly round smoke ring that sailed out above the coffee table, trembled there for a moment, then twisted round itself, feathered, finally unraveled.

  I looked at Mrs. Archer and felt a wrinkle of scorn twitch across the back of my mind; Father had told me about spiritualists, with their ectoplasms and their table rappings, and (like him) I heartily disbelieved in them all.

  “I see,” said Mr. Slocum, and it seemed to me he sighed. “You’re acquainted, I gather, with my secretary, Mrs. Coyne.”

  She nodded. “I’ve been fortunate enough to assist Mrs. Coyne in a number of her inquiries. Her late husband, Albert, passed over during the War, you know.”

  “Yes,” the lawyer said. “I know. You are Madame Helene, are you not?”

  She nodded graciously. “It is an appellation which many of my clients use.”

  “Yes. Well, Mrs. Archer, Mrs. Coyne is an extremely capable secretary, and I think it’s safe to say that I’ve always respected her … religious beliefs, but I believe that in this case she may’ve misunderstood my intent. What we’re looking for here, I’m afraid, is specific information about Mrs. Burton’s murder.”

  Mrs. Archer cocked her heavy head, making her jowls quiver. She smiled. “But what could be more specific than the information provided by Mrs. Burton herself?”

  Mr. Slocum glanced at Miss Lizzie as though asking her to step in and dismiss this woman. She surprised him, I think, by saying “Since Mrs. Archer has taken the trouble to come here, perhaps we should take the time to listen to her.”

  Mrs. Archer nodded pleasantly to her. “I realize that you’re a skeptic too, Miss Borden, and I appreciate your kindness.”

  “Not at all,” said Miss Lizzie. “You say that Mrs. Burton spoke with you last evening?”

  “It would be more accurate for me to say that Mrs. Burton spoke through me last evening. Mrs. Coyne came to my house after dinner last night and explained the situation. She suggested that I might be able to aid Mr. Slocum in his quest for Truth. I agreed that it was possible, and with Mrs. Coyne’s assistance I was able to reach Barnard.”

  “The college?” asked Miss Lizzie, frowning.

  “The Spirit Guide,” said Mrs. Archer. “He’s been most helpful to me over the years. He’s a very wise and very compassionate soul. Wisdom, as I’m sure you know, is inevitably compassionate. And time, if only we keep our hearts open, brings wisdom to us all. Barnard has had literally eons of time to develop his. He was a warrior, you see, in old Atlantis.”

  “Before it sank, presumably,” said Miss Lizzie.

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Archer. “His physical being was drowned during the inundation.”

  Boyle blew another trembling blue smoke ring. Idly watching it wobble away into nothingness, Mr. Slocum tapped his index finger against the leg of his slacks. Both men had the resigned appearance of late-night passengers in a deserted depot, waiting for the morning train.

  Miss Lizzie said, “Barnard helped you locate Mrs. Burton, did he?”

  “Yes. As I say, he’s been most helpful.”

  “And what did Mrs. Burton have to
say? Once Barnard had located her.”

  “She extended her affection to her stepchildren, William and Amanda.” She gave me a sweet smile, and, unaccountably, I felt a chill go shuddering along my body. “And she extended her forgiveness as well.”

  “Forgiveness?” said Miss Lizzie. “Forgiveness for what?”

  “She didn’t specify, I’m afraid. They’re all a bit confused, you see, when they first pass over.”

  “Understandably,” said Miss Lizzie.

  “They’re not used to the astral plane as yet, and sometimes they don’t realize that our vision isn’t as wide as theirs has become. Often they assume that those of us on this side possess knowledge which in fact we do not.”

  “A common enough mistake”—Miss Lizzie nodded—“even among those of us on this side.”

  Boyle spoke for the first time. “She happen to mention who bumped her off?”

  Mrs. Archer smiled at him. “Who killed her, you mean? No, I’m sorry, she didn’t. I asked her, of course, but she doesn’t know. She was asleep when it happened, you see.”

  Boyle nodded, his face blank. Mr. Slocum smiled at the woman. “That was in the newspapers, Mrs. Archer.”

  Mrs. Archer returned the smile. “Was it? I wouldn’t know. I seldom read the newspapers, I’m afraid.”

  Boyle blew another smoke ring, this one toward the ceiling.

  “What else did Mrs. Burton have to say?” asked Miss Lizzie.

  “Well, as I told you, she extended affection and forgiveness to her stepchildren.” I had gotten over my initial shock, had already begun denying to myself that it had ever happened; and now I was skeptical enough to note that death had brought about a marked improvement in Audrey’s attitude. “And she mentioned something about a key,” added Mrs. Archer.

  “A key?” said Miss Lizzie.

  Miss Archer nodded. “When I asked her about the murder, her exact words were, ‘The key is the key.’”

  Excited, my disbelief momentarily suspended once again, I asked her, “The key to the front door?”

  Mrs. Archer smiled at me. “I wouldn’t know, my child. I can only relay the information that the souls are kind enough to impart. I cannot, alas, interpret it.”

  “The key is the key,” said Mr. Slocum, as though to himself, and then looked down at the floor and smiled.

  “Yes.” Mrs. Archer nodded. “Those were her words.”

  “Did she say anything else?” Miss Lizzie asked.

  “No. We lost contact with each other.”

  Mr. Slocum looked up from his reverie. “A bad connection?”

  “A disturbance in the ether. It sometimes happens.”

  “Ah.”

  Miss Lizzie asked, “Is there anything else you can tell us, Mrs. Archer?”

  She smiled. “No, not about Mrs. Burton. But if you like, we could get together one day and I could attempt to contact her again. I’m entirely at your disposal.”

  Smiling, Mr. Slocum asked, “And what might be your fee for that, Mrs. Archer?”

  “Oh, there’s no set fee,” she said. “No, that would be improper. I ask only for a contribution, you see, to help me continue my work. Whatever the donor can afford and wishes to give.”

  He nodded. “I see. Well, perhaps we’ll be in touch with you.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.” She turned to Miss Lizzie. “There is one other thing, Miss Borden. I have a message from your father.”

  Miss Lizzie raised an eyebrow. “Indeed.”

  “Yes. He wanted me to tell you that he still wears your ring.”

  Miss Lizzie’s eyebrow dropped and her face suddenly went very pale.

  FIFTEEN

  MISS LIZZIE’S SHOCK, if such it was, lasted for only a moment. Within a few seconds, color filled her face again and she was smiling at the spiritualist, a smile as ironic as Mr. Slocum’s. “You say my father wanted me to know that,” she said. Both Mr. Slocum and Boyle were watching her with interest (as was I).

  Mrs. Archer nodded. “Yes. He seemed very firm about it.”

  Her smile unchanged, Miss Lizzie nodded. “Yes. He would be. Thank you for relaying the message. And if he should stop by again, do thank him for me, would you, Mrs. Archer?”

  She nodded. “I’d be happy to.”

  “And I thank you for coming,” Miss Lizzie added. “It’s all been most instructive.”

  “You’re quite welcome, I’m sure.”

  “She’s fairly impressive at first glance,” said Mr. Slocum as he returned to his chair after showing Mrs. Archer to the door. “But there was nothing in what she said that she couldn’t have learned here in town.” He sat down.

  “What about the key?” I asked him, unsure just then whether I was skeptic or believer. “Audrey’s key? It is missing.”

  He smiled. “The whole police force knows about that key. And small towns being what they are, I imagine that everyone living within a five-mile radius does too.”

  I looked toward Miss Lizzie. From her pallor, even though it had been only momentary, Mrs. Archer’s “message” had obviously affected her. Mr. Slocum and Boyle were looking, I noticed, in the same direction.

  “My father wore a ring I’d given him,” she said, smiling at me. “My high school graduation ring. He was buried with it. For a moment I wondered how Mrs. Archer could’ve known that. But it was something that was mentioned in all the newspapers. Anyone could’ve known about it.”

  I remembered Roger telling me that the local library carried issues of the Herald dating back to the time of Miss Lizzie’s trial. Mrs. Archer could easily have gone there and learned about the ring. I was relieved and I was also irritated at myself: relieved, because like everyone I preferred not to have my beliefs—and my father’s—called into question; irritated, because it was I myself who had called them into question, and because it was not I who had worked out how the trick had been performed.

  “Still,” said Miss Lizzie, smiling now at Mr. Slocum, “I thought she brought it off rather well.”

  “Oh, she’s good,” said the lawyer. “She’s taken my secretary for several hundred dollars.”

  Boyle sucked on the Fatima, exhaled a billow of smoke, and said to Mr. Slocum, “Who’s up next?”

  Miss Clare Hammill was one of those people (rare, but implacable when met, usually at cocktail parties and on ocean cruises) who suffer from an overabundance of presence. With her short mauve crepe de chine dress (not really the thing for afternoon wear), her bobbed and hennaed hair, her rouged cheeks and painted lips, her bright animated brown eyes, and her mobile mouth, she occupied the parlor in the same sense that the American Army, after the Armistice, had occupied Coblenz. She filled the room, and its boundaries seemed to tremble with the effort of containing her.

  Even sitting, she was constantly in motion. She snapped her chewing gum; fluttered her thick eyelashes; arched and dipped her plucked eyebrows; crossed and uncrossed her long legs, shiny with white silk hose; stabbed at the air with her cigarette, holding it between two taut slender fingers, waving it like a conductor’s baton to punctuate her narrative. I remember thinking that she could be only seven or eight years older than I, just across the border of her teens into her twenties and safely situated in the mysterious realm of adulthood; and, far from feeling disapproval, I felt a kind of awe at what I took to be her singular sophistication.

  “I was with Bobby Childers in his father’s Packard coupe, you’ve seen it, probably, it’s the only Packard in this whole one-horse town, and we were parked out past the fish market, you know that little alleyway there? This was a couple weeks ago, a Thursday. I remember because I just got back from New York the day before, Wednesday, me and my friend Annabelle went down there to see some plays and pick up some culture, you know? I mean, there’s nothing going on in this burg, nothing. Honestly, sometimes I think I’m going to suffocate. Why my father thinks it’s such a big deal I haven’t got the faintest. A beach is a beach, you know? Sand is sand.”

  “You were parked w
ith Bobby Childers,” Mr. Slocum reminded her.

  “Right, yeah,” she said, exhaling a tumbling cloud of smoke. “Bobby thinks he’s this big sheik or something, because of the Packard, I guess, and that’s not even his, he only gets to use it a couple of times a week. I mean really. Anyway, he gets sexy all of a sudden, you know? Hands everywhere I looked, it was like being jumped by an octopus.” Here she did something that endeared her to me forever: She looked at me and gave me a conspiratorial wink, as though I knew (which of course I did not) exactly what she meant.

  Then, to Mr. Slocum: “I mean I’ve been around and everything, but I’m not that kind of girl, at least not with a creep like Bobby Childers who doesn’t even own his own car, you know? Anyway, I just get him settled down and all, cooled off, you know, when I notice that there’s this woman watching us. She’s standing kind of in the shadows, right next to the pharmacy? Just standing there and watching us. It was pretty spooky. I mean there was nobody else around, it was dinnertime, I guess, and everyone was home. So I tell Bobby to get the heck out of there, I don’t want to hang around with this weird woman staring at us like that, you know? So Bobby hits the gas and we get outta there.”

  “And the woman was Mrs. Burton?” asked Mr. Slocum.

  “I’m coming to that,” she said, holding up her palm like a traffic policeman. “See, what happened was, the next day I’m at Drummond’s, you know, the candy store? And this same woman comes up to me and says she’d like to talk to me, she says it’s something real important, it’ll be worth my while to hear her out. I figured what do I have to lose, at least it’ll be something to do, you know? So I go outside with her.

  “Well, it turns out she knows my name, she calls me Clare like we’ve been friends for years and years, and she tells me it’d be real unfortunate if Dr. Hammill—that’s my father—if Dr. Hammill learned about what I was doing in parked cars.”

  Mr. Slocum frowned.

  “Well, I could see plain as day where she was going, she wanted money, naturally, but she never got a chance, because I just laughed in her face. I told her, and it’s the truth too, that my father would rather hear that I was spooning in some car than find out I was off at a gin mill somewhere getting blotto.”