Maids of Misfortune (3 page)

Stifling a sigh, she rose and said, "That's all right, Kathleen. You did just fine. I'll see what he wants." As she followed Kathleen up the back steps, she prayed that Mr. Nathaniel Dawson brought good news because she wasn't sure she could stand any more bad news today.

Chapter Four

When Annie followed Kathleen into the drawing room, she saw a tall, lean young man, perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties, standing in front of the fireplace. For a second, after Kathleen had done her duty by announcing "Mrs. Fuller" and then withdrawn, Annie and the stranger stared at each other in silence. He wore the requisite tailored black evening clothes of a gentleman, although the coat was cut a bit looser than was the fashion of the day. His thick dark hair, unusually long, covered his ears, and the whiteness of his starched collar contrasted starkly with the rich brown tones of his skin.

When she was six, her father dissolved his brokerage firm and moved his family from San Francisco to the outskirts of Los Angeles in the hope the southern climate would help his ailing wife. Looking at the stranger, she was forcibly reminded of the tall, tanned, taciturn men that had helped her father run their ranch. The clean-shaven state of his face was highly unusual. It became him, she thought. It would have been a shame to hide the defined jaw or the high cheekbones that complemented his dark brown eyes. Eyes that were glaring directly into her own.

Abruptly conscious of her rudeness in staring, Annie glanced downward, feeling her face grow hot. Then, eager to cover her embarrassment, she moved forward, her hand extended in greeting.

She recoiled in surprise when the man exclaimed, "My God, you are so young! What the hell are you doing running an establishment like this!"

She stiffened and withdrew her proffered hand. How dare he challenge her authority, in her own home? Who was he anyway? His clothes and bearing might have been that of a gentleman, but his manners certainly weren't.

Annie lifted her chin and replied with some asperity, "Excuse me, Sir. I am not too young to run any sort of establishment I please. I suppose that you are the kind of man who believes that women are incapable of conducting business. I have no patience with that attitude. Would you please state your purpose here, if you indeed have any?"

The man gave a short bark of laughter that contained no mirth and said in an exaggerated drawl, "Well now, clearly looks can be deceiving, Ma'am. I'll be glad to leave as soon as you tell me how to reach the woman called Sibyl. I have a number of questions to ask her about a Mr. Matthew Voss."

This statement completely mystified her. Why would a lawyer connected with Mr. Voss want to interview Sibyl, and why would he question whether she was old enough to run a boarding house? Maybe this man was a close friend or relative of Mr. Voss, and perhaps extreme grief prompted his odd behavior.

With that thought, Annie moderated her tone somewhat. "Mr. Dawson, I am sure Madam Sibyl would be very glad to speak to you about Mr. Voss. She valued him highly as a client and is very upset at his sudden passing. But you must understand that, as a professional, she never takes walk-in business. It's late, and it would be much better for you to make an appointment for one of her regular consultations. I believe she could see you at nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

She looked at him hopefully. "Or, if this is not convenient, perhaps you should write her a note about the nature of your business."

Her attempt to placate Mr. Dawson apparently had the opposite effect. By the soft lamplight, Annie could see his jaw clench, and he grew very still.

"A professional? She gives consultations, you say? That's a new euphemism for what she does, isn't it? I guess it is a useful blind for businessmen who are trying to cheat on their wives, though most professionals of her sort work late at night, don't they? Well, you just tell your Madam Sibyl that I don't want a consultation, even though I am quite sure
she gives good value for the money. I am the lawyer representing Mr. Voss’s estate, and, unlike her other clients, I just want to speak with her. But it must be tonight."

As the meaning of the lawyer's words sank in, Annie experienced the distinct impression that the floor had tilted under her. A real earthquake couldn't have surprised her more. This man thought that Sibyl was some sort of a prostitute. A prostitute!

The idea was so unexpected and absurd that she felt a laugh begin to well up, but before it could surface, a second thought replaced her amusement with cold fury. If this idiotic man thought Sibyl was a prostitute, what did he think she was, the owner of a brothel?
Of course, that was exactly what he thought! That would explain his earlier comment about me being too young to run this sort of establishment.

Literally speechless with rage, she stood for a minute trying to figure out how to respond. How could he have possibly made this mistake? How could she possibly explain to him the mistake without subjecting herself to further embarrassment? She should just leave the room. But she couldn't just let the misunderstanding continue. And she still wanted to know what business he had with Sibyl.

The sounds of voices in the front hall broke the silence and indicated that two of her boarders had just entered the house. This gave her an idea, and she acted swiftly. Trying to keep her voice as neutral as possible, she said as she crossed over to the door that led into the hallway, "If you insist, I will get Madam Sibyl for you. Please wait in here until the maidservant comes to direct you to her."

The couple standing in the front hallway, being assisted by Kathleen in the removal of their wraps, were Annie's prize boarders, the Steins. Mr. Herman Stein was a prosperous city merchant and banker, and his wife, Esther, was on the board of virtually dozens of local charity organizations. They had been very good friends of her Uncle Timothy and Aunt Agatha, and they had welcomed her when she moved back to San Francisco over a year and a half ago. Because Mr. Stein was away so much on business, and Mrs. Stein no longer wanted the time-consuming care of running an entire household herself, they had been delighted to become the occupants of Annie's most elegant upstairs suite of rooms. Mr. Stein had also been very supportive of her decision to set up as Madam Sibyl.

The Steins, both in their mid-sixties, radiated a sense of well-being. Mr. Stein, almost entirely bald, more than made up for this loss of hair by the luxuriousness of the sideburns, mustache, and beard that bloomed below. Esther Stein's hair was now pure white and tightly braided into an intricate circlet that defied dislodging by stray Bay winds or the exploring fingers of grandchildren. Both were dressed in quiet elegance, but the cut of the clothes of both testified to their greater love of rich food and comfort than of fashion. Annie suspected that Beatrice’s excellent reputation as a cook had been almost as important in their decision to move into her boarding house as had been their desire to help out the niece of old friends.

Breaking into their usual good-natured greetings, Annie whispered urgently, "Please, could you do me a very great favor? In the drawing room, there is a young lawyer, Mr. Nathaniel Dawson. He has come to see Sibyl, something about the death of Matthew Voss. Mr. Dawson seems to have gotten an entirely wrong impression of everything. Could you please go in and introduce yourselves and perhaps impress upon him the respectability of both this establishment and Madam Sibyl? He has met me as Mrs. Fuller, but I am going to change into Sibyl. For now, I don't want him to realize the connection. I'll explain later."

Esther Stein laughed and said, "Oh Annie, what mischief are you up to now? Of course we will go in and vouch for you. But if you mistrust this young man's intentions, maybe Herman should go into your interview with you?"

Herman Stein broke in at this point. "Young Nate Dawson? His father's a rancher outside of San Jose, but he's in his uncle's law firm. Good, respectable firm. I've not met the young fellow. Harvard law degree. I've heard he's a go-getter, but with a good head on his shoulders. Whatever would he want with Madam Sibyl?"

Mr. Stein frowned for a moment. "Well, in any case, I don't think we need worry about leaving our Annie alone with him, Esther. He may be part of this new modern generation, but he will be a gentleman all the same."

Annie wasn't so sure about that, but then again, she wasn't sure she would be acting like a lady in their upcoming meeting, so she didn't quibble. Instead, she profusely thanked both of the Steins and ran up the stairs to change out of her dress and begin her transformation into Madam Sibyl, one extremely angry clairvoyant.

Chapter Five

By the time the maidservant announced that Madam Sibyl was waiting for him across the hall, Nate Dawson was a shaken man. For twenty minutes, he had listened to one of the most respected businessmen in the city portray Mrs. Annie Fuller as a paragon of virtue. He learned how she had bravely survived the ordeal of her mother's death when she was a child and how she left California to go to New York with her father to become both companion and housekeeper to him until she married. He heard the tragic story of how she had lost both her beloved father and her husband within a year and how her fortune had been lost as well in the terrible economic collapse that had started six years ago. Finally, he listened to her praised for her valiant efforts to support herself by running an elegant boarding house.

As Nate followed the maid into a smaller but stylish parlor, his only thought was the hope that no one would learn of his mistake. He hadn’t wanted to come on this errand in the first place; he had thought they should contact the woman Sibyl by post. Now he had potentially alienated a respectable woman with important friends. Worst of all, he hated feeling the fool.

As the maid shut the door behind him, he looked around. While a fire was crackling in the grate, the oil lamps scattered around the room were turned down low and provided little illumination. Across from him stood a small round table, draped to the floor by dark green velvet. The woman behind the table motioned peremptorily, clearly indicating that he should sit. Nate tried hard not to stare at the woman as he took his seat. Her skin appeared almost ethereally white in the lamplight, and her eyes glittered in their black depths. He'd never seen eyes so large. She was wearing some sort of scarlet shawl that matched the color of her lips. Then there was the woman's hair! Nate was reminded of an old engraving in his Latin grammar of Medusa.

Clearing his throat, he got right to the point. "I expect Mrs. Fuller told you I represent the estate of Matthew Voss and that I have come tonight to ask you a few questions."

When the woman across from him nodded, he continued. "First, is it true that you are the woman known as Sibyl? And if so, just what was the nature of your relationship to Mr. Voss?"

The woman stared at him for a moment and then in a soft, lightly accented voice replied, "Yes, I am Madam Sibyl. I consulted with Mr. Voss twice a week to give him personal and financial advice. I have done so for over seven months."

Nate went on, "Just what sort of financial and personal advice were you giving him?"

"Excuse me sir, but I don't see that it is any of your business," the woman replied. "Please explain yourself."

Nate could tell that for some reason his questions annoyed her. Despite the vetting the Steins had given this Sibyl, he wondered if perhaps his Uncle Frank had been right all along. There was something suspicious about such a well-regarded businessman going to see a damned fortuneteller.

"It seems to me that it's you who need to explain yourself." Nate leaned forward. "Here we have a man, Mr. Voss, who apparently had everything to live for: a beautiful wife, a fine upstanding son, an assured position in society. Yet, for some indiscernible reason, he begins to see a fortuneteller. I find it difficult to believe it was simply coincidence that not long afterward he died in mysterious circumstances."

He clearly caught the woman off-guard. She started to rise and then sat back abruptly, two vivid red patches staining what he could now see were highly powdered cheeks.

"I don’t believe it!" she hissed at him. “You are trying to blame me for the death of Mr. Voss! What am I supposed to have done? Broken into his house and slit his throat? Or am I more diabolical than that? Did I put some sort of curse on him?”

"Don't be ridiculous," Nate interrupted. "Voss wouldn't be the first man to become so addled by the ranting of some so-called spirit medium that he was no longer responsible for his own actions."

At this, the woman did rise and swept over to the cabinet to her right, putting her back to him. She reached out and picked up a carved ivory elephant on the cabinet in front of her, and Nate could see her take several deep breaths. Putting the carving down with a click, she turned and spoke quickly. "I am so sorry, sir, but it's you who are ridiculous. First, for no apparent reason, you mistake a respectable woman for a keeper of a house of prostitution."

Nate scrabbled his chair backward and stood, leaning over the table, trying to staunch her flow of words. "Oh no! Listen, that was an unfortunate mistake; I had hoped she didn't realize. If I could only explain to Mrs. Fuller."

She continued, ignoring him, "And now you accuse me of being some kind of a fraud who is responsible for a good man's death. What a fool you are! Tell me, do you really think a sober, responsible man like Mr. Herman Stein would have encouraged people to come to me for advice if I were a charlatan?"

Nate was appalled that Sibyl, or more importantly, Mrs. Fuller, had discovered the mistake he had made in thinking the house a brothel, but he was damned if he was going to let some painted pretend Gypsy lecture him.

"Well,” Nate snapped back, “obviously the advice you gave to Matthew Voss wasn't very good if it left him so desperate he decided to kill himself!"

Abruptly there was silence.

"Killed himself," whispered the woman. Then she began shaking her head. "No, no, you must be wrong. Why would he have done that? He was doing so well; he had such great plans! He would never kill himself; he wasn't that sort of man. Suicide! Wherever did you get that idea? You must be mistaken!"

Nate was startled by the sudden change in the woman's speaking voice and demeanor. Reacting to her clear note of anguish, he replied more quietly. "I am not mistaken, Ma’am. The police surgeon confirmed it at the inquest today. Voss drank enough poison to cause almost instantaneous death. It couldn't have been an accident, there was..."

Annie no longer heard the voice of Mr. Dawson saying those terrible things. She was no longer listening. She found herself pulled back across time and a continent to a suffocating overheated room in a fashionable New York City town house. She could hear hushed whispers behind her and from a nearby room a steady sobbing. She felt so cold inside, yet the roaring fire seemed to scorch her very skin. Ice, she was made of ice. The ice maiden. That was what her husband John had called her towards the end. And now he was dead. Killed by his own hand. Her poor husband had been too weak to face the disaster he had made of his life, and he had taken the coward's way out. Mr. Voss had been no coward.

Annie felt herself swaying. She vaguely registered that the lawyer had moved over to her and was gently supporting her to the chair by the table, where she sat down abruptly. Feeling as if she was enclosed in a glass wall that muffled sounds, she rested her head briefly on her arms. The astringent smell of brandy unexpectedly assaulted her. She reared back, only to have him thrust a tumbler full of the amber liquid into her hands. She took a small sip, and the glass enclosure dissolved.

"Feeling better?" Mr. Dawson’s voice seemed unusually loud.

Looking up at him, she saw he was staring at her intently. Annie glanced quickly away, putting the glass on the table before her. Her momentary weakness embarrassed her, and his close scrutiny made her uncomfortably aware of being in her Sibyl disguise. His next words confirmed her fears.

"Mrs. Fuller, what in heaven’s name prompted you to play this abominable charade? Why are you pretending to be this woman Sibyl!"

She stiffened, declaring, "I am not pretending. I am Madam Sibyl."

He began to sputter. "But
why,
Mrs. Fuller? A woman of your obvious class and refinement."

"Whom you mistook earlier for a brothel owner!" Annie cut in.

"But that was only because we, my Uncle Frank and I, thought that Sibyl was a...well, that Voss and she were engaged in some sort of illicit relationship. I mean, there was every reason to believe so, and that was the root of the misunderstanding. Oh hell! How can I...."

She noted the flush on his face and thought how it made him seem younger. He sat down heavily in the chair across from her and took a deep breath.

"It happened this way. Early this morning, my uncle, Frank Hobbes, called me into the office to tell me about Matthew Voss’s death. I'd been out of town visiting my family, so I hadn't heard about it. Probate is my responsibility, and usually it’s a pretty simple business. But Uncle Frank told me there had been a good deal of confusion about the cause of death and that there was strong evidence of suicide. He said that, although Voss’s business partner had assured him that the business was on a secure financial footing, Matthew's personal finances seemed to be in disarray. According to his bank, there is currently very little money in Voss’s account. In fact, at this point, except for the house and the business, Voss appears to have been practically insolvent."

Annie responded quickly. "But that isn't true. He has been steadily investing for at least the past six months in a variety of money-generating schemes, almost all of them successful. He bought a good deal of property, stocks, and bonds. Granted, his liquid assets would be rather low at this point, but I would estimate that overall his net worth has increased significantly in the past few months."

She stopped for a moment, trying to order her thoughts. She wanted to appear composed in order to convince him she knew what she was talking about.

"You should have found records of these transactions. Deeds of property, stock certificates. Haven't you looked in his safety deposit box in the bank? I know he has one. That would clear up this so-called mystery."

He shook his head. "Of course we looked there. Uncle Frank opened that and his safe at the factory. There were the usual documents you would expect to find but none representing the assets you describe or any cash.”

"Mr. Dawson, you've still not explained why any of this led you or your uncle to decide that Mr. Voss was regularly patronizing a prostitute or that the prostitute was Sibyl. Are you one of those men who simply assumes that any working woman must be a woman of easy virtue?"

He said, "Look, Mrs. Fuller. It was my Uncle Frank's idea. We were trying to find an explanation for his apparent insolvency. Uncle Frank simply speculated that if Matthew Voss was entangled with some woman, perhaps his wealth had gone for her support or to keep her quiet."

He added, "You must, in all fairness, admit that this would not be the first time that a respectable merchant of this city found himself in that position."

"I would strongly question whether any man who found himself in that sort of position could be called respectable," Annie replied tartly. "But this still doesn't explain why you decided Sibyl was the woman in question. Did Voss’s wife make this accusation?"

He seemed shocked. "Good heavens, we have not even hinted at our suspicions to Mrs. Voss. She is already suffering enough. She keeps insisting his death must have been some sort of accident and the money must have just been misplaced. No, it was the appointment book and Mr. Voss's will that put us onto Sibyl. When my uncle talked to Mrs. Voss this afternoon, she suggested that Voss’s pocket diary might reveal something about his finances. My uncle and I went over the diary thoroughly, and for the most part we simply found what you would expect for a man of Voss’s standing and occupation. There were references to, and appointments with, the usual group of bankers and businessmen. Also the occasional social engagements, birthdays noted. Nothing unusual. However, there was one odd sort of entry we couldn't explain. Regularly, once or twice a week, the word Sibyl was jotted down. This had been going on for months."

Annie wrinkled her forehead, still trying to understand how either Mr. Dawson or his uncle could have jumped to the conclusions they did from this piece of information. She said, "But how did you find me? I mean, if you had seen my card or advertisement or talked to anyone about me, they would have told you that Sibyl was a clairvoyant. But you obviously didn't know this when you came this evening."

"Ah, but this is where the will came in. Mr. Voss had recently added a rather odd codicil to his will. Well, guess who was mentioned in the codicil!"

"Not Sibyl!" was her startled response.

"Yes, Sibyl, giving her address as well. That is how we found her or, rather,
you. And it seemed to confirm our suspicions. Why else would he have put a woman he wasn't related to in his will?"

Of all the wrong-headed, idiotic, tortured twisting of logic, this seemed the worst
, she thought. In low, fierce tones, she began to tell him so in no uncertain terms. "Did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, he might have done so because they were business associates or even friends? Of course not. Well, you were wrong, about everything. Matthew Voss was not an adulterer, nor was he a coward. Even if he had some recent financial reversals, which I don't believe, he would never have taken his life." She stopped, fighting back tears.

Turning her face away and looking in vain for a handkerchief, she suddenly felt indescribably weary. She also felt self-conscious remaining in front of Mr. Dawson dressed as Sibyl. Her head ached under the tight wig, and she was sure that her tears were making a mess of her face. She just wanted this man, and his infuriating suspicions, to be gone.

Blotting her face with the edge of her shawl, Annie said quietly, "Please, I have answered your questions, and you have answered mine. Will you now leave?"