The Dark Farewell (14 page)
“Go where?”
“I don’t want to be in this house today. After the funeral they’ll come back here and it’ll be better if I’m not here. Better for me. Better for them.”
He was probably right about that, but Flynn didn’t want him to slip away. Their remaining time was
brief as it was. “Where will you go?”
“I’ll find a place to spend the afternoon. I’ll be back this evening.” He added regretfully, “I’ll have to come back.”
“I’ll go with you,” Flynn said on impulse.
Julian shook his head. “It’ll cause comment. Better to avoid that now.”
“I’ll go with you,” Flynn repeated. All at once it was very clear in his mind all the disastrous
misadventures that might befall someone with Julian’s affliction. But even more strongly it came to him that he wanted to spend this final day with Julian. Tomorrow the Devereuxs would be off to Murphysboro
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and the Liberty Theater. And after that? Another stop in an endless string of Midwestern towns. It was more than likely Flynn would never see Julian again after tonight.
He said stubbornly, “I want to spend today with you.”
Julian’s winged brows arched.
“I do,” Flynn reiterated, and realized how much he meant it. Wanted it. Needed it. He covered
Julian’s mouth in warm insistence, and he felt the other man’s opposition fade.
At last they broke the kiss. Julian sat up, raking his hair out of his eyes. “If you’re coming, hurry up then.”
He scooped his dressing gown off the floor, pried open the door and peered into the hallway. He was
gone a second later, closing the door soundlessly behind him.
Flynn rolled out of bed and headed for the washroom where he washed hastily and shaved. He dressed
and was downstairs waiting when Julian arrived a few seconds later.
Julian was smiling and that smile seemed to strike Flynn right in the solar plexus. How the hell was he going to let Julian go?
They let themselves out of the house and walked down to the diner where Flynn had breakfasted with
Casey a day earlier. He’d forgotten that nothing would be open on a Sunday morning, and they were
greeted by a large unfriendly CLOSED sign in the window. Instead they caught the streetcar and traveled out to Ozark’s Park. They managed to get cinnamon walnut rolls and hot coffee from a street stand, and they ate contentedly on a bench in the deserted six acres of well-tended lawns and flowerbeds surrounding a luxury hotel and dance pavilion.
Though they talked, it was about nothing in particular. Just easy and comfortable conversation, and
they smiled often at each other.
The storm had left the morning damp and muggy as it warmed up. There was an electrical hum in the
air, and Flynn could feel an echo of that buzz every time Julian’s gaze lingered on his.
When they grew bored with sitting, they walked down to the lake and skipped stones across the blue
surface. Julian turned out to be unexpectedly adept at this crucial skill, and they made a friendly wager as to who would buy lunch. Flynn won by a skip, eleven to ten.
At lunchtime they bought a big striped watermelon and split it in half, sitting in the deep, cool shade.
Flynn found himself struggling to stop staring at Julian as he ate the ripe, red melon, wiping occasionally at the juice running down his chin, spitting the seeds into the grass with the insouciance of a Huck Finn.
“These murders…” Flynn said tentatively.
Julian sighed and spit a couple of seeds at a rose, knocking the petals from its yellow head.
“I’m not asking you to check with your contacts in the spirit world,” Flynn said. “But…what do you
think? As a…a citizen?”
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Julian lowered his lashes, considering. He lifted a dismissing shoulder. “It could be someone like
you.”
“
Me
?”
He grinned at Flynn’s consternation. “Someone these women wish to talk to, despite the fact that he’s a stranger to them. People talk to reporters. They like to see their name in print.”
“What if he’s not a stranger to the victims?”
“You mean the slayer could be known to the women?”
Flynn nodded. “Someone they’ve known for years maybe. Someone they trust
because
they’ve known him for years. Someone who’s been a regular part of the community.”
“Like a sheriff or a priest.”
“Er…yes. Or a peddler or a trader.”
Julian gazed at him with sudden alertness. “Like a traveling salesman?”
“Yeah.”
He considered it with evident surprise. “You think Casey Lee is a murderer?”
“Do you?”
“Do
I
?” Julian’s eyes widened. “What does it have to do with me?”
“I don’t know. I thought perhaps your ability might give you insight into people. A feel for them?” He felt silly even saying it, but there was no denying Julian had a preternatural talent for knowing things no one could reasonably know.
Julian shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said with shattering honesty. “I’m no good judging him.
I’m jealous because you like him so much.”
Into that naked revelation, Flynn said awkwardly, “I don’t like him so much.”
“You did.” Julian grimaced. “Much more than you liked me. You wanted me, but you didn’t like me.”
His smile was self-mocking. “I make you nervous.”
Flynn said quietly, “You don’t make me nervous any more except, I guess, in a good way.” He smiled
at Julian’s uncertainty. “And I do like you. I wouldn’t be here with you now, ants crawling in my pants, if I didn’t.”
Julian’s laugh was lazy. “I guess that’s true. And I did try to keep you from coming with me. Do you think Casey Lee is the Little Egypt Slayer?”
It felt so strange to discuss it calmly in broad daylight. Flynn said, “Well, there’s a lot of
circumstantial evidence. He was in Murphysboro or at least nearby in Jackson County at the time of at least some of the murders. And he’s a person the women might let into their homes without question. He sells medical supplies.”
Julian seemed very involved in finding the right blade of glass to make a whistle. “Queen of Egypt
Medical Company, yes.”
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“And he’s got medical training. Those women were pretty cut up from what I read.”
“He cast a spell on them, I believe. I couldn’t quite understand what I was hearing during the
performance last night. I don’t think the women knew who killed them. He must have drugged them first.”
Julian added, still not looking at Flynn, “I don’t think it was cruelty, you know. I think the man who killed those women is mad. Mad as a hatter. Lee has a cruel streak, but I don’t think he’s mad.”
“Has he done something cruel to you?” Flynn asked, and he was startled at how instantly angry he
was at the notion.
Julian looked startled too. “No. I can see the way he looks at Joan, though, the way he talks to her.
He’s going to marry her if he can. It’s not right.”
Flynn stared. Was that true? He thought of the small attentions Casey offered Joan. And he thought of Joan’s eagerness, her obvious loneliness. Yes, he could see all that now that Julian pointed it out.
Julian said slowly, thoughtfully, “Maybe you’re right at that. Maybe the slayer is someone the women have known for years and trusted. They can’t see that he’s going slowly insane—and neither can he.” He swallowed. “Madness can creep up on you.”
Flynn thought of the book that had been left in his room. There had been several pages about the
likelihood of patients afflicted with that particular disease going mad. Not everyone, true, but the author had been far more interested in discussing the gruesome probabilities.
He opened his mouth to tell Julian about the book, to ask him about this mysterious illness, but Julian jumped up and said, “I need to stretch my legs. Let’s walk back down to the lake.”
As he spent the day with Julian talking and walking, Flynn felt more and more convinced that Casey
Lee was simply trying to discredit the younger man. There was nothing wrong with Julian. He was smart and funny and jolly company as he described the astonishing and silly things that had happened during performances through the years. He laughed at his own mistakes with the same good humor that he laughed at the follies of his fellow performers.
Flynn stared at Julian stretched comfortably on the green velvet lawn. He was smiling faintly, face
tilted to the sky, and Flynn’s throat tightened painfully. If only this day would never end. He wanted to lean over and kiss Julian’s beautiful, mocking mouth. Impossible of course. Even to take his hand and hold it was forbidden for two men. They had been born several centuries too late.
The day flew and soon it was evening and the acetylene gas lamps were coming on all around them,
families and couples leaving the park. Flynn and Julian rose and followed them out through the gates.
They caught the streetcar back to the Gulling Boarding House, reaching the house to find it
unexpectedly quiet.
They exchanged puzzled glances. But when they looked in the front parlor they found nearly the
entire household there, speaking quietly. Not surprisingly, the mood was subdued after the day’s funeral.
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The Dark Farewell
“There’s plenty of food in the kitchen,” Amy told them by way of greeting. There was a curious
expression in her eyes.
In fact, the entire household seemed to watch them very carefully.
Grand-père
had been glowering from the moment they appeared together in the doorway. Casey Lee sat in a chair near the cold fireplace. A strange middle-aged lady sat on the sofa next to Joan who was dressed in sobering black. The middle-aged lady, also dressed in black, bore a remarkable resemblance to Mrs. Hoyt minus a few years and pounds.
Joan introduced her aunt, Mrs. Packard, and Flynn nodded a polite hello. Julian stumbled through an
awkward apology for missing Mrs. Hoyt’s funeral. Joan was quick to make his excuses for him on the
grounds of his extreme sensitivity to spirits. This brought a politely skeptical nod from Mrs. Packard and a faint, derisive smile from Casey Lee as he met Flynn’s gaze.
Flynn, remembering again the book that had been left in his room, met that green gaze with his own
stony one and saw Casey’s eyes narrow.
Joan, finished describing the hymns and flowers of Mrs. Hoyt’s ever-so-lovely funeral, was saying in her pleasant way, “Julian, I know it’s a terrible imposition, but it would mean so much if you would only consider…”
“Consider?” Julian asked warily.
“Holding a séance so that I might talk to Mama.”
Julian’s recoil was unmistakable. “I’m… I don’t think…”
Tears filled Joan’s eyes, she clasped her hands together as though in prayer—much to the obvious
discomfort of her aunt and Casey—and pleaded, “You’re not giving a performance tonight. You could do it right here in the house. I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Gulling and she’s given permission if you would agree.”
Flynn glanced around but Amy had slipped out of the room. Not that he blamed her.
“It would just be us.” Joan looked around the room with a supplicant’s gaze. “Our family here. You
do it for strangers. It’s not fair that you won’t do it for people you know.”
“Assuming you do it for real,” Casey drawled.
Julian threw him a look of dislike. He stared at Joan. “It’s not…that simple.”
He looked to his grandfather, who said tersely, “Julian must have time to rally his energies. He’s
given four performances this week. The toll on his psychic stamina is considerable. He must have time to rest and recover.”
“Plus he wouldn’t be paid for this,” Casey said.
Julian’s mouth opened, but he swallowed his angry words as Joan said, “Please, Julian.” Tears spilled from her eyes. “I never got the chance to tell Mama goodbye.”
There was a strange silence. Flynn became aware of a sense of foreboding.
Refuse,
he thought.
Tell
them no
.
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Julian sighed. “All right.”
Hearing this, Flynn felt oddly weary, almost let down. Yet the day before hadn’t he been hoping for
this very thing? He himself had suggested a séance to the police. Now he wondered what he’d been
thinking.
Joan was still thanking Julian as Flynn turned and went down the hall toward the stairs. Passing the study, he saw Dr. Pearson reading at the long table. He was so engrossed in his book that he was unaware when Flynn stepped inside the room.
“Dr. Pearson?”
Dr. Pearson looked up and stared at him with an unfocused look. He looked like a man who had
received unexpected bad news.
“May I talk to you?”
Pearson seemed to shake off his preoccupation. He closed the book and folded his hands on its blue
and gold cover.
“Sorry, young man. I was miles away. You wished to speak to me?”
“Professionally. Consult you, I suppose I mean.”
The doctor’s silver brows rose. “I see.”
“Yes. Except it’s not for myself. I wanted to ask you about…a friend.”
“Ah.” Clearly Dr. Pearson had heard that one many a time. His expression became one of resigned
patience.
Flynn came the rest of the way into the room and sat down at the polished table. He lowered his voice as he said, “This friend is subject to convulsions. Seizures. He’s—” Flynn took a deep breath. “I believe he’s an epileptic.”
“
Ah
.” The doctor’s tone was quite different. Could a greater tragedy befall anyone? Beside the grim physical and mental prognosis, there was the social stigma. No wonder the idea of marriage for epileptics was so frowned on; the notion of delivering children to a similar catastrophic fate would make any sane person quail.
