The Diviners (31 page)

It was a Tuesday when Ida discovered a pile of bloodied clothing scraps that Mr. Hobbes assured her, in as delicate a fashion as was proper, belonged to the laundress and which was due to the girl’s monthly curse. (
“The poor dear, how embarrassing for her. Of course we offered her fresh clothing and sent her home to rest. The poor, poor dear. I fear she is too overcome by shame to return to us.”
) Ida wrote a desperate letter to her cousin in Boston, who sent the authorities, but when they came Ida was in such a torpor that Mrs. White told them she was not well but was being cared for, and that she hoped even this effort to descend the stairs and submit to their questions had not put her health in danger. The authorities retreated, mumbling apologies.

The last remaining servant, Emily, left in the dead of night without so much as a good-bye. She didn’t even stop to collect her wages.

Ida had had enough. She’d stopped drinking the wine. Her body, though weakened, was strong enough to carry her down the stairs, for she intended to know what was happening in her own
home. Yes,
her
home! It had been built by her father, for their family! She was a Knowles, not like these Johnny-come-latelies with their new money and airs: that charlatan Mrs. White, who had left to conduct a séance at the country house of some poor soul with more money than sense. And Mr. Hobbes. Mr. Hobbes, with his cold eyes and arrogant air, his lies and secrets. Wicked man! Ida needed to know what was happening in her house, and she would begin by looking in the forbidden cellar.

She took the long, narrow staircase down into the dank, dark space. It smelled of earth and something else. Ida gagged at the foulness of it. She’d have a quick look around and, hopefully, she’d find what she needed to go to the authorities and have these horrid people thrown out of her house. Then she’d look for a proper tenant, or even—dare she think it?—a husband. A knight noble who would share her life. Together, they’d make the house glorious again. Host parties attended by decent people, people of consequence and status. Knowles’ End would reign once more.

Ida’s hand trembled on the lantern’s handle. Light flickered over the walls and corners. Ida had come for knowledge, and now she knew. Knew beyond a doubt that she faced a terrible evil. There was no scream as the candle sputtered and the whispers began. And just as Ida found the scream she’d held at bay, her candle gave out, and she was plunged into darkness.

It had been a thudding bore of a day; rain had kept Evie inside at the museum, where she amused herself by rearranging the books on one shelf according to a taxonomy only she understood. When she thought she’d lose her mind listening to the rain and plodding through the boredom, she was cheered by the thought that—if she survived the afternoon—she’d enjoy what promised to be an exciting evening out with her friends. Now the evening had come at last. Evie had bathed, perfumed herself, and gone through every ensemble in her closet before settling on a silver bugle-bead dress that shimmered over her body like rain. She wore a long string of pearls wrapped twice around her neck. On her feet were a pair of gray satin Mary Janes with curved black heels and saucer-shaped rhinestone buckles. She painted her lips deep red, ringed her eyes in black, and topped it all off with a black velvet coat with a fur collar. She slipped twenty dollars of her dwindling reserves into a mesh tile purse, spritzed herself with a blast from her atomizer, and breezed into the parlor. Jericho sat at the kitchen table, painting miniatures for a battle-scene model. Uncle Will sat at his
messy desk by the bay windows, surrounded by piles of paper and books.

Hearing Evie, he raised his head for a second, studied her, and went back to his work. “You’re rather done up.”

Evie pulled on her opera-length, fingerless lace gloves. “I’m going dancing with Theta and Henry at the most darling nightclub.”

“Not tonight, I’m afraid,” Will said.

Evie stopped mid-glove. “But Unc, Theta’s expecting me. If I don’t go, it will pos-i-tute-ly be an insult. She’ll never ask me to do anything again!”

“If you haven’t heard the news, there’s a brutal murderer roaming the streets of Manhattan.”

“But Unc—”

“I’m sorry, Evie. It simply isn’t safe. There’ll be another time. I’m sure Athena will understand.”

“It’s Theta. And no, she won’t.” Evie could feel the tears threatening. She’d spent ages dolling up her eyes, and she blinked hard to keep them from smearing. “Please, Unc.”

“I’m sorry, but my decision is final.” Will bowed his head over his book, final judgment, case dismissed.

On the radio, the announcer extolled the merits of the Parker Dental System, “Because your dental health is too important to leave to chance.”

Jericho cleared his throat. “We could play cards if you like. Or listen to the radio. There’s a new show coming on at nine.”

“Swell,” Evie said bitterly, storming back to her room. She slammed the door and threw herself on the bed. Her new faux-pearl headpiece shifted down over her brows and she had to push it back up. Why of all nights had Will chosen this one to act just like, well, like a parent? They couldn’t live in fear behind the walls of the
Bennington, never venturing farther than the museum. Evie lay on her back, staring out her window at the world beyond the fire escape.

The fire escape.

Evie sat straight up. She blotted at her eyes with her fingers and pulled on her gloves again. She opened her door a crack. “I’m retiring for the evening,” she announced. Very carefully, she pushed open her window and stepped out onto the fire escape. If there was one truth Evie had learned in her short life, it was that forgiveness was easier to seek than permission. She didn’t plan to ask for either one.

Several floors below, Mabel screamed as Evie came in through her bedroom window, saying, “Pipe down. It’s only me.”

“I thought you might be the Pentacle Killer, come to slit my throat.”

“You and Unc. Sorry to disappoint you.” Evie smoothed her dress into place.

“Mabel darling, what’s the matter?” Mrs. Rose called from the other side of the door.

“Nothing, Mother! I thought I saw a spider, but I was mistaken,” Mabel yelled. “I thought I was meeting you upstairs,” she whispered to Evie.

“Change of plans. Unc’s forbidden me from going out. I swear, he’s behaving just like a parent!” Evie scrutinized Mabel’s plain white organza dress. “Gee whiz, did you lose your sheep, Pie Face?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You need lipstick.”

“I do not need lipstick.”

Evie shrugged. “Suit yourself, Mabesie. I can’t fight two battles tonight.”

Evie and Mabel tiptoed toward the door. The Roses were hosting another of their political meetings—something about the
appeal of Sacco and Vanzetti, the anarchists. Mrs. Rose called to them. “Hello, Evangeline.”

“Hello, Mrs. Rose.”

“It’s very nice of your uncle to take you girls to a poetry reading. It’s important to tend to your education rather than fritter away time in bourgeois, immoral pastimes such as dancing in nightclubs.”

Evie slid her eyes in Mabel’s direction. She fought hard to keep the smile from her lips.

“We have to go, Mother. Wouldn’t want to be late for the reading,” Mabel said and dragged Evie away.

“Guess I’m not the only one on the lam tonight,” Evie said as they ran for the elevator.

Mabel grinned. “Guess you’re not.”

“And then
I
said to him, ‘The pleasure was all yours.’ I said it just like that, too. I had the last word,” Evie said, recounting Sam Lloyd’s first visit to the museum.

“Sure ya did.” Theta laughed. “You shouldn’t let that Sam fella get under your skin.”

“Did I say he was under my skin?”

“No. I can see you’ve really let it go, Evil,” Theta said, and Henry smirked.

The four of them had taken a taxi to Harlem, which Theta had been nice enough to pay for, and they were making their way to a nightclub called the Hotsy Totsy, which was supposed to be the latest thing.

“It’s over. Finished. The bum’s rush to him,” Evie said, brushing away the wind for effect.

“Good, because we’re here. And I’m pretty sure the password isn’t
Sam
or
Lloyd
.”

Henry knocked a quick rhythm—
bum-da-BUM-bum—
and a moment later, a door cracked open. A man in a white dinner jacket and bow tie smiled. “Evenin’, folks. This is a private residence.”

“We’re pals of the Sultan of Siam,” Henry said.

“What is the sultan’s favorite flower?”

“Edelweiss sure is nice.”

A moment later, the door opened wide. “Right this way.”

The tuxedo-clad man led them through a bustling kitchen hot with steam and down a spiral staircase to an underground tunnel. “Connects to the next building,” Henry whispered to Evie and Mabel. “That way, if there’s a raid in the club, most of the booze is safe somewhere in this building.”

The tuxedoed man opened another door and ushered them into a room decorated like a sultan’s palace. Enormous ferns spilled over the golden rims of giant pots. Panels of champagne-colored silk draped the ceiling, and the walls had been painted a deep crimson. White damask cloths covered tables topped by small amber lanterns. On the stage, the orchestra played a jazzy number that had the flappers shimmying on the dance floor while the men shouted, “Go, go, GO!” and “Get hot!” Well-heeled patrons, cocktails in hand, hopped from table to table, waving down the cigarette girls who made their rounds offering Lucky Strikes, Camels, Chesterfields, and Old Golds from enameled trays. A huge sign promised a special Solomon’s Comet–watching party, and Evie tried not to think about the comet’s more sinister meaning for a madman.

“This is the cat’s meow,” Evie said, taking it all in. This was what she had been waiting for. Clubs like this didn’t exist anywhere outside Manhattan. “And the orchestra is the berries.”

Henry nodded. “They’re the best. I heard ’em play at the Cotton Club once. But I don’t like to go there because they’ve got a color line.” Seeing Evie’s confusion, Henry explained. “Down at the Cotton Club, the orchestra could perform for the white folks just fine. But they couldn’t sit at the tables out front and order a drink or mingle. Papa Charles King runs this joint. He serves everybody.”

In the corner, a white woman sat talking with a black man. It never would’ve happened in Ohio, and Evie wondered what her parents would have to say about it. Nothing complimentary, she was pretty sure.

Theta elbowed Henry. “There’s Jimmy D’Angelo. Go sweet-talk him into letting you sit in.”

Henry excused himself and sauntered toward a table near the stage area where a man in a top hat and monocle sat smoking a cigar, a bright green parrot perched on his tuxedoed shoulder.

“Henry’s a big talent, but Flo—Mr. Ziegfeld—doesn’t see it,” Theta said. “Henry’s sold a few songs to Tin Pan Alley—enough to keep him in socks, and not much more. They’re okay ditties, but his good songs nobody gets. Poor kiddo.”

“I’d love to hear them,” Mabel said.

“I hope you’ll get to. Kid just needs his lucky break is all.” Theta held her wrap on one shoulder. “Showtime, dolls. Give the place a look like you’re too good for the dump. Just follow me.”

Theta sauntered past the tables, not deigning to look at anyone. Heads turned as Theta, Evie, and Mabel followed the host through the crowded tables. They were Shebas in their flapper finery, and they drew appreciative gazes. A few people recognized Theta from the Follies.

“Must be the duck’s quack to be famous,” Evie said.

Theta shrugged. “They think they know me, but they don’t.”

The host seated them at a table in a corner and handed them menus printed on heavy cream-colored paper. Mabel’s eyes widened. “I can’t believe these prices!”

“Believe it,” Theta said. “Make sure you like whatever you order, ’cause you’ll be nursing it all night long.”

“My mother would cast a kitten over the excess,” Mabel said guiltily.

“Your mother isn’t here.”

“Thank heavens for that,” Evie muttered.

A waiter appeared with a bottle of champagne and a silver bucket of ice. “Sorry, pal. We didn’t order bubbly,” Theta said.

“For the ladies. From an appreciative gentleman,” the waiter said.