The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (26 page)

“Lydia,” he whispered. His voice cracked in the night, the high notes of despair echoing through the treetops. I started to look at him, but kept my eyes on the patchy grass instead. I'd asked him a question. He needed to answer me. “They're after us because of Tom. After she died, he threatened us. He said he'd have us killed. I didn't think he was serious, but John did. The minute Tom said it, John left the room and started packing his things. I thought he was being ridiculous and tried to reason with him, but he said that Tom had the money to hire a toxicologist and that we would be tried like that doctor William Palmer for murder.” Franklin stumbled over the last word and my heart stopped in my chest. He turned Grandfather's gold band around his pinkie.

“That's impossible. Frank, you couldn't . . . you couldn't have had anything to do with her death. I know you. You would never hurt anyone. You don't have it in you. Neither does John.” I noticed my voice was raised in a hysterical cry.

“Ginny, you know I did,” he said bluntly. “You had to. Even if you didn't know how, you had to know that something wasn't right. It was the drugs, Ginny.” Frank looked straight at me. My stomach lurched.

“What are you talking about?” At once, I felt Lydia's fingertips trembling against my arms, saw her eyes wide and staring, and didn't know if I could handle what he was about to say. I started to open my mouth to tell him, but closed it, forcing myself to hear the answer that would confirm a truth so harrowing I hadn't let myself imagine it.

“Doctor Hopper . . . that night at the opera he told you he was an innovator, an inventor, remember?” I nodded. Frank's hand
pressed down on my sleeve to stop my shivering, but I jerked away from him. His eyes flashed with understanding. “About a year ago, Doctor Hopper invented a drug, a combination of drugs actually, to help cure John, Tom, Lydia, Marcus, and a few others after Will's death. They were going insane with depression and nothing was working.” I stared at him, unable to say anything, but needing him to continue.

“John told me about the drug the day I met him on the train, after I mentioned that I was in sales. They were looking for someone to sell the concoction. He said that the going rate was ten dollars a bottle and that people were already begging for it. You know me, Gin. I'll hear anyone out about an opportunity.” Frank's lips turned up slightly, though his eyes were dull with pain. John had lied to me. Fury washed over the pain of his absence. “John made me swear right there that I'd keep the solution a secret whether I took the job or not. He said that Doctor Hopper wouldn't allow advertising or the mention of it to anyone but the patient and that he'd only consider patients that he approved first. I remember thinking that system couldn't possibly be profitable and mentioned the same to John. He laughed and said that his father would approve about anyone. Doctor Hopper only had that policy because he didn't want to patent the medicine for fear the government would tax it.” I wanted to scream, to beat my fists into his chest, but I couldn't move or speak. I could feel the fringes of my nerves fraying, threatening to snap. Selling drugs without a patent was illegal. Frank stared up at the treetops, pulling the lapels of his worn brown jacket around his neck.

“I talked to Doctor Hopper the next week and took the position on the same conditions that John had stated on the train. Hopper reminded me again that he didn't want me talking about the drug to anyone but the patient. And even when I discussed it
with the customer, I wasn't supposed to mention the ingredients because he wanted to protect his recipe. It's not made of uncommon drugs. People could go down to the corner store and make their own if they knew.” Franklin grabbed a handful of dew-soaked grass and yanked it from the ground with a tug. I tried to make sense of it all, but the only thing I understood was that my brother and John were swindlers. Everything I thought I'd known about either of them was just a façade. The charismatic, talented writer I loved seemed distant and foreign. The memory of his proposal, the careful, kind way that he loved me felt fictional, a character I'd dreamed up. My heart that had hours before been so full of affection for him shriveled in the grip of reality. He'd been wrong to say that he loved me, that we were equals, and I'd been wrong to believe it. Our souls were worlds apart. I felt the same about Franklin, the one person I'd been absolutely certain I knew inside and out. My head snapped toward him.

“You lied to me,” I hissed. “I asked why you hadn't been at work and you lied to me. I've never deceived you. I never could. How dare you!” It was all coming together: The Benz, Lydia's extravagant necklace, Franklin's tailored suits. I'd caught him in a lie, but he'd talked me into accepting his explanation. I'd trusted him—just as I'd trusted John, as I'd trusted Charlie. I'd been a fool.

“I know,” he said softly. My body finally caught up to my mind, and I swung my fist into his chest, knuckles striking the pewter buttons along his coat. “I'm sorry, Gin. I'm so, so sorry.” Frank's hand grasped the back of mine, stopping the assault, and he started to cry. I wrenched my hand from his grip.

“Why would you?” My voice was icy, so quiet I doubted he heard me.

“It was good money,” he said. “We needed it. And I thought the drug was helping people. I believed Hopper. I thought he was
a good man. I still do.” I suddenly remembered what Franklin had said when I'd first attended the Society, that I would never lose love again because of money.

“You didn't do it for me, did you?” As angry as I was at him, my heart ached with guilt. Frank shook his head.

“For all of us. We'd been living on the brink for so long. It was easier than selling iron and the money came fast. There are a lot of people on the verge of insanity. This drug made them happy. It stopped them from taking their lives or going through the pain of a lobotomy. Doctor Hopper called it Optimism Solution. At first, I only saw the good side effects. John, Tom, and Lydia were on it. They were normal.”

“What was in it?” The traces of guilt disappeared and I could feel resentment taking hold.

“Cocaine and morphine. The cheapest drugs you can buy,” he said. “Five hundred fifty milligrams of cocaine and forty-five milligrams of morphine. Patients inject it into their arms using a hypodermic needle once a day. It seems like a simple combination, but the cocaine relieves the depression and the morphine eases the anxiety.”

“How could that combination possibly kill Lydia? We took those drugs as children, oftentimes together. Doctor Adelman used to give us cocaine for toothaches and morphine when we couldn't sleep.” I was trying my hardest to hold to my belief that John and Franklin couldn't be at fault. I turned away from him, to the rows of crooked gray headstones.

“She'd had too much. Doctor Hopper emphasized that the mixture is only supposed to be administered once each day, but some didn't pay him—or me—any mind. The amount she injected was excessive.” He slammed his hand on the ground.

“I saw her body,” I said. Bile rose in my throat at the memory.

“When?” I could feel his eyes on my face, but I stared up at the last remaining leaves on the gnarled tree limbs above me.

“Tom came by the house the morning after. I was sleeping, but I heard Bessie scream. He told us about Lydia and then said something about you and John. I just knew the two of you were involved somehow, so I went straight to the Hoppers' to find you and she was right there on the floor.”

“No one . . . no one covered her or called the coroner?” Even in the darkness I saw his face pale. His shoulders shook as he started to sob. “I can't stand it.” His voice faltered. “I'm sorry, Gin. I'm so sorry I tangled you in this mess. I'm sorry I introduced you to John; I'm sorry I encouraged you to marry him. I didn't know it would turn out this way.” I didn't acknowledge his apology. I couldn't believe him. Not anymore. “At the beginning, I only saw the good effects, but then I started noticing that people were going crazy without it, even worse than they were before. They'd be fine and happy while they were on it, but when it wore off they'd break down.”

“Were you on the drug, too?” The question came out in a sharp snap and Frank's eyes narrowed at me, then relaxed.

“No. I tried a dose once to see what it was like, but it made me feel jittery. John told me from the beginning that I shouldn't take the drug since I didn't need it. He said it would make me sick and it did.” Franklin let his head fall back against the rock. “That night, Lydia was coming down from the effects of it. She was crying hysterically and ripping out chunks of her hair and threatening to kill herself. After Marcus, I knew something was wrong. I knew that the solution had killed him. I just felt it. I asked Doctor Hopper about it, but he refused to engage. He insisted that Marcus's cause of death was the same as Will's—a hereditary heart condition—but there had been other deaths. I couldn't overlook them.” I felt the echo of unease swirling in my gut, remembering the whispered
speculation in the drawing room after Mr. Carter's funeral. Edith had been right. So had I.

“There were others?” Frank pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Four up north, in the country. I should've stopped after that, but I wanted the money. I wouldn't give it to Lydia, though, and I tried to keep it away from John, too, but I couldn't. I'd steal his bottles, but he'd just go to his father and get more.” The vision of John's face that night in the study, his crumpled body, flashed in my mind. He'd needed more. That's why he'd been shuffling around in his cabinet. He'd needed to find the needle and bottles to calm himself.

“The other night at the meeting, Lydia needed the solution. She could feel the low coming on and begged me for it, but I refused. When she started screaming, John and I took her into the study. John gave her some, but it didn't work. She kept screaming and crying and scratching her arms until they bled. John was coming down himself and kept injecting her over and over thinking that if he gave her enough she'd come back to us. I got in his way a few times, but he turned on me and said that if I didn't let her have any, she'd kill herself and it would be my fault.” He whispered the last words. “Eventually, she stopped struggling in the study and stumbled back out to the drawing room. One minute she was standing laughing and the next she was on the ground convulsing for breath, like she was having a seizure.” Franklin held his head in his hands. I felt as if I were hovering somewhere outside my body. Who were these people? The pain of losing who I thought they were was killing me. Franklin stood and walked into the trees, a dark silhouette framed by the moon's white glow. After a while, he came back and sat down beside me.

“Was Tom with you in the study? I thought John was going to dismiss him from the Society.” I couldn't bear to look at Franklin, so I looked at his boots. They still held polish, evidence of another life.

“At Alevia's first Society meeting, Tom had injected the solution twice, one more than normal, and fainted in the middle of writing.” The vision of the small brown bottle emblazoned with a Celtic circle knot and the welt on his forearm the first time I met him flashed in my mind. “When he woke up, he knew the drug was dangerous. He mentioned it to me, but at the time I said I doubted anything was wrong with the formula and he kept taking it.” Franklin pressed his lips together in regret. “He wasn't there when we took her out of the drawing room. He walked in at the end. He'd come back to fetch Lydia home, and saw John injecting her for what was probably the fourth time, but he didn't see me try to stop him. I don't blame Tom. I don't think I'd believe him if the same happened to you.” I pulled my arms across my chest, suddenly wondering why Franklin was alone.

“Where is John?” I looked around, half-expecting him to materialize from the dense woods.

“I don't know,” Franklin said and I heard a sound, deep and guttural come from his throat. I realized, as Franklin's face dropped to his hands, that John hadn't only been mine. He'd been Frank's, too, his best friend. “Wherever he is, he loves you, Gin,” Frank said suddenly. “He was mixed up in his father's world, but if . . . when he comes back to you, you'll see. He's still the man you know.”

Regardless of his deception and my anger, I knew that John had never intended to kill Lydia. He loved her. We all had. I had no doubt he thought he was saving her. I shut my eyes to stop the sting of heartache. In spite of everything, my soul longed for the John I'd known—for his strength, for his surety, for the stability I'd always felt in his presence. I knew he wasn't a bad man. All of this was Doctor Hopper's fault: Frank's ruin, John's destruction, my love for a man that I didn't know if I would ever see again.

“Damn you,” I said under my breath.

“I lost John when I went after Tom,” Frank said. “Tom ran out after Lydia collapsed and I followed him, but I lost him in midtown, so I turned back. By the time I got back to the Hoppers', they were gone. I have no idea where.” I gripped Frank's arm. His muscles were tight. I was still angry, my heart shredded with anguish, but I wanted my brother back, to have the chance to know him again.

“Come home, Frank. We'll get this sorted out and—”

“No,” he said. “The authorities will come for me and if they find me with you, they'll think you're involved, too. If they find me, I'm dead, Ginny.”

“But you didn't do anything!” Regardless of the fact that he'd provided the drug, and as livid as his lying about his job made me, he hadn't killed anyone. If anything, he'd tried to save Lydia.

“Tom knows half of the families of the four others who have died. One was the daughter of his great-aunt up in Rhode Island; the second, a political supporter of his uncle's in Greenwich. If he realizes there's a connection . . .” he said slowly. He shoved his hands in his pockets. I had a sudden memory: Cherie's mention of her husband's friend who'd supposedly passed on of heartache. Franklin began to speak again. “When I sold to them, I made them sign a disclaimer that we weren't responsible for any injuries or deaths. It was something Hopper heard he should do to avoid being taken to court, just in case of any accidents.” He rubbed his eyes. “Since Doctor Hopper never patented the solution, it'll seem like he knew the risk and poisoned them intentionally, that I was conspiring with him. Most of the deceased were family friends of the Hoppers. They trusted us. If Tom thinks of it, he'll make sure these families know how their children and brothers and sisters actually died. He'll turn them against us.”