The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (27 page)

“What about John?” I asked. Emotion balled in my throat.
“Doctor Hopper's own son took it, too. It's not as though he'd try to kill John.”

“They'll find a way to make it seem as if John took something different or took less. John can't prove otherwise. They'll say Doctor Hopper cautioned his son against taking too much, but didn't tell the others.” Franklin pulled his hands from his pockets, extracting a few crumpled dollars and some change. “The autopsy will confirm that Lydia died of heart failure and the toxicology report will find massive amounts of morphine and cocaine. And the rest will all have copies of the disclaimer somewhere in their homes, proof that their loved ones took the drugs before they died.” He stood suddenly. “I have to find John before it's too late.”

“I'll come with you. I can help you find him. I don't know if I could ever trust him again, but I still love him.” His eyes met mine.

“I know you love us and I know you're worried, but you have to go home. Don't tell Mother or the others that you've seen me or what I've done. It'll be best that way, in case the police come to question you all. I'm going to disappear for a while, Ginny, but I'll be all right.”

“No.” As much as I tried to hold on to the hope that I'd see John again, that life as I knew it would resume, I knew it wouldn't and I couldn't lose my brother, too. “You're coming home with me.” I knew I wasn't being rational. He was right. If he and John—wherever he was—were being followed, our house would be an easy target for the authorities. But we were alone right now, no one was around, and there had to be a way.

“You really loved him, didn't you?” he whispered. I nodded, realizing I hadn't told Frank that I'd gone to see John.

“I saw him before the last meeting. I went to refuse him. But then, I changed my mind . . . it occurred to me that I might be
able to have a happy marriage and a successful career after all.” Our conversation felt distant and meaningless. “Now I've lost him. I can't lose you, Frank.”

“You haven't lost anyone,” he said, voice strong and rumbling in his throat. “I promised you that you wouldn't again and you won't. I'll find him. John's a tortured soul, Gin, but I know that he loves you.” His arms squeezed tight around me. “And don't tell the others, but you know I love you best. You've always been my favorite.”

“I'm glad,” I said. “But I'm still not letting you go.” I pulled his arm across my shoulders and reached for his hand, but something moved behind us. I heard the sound of leaves scattering and Franklin stepped away from me and ran. I raced after him, but he turned around and pushed me firmly to the ground.

“Stay. Here,” he growled under his breath, eyes scanning the forest above my head.

“Where will you go?” I paused. “It isn't safe!”

“I'll get out of the city somehow. I don't know where. But I'll come back when I can . . . we both will. Don't worry.” He forced a smile, turned around, and started to sprint. I ran after him, but lost him to the darkness. My brother, my best friend, was gone.

T
he last place I wanted to be was here, sitting at a table by myself waiting for Fred Harvey who was fifteen minutes late and counting. I didn't have anything for him anyway. I'd barely touched
The Web
since we'd met last and certainly hadn't thought about writing since Lydia's death three weeks ago. I read the menu from the first entry—bisque of shrimp—to the last—brandy pears—for the eighth time and scanned the restaurant. It was crowded, but most of the guests would depart in an hour's time to see Frank Mayo's
Davy Crockett
at the Academy of Music. A group of people were laughing a table over.

“Are you sure I can't get you something while you wait, miss?” the waiter, an eager young man at least five years my junior, asked for the fourth time. I knew he was just doing his job, so I swallowed my annoyance and forced a grin.

“No. I'm fine, thank you.” He tipped his head and left, zigzagging past guests and other waiters. I watched him as he passed table after table of black suits and elaborate hats. He disappeared
into the bustling kitchen and my eyes landed on a man at a table next to the swinging doors. He was talking animatedly to two men with their backs to me. His eyes were bright with possibility and he stopped for a moment to take a sip from his water glass before talking again. I kept watching, very aware of the fact that I was staring, but unable to look away. Something in his manner reminded me of Frank. My eyes blurred and I turned toward the empty seat in front of me, blinking back tears.

I hadn't told anyone I'd seen him, even though it killed me to keep the secret. I'd panicked watching Bessie pay the month's charges. Although Frank's income had left us with a decent amount in our account at the bank, I doubted it would last us very long. And then what would we do? Bessie, Alevia, and I only earned enough to make up half of what we needed to sustain the household. Beneath her worry for Frank, Mother had to be wondering how we'd survive if Frank never returned. I'd noticed the way she kept glancing over Bessie's shoulders to look at the ledger. Mother had retired early that night, and the familiar and awful sound of her sobbing had echoed softly through my walls until well past midnight. In truth, the news of what Frank had done would destroy her, especially since he wasn't here to explain himself.

I'd heard nothing from him since that morning in the cemetery and still hadn't heard from John. I had no idea if they were alive or dead. It was strange; sometimes their memory and the thought that they may never come back knocked me down so hard I could barely pick myself up, but other times, when fury overtook my sadness, I was able to force all feeling away. I dabbed the corners of my eyes with my linen napkin. Anger flared up, sweeping from my stomach to my neck.

It was their fault as much as Doctor Hopper's. Frank and John had willingly participated in his ridiculous plan and sacrificed our
happiness in the process. John was a liar. He'd convinced me that we were the same, encouraged my love for a man whose talent and kindness was a guise masking darkness and deceit. He was worse than Charlie. At least Charlie had had the decency to face me, to tell me why he'd decided to throw our love away. Meanwhile, Frank's absence was killing Mother, and his secret was killing me. It wasn't fair.

“Sorry I'm late, Miss Loftin.” Harvey's deep voice startled me and I dropped the napkin to greet him, hoping I didn't look like I'd been crying. “Got caught up talking to Walter Damrosch on the way over. Said he's been practically living in the Hall practicing for the Messiah. Suppose your sister's been slaving away with him.”

“Actually, she hasn't,” I said, a little too curtly than I intended. “Damrosch dismissed her a few weeks ago.” Harvey stared at me for a moment.

“Why ever on earth?”

I shrugged. “I suppose he changed his mind about allowing females in the Symphony.” That was a blatant lie. The truth was that he'd cornered Alevia before rehearsal a week after Lydia's death and said he couldn't allow her to play. He'd spoken to Tom, and until Franklin was cleared—if he ever was—Damrosch couldn't permit Alevia's presence. Alevia had asked him outright what Tom had accused Franklin of, but Damrosch had shaken his head, saying he couldn't possibly tell her in the event she'd warn Franklin. She'd told Damrosch that she hadn't seen our brother since the night Lydia died, but it didn't matter. Damrosch had already turned his back and told her to leave. Alevia hadn't come out of her room for days after, and when she did, she swore that if Franklin ever turned up, she would never speak to him again, regardless of his explanation.

“That's complete nonsense,” Harvey said, shaking his head. “I thought Damrosch was more progressive than that.” His brows
furrowed and he shook his napkin open. “And where in the hell is John? He was supposed to have a draft to me two weeks ago.” I gaped at him. I wasn't expecting the question and had no idea what to say. “I heard some rumor that he and the doctor left town unexpectedly. Is that true?” He stared at me over his wire-framed glasses. My fingers curled into fists, gripping hard into my palms. I didn't want to answer the question, nor should I have to. John should be here to explain himself.

The Blaines had been strangely quiet after Lydia's death, but rumors swirled anyway. Thanks to Franklin, I knew why. They were waiting for the autopsy results. They'd already talked to the police, but they couldn't implicate John, his father, and Franklin until they knew for certain. Without the Hoppers' dramatic exit, I had a feeling no one would have had a clue as to what was brewing under the surface. The trouble was, of course, that the Hoppers lived on Fifth Avenue, and anyone could see they'd left their home in shambles without bothering to call the coroner before they went. Mr. Harvey reached across the table and shook me.

“Miss Loftin,” he said softly. “Are you all right?” I could tell my face had drained, but I nodded.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I was thinking of something else.”

“That's quite all right. I was just asking if you'd heard from John. It seems that he's avoiding me . . . and everyone else for that matter. He wasn't even at Lydia Blaine's funeral.” Harvey shook his head. Lydia's funeral. The realization that she was dead still shook me. I'd never lost a friend. She'd wanted to be my sister; I would've readily accepted her.

“I haven't heard from him,” I said softly. The last time Harvey had asked me about John, I didn't want to discuss him because I hadn't been sure I wanted to marry him. Now I wasn't sure I would ever see him again or sure that I wanted to. “I, um, I believe
that he and Doctor Hopper may have gone out of town.” Harvey placed his hand on top of mine.

“You seem as confused as I am, my dear. John has hurt you and I'm sorry for it.” His eyes held mine.

“It's all right,” I said. “It's not as though he's severed my writing hand.” I held up my left hand, hoping to change the subject. The waiter bounded up to our table, notepad poised to finally take an order.

“Two glasses of scotch, straight up. Oldest and finest you have,” Harvey barked, not waiting for the waiter to speak. I glanced at Harvey, half shocked that he'd openly ordered spirits for a woman. Alcohol would only chip away at my façade and I didn't want to burst into tears in front of my editor.

“Thank you. It's been a challenging few weeks,” I said. He smiled at me.

“Were you friends with Miss Blaine, too?”

I nodded, unsure how much I should say, but decided there was no point in holding back. He'd likely know my family was involved eventually.

“Yes. We were very well acquainted.” I remembered her smile the first time we met. “She . . . she was . . . involved with my brother.” Harvey's eyes crinkled.

“Is that so? Did you know the funeral was a few weeks back?”

“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “We had to miss it, unfortunately. We were all quite ill.” With heartache, specifically. That, and we'd all been afraid to attend, knowing Tom thought Franklin at fault. Instead, we'd had our own sort of memorial for Lydia. Even Mae had come in from the city to have tea and reminisce.

The waiter materialized with our drinks and Harvey immediately raised his to his lips. I lifted my glass and took a sip. The memory of John's late-night kisses in the study tried to force their
way into my mind, but I blocked it. The liquid burned down my throat and I took another long drink, treasuring the sensation.

“I hesitate to ask, but I must—how're the revisions coming?”

I set the glass down and looked at him. “They're not.”

“Ah. I had a feeling. If I may?” His eyebrows rose in question and I nodded for him to continue. “Years back, I had the pleasure of meeting the esteemed Emily Dickinson.” My mouth went dry at the mention of her, remembering Frank's words after Charlie had crushed me.
“I'll not allow you to wither away like that poor Dickinson woman.”

“She was the most miserable soul I've ever met. She was quiet and awkward, so paralyzed with grief that she couldn't stand to be around anyone. But she was an amazing writer.” I thought of the weeks I'd spent writing after Charlie's betrayal. The days I'd poured myself onto the page without knowing what day it was or what time. Those words had been my best. “You won't be like her; you're too strong. But learn something from her. She channeled her grief into marvelous writing. Do that. It'll get you through.”

“Thank you,” I said, raising my glass. I drained the last of the scotch and Harvey squinted at me over his glasses, likely wondering if he'd inadvertently signed a drunkard. “Thank you for understanding.”

“You're meant to do this, you know,” he said. I stared at him blankly and he laughed. “To write.” I grinned, genuinely this time. “You have a story to tell, one that people need to hear. Tell it.”

H
ours later, stomach still stuffed with filet of beef, preserved asparagus, and renaissance pudding, I clung to his words. It was only five in the evening, but the late October sky was already dark as midnight. The house was hauntingly silent. Alevia hadn't
touched the piano since she'd been dismissed from the Symphony and Mother was out at a neighborhood women's sewing group—something I'd forced her to attend. She hadn't told anyone about Franklin's absence. I didn't blame her.

I braced my notebook on my knee, sinking back against the couch to look out the front window. It was time to begin again. I stared at the blank page, wishing inspiration would come. I couldn't let my dreams vanish along with Frank and John. The crowd of commuters from the city still trickled past, wandering down our street to their homes. They huddled in their coats carrying briefcases or lugging bags of tools or sweat-soaked clothes from working in the factories all day. A man turned around in front of our fence, waiting for someone I couldn't yet see.

I saw John's face and the memory of Frank propped in the corner of the Hoppers' drawing room. The strange burn of anger and pain drifted through me. Though it had been nearly a month, I still didn't know how to grieve for them if they never returned. I remembered the news of the Mud Run Disaster in Pennsylvania in '88. The pictures of the sixty-six people who'd died on that train had been in the paper the next day, taking up five full pages. Whole families had been killed, but the worst was the story of a young woman who'd lost four siblings as well as her parents. I hadn't understood, even then, how she could mourn all of them at once. At the time, I was heartbroken over losing my father. He was one person. Now, as angry as I was, I had no idea, if it came to it, how I would find a way to live with the fact that both my brother and my near fiancé were gone forever. I kept going to Franklin's room to sit among his things—the scattering of travel pamphlets on his dresser, the discarded half-finished paintings under his bed—and then something, a memory or the scrawled writing on a letter would remind me of John and my mind would switch to him, equally broken and confused.

“I'm going out. I'll be back on the last train.” Bess materialized in the foyer balancing her supply trunk. Her bruised eyes were a startling contradiction to her cheery Christmas-red hat with pluming green feathers. “Here.” She withdrew an envelope stuffed under her arm. “It's the new edition of
The Century
. Came in the post today and got jumbled with my things.” I took it from her and set it down on the hard upholstery beside me.

“Where're you going?”

“The Carnegies',” she said blankly. “Louise has written me five times begging me to come over and fit her for a new hat for the holidays. I don't want to go, but . . .” Bessie pursed her lips and shrugged, not bothering to vocalize the obvious—that we needed the money. I'd found out gradually that Doctor Hopper was related to the Carnegies through Andrew's father, William Carnegie. Doctor Hopper's father, Thomas, was his cousin. Though I knew the Hoppers had never been close to their distant cousins, they were family nonetheless and I wondered . . .

“If they mention anything—” I started, but Bessie cut me off.

“If they so much as utter the name of . . . of those men or my brother, I'll leave, I swear it.” As promised, ever since Tom had left, Bess hadn't spoken their names. I'd overheard her telling Alevia that she'd tried to call on Tom last week—likely because he hadn't responded to any of her letters—but had been quickly turned out of the Blaines' drawing room.

“I know you hate them,” I said softly. “But you don't know what happened . . . none of us do,” I amended, catching myself. “John and Frank's hearts aren't suited for murder. There has to be an explanation.” I paused briefly, knowing even the clarification wouldn't change anything in her eyes. They were liars. Soon there would be newspaper articles slandering their names and calling them killers—unless someone knew where they'd gone and
could go after them. They could come clean about the Optimism Solution. Even if Doctor Hopper hadn't patented it, the ingredients weren't illegal. It was the high dosage that had taken Lydia's life.