Love and Murder in Savannah

by Harper Lin

  “What about my Aunt Tallulah?” Martha started to laugh.

  “I’ve known her for my entire twenty years of life, and she never had a different hairdo,” Becky said. “And Cousin Billy. He’s been wearing the same suit to every family reunion regardless of the fact that the buttons are ready to burst under the strain.”

  “Becky, you are too much,” Martha said, still laughing.

  “And look, sister-woman Fiona from the church.”

  “She sings in the choir with Mama,” Martha said.

  “She cries at every party. Not even a drop of liquor in her, and look, she’s bawling now.” Becky put her hands on her hips and clicked her tongue.

  “Well, I’ve got a real surprise for you. Come on. I want you to meet some people.” A devious grin spread over Martha’s lips.

  “Who?” Becky stood still. “Who did you invite? Your invitation said you specifically invited interesting people for me to meet. Who is it? Did you invite Adam White? I’ll just die if you did.”

  Martha stopped, looked her friend in the eye, and smirked. “So you’ve really got it bad for that Yankee. I’m sorry, Beck. I didn’t extend an invitation to the strapping young man, but I will make sure to do so at the next gathering.”

  “Don’t bother.” Becky shrugged. “I’m sure I can find someone just as good to cut a rug tonight. Besides, I don’t know if that big palooka would have fit in your foyer. He’s built like a sand barge. Probably just as bright. Did you ever notice he doesn’t speak much? There’s nothing worse than a fella who can’t carry a conversation. Nothing worse.” She batted her lashes, smiling happily.

  Deep down Becky was disappointed the Yankee wouldn’t be there.

  “My mother would have strung me up, birthday or not, and given me a pop in the chops if I invited that Yankee into her home.” Martha shook her head, her brown curls flopping across her face. “She’s probably gushing over Fanny as we speak, since the girl is the perfect specimen of a Southern belle.”

  “It’s okay. When you said special… well, I just never know what to expect from you, Martha.”

  It didn’t take long for the regular gang to share a drink or a quick dance with Becky as she and Martha strolled through the house. Out on the back balcony was a cluster of rather dramatic figures.

  “These are my special guests,” Martha said, squeezing Becky’s hand in hers. “Hold on to your hat. These folks are the bee’s knees. I can’t believe my mother, Mrs. Bourdeaux, agreed to having them attend.”

  Becky studied the guests Martha was pointing out. At first, she thought she saw a rather solemn crowd around them. Then she realized there was no crowd. Not of living people, anyway.

  Chapter Eight

  “Becky, I want you to meet Madame Cecelia and her escort, Count Ernesto,” Martha said with her chin high and her eyes twinkling. “They are going to provide us with the entertainment this evening. You and Teddy arrived just in time.”

  As soon as Becky looked into Madame Cecelia’s eyes, she felt the strange sensation that every secret she had was on display. The happy piano and clarinet music coming from the phonograph that had half the house stomping on the floor had suddenly become mute, as if Becky were hearing it with cotton wedged in her ears.

  “Miss Becky, I have heard so much about you.” Madame Cecelia’s eyes were green jewels peering out from several layers of smoky black liner. Her full lashes fluttered hypnotically up and down. She had red lips that matched her nail polish. Every few seconds, she took a deep drag from a cigarette perched in a long black holder with rhinestones around the tip. Small black wisps of hair clung to her forehead from beneath an elaborate turban that sported a purple gem in the middle. She was draped in a similar purple shawl with fringe that nearly reached the floor.

  “Madame Cecelia is going to read our palms and tell our fortunes. Isn’t that a gas?” Martha clapped.

  “I’d love to take a look at your palm, Miss Becky. I bet you have plenty of stories to tell.” Madame Cecelia smiled while she looked down her nose slightly, the black eyebrows she’d drawn in arching dramatically. “Don’t worry. You needn’t say a word. I’ll know it all in just one glance.”

  Becky nodded slowly as she studied the woman. She had plenty of creases across her forehead and around her eyes when she smiled.

  “And what is your specialty?” Becky turned to Count Ernesto.

  He tipped his tall black top hat before stroking his pointed goatee and adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. His fingers were the longest Becky had ever seen and reminded her of a spider’s legs.

  “I have a few tricks up my sleeve,” he said with a heavy Cajun drawl while pulling a long-stemmed rose from behind Becky’s ear.

  “Aren’t they too much?” Martha giggled. “I couldn’t wait for you to meet them. I thought this would be so much fun.” Just then Martha heard her name being called. “Who bellows?” she called back. “I’d better go and check. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” Martha hurried off, only to be swept up in the Charleston by a handsome man whom Becky had seen many times before. His name was Ralph, if she remembered correctly.

  “Becky, I was told you possess some very interesting skills. Would you care to elaborate? Birds of a feather, you know,” Madame Cecelia said as she blew smoke from the side of her mouth.

  “I’d rather have a drink,” Becky replied.

  “You don’t have to be afraid of us here,” Madame Cecelia said, nodding toward Count Ernesto. “Any of us. It’s those creatures that linger where we are most comfortable that are more dangerous.”

  “Well, there you are.” Just then Fanny horned her way into the group. “I swear, I got snagged for a dance and then another and another. I just needed to pull away for a moment to catch my breath.” She batted her eyes at Count Ernesto. He wasn’t a particularly handsome man, but he was a man, so that was good enough for Fanny. Becky made the introductions but could not pull away quick enough.

  “You know, I was told while I was in Paris that I had certain psychic qualities. Granny Louise and I had attended a party where there was a Gypsy fortuneteller. She was quite taken with me, I must say. She said my aura was stronger than anyone’s she’d ever encountered. The aura is the energy field around every living thing, you know. I’ve always felt extremely sensitive to people’s energies.”

  “Is that so?” Madame Cecelia asked, nodding as she looked at Fanny then Becky and back again.

  Becky caught Madame Cecelia’s eye. Did she think Fanny was as full of hot air as she did?

  “Yes. I just know what a person is feeling, or I can sense where something has happened or if something is going to happen. I don’t know where it comes from. I’m just special, I guess,” Fanny tittered, pulling her shoulders up and swiveling her hips.

  “Well, why don’t we take a look? Let me see your dominant hand.” Madame Cecelia took Fanny’s hand. She traced the creases in her skin while tilting her head this way and that, her red lips drawn down. She muttered something quietly before gently pulling Fanny’s fingers wide.

  “I see the ocean. You travelled a great distance recently.” Madame Cecelia watched Fanny’s expression.

  “Yes, I spent the last few months in Paris.”

  Becky rolled her eyes. Not only was this feeding into Fanny’s already inflated ego, but who didn’t know she was just back from Paris? Fanny made sure she said as much every five minutes.

  “You left in a hurry,” Madame Cecelia said.

  “Well, we’d already stayed so long, and I was getting homesick.” Fanny winked at Becky.

  “No. There was another reason. A woman was looking for you.”

  Fanny coughed. “I beg your pardon?”

  “A woman. She was very angry.”

  “I don’t know anything about an angry woman in Paris,” Fanny stuttered.

  “No. Not in Paris. In Brussels. You travelled to several cities in Europe, no?”

  Madame Cecelia had struck a nerve. As much as Becky would have loved to hear what this
was all about and why an angry woman in Brussels was looking for Fanny, she felt a twinge of guilt for enjoying the spectacle. Still, she didn’t look away.

  “There was a man. Handsome fellow,” Madame Cecelia said before Fanny yanked her hand away.

  “I’m not sure what you think you are accomplishing, Madame Cecelia, but we spent only a brief time in Brussels. Hardly enough time to unpack. To be quite honest, I don’t think this is a proper discussion to be had in mixed company.” Fanny rubbed her hand against her skirt as if there were germs on it.

  All of a sudden, the music stopped, and there were cheers of hip-hip-hurrah for Martha on her birthday.

  “I believe Miss Martha is going to open her presents.” Fanny clapped. “I can’t wait until she sees what I picked up for her in Paris.” She narrowed her eyes at Madame Cecelia and Count Ernesto as if daring them to say another word.

  Within seconds, she slunk away, grabbing the attention of every man in the house. Teddy, who had been leaning against the fireplace, quickly grabbed a fresh cocktail and trotted up to her, offering the vamp a cool drink.

  “That one is an ultra-maroon,” Madame Cecelia said.

  “You said a mouthful,” Becky replied.

  “Becky, I’d really enjoy it if you could come to my home for a visit. Coffee perhaps.” Madame Cecelia smiled. “I do believe we have quite a bit in common.”

  “Maybe.” Becky was not used to strangers inviting her into their homes for coffee. She grew up knowing almost everyone in Savannah, living and dead. But Madame Cecelia and Count Ernesto were not locals. She might be a fakeloo artist who lured gullible women into her parlor while he rolled them for cash. Just because the madame managed to spot the holes in Fanny’s Paris stories didn’t mean she was any kind of real psychic. Had Becky the patience or interest, she probably would have picked up on the same details the fortune-teller did. That was how they worked. They’d pick out a patsy, find out all they could about that person behind their back, then spout the facts back at them as if they’d been delivered from a mountain. This was more or less some kind of flimflam.

  “It’s not a trick,” Madame Cecelia replied, making Becky’s cheeks burn. “Unlike your friend, I didn’t get my psychic abilities from some frog in Paris.”

  Becky couldn’t help it and chuckled at Madame Cecelia’s comment. The flamboyant older woman seemed to be the only person who was on to Fanny’s ruse. Becky had no choice but to like her. Still, she wasn’t sure how she felt about someone she just met knowing about her own special talents. If she were willing to air Fanny’s dirty laundry, who was to say she wouldn’t drop the dime on Becky too?

  Just as Becky was about to walk away, Madame Cecelia grabbed her hand. She didn’t squeeze it, but Becky couldn’t pull her hand away without making a small scene. She looked into the woman’s eyes while squaring her shoulders. One thing Becky Mackenzie wasn’t afraid of was putting a person in their place if need be.

  “Things are about to change for you, Becky. Don’t fight it.” As quickly as she took Becky’s hand, Madame Cecelia let go.

  “What does that mean?” Becky smirked.

  “You’ve got the trust of many people in this room. Your special gifts have worked well for you and them. But every coin has two sides. For every kindness, there is a cruelty that feels it was robbed of its chance.”

  “Look, I know this shtick gets you invited to a lot of posh parties, but I’m not some yokel who fell off the turnip truck. I don’t know what you are hinting at. But people who can’t be clear when speaking can’t be trusted.”

  “She’s a sharp one,” Count Ernesto muttered before mingling in with a group of ladies heading inside. He pulled scarves and flowers from all angles, making the ladies gasp and clap. He did something that resulted in a shower of golden glitter before he and his entourage stepped out of view. Becky hated to admit it, but she was rather impressed with his skill. It was all an illusion, of course. A sleight of the hand. Nothing more.

  “But no, Becky. It really is so much more.” Madame Cecelia arched her eyebrows again. “Tonight is where your journey begins. Where it will take you, I don’t know. But I hope eventually it might be to my doorstep. I’m right next to a very old apothecary that would probably have more than one or two things of interest to you, a kindred spirit being just one of them.”

  As much as she wanted to be skeptical, Becky found herself smiling. She liked Madame Cecelia if for no other reason than her willingness to be so brazenly different from everyone else.

  “Would you like your palm read? Perhaps you’d rather see what the cards have to say?” she asked, sweeping her hand to a tiny table in the corner of the porch with a candle glowing eerily in its center and a deck of tarot cards next to it.

  “I think I’d rather go join the poker game I saw going on inside. Depending on who’s dealing, those cards might be saying a little more to me.” Becky winked, but before she turned her back, Madame Cecelia started to laugh. It was a pleasant sound from deep in the fortune-teller’s belly. Hearing it made Becky smile.

  As Becky made her way to the dining room, where all the guests had gathered to watch Martha open her presents, she decided she might just call on that weird palm-reader when all this was over. Any excuse to drive into town was good enough.

  Just then, Penelope, with the other servants in tow, came slowly treading into the dining room with the birthday cake lit like the Chicago Fire.

  “Happy birthday to you!” she started, and then everyone joined in. The cake was big enough to feed at least fifty people, and if there weren’t that many in the house, the number was darn near close.

  Martha sat still as the cake was presented to her. She looked over the candles and zeroed in on the small but noticeable indentation made by someone’s finger.

  While looking over the room, Becky saw Teddy beside Martha. They were chatting and nagging each other like normal, making Becky feel better. The last thing she wanted for her best friends was for Fanny to butt in. Leaning against the fireplace was Pete, Teddy’s friend. He looked well lit. There was Margo Something-or-other wearing a lovely light-blue dress with black lace over it. Her skin was shiny with sweat, since she’d been dancing the whole night. There were some relatives of Martha’s that Becky had seen at other parties, as well as a couple of dapper gents she’d seen at a few shanties.

  And then Becky’s heart lodged in her throat. Approaching her from the other side of the room, bumping into as many people as possible in the process, was that Heathcliff boy.

  Becky was trapped. She couldn’t leave and miss Martha opening her gifts. She quickly put on her most convincing smile and extended her hand to him.

  “I saw you come in, Miss Becky, but I hadn’t a chance to talk to you,” the Heathcliff boy said as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and smiled down at her.

  “That Martha stole me away lickety-split. You know there’s no telling that girl anything, especially when it is her special day. So how are you…” Still, his first name had yet to rise out of the murkiness of her memory.

  “I was a little concerned this morning that I might not be able to make it to this evening’s festivities.” He rubbed his stomach.

  “Same problems?” Becky asked, hoping not to get too many details.

  “Yes. Mother wanted me to stay home. She said, ‘Neville, the heat of that house and the smoke will most certainly aggravate your condition.’ But I haven’t had the urge to use the bathroom since I got here,” the Heathcliff boy said proudly.

  “Who is Neville?” Becky asked.

  “Oh, um… that’s me. Neville Alexander Heathcliff.”

  Becky cleared her throat. “What did you get Martha?”

  “Hmmm? Oh, her gift.” He leaned in close to Becky’s ear. “A thermometer.”

  “Practical yet thoughtful. I like it.” Becky had to admit it was a clever gift. And her approval appeared to send a shock wave of satisfaction through the young man.

  “What about you?” Th
e Heathcliff boy braced his arm against the wall over Becky’s right shoulder, putting his other hand on his hip. He reminded her of Mr. Peanut, except he had spectacles and not a monocle. But that was the only difference she could think of immediately.

  Without saying a word, she pointed at Martha, who had picked up the elegant little box. Becky had slipped it on the table without being noticed before Martha had grabbed her hand and led her through the house.

  “Becky Mackenzie, where are you, girl?” Martha squinted and batted her lashes as she saw the Heathcliff boy towering over her. “There you are, hiding. I wonder what this could be.”

  Becky had wrapped the small box in two sheets of the thinnest brown paper she could find. It crackled beautifully and was slightly waxy to the touch. She’d bound it with a yellow ribbon that she knew would find its way into Martha’s hair sooner or later. She watched her friend open the tiny box and stared.

  “Becky, it’s beautiful.” She pulled out a long silver chain that had a perfectly round piece of magnifying glass set in a marquisate frame.

  She didn’t dare tell Martha it was one of the many trinkets she’d found in the cemetery. If Becky had to guess, she was sure it belonged to one of the ladies from a plot in the northwestern corner. There were many Old Colony names there, and Becky could envision some ripe old dame with her waist cinched in an uncomfortable corset and wearing a hat with two-foot-tall feathers, this piece of simple but elegant jewelry, and half a dozen strands of pearls.

  Martha slipped it over her head immediately. “I just love it.” She put her hand over her chest. Martha was a little tipsy, but Becky knew her feelings were genuine.

  “Martha! Open mine next!” Fanny called. For a few precious moments, Becky had forgotten her cousin was there. “I brought it all the way from Paris.”