by Harper Lin
“Now, I am assuming you have some kind of business to tend to downtown and that is why you wanted to tag along?” he asked.
“I can’t fool you, can I?”
“No, Miss Becky. Do you think you’ll get it wrapped up in an hour?” he asked seriously.
“Yes. Most definitely. I’m just stopping to visit a friend. Well, she’s more of an acquaintance. I need to ask her something. It doesn’t make a lot of sense. It seems like nothing is making sense these days. But I’m hoping she can help me sort a few things out,” Becky said while picking at the corner of her sketchbook.
“All right. Meet me at the bank in one hour,” Moxley ordered.
“I won’t be a minute late,” Becky said.
When Becky made it to the peculiar apothecary where Madame Cecelia and her mother resided, she was shaking. Just as she was about to barge into the shop, the door opened.
Chapter Nineteen
“Took you long enough, girlie-girl,” Madame Cecelia’s mother said, even her dead white eye glaring at Becky.
“What is your name?” Becky asked with her lips pulled into a frown.
“Ophelia,” the old woman grumbled.
“Well, Ophelia, I’m behind the eight ball, and I’m afraid pretty soon someone…” Becky swallowed hard. “Or something is going to put the screws to me but good.”
“We already know. Come on inside, girl.” Ophelia nodded. “Go on up those stairs, but don’t touch anything!”
Becky walked to the back of the apothecary and through a curtain of beads that sparkled and shimmered. The strings made a pleasant sound as she parted them and let them fall into place, like tiny, smooth pebbles hitting the sidewalk. Along the winding staircase that led up to the apartment over the store were candles illuminating statues and paintings of various saints.
Carefully, Becky made her way to the top landing and knocked on the door. She still felt tremendous energy from the apartment, but it wasn’t as overwhelming as it had been the first time she arrived. Becky didn’t feel at all like fainting.
“You do realize that you almost got yourself killed the other night, don’t you?” These words came immediately out of Madame Cecelia’s mouth when she opened the door before Becky could knock on it.
“Yes. But how did you know?” Becky asked as she entered the apartment. The smell of incense and strong coffee was comforting.
“I saw it in the cards.” She shut the door behind Becky and walked to the kitchenette. Madame Cecelia wore a paisley printed skirt in rust and gold colors with a thick black beaded belt and a billowy shirt. Her long black hair hung wildly down her back in tight ringlets that were held away from her face by a bright-green scarf.
“Why didn’t you warn me?”
“You didn’t want me to,” Madame Cecelia said as she pulled a chair out from the small table that seated four by the open window. Outside on the fire escape were some laundry hanging and a couple of flowering plants in big pots. Becky took a seat before Madame Cecelia placed a cup of steaming black coffee in front of her.
“Are you going to read the grounds once I’ve finished?” Becky didn’t know why she felt like being a smart aleck to her hostess. After all, it was Becky who barged in on her, not the other way around.
“No. I already know your future. You’re going to die,” Madame Cecelia said as she took a seat across the table. “Cream or sugar?”
Becky choked down her first sip and began to cough while shaking her head. “What kind of thing is that to say? When? By who?”
Madame Cecelia started to laugh. “I’m just kidding. Oh, I mean, you are going to die. We all are eventually. I just said that to sort of break the ice.”
“Break the ice?” Becky snapped. “You’re off your nut. That’s plain to see.”
Madame Cecelia pointed at Becky’s sketchbook and pencils that she’d brought with her. “Have you brought something to show me?”
Becky took a sip of coffee and let the hot liquid roll down her throat and calm her nerves. She took a deep breath and started to tell Madame Cecelia about the incident outside Willie’s.
“I know the man was dead. We left him there in the street. Had he seen me or worse, the pal who shot him, I’d be dead in those trees, and no one would know where I was.” Becky trembled. “The police didn’t believe me. They thought I was drunk and were ready to throw me in the pokey.”
“And your friends?” Madame Cecelia asked, even though Becky was sure she already knew the answer.
“They didn’t believe I saw what I saw. They said it was better to stay out of the mob’s business. But that guy, Diggs, killed Lawrence Hoolihan. He was at Martha’s party. He was dealing poker, and Adam said the guy had a bad rep as a Johnson brother. A real criminal,” Becky said before taking another sip of coffee.
“What makes you think he’s your man?” Madame Cecelia asked.
“He was at the scene. I found a card from his deck of cards lying on the floor where the body was found. It’s kind of a crazy coincidence, don’t you think?” asked Becky.
“I’m going to tell you right now that Diggs wasn’t your guy.” Madame Cecelia looked at Becky with blazing green eyes.
“But you just said I almost got myself killed the other night. That was because I was following Diggs.” Becky worried the spot on her forehead where she’d had the goose egg.
“No. There was something far worse there looking for you,” Madame Cecelia said. “Whatever he is, he’s always on the lookout for you.”
“Wait.” Becky picked up her sketchbook and flipped several pages over before she found the image she wanted.
Madame Cecelia gasped when she saw the pencil sketch of a wrinkled old man in dirty, worn clothes with leering eyes and a rotten smile. “Where did you see that?”
“Why? Who is it?” Becky asked.
“Not who. What.” Madame Cecelia took a sip of her coffee and stared at the image while leaning back in her seat. She acted as if she were afraid it might jump off the page at her.
“I saw him. It was at Willie’s dance hall, and then he was coming out of the paddy wagon when we went to the police to tell them about Diggs getting shot,” Becky replied. “No one saw him but me. I tried to get Adam to look, but he thought I was having visions due to the bump on my head.” Her hand went to the spot on her forehead, which was much smaller but still there and still tender.
Madame Cecelia rose from her seat. She walked over to a tall, slender bookcase and ran her finger along the spines of several thick, aged books before finally settling on one. She pulled a maroon-colored tome that was about an inch thick off the shelf and slowly returned to her seat at the small table, her eyes scanning the pages quickly. When she found what she was looking for, she set the book down. “Read this.”
Becky looked down at the page. She had expected to see a drawing of a creature similar to what she’d drawn. But nothing was there but a short couple of lines in fancy black script on pages that were as thin as tissue. Carefully, Becky leaned forward and read the words:
“Keep alert when in the presence of vice. The instigator will be there and can take you willingly or unwillingly deeper into that world.” With interest, she leaned closer and continued to read. “It is with ignorance people assume they make their own choices autonomously, as there is always a figure whispering in their ear the rewards of each decision.”
Madame Cecelia leaned back on her heels, and Becky looked up at her.
“I don’t follow,” Becky admitted.
“You’ve had the gift of communicating with the dead, I’m guessing, since you can remember. That’s what I’ve been told,” Madame Cecelia said flatly.
“Who told you? If Teddy spilled the beans after too many sips of Aunt Rue’s special ambrosia, I’m going to box his ears,” Becky huffed.
“No. It wasn’t Teddy. Actually, I could see them flock to you the second you arrived. You saw my family around me as well while we were standing on the porch at Martha’s party.” Madame Cecelia
winked.
“So you can talk to them too?” Becky asked carefully. Part of her was hoping Madame Cecelia would say yes and offer some kind of guidance or instruction about what she was supposed to do with this specific talent. But another part of Becky wanted the Gypsy to say no so her gift would still be unique, a mystery and totally hers.
“Yes. I had to tell them all to stay back when you arrived today. You remember what happened last time. It was like beer spilled in the streets the way they came at you.” The madame took a sip of her coffee.
“Yes. I remember that all too well.”
“If it’s any consolation, they all think you are the cat’s pajamas. Except for Cousin Mimi. That explains why my mother likes you so much. Those two will be at odds until the end of time.” Madame Cecelia leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. Her bright-red nails glistened like the polish was still wet. “But when you placed your hand on that Ouija board at Martha Boudreaux’s party, you threw open a door that will be near impossible to shut.”
“So what am I supposed to do? What about this gent?” Becky tapped on the face of her drawing.
“He’s a messenger of sorts. Like the passage you read said, there is a whisperer. I’ll bet where you saw him, you were in the presence of some unorthodox goings-on.” Madame Cecelia leaned forward.
“When I first saw him, he was at the poker game. He just appeared out of nowhere,” Becky said. “Then he was in the woods, and that was what caused me to hit my head. And then I saw him at the police station with all the rummies while the brawl was spilling out of the paddy wagon.”
“Sound like he keeps lovely company,” Madame Cecelia replied.
“But he isn’t a dead man. So why do I see him?” Becky pushed her coffee cup away from her and folded her arms on the table.
“I think he came through that spirit board and has found that Savannah is the perfect city for his kind of mischief.” Madame Cecelia flipped her hair behind her shoulders.
“When I decided to take a jaunt up here and see you, I was sure I’d get some answers. But Madame Cecelia, you have caused me to realize I am more confused than I was an hour ago. Good heavens, what time is it?” Becky stood up.
“Ten to one,” the Gypsy said.
“Fine. I’m not too late. I’ve got to be running, or Moxley will box my ears for making him wait.” Becky extended her hand. “I do appreciate you talking to me, even though you were very little help and added to my confusion.”
“Anytime, Becky. I told you that you have friends here.” Madame Cecelia smiled.
“Speaking of friends, whatever happened to Count Ernesto? Did he head back to Transylvania or Romania or wherever you guys are from?” Becky teased as she made her way to the door.
“He’s at work. You don’t think we all just hang around telling fortunes all day, do you?” She winked. “He works at the newspaper.”
“Of course he does. That’s how your mother knew about Adam. Why, that sneaky so-and-so,” Becky muttered as she imagined Adam White and his new admirer, Fanny, fawning all over him.
“When you go downstairs, my mother has something for you. Take it, whatever it is.” Madame Cecelia nodded.
“Your mother told me her name is Ophelia. That’s a pretty name,” Becky said as she stepped onto the stair landing. “Thanks for the coffee.”
While Becky wound her way down the stairs, she tried to organize her thoughts. Even though she still felt confused, she also felt that a weight had been lifted from her.
“That’s probably because misery loves company,” she muttered but wished she hadn’t when she saw Ophelia standing at the apothecary door, holding it open with a scowl on her face.
“You don’t have to feel like only the dead can be trusted,” Ophelia scolded. “We’ve invited you into our home, and you still don’t trust us? Here. Maybe this will help convince you that we are genuine.” She handed Becky a small velvet box and a thin paper bag.
Becky peeked in the bag to see another pair of stockings. “How did you know I needed these?”
The old woman pinched her mouth together and cocked her milky eye at Becky. “What girl doesn’t need a new pair of stockings?” A smile tickled at the corners of her lips as she started to laugh at her own joke.
Becky smirked and opened the little velvet case. Her eyebrows shot up, and she suddenly felt a wave of guilt for passing such harsh judgment on the Gypsy and her mother.
“I can’t take this. It’s beautiful, but I can’t take it.” Becky stuttered as she admired a sparkling silver cuff bracelet. She could see her reflection in the massive purple stone set in the middle of a filigree design that wrapped tightly around her wrist. The bracelet had small points of silver that hugged Becky’s wrist as if it were custom-made for her.
“You borrow it. Bring it back when you are done,” Ophelia said, closing the little box in Becky’s hand.
“When I’m done?”
“Yes. And if you don’t, I will put a curse on you and your whole family that will make the plagues of Moses’s time look like a Sunday picnic.” Ophelia gasped but could only keep a straight face for a few seconds before she started to chuckle. “Don’t be such a flat tire. You bring it back when you are done with it.”
Becky rolled her eyes before thanking Ophelia, leaving the apothecary, and hurrying in the direction of Moxley’s bank. She held her treasures close to her as she wove in and out of the crowds, crossing the street against the light and getting honked and yelled at by angry drivers.
Moxley was just emerging from the bank when Becky arrived. “Right on time,” Becky said as she sashayed up to him, smiling.
“Lucky for you. If I let Lucretia wait any longer for her molasses, I’m afraid you might be walking home,” Moxley said as he held the back door open for Becky to climb in the back seat. He took his seat in front and began to chatter to Becky about something. She wasn’t paying too much attention as she admired the pretty bauble Madame Cecelia and Ophelia had given her.
“Loaned,” she muttered, wondering what they meant by keeping it until she was done with it. The bracelet was beautiful. She didn’t think she’d ever be done with it.
“What’s that, Miss Becky?” Moxley asked.
“Oh, nothing, Moxley. I’m just thinking out loud.”
Chapter Twenty
That evening, the police stopped by the Mackenzie plantation for a second chance to talk to everyone who had been at Martha’s party. From what Becky could tell, they hadn’t made much progress. But after she spoke with them, she was sure they might have thought she had something to do with it.
“Did you find the body of Mr. Diggs near Willie’s club?” she whispered to Officer Hamilton, who sweated terribly beneath his uniform in the evening heat.
“How do you know about that?” he asked, tugging at his collar.
“I went to the station to report it. I must say that a lady isn’t taken very seriously when she comes to report a murder. Officer Fouts threatened to incarcerate me for suggesting Mr. Diggs had something to do with the death of Lawrence Hoolihan.” She cleared her throat, straightening her back as she peered behind the officer to make sure Kitty and Judge were not within hearing distance.
“What makes you think he did it?” Officer Hamilton asked. He had a round face and thinning hair that was slicked down across the top of his head.
As Becky explained her theory and the discarded playing cards, she found the officer’s expression of mild annoyance to be, well, annoying.
“Wouldn’t you agree that it’s rather suspicious to find the missing card from his deck in the room where the body was found?” she asked with a shrug.
“I think Paul Diggs crossed the wrong guy and got fit for a Chicago overcoat. He had a rep of being a petty hood, but he was no killer,” Officer Hamilton said. “Young lady, if I may suggest something…”
Becky nodded and leaned closer.
“Leave the crime solving to the professionals. Savvy?”
“Well, n
o need to be a Bruno about it. I can take a hint.” Becky flipped her hair and turned to join her father, who was standing on the porch, puffing his pipe and staring off across the tobacco fields. When she looked over her shoulder, she caught the officer taking a good long drink of Fanny as she sauntered by.
“Why, this whole mess has had me in knots for the longest time. Are you any closer to catching the person who did this?” she purred to Officer Hamilton, whose expression did a one-eighty and became as pleasant as punch when Fanny spoke to him.
“We’re doing the best we can, miss. Don’t you worry.” He flashed a goofy, toothy grin.
“I was the first one to discover the body. As I told your partner over there, I’d just returned from Paris and was in quite a state. That isn’t the kind of homecoming a girl like me is used to,” Fanny continued.
“I’ll bet not,” Officer Hamilton stuttered. Becky shook her head and planted herself next to her father.
“I never asked you what you think of all this. Who do you think did poor old Lawrence Hoolihan in?” Becky slipped her hand through the crook of her father’s arm.
“I’m more concerned about what’s happening in my own house.” He puffed pensively, looking down and sideways at Becky, who instantly felt a twinge of guilt in her chest. She knew what he was referring to.
“Oh, Daddy. It just seems like no one trusts me to do anything right. Just because I get my dresses torn and dirty doesn’t mean I’m some kind of loon,” Becky said. “Nor am I anything like Fanny has made me out to be. You believe me, don’t you, Daddy?”
He pulled his pipe from his mouth. The sweet-smelling smoke swirled around his head. “I know you are a bright and resourceful young lady. I also know that you are a bit on the wild side. That’s not always fittin’ for a Southern belle.”
“Ugh, I’m more like a Southern gong, Daddy, and you know it.”
Judge’s belly shook as he chuckled. “That might very well be. But it’s no excuse to go upsetting your mama.”