The Boy in the Red Dress

by Kristin Lambert

  “But what happened to that girl?” I said. “Your friend?”

  Cal’s lips pressed together until they weren’t smiling anymore. “Heard she got married. Has three or four kids now.”

  “Do you wish you went back for her? Asked her to come with you?”

  “You know I wouldn’t trade Rhoda for the world.” Cal picked at a loose thread on the cuff of her jacket. She was silent for a moment. When she looked back up at me, her eyes were wet. “But all the same . . .” She picked up my bandaged hand and held it between both of hers. “I had a good thing, and my daddy spoiled it for me. Don’t let your mama spoil this for you. Don’t let her take up so much room in your heart that you don’t have space for anybody else.”

  I thought about the memory of Mama popping up unwanted when I’d kissed Olive. She’d taken up more than her fair share of my time and energy and space for a long time. It was like I froze solid when she left me, and I’d never been able to stop feeling as hurt and angry as I did in that moment.

  I thought about Arimentha McDonough, how she’d let her pain about Marion wreck her plans to go to college and stop her from falling in love. I didn’t want to do that, even if I was the one owed the apology, not the other way around.

  “I think I understand what you’re saying.”

  “Good.” Cal took the newspaper from me and clucked her tongue at the way it had stained my bandages black. “Why don’t you go let Marion bandage you up again? Maybe you can come back later if you’re feeling better.”

  My hands were aching and my leg, too. I guessed I could give in this once. Cal started toward the club with the paper crumpled in her fist.

  “Cal—”

  She turned back. “Yeah, kid?”

  “Did you ever go home to visit your folks?” I’d never met my grandparents, only seen their picture in a brass frame Mama kept on the dresser. Their faces were familiar, especially my grandmother’s—wide at the cheekbones, like Mama’s, like Cal’s—but everything else about them was a mystery.

  “I never did,” Cal said. “Gladys did once or twice. But the welcome wasn’t too nice, so she didn’t go back. Wrote letters to Mama, though. Told her about you.”

  “She did?”

  “Sure.”

  “Didn’t they ever want to see me?”

  Cal grabbed my shoulder and jostled me a little, how she liked to do. “That I don’t know, kid, but if they didn’t want to see you, they were fools.”

  I smiled, despite myself. “Are they still alive?”

  Call shook her head. “They both died in a car accident a few years ago.”

  “Did you ever go visit their grave?”

  “Yeah, once. I figure I had to go at least once, even if I mostly hated them. Said goodbye to the piece of them I loved before I knew any better.” Cal gave my shoulder one last pat.

  As she turned and went back into the club, I faced the fountain, where Arimentha had taken her final breath. Like my awful grandparents, she was resting now somewhere—that rich lady at the Roosevelt Hotel had said she was buried in a tomb in Lafayette Cemetery No. 1.

  If Romeo was her killer, he’d been angry at her, maybe hated her. But he’d loved a piece of her, too, like Cal would always love a piece of her parents. And I would always love a piece of mine, even if I’d never admt it out loud.

  Maybe Romeo had needed to see Minty’s grave and say goodbye. And maybe, if he did, he left some clues behind.

  CHAPTER

  28

  LAFAYETTE CEMETERY NO. 1 was only a few streetcar stops downtown from my stop for Ursuline. I’d intended to leave early for school on Monday and go to the cemetery first thing on my way, but I was too busy sleeping, so it would have to be in the afternoon.

  At school, the other girls stared at my bandaged hands. Virginia Baines asked me if I had taken up boxing over the weekend, and the other girls giggled behind their own delicate hands. But when I put up my dukes and asked if they’d like a demonstration, they shrieked and ran away. Mother Cecilia Marie looked concerned and tried to call me into her office to talk at the end of the day, but I pretended to be in a hurry and promised I’d talk to her tomorrow, hoping she’d forget about it by then.

  When I got to the cemetery after school, I expected a quiet, peaceful place, and was looking forward to the break. But once I entered the gates, I saw the cemetery was overrun with prim ladies decorating Confederate graves with flowers in preparation for Robert E. Lee’s birthday next week. They tried to smile at me, assuming I was there to celebrate the glorious dead, too, but I wasn’t interested in people who still clung to the Civil War like it was something to be proud of. I ignored them and kept going through row after row of tombs shaped like sad concrete houses, tripping on the live oak roots pushing up the walkways and checking the engraved names until I found the tomb labeled MCDONOUGH in capitals over the entrance.

  There were only two names engraved on the marble tablet covering the opening where Minty’s body had been stowed.

  AURELIA SINCLAIR MCDONOUGH

  APRIL 12, 1888—OCTOBER 21, 1918

  ARIMENTHA SINCLAIR MCDONOUGH

  NOVEMBER 26, 1911—DECEMBER 31, 1929

  Two women struck down well before their time. Minty had lost her mother to the influenza epidemic when she was six years old. Would things have turned out differently for her if she hadn’t?

  Would things have turned out differently for me if my mother hadn’t left me? Or if I’d had a different mother, who cared to be one?

  A sense of heavy sadness descended over me like a curtain. Judge McDonough’s hopeful voice the night I broke into Minty’s room replayed in my head. “Arimentha darling? Is that you?”

  At the bottom of the tomb was carved a message in the stone:

  THERE IS NO DEATH! WHAT SEEMS SO IS TRANSITION.

  Was that what Judge McDonough had been hoping for that night? That some part of his daughter lived on?

  I didn’t believe in ghosts or hell or anyplace, but those words on the tomb gave me the creeps. Minty’s body was mere inches away, bricked up behind that marble slab, the bones of her mother below her. None of the Daughters of the Confederacy ladies were on this row with me, and their voices sounded far away, even though the whole cemetery took up only one city block. All these concrete tombs crammed together muffled and distorted the sounds. If someone came upon me here, and I screamed, no one would find me quick enough in this maze.

  The warning on the mirror floated red in my mind. What if the killer was true to his word and came to hurt me next?

  Shivers ran down my spine. What if he was watching me now? What if he was lurking behind one of these tombs?

  I looked over my shoulder to reassure myself, but a man was standing there in the long shadows. I let out a strangled scream.The man stepped forward into the bright afternoon light.

  It was no killer. It was Detective Sabatier. Relief surged through my body.

  He held up his hands, to show he meant no harm, but he didn’t apologize.

  “That’s Longfellow,” he said.

  “What?” I pressed a hand over my heart, which was still rocketing around in my chest.

  “‘There is no Death! What seems so is transition; this life of mortal breath is but a suburb of the life elysian, whose portal we call Death.’”

  I glared at him. The last thing I wanted right now was a sneaky, poetry-quoting cop. “What are you doing here?”

  “I come here twice a day most days, on my way to and from the police station.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “For much the same reason you do, I expect. Because a remorseful killer might pay Miss McDonough a visit. I suggested the department assign a plainclothes officer to keep watch on the tomb around the clock, but my superior didn’t think that was a good use of funds.”

  Craggy. That didn’t surpri
se me a bit. “So, you come here yourself.”

  Sabatier smiled tightly, the bitterness still showing in his eyes. “I keep hoping I’ll stumble on someone visiting. And now here I find you.”

  My brows rose. “You think I’m the killer just because I’m standing in front of her grave?”

  “No, Miss Coleman.” Sabatier studied me carefully in that unnerving way of his. “What happened to your hands? And is that a bandage on your leg?”

  I bit my lip. I’d promised Marion I would tell the detective about the vandalism and the warning on the mirror, and it was essential information about the killer. But I dreaded having yet another conversation about how I should be leaving this investigation to the police.

  Before I could decide how to phrase what I had to say, Sabatier spoke again. “I heard someone broke into your club. Is that how you got hurt?”

  Surprised, I scowled and took a step toward him. “Heard from who?”

  He hesitated, his gaze drifting back to Minty’s tomb. “I have my sources. You really should’ve reported the incident to the police right away. We could’ve dusted for fingerprints.”

  I snorted. “Because that worked so well for you last time?”

  “We could’ve taken photographs then.”

  “Already done.” I looked at him steadily. “If you know about the vandalism and the warning, then you know the killer isn’t Marion. That means you’ll leave him alone now, right?”

  Sabatier shifted his weight. “All I can say is I’m going to pursue all avenues, as I’ve always done.” He nodded at Minty’s tomb. “The only person I’m obligated to is her. I owe her justice.”

  “So the rest of the world can hang?”

  He moved closer beside me and clasped his hands behind his back, still staring at Arimentha’s name on the vertical slab. “I would feel the same way if it was you in there, or if it was Marion himself. She deserved a chance to make amends, to make her life what she wanted it to be. She was still so young, barely more than a child, like you.”

  I grimaced at him. “We were nothing alike.”

  “You both lost your mothers too soon.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  He held up his hands again. “Nothing.”

  I turned away from him and looked at the two urns sitting on either side of the tomb’s base, each filled with yellow flowers.

  “Who brought those?” I said without looking at Sabatier.

  “Her father has them sent over. He hasn’t come himself since the funeral. Can’t bear it, I’m told.” Another stab of guilt sliced at my chest. I took a step closer to the tomb and ran my hand over the marble enclosure. It had only been here a decade, but the constant humid weather had already turned the marble as rough as sandpaper. This close, I noticed something I hadn’t before—a tiny corner of paper poking out between the edge of the closure tablet and the wall of the tomb at about my knee height. Cautious excitement rose in my chest. Was this the clue I’d come here for? Or just something left behind when the cemetery workers closed up Arimentha’s tomb?

  The corner was too small to grab with my fingers and tug out quickly; it would require careful maneuvering, or else I’d push it in deeper and never be able to reach it. I glanced over my shoulder at Sabatier.

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

  His brows rose slightly. “Nope.” He stepped up to the tomb right next to me. “Have you found something of interest?”

  “Is there anyone else from their family buried in this cemetery?” I said, hoping to direct Sabatier’s attention away from the McDonough tomb.

  “Not that I know of,” he said absently, eyes scanning the tomb where I’d been looking.

  “What about her diary? Find anything else interesting in there?”

  He didn’t answer me. I saw on his face the moment he spotted the corner of paper.

  “Miss Coleman,” he said evenly, “do you happen to have a pair of tweezers with you?”

  So much for losing him. “Why would I be carrying around tweezers?”

  “Some people do.”

  I watched him staring at the paper, then sighed. Now that he’d spotted it, he was going to get it with or without me. I’d rather make him share. “I do have a pointy knife.”

  I took my switchblade out of my bag, where I liked to keep it handy, even at school. I’d never used it on anyone, though was often tempted. Sabatier looked slightly alarmed when I clicked the button to open it, but then he held out a hand for it.

  “It’s my blade. I’ll do it.” I shouldered him out of the way and crouched in front of my new obstacle. The corner of paper was so tiny I could only use the tip of the blade. My hands would have to be steady.

  “Be careful,” Sabatier said unnecessarily.

  “Don’t talk. You’ll interrupt my concentration.”

  Sabatier pressed his lips together into a flat line, which I took for grudging agreement. I held my blade over the corner of paper for a few seconds, wincing at the slight pain in my knuckles. I slowed my breathing to make sure my hand was steady, then stabbed the tiny bit of paper and began to tug. Bit by bit, it slid more into view until another corner was visible. I kept the first corner pinned with my knife and pinched the other with my fingers. I dragged the note the rest of the way, and it was mine.

  Until Sabatier unceremoniously snatched it from my hand.

  “Hey!” I shot straight up.

  “It’s evidence, Miss Coleman,” he said, but without even bothering to gloat. He was already unfolding the paper, and there was another drawing, much like the one we’d found in the diary. Even I recognized this bird—a mourning dove. The paper was the same size and shape as the other drawing, probably taken from the same notebook; and since Symphony Cornice had shown me the different styles of pencil strokes, I could recognize that the same artist had drawn this one. Quickly, Sabatier flipped it over and checked for a note, but this time there was none.

  “Do you think the killer put this here?” I shivered, remembering that creepy feeling I’d had before Sabatier appeared. What if the killer really had been nearby watching me? He’d already watched me at least once, or he wouldn’t have left that warning on the mirror. Between him and Sabatier’s “sources,” pretty soon I’d be tripping over stalkers every time I turned around.

  “I don’t know,” Sabatier said, maddeningly averse to conjecture. “I believe this one matches the one from the diary.” He gave me a pointed look. “The one I’ve mysteriously not laid eyes on since that day we found it together.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Miss Coleman,” he said, turning stern, “these drawings may be the key to the case, and it’s important I keep all the evidence safe and in police hands, so that I can get a conviction when we do catch this killer. If you have that other drawing—”

  “All right, all right. I get it.” I’d already gotten about all the use I could out of the drawing anyway, so I dug it out of my bag and handed it over. “For the record, I didn’t steal it—you dropped it.”

  “Thank you, Miss Coleman.” Sabatier held up the two drawings side by side. “Remarkable.”

  “Why do you think a killer would leave this here like a calling card?”

  “I imagine he didn’t think it would be noticed. It was only a tiny white corner against white marble. Not everyone would have spotted it.”

  “That sounds dangerously close to a compliment, Detective Sabatier.”

  “Nothing dangerous about it, Miss Coleman. Your instincts are good. Your methods, however, leave much to be desired.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ll stick to mine and you stick to yours.”

  “I will, Miss Coleman. We’ll see in the end who prevails.”

  “Yes, we will.”

  CHAPTER

  29

  ON MY WAY out of the cemetery, I paid one of the main
tenance workers two bucks and asked him to keep an eye on Minty’s tomb and to call me if anybody came to visit. Another method of mine Detective Sabatier would probably disapprove of, but he’d be eating his hat if it paid off for me later.

  On the way home, I tried to think of some other tricks I had that Sabatier didn’t, and I remembered the Felicity Inn. Now was a perfect time to make a second attempt to find it.

  The vivid blue sky of afternoon had faded to pale lavender by the time I’d made it back to Canal Street on the streetcar and walked to the far end, where the Pelican and the Felicity Inn were supposedly in close proximity. But there was still much more light to see by than there’d been the night I searched for the hotel with Olive.

  I slowed my steps and studied each house as I passed it, looking for signs that it was anything other than a house. Then, about a block away from the Pelican, I spotted it—a literal sign. It was the size of an envelope and nailed up beside a purple front door. It read, ROOMS TO LET. SHORT TERM.

  I stopped, heartbeat speeding up, and bounded up the steps. The faded pink paint of the house’s clapboards was coated in coal dust, and the stained-glass sidelights around the front door were smudged and cobwebbed. I rang the doorbell once and waited, but no one came. I pressed the button again, longer this time, and heard the bell’s chime echoing inside.

  Just when I’d decided I had the wrong place, a woman opened the door halfway and looked out. She was tall, with plenty of natural insulation under her mulberry-colored dress and several rings on each plump hand.

  “Is this the Felicity Inn?” I blurted.

  She took in the sight of me in my school uniform, and her dark brows drew together. “Aren’t you a little young for this place, honey?”