Murder on Waverly Place

by Victoria Thompson

  “This is Yellow Feather,” a deep voice proclaimed, and Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. The sound came from where she knew Madame Serafina sat, but the voice was a man’s. “I sense a stranger’s presence, someone who does not believe.”

  Sarah stiffened, instinctively feeling guilty and feeling angry for feeling that guilt.

  “Don’t pay her any mind, Yellow Feather,” Cunningham pleaded. “Please, is my father with you today? I need to speak with him.”

  “Many spirits are here with me, but not all of them wish to speak. Some are very sad and others are angry.”

  “Is my father angry?” Cunningham asked, his voice shrill with alarm. “I did exactly what he told me to do! It wasn’t my fault that it didn’t work out!”

  “Someone is here,” Yellow Feather’s voice said. “She has a rose.”

  Sarah could feel a tremor go through Mr. Sharpe’s arm. “Harriet,” he breathed. Then louder, “Harriet?”

  “She has a red rose. This has some special meaning.”

  “Yes, I always gave her red roses on our anniversary,” Mr. Sharpe said, his voice trembling. “Harriet, can you hear me?”

  Sarah found herself holding her breath, infected by his tension. She could almost imagine she smelled roses.

  “She wants to tell you something,” Yellow Feather said, “but the message isn’t clear. She’s afraid for you.”

  “Afraid? Why is she afraid?”

  “You are trying to make a decision.”

  “Yes, yes,” Mr. Sharpe said. “What does she want me to do?”

  The scent of roses was stronger now. Sarah was sure of it.

  “There is danger,” Yellow Feather said. “Someone is in danger.”

  “No, there’s no danger,” he insisted.

  “You must protect someone from this danger.”

  “How? How can I do that?”

  The humming sound returned, louder now, almost audible but not quite. A long minute passed, and then another. Sarah felt Mr. Sharpe’s tension. It was radiating through her now. The smell of roses filled her throat.

  “Tell me!” Sharpe begged. “Tell me what to do!”

  The humming stopped, and Yellow Feather made a groaning sound, as if he were in pain. “You know the answer. Follow your heart.”

  “I can’t!” Sharpe protested.

  “Follow . . .” Yellow Feather said on a soft moan. “Follow . . . your . . . heart.”

  Sharpe drew a breath and let it out on a sigh of surrender.

  “Father,” Cunningham tried again. “Father, are you there?”

  “Opal is here,” Yellow Feather said, ignoring Cunningham.

  “Opal!” Mrs. Burke said in surprise. She didn’t sound happy.

  “She wants to tell you something. Something important. Something you need to know.”

  “I did what you told me!” Mrs. Burke said anxiously. “But it wasn’t enough.”

  “She says . . . Someone else is here.”

  “Who? Who is it?”

  “Father?” Cunningham interrupted. “Father, are you there?”

  “Someone Opal loves.” Yellow Feather sounded impatient. “Someone you both love.”

  “Mother?” she asked in surprise. “Mother, are you there?”

  Yellow Feather moaned. “I’m tired, so tired . . .”

  “No, no!” Mrs. Burke nearly shouted. “You must tell me what my mother is saying!”

  “The message is unclear,” Yellow Feather complained, sounding oddly petulant. “She’s fading.”

  “No, please! I have to know! What is she saying?”

  “Something . . .” Yellow Feather sounded as if he were struggling. “Something she gave you.”

  “What? What is it? She gave me so many things!”

  “Something special . . .” Yellow Feather paused. “What? I can hardly hear her.”

  “Please, what is it?” Mrs. Burke nearly sobbed.

  “Something . . . valuable.”

  “The brooch?” she asked in surprise. “Not the diamond brooch!”

  “I don’t know . . . Wait, yes . . . Yes, she says it’s all right,” Yellow Feather reported, slightly puzzled. “Do you know what she means?”

  “But it’s been in the family forever!” Mrs. Burke protested.

  Yellow Feather moaned. “She’s fading.”

  “Are you sure it’s the brooch?” Mrs. Burke pressed frantically. “And she said it’s all right?”

  “Yes, it’s all right,” Yellow Feather confirmed faintly.

  Mrs. Burke made a sound that could have been a sob.

  “I’m tired, so tired . . . but someone else is here, a spirit I’ve never seen before.” More moaning. “Pain,” Yellow Feather said. “Someone in pain. A child.”

  “Abigail?” Mrs. Gittings called out desperately.

  “A baby,” Yellow Feather said, his voice thick. “A tiny baby, just born.”

  Mrs. Decker gasped.

  “Mother, don’t,” Sarah said before she could think.

  “A tiny baby,” Yellow feather said, his voice stronger now, as if to overpower Sarah’s protest.

  “It’s Maggie’s baby!” Mrs. Decker cried.

  “Too small to speak, but pain, I feel so much pain.”

  “Is Maggie there?” Mrs. Decker called. “Maggie, can you hear me?”

  Fury boiled up in Sarah’s chest. It wasn’t Maggie, it couldn’t be!

  Yellow Feather moaned. “Someone is here, but she will not speak. She is too angry.”

  “Maggie, I’m sorry!” Mrs. Decker cried. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know!”

  Sarah opened her mouth, ready to stop this farce, but a new sound shocked her, and the words died in her throat. At first she didn’t know what it was or where it was coming from. It began like a screech from a poorly played violin and then broke into a more familiar sound, a sound Sarah heard so often that she couldn’t mistake it, but she still couldn’t believe it. A baby’s cry. A newborn baby’s cry!

  “My God,” Mr. Sharpe said beside her.

  No! Sarah wanted to scream, but she could form no words. Her throat seemed paralyzed. Tears flooded her eyes. This was too cruel! Too horrible to bear!

  Someone was sobbing. “Maggie!” the sobbing voice choked.

  “Stop it!” Sarah said and tried to break free, but Mrs. Gittings’s fingers tightened on her wrist, refusing to let go, and when Sarah released Mr. Sharpe’s wrist, he grabbed hers in a bruising grip.

  The baby’s cry stopped abruptly.

  “She is too angry,” Yellow Feather’s deep voice proclaimed solemnly. “She can’t forgive you.”

  “Sarah,” her mother’s voice pleaded. “She’ll talk to you!”

  “No!” Sarah felt the tears rolling down her cheeks. She wouldn’t let herself be drawn into this nightmare.

  “Please,” her mother begged. “She’ll talk to you. Tell her, Sarah. Tell her I’m sorry!”

  “Sarah doesn’t believe,” Yellow Feather said sadly.

  “Yes, she does!” Mrs. Decker insisted wildly. Sarah could hardly believe it was her mother’s voice. “Sarah, tell him! Tell him you believe! Talk to Maggie for me. Tell her!”

  Mrs. Gittings shook Sarah’s arm. “Tell her!” she commanded.

  “For God’s sake, tell her!” Cunningham’s voice begged.

  Sarah’s mouth was so dry, she could hardly force her tongue to work. “Mag . . . Maggie?” she tried, hating herself, hating all of them.

  Yellow Feather moaned.

  “Maggie, they . . .”

  Yellow Feather moaned more loudly, as if his heart were bursting in his chest.

  Sarah tried to swallow and then forced the words past her reluctant lips. “They didn’t mean to hurt you!”

  Yellow Feather’s voice exploded in a piercing shriek that froze Sarah’s blood in her veins and then someone else screamed.

  “Madame Serafina!” Mrs. Burke cried. “She’s fainted!”

  3

  MRS. GITTINGS
AND MR. SHARPE RELEASED SARAH’S wrists, and she jumped to her feet, not really certain what to do next but knowing that she must do something. Someone had managed to find the door in the dark and opened it, letting in enough light to see that Madame Serafina had slid out of her chair and fallen to the floor in a heap. Sarah’s mother seemed to be fine. She was still in her chair, staring down at Madame Serafina in alarm.

  “Professor!” Mrs. Gittings was calling out into the hall. She was the one who had found the door. “Madame fainted!”

  The man ran into the room. “Don’t touch her!” he commanded. “Is there any ectoplasm?”

  “No,” someone said.

  “We didn’t see any,” someone else confirmed.

  He knelt down on one knee, pulled the stopper from the small bottle he carried, and passed it under Madame’s nose. Sarah could smell it from here. Smelling salts. Madame stirred, instinctively recoiling from the harsh odor.

  “Madame, are you all right?” he asked.

  Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing those magnificent eyes. “What happened?”

  “You fainted,” Mrs. Burke said, wringing her hands nervously.

  “She did it,” Cunningham said angrily, pointing at Sarah. “It’s all her fault. She doesn’t believe!”

  Sarah resisted the absurd impulse to apologize. She’d done nothing wrong.

  “You were the one who told Yellow Feather not to mind her,” Mrs. Gittings reminded him fiercely. “Madame, are you all right?”

  The Professor was helping her sit up. She looked dazed, her eyes not really focusing. “I think so.” She looked at Cunningham with concern. “Was it your father?”

  “No! He didn’t even speak to me,” Cunningham reported indignantly. “It’s all her fault.” He glared at Sarah again.

  “Can you try again?” Mrs. Decker asked to Sarah’s surprise. “My daughter . . . I need to speak to her.”

  Madame Serafina looked at Mrs. Decker, studying her face as if trying to look into her soul. “Did Yellow Feather contact her?”

  “Yes, she was there,” Mrs. Decker said with a certainty that pricked Sarah’s heart. “Don’t you remember?”

  Madame smiled sadly. “I never remember anything that happens when Yellow Feather is speaking through me. But perhaps I can summon him again.” She took the Professor’s arm and let him help her to her feet, but as soon as he released her, she swayed dangerously.

  He caught her and lowered her into the chair she’d occupied previously. “She can’t possibly do another session now,” he said. “It would be far too dangerous. Can’t you see how weak she is?”

  She did look weak, which was just fine with Sarah. She had to get her mother out of there.

  “I’m very sorry if I caused any trouble,” Sarah said just the way she had been taught to as a child—say you’re sorry even if you don’t mean it.

  Madame looked up at her in surprise, her dark eyes unreadable. “You still don’t believe?” she asked in amazement.

  Sarah didn’t want to lie, and she didn’t think she needed to. Madame seemed to already know the answer. “Mother, we should go so Madame Serafina can rest.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” her mother said, suddenly remembering her manners. She rose from her chair, and Sarah was alarmed to see that she also looked a bit unsteady. Mr. Sharpe solicitously took her arm, but she didn’t even notice. She was looking at Madame Serafina. “Thank you so much. I’m very grateful.”

  “I hope I was able to help,” Madame said with apparent sincerity.

  Sarah pushed past Mr. Sharpe and took her mother’s other arm. “Let’s go now,” she said, and her mother followed her meekly out into the hallway, leaving Sharpe and the others behind. They could hear Cunningham complaining again that his father hadn’t even spoken to him.

  “Are you all right, Mother?” Sarah asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Mrs. Decker said with a degree of wonder. “I’ve never had an experience like that before. It was extraordinary.”

  “Yes, it was,” Sarah readily agreed. Extraordinary was one way to describe it.

  The Professor had followed them out and hurried to open the door for them. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Decker. I hope you were satisfied with the sitting.”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said vaguely.

  “You are welcome to return at any time,” he said. Sarah noted that he did not include her in the invitation.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Decker said as Sarah maneuvered her out the door.

  They paused on the front steps. Sarah was almost surprised to see that the world had gone on its ordinary way all the time they’d been conversing with the dead. She would not have been surprised to see that the sky had turned green or something. But the sights and sounds of the city were exactly the same as they’d been an hour ago when they’d entered this strange house.

  Sarah looked up and down the street and saw the Decker carriage where the driver had found a spot to pull over. She waved and caught his eye. He quickly slapped the horses into motion and deftly maneuvered the carriage out into the street and up to where they waited.

  Although the task took only a few minutes, the wait seemed like hours as Sarah kept checking to make sure her mother was all right. She was still rather pale, and she hadn’t said a single word since they’d left the house. She also hadn’t looked at Sarah even once.

  When the carriage reached them, the driver stopped and jumped down to assist them. Only when they were safely inside and the vehicle was moving did Sarah break the silence. “Are you going to be all right, Mother?”

  She looked at Sarah in surprise, as if she’d forgotten she was there. “Of course I am,” she replied with some annoyance. “Stop asking me that.” She looked away again, out the window, although Sarah was sure she wasn’t seeing anything. “I didn’t believe it was possible. Not really, I mean. I didn’t believe she could really speak to the dead.”

  “Mother—” Sarah tried, but her mother was having none of it.

  “I know you don’t believe, but how else can you explain it? She knew about Maggie’s baby.”

  “I don’t know,” Sarah admitted, “but I’m sure there’s some explanation.”

  “No one knew about the baby,” Mrs. Decker reminded her. “No one. Everyone thinks Maggie died of a fever in France.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No one knew, outside of our family,” Mrs. Decker went on relentlessly. “She must have been talking to Maggie. Did you . . . did you hear the baby cry?” she asked, her voice breaking.

  Sarah instinctively took her hand. “Mother, please . . .”

  Mrs. Decker’s fingers closed around hers like a vise. “You heard it, didn’t you? A baby was crying.”

  “Yes, I . . . I heard something that sounded like a baby crying,” Sarah admitted.

  “You see? And what about those other messages? The one that Kathy got, and Mr. Sharpe? They knew the spirits who were speaking. They understood the messages.”

  Sarah had no explanation, but she still wasn’t convinced. “So it seemed.”

  “Seemed? Kathy was certain. I must ask her what it meant, the information about a diamond brooch. I know she understood it, though. That was obvious.”

  “She appeared to,” was all Sarah could manage.

  Mrs. Decker turned to look out the window again. The carriage moved slowly through the crowded streets. People walked past on the sidewalk, giving them hardly a glance. “Maggie was there,” she said softly after a few moments.

  Sarah closed her eyes and bit her tongue. She mustn’t say what she was thinking. Her mother was as stubborn as she, and Sarah would never give up on something just because her mother advised her to. In fact, she’d be more likely to persevere if her mother advised her to stop. She swallowed down her frustration and willed her voice to steadiness. “If you believe Maggie was there, then she heard you say you were sorry,” she pointed out reasonably. “You accomplished your purpose.” This was the only reason she had agreed to g
o with her mother in the first place.

  Mrs. Decker looked at her sharply, as if trying to judge her sincerity. “That’s true.”

  Sarah felt the knot of tension in her stomach ease a bit. “I know that must be a great burden lifted from you. I may not approve, but if this . . . what happened today . . . If this gives you peace, then I’m happy for you.”

  “Thank you, Sarah. That means a lot to me.”

  “But I hope this will be the end of it.” Her mother stiffened in silent resistance, but Sarah hurried on, determined to follow Maeve’s advice not to allow Mrs. Decker to be taken advantage of. “Did you notice that Mrs. Burke didn’t seem very happy with the message she got today? Neither did Mr. Sharpe. I have a feeling that you might not always be pleased with what you hear.”

  “I wasn’t pleased today,” her mother reminded her.

  “Exactly. If all you wanted was an opportunity to tell Maggie you were sorry, you got that today.”

  “But she didn’t forgive me,” Mrs. Decker reminded her.

  “And what if she never does?” Sarah asked ruthlessly. “What if she curses you or says hurtful things? Would you be able to bear it?”

  “I—”

  “I know you’ve suffered all these years, Mother, but it could be even worse. I beg you to stop now. You’ve asked for Maggie’s forgiveness. That’s all we can ever do when we’ve wronged someone. I think she would have forgiven you in life, if she’d had the chance. We have to believe she would also forgive you in death.”

  “If only I could be sure,” Mrs. Decker said, her voice catching on tears.

  “I’m sure,” Sarah said. “Mother, don’t do this to yourself again. Let Maggie’s spirit rest in peace.”

  Her mother drew an unsteady breath. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I am, I promise you.”

  “I feel sorry for that poor girl.”

  “Who?” Sarah asked in surprise.

  “Madame Serafina.”

  “Why?”

  “That must be so difficult for her. You saw her afterwards. She was exhausted.”

  Or pretending to be, Sarah thought. If she was too tired to continue, the clients would have to pay to come back another time to finish the session, just like Maeve had predicted. Poor Mr. Cunningham had gotten nothing at all for his fee today. Or Mrs. Gittings either. “She seems very young to be involved in all this,” Sarah said.