Body at the Crossroads

by Cate Martin

  Despite her bragging words she seemed to be having trouble finding something in the kitchen. She kept opening and closing cupboards, the same ones over and over, and running her hands over the counters.

  "Can I help you find something?" I asked.

  "I know this kitchen like I know my own mind," she snapped.

  "I'm sure you do," I said. "But you've had a terrible shock, and that takes a toll. Let me help you."

  She looked like she wanted to argue, but then her shoulders slumped.

  "It's not the shock," she said. "It's Molly. She keeps moving my things. I'll have to speak to her in the morning."

  I looked down at the tea tray. Everything seemed to be in its place. Then I noticed the sugar bowl was empty. "Sugar?" I guessed.

  "It's in a canister, but none of these," she said, lifting the lids off of the canisters lined up by size on the counter. I had seen her do that twice before and not find what she was looking for.

  I was just thinking that perhaps Brianna could try that locator spell of hers when I spotted the glint of something lurking behind the decorative wood topper of the hutch. "Is there something up there?" I asked.

  Helen took a moment to find what I was pointing at, then frowned as she pulled a chair over to the hutch and stepped up onto it.

  Another way she was different from her sister: Cynthia had been thin, almost too thin, but Helen had thick arms and chunky legs. She planted one solid foot on the seat of the chair and stepped up to peer over the top of the hutch.

  "Here it is indeed," Helen said, stepping back down with the little canister in her hand.

  "Kind of an odd place for it," I said, fighting the urge to brace myself as Helen lifted the lid. She poured a glistening stream of sugar into the bowl, and I had to tell myself that not every container left tucked away on top of a hutch contained the ghost of someone's soul.

  Helen hefted the massive tray and carried it into the parlor. As she poured out tea for all of us, I chanced a little glance at Brianna then at Sophie.

  Brianna tipped her head Frank's way then gave it a little shake.

  So Frank was free of blame. And Helen certainly had a lot of conflicting feelings about her sister, but that was perfectly natural. A time-traveling older sister who became a lawyer and still managed to marry well would irk any little sister with more mundane skills and no husband to show for it. But surely not enough to kill her over.

  And there was still the matter of the amulet. Helen would have known what it was, knowing what her sister could do. So why would she take it then not use it to get to the future?

  Suddenly I felt a cold chill run up my spine. If the murderer had known what the amulet was when they had taken it, why would they linger in 1927?

  Were we looking in the wrong time?

  Chapter 17

  We took tea with Frank and Helen, trying not to stuff ourselves on the little cakes and tarts, which wasn't easy. Helen might brag herself up a bit, but she didn't exaggerate.

  Frank told us all about how he had met Cynthia (one of a line of charm school girls at a society function), about their long courtship (she had been attending college at the time, unbeknownst to him), how he finally got her to agree to marry him on the third proposal, and all about their happy albeit childless life together.

  It was clear that he had adored her. It was also clear he had a pretty hazy idea of what it was she did all day. It was like his mind just skated over the fact that she traveled to the future every day after she kissed him good-bye and before she returned in the evening.

  We were in that parlor for more than an hour, and no one had ever opened up the curtains, so when we found ourselves back out in the bright September day, we had to stop at the bottom of the porch steps to blink and adjust our eyes.

  "Oh, he's still here," Brianna said, and I looked up to see Edward Scott loitering against a tree on the other side of the road. He saw us looking at him and gave a little wave then crossed the street.

  "I thought I'd walk you back," he said.

  "Did you think we wouldn't find our way back?" Sophie asked.

  "Not a bit," he said amiably. "But if Ivy is up now and looking out her window at the street, perhaps seeing me escorting three lovely ladies past her house will give her a twinge of regret for turning me away earlier."

  "I don't know if I want to be a part of anything so manipulative," I said.

  "Would it help to know that I saw her looking out the window when I came to her house before, and I know for a fact she was out of bed but told her maid to say she wasn't?" he asked. "And if you still don't believe me, we can ask Coco. She'll back up my story."

  "Coco is fond of you," I guessed. "She'll back you up no matter what you say."

  He tipped his head to look at me out of the corners of his eyes. "This is true. You're very astute." Then he held out his arms to Sophie and me. "Shall we?"

  I exchanged a glance with Sophie, and she gave a careless shrug. We were going that way anyway.

  "Speaking of Coco," Edward said as we walked. "She came by while you were inside with Mr. Thomas and told me what happened to Cynthia. You have my deepest condolences."

  "Thank you," I said. "But we only knew her for a short time."

  "Do the police have any leads?" he asked.

  "I don't believe so," I said, quite certain the police in this time didn't even know that a crime had been committed.

  "Coco has a long list of suspects," Edward said.

  "We know," I said.

  "Probably longer than you know," he said. "I think she's been adding to it since you talked with her last. She's very excited. I tell you this by way of warning; she's going to want to help out. I believe she's actively searching for you to offer her services."

  "We'll keep an eye out," Sophie said.

  "She seems a fanciful girl," I said. Then in case that sounded too harsh, I added, "I quite like her."

  "Ditto on both scores," Edward said. "But she did have one name on that list that could be a real possibility."

  "Oh?" I said, looking back over my shoulder to be sure Brianna was following close enough to hear him. Not only was she right behind us with her little book open, she had the pencil poised to note down what he said next.

  "Yes," he said. "I think we can agree that gangsters and pirates are probably not likely suspects, but Mr. William Brown is another matter entirely."

  "He lives next door," I said.

  "Indeed," Edward agreed. "And he hates the fact that he shares a property boundary with Miss Zenobia Weekes and her Charm School for Exceptional Young Ladies. Not only does he make his feelings no secret, it can be difficult to pass before his house and not hear it."

  That sounded familiar. I wondered if Linda Olson was a descendant or just someone who had bought the old man's house. Or perhaps the building had a strange energy that compelled its residents to accost passersby.

  Now that I knew witches were really a thing, lots of other things I had thought impossible were becoming things I just had to start questioning.

  Like aliens. Were they real too?

  "Can you introduce us?" Sophie asked.

  "I can," Edward said, but there was something guarded in his tone.

  "Is that a problem?" I asked. "We could probably just introduce ourselves-"

  "Oh no, don't do that," Edward said. "He's very old-fashioned about that sort of thing. Young ladies, exceptional or otherwise, do not introduce themselves to men."

  "Ugh," Sophie said, rolling her eyes.

  "I'll just make the introductions, and once you get your feet under you I'll hop over and call on Ivy," he said, looking wistfully at one of the upper windows of Coco's house.

  Then we passed the charm school and the surprisingly sparse hedges around Mrs. Olson's - I mean, Mr. Brown's - house until we reached the front walk.

  Edward cleared his throat and adjusted his shirt and vest before ringing the bell. Just as the door started to swing open, he remembered his hat and whipped it off his
head to thrust it behind his back. His hair whirled up, tried to follow the trajectory of his hat, then just collapsed in a tousle of waves over his forehead.

  A perfect tousle of waves. He must have Sophie powers over his hair.

  The man standing at the door was far too self-important to be a servant. He was looking at his pocket watch as opened the door as if even before we spoke, we were taking up entirely too much of his time. He was much taller than Mrs. Olson, with a full head of steely gray hair and a nose like a hatchet.

  But the eyes. The eyes were the same. Just like Mrs. Olson's as she glared over the tops of her hedges. He didn't have to ask our business; that fierce glare did it for him. He tucked the pocket watch away then planted a walking stick he had been holding tucked in his armpit between his feet and leaned most of his weight on it.

  You'd think leaning on a walking stick would make him look infirm, harmless, but it didn't. It allowed him to loom over us like a villain in an old cartoon. The top of the cane was some sort of polished stone, gleaming gray with veins of white and black just visible between his bony fingers.

  "Mr. William Brown," Edward said nervously. "You know me, I believe? Edward Scott?"

  "I know you," Mr. Brown said, clearly wishing he didn't. "Why are you knocking at my door? I have no daughter for you to use to climb up in the world."

  "Ah," Edward said, the old man's words clearly throwing him for a loop. I knew he hadn't yet introduced us, so I wasn't supposed to speak yet, but I couldn't keep my mouth shut.

  "We're from next door," I said. "The school."

  "Really?" he said with great disdain. "The charm school that completely fails in teaching any young lady even the rudiments of charm? Forward young ladies like yourself, for instance?"

  "Miss Zenobia Weekes' school," Edward said as if Mr. Brown might be thinking of some other place. "Forgive my manners. Ladies, may I present Mr. William Brown of Brown Lumber. Mr. Brown, this is Miss Amanda Clarke, Miss Sophie DuBois and Miss Brianna Collins, recently arrived from New Orleans."

  I opened my mouth to correct the misconception that we were all from New Orleans, but Sophie reached behind Edward to dig her fingers into my arm, and I shut my mouth again.

  Not important.

  "That school," Mr. Brown said, "is a blight on this neighborhood. I've long said so-"

  "Indeed you have," Edward said, and I sensed he was running a frightful risk by interrupting the man, who responded by turning an alarming shade of purple. But Edward pressed on. "I'm sorry, Mr. Brown, but I'm wondering if you can tell us where you were yesterday evening? I think I might have seen you at the Hills' soiree."

  "Yesterday evening?" Mr. Brown sputtered. "Yesterday evening I was in."

  "All night?" Edward pressed.

  "All night," Mr. Brown said darkly. "Not that it's anybody's business." Then he muttered under his breath, "why on earth I'd be at the Hills' soiree. I have no one left to marry off."

  "So you were home all night?" I asked.

  "Really, young lady," he said, offended I think that I was asking him any questions at all.

  "It's just, we were wondering if you heard anything odd last night?"

  "Odd, coming from your school?" he asked.

  Sophie and I both nodded.

  "Every sound that comes from that place is damned odd," he said, and I noticed he didn't apologize for cursing in front of us. We really weren't ladies in his eyes.

  "Can you tell us more?" Sophie asked. "We just arrived, and we're really not sure what sort of place we've gotten mixed up in."

  "No, I would say that you are not!" he boomed but seemed to soften as if pitying us poor travelers from afar. "Strange things happen there. Lights and sounds. Once I even thought it was on fire, and I could hear screams, but when I called the brigade, there was nothing. I don't appreciate being treated like a dotard," he added.

  "No, I should say not," I said. I glanced over at Sophie and realized there was no one between us now. When had Edward taken off? Well, he had warned us.

  "I would advise the three of you to pack up your things and head back to New Orleans at once," Mr. Brown said to us. "I won't spread rumors, no indeed I will not, but one hears the most frightful things about that place. No, I won't spread rumors, but I will tell you that anything you might hear, I am almost certain they are all true. Even the darkest, most ludicrous, diabolical tales that seem the ravings of a literary mind. Even those, I feel, do not scratch the surface of what really goes on inside those walls."

  "Wow," I said. "Diabolical?"

  "I shall not repeat rumors!" he said again. "But I will tell you this. Whatever goes on in that school, turning out fine young ladies is not its purpose. I've never seen a single refined lady emerge from Miss Zenobia's dubious tutelage."

  "Mrs. Cynthia Thomas?" Sophie asked, and I braced for another blast of vitriol.

  That didn't come.

  "Mrs. Thomas is perhaps the exception," Mr. Brown allowed. "Although I prefer to think her family brought her up so well that even Miss Zenobia could not lead her wrong. Although why she still works with that spinster, I can't imagine. At least she is not a teacher."

  "The reason we're asking if you heard anything odd last night," I said, sneaking a glance at Sophie to see if we were on the same page that now was the time to reveal our purpose. Sophie nodded, then jutted her chin up as if to give me courage. I looked back at Mr. Brown. "The reason why we're asking is that Mrs. Cynthia Thomas was murdered last night."

  "Good lord!" Mr. Brown cried, clutching at his heart and staggering against the door frame. For a moment I was genuinely afraid that he was having a heart attack and rushed forward to catch him. But he didn't fall. He did put a hand on my shoulder and use it to push himself back upright.

  "I'm sorry," he said, stepping back from me. "That was a bit of a shock. Yes, a bit of a shock. You might have delivered that information in a gentler way."

  "I'm sorry," I said. I couldn't find a diplomatic way to say that he seemed so lacking in empathy that nothing would bother him. I was half convinced he was only pretending to be so affected now.

  Well, less than half.

  "You're certain it was murder?" he asked. "She certainly appeared to be in fine health, but none of us are as young as we used to be."

  "She was struck on the back of the head with something heavy," Sophie said. "We don't know what; the murderer hid it or took it with them."

  "Horrible," Mr. Brown said. "I am truly sorry she died in such a way. A crime, yes truly a crime on many levels. But why are you three asking me these questions? Shouldn't the police be the ones investigating?"

  "You're absolutely correct," I said, then left that sentence hanging.

  "Completely corrupt," he said. "I knew they were all on the dime, turning the other way when those fellows hop over to Minneapolis to rob banks then hide out over here. Criminal! And turning the other way with all of the bootlegging. Ridiculous! But not investigating the murder of a fine woman like Mrs. Cynthia Thomas. No, that's just not right."

  "We're hoping if we find the guilty party, we can convince the police to step in," I said.

  "That's noble of you but completely unnecessary," he said, fidgeting with this pocket watch again. "I'll make some calls. Yes, I know people. I can put pressure on people. The police force will step up and do their jobs on this. They will, or my name's not William Brown."

  Then, seeming to have forgotten we were even standing there on his front porch, he turned away and shut the door behind him.

  "Well," I said as we walked back to the charm school's front porch. "That could be an interesting bunch of phone calls. He's going to have things to say to us the next time he sees us."

  "Hey," Edward said, emerging from the shadows of the far end of the porch.

  "Hey yourself," I said. "We thought you'd gone."

  "No, I just went around back to talk to the folks in Mr. Brown's kitchen," Edward said.

  "The servants?" I said. "Why?"

  "I want
ed to check his alibi," Edward said.

  "What alibi?" Sophie said. "He said he was in all night. That doesn't rule out sneaking into our yard and killing Cynthia then sneaking back into his own house."

  "Usually not," Edward agreed, "but Mr. Brown is not a well man. And he's a widower with just one son, and he's away at Harvard. When he gets very ill, and apparently last night he was very ill, the housekeeper sits by his bedside all night long to tend to him."

  "So someone was with him all night long?" I asked.

  "Someone trustworthy?" Sophie asked.

  "Oh yes," Edward said. "Mrs. Jones is the best. I've known her and her family forever. If she says she was with him all through the hours of the night while he was too ill to tend to himself, I believe her. I would stake my life on it."

  "Then that's another suspect gone," I sighed.

  "I don't suppose there's much point now, but we never asked him about the amulet," Brianna said, consulting her notes.

  "No, he wouldn't know anything about it," I said.

  "What amulet is this?" Edward asked. I looked at Sophie, and we seemed to agree without words how much we could say.

  "It was a silver locket sort of thing that she always wore," I said.

  "It wasn't on her body when we found it," Sophie added. "The murderer must have stolen it."

  "So if you could find that amulet, you might be able to work your way back to finding the murderer?" he said.

  "Maybe," I said, shooting Brianna a furiously glance as she suddenly hopped up and down on her toes. Of course, she could do it with a spell, but she didn't need to say so out loud in front of Edward.

  "Then I have one more person to introduce you to," Edward said, pushing up from where he had been sitting on the porch railing. "It's not in this part of town, but you'll be safe enough with me."