But by then Cathleen would be on a train to New York. To Hudson Pier. To a ship that would take her home. If she could come up with the fare, that is.
She nested the Treasure Box carefully into the corner of her bag, then returned to the closet and looked up at the shelf that held Derrick’s second-best boots. It wasn’t really stealing, she reasoned. Derrick owed her. And it was for a good cause. Passage back to England. The possibility of redemption and reconciliation. She dragged the boots down and reached inside. Her fingers closed around . . . nothing.
The money was gone.
Cathleen left the bedroom and wandered into the front parlor. Outside the double windows, she could look down into the street and see the traffic going by. Chicago never slept, it seemed—the noise and bustle and commotion never ended. What kind of paradise was this, where you never saw the stars, never heard a nightingale singing, never felt the soft loam of forest moss under your feet? Only gaslights and blaring horns and unforgiving pavement.
As she watched, three shiny black automobiles pulled up and stopped in front of the awning over the door of Benedetti’s restaurant. A dozen men piled out—musicians for the party, no doubt, dressed in dark suits and carrying their instruments in cases.
Cathleen turned away from the window just as the noise began—a deafening clatter, like the backfiring of a hundred automobiles. Like a thousand sledgehammers breaking up the cobblestones. Like an endless string of firecrackers igniting to celebrate Independence Day.
Behind her, the windows exploded. Shards of glass and wood flew everywhere, and something hard and hot pierced into her flesh. She put a hand to the wound and felt the warm ooze of blood seeping through her fingers.
She dropped to the floor. Down below, in the ristorante, she could hear screaming and yelling and more fireworks. Then silence, followed by the screech of tires and the distant wail of sirens.
And everything went black.
15
MIDNIGHT IN THE GARDEN
A full hour after the monitor had gone dark, the smoke continued to hover in a shapeless cloud over Vita Kirk’s soul. In her mind she still saw shattering glass and flying splinters and blood spattering against the walls. Her ears rattled with the gunfire, the screams, the squeal of tires, the wail of a policeman’s siren come too late. She even tasted the acrid sting of gunpowder on the back of her tongue and smelled the lingering odor of violence, of death.
In a stupor of astonishment, Vita shut down the computer, took a sweater from the hall tree in the entryway, and went out into the backyard.
It wasn’t a yard, really, but an enclosed garden, with walls made of the same rough limestone as the blocks that formed the foundation of the little Victorian house. Three stone walls encased the perimeter of the yard and butted up against the back of the house. A single gate opened to a walkway that meanderedaround to the front but Vita kept it padlocked except when Eddy the yardman came to mow the grass.
In the far corner, near the alley, a large weeping willow draped its graceful branches over the top of the wall, and bright purple and yellow irises bloomed against the mossy stones. Along one side, fragrant white lilies of the valley crowded into a bank of bleeding hearts. In the blue-gray dimness of the garden, Vita could not see their color, but she knew.
Red. Red like Cathleen’s dancing dress. Red like the wine and blood that had mingled on the white linen tablecloths in Benedetti’s restaurant.
Pushing the image from her mind, Vita settled herself in the swing, drew the sweater closer around her shoulders, and looked up into the night sky. A sliver of moon hung tangled in the upper branches of the willow, and here and there a star winked back at her. The only constellation visible from this angle was sturdy, muscular Orion, his silver sword hanging from his belt.
A fragment of a verse—or perhaps a poem, something— whispered inside Vita’s head: Those who live by the sword die by the sword. She had seen The Untouchables. She knew what gangsters did. The hit was on Angelo and his associates. Cathleen was just a bystander caught in the cross fire.
Vita’s mind conjured up images of the carnage in the upstairs flat. Downstairs, in the restaurant, it would have been worse. Mentally she tallied up the victims: Angelo Benedetti, who turned out to be no angel at all. Perhaps a dozen or more of Benedetti’s famiglia—like Angelo, probably guilty of countless notorious crimes. They probably deserved to die by the sword, but at the moment Vita felt disinclined to render such a judgment. And what of Cathleen and Derrick? They, too, were guilty—of greed and deception, of theft and betrayal. Guilty of wanting too much and loving too little. But was death a just punishment for such offenses, when all of humanity labored under the same faults and frailties?
And one more. One unnamed, unformed Innocent, who had yet to experience firsthand any of life’s joys or temptations. One who would now never have the chance to wrestle with the unanswerable questions of creation or delight in its simple pleasures. What had he or she done to merit a violent end to a life which had never begun? Where was the justice in that?
But just or not, the sentence had been served. They were dead. All dead.
Not so long ago Vita had thought, with the smallest twinge of self-righteousness, that given what she had done to Rachel, Cathleen Woodlea deserved whatever she got. Now Vita knew it wasn’t true. No one deserved this. Not Cathleen, not Angelo and his mob buddies, not even the thoroughly despicable Derrick Knight.
Death was no answer. It solved nothing, only removed the last faint hope for the restoration of the soul.
Poor Cathleen. She had gotten what she wanted, and discovered in the end how quickly the sweet fulfillment of the heart’s desires can curdle into sour disappointment. How often in life, Vita wondered, did a burden come wrapped up to look like a blessing? How often did the real blessing lie in not getting what you wished for?
Vita turned the idea over and over in her mind. When she was younger, what she had wanted was Gordon. A handsome husband, children, a circle of friends, a normal life. She wanted what Mary Kate had.
But did she?
Would she have been content to live in Gordon’s shadow as her sister did, socializing with his friends, listening without participation in his academic discussions, heeling alongside like an obedient puppy in his footsteps?
The idea shocked her. Vita had never once looked closely at what Mary Kate had received when all her wishes had come true.
She had been too closed in upon herself to see beyond the walls.
Now suddenly, in a moment of startling clarity, she realized that marriage to the handsome, athletic, intellectual Gordon Locke would have been—for Vita, at least—an unmitigated disaster.
Even assuming she could have mastered the role, which she thoroughly doubted, she would have hated playing the meek, obedient little wife. She would have come to despise and resent the overbearing self-confidence that had once so attracted her to Gordon.
And with that awareness came another question Vita had never asked herself: was her sister happy? Vita knew, without a doubt, what qualities in Mary Kate had captured Gordon’s attention. She was pert, pretty, blonde, and malleable—or at least she had been when Gordon first married her. A trophy wife. The ideal hostess for the parties that could catapult him into the upper echelons of the academic pyramid. Not a wife who would argue with him or challenge his assertions, but one who would smooth his ruffled feathers, fetch his drink and slippers, and create a peaceful sanctuary on the home front when he returned from the scholastic wars.
Was that the life Mary Kate had anticipated? And now, years later, as her thirties crept by and middle age loomed on the horizon, did Mary Kate ever question her choices? Did she ever speculate about what kind of woman she might have become if she had married someone who treated her as an equal—or not married at all? Did she ever sit alone in that big ivy-covered house while the twins were away at school and wonder what on earth she was going to do with herself when they were grown and gone? What secret longings lay in th
e deep recesses of her heart and mind and soul, below the surface image of perfection she always projected?
Vita sat there in the swing, hugging herself against the chill of midnight, and a strange sensation crept over her. For the first time in years, she could think about Gordon Locke without anger. Without recalling the pain and humiliation she had felt when he left her for Mary Kate. Without despising herself for wanting something she couldn’t have.
It felt like . . . like liberty.
No. She didn’t want Mary Kate’s life. She didn’t want Gordon. She didn’t even want vengeance.
What, then, did she want?
Rachel’s face rose up in Vita’s mind, the way she had looked when she thought about Cathleen. Angry and hurt and determined to track her sister down and make her pay for what she had done. Rachel didn’t know—not yet, anyway—that Cathleen had already paid, had already sacrificed everything she possessed. A price far greater than anything Rachel, even in the hottest of rages, would wish on her.
It was too late for Rachel and Cathleen to make amends.
And suddenly the answer pierced through Vita’s defenses like moonlight through the clouds. She knew what she wanted.
She wanted her sister back.
16
ANY PORT IN A STORM
I might have been springtime in the mountains of North Carolina, but in Chicago, it was the dead of winter. Mesmerized by the driving storm that raged across the screen, Vita suppressed a shiver. Hypnotic, the way the wind buffeted the snow and sent it flying in mad swirls around the corners of the tall buildings. A danse macabre, a ballet both menacing and magnificent, choreographed by nature to reflect the terrifying beauty of her disposition.
Vita exhaled a deep breath. Somewhere out there—in a pauper’s grave, no doubt—lay Cathleen and her unborn child, covered but not warmed by a new blanket of snow.
The downtown streets, nearly obscured by the blizzard, lay empty. Not a single automobile braved the icy pavement. A solitary streetcar, caught in a drift, sat abandoned in the center of the intersection.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, Vita caught a flash of color, like a cardinal in the snow. A lone pedestrian, bent forward against the force of the gale, plowing along the sidewalk. A pedestrian in a red woolen coat.
Too late, Rachel Woodlea had found her way to the Windy City.
For the hundredth time in the five months since she had arrived in Chicago, Rachel blessed Elisabeth Tyner for the warmth of this coat. She shoved her hands into the pockets, ducked her head, and pressed on into the storm.
It was insane to be out on such a beastly afternoon, but Rachel seldom got an entire day to herself, and she wanted to make the most of it. Six days a week, she labored in the alterations department at Marshall Field’s—a position she obtained on the strength of Mrs. Tyner’s letter of recommendation. She enjoyed the work and had even begun to develop a friendship or two, but the job left her precious few daylight hours to conduct her search for Cathleen and Derrick and dear Sophie’s Treasure Box.
Five months of scrabbling for bits and pieces of information, and Rachel had come up with next to nothing. There had once been a restaurant called Benedetti’s, the alterations supervisor had told her—but she had heard it had shut down after the proprietor’s death. She had no idea where Benedetti’s had been located. No one knew anything at all of an Englishman named Derrick Knight.
And then, just last evening, the supervisor’s husband had come in near quitting time, intending to escort his wife home.
The snowstorm was already setting in, and word had gone out that the alterations department—perhaps even the entire store— would likely be closed the following day. To pass the time as he waited for his wife to complete her paperwork, the man struck up a casual conversation with Rachel.
“You’re from England, right?” he asked in his flat Midwestern accent.
“Yes sir, from a small village in the Cotswolds.”
Rachel hadn’t intended to reveal any personal information to the gentleman, but like many Americans, he turned out to be the garrulous type, and before long she had told him—without discussing any of the less savory details—about the search for her sister, who had crossed several months before she herself had made the passage.
“And her husband had a job lined up?”
Rachel flinched inwardly at the word husband, but she kept her face expressionless. “Indeed, sir, at a restaurant, I believe—an establishment called Benedetti’s.”
“Angelo Benedetti?” A disapproving pall fell over the man’s countenance.
“I couldn’t rightly say, sir. Perhaps.” With rising apprehension she watched the shifting shadows in his eyes.
“That restaurant closed down months ago.”
“As your wife told me, sir. She said she believed Mr. Benedetti had died. But she didn’t know where the place was. Still, perhaps if I could find it, someone in the neighborhood might be able to give me some information as to the whereabouts of my sister.”
“Benedetti’s dead, yes,” he said curtly. He peered into her eyes. “You seem like a nice young lady, Miss—ah, Woodlea, right?” Rachel nodded. “Since you’re looking for your sister, I’ll tell you where the restaurant was. But don’t go snooping around in that area after dark. And be careful.”
Now Rachel stood on the sidewalk and looked from the scrap of paper in her hand to a number engraved into the keystone of the doorway. Above her head, shredded remnants of a weathered yellow awning partially shielded her from the ravages of the February storm.
It was the correct address, but the gentleman had to be wrong about the place. The building looked as if it had been lifted out of a war zone and set down in the middle of the city. All the windows and doorways were boarded up, and the brick facade of the building was riddled with bullet holes all the way up to the second story. Several paper signs, faded by the weather, warned off anyone who might come near: KEEP OUT. NO TRESPASSING. PRIVATE PROPERTY.
Rachel looked down. In the broken-up mosaic entryway that led to the door, she could make out a large elaborate B crafted from gold-colored tiles within an ornate circle. And below that, in smaller letters, Ben__ det_ i’s Rist_rante.
The blustering wind had subsided, and the flakes now fell steadily, drifting down to cover the streets and sidewalks with an ever-deepening layer of white. She took a shaky step backward and watched, trembling, as the snow filled in the broken spaces in the tile. There was something wrong about this place. Something terrible had happened here. In the marrow of her bones, she could feel the chill of death. Violent death.
One could hardly be in Chicago for a fortnight without hearing the stories: the bootleggers and rumrunners, the wealthy mob bosses with their powerful cars and fast women and ill-gotten gains. Feuds between rival families and shoot-outs in the streets.
But now those blood-splattered images had a face. Her sister’s face. Had Cathleen been here, in this building, when— “Spare a bit of change for an old woman down on her luck?”
The cracked, raspy voice came so unexpectedly, and so close behind her, that Rachel jumped and whirled around, poised for a confrontation.
“Easy there, deary. A frail old bird like me ain’t likely to do much harm.”
Rachel let out the breath she had been holding and surveyed the woman. She wore layer upon layer of oddly-assorted clothing: a man’s tattered overcoat, so long it nearly reached her ankles; a pair of mismatched shoes; black woolen mittens with the fingertips cut out. Wisps of frizzy white hair escaped from the moth-eaten gray shawl that covered her head.
A beggar. An impoverished old woman who kept body and soul together by panhandling on the city streets. A derelict. Rachel had been warned to keep her distance from the city’s indigent. They could be unpredictable. Crazy. Even dangerous.
But this old woman hardly looked like a threat. Aside from her rather unorthodox approach to fashion, she might be someone’s granny. Her ancient face, cobwebbed with lines and flushed from t
he wind and cold, bore an expression of benign amusement. Her watery gray-green eyes held just a hint of merriment, as if she were on the verge of laughing.
Still, one could never tell.
Rachel thrust her gloved hands into the pockets of her coat.
Deep in the left pocket, her fingers closed around a small change purse which contained twelve American dollars and four streetcar tokens. Her rent on the flat was paid up for the month, and there was plenty to eat in the pantry. She could easily give the woman a dollar or two—even a fiver—and still make it to Friday, when she would receive another week’s wages.
Give her the money, an inner voice entreated. Even without it, you’ve far more than she will ever own.
But then she wouldn’t be able to afford those nice kid gloves from the accessories department at Marshall Field’s.
You have a pair of gloves. Open your hand, the voice urged.
Rachel resisted the thought. Besides, what would the old woman do with the money? Waste it, probably, on a pint of bathtub gin from some back-alley bootlegger.
Pass a bit of the blessing along. Open your heart.
The final phrase struck a nerve, and Rachel bristled inwardly.
She had opened her heart before—to her best friend, to her fiancé—even, it might be argued, to her sister. Sophie had died.
Derrick had betrayed her. Cathleen had stolen everything she held dear. Opening your heart left you weak and vulnerable. She had learned that lesson through hard experience and wasn’t inclined to repeat it.
Snow sifted down, covering the gray shawl over the beggar’s head with a layer of white, like the small arced halo on a Byzantine Madonna. “Sorry, I—” Rachel shrugged and dragged her eyes away, back to the brick building with its boarded-up windows and bullet holes. Cathleen’s face swam across her mind in a wash of red, and a shot of panic darted through her veins.
The Treasure Box Page 12