Against a Brightening Sky

by Jaime Lee Moyer

  He looked past Dora, studying Eve Rigaux’s body. Lieutenant Lynch cleared his throat and looked Isadora in the eye. “My apologies, Miss Bobet. My wife always said I turned into a pompous ass when I wasn’t sure of my ground. Chances are I’m worse since she passed away. I can’t say I’ve ever been less sure of what’s going on than I am right now. That’s no excuse for being rude.”

  “Apology accepted. You’re not the only one here who’s unsure.” Dora let go of Randy, testing her balance before stepping away. “Dee, bring the salt. We’ll contain the smell first and then we can try to discover what surprises the killer left for us.”

  Dora walked a circle around the body, one arm outstretched toward Eve’s remains and reciting charms in a soft voice. I followed behind, pouring salt onto the floor. If I concentrated on staying precisely three steps behind Isadora and not treading on her heels, or on not letting the salt line waver or drift away from Dora’s path, it was easier to forget a corpse lay inches away.

  Twice we went around, leaving white crystals gleaming on the oak floor. At the end of the second circuit, Dora brought her hands together over the thick line of salt, sealing the circle.

  Wind rushed past me and sped toward the open back door, rattling lids on pasteboard boxes and blowing sheet music off the piano and onto the floor. Lieutenant Lynch’s hat blew away, sending Randy scrambling across the room to retrieve it for him. The gale ended quickly, leaving an eerily calm behind.

  Lieutenant Lynch took his hat from Randy with a nod of thanks, his expression a mixture of surprise and speculation. Dora looked tired, but also vaguely smug. The thought was uncharitable of me, but I suspected she’d called the wind to impress on the lieutenant that she wasn’t playing games.

  Gabe sighed, and the green cast left his face. Dora’s smile held only the tiniest bit of teasing. “Better, Gabe?”

  “Much. Thank you, Dora.” He moved closer, careful not to disturb the salt. “Was that what you thought?”

  “Advanced decay? No.” She paced next to Eve’s body, hands clutched into fists and frowning. “This was the equivalent of a parlor trick, one targeted specifically at you and your men. My best guess is the killer wanted all of you sick and unable to function. Fear was a small part of it as well, but frightening a cop is extremely difficult. He misjudged that badly.”

  “What aren’t you saying, Dora?” Randy knew her as well as I did. He stepped in front of her, forcing her to be still and face him. “Tell me what else is wrong.”

  She smiled affectionately and patted his cheek. “Dearest Randy, you have so much faith that all the answers are tucked up my sleeve. In this case, I have to disappoint you. Something is wrong; I just can’t say what. Why he went to the trouble to set all this up is very puzzling. Any power he might have gathered from Eve’s death would be wasted keeping that illusion of rot and decay going. That makes very little sense.”

  “But it makes perfect sense if he’s not interested in accumulating power.” The words were spoken before I thought. I hugged the nearly empty bag of salt, forcing myself to look, really look, at Eve Rigaux. “Making people see what he wants them to see, or making them feel a particular way, is more important. Some of your books have sketches of martyrs and saints that were crucified. When I look at Mrs. Rigaux, that’s what I see, Dora. That’s what he wants us all to see. The only thing that’s missing is a cross.”

  “Or a stake for burning.” She stood next to Randy, lips pressed tight together. “I can see what you’re saying, Dee, but the coins don’t fit. A coin placed on the eyes of the dead is an old tradition that dates from long before the Romans. The coins were meant to pay the ferryman who carried you across the river to the land of the dead. I’ve never seen them associated with martyrs before.”

  “Maybe that’s not what they mean, Miss Bobet. From what Gabe said, Mrs. Rigaux was rich.” Lieutenant Lynch’s cane thumped hollowly on the floor as he moved to stand near Eve’s head. He watched where he set his feet, just as careful as the rest of us not to break the circle of salt. “The locket we found in her hand was worth a fortune. My guess is the killer wanted us to know that money couldn’t save her.”

  Dora groped for Randy’s arm, staring at Eve Rigaux’s hands and swaying on her feet. “Dear Lord, the coroner did that to her fingers, not the killer. No wonder the feel of violence is so strong.”

  Gabe shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets, visibly uncomfortable. “We didn’t have a choice. Rigor had set in and we couldn’t get her hands open.” He pointed at a pair of tongs lying next to the body. A thin metal tube coated in what must be dried blood was locked into the jaws. “That was in one hand, the locket in the other. Jordan—Lieutenant Lynch—says that’s part of a cobbler’s awl. I’m positive the murderer used that to kill her and broke the handle off later.”

  Suddenly the halo of congealed blood under her head made all too much sense. Now I wanted to be sick, but I couldn’t be any less brave than Dora. “Who has the locket now? We need to see it.”

  “It’s on top of the piano.” He shrugged, sheepish and slightly embarrassed. “I had the locket in my pocket for a while, but that didn’t feel safe once we all started feeling ill. I didn’t want to risk anyone else handling it until you and Dora had a chance to look it over.”

  “You did exactly the right thing, Gabe.” Dora was exceedingly pale and leaned heavily on Randy, but in this case, her prior experience with crime scenes did carry the day. She plowed through the pain and discomfort, doing what needed to be done. “Making you nauseated was a minor annoyance, but this man could have planted something truly nasty on the jewelry. Gems can hold power and spells for a very long time. Randy, be a dear and bring the locket to me.”

  Lieutenant Lynch was clearly puzzled as he watched Randy cross the room. “Excuse me for asking, Miss Bobet, but won’t that be just as dangerous for Officer Dodd?”

  “Call me Dora. All this formality is exhausting.” She never took her eyes off Randy, but there was no doubt her small smile was meant for the lieutenant. “I wouldn’t risk Randy for anything in this world. The same goes for Gabe and Dee, and you, Lieutenant. Randy has a special sort of immunity to this kind of thing, or I wouldn’t ask. There’s nothing the killer could attach to the locket that has the power to hurt him.”

  He studied her face, thoughtful and utterly serious. Trust was a fragile thing, constructed on a foundation that grew slowly over time. Time was one thing we didn’t have, not if we were to find this killer and keep Alina safe. We were asking a great deal of Lieutenant Lynch, not the least of which was to accept that all the bizarre, outlandish things we told him were true.

  “All right. I’ll make the same agreement with you that I did with Gabe.” Jordan Lynch pulled himself up to his full height, both hands resting on the head of his cane. “I’ll call you Dora if you’ll call me Jordan, but only in private. People might misunderstand if we’re too familiar in public where they can hear. I’d be pleased if you do the same, Mrs. Ryan.”

  Dora’s face fell, just for an instant, before she gave Jordan her brightest smile. She’d sensed what that admission had cost him. Having spent almost half my life with Annie, watching shopkeepers ignore her and speak to me instead, I knew the cost all too well. Jordan Lynch suffered blows to his pride and dignity every day.

  Randy came back, a glassine envelope on his palm. Diamonds ringing the oval locket caught the overhead electric light, glittering with brilliant white sparks. The mother-of-pearl center shimmered with softer, multicolored rainbows. Jordan had been right; the locket was worth a large sum of money.

  Dora passed her hand over the envelope on Randy’s palm, careful not to touch it. She frowned and shut her eyes, concentrating while holding her hand perfectly still.

  “Nothing. He didn’t hide anything in the locket.” She pulled her hand back, wiping it up and down on the front of her coat. I took her hand before she rubbed the skin raw. “Faint echoes of her death and the terror of knowing this man was going to
kill her, but nothing else. She wasn’t wearing the locket when she died, or the residue would be much stronger.”

  I squeezed her fingers. “Are you all right?”

  How long Dora took to answer and how hard she trembled frightened me. “I will be. Give me a moment.”

  Gabe glanced at Dora for permission before taking the locket from Randy. He shook it out of the envelope, fumbling for a few seconds before finding the clasp and popping it open. A tiny sprig of dried flowers fell to the floor, crumbling to dust when Randy tried to pick them up. Gabe stared at the inside, his face closed off, expressionless.

  “Randy, get everyone back inside. Have them finish up so Dr. West can take the body to the morgue.” Gabe wrapped my hand around the open locket and kissed my cheek. “I need to call Jack and have him send a few telegrams. I’ll be right back.”

  I opened my hand, knowing what I’d see inside the locket before I looked. On one side was a picture of Alina. She was a few years younger, her hair a bit longer, and she was dressed in the same white beaded gown and circlet as the princess ghost. If I’d any lingering doubts the ghost was made up of Alina’s memories, they vanished.

  The other picture brought tears to my eyes. Alina and her three sisters gazed back at me from that picture, smiling and happy. Content. I would have given much to have that be my last memory of them, to remember them full of life and hope for the future. But I had other memories of these young women, ones I couldn’t dismiss. I passed the locket to Isadora and rushed out the back door, unwilling to make a spectacle of myself in front of Gabe’s men by bursting into tears.

  Sitting in Dora’s car all alone was peaceful. Afternoon was moving toward evening, and the last warm rays of sunshine on my face burned away the urge to cry. Birds sang from the top of the bell tower, and children’s laughter sounded from a yard nearby. The flowers were still beautiful, and color still gleamed in every stained glass window.

  But now ghosts filled those windows, standing amongst the images of saints and angels. Among the faceless host of Alina’s memories, three princesses in white beaded dresses peered at me from brightly colored panes.

  All three waited, patient and serene, for me to save their sister.

  * * *

  Gabe arrived home hours after I did. He’d taken Jordan Lynch to stay with Katie Allen and stopped to see Jack on the way home. Filling Jack in on the case was just as important to Gabe as to Jack.

  Dinner was quiet, both of us tired and lost in thought. I started to clear the table once we’d finished, but Gabe stopped me.

  “Leave the dishes for now.” He pulled me into his arms and held tight. “I’ll take care of them in the morning.”

  I held him just as tight, his heartbeat fast and strong in my ear. “I’ll consider that a promise, Gabe Ryan. Now, kiss me.”

  We fell asleep in each other’s arms, warm and safe. My last thought was a prayer it would always be like this; that we’d never be torn apart the way Alina and her family were.

  Each night, the dreams drew closer to the end of the story, more harrowing and vivid. Knowing who I was dreaming of made it worse.

  Knowing how it had to end was worst of all.

  * * *

  As large as the mountain house was, I couldn’t imagine just the three of us would stay there until spring. Winter would close the passes in a few weeks and snow would make even the lower roads impossible to travel. Either the rest of the family would be moved and join us, or they’d take the four of us away.

  I was wrong. More soldiers arrived each week to fill the house, new faces to scowl and refuse to answer questions. These men weren’t members of the Red Army. They were rough men from small villages and towns, men with few manners and no discipline. By the time winter closed the roads, the lower floor of the house and the outbuildings were full of guards. A few showed us a little respect, but only Lieutenant Dmitri was passionate in insisting my sisters and I be treated better.

  The captain in charge, a man with bad teeth and bits of food in his beard, will likely send him away once the snow melts.

  There was little enough for my sisters and me to fill our days with aside from cards and wandering the upstairs hallways. We weren’t allowed downstairs without an escort, and the walled garden was forbidden to us. Even cold as it was, we’d have relished the wind on our face and the open sky overhead.

  Once a week, we were taken downstairs to wash bed linens in a deep tin tub and hang them to dry on an enclosed porch. Wind cried and wailed under the eaves, blew through cracks around the door and rattled the murky glass in two large windows. How hard the wind blew was all that ever changed. Still, we looked forward to seeing the sky.

  Guards watched us through those windows no matter the weather, smoking and making crude jokes. Others stood just inside the door leading back into the house. Our hands were red and raw from the cold and harsh soap, and we’d grown thinner from lack of food. I overhead one guard saying it was less than we deserved, making the others laugh. When he saw me staring, the smile left his face and he walked away.

  After the laundry was done we hauled water upstairs and scrubbed the floors of our room. Servants worked in the house, girls and older women from the neighboring village, but they cooked and cleaned for the commandant and his officers. My sisters and I took care of ourselves, hoarding our small ration of coal to make tea and cook our meals.

  I saw Lieutenant Dmitri more and more often, watching us from a distance and always frowning. He rarely spoke to us, and when he did, it was to inquire about our health and if the room was warm enough. I always answered for the four of us, pride driving me to lie about how well we were doing.

  Dmitri saw through my attempts to save face. Our ration of coal grew larger, and the packets of food set aside for us in the kitchen were packed fuller. Loafs of fresh bread and wedges of cheese appeared in our room on those rare occasions when all four of us were out at the same time. I’d grown to distrust generosity, but I wasn’t a fool. We found ways to hide the extra food and make it last.

  Not one of the soldiers had shown kindness before now. No one smiled or said a pleasant word, but these men weren’t like my father’s troops. They fancied themselves as revolutionaries, guardians of a grand new world and at the forefront of a new society. I heard them brag to each other about the part they played in bringing about a prosperous new age.

  But no matter how they swaggered and tried to intimidate us, I saw the truth in their eyes. My sisters and I frightened them, and our very existence called into question their glorious new society. They hated us for that.

  Dmitri looked at us without fear or hate, but he was one man among many.

  Winter passed slowly. Our pile of letters for Mama and Papa, the sum of our days and dreams, grew larger.

  One afternoon in February, the captain with bad teeth and the unwashed beard arrived with two guards to inspect our room. Snow pelted the windows, hard, icy pellets that pinged against the thin glass and mounded on the ledge outside. We stood meekly while the guards went through our things, tossing clothing onto the beds or the floor. I watched the snow, trying not to see these men walk on our books or shake out my older sister’s nightdress.

  The taller of the guards found our letters in a box under the bed and handed them to the captain.

  He opened one of our letters and read it, stone-faced at first, but quickly growing angry. The captain shook the letter in my older sister’s face and shouted, making her cry. “What is this? Who gave you permission to write these?”

  “I did.” Dmitri stood in the doorway, watching my sister cry. The flash of anger in his eyes was stronger this time and not hidden as well. “I saw no harm in it, sir. No one will ever read the letters and writing kept them quiet.”

  The captain glared, gaping like a fish and too furious to speak. He carried the box of letters to the fire, tossing them onto the glowing coals and stirring the embers with an iron poker until the paper caught. My youngest sister buried her face in my shoulder, un
able to watch our messages to Mama and Papa turn to ash.

  “No more letters!” The captain threw the empty box across the room. “You do what I say, no one else. If I catch you writing again, I’ll have you shot.”

  Dmitri shrank back out of the way as the captain stomped out of the room, the two guards trailing behind. He waited a few seconds before stepping into our room, careful not to walk on our belongings.

  “I’m sorry, ladies. The captain means what he says.” Dmitri looked into my eyes, his feelings well hidden. “He won’t think twice about having you shot.”

  All the words I wanted to say would call more trouble down on my sisters. I swallowed them, trying not to choke. “We’ll remember.”

  He bowed before turning on his heel and striding from the room. I closed the white pine door gently, fighting the impulse to slam it shut, and slam it again and again until the door cracked into splinters.

  Instead I helped my sisters gather our clothes and set the room to rights. None of us would be able to sleep until we erased all trace of the captain’s visit.

  Not long afterwards, the captain with bad teeth was gone. Rumors flew among the guards about his being called to Moscow, or mysterious meetings with Lenin. All my sisters and I knew from the guards’ gossip was that he was gone. And with his leaving, Dmitri was in charge.

  He couldn’t lift all the restrictions or remove all the guards shadowing our footsteps, but he allowed us the run of the house. Food became more plentiful, and we no longer shivered in our beds. Lieutenant Dmitri did all he could to make our captivity bearable.

  Twice a week, he conducted an inspection of our rooms. Dmitri came alone and stood in the center of our room, usually with a bundle of books tucked under his arm. He’d never touch our things or search through our valises, just look around and nod his approval before setting his bundle of books on our small table.