“What"” is all June has time to say before a heavy hood is placed over her head and she is rudely shoved down on her side, powerful hands pressing her so she can’t move.
The doors slam shut and the car moves again. It is a fairly short drive, just around the block a few times to the abandoned loading dock of the Kiss-Kiss Kandy factory, but to June it is long enough to be certain these men are going to rape and then kill her.
Please oh please oh please stop"
The car stops and the doors open. Someone pulls the squirming June out of the car and throws her over his shoulder, so her head is upside down and she is sick with dizziness. Someone else is tying her wrists together, while she is bleating in fear under the heavy hood. She can’t breathe; she can’t see; someone help her, please. She is being carried down a stairwell to die.
They stop moving and June is placed none too gently in a chair, facing a wall, and her ankles are tied to the legs. The hood is pulled off and each cheek slapped. The room is dimly lit, and she can barely see a thing. She is too terrified, a second away from fainting, to call out for her useless husband to come and save her.
Sit there and think you’re going to die, June Nickerson. Now you know what it feels like to be alone in the dark.
June can’t tell that Belladonna is sitting close by, behind her. She can only feel the presence of something bad, someone bad, someone who wishes her nothing but pain and degradation and oblivion. This can’t be happening, June thinks. What have I done to deserve this? I must have been poisoned in the Club Belladonna and I’m having a nightmare and I’m going to wake up by the pool at the Groveside Country Club and realize it was all a bad dream.
“June Nickerson? June Elizabeth Nickerson?” she hears a voice saying. The voice is behind her. It is mine, of course, deepened and with a slight accent added so she won’t recognize it as belonging to the man who’d been sitting with Belladonna not so very long ago. I volunteered to conduct this little conversation, and I think Jack was relieved that I was so eager.
“Yes,” June says, so astonished that the voice knows her maiden name, she talks back to it. “Who are you? How on earth did you know that?”
“June Elizabeth Nickerson, who grew up in Minneapolis, with her parents, Paul and Blair Nickerson?”
“Yes,” she says, her voice quavering.
“Well then,” the voice goes on, “you must indeed be the June Elizabeth Nickerson who went to London, England, in February of 1935.”
June says nothing, until she feels a hand on her throat. She screams. “Answer the questions,” I say in sugared tones, standing behind her so she can’t get a look at me, “and I won’t hurt you. Do you understand?”
She is sobbing too hard to reply.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she says eventually.
“If you don’t answer my questions, I’ll be forced to hurt you. You don’t want me to hurt you, do you?”
June shakes her head so violently that one of her false eyelashes flies off.
“Good girl,” I say. “Are you indeed that June Elizabeth Nickerson?”
“Yes,” she says, sobbing.
“June Elizabeth Nickerson who went to London, England, in February of 1935, and whose cousin arrived to stay with her in March of 1935, and who left London, England, in May of 1935, without her cousin?”
“Yes,” she says, “yes.”
“What was the name of your cousin?”
“Isa … Isabella.” She says it so faintly, it sounds like Bella. Her skin is now a paler shade of green than it was when Jack told her about the cat who ran off with a toe.
“How old were you then?”
“Nineteen.”
“How old was your cousin?”
“Eighteen.”
“Why were you in London?”
“I want to go home,” June sobs. “Please let me go.”
Hogarth was right. June is dreary. “I’ll let you go home if and when you answer my questions,” I tell her, sighing melodramatically. “I promise.” Of course I conveniently forget to tell her when I’ll let her go. In this case, ignorance is bliss.
“Why were you in London?” I repeat.
“To meet people,” she says, hiccuping. To meet a nice rich husband, she means, although how this spoiled, deeply bourgeois debutante from Minneapolis might have attracted some eligible gentleman of consequence in London is beyond me.
“Did you like your cousin?”
“What do you mean? She was my cousin.”
“Was she like a sister to you? Or was she smarter and nicer and prettier?”
“She wasn’t prettier,” June protests. “Everyone said I was prettier. But she had big green eyes and the boys were always going batty about them.”
Even here, even now, June is still jealous. I’m bracing myself for talk of a tiara.
“Where is your cousin now?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” June says, sobbing again. “I don’t know. Please, who are you? What do you want? Why am I here?”
Who are you? Why are you here?
“I want to know what happened to your cousin.”
“She got married,” June whispers. “She went to a costume ball without me and met a man and ran off and got married and left me all by myself.” She starts to scream in earnest a high-pitched wail. The sound of it is so annoying that I tie a gag around her mouth and go pour myself a drink. Jack is sitting in the next room, and he shakes his head. After a few sips, I go back in. Belladonna is sitting on the floor, wrapped in her chador, motionless.
I lean over June’s shoulder. “Do you want me to take the gag off?” I ask, and she nods. “Are you going to be a good girl?” She nods again. Just to be nice, I go back to finish my drink and let her stew while I read a chapter of The Last of the Mohicans to juice myself up. Then I go back to her and remove the gag.
“Did that not strike you as peculiar?” I ask June, who is trembling uncontrollably. “That your cousin ran off, at the age of eighteen, with a man she barely knew, and you never heard from her again?”
“She called our flat and left a message,” June manages to say. “Then she wrote me a letter.”
“I see. But you didn’t want to stay in London by yourself once your cousin ran off to get married?” I ask and June nods yes. “So you went home to mommy and daddy, all by yourself. Did you hear from your cousin again?”
“Yes,” June says, “she wrote me and my parents. She wrote that she was happy and wanted to start a new life.”
“You believed her?”
June nods again.
“But you never spoke to her directly?”
“She left me a message!” June protests. “She left me all alone in London. She was gone. Hogarth was gone.” She is sobbing again.
“You were jealous of her, weren’t you?”
“No.”
“Yes, you were,” I insinuate. “You must have been. Your younger cousin with the nice green eyes went to a costume ball full of rich, eligible bachelors, and you couldn’t go. Rather unforgivable of her, wasn’t it?” My voice becomes a tad more threatening than its usual sweet benevolence. “Wasn’t it?”
“Please let me go,” June says.
“Who was Hogarth?”
“Hogarth was my friend,” she says.
“How did you meet this Hogarth?”
“At the Ivy. At dinner.”
“Was he nice? Did he take you places?”
“Yes,” June replies, “and he bought me presents.”
“Did you go with your cousin, when you stepped out with Hogarth?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did Hogarth introduce you to people? Interesting people?”
“Yes.”
“Were they nice?” Nice suitors for yourself, you silly girl. Botheration. I really am starting to sound like Hogarth. “Were you more upset about Hogarth disappearing than you were about your cousin?” I ask sternly. “Tell me the truth.”
“Yes.” June h
as two bright circles in the middle of her cheeks, redder than the rouge she’d applied with such a heavy hand. “Please don’t kill me,” she says. “Please let me go.”
Pretty poison is her cry.
What a blithering baby, I think. No character. After all this time and wondering, she is hardly worth the energy it’s taken to have to deal with her. Of course, I’m not the cousin she abandoned without another thought.
“Stop blubbering. I have no intention of killing you. That would make far too much of a mess,” I go on. “But what about your parents? Didn’t they wonder about the child entrusted to their care?”
“They were glad she was being taken care of. It wasn’t their fault that she had to come live with us because her parents got killed when they were drunk.” June realizes what she’s said, then starts to wail. I can only imagine what the conversations must have been like for the teenaged orphan in that house, and how warm her welcome.
“Shut up,” I say, and there is soon only a painful silence, broken by an occasional sobbing hiccup from June. “Your eldest daughter is now only two years younger than your cousin was when she disappeared. What would you do if the same thing happened to your sweet little Helen?”
June’s eyes widen in shock. “You wouldn’t. You couldn’t"”
“You insult me,” I say harshly. “I could care less about your precious Helen and your precious Caroline and your precious husband, George. What I am finding so alarming is that not once have you inquired as to the health and well-being of the cousin who disappeared so many years ago. If indeed she is alive. Have you any explanation for this oversight?”
June resumes crying. “Don’t hurt me,” she says again.
“Why did you do it?” I ask, leaning down to whisper these words in June’s ear. I think she is going to faint. “Why? Answer me. I want to know why you did it. Did you hate your cousin so much? Did she deserve what you did to her? Did she?”
“I, I …” June is like a quivering puddle of blancmange.
“Did she?”
June’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
Just then, there is an urgent knock on the door, so loud that June gives a yelp of abject terror. The sound of it breaks my concentration, and I quickly answer the knock, wondering what could be wrong. It is Matteo standing there, breathless. Jack is pacing behind him. Matteo hurries over to where Belladonna is crouching, to whisper in her ear.
It is so dark I can barely see her, yet I know. Finally. One of them has appeared, like an ant at a picnic. One of the members of the Club.
One of them is here, now. Tonight of all nights, when we are most distracted. Well, aren’t I the clever one. Always trust a twinge, if I do say so, patting my knee. Hadn’t I told Belladonna that maybe in some awful weird way June would bring her luck?
I walk over to Matteo and Belladonna. “Get rid of her,” Belladonna whispers. “I need Jack.” I can tell that under her veil her skin has gone dead white, but her dark eyes are glistening with such deadly intent I almost expect them to start shooting sparks. June has dwindled into pale insignificance.
Small punishment is all a small mind can handle.
The silly cow has had a good scare, her magical evening ruined and her gloating, gleeful plans to lord everything over her equally silly friends dashed and gone forever.
But we’re not through with June and George and Mom and Dad quite yet. Soon, very soon, their company will be sold out from under them, their money gone, their reputations ruined. Nothing less than the best for the Nickerson family.
I walk back to June, who is whimpering. She knows something bad is coming. “Bye-bye, little June bug,” I whisper in her ear, then tie the gag back around her quivering lips before I have to listen to another one of her screams. Then I tie a narrow blindfold around her eyes. I almost want to thank her. She’s given us a chance to perfect our technique for what we plan to do to one of them. The one of them who’s upstairs in the Club Belladonna while we’re down here wasting valuable time on a sniveling fool.
Belladonna stands up and comes closer, scrutinizing her immobilized cousin in silence. She takes off the glove of her right hand and traces the line of June’s jaw with one finger, feeling her tremble in shock and terror.
“Who are you?” Belladonna asks her in a strangled whisper. “Why are you here?”
She turns and walks away, back up the stairs with Matteo. After letting June sit and stew for a few more minutes, I come back, remove her gag, and hold an icy glass up against her lips. “Drink this,” I command, “and when you wake up you’ll realize that all of this has been nothing more than the worst nightmare of your life.”
“Please don’t poison me,” June whispers, “please.”
“You are much too boring to bother with poisoning, little June bug,” I tell her in no small exasperation. “And you’re too fat to have to lug around. Okay? So stop your blubbering and drink.”
I shouldn’t have made that last crack about her weight, considering. But June has for some reason brought out the very worst in me. I expect you’ve figured out why already.
When June and George wake up, they’re back in their hotel room. Both have vicious headaches and a queasy feeling in their stomachs. Something sickeningly awful has happened to them, something larger and more terrible than anything they’ve ever experienced.
George manages to get up first. His jaw, is throbbing and he can’t remember a thing past sitting in the Club Belladonna with a bellyache. Then he spies a package on the coffee table. He takes it over to June, who sits up in bed and opens it with trembling fingers. It is a bottle of Belladonna perfume, of course. Inside the box is a tiny envelope sealed with thick crimson wax. Slowly, June tears it open to read what’s written on the card: “How could you leave her?”
Back inside the club, we’re on code red. This is what we’ve been trained for, so the air of heightened expectancy and alertness is noticeable to none but our staff. It is no drill, though. Josie first saw his ring and heard his accent and figured out his approximate age when she was checking his coat. One of the waiters is in the darkroom processing the film. Another waiter posing as a guest in a djellaba is sitting at the next table, listening to his conversation. Our guest’s pockets have already been picked, and one nimble-fingered waiter is huddled at a counter in the kitchen, photographing every card and bit of identification with his Minox before handing them to another spy to write down the essential particulars for use right now. The wallet will be returned to the man’s pocket before he notices that it’s missing. No mistakes are permissible. Matteo has gone back to the door to assemble the outside team. The minute this man sets foot outside the club, he must be tailed every minute, his plans uncovered"where he’s staying, where he’s going. Every minute. I don’t want him to blow his nose without our knowing what’s in his handkerchief.
Jack rushes into Belladonna’s office. “His name is Sir Patterson Cresswell,” he says. “We’re already on the phone to Pritchard. Does that ring a bell?”
Belladonna shakes her head no. Her skin has taken on the same greenish pallor as June’s, and her eyes are wide and staring at nothing.
“Are you okay?” Jack asks, then looks at me. I go around to Belladonna and kneel before her, taking her hands in mine. She is trembling, so I hold them tightly.
“Who are you?” I ask her sternly.
“What?” she says, shocked. Only that question could have roused her.
“Who are you now?” I ask her again.
“Belladonna,” she whispers.
“Why are you here?”
“To find them,” she replies, her voice getting stronger. “To find them all and watch them suffer.”
“You’re not her anymore,” I go on. “He has no idea who you are. You’re Belladonna. This is your club, and you’re safe from all of them. We’re here with you. Concentrate, and think. Take a deep breath. Shoot steady. Aim for his heart.”
She looks at me, her eyes fathomless.
“A
ren’t you lucky you’re still wearing the contacts?” I ask, trying to make a joke.
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” she says, and goes out to greet him.
11
The Roof of
the Schoolhouse
He looks like you’d think a Patterson Cresswell would look: running to fat, with pink mottled cheeks and jowls this side of a rooster’s and teeth that badly need a cleaning. The ring he’s not supposed to be wearing in public is nearly buried by a chubby knuckle. What irks me most is his air of supreme self-assurance. Yes, I’d like to see his arrogance evaporate after one long night in the dungeons.
Cowards need only one night before they break.
The only thing is, we don’t have dungeons here. We didn’t need one for June; we’d planned everything for the basement under the Club Belladonna. Our own dungeons have already been built in the house in Virginia. Or rather, we’ve remodeled the wine cellar. That’s what we told the contractor, who hardly suspected ulterior motives. Belladonna told me in meticulous detail what she wanted done there. I know she’ll refuse to set foot in it, or any other place that’s dark and damp, until it’s absolutely necessary. I suppose it’ll be left up to yours truly to put in the final touches once we get down there. Don’t think I’ll mind. It’ll be a pleasure.
Well, I suppose we could borrow a meat freezer from one of the butchers around the corner and lock Sir Patty in that. That’s what I’m thinking as we snoop on his conversation at the next table. He’s sitting with two other couples.
“Some of them are young, some of them are old tarts, some will oblige you for a pittance, some will do it for not a shilling, some need to be fed dinner, some need to get drunk, some are clever, some are stupid, some are nice girls, and some are simply mad. She’s one of the mad ones. A quite mad bitch in heat.” Sir Patterson is talking about women. How charming.
“Speaking of dogs, I heard the most amusing story about Felicity Everdane,” the lady says, ignoring him. “Her daughter’s little King Charles spaniel"Paddy, can you believe she gave it such an appalling name?"was run over by a car, and Felicity despaired of what she was going to tell her daughter. She waited until dinner, until pudding, actually. Well, much to her relief, after a second’s pause, her daughter seemed to take the bad news quite admirably. But when Felicity went upstairs to kiss the child good night, she found the young thing convulsed with sobs. ‘Why are you crying, darling?’ Felicity asked, ‘Because Paddy’s been killed,’ the little girl said. ‘Yes, my angel, he’s been killed, but I told you that when you were eating your puds.’
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