She turned to confirm that it was still behind her, and her stomach lurched when it was nowhere to be seen, apparently having been replaced by a pair of large stones that resembled giant arrowheads partially buried in the ground, their points facing skyward. A buoyant, flutelike trill broke the silence as a meadowlark landed on one of the stones, chirping at her in mild reproach.
Annie’s panic dwindled at its arrival, and she took a closer look at the stones. They were covered in markings and surrounded by a thick wall of foliage. Night-blooming jasmine, flowering not only out of season and its nightly cycle, but also in a climate where it had no right to exist, snaked along the outer edges and across the top, creating a natural roof with deep- red altissimo roses blanketing the space between. It looked like a secret. Perhaps it was the roses’ particular shade of red or the familiarity of the markings on the stones, but Annie was certain she was looking at her back door, albeit incognito.
A placard at the base of the stones stated that they had been donated to the parks and recreation service of Kansas City in 1889 by the Cherokee Council. Noting a cluster of buildings just off the horizon and satisfied that she could find her way back to the stones and home, Annie stepped onto a path and made her way toward them.
Having been reassured by the meadowlark, Annie began to notice other things as she walked. The air was warm and so heavy with the fragrance of grass and wildflowers that it left a sweet taste on her tongue. A quiet little pond stood a stone’s throw away. Mallards drifted between clumps of reeds, their wakes breaking the still surface in crisscross patterns that looked like a veil of plaid floating atop the water. A turtle’s head broke through the surface, following her progress, while swifts and swallows darted about overhead.
To her left was a little rivulet that gurgled over a rock bed to empty into the pond. It gave the impression of water running up hill, and Annie paused to work out the illusion, which turned out to be the result of the pathway dropping more steeply than the streambed. Across the pond, a small panorama of buildings peeked quietly over the tops of the trees at the edge of the park.
Coming to a fork, she chose the leftward path cutting through a grove where she had an encounter so surreal it stopped her in her tracks. It began with a sound from her childhood that made her think of banana seats, training wheels, and handlebar streamers—the metallic chime of a bicycle bell. An apparition glided into view from a bend in the path, and the man sitting atop it dipped his bowler hat politely as he drew near. She stepped to the side, riveted by the sight of the delicate front wheel towering over her head. Annie imagined calliope music playing as it drifted past like a ghostly image from a kinetoscope. The man sitting atop it pedaled so slowly compared to the speed he was generating that the penny-farthing seemed to float over the surface of the path.
Suddenly aware that she was staring, Annie clamped her mouth shut and started to acknowledge his greeting when little black spots began to swarm in her vision. She touched her index finger lightly to her nose. It came away red, and she simply sat down in the path on the off chance she might faint. The cyclist circled around, but she motioned him on with her thanks and dabbed her nose with a tissue while schooling herself to greater caution. That one step through her door erased a century, give or take, and she realized that her twentieth-century mind was grossly out of tune with the times.
A piece of airborne paper, weaving back and forth in a herkyjerky motion, broke her train of thought. Standing, she tested her balance and, deciding she was fine, wandered over to retrieve it from the grip of a small bush before the wind could carry it away. It was from the evening edition of the Kansas City Star and was dated May 28, 1895—the day before her father was to be murdered. Whether or not it was an old paper remained to be seen.
Heading east, she entered the bend from which the pennyfarthing had emerged and happened across an expanse of lawn. It was littered with people lounging on quilts, enjoying the morning air.The day’s theme apparently was bonnets, baskets, and bow ties.
While she was deciding whether to interrupt the conversation between the nearest couple, a dog whisked past her and down the path in the direction from which she came with, of all things, a top hat in its jaws. Following in the dog’s wake with a look of utter dismay plastered on his face was a man wearing a dark twill suit and matching vest over a starched white shirt. He managed a breathless “Pardon me, ma’am”as he sprinted past, yelling,“Rupert! Slow down, boy.”
Annie watched their progress with wry amusement, decided that the hat was a lost cause, and continued down the path with a shake of her head. She hadn’t gone more than a few steps, however, when the dog streaked past her again. The gentleman was not far behind, churning up the gravel beneath his feet. This time he gasped, “So sorry,” as he flew by and disappeared around a curve. You certainly had to give him credit for politeness under fire, Annie decided.
As the dog appeared in the bend for the third time, Annie crouched with her hands on her knees and said, “Here, Rupert! Here, boy!” Immediately slowing to a trot, the dog wandered over, tail wagging, to drop the hat on the gravel at Annie’s feet and sat with his tongue lolling out. “Good boy!” she said, rubbing his head. She was dusting the hat off as the man came into view.
Seeing Annie with the top hat in her hand and Rupert sitting on his haunches next to her, the gentleman slowed. He tried to marshal his composure and say something, but Annie beat him to the punch.
“Is it fair to assume this is yours?” She held out the hat while attempting unsuccessfully to keep the amusement from her voice.
“Oh!” The man glanced at the meadow and the rapt picnicgoers. “I don’t suppose I could deny it’s mine and pretend this never happened?” he asked as Rupert trotted over to lick his hand. He looked down at the dog, and a reluctant smile formed across his face. “You rascal!” He squatted to massage the dog’s ears in both his hands before attaching a leash, giving Annie a moment to make a quick appraisal.
Jet-black hair covered his head in lazy swirls and tumbled over his ears to rest on broad, spare shoulders. And while his jaw was firm, he had a delicate, straight nose and a wide mouth with a full lower lip. He was somewhere in his midthirties, Annie guessed.
He glanced at her, grinning as he rubbed Rupert behind the ears, and she noted that his eyes were the color of smoke. He was handsome to the point of being pretty.
Standing up, the man accepted the top hat with surprising grace, considering the circumstances. “Thank you for salvaging what little remains of my dignity.” He cocked his head toward the picnickers in the meadow. “Though they no doubt will make short work of it.”
“Certainly.” Annie tipped her head lightly and turned to make her way down the path.
“Surely there is some way I can return the favor.”
Lowering her baggage, Annie turned, looking at the gentleman critically. “There is, actually,” she said. “If you could direct me to the nearest bank?”
He scratched his head, not the most elegant of gestures. “I can do better than that. I’ll escort you.”He strolled forward and picked up her suitcase with one hand while tipping his hat with the other. “The name’s Nathaniel Goodkin.”
Taken aback and not at all certain she was ready for the company of a stranger, handsome as he was, Annie protested weakly. “Thank you, but that’s really not necessary.”
Looking at Rupert, who chose that moment to whine, Mr. Goodkin said, “But Rupert insists. The matter is out of our hands, I’m afraid.”
Annie smothered a smile and considered her options. She noticed several people strolling in the distance and decided the situation was safe enough, but she wasn’t going to allow Mr. Goodkin the satisfaction of corralling her without a suitable riposte. “I’ll accept Rupert’s kind proposal then.”
Taking the leash from Mr. Goodkin’s hand, she started down the path with the dog trotting happily beside her. After a few steps, she paused, looked over her shoulder, and turned to say, “I suppose this won’t
do at all, will it?” She sighed. “If Rupert has no objection, you…could…join us.” She knelt to address the dog. “What do you think, Rupert? Is he safe enough?”
Dropping to his belly, Rupert rolled on his side and continued to pant without comment.
Glancing back at the obviously stunned Mr. Goodkin, Annie shrugged. “I must admit his response is open to interpretation, but…” She rubbed the dog’s belly, then stood, offering her arm. “Annabelle Aster, from San Francisco.”
Accepting it with a bemused shake of his head, Mr. Goodkin directed Annie down the pathway of the park and in the direction of the buildings that could be seen above the tree line.
As they broke from the park onto city streets, Annie’s mind began to rebel. A tree looks much the same from one century to another, but a city is another thing altogether. Nothing was right, despite everything being familiar. And the women strolling through the boardwalks—all the oddities of past were drowned out by the sight of them.
They crowded the streets, walking in one another’s company or chaperoned but never alone, and Annie was acutely aware that, for all her sartorial eccentricity, she still stood out like a sore thumb. The amount of clothing piled atop any single body was staggering. There were corsets, bodices, undergarments, overgarments, “mutton leg” sleeves, opera gloves, parasols, and bonnets—all on show in a variety of silks, velvets, and satins.
Despite the flamboyant display, however, there was a uniform bleakness to the women that puzzled Annie. They were pale, paler than her, and looked as if the little light that animated them had gone out. Upset, though not certain why, she whispered to herself, “So dreary.”
Overhearing her, Mr. Goodkin leaned in as if sharing a distasteful secret. “Arsenic,” he said.
Annie nodded knowingly before gazing at a particularly wan pair, but as his inference sank in, she stopped dead in her tracks. “You can’t mean to say they are trying to look that way intentionally!”
Taken aback by her vehemence, Mr. Goodkin said, “The consumptive ‘look’ is quite fashionable with the upper class—” He paused, looking her up and down, clearly confused.
Annie rolled her eyes,exasperated that he’d lumped her in with this lot. “I come by it honestly,” she said, then stared about, aghast. “You would think they might take up something healthier, like jogging.”
“Jogging?” Mr. Goodkin looked at Annie as if she’d lost the plot, then broke into a smile. “I suppose it would do them some good, but whoever heard of such a thing?” He chuckled, shaking his head at the joke he was certain she’d made. “If I may ask, Miss Aster, what would you have done if Rupert said no?” he asked, artfully changing the subject.
Annie thought about the question for a moment before responding. “What better test of a man’s character than how he treats his dog?”
“Hmmm,I see.And if he isn’t my dog?”The look on Annie’s face made him rush to add, “I feel a sudden need for a disclaimer, not wishing to put my character in further question.” He grinned, his cheeks dimpling. “He belongs to Mrs. Woolvey, my housekeeper.”
Annie laughed, while Rupert, who seemed to be aware that he was the topic of conversation, wound his way between Mr. Goodkin’s legs before sitting on his shoes and panting. “I take it that you’re an attorney then.”
“I was rather afraid the word disclaimer would give me away,’ Mr. Goodkin said as he pulled a business card from his coat’s inner pocket and handed it to Annie. He pointed to a large Greek Revival building. “We’re here.”
“Thank you for the company, Mr. Goodkin,” Annie said, retrieving her luggage.
He tipped his hat, hesitating briefly. “If you find yourself in need of an escort…” His face colored.
“Yes?” Annie asked.
“Well,” he said, suddenly at a loss. “You—you have my business card.”
Annie gave Rupert a quick pat on the head while offering Mr. Goodkin her most winning smile. She reached for his hand and squeezed, then entered the building, the click of her heels echoing sharply throughout the entryway.
The banking floor was cool as an icehouse and, aside from her footsteps, quiet as a mouse. Unperturbed, Annie strode to an empty station next to a gentleman who looked like he’d just come off the range, needing only a lasso to add to his duster coat and cowboy hat. The bank clerk behind the counter was wearing a visor, a pin-striped, button-down shirt, and a pair of dark wool pants held up by suspenders. He stood so still that the occasion seemed to have robbed him of expression and movement, like a statue over which someone had impudently thrown a set of clothing. Then he moved. “How may I help you today, madam?”
“If it’s not too much of an inconvenience, I would like to speak to the bank manager.”
The clerk frowned. “I’m certain I can be of help.”
Annie reached into her handbag, pulled out the bearer bond, and slid it across the counter. “I would like to redeem this, please.”
The clerk examined the bond resting on the counter.“If madam will wait here, I will locate a manager,” he said, looking almost offended when he handed the bearer bond back to Annie.
As he disappeared through a door, Annie turned, nodding to the gentleman at the adjacent station who made no bones of his interest in whatever caused such a commotion.
Moments later, the clerk returned with a manager. One glance at the bearer bond and the manager’s nostrils dilated. “Do you have an account with us?” he asked.
“Unfortunately not. I would like to redeem it for cash.”
“But the amount will be considerable!” Noticing patrons looking in their direction, he opened a side door, guiding Annie down a corridor to his office—an efficient little space with plastered walls and mahogany wainscoting. Offering her a seat, he rounded the desk, rocking back in his chair with his hands steepled over his chest, assessing her.
Amused by his body language, Annie copied his posture. “I’m attending an auction, cash only,” she said.
The nape of the manager’s neck started to color, and he cleared his throat. “I see. Might I suggest you open an account and simply withdraw the necessary funds for the auction?”
All business now, Annie said, “That depends, I suppose, on how much I’ll receive in exchange for the bond.”
The manager flipped open the lid of a wooden box sitting to the side of his desk. Inside were several compartments containing linen stationery, nibs, elaborately pearlized barrels, caps, and fillers. He quickly assembled a pen, pulled out a sheet, and began scratching notes.
An hour later, Annie walked out of the bank with a thousand dollars in cash and a book of checks with an account balance of $4,488, having reduced the service fee from eight to two percent, while leaving the manager scratching his head over how he came up for air at the shallow end in the war of the sexes. She also had the date, directions to the nearest hotel, and the rudiments of a plan, having decided the simplest course of action would be to shift suspicion from Elsbeth to the man she read about in the article. It took her a moment to remember his name— Ambrosius Culler.
She stepped outside, looking for the trolley rails, as per the bank manager’s instructions. A paperboy, identifiable by his knickerbockers, flat cap, and wooden crate, was more than happy to point north for a nickel, and she wandered toward the downtown section of Kansas City, past billboards for such oddments as Dooley’s Yeast Powder and Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup. But she was stopped in her tracks by a billboard advertising Eno’s Fruit Salt, illustrated with the image of a dapper gent and a winsome lady separated by Cupid.
The caption read, “Riches, Titles, Honour, Power, and Worldly Prospects Are as Nought to a Deeply Rooted Love!” Apparently, Mr. Eno was selling a love potion, and the advertisement was so pretentiously fraudulent, so delightfully hucksterish, that Annie had to restrain herself from applauding. A horse-drawn carriage rolled by, kicking up dust, and she reached for her handkerchief before sneezing violently.
“Bless you, ma’am.”
“Looks like you got a bleeder.”
“A what?”
The kid tapped his nose.
“Oh!” Annie pressed the handkerchief to hers.
“No, no!” the kid said, hopping up. “Put it in your mouth and
chew on it, hard-like. That does the trick every time.”
Annie laughed but did as he suggested, feeling a little silly as she chewed on the cloth. After a minute, she pulled it out, testing her nose. “Well, I’ll be,” she said.
The kid stuck his thumbs in oversize pockets and, without an ounce of sheepishness, said, “Now, ain’t that worth a coin or two?”
Tickled by his chutzpah, Annie set her suitcase down and made an act of glaring at him disapprovingly, while taking stock of the blue eyes and freckled nose. She reached into her purse, pulled out a dollar, and winked.
Clearly not expecting such a response, the boy took a moment to collect the offered bill, looking at Annie all the while as if trying to decide whether she was an earthbound angel or simply had a screw loose. He shoved it in a pocket while looking up and down the street warily before taking her by the arm and saying something completely unexpected. “You better come with me, miss.”
He tried to pull her around a corner,but Annie stood her ground. “My hotel is that way.” She pointed in the opposite direction.
Glancing in the direction from which she’d come, he shook his head and started tugging at her arm again. “If you want to make it there in one piece, you best come with me.”
The Lemoncholy Life of Annie Aster Page 15