“Oh, yeah. That I won’t forget.” Edmond greeted the door from his dream with silence before allowing Christian to pilot him to the breakfast nook. He watched as Christian went to a cupboard to collect a pair of glasses, filling them with juice from the refrigerator, whatever it was he had wanted to discuss long forgotten.
Handing one to him, Christian dropped into the chair across the table, only to grimace, then reach into his back pocket to fish out the plastic teeth, placing them on the table.“It’s time I finished the tale I started in the Headlands,” he said.
Edmond listened as Christian recited a long, complicated, and highly improbable story, while absentmindedly winding up the toy. He set it down when he finished and looked at Edmond while the teeth chattered and bounced across the table.
“So, from what I’m hearing—” Edmond pressed his finger atop the toy to help himself think. When Christian placed a saucer over it, Edmond sat back, looking over Christian’s shoulder at the door. “I mean, from what you’re saying, it wasn’t a dream. I visited the past in Kansas, somewhere in the vicinity of 1895.”
“Well, that’s where things get a little iffy. I don’t know what you experienced, but it wasn’t just a dream. How could it be? You described exactly the same place Annie and I went to.”
“And Annie was born sometime in the late 1800s.”
“The twenty-third of June, eighteen ninety-four,” Christian said, wincing in advance of the response he expected.
Edmond merely grunted, however. He searched Christian’s eyes for any indication of a practical joke before it struck him that Christian was probably incapable of one.
Understanding that words weren’t proof, Christian stormed upstairs and returned with something in his hand.
A chill raced up and down Edmond’s spine as he scanned Annie’s birth certificate and the printed copy. Sitting them on the table, he said, “Okay then,” drawing the words out slowly. “There you have it. Annie was born in eighteen ninety-four. Who would’ve thought?”
Christian scratched his head and leaned on the table. “Don’t ask me how it works, but Annie was placed through the door by her father—in eighteen ninety-five in Kansas City, as a baby— and came out the other side sometime in the late sixties. Here. In San Francisco. Still a baby. Somehow, she skipped those sixty-plus years without aging a day.”
Edmond found himself resigned to the improbability of the story and increasingly interested in what would come next.
“Annie’s gone back,” Christian whispered as if in answer.
“Gone back?”
“In time. To eighteen ninety-five. To Kansas City.” Christian threw his shoulder over the bench top and stared at the door. “She’s gone through that and is up to something. Her father’s murderer probably won’t take too kindly to her interference, and she’s going to need help.” He turned and continued in a quiet voice. “Edmond…she’s my best friend.”
“I know.” Edmond scanned Christian’s face. “And you want me to go with you.”
Despite it not being a question, Christian nodded.
“Okay.” He took a sip of orange juice, then set it down. “Now can you please tell me what you’re doing in those stupid clothes?”
Christian pulled self-consciously at the wool trousers and suspenders. “I got them at Prudence Travesty’s—the vintage clothing shop in the Haight?” He reached under a chair and pulled out a second pile of clothes—shoes and all. “Two-day rental for fortyeight bucks.”
Edmond looked from Christian’s face to the second pile and back again. He lurched away from the table, rocking the bench. “Nope. Not a chance,” he said. “I agreed to help, but I’m not wearing that.”
“Oh, come on! We’re going back a hundred years. Don’t you think you might stick out wearing a T-shirt with ‘Hell no, we won’t glow’ written on it?”
Edmond pressed his lips into a strained, bloodless line before slumping over the table. He grabbed the shirt on the top of the pile and held it to his nose. “This stuff smells like my grandma’s closet,” he said. “Not a happy memory, Christian. Grandma was mean.” He pulled off his shirt and started to change. “Seriously, do you really think we’re going to look the part in these things?”
“Mrs. Weatherall says they’re authentic.” Christian caught sight of a scar on Edmond’s side. “What’s that?” he asked.
“Well, if she says so.” Edmond glanced at the ceiling with an eye roll, a response to Christian’s first comment, then back down to his side, a response to the second. He ran his hand along the line of the scar, his eyes veiled, then glanced at Christian as if on the verge of saying something. “Tell you later.” Shaking off whatever was bothering him, Edmond continued, “Is it possible she was just trying to make a sale?” He pulled off his sneakers. “Don’t answer that,” he said. “And do you know when and where we’re going to end up once we pass through that door?”
Christian watched as Edmond unraveled a pair of suspenders. “Yeah, pretty sure,” he said. “I read through Annie’s notes while I waited for you. She’s going to an auction. We’re doing the same…I think.”
“You think?” He gestured toward the door. “After you.”
Christian walked to the back of the kitchen and paused, turning to Edmond. “I’m afraid,” he said. Not waiting for a reply, he stepped through the door and disappeared.
Edmond looked back to the tabletop. He lifted the saucer, and the toy teeth resumed their fearful chatter.
“Tell me about it,” he said and stepped into the void.
Cap’n looked up from under her cap to see what was causing all the ruckus. A handful of ducks were squabbling over the last bits of bread she’d spread around her park bench. On the other side of the pond, however, another cluster of ducks had hit the water, fanning out. At the center of the expanding arc created by their wake stood two men whispering to each other as they studied the stones donated by the Cherokee Council. Dumping the remaining breadcrumbs on the ground, Cap’n wandered over to them.
“It d-does say Kansas City on the placard,” said the shorter of the two, as if pressing a point.
“Well, that answers the first question. But how do we find out—” The taller one broke off midsentence when he noticed Cap’n’s approach.
“Excuse me, mister. Your name Christian?”
He shook his head and pointed to the shorter of the two who looked up from the placard with a start.
“You Christian, mister?”
Christian stared at her, blinking stupidly. He opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and merely nodded.
Cap’n relaxed, extending her hand. “I’m Cap’n. Miss Annie sent me here to fetch you.”
The taller man cheerfully threw up his hands. “That answers question number two,” he said.
Wrinkling her nose, Cap’n looked Edmond up and down before turning to Christian. “Who’s the wag?” she asked.
“W-wag? Th-th-hat’s—” Christian eyes rolled skyward as he worried his jaw in and out. “Edmmmmond. My friend,” he said, smiling apologetically.
Edmond held out his hand, but Cap’n made a show of stuffing her hands in her pockets, eyeing him distrustfully.
She stepped back, assessing the situation. One doesn’t survive on the streets very long without being able to read another’s character, and she was good at it—very good. Christian was a piece of cake. He was a simple soul. Something in life had bruised him, that was obvious from his speech, but it hadn’t twisted him. She’d heard tell of kids who stuttered when schoolteachers forced them to write with their right hands, but she suspected it was more than being a lefty with this guy.
Edmond, however, was a little more complicated. He knew the ropes. She could see it in his eyes. And no one learned the ropes unless they “fell from society’s protective bosom,” as Fabian used to say. The question was whether Edmond had also fallen from grace. She gave him another once-over, noticing how he hovered near Christian, almost as if protecting
him, and she decided he was all right.
“Follow me,” she said and led them to the other side of the pond where she crawled up on a small boulder. She pulled off her cap— waiting a moment for Christian and Edmond to adjust to the sight of her pigtails—and made herself comfortable. “Don’t worry. Miss Annie’s fine, but she’s tangling with a couple of rough characters.”
Edmond turned to Christian, muttering, “Culler.”
“The one and only,” Cap’n said. She was about to apologize to Edmond for her earlier rudeness when she saw someone approach from the corner of her eye.
“Pardon me.”
The three froze at the interruption, looking up to see a man step off the pathway. He was entirely too polished, too urbane, and, frankly, too pretty in his suit and top hat to feel menacing, but Cap’n immediately slid from the boulder, her eyes darting to Christian.
He shook his head, mystified.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” the man continued. “But I was walking by when I heard a name that interests me. Is this ‘Miss Annie’ you are discussing by chance Annabelle Aster?”
“Doesn’t waste any time, does she?” Edmond said, getting a shoulder butt from Christian for his cheek. Cap’n, however, took a more direct approach. “Who wants to know?” she demanded.
The gentleman shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. “Well, yes. That does require an explanation. And it’s a bit embarrassing, really. Rupert ran off with my hat, you see. A habit of his that, while admittedly irritating, created a happy result…”The gentleman commenced a rambling dialogue concerning Annie and—Christian came to realize—a dog.
The man simply could not get to the point, and there was a quality to his discomfort that Christian recognized. Annie had made an impression. Just as Christian began to wonder if his conclusion was as painfully obvious to the others, Cap’n returned his gaze, lifting a brow.
“In all truth, I’ve walked him several times since then, hoping that our paths would cross again.” The man paused, looking startled by his confession. “Anyway, I—”
“Look, Mr. Whoever-You-Are,” interrupted Cap’n. “That’s a fine story and all, but we ain’t got all day here.”She held up her hand before he could continue. “Just hold on. Are you Mr. Goodkin?”
“Why, yes!” he said. “I am. Nathaniel Goodkin.” He searched a breast pocket and pulled out a card.
Cap’n read the name before handing it to Christian. “He’s all right,” she said and beckoned Nathaniel over. “You might as well join the group. Do I need to make introductions, or did you get our names already?”
Taking a moment to regain his composure from that little barb, Nathaniel finally managed to ask, “Is there trouble? I heard the name Culler mentioned.”
Cap’n’s eyes strayed to Christian.
If grabbing a tiger by the tail two thousand miles and a hundred years from home is considered trouble… “Do you know hoo-hoohoo”—he gestured with his hand as if making a comma in the air—“wwwwhere…Annie is?”
“He’s just rattled,” Edmond said, noticing Mr. Goodkin’s confusion.
Christian looked to the ground, then back to Edmond, smiling.
“Yeah,” said Cap’n. Having tuned in to Edmond’s defense and the nonverbal cues that Christian broadcast, she was suddenly convinced of the story behind his stutter. She smiled back. “Miss Annie’s at Pierson’s.”
“Pierson’s?” asked Nathaniel and Edmond simultaneously. Edmond was about to follow up with “What’s Pierson’s?” but Nathaniel was the first to collect himself. “Is there an auction today?” he asked.
Cap’n nodded. “David Abbott’s estate. She’s going to buy his door.”
“His door? Why on earth… Did she tell you that?” asked Nathaniel.
“Not in so many words.”
Christian pulled the hair back from his forehead and turned to Cap’n. “Can you t-t-take us…there?”
She nodded, but obviously thinking better of it, motioned to Mr. Goodkin. “You know the way?” she asked.
He nodded. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I’m going ahead to scout,” she said.
It was clear from the look on her face that Cap’n had more on her mind than simply getting the lay of the land, and as he watched her cut across a field, Mr. Goodkin said thoughtfully, “I think our good Cap’n is up to something.” He turned to gauge his two charges. Gesturing for them to follow, he made for the pathway. “I don’t think you were entirely candid back there,” he said. “And I suppose I can’t blame you. But I’ll ask again. Could there be trouble?”
There were a few seconds of silence as Christian waited, hoping Edmond would reply on his behalf. But it wasn’t really fair to expect Edmond to respond to something only he could answer, so Christian shrugged, preparing to fight for words that might stick in his throat. “Do you know…this Mr. C-C-Culler?”
“A ruthless man.”
“Then-n-n it’s quite possible.”
The cryptic response left Nathaniel to wonder what Miss Aster’s relationship with Mr. Culler might be, while also leaving Edmond to wonder if Christian was being a bit too candid for his own good.
After a couple uncomfortable moments, Nathaniel started to swing his cane in time with his footsteps. “Miss Aster doesn’t strike me as a collector,” he said.
“No, not”—Christian dipped his head and swallowed, a reflexive action—“really,” he said, glaring when Edmond punched his shoulder. He looked around to see that Nathaniel had broken his stride and was staring at him.
“Then why has she gone to the considerable expense and trouble to travel from San Francisco just to buy a stage prop?” he asked.
Nathaniel wasn’t intentionally trying to trip Christian up, but his words had the same effect. Christian fumbled unsuccessfully for a response, finally resigning himself to a doleful shake of his head.
Realizing he might be pressing too hard, Nathaniel said, “It must be something very personal,” and tactfully changed the subject. “I hope Miss Aster is aware that these auctions are cash only,” he said. “I apologize for being so direct, but do you have any money on you, should she need reserves?”
“S- s- some.” Christian pulled out a crumpled twenty- dollar bill, picking away the lint before handing it to Mr. Goodkin.
As he was preparing to put the bill in his pocket, Nathaniel paused, staring at it. He surprised Christian by handing it back, then reached into his coat pocket to pull out his wallet, withdrawing several crisp twenty- dollar bills. “May I?” he asked, handing them to Christian.
As the tree line broke, giving them a glimpse of downtown Kansas City, Nathaniel said, “Mr. Keebler, may I recommend you hold on to your cash?” While Christian attempted to determine the reason behind the suggestion, he added, looking unhappy, “The series date is in error.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
An Auction
When a person whose world is built entirely on honesty— aside from one or two secrets he keeps from himself— suddenly realizes a lie serves the greater good, he will invariably and carefully weigh the amount of truth he can offer. This can be a considerable undertaking. But when that person also finds himself, on occasion, crippled by words, it can be downright impossible.
Realizing that time was pressing, and not encumbered by such a weight, Edmond dusted off some rusty skills and stepped in before Christian could say a word, speaking casually with Mr. Goodkin. Christian didn’t know what Edmond said, but Mr. Goodkin seemed to accept it at face value, leading them through the park without another word.
Chaotic thoughts ran amok in Christian’s head, and it was several blocks before he came out of his shell.
They’d broken from the park and onto a city walkway. It was grimy but very much alive with the hustle of everyday life in Kansas City. Christian slowed as they passed a theater for vaudeville, its facade a gaudy display of gold and red, littered with banners advertising, among other things, Burt Jordan and
Rosa Crouch— Sensational, Grotesque, and “Buck” Dancers.
It was an eyesore on a boulevard of eyesores. But for all the thousand ways this Victorian cityscape varied from the one that Christian knew, one thing remained unchanged— at least for him. Sitting in a gilded kiosk in front of the theater, the words Continuous Entertainment for Five Cents painted over its open window, was his angel. Not even a hundred years could throw her off the scent.
Breaking from his usual policy of turning a blind eye, Christian approached the kiosk, perversely curious. The angel did little to satisfy it, though, merely regarding him with unblinking, oversize eyes, her mouth perpetually agape, and all of her wreathed in sinuous tongues of flame.
Stifling the impulse to speak, he placed his hand, openpalmed, on the glass pane for a moment, then turned to catch up with his companions.
Having witnessed all of this, Edmond hung back to peer inside the kiosk. Finding it empty, he examined the palm print Christian had left—contoured in a film of steam that quickly evaporated— and wondered at what had stoked his friend’s furnace.
As he hurried to catch up with the other two men, Edmond overheard Christian ask, “Shall we eat?” as he stared through the door of what appeared to be a teahouse. Nathaniel nodded to the hostess as he hooked his arm through Christian’s, deftly pulling him away. “Certainly not there,” he said.
“Well, I w-wouldn’t mind getting a bite to eat.”
“That particular parlor satisfies a different type of appetite, Mr. Keebler.”
Christian’s face colored, and he elbowed Edmond for being a little too entertained at his expense, but stubbornly stuck to his original question. “Shall we eat?”
“Shortly. Prudence requires a quick detour.”
“To where?”
“To the haberdashery, Mr. Keebler.” Nathaniel picked up his pace, leaving Christian and Edmond scrambling to catch up. “It’s the clothes, you see.” Looking decidedly uncomfortable, he struggled to continue. “Please don’t take offense, but…” He scanned their clothes and shrugged, as if to say that words were inadequate.
The Lemoncholy Life of Annie Aster Page 21