“Maybe that’s what you need to find out…” Jean pulled her cardigan tighter. “It’s cold in here. Let’s go the living room.”
They walked in single file, checking their surroundings, all of them a little unsettled. They moved to the table. The laptop was open, humming softly.
Jean frowned. “That’s odd. I’m sure I closed it.”
She pulled the laptop toward her. On the screen, in an otherwise blank document, were a few typed words.
Stop. Or I will hurt you.
The room was dead silent, except for the storm raging outside, as all three women held their breath, huddling together. Sara’s courage evaporated.
“Okay, I’m seriously creeped out right now,” Phoebe whispered. “Why is she so angry with you?”
Phoebe had grabbed Sara’s painful arm; Sara gritted her teeth, stifling a cry. “I’m not sure. Maybe because I’m the one dreaming and figuring out things she doesn’t want revealed? Or maybe because I helped Julia and William ‘cross over’—or however you want to call it—and she’s still stuck here, alone?”
“You must’ve seen something in your dream,” Jean said, “given that she hurt you.”
“She had this canister with pills. She was guarding it, also from Julia. Remember how I said the label had the word ‘cure’ on it? I couldn’t read it all this time, but it wasn’t the word ‘cure.’ It was ‘cury.’”
“Cury?” Jean shook her head. “Strange. I’ve no idea what that is.” She placed her chin in her hand.
“She was ashamed,” Sara said. “Furious, but also ashamed. I could feel it.”
“I need the internet.” Jean abruptly sat down in front of the laptop, getting rid of the threat on the screen. The silence seemed to last forever, only disturbed by the soft tapping of her fingers on the keyboard. After a while, she looked up. “I wonder—”
The lights flickered. A loud pop reverberated through the room. The lights went out. They were surrounded by utter darkness, except for the pale, white sheen coming from the computer screen. Raindrops pounded on the French doors, interrupted on and off by the wailing of the wind. Then a star-shaped crack appeared in the screen of the laptop, and with a tired sigh, the screen fizzled out. It was pitch-black in the room. All three women cowered in terror.
“Help,” Phoebe whispered.
While Sara waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, the coldness encircled them, quietly expanding and contracting, like slow breathing… Sara felt like a piece of prey without an escape route, aware of the tiger sniffing close by. Her good hand found Jean’s and squeezed it tightly.
“Mercury.” The older woman’s voice did not waver.
The coldness violently shrunk away from them, in the direction of one of the corners.
“Mercury.” Jean stood up. “That’s what was in the canister. That was Alice’s medication.”
“I’m sorry,” Phoebe whispered, still hugging Sara’s arm, “but mercury—we’re talking about the shiny liquidy stuff, right? Inside old thermometers? Why would anyone want to ingest mercury?”
“No one would. But back in the nineteenth century, and for a while thereafter, they used it as medicine. For one particular ailment, mostly.” Jean paused. “Syphilis.”
Loud noises erupted from the corner, like books were flying off the shelf. Sara cringed. She felt the anger, the hatred oozing from the corner. Shame. Guilt. And more. A kaleidoscope of emotions spiraling through the room. Unhinged, unstable. Glass shattered in the direction of the patio. Then gusts of wind began blowing in, and the wailing increased in intensity. The French doors shook violently. They needed to get control of the situation somehow.
“Syphilis? What’s that got to do with it?” Sara asked, loud enough to be heard over the storm.
“It’s an STD.” Jean’s voice was not as steady as before. She was breathing heavily. “It can cause birth defects and miscarriages.”
A whoosh of chilled air touched them, then disappeared back into the corner before they fully realized it—like a cold heartbeat, almost too quick to register.
Sara squeezed Jean’s hand, encouraging her to go on.
Jean continued, almost trance-like, as if reciting one of her medical textbooks. “In Alice’s time, they had no cure for syphilis. There were no antibiotics back then, and without them, syphilis is nasty. The initial symptoms go away, even though you remain infectious for quite some time. But in some people, after years of being disease-free, it would come back as a chronic, debilitating condition, eventually causing death. Neurological symptoms were common. Patients had horrible nerve pain, or raving madness, dementia, delusions, and so on. Who knows what ingesting mercury would add to that picture.” She seemed to snap out of her trance, directing the last words in the direction of the hostile entity. “Alice was a married woman. But I don’t think William was much into monogamy.”
“And then William tried to get rid of her,” Sara said, carefully shuffling over to the corner, feeling her way with her slippers while holding on to the other two women. The coldness had lost some of its intensity. Vibrating slowly, it had shrunk back closer to the wall. “The bastard wanted to make her disappear and replace her with someone else. And when she found out, she killed the object of his desire. Maybe she was even convinced that Julia was in on it.”
“The shame would’ve been enormous,” Jean said, seeming to realize what Sara was doing. “Syphilis carried such a social stigma. Think about it. She knew what she had, why she’d had a miscarriage—and who’d caused all of it. She probably knew it would kill her, given her symptoms. But she couldn’t tell anyone.” There was sympathy in her voice now. “I’ll tell you, I’d be angry.”
“Angry enough to kill, maybe…” Phoebe whispered. “I know she killed her sister. Which is very wrong, of course. But the poor woman. What a thing to go through.”
The vibrating stopped. Sara felt the anger and shame melting away into sadness, remorse, and grief—and, oddly enough, love. And just like that, the coldness disappeared. Sara swallowed a lump away. “She’s gone.”
Silence hung in the room like a heavy shroud, except for the pitter-patter of the rain falling steadily on the patio tiles.
“Are you sure?” Phoebe croaked.
“Pretty sure.”
With overwhelming brightness, the lights came back on. They shielded their eyes. The room was a mess. Next to the French doors, the ground was littered with broken glass, picture frames, and books. Alice had done a number on the shelves. Rain was coming in through the broken window.
Phoebe sighed. “I guess I’ll get the vacuum cleaner.”
Jean, still white-faced, sunk down on the couch.
The only one who seemed unaffected was Estelle, who, sensing that everything had gone back to normal, vigorously scratched herself. She then ambled over to her water bowl and slobbered loudly.
Sara located a piece of plywood in the garage, which they used to cover up the broken window. When the mess was cleaned up, they sat down next to Jean, who had not moved.
“Are you okay?” Sara asked.
“Yes. No. My brain is having a hard time processing what just happened.”
“Yeah, mine too.” Phoebe got up and retrieved a wine bottle from the fridge. Handing everyone a glass, she asked, “You’re sure she’s gone, right?”
Sara shrugged. “She seems to be. What do you think happened after Alice arrived in Washington, D.C.?”
“She died that year,” Jean said. “I presume she died of end-stage syphilis. When she killed Julia, she had lost quite a few of her marbles already. William’s letter confirms that. She was on her way out, so to speak.”
“What about William?” Phoebe asked.
“My guess? He was one of the lucky ones whose syphilis didn’t return. But we’ll never know for sure…”
“He didn’t deserve it—to get off scot-free.” Phoebe frowned, staring hard into her almost empty wine glass.
“I’m not sure he did,” Sara said, rememberin
g his devastation when he found Julia.
Phoebe shrugged. After a few minutes, she asked Sara, “How do you deal with this? With all”—she waved a hand—“this.”
“Not always as well as I’d like to. It’s not like I can escape it, you know. But I can’t change history—what’s done is done. I can only change the here and now. Which is what we did.”
Phoebe shook her head. “This has to be the weirdest weekend of my life.”
“Hang out with me more often, and it may get even weirder.” A faint smile lit up Sara’s face.
“Please, no. I’m not sure I could handle that.” Jean finally got up and retrieved her laptop. “Although I’m hoping we’re out of family members with unresolved issues.” She smiled at the other two women. “It’s past my bedtime. But I have to admit, I’m a little hesitant about sleeping alone. How about a slumber party in one of the bedrooms?”
Chapter 29
The wheels of Sara’s carry-on made tracks in the fresh snow. She shivered. The winter weather was a shock after Los Angeles. Big, soft flakes drifted down, twinkling in the streetlights and covering everything in a white blanket. Normally, at this hour, she would have taken a brisk walk to her apartment, since the darkness always made her a little uncomfortable. Now, however, she took more care to avoid slipping on the pavement.
The events of the past weekend seemed surreal. They had solved the mystery—the three of them, together. She still could not get over the fact that all of them had felt Alice’s presence. Knowing she was no longer alone in what she considered her oddness gave Sara a perverse sense of joy. Even the matter of Julia’s grave had been resolved. When they had talked to Aunt Shelley the next day, she had told them that despite the fact that Julia had a headstone, the cemetery records showed no actual body had ever been interred. Most likely, Theresa had meant for their resting place to be together after Alice had died. It would have given the children a place to visit, to mourn.
Sara had offered to stay one more night in Santa Monica, sensing that Phoebe was a little scared to stay behind alone in the house. But today had passed without incident, which had given Phoebe more courage. Most importantly, Estelle was behaving like her normal obnoxious self. If Alice had still been lingering, they assumed that would not have been the case. Still, Sara could imagine Phoebe wouldn’t feel the same about her house for a while.
Turning on to her street, she observed her townhouse, which looked dark and uninviting. The entrance light appeared to have died. On the front porch, she dug in her pocket to find her keys. Her fingers were stiff from the cold, and it took her a while to get them out.
Something shuffled to her right on a small part of the porch they used as a sitting area. She stopped fiddling, turning her head toward the noise, her heart jumping out of her chest. The chairs were hidden in the shadows. One of the chairs moved, its legs scratching over the porch. With legs of lead, she stood there, waiting. The tinkling sound of metal bouncing on the porch came from next to her feet. Damn—she had just dropped her keys.
Footsteps were coming toward her.
She put her hand back in her pocket. “Who’s there? Don’t come any closer. I warn you, you’ll regret it.” She took her hand out of her pocket again, thankful that this time, her cold hand had quickly found what it was looking for. A dark shadow moved toward her, and she stretched her hand out in front of her.
“Sara?”
She recognized the voice just before she pushed the lever of the little canister.
“David? What the—how about a warning? You scared the shit out of me. And I almost sprayed you.”
His face was still hidden in the darkness. “With my bear spray? That would’ve hurt. I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Well, who hides on someone’s porch in the darkness? How about a phone call?”
He flipped on his cell phone and turned on the flashlight. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to come visit. It was kind of spur of the moment.” The light gave him an eerie, pale complexion. Most of his head was hidden by a warm hat and scarf. “It’s cold, sitting out here. Dark, too. You should get that light fixed.”
“Thanks, yes, I noticed. My roommate’s gone for the week.” She reached down to pick up the keys. “What are you doing here?”
“Aunt Shelley told me you were coming back tonight. I wanted to see you.”
The simple statement sent her blood pounding. How she had missed him. But she was not going to change her mind. Steeling herself, she said, “David, I miss you too, but I’m not going back to Dunnhill.”
“I know that.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
He moved his phone from one hand to the other, the light beam flashing in different directions. “I wanted to see you. To tell you I’m an idiot. How much I miss you.” His voice caught.
Sara held her breath, her heart uncoiling just a touch. The flashlight shone upward now, lighting up both their faces. David’s eyes were asking. There was a gentle tugging in her chest.
“I miss you,” she said softly. “But I’m not sure I can be what you need me to be.”
“That’s the thing. You already are.” Hesitantly, he stretched out his hand and tenderly traced her cheek.
“I don’t understand—what about Dunnhill, your home? If I don’t want to live there… You said you couldn’t see it working out.”
“Sara, I was wrong. Home is where you are. Dunnhill is no home without you.”
The tugging in her chest increased. Slowly, her heart responded, unfolding tentatively, but not fully. “What are you saying, David? I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’m saying that if you want to live here, and I want to be with you, maybe I should give it a shot. Saying it won’t work before even trying it—that could be the stupidest mistake of my life. So I’m saying I’d like to give Seattle a try, if you’ll have me.”
Her chest filled up, swelling with happiness, until she felt it might burst. “I don’t know,” she said, feigning a dilemma, “I’d have to have a talk with someone about that, but hopefully he’ll understand. He can be a little possessive.”
David frowned lightly. “I really don’t want to deal with another jealous friend.”
“Well, you’ll have to. He’s part of the package.”
She giggled at David’s puzzled expression. “His name is Houdini. He spends most of the time sleeping, usually on the pillow next to mine.” She smiled. “Meow…”
Relieved, David grinned, pulling her close. “I have to admit, you had me worried there for a moment. A cat, though, I can handle.”
“Yes, but can he handle you?”
“He’ll have little choice. But I’m extremely lovable.”
Sara looked serious again. “What about your job, David? Your business. You can’t just leave it behind.”
“Not going to. My uncle from Portland has been wanting to retire for a while and return to Dunnhill. But he’s afraid he’ll get bored. I merely convinced him to take the step. He will manage the business, until… who knows. Until he’s sick of it, I guess. We’ll see what happens. In the meantime, I’ll look for work here. Believe it or not, they sell houses here too.”
“You’re sure?”
“As sure as can be. Are you going to unlock this door or not? I’m freezing.” He pointed the flashlight at the lock.
Sara turned the key and opened the door. The light in the hall came streaming out, causing both of them to blink for a moment. She turned around to grab her suitcase, but before she could move, David’s strong arms wrapped around her, lifting her up like she weighed nothing.
His voice was a low rumble in her ears. “Since you can’t carry me in, I guess I’ll do the honors.” His stubble softly scratched her cheek as he looked deep into her eyes. “I love you, Sara Eriksson.”
Sara didn’t feel the cold anymore, nor the numbness in her fingers. Her body was glowing. “The feeling is mutual,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
“Excellent,” David
said as he lifted her over the threshold. “Let’s go meet that jealous cat of yours. Someone should inform him that he’s going to have to find a new pillow to sleep on.”
◆◆◆
Afterword
This book is a work of fiction and a product of my imagination, but I have tried to keep some historical details as accurate as I could.
I browsed through many old, daily editions of the San Francisco Call, which provided a fascinating window into the America and San Francisco of the 1900’s.
The First Lady, Mrs. McKinley, did fall gravely ill on the Presidential trans-continental tour in 1901. She (and her husband) stayed in San Francisco, in a house on Clay and Laguna, while she struggled to survive for nearly two weeks.
Zélie de Lussan was an actual opera singer (she even has a Wikipedia entry). There was an ad in the newspaper for her Carmen performance at the Tivoli, at eight o’clock sharp on the night of March 27, 1903. I assume she performed as planned. I also assume she performed more than once, but for the sake of the storyline, I left that out.
San Francisco did move its cemeteries in the early 1900’s—and not as thoroughly as one would have hoped. In the 1950’s and 1960’s hundreds of bodies were found during construction activities for the University of San Francisco. Even as recent as 2011, the excavations for the University’s Science Center yielded a modest trove of coffins and skeletons. Seismic renovations of the Legion of Honor in 1993 exposed more than 700 bodies that once were placed to rest in the Golden Gate Cemetery.
Little did I know that when I stumbled upon a report about a case of the plague in San Francisco in March 1900 (and had Julia mention it in her letter) I had in fact found something really interesting. When I read follow up reports on the case in the same newspaper, the doctor who had diagnosed the patient, Dr. Kinyoun, was discredited, and the idea of the plague in San Francisco was put down as fake news by Californian officials. Quite honestly, I never thought anything of it. Imagine my surprise when I came across a recent article in the National Geographic (April, 2020) by Andrew Lawler, called When Bubonic Plague First Struck America, highlighting the struggle of Dr. Kinyoun to get the officials to act on what he feared would become an epidemic. Apparently, at least a hundred people died from the plague in San Francisco, but it was denied in fear of bringing havoc on the Californian economy. Dr. Kinyoun was discredited as an incompetent hack and transferred to Detroit. It took a new governor to eradicate San Francisco’s rat population and solve the city’s plague problem.
A Dose of Deadly Intentions Page 16