by D. L. Koontz
She’d confessed to being married. To wanting Andrew to come back.
She’d hugged Davis, made him laugh, then cried when he left. He’d almost come to believe she really hated seeing him go.
What a fool he’d been to let his guard down. He’d actually enjoyed picking out clothes for her. Seeing her reaction.
But, she had looked him right in the eyes and lied.
“Blast!” This time he banged the inside of his car door, causing the window to rattle in a concerning way. He wasn’t a bad man. But, sometimes certain problems had to be removed in the interest of national security even if they harbored no ill-intent. Sometimes just knowing the wrong thing could get you killed.
And, why had she been so quiet at lunch? She’d been nervous, distracted, almost panicky. Had something happened? Had she seen someone in town? Was Matryoshka back? Or, had she gotten a clue about his whereabouts and intent?
It was a good thing he was relocating to the Arandale for now, rather than going back to Pittsburgh. He needed a little time and distance from this woman.
But first, he would return to the cave and carve Libby’s initials on the wall. That had to be done. Immediately.
Chapter Twenty-One
1926
That evening, Libby stood in her room in front of the mirror, staring. How could she look the same as she had before this whole journey began? Mirrors were supposed to reflect the truth. Her entire world had shifted and changed, yet the woman in the mirror looked like the same one that had stared back at her in Alexandria, several weeks, and ninety years of changes, ago. Mirrors should show what a person carried inside.
Then again, she wouldn’t want to see that reflection anyway.
She draped a thin chain of silver beads over her head, watching its length drop to below the waist of her new green skirt and blouse. From what she’d seen that day, long necklaces were the height of fashion. Perhaps this would take people’s gazes away from her hair which was not in fashion at all.
Besides the chain, a small pistol, a Brownie box camera, and the many items on her list, she’d purchased several blouses, skirts, hats, a pair of ladies’ trousers and boots at a women’s boutique. The day had set her back forty-three dollars, but now she had a stash of mix-and-match essentials.
Thomas St. Clair, Davis’s broker, had better make an appearance soon.
She had spent the afternoon in her room curled up in bed, her mind waffling between feeling sorry for herself and thoughts of Sheriff Brogan Harrow. While intriguing, and definitely baffling, the moment with him had shaken her. She had to push him from her mind.
Yet, when she did, her thoughts shifted to Davis and she felt even more remote and alone. She loved this man. Not romantically, but as a protector. The kind she hadn’t had in years. What a fool she’d made of herself when he’d left, holding him in more of a life grasp than she had Andrew during their goodbye. But, with Davis, it was easy. She liked his kind face, his hazel eyes, the whispers of lines at the corners suggesting exposure to sun, laughter, and years of collected experiences beyond her own.
By seven o’clock she’d forced herself to climb off the bed and keep her promise.
“Join life,” she repeated Davis’s words into the mirror. Besides, it’s what Andrew would want her to do.
In the lobby she saw no signs to designate the direction to a restaurant or cafeteria, so she headed to the front desk. Her path collided with that of Jarvis exiting through an office door.
His expression, behind pursed lips, suggested little desire to help her with anything. Still, he offered the merest bow of his head and said, “Mrs. Shaw. May I help you?”
She shot back the warmest smile she could fake. “Din—err, Supper?”
He pointed to an archway. “Take that corridor. Follow the others.” Libby could hear the drag of disapproval between each word.
The long hallway had at least eight doors opening onto it. As Libby made her way to supper, she listened to people passing by. Some of the conversations were informative, bits of them amusing, and much of them inexplicable.
“He’s the bee’s knees.” Agreeable? Goofy?
“It was slick to have seen her.” Good? Lucky?
“But it’s the really swagger thing to do in the city.” Fun? Popular?
“Sam was quite oiled.” Was Sam drunk? Dirty?
“Trotskyite,” “Bolshevism” and “Seventh imperial conference this autumn.” Too much politics in one sentence alone.
“...similarities between Dostoevsky and Aristotle...” and “...emotional reaction to Binomial Theorem.” Two conversations over Libby’s head and probably theirs as well.
“It’s a mail order service called Book of the Month Club. Thirty books for two dollars and ninety-eight cents.” Good to know.
“... one of those Milky Way bars, from the A&P.” Candy bars and grocery store chains? Things were looking up.
After making her selections from an impressive buffet—featuring cold poached salmon, leg of pork with sage stuffing, and several vegetables and desserts—Libby carried her tray to an unoccupied white linen-covered round table. A swift scan of the large dining room revealed furniture even heavier and darker than that in her room, and a quick calculation of the number of tables confirmed the place could hold almost five hundred people at one time. Impressive. Scattered potted palms and ferns made the room feel like a cross between a dining area and a conservatory.
Within a few minutes, a voice inquired, “May I join you? Yours is the first new mug I’ve seen in weeks.”
Libby turned to see a pleasant-looking woman standing beside her, fortyish in age, red wavy hair cut shorter than current fashion, wearing beige cuffed trousers, blazer, linen blouse and brown walking shoes. A look Libby imagined she might see in a 1920s L.L. Bean advertisement for the resilient outdoor adventure female.
The woman didn’t wait for an answer before plopping down first her tray and then herself. She thrust out a hand. “I’m Maude Berger. Would you pass the pepper please? Phew, it’s hot in here. All these bodies in one place.” She removed her blazer and tossed it over the back of another chair.
Maude had an air of self-confidence and straightforwardness that reminded Libby of Colette. She missed her friend. “Libby Shaw,” she said, handing over the pepper.
Maude generously coated her food. “Where’re you from?”
Stay as close to the truth as possible. “Alexandria, Virginia. But I’ve been in Australia for several years. Just returned.”
“Welcome home.” Maude smiled between bites. “Must have been a long trip. Did you fly any of that?”
Trans-Atlantic flights hadn’t happened yet, but were domestic passenger flights available? “No, all by ship. What about you, where are you from?”
“Cleveland. Here with a patient. I’m a doctor. How about yourself? Work? Husband? Children?”
“I became a widow recently. I’ve returned to my homeland to...” How to explain? “...start all over again.”
“My condolences.” She paused in a way that suggested acknowledgement of Libby’s mourning. “Got any ideas what you want to do?”
“I...well, you see—”
“Smash it,” Maude said and it sounded like a curse. She leaned toward Libby and whispered. “Sorry to interrupt but we’re about to be joined by the grande dame of societal convention. You might want to raise your pinkie and pull out your best posture, if that rot matters to you.”
A gray-haired woman approached the table, followed by a teenage girl and a member of the hotel staff carrying a tray. Despite walking with the help of a cane, a highly decorated and ornamented walking stick tipped in silver, the older lady’s posture was upright and she struck an imposing figure. Her gray hair swirled atop her head and was held in place with a pearl comb, a style Libby was sure dated from the 1890s. Neat as a pin, the old woman moved with a sense of self-importance. A cameo cinched her blouse together at the neck, and her skirt fell to near her ankles. The young woman accompa
nying her was waif thin with blonde hair cut in the popular blunt fashion, and wore a fashionably short dress, dramatic make-up, and a look of boredom on her face.
“We’ll sit with these guests,” the old woman declared to the employee, and he placed her tray at the seat she designated. The young girl rolled her eyes, dropped in a chair, and slouched.
“Good evening, ladies,” Maude said with no sign that she thought the woman any more cultivated than the next person. “Libby Shaw, this is Mrs. Delilah Beachum and her granddaughter, Lena Bauer.”
Libby nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” She turned to Lena. “How lovely that you are traveling with your grandmother.”
Mrs. Beachum sniffed. “I’m afraid Lena will not understand what you say. She is from Germany.” She looked around uncomfortably as though she’d said the girl had leprosy.
Ah, yes. Less than eight years ago America fought the Germans in WWI.
Mrs. Beachum continued. “I don’t speak German. Nasty language, that. And, Lena knows very little English. So this brief trip has been rather stilted to say the least. She squandered last night fiddling with that...that talking board thing.” She wiggled her fingers disparagingly in the air as if the object drifted there, just over their shoulders. Libby noticed the Cartier gold and diamond watch that adorned the woman’s wrist.
“A Ouija board?” Maude asked.
“Yes, that’s it. Such voodoo nonsense. Does that strike you as someone mature enough to marry?”
Maude shrugged. “Well, I think they’re nonsense too. Comical actually. But they certainly are all the rage lately.”
“Yes, well, she leaves tomorrow to visit my youngest son in New York for a few weeks. I doubt he will let that thing in his house. My son-in-law, Lena’s father, is taking a teaching position at Oxford at the end of the year so they will be leaving Germany, but Lena is determined to stay there and get married.” Mrs. Beachum’s body language suggested she found everything about Lena’s plan distasteful.
Maude raised a brow as she peppered her food a second time. “I take it you don’t approve.”
The old woman pursed her lips before dropping her volume so low Libby had to lean in to hear. “She intends to marry a foreigner.” Her chilled tone lowered the temperature at the table by degrees. “There’s nothing wrong with being foreign, mind you...” she said, her demeanor suggesting she believed just the opposite, “...and he’s from a very wealthy Jewish family. But, really, she ought to be marrying her own kind.”
A chill crawled across Libby’s skin. A Jewish marriage in Germany, heading into the 1930s. A recipe for disaster.
“She’s young,” Mrs. Beachum continued briskly. “Life will cure her of these naïve passions soon enough, but not before she’s married I’m afraid.”
Libby had a thought. If Lena believed in spiritualism, it might work. “Mrs. Beachum, I speak several languages. German being one. Would you like me to tell Lena your thoughts?”
Mrs. Beachum’s eyebrows shot higher. “Oh, my dear, if you would contrive to get through to her, that would be most beneficial. Tell her she simply cannot marry this young man.” She sat taller, with an imperial air about her.
Libby addressed the girl in German. “Your grandmother thinks I’m relaying her thoughts. But I’m not going to. So, be careful how you react. She is against your marriage, but the truth is, you should marry whomever you wish.”
Mrs. Beachum nodded and continued. “Tell her it would be a huge mistake. That their customs and beliefs are not ours. That much of the civilized world looks down on those people.”
Libby nodded at Mrs. Beachum, then spoke to Lena, continuing in German. “I have a...gift. Let’s just say that traveling has given me the ability to see into the future. Your fiancé’s people are going to be persecuted severely in Germany, and it will become illegal for an Aryan and a Jew to marry. A man named Adolf Hitler will rise to power and brainwash other Germans into turning violently against the Jews.”
Lena sat frozen, saying nothing, eyes widened like saucers.
Mrs. Beachum blinked. “Gracious, that required a lot of words. Tell her I emphatically forbid this preposterous union and that she will not be welcome in my home if she proceeds.”
Libby stared intently at Lena. “Be extremely careful. Condition your marriage on him moving the two of you out of the country right away. Your very lives will depend on it. Now, please pretend to love your grandmother for her concern.”
Lena pushed a smile onto her face, and leaned over to pull her grandmother into an embrace, kissing her cheek and patting her back, as she addressed Libby. “Thank you. I will never tell Grandmama what you said. I pray you are wrong, but I promise to think about it. I must go back to my room to write to Ephraim!”
It was clear from Mrs. Beachum’s reaction to her granddaughter’s fawning that she believed Lena was expressing love and gratitude.
Libby smiled, an effort to help Lena’s cause, and returned to speaking English to Mrs. Beachum. “Lena said she understands and has a lot to think about. She asks permission to return to her room to rest.”
As the girl let go of her grandmother, Mrs. Beachum cleared her throat and straightened the bodice of her clothing. “Yes, well, that’s fine.” She patted Lena’s arm. “Despite that deplorable public display of emotions.”
Again, in German, Libby said to Lena, “You’re excused, if you wish.”
The table grew quiet after Lena left, and from the corner of her eyes, Libby noticed Maude bite back a smile.
The rest of the meal involved discussions of the varied activities at the hotel, until Maude called to someone beyond Libby’s shoulder. “Leon, how are you getting on with the crutches?”
Libby followed her gaze to discover the man that had attacked Rose. Their gazes collided, and he stilled her with an artic glare before hobbling closer to Maude.
Nonplussed, Maude continued. “Ladies do you know Mr. Martelli? He injured his knee this morning playing tennis. Dr. Fitch, the Springs’s medical director, wasn’t available so I administered aid. Leon, this is Delilah Beachum and Libby Shaw.”
“Ahh, yes,” Martelli said, his tone droll, “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting both these...ladies.” His last word came out the same way one might say hooligans.
He gave a stiff nod and an icy acknowledgement to each of them. “Mrs. Beachum. Mrs. Shaw.” He turned back to Maude. “Tell me, Dr. Berger, how it is you came to be seated at this table? I realize the doctor trade is little more glamorous than that of plumbing, but I would think you’d have a better caliber of people with whom you could dine.”
Libby heard Maude suck in shock simultaneously with her, but apparently Mrs. Beachum wasn’t as startled or daunted by the young man’s insults.
From her pocket, Mrs. Beachum extracted a ruby-encrusted lorgnette and used it to assess him with a disdainful look. “Mr. Martelli.” She smiled sweetly, stiffening her already straight spine. “I wish I could say this is a pleasure, but it never is. Like your discourse and your apparel,” her gaze dropped down his body and back up, “your rudeness is both tacky and tasteless, once again. Furthermore, it’s not your place to have an opinion about my caliber, let alone to express it.”
Martelli’s face grew red and his hands fisted on his crutches, but he let go of one support to bow in exaggerated fashion to her. “As ever, madam, your display of pomposity and your antiquated bastion of formality never ceases to disappoint.”
“Oh good,” she responded with a smirk. “I do so hate to disappoint.” She placed her lorgnette beside her plate as though punctuating she was done with him.
Martelli huffed a short syllable of disgust and hobbled away.
“Who put thistles in his socks?” Maude said, still wearing a startled look, “Bugger that. I guess we’re quite on his wrong side.”
Libby rolled her eyes. “I don’t think he has a right side.”
“The cheek of it!” Maude’s shoulders dropped. “My apologies. I wasn’t aware yo
u both knew him.”
Libby said, “I caught him attacking one of the hotel maids this morning. That’s how he hurt his knee. She said he has attacked another girl as well. Unfortunately, the other girl did not get away.”
Mrs. Beachum was quick to add, “Oh, dear. For years I’ve watched that rake belittle the porters and show disrespect to everyone, from the maids to Jarvis to the most elite guests. Last year a guest caught him stealing, but it was one man’s word against another, so he was never brought to rights. He’s a cheat, a lecher, and a gambler who can’t hold his liquor or his mouth.”
Silence descended, each woman caught in her own thoughts. After a moment, Maude knitted her brows and gesticulated with her fork. “Doctor trade?”
Libby quickly added, “Better caliber of people?”
Mrs. Beachum joined in. “Pomposity?”
The three chuckled, and Libby bit back an urge to howl out loud. After Lena had left, she hadn’t been so sure she liked Mrs. Beachum. Now she was quite sure she admired the old lady. Further, it felt good to discover she could relate to people from this timeframe.
When they departed from supper, Mrs. Beachum headed in one direction, and Maude and Libby another.
As they traversed the long hallway toward the lobby, Maude said, “Libby, after medical school, I studied psychiatry. In Germany. Later, I joined the Red Cross efforts in France during the great war. I didn’t learn German well, but I learned enough to know that what you told Lena wasn’t what her grandmother said.”
Libby remained quiet, wondering what Maude had understood and what she planned to do about it.
“Don’t worry,” Maude stopped and turned to her. “Your intent back there is safe with me. And, I applaud you. But...”
“But?”
“I heard you mention time and travel together. I don’t want to know more, but the last person who made such conjectures is now living in the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum. She claimed to have tried to commit suicide in the mineral water...in 1831. Ninety-five years ago. She looks twenty-five, tops. ’Course, she had a whole host of other issues too, but...well, I thought you might want to know.”