What the Moon Saw

by D. L. Koontz

  Several minutes later, Libby looked back to see N.C. and Rose still talking.

  Libby didn’t climb into bed until after midnight, and fell into such a deep sleep that when she heard frantic banging on her door and a frightened voice trying, and failing, to whisper her name, she thought at first it was a dream.

  But, the banging and the voice persisted. “Please, ma’am, wake up. It’s me, Rose.”

  Libby turned on the side lamp, threw back the covers, and grabbed a robe. When she opened the door, Rose practically fell into the room. She looked anxious, weary, even disheveled, her blouse and skirt crooked, her thick wavy hair cascading over her shoulders and down her back. Libby hadn’t even realized Rose had such lengthy hair, as she had only ever seen it atop her head or tucked into a hat or maid’s cap.

  “Are you alright? Were you with N.C.?” Libby gasped. “Was someone out there? It was Martelli, wasn’t it?”

  “No, ma’am,” Rose said in frantic, rushed delivery. “Well, yes, ma’am. I was with N.C. for a few minutes before he left, and yes the problem involves Mr. Martelli. But it’s not me. It’s Dulcina.”

  Libby shook her head to induce clearer thinking. “I don’t understand.” The girl was shaking. She placed her hand on Rose’s shoulders and steered her to a chair. The room was much larger than Libby’s old room, and included a separate sitting area. Libby pushed her down into a sitting position. “Slowly tell me what’s going on.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said but climbed to her feet. “Oh sorry, ma’am.” She sat back down, then jumped back to her feet again.

  “Rose, I’m getting dizzy watching you bop up and down. And, we really must discuss your use of ma’am so often.”

  “I’m sorry ma’am, but there’s no time to waste. It’s Dulcina. She’s dying, she is...” Her voice hitched and she flattened her hand over her mouth like she was holding in a barrage of despair.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Despite the poor lighting in the room, Libby could see Rose’s flushed face, the panicked expression. “Remember I told you he attacked her, ma’am?” Rose’s lower lip quivered and she clutched at the folds of her skirt. “Two and a half months ago, right when we opened for the season. She became...became...”

  Libby grabbed her shoulders again. “What Rose? She became what?”

  “With child, ma’am.” She scrunched up her face.

  “Pregnant?” Libby pushed lank strands of hair from Rose’s eyes so she could see the girl better.

  “Yes, well, no. She tried to...you know...” Rose whimpered, her eyes glistening.

  Libby gasped. “She tried to give herself an abortion?” She hurried out of her robe and pulled on her jeans, hurriedly stuffing in her shirttail.

  “Yes, ma’am. She’s bleeding something awful. Lavinia stayed with her while I came for you.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In her room, she is. The staff dormitory, behind the hotel.”

  “Come on. We’ll get Doctor Berger on our way.”

  An hour later, Libby, Rose, and another hotel maid by the name of Lavinia stood in the dark shadows of a cramped and dimly lit room, their gazes riveted on Dulcina’s dead body where it lay pale and prone on blood-saturated sheets.

  Maude sat beside the body. “We got here too late,” she said, rubbing a hand across her forehead. “Honestly, given the damage she did to herself, I don’t think there is anything that could have been done to save her.” She flopped her stethoscope into her doctor’s bag as though she were mad at it.

  Her eyes vacant, Rose stood silent, still, as though paralyzed by grief. She held the hand of a sobbing Lavinia.

  Libby felt a numbing tightness in her throat as she assessed Rose. Was the girl in shock? She should comfort her. Pull her into an embrace. But she didn’t have words of comfort to offer. Besides, it was presence that mattered most, wasn’t it? Yet within, she acknowledged that wasn’t the reason for her own silence. The truth was, anger seared through her. Mother and child. Both gone. Indignation swelled achingly against her ribs and rose into her throat, bitter-tasting. She didn’t even know Dulcina. Was she angry at the senselessness of the situation? Fast-forward ninety years and this pregnancy would not have had this outcome. And what about the mineral water? Could it have saved Dulcina if they’d gotten her there in time? Could she have helped the girl? Would she have revealed herself to save the girl? Libby shivered despite the warmth of the room.

  No, she was angry at Leon. He had raped the girl, gotten her pregnant. She needed to focus on that.

  Maude stood. “Libby, why don’t you and Rose go back to your rooms? I’ll have to call the police and sign some medical reports. I’ll stop by later.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a container from which she extracted two pills. She handed them to Libby and lowered her voice. “Give these to Rose. They’ll help her sleep. I’ll tend to Lavinia and clean up here.”

  With a weight settling on her heart, Libby was only too relieved to oblige.

  At 3:10 a.m., Libby answered her door to see a weary Maude holding two teacups in one hand, and a glass decanter in the other.

  Maude held them up as she walked into the room like she was toting the cure for the world’s ills. “Brandy. I prescribe it for thirstitis tonight. Figured we could use it.”

  Before closing the door, Libby peered into the darkness beyond. Nothing.

  Maude dropped onto the brocaded couch, plopped the cups on the coffee table, and poured. She handed one to Libby and they both took a swig.

  Libby felt the warm liquid burn a trail down her throat.

  “Rose?” Maude inquired.

  “Sleeping.”

  Maude nodded.

  “The police took Dulcina’s body?” Libby asked, folding into a chair opposite her.

  “Just left. Sheriff Harrow and a medical examiner from town.” Maude huffed a sound as she swirled the liquid in her glass. “The local police force sure is easy on the eyes.”

  Libby ignored the comment, recognizing it as a statement to ease the stress of the moment.

  “The thing is,” Maude said, then took another swallow before continuing. “This is why I went into medicine. To help people when they’re hurt by things beyond their control. And yet, so often I can’t.” She went silent as though momentarily lost in her own chagrin.

  Libby took a hefty swig. And, I went into investigation so I could get the perp who did the hurting. She couldn’t tell Maude that. It was part of her other life. Maude had said she didn’t want to know. Besides, she didn’t want to share that with Maude. Didn’t want her past to be there between them every time they got together. Libby wanted to be equal with her, not the object of pity or concern.

  Libby looked at the liquid in her cup, fought against the anger. “There’s nothing you could have done. You said it yourself, we got there too late.” But there is something I can do. She had to stop Martelli from doing this again. No one could prove he attacked Dulcina. DNA was not an option yet. Even if laws would be conducive to going to a judge to order a test on parentage, it would be Leon’s word against a dead girl’s as to how she got pregnant. No, Leon Martelli had to be banished from here. But how?

  “Mind if I smoke?” Maude asked. “Trying to quit. It’s killing my taste buds, but I sure need one now.” Without waiting for an answer, she removed a cigarette from an engraved silver case she pulled from her pocket. Once it was lit, she blew smoke rings toward the ceiling, exhaling long, slow breaths before speaking again.

  “My patients are mostly war veterans. Men who returned from fighting an outside enemy, only to find themselves wrestling even harder with an enemy within. A force bigger than themselves.” She took another drag of the cigarette and when she exhaled through her nostrils, it came out blue. “The same with Dulcina. She couldn’t fight her fear of being scorned or judged. Couldn’t control the life she led inside her mind. For the rest of us, that is the only life we can control.”

  Libby gulped the rest of her
drink. Control the life inside our own head. Was that possible? She reached for the bottle and refilled her glass. She might not be able to control her own thoughts, but she was determined to take control of a threat by the name of Leon Martelli.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  1926

  For two weeks, Libby watched Rose robotically continue through the motions of her life, eating, reporting to work, even creating new dresses and hats. Only Rose’s puffy eyes and red, raw nose each morning whispered of the mourning she endured each night in her room.

  Libby was able to lift the girl’s spirits when she persuaded Jarvis to start a shuttle service for the hotel staff that couldn’t live in the employees’ residence.

  Jarvis had watched her pitch and defend her idea, making no comment, merely waiting her through, his hands clasped together on his desk. She had studied the work hours of the maids and with slight changes in scheduling, the shuttle—a 1925 Ford Model T Suburban “Woodie” Station Wagon capable of holding six—would only have to run to and from town three times a day to keep all shifts covered. The morning driver could be the gardener who didn’t start work until the dew was gone each morning anyway. The afternoon shift could be manned by one of the porters during slow times in the afternoon.

  Thereafter, Jarvis paled, brushed a hand down his cheek and across his lips, and shook his head in disbelief. “It’s highly inappropriate for a guest to bring this suggestion to us, Mrs. Shaw. But, I am sensible enough to acknowledge when I hear a good idea. Frankly, I can’t believe this idea has never been voiced before.”

  None of this would have helped Dulcina, of course, because the girl had lived in employee housing, but it did buoy Rose’s spirits to know her friends would be saved the long walk in the dark. Too, Libby noticed that the discussion with Jarvis had been cordial, almost pleasant.

  While time from Dulcina’s death brought Rose peace, it proved to work just the opposite for Libby. Her anger at Leon Martelli intensified. That, coupled with anticipation of fall equinox just days away, left her feeling anxious about Andrew’s possible return, with extra energy coursing through her veins.

  In the third week of September, as she and Maude headed toward the lobby after supper, a loud chorus of voices filtered from the piano lounge. Curious, they stopped and peeked inside. A radio, or wireless, as Libby learned they called them in that day, had been moved to the center front of the lounge. Men and women milled about everywhere, drinks and cigarettes at the ready as a haze of aromatic tobacco smoke clogged the air. An aura of excitement and expectation filtered through the room.

  “What’s happening?” Maude asked a portly pipe-smoking man standing by the door.

  He grinned, gripped the upper lapel of his jacket with one hand, and pulled the pipe from his mouth with the other. “Boxing match. Tonight. Heavyweight championship. You follow it?”

  Maude shrugged. “I read the papers. Dempsey and Tunney. Supposed to be a record-breaking crowd.”

  “That’s right.” The man smiled, pointing the stem of his pipe at Maude. “Tunney, the Fighting Marine they call him, he’s only lost once in his career. But, Dempsey’s held the championship since 1919. My money’s on him.” He said it with smug assurance that he already knew the outcome and couldn’t wait to count his winnings.

  Libby scanned the room. The guests who’d assembled to listen to the fight were jovial, animated, as though anxious for the match to begin. A loud, low roar came from the far right corner and she shifted her gaze to see Leon Martelli standing in the middle of that crowd, the guests around him laughing as if he’d said something amusing. Like the first time Libby had seen him, his stagger and slurred speech suggested he was inebriated again. The drink in his hand provided further confirmation, and the ashes dropping from his cigar to the carpet provided still more.

  “Come on, good ladies and gentlemen,” he prodded, finally bending to tap his cigar on an overflowing ashtray, managing to miss it by a good three inches. “We need to make this interesting. Who’s brave enough to place a wager on Tunney? I’ll put one thousand dollars down on Dempsey.”

  Gazes shifted down and away, anywhere but on him.

  A voice called out, “Too rich for my blood.” Heads nodded.

  Another voice said, “You sure your father would approve, Martelli?”

  Nonplussed, Martelli smirked. “I’m twenty-eight. Don’t need my old man’s permission.”

  Someone snorted a laugh and said, “But you need his money.”

  Martelli scowled and smooshed his cigar into the ash tray as though it was bearing the brunt of all his problems. “Tell you what, I’ll leave my thousand in the pot and all you have to put in is five hundred.”

  A different voice responded, “Come on, Martelli. No one is going to wager that kind of money on Tunney.”

  Libby stepped toward the group. “I will.”

  An awkward hush fell on the room. All talk ceased. No glasses moved. Someone even turned the volume low so that their verbal exchange could be more easily eavesdropped. For the first time ever, Libby understood the expression, you could have heard a pin drop.

  Despite the look on Martelli’s face, disgust mixed with delight, she added, “But you’ll have to throw in your car and a promise that you’ll leave here tomorrow and never come back. Never.”

  The crowd collectively gasped. A titter spread. Bystanders inched away, placing distance between them and this brewing scandal. They didn’t want to be a part of it, but neither did they want to miss any of its scrumptious particulars and its final juicy disgrace. Tomorrow, the drama of tonight would be rehashed, reworked, and exaggerated over breakfast, only to be regurgitated again in magnified proportions when they returned home.

  Rage flickered through Martelli’s eyes and his free hand fisted, but he caught himself and glanced at the others quickly before restoring his smile.

  “Mrs. Shaw,” he said in a condescending sing-song tone, “Tunney is the underdog. I do feel obliged to tell you that Dempsey is known for chewing pine tar to strengthen his jaw, and soaking his fists in brine to toughen them. Are you sure you can afford this loss?”

  “Conjecture,” she said, meeting his gaze. However, what wasn’t conjecture, for her anyway, was the outcome of tonight’s match. Davis had said Tunney would win. She hoped he was right and that she’d heard correctly. But she was rather sure this was the fight Dempsey would lose after which he would say the famous words “Honey, I forgot to duck.” Words which fifty-five years later President Ronald Reagan would quote to his wife Nancy after he was shot. She’d learned this from a documentary about the former first lady after her death in March 2016.

  “Then you have a deal...with one exception.” He smirked, looking around at the sea of gawking faces. “Since you are putting far less money into the pot, I have a condition of my own.”

  Her heart drummed. Was she certain about the winner? This was a bad time to doubt herself. She was uncomfortably aware that the others were paying rapt attention to everything they said. “What is it?”

  He grinned and took another swallow of drink, making her wait. “If...when you lose, you must agree to return to Philadelphia with me and work for free, as my housemaid, for one year.”

  A low murmur spread through the room. Someone in a disgusted tone said, “Martelli, you go too far.”

  Libby loathed this man. Not only was he getting puerile and perverse delight in this negotiation, he also had managed to toss an insult into the wager, practically announcing to the group assembled that he thought her no better than servant status.

  Maude stepped to her side. “Libby,” she whispered, “not like this. It’s too risky.”

  Libby studied Martelli and without breaking eye contact with him, murmured low to Maude, “I know what I’m doing.”

  In a louder voice, she said to Martelli, “No worries. Your man’s strategy is all about tough-guy intimidation. My man’s approach is discipline and intelligence, and I think that always wins in the end.” She didn’t k
now if what she said about the contenders was true or not. Seems she had read that once. But it didn’t matter because the smiles and whispers from those watching told her they understood her double meaning, that she likened herself and her wager to Tunney. “I agree to the terms, but I want it in writing. I don’t want your inebriated state to be reason to contest the outcome.” There, his turn to be insulted.

  Again, his eyes flicked disdain at her. He mocked a bow. “Certainly. Caruthers, old chap,” he called to a man with a thin body and fat mustache, “you’re an attorney. Put this agreement in writing for us to sign.”

  The crowd settled in and listened as Gene Tunny stunned Jack Dempsey with a right to the chin in the opening moments, followed by ten one-sided rounds in which Tunney out-boxed his opponent. Before 10:15 p.m. that night Tunney was declared the heavyweight champion, and at 10:30 p.m. a stunned and very drunk Leon Martelli downed his sixth glass of hooch, threw a fat wad of hundred-dollar bills at Libby, and stormed from the room. By 11 p.m., the news of Martelli’s downfall had spread through the hotel complex.

  When Libby rounded a corner at 11:15 on her way back to her room, Jarvis, sporting an uncharacteristic smile, stopped her long enough to say, “Madame, I congratulate you on your winnings.” Without waiting for a response, he gave a slight bow, this time from the waist, and walked away.

  The next day the hotel provided Martelli with a courtesy ride to the train station. His 1925 Auburn motorcar was left parked out front, paperwork on the front seat.

  Libby spent the early morning in her motorcar sightseeing the countryside, getting used to the way the vehicle moved and shifted and hugged—or not—the road. The color of buttermilk and almost as tall as she was, the Auburn was a huge, four-door vehicle with pop-up leather roof, roll-up windows, and white-wall tires. The seats were a camel-colored leather and as deep and comfortable as any couch she’d ever sat in. She practiced with the clutch, memorized the dashboard—a simple task given only four gauges vied for her attention—and experimented with acceleration up hill, learning the motorcar’s limitations in power and stopping distance. As with what she’d learned about most vehicles available in the 1920s, the braking systems were poor, and the tires were terrible, generally needing replacement every five thousand miles. Combine those negatives with poor roads, and only a fool would drive at excess speeds. This particular motorcar apparently had a top speed of sixty, but at forty-five it was working hard. By mid-morning, she stopped to refuel at a “filling up station,” as the man on the corner of John and Richard streets called it when she asked for directions.