What the Moon Saw

by D. L. Koontz

  The city was also a hub for coal mining and steel production. Unfortunately, this meant factories and smelters, both in and around the city, cranked out coal dust and smoke and grit that had long sense dropped a layer of black soot on the city, and waste was flushed into the rivers. Other odors—garbage, sludge, sulfur, and horse manure—assaulted their senses. The streets were noisy and the factories noisier still as they clanged in the distance and shook the ground beneath them.

  Rose began sneezing. “Goodness, ma’am, me mum always said the country has the freshest air. I had no idea.”

  “Your mother is a smart woman,” Libby mumbled as she and Maude hurried Rose into their hotel.

  The next three days were spent frequenting stores, restaurants, and a museum. The three women also attended a vaudeville show starring the Lester Hope and George Byrne team, a singing baseball pitcher named Petey Pete, and eighteen-year-old Siamese twins Daisy and Violet Hilton who played saxophone and clarinet duets and danced with Hope and Byrne. Wherever they went, the nightspots were filled with jazz music filtering into the street.

  On their third day, Libby and Rose shopped at three millinery stores while Maude visited a former patient. At the third store, Rose echoed Libby’s thoughts as they assessed the merchandise. “Just like the hats we saw in the first two stores, they are.”

  “Indeed. Let’s go.”

  “May I help you?” The voice came from behind them, interrupting their departure. Libby turned to see a short, demure-looking woman of about sixty, her hair pulled into a tight bun, hands clasped at her waist.

  “No, thank you. We were just leaving.”

  “Madame, your hat is divine,” the woman said to Libby, studying her cream bead-studded cloche. “May I inquire if it is from New York? Chicago, perhaps?”

  Libby got an idea. “Thank you, Miss...?”

  “Mrs. Tucker.”

  “Mrs. Tucker, it is from an upcoming young designer. Perhaps you’ve heard of Rose’s Designs? No, well, I’m not surprised because her creations fall into the category of custom-made, rather than mass-produced,” Libby swept a hand past a long shelf, “like these. However, she’s gaining popularity and is indeed collecting a following.”

  In her peripheral vision, Libby saw Rose’s jaw had dropped.

  “How delightful.” The woman sounded intrigued.

  “And, she just happens to be with me today.” Libby dramatically flourished a hand toward Rose. “Rose Morgan.”

  “Gracious.” The woman’s eyes grew large. “It is an honor to meet you, Miss Morgan.”

  Rose nodded, but looked flummoxed at what to say.

  “And I am Libby Shaw,” Libby continued before Rose could say anything to thwart her plan. “One of Rose’s investors. We are looking for a shop that might want to seize on the exclusive rights to sell her creations in this fair city. They are, as you can see,” Libby said rolling her head and touching her broad-brimmed cloche so the woman could get a better look at it, “original designs. And, might I add, much better quality than these factory headpieces.” It didn’t hurt to point that out twice. “Ah, no offense, Mrs. Tucker.”

  Mrs. Tucker shook her head furiously. “None taken. I assure you.”

  “But, of course, we could only promise city rights. After all, we are pursuing similar contracts in other cities.”

  “Of course,” the woman responded as though she would never think of arguing.

  “Splendid. Shall we step into your office to discuss an arrangement, Mrs. Tucker? Or would you prefer a competitor to secure the business?”

  Forty-five minutes later, Libby and a ghostly pale Rose exited the shop.

  “Say nothing,” Libby whispered as she set off at a brisk pace, “until we turn the next corner.”

  On the next street they found a pharmacy, climbed onto tall stools at the shiny counter, and ordered two root beer floats.

  “Ma’am! I don’t know what to say,” Rose gushed as though she was going to explode if she didn’t get that out.

  “It’s only one client. But, you should start slow. See if you like the arrangement. Figure out how much you want to do, or not. If you like it, you could go to Harrisburg or Baltimore next. Pick up contracts for those cities. It can be a part-time gig. Or a full-time job, if you work it right.”

  Rose bit her lip. “I don’t know about that. I don’t much like being in cities or away from home.”

  “But you can expand. Become a success.”

  Rose looked at her float, “Ma’am, I feel like I already am a success. If I let other people assign my success, then couldn’t they also take it away? I’d rather define it. For me, creating as I wish is success, it is.” Rose’s lips turned up as her gaze lifted to Libby. “Besides, I enjoy being your assistant. I’ve learned a lot.”

  Libby stared at her, at a loss for words as to how her pupil had profoundly turned the tables on her. She had thought herself wiser because she came from the future, with its infinite amount of information. Perhaps that was mere knowledge, and some of the true wisdom had been left behind through the years in the name of progress.

  When Libby spoke, her voice was hoarse. “I’ve learned from you, too, Rose.” She cleared her throat and patted Rose’s hand. “Work at it and see how you like it. You have her address. Once we get our own telephone, you’ll have a contact number for business cards, if you want. If nothing else, it will be an extra source of income.”

  Rose’s eyes grew big. “It will! I can’t believe she agreed to the terms. The price of the doo-dads I use—”

  “Raw materials, Rose.”

  “Yes, ma’am, the raw materials. My costs will be only a quarter of the price she will pay.”

  “And she will mark it higher than that to collect her profit. Welcome to the world of retail. Which reminds me...after this, we need to do more shopping. See if we can get raw materials at low, wholesale prices.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “The ribbons, feathers, flowers, jewels, knickknacks, whatever you use...and especially the basic frames of the hats. We’ll make inquiries about getting those at discounted prices.”

  Rose dropped her shoulders. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  Libby swiveled her stool to make eye contact. “I’ll tell you how.” A Depression is coming. Banks will fail. “Promise me that for every dollar you reinvest in your business or put in the bank, you will stick a dollar in your mattress.” A vision of Hardin’s building burning seared through Libby’s mind. Money could burn, too. “On second thought...we have a stop to make before shopping for hat trinkets.”

  After leaving the pharmacy, Libby steered a confused Rose into a general merchandise store where she selected two shoebox-sized metal boxes, a thin brush, and a small can of white paint. Definitely lead-based. Seeing no other options, she added a pair of rubber gloves to her purchases. Finally, when she caught Rose eyeing a new rabbit’s foot, she threw it into the basket and headed to the counter. She’d have to paint their names on the boxes while outdoors wearing gloves. Then, she and Rose would put money inside and bury them. Rose, no doubt, would want to add the rabbit’s foot to hers.

  That night Libby and Rose decided to call it quits and return to Bedford the next day. They were tired of the city and had purchased enough hat knickknacks that they now had four times the number of bags to drag back to Bedford as what they came with. The remainder of their purchases would be delivered by post. Libby would have bought even more, but if she had to hear Rose apologize and promise payback one more time, she thought she would scream.

  Maude agreed to their departure plan, and after the three shared a final dinner together, she announced she wanted to retire early, mumbling something about the rest of her journey involving a ‘horrendous train ride’ back to Cleveland. Rose busied herself sketching new designs on the limited stationery in the room.

  Libby seized the opportunity of solitude, removing from her purse the card Davis had given her. She headed to the lobby. Following a porter’s dir
ections, she hurried beyond the arched stairway and through double doors with triple brass bars across panes of frosted glass that read, “Telephones and Telegrams.”

  Five wood-paneled telephone booths stood side by side. She entered the first unoccupied booth she saw. The phones were built into square boxes and attached to the wall. She lifted the earpiece from the left of the telephone and cranked the handle on the right. As she waited for an operator to pick up, she told herself she would not engage Davis in conversation over the phone. Instead, she would ask to meet with him. She didn’t want to make matters awkward for him at home or work.

  She first had the operator try the office number, but the line rang endlessly. Not surprising, given it was late evening. After trying the house number, the operator announced it was an incorrect number and offered to look up the party’s name. A minute went by before Libby heard a click, and the operator announced the call was connected.

  A soft voice said, “Hello. Whitaker residence.”

  Had a maid answered the telephone, or could this be Darcie? Libby asked, “May I speak with Mr. Whitaker?”

  After a few seconds—a hesitation?— the voice said, “Who is this, please?” The woman’s tone suggested guarded politeness.

  Libby gripped the earpiece tighter. Be calm. “Tell him it’s an acquaintance from the Springs Hotel in Bedford.”

  A taut silence fell. Then: “Who are you?” Curiosity and doubt had crept into the voice.

  What to do? If she hung up now, she would make things worse for Davis. She took a breath and persevered. “My name is Libby...Grey. My husband”—she emphasized the latter word—“and I met Mr. Whitaker at the hotel several months ago. We just wanted to say hello and tell him we looked forward to meeting him again.”

  “How nice. I am Darcie, his wife.” The voice now sounded cordial, trusting. “But, he’s not here. If you’re in Bedford, Mrs. Grey, then you ought to look him up there.”

  Libby swallowed. Took a breath. “He’s in Bedford? Right now?”

  “Yes. I believe the Springs has closed for the season, so he’s probably staying in one of the other hotels in town. He’s been there for two weeks this time, so he probably won’t be too hard to track down.”

  Two weeks? How could that be? She’d talked to him last week when he called, and he distinctly said he was calling from the office. The Pittsburgh office. What was he doing? Perhaps he was meeting with Mr. St. Clair. But, why lie about that?

  Libby rubbed her temple as she asked, “Did he say with whom he was meeting?” Careful Libby. “You see, there were several people in our group. If it was a name I recognized then I... we might be able to find him.”

  “Oh, I see. When he packed he mumbled a name. Let me think...what was it...Matrusky...no Matryoshka. Yes, that’s what it was. Matryoshka. Is he part of your group?”

  Somewhere in the darkest, bleakest corner of Libby’s mind, a warning bell tolled. She sucked in her breath, almost undone by the reminder of the project she’d worked on.

  In 2016!

  Libby sensed a shift inside her core, felt the future collide with the present and meld together like two parts of a broken teacup.

  “Hello? Mrs. Grey, are you still there?”

  One perplexed heartbeat, then two, passed before Libby could respond. “I...I’m here. No, Matryoshka isn’t part of our group.” She struggled to calm her breathing, restore her even tone. She had to get off the phone. “Mrs. Whitaker, I’m sure I...my husband will be able to find Mr. Whitaker. Thank you for your time.” She hung up the handset and stumbled back to her room.

  Davis was in Bedford and lied about it. And, he was somehow connected to the Matryoshka Project. She had never mentioned the investigation to him, she was certain. But, he wasn’t the man that had been following her. How did all this fit together?

  Libby left Pittsburgh the next day without answers, but with one driving determination: when she got back to Bedford, she was going to send a message to Sheriff Brogan Harrow that she needed to talk to him.

  For some reason, the man who daunted her most and the one she ought to stay farthest away from, was also the man she needed most right now.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  1926

  Brogan pulled the police patrol motorcar as close to the old Macay homestead as he could, as had become his routine. He climbed out, dried leaves crunching beneath his feet and thick, warm air heating his face, air too warm for November.

  Seven o’clock in the evening and already dark. The buttermilk moon cast dim light, but enough to confirm he was alone. Good. He hated the thought of Libby waiting here alone in the dark.

  Then again, he hoped she would hurry. An old thrill of anticipation swept through him. Being with her was like emerging from a dark hovel into the sunlight.

  When she called that afternoon and asked that they meet, she said she’d gotten a good bit of her memory back. He wasn’t certain what she meant by a good bit, but he was anxious to find out.

  Please let her remember us.

  This would be the fourth time they met at this spot, not counting that first night when Hardin Lochery had taken the water.

  At their first meeting after she returned from Pittsburgh, she spent considerable time voicing concern about being stalked, and describing the people she had met thus far in 1926. The thought of her being in danger had made his heart race, so he suggested they meet again to discuss developments.

  A week later, they had done just that, but neither had anything to report so they talked about life in the 1700s. No people. No specifics. Just day-to-day life.

  The third time, they discussed the 2000s, again without names and specifics. They talked for hours, accomplishing little in the way of figuring out who was watching her, but Brogan didn’t care. He valued his time with her. He may be known around town as a quiet man, but around her, he couldn’t stop talking. Always, they laughed, relaxed, and questioned one another about their other life. Unfortunately, there was so much she didn’t remember.

  Him, for example.

  He had forced himself not to encourage more emotional closeness. Another man claimed her now.

  But that was wrong, wasn’t it? His marriage to her had never ended. Death had not parted them. Yet, here they were. She, someone else’s wife, and he, someone else’s husband. He didn’t want to think about those legal bonds. Didn’t want to put a face to Andrew, or think about Gretchen.

  He most certainly did not want to think about Gretchen’s baby. That’s how he thought of the child. Her baby, because it wasn’t his. Of that, he was certain. Still, he told himself the child needed a father, so he would fulfill that duty.

  When he had called home and said he would be late tonight, Gretchen screamed at him, accused him of ignoring her, and wailed that black demons were after her and intended to punish her. She was almost five months along in her pregnancy. And, she was ill. Convinced, in fact, she would die from the sickness if the demons didn’t kill her first. Doc Henshaw had run several tests. Said her delusions were unrelated to the pregnancy and all in her mind. Brogan knew he’d become the subject of gossip around town. A man who’d married a shrew, a maniac. And now, a jezebel, an adulteress. He’d overheard it all. But, she was his wife and he would honor his commitment to her, praying each day she would heal. He couldn’t stomach the thought of institutionalizing her.

  As he lit his lantern, he heard the sound of tires cutting through hundreds of leaves and he turned to see headlights drawing near. A calmness settled through him. At that moment, he felt like the children he saw in town. If you asked them what they wanted behind the candy counter, their desire would fly out of their mouths without hesitation, without thinking. In his heart, he wouldn’t hesitate either if asked what he wanted. His instant answer would be freedom to be with Morning Meadow. Libby.

  That wasn’t good.

  He walked to her motorcar, opened the door, and held up the lantern to light the way. Libby climbed out. He smiled. Her head was uncovered and
her hair cascaded to her shoulders. She wore men’s jeans with a work shirt—the sleeves rolled up—flopped over them.

  “Cotisuelto,” he whispered to himself, but she heard it and smiled. Cotisuelto. She’d said it was Caribbean Spanish, for wearing the shirt tail outside of one’s trousers.

  She had worn the same clothing the last time they met, and apologized for her unusual attire. He had assured her it looked comfortable and practical. In truth, the clothes simply added a mystique to the disconcerting allure of her femininity. He liked that. He liked how she smelled too. Different each time, depending upon which herbs and concoctions she may have worked with that day, but always there was that undertone of a feminine flowery essence.

  He reached out his hand and, without hesitation, she reciprocated. He was certain she, like he, told herself the link was a matter of practicality against stumbling in the darkness.

  It was like an unspoken understanding that they said little until the torches were lit and they settled in their secret spot. And such it was tonight, even though Brogan could sense her heightened state of excitement, see the lighter rhythm of her stride.

  “So?” he asked, taking off his hat and setting it beside him on the log.

  “I remember! Well, not everything...but I was Elisa Macay. Lived here. Helped my mother bake bread. Beat the rugs. Tended to our livestock. Walked to neighbors’ homes for school lessons and church services. Your momma and mine would get together when it came time to make butter. Your daddy would bring his horses to my daddy for horse shoes.” That quickly, her joy disappeared and confusion crossed her face. “Horse shoes. He was a blacksmith, not a mechanic.” As if dazed, she stood and began pacing, her shoes crushing the leaves. “All this time...” Her voice faltered, but she kept moving.

  Brogan said nothing. He didn’t move for fear of distracting her. She must have been so pleased her memories returned that she forgot about their context.