The House of Memory (Pluto's Snitch Book 2) Page 4

  “Who are you?” I asked. There was no point trying to run.

  “Help me,” she said in a voice so hopeless I wanted to cry.

  “I will. Tell me who you are.”

  Horror struck her pale features. “He’s coming. He’s coming. I—” And she was gone. The yard was silent. Not even the crow disturbed the night.

  I waited for a long time, wondering if she’d return. She didn’t, and I finally went back to bed, sleepless for most of the night.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Sayre dining table was set with a full service of gold-rimmed Devonshire bone china in a violet pattern and Waterford pitchers of fresh-squeezed orange and grapefruit juice. The drama of my nocturnal visitor had faded with the morning sun, and although I intended to tell Reginald, I was in no rush.

  Reginald and I found our seats moments before the front door opened and a tall, slender beauty entered the room. She ran to our hostess and grabbed her. “Miss Minnie, I’m finally back from that ghastly trip Father insisted I take.”

  “Your father has only your best interests at heart.” Minnie kissed the young woman’s cheek.

  “Tallulah!” Zelda ran into the room, squealing with pleasure, and hugged her friend. “Thank God you’re home. Another day in Montgomery without you and I’d have to dance naked on Main Street just to stir up some gossip. This is Raissa and Reginald.”

  “So pleased to meet you.” Tallulah had the poise of royalty, but her smile sparkled with pure devilment. I could see where Zelda and Tallulah together would be more than Montgomery’s old, polite society could tolerate. Uncle Brett would have adored them.

  Judge Sayre stood and nodded. “You’re late, Tallulah. Please be seated so we can start breakfast.” Before he could even sit, the maid brought platters of bacon, pancakes, scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, steaming biscuits, and sliced ham. There was enough food for four dozen hungry men.

  “Sorry, Judge,” Tallulah said, demonstrating not one iota of remorse as she slipped into a chair and put her napkin in her lap. “Oh, Minnie, you made biscuits. They are divine. I hope you’ve said the blessing because I have no intention of waiting.” She bit into a biscuit and sighed with pleasure.

  “We have a busy day planned,” Zelda told her father.

  “I hope it doesn’t include any of your scandalous stunts.”

  “Not today.” She grinned at her mother. “Besides, I’m a married woman, and I’ve put away such childish conduct.”

  “Dear heavens,” Tallulah said. “Minnie, I think Zelda is running a fever. The day she wants to behave is the day we’ll put her in the grave.”

  “I just have to ask myself, ‘What would Scott want me to do?’”

  “And the answer to that is whatever causes the most uproar.” Tallulah buttered another biscuit and bit into it.

  “We have guests,” Minnie said gently.

  “And we promise to show them a good time,” Zelda said. “They’re visiting the old dragon herself this morning.”

  Judge Sayre put his napkin beside his plate and stood. “Marriage hasn’t done a thing to settle you down. I pray for your husband.” He left the room on peals of Zelda’s and Tallulah’s laughter, but he got only as far as the front door. A loud knock stopped him.

  “Who’s here at such an hour of the morning?” he grumbled as he opened the door.

  “Judge Sayre, another girl is missing,” a male voice said.

  Zelda left the table, and we followed, stopping at the foyer and peeking around the door frame. Judge Sayre spoke with a Montgomery police officer, who remained on the front porch. A handsome man sat behind the wheel of a magnificent teal Duesenberg at the street.

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “A private investigator, just like you.” Zelda shrugged. “Jason Kuddle. He used to be a policeman here, but he gave up the uniform to do private work. The Ralston family hired him last year when their daughter Julie went missing. He found her in Nashville, Tennessee, with a guitar picker and a bun in the oven. Now that was a scandal. She came home pregnant and unmarried.”

  “Why didn’t you hire him to help Camilla?” I asked.

  “Because he only pursues living, breathing villains, darling,” Tallulah said. “If Camilla is haunted, we need your special services.”

  “Hush,” Zelda whispered. “I can’t hear what Father is talking about.”

  “It’s another missing-persons case,” Reginald said. “A girl went missing yesterday after school.”

  “Are you psychic?” Tallulah asked.

  “Not at all.” Reginald was amused. I’d have to ask him later if lipreading was among his other talents.

  Judge Sayre closed the door and turned to find us snooping. “Zelda, take your friends back to the dining room. This is bad business, and it would seem you have a plateful of trouble already.”

  “Yes, Father,” she said, herding us all away. “He loves me,” Zelda says. “He just wishes I’d been born a boy.”

  “It’s a disease among our families,” Tallulah said, rolling her eyes. “Boys can defy society, and no one worries about tainted reputations. Girls must behave or we reflect poorly on our families.”

  “Who cares about the delicate sensibilities of a few bluestockings?” Zelda said. “It’s time to go,” she told Reginald and me. “Your audience with the dragon awaits. Tallulah and I will drop you off—Maude Granger can’t stand us. We’ll pick you up in an hour. Remember, Reginald, you’re doing groundbreaking work with your pharmaceutical company and think you might be able to cure, or at least control, Camilla’s symptoms. If Maude sniffs a rat, we’re done for.”

  The Granger house was a two-story clapboard with a curved wraparound porch and intricate gingerbread trim. The house had a pleasant demeanor and lots of shade trees. They were oaks, but Reginald told me the climate was too cold for the live oaks that graced the lawn of Caoin House. These were white oaks, a taller, more upright cousin of the Southern oak that I loved so much.

  I walked up the steps to the porch with some trepidation. Much depended on winning Mrs. Granger’s permission to visit her daughter at Bryce Hospital.

  A maid in a starched uniform opened the door with downcast eyes. She bade us wait in the foyer while she announced us to Mrs. Granger “for an audience.”

  “Bit of a royal, isn’t she?” Reginald whispered, almost making me laugh.

  I composed myself just in time as we were ushered into a lovely room shaded by pink-and-green floral draperies, antique furnishings, and a welcome electric fan. Mrs. Granger sat in a high-backed wicker chair with chintz cushions that reminded me of an early-spring morning. The effect of the room was an explosion at a flower market. She might be a dragon, but she surrounded herself with the most ladylike accoutrements. And while time and temperament had coarsened her looks, I could see that once she had been an extraordinary beauty.

  “Mrs. Granger,” I said, walking forward and extending my hand.

  She ignored my offer of a shake. “Understand that I did not seek this meeting. Judge Sayre asked me to speak with you. I have no idea why. A writer and a chemist of some sort, according to the judge? I have no use for either. If that hoyden Zelda is behind any of this, I will be angry.”

  I started stumbling into the cover story that Zelda had prepared; then Reginald stepped forward. He took her hand and kissed it. “It’s such a pleasure, Mrs. Granger. Reginald Proctor, at your service. We’re thrilled to meet you, and we’re hopeful that some of the work my pharmaceutical company is engaged in might prove helpful to your daughter. Ms. James is a writer working with me. She is to be a published author in her own right soon, and I have been fortunate enough to employ her to help me document my important work.”

  “Pharmaceuticals?” She was hooked. “What do you mean?”

  “New treatments for many disorders are in the final stages of development at my company. I heard of the difficulties your daughter is experiencing, and I’m hopeful modern medicine may offer a solution.”

&n
bsp; “You want my daughter for a test subject?” Mrs. Granger was sharp as a tack.

  “First we need to examine the patient, and then I’ll stop by and talk with you. It’s pointless to discuss treatments and possibilities until I determine if Miss Camilla is a suitable candidate for a trial.”

  I had to hand it to Reginald. He knew how to pitch a lie so that the batter couldn’t help but take a swing.

  “Can you tell us about Camilla?” I asked. “Childhood illnesses, any unusual episodes that might be a precursor to her current situation?”

  “She was a perfectly average girl until she took up with those flappers Zelda Sayre and Tallulah Bankhead. I hold them responsible for her . . . problems.”

  “But weren’t they in New York when she had her first episode?”

  “They put ideas in her head. They told her to be independent, to travel to New York and experience the city life, to aspire to be more than a wife and a mother. These thoughts confused her, and that confusion led to mental instability and, finally, calamity.”

  I started to speak, but Reginald must have read my belligerent expression and was quicker. “Tell us about Camilla. What are her hobbies? What does she like?”

  “She loves needlework,” Mrs. Granger said. “And piano. She plays . . . she used to play at the First Presbyterian Church before she took up with that godless duo of misconduct.” She snapped open a fan and sent tiny tendrils of still-luxurious hair fluttering. “The maid is teaching her to cook, because a lady must know enough about cooking to make sure the help isn’t robbing her blind.”

  A middle-aged Negro who’d been standing in the doorway stepped back and disappeared. Obviously Mrs. Granger had no concerns about how her words might cut, or else she assumed, like so many others, that “the help” lost the ability to hear when they took a job.

  “Is your daughter a good student?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

  “Yes. She made good marks in everything except mathematics, but that’s of no significance. A girl doesn’t need arithmetic or book smarts to run a household. This idea of educating females is having a tremendous negative effect on families. Women demanding the vote, jobs, and their own bank accounts!” She snapped the fan angrily. “Her husband will handle the finances. She will raise the children and run the household.”

  “What are Camilla’s greatest accomplishments, by your standards?” Reginald asked quickly, cutting off anything I might have said.

  “She’s a talented hostess and a lovely bridge player. An accomplished pianist. I’ve seen to that. She can plan and organize a party and will be a social benefit to her husband. A helpmate, as the Bible dictates.”

  “I understand Camilla is engaged,” I said.

  “If she doesn’t frighten David away with her behavior, she’ll make the best catch in town.” She lifted her chin. “Every young woman in Montgomery has tried to snare him, but it is Camilla he settled upon. David has money, a profession, a family name, and connections. Everything a young woman could ask. I will not allow her to destroy her chances for a good marriage.”

  “I’m sure he understands that she isn’t well,” Reginald said.

  “He may, but I don’t.” She spoke with anger. “The girl has had everything. The world at her feet, and she can’t control herself? I don’t believe for a minute that she’s mentally ill. She’s willful. Determined that I let her go to New York with that hussy Zelda, but I will not. She will stay in Alabama. If she continues to defy me with her attempts at drama, then I’ll do what’s necessary to bring her into line.”

  “You don’t believe she could be mentally ill?” I asked, appalled at her lack of compassion for her own child.

  “She is no more mentally ill than I am a jackrabbit,” Mrs. Granger said. “She’s willful and defiant, and she will learn that those are expensive habits to nurture. She will suffer the consequences of her defiance.”

  I’d thought Dr. Abbott might have exaggerated Mrs. Granger’s attitude about punishing her daughter for being “defiant.” He had not.

  “I’d like to visit Camilla, if I may,” Reginald said smoothly. I could only admire his ability to maintain his composure. “If she is merely willful, I believe that my company may have something that will . . . modify that behavior. Something that’s not as risky as a surgical procedure but that will leave her docile and loving and perfectly able to perform all her duties as wife and mother.”

  Calculations raced across Mrs. Granger’s face. “That sounds too good to be true. If you have such a drug, all the men in Alabama will be purchasing it for their wives and daughters.”

  “Don’t think the possibilities are lost on me or my company,” Reginald said, sharing a wink with her. “For those females who have lost the true meaning of femininity and decorum, my pharmaceutical might be a welcome medication.”

  “Is the drug available now?” She fanned herself again.

  “For a trial.”

  She waved Reginald away. “I don’t have time for a trial. Dr. Perkins, one of the leading authorities on treating the mentally ill, concurs with me that if Camilla refuses to fall in line, unorthodox measures will have to be taken.”

  “With my medication, the dose can be manipulated to produce the exact response. That isn’t true of surgery,” Reginald said. “With the procedure you’re considering, there have been adverse results in Europe. Some patients become little more than large toddlers, drooling and unable even to retain bathroom training. The procedure hasn’t been studied here in the United States.”

  Mrs. Granger snapped her fan shut. “Dr. Perkins said the medical association is coming around to accept the benefits of brain surgery. Poor results were true only in the early stages of the surgery. He has . . . refined the result.”

  “I’d still like an opportunity to evaluate Miss Granger,” Reginald said. “Consider it a kindness to me and possibly patients in the future.”

  Mrs. Granger looked away from us. “I’ll speak with my husband.”

  “And I’d be delighted to meet Mr. Granger and explain,” Reginald offered.

  “There’s no need. I can convey your request. Jefferson trusts my judgment implicitly.”

  More likely, he was afraid if he disagreed, she’d set him up for brain surgery.

  Reginald stood, and I followed suit. “Then may I call you this evening?” he asked.

  “That would be acceptable.”

  “I hope your day is as pleasant as your personality,” Reginald said with a smile. “I look forward to our next encounter.”

  Mrs. Granger offered her hand for Reginald to squeeze. She didn’t bother to acknowledge me. “Florence, see them out.”

  When Florence showed us out of the house, her face was as blank as an empty page. We made it down the steps and through the yard to the sidewalk before Reginald grasped my arm and walked me around the corner of the block. “She is a nightmare,” he said, pulling out his cigarette case. When he offered, I accepted.

  “We don’t have to have her permission to visit Camilla, do we?”

  “It will make things easier. A lot easier.”

  I inhaled the cigarette and coughed.

  Reginald patted my back, took the cigarette from my hand, and crushed it with his foot. “If I have to, I’ll visit her again this evening. Without you.”

  I nodded. “She acted as if I weren’t there. A mere woman isn’t worth her focus. You’ll do better on your own. Now it’s time to meet the groom. I wonder what role he plays in all this.”

  Reginald took a last drag on his cigarette, then tossed it on the hot sidewalk. “I can’t wait to find out.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lunch with David Simpson had been planned at the Elite Restaurant, a place, Zelda assured us, that emulated the class and atmosphere of the finest New York eateries. A tuxedoed waiter showed us to the table where David waited. He rose swiftly when he saw us. I took him in—a handsome young man, clean-shaven, tall, broad-shouldered, and slender. Like the other male diners, he
wore a suit and tie. His pale gaze was haunted with hope when he assessed Reginald and me. “Thank you for coming.” He turned to Zelda and Tallulah. “I owe you two a great deal. You’re good friends to my fiancée and to me.”

  We took our seats, and the waiter asked if we’d like drinks with our meal. The 1,520 Volstead Act enforcers patrolling the nation’s drinkers evidently didn’t view Alabama as a serious problem. Liquor could be had by all who tipped generously. David ordered bourbon for Reginald and himself and sherry for us women.

  “There’s no need to thank us. Camilla is our friend,” Zelda said. “I also feel some responsibility. We enticed her to some mischief and fun that upset her mother.”

  “We should slay the dragon.” Tallulah made a slashing motion with her dinner knife. “Behead the beast. Camilla’s problem is her mother and nothing else.”

  “Can you help Camilla?” David asked.

  If the sincerity he projected was false, I couldn’t see it. Besides, David had nothing to gain from accusing his fiancée of attempted murder. Nor did Mrs. Granger. If someone was tampering with Camilla’s perception by giving her drugs or some other agent of delusion, it made no sense that it would be those who benefited from the marriage.

  “I don’t know that we can help,” I said, not wanting to create false expectations. “If she is mentally ill, we don’t have any experience in that area.”

  David hummed with tension. “And if she is possessed?”

  “If it’s a haunting, as we hope, we’ll do everything we can. If it’s something darker, a priest would be your best bet,” Reginald said. “We work with departed spirits of the living. I don’t know if I believe in satanic demons, but if there are such things, we aren’t equipped to exorcise them.”

  “I understand,” David said solemnly. “I have a hard time thinking Camilla is possessed by a ghost or under the influence of some supernatural element. Especially not a demon. She is the kindest, sweetest woman alive. There’s never been a hint of any darkness in her spirit. Yet I can’t accept that she’s mentally defective.”