The Lemoncholy Life of Annie Aster Read online

  Mr. Culler’s cheek twitched, a flicker of a movement that rippled across his face. While it faded rapidly from view, David could read the signs. Things could go very wrong if he was not careful. As Mr. Culler stood and started to dust his pants, David glanced at the closet. “It must be kept secret,” he said.

  Mr. Culler paused. The ghost of a smile played over his features as he reseated himself, motioning discreetly for Danyer to do the same.

  David’s eyes trailed to the untouched drink sweating on the table. “This door is no trifle, you understand.”

  “Completely,” Mr. Culler said, his eyes straying to Danyer, watching as he shook his head for only his boss to see.

  David rubbed his forehead. “Tomorrow then,” he said. “Come back tomorrow. I need to think.”

  “Much more to my liking, Mr. Abbott.”

  David nodded grimly, stepping around the divan to extend his hand.

  Ignoring it, Mr. Culler stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him in a clumsy embrace. After a very awkward moment where David struggled to reciprocate, Mr. Culler stepped back, muttering to himself, and glanced over his shoulder at Danyer. He nodded. Silver flashed in the light of the room as a hand shot out. Then again. And a third time.

  David huffed, as if the air had been knocked out of him. He stared at Mr. Culler in wonder before staggering back to raise the hand he’d placed over his stomach in front of his eyes. He began to shake, causing the blood that soaked it to trail down his wrist, dripping ruby-colored pearls onto the carpet. The shock of the image left him disconnected, and he stared at the large dagger buried in his midriff, almost as if it were embedded in another man.

  Mesmerized, he touched the bone handle, noting that it was etched with the image of a clipper ship capsizing in a storm. A crimson stain blossomed over his shirt, running down his leg to collect in a small pool on the wooden floor around his feet. He tugged at the knife feebly before stumbling forward, reaching for Mr. Culler.

  Amused by his struggle, Mr. Culler held him upright. “You’re a better magician than actor, Mr. Abbott,” he said. “It appears that our partnership is at an end.”

  A movement tickled at the periphery of Mr. Culler’s vision, and he looked up at a watercolor painting on the near wall. David’s struggle was reflected in the glass pane, showing the man draw him close to whisper in his ear. The image of a third man materialized in the glass as if from thin air, and Mr. Culler tried to turn, but David’s grip was unbreakable, so he could only watch from the corner of his eye as the newcomer raised a knife, lazily drawing it across Mr. Culler’s throat to peel it open as if it were made of wax.

  He watched in horror as blood pooled in the lip of the painting’s frame before overflowing to pour down the wall in a burgundycolored sheet. The scream that was building in his throat died as the illusion vanished, and he looked back to David, shaken.

  Blood began to bubble on the side of David’s mouth as he struggled to speak. Spent from the effort, he sank slowly to his knees before toppling backward like a marionette whose strings had been clipped.

  Mr. Culler frowned while wiping blood from his ear, then looked back to the painting—roses wilting in a vase, their petals accumulating on a wooden table, and nothing more. He shook his head and squatted down to examine David’s body, taking his time and breathing evenly to slow his pulse. Mr. Culler thought he should know the third man in the mirror, but his mind was a blank. He glanced at Danyer suspiciously, then reached into his pocket to pull out a pair of surgical scissors. Lifting David’s left hand, he knelt, placed the scissors over the top joint of the man’s pinkie, and snipped, the flesh and bone resisting until that last moment before detaching with a satisfying pop.

  Dropping the end joint of the pinkie into a handkerchief, Mr. Culler looked up to see Danyer staring at him, a strange expression on his face, and answered his question before it could be asked. “He said that even death could be an illusion.” Mr. Culler stood, stuffing the hanky into his pocket. “Odd that. Unexpected.” He didn’t like the unexpected. “Messy business all around,” he said, watching with some apprehension as Danyer studied the expanding pool of blood, its surface gleaming like molten copper in the gaslight. The man was unpredictable, and Mr. Culler didn’t put it past him to wallow about.

  He motioned for his associate to take a few steps back and placed a foot on David’s chest for balance as he extracted the knife, after which he went to the kitchen to turn on the tap, lecturing Danyer as he rinsed off the dagger. “If we dispose of the body, Mr. Abbott will be presumed missing,” he said, reaching for the soap. “And the last thing we want is for the authorities to freeze his assets.” He rubbed a drop of blood from the counter with his fist and turned to Danyer, smiling at his own cleverness. “Did you know Mr. Abbott scheduled an auction of selected pieces of furniture in advance of his move to the McFarlane mansion?”

  Danyer followed Mr. Culler into the living room.

  Studying Abbott’s body one last time, Mr. Culler glanced at the side table and, on an impulse, released the latch to a metronome. Watching the arm sweep to and fro, he said, “Tomorrow.” He turned to his associate. “His death couldn’t be more timely, don’t you think? I’m sure we can pull a few strings to have the door added to the catalog.”

  Letting Danyer think that one over, Mr. Culler turned out the lights and made his way to the foyer to collect his bag before he stepped outside.

  They’d closed the door and stepped off the porch when two things happened simultaneously. Danyer said, “The journal,” even as a light appeared in a window next door.

  Mr. Culler pulled Danyer into the shadow of the oleander and peered through the foliage at an older woman who appeared on the porch of the house across the lawn. He shook his head. “We’ll have to come back for it.”

  As they made their way up the street, Elsbeth stuck her head out of the closet. “Mr. Abbott?” she said, looking left and right before seeing him lying on the floor. “Mr. Abbott!”

  Hobbling across the living room, she leaned over to check his pulse even as blood enveloped his outstretched hand. Rising as quickly as she was able, Elsbeth staggered backward. “Ah, Mr. Abbott,” she said. “If only you had taken me more seriously. My fault, I suppose. What do I tell Annie?”

  She turned to face the mysterious red door and thought of the child Abbott had carried through it. A few tentative steps later, she had her hand on its doorknob. Gently prying the door open, she peered through to the other side. Cool air stirred against her cheek as her eyes widened, and she slammed the door shut, before stepping back a few paces.

  Unsure of what to do, Elsbeth shuffled toward the back of the house, passing a small shelf lined with books, titles displayed on their spines in fine, gold lettering. There was a tattered volume sitting abandoned in the corner, completely at odds with all the rest.

  Even while telling herself to quit being a first-class fool and leave, Elsbeth reached for it. Some liquid had spilled on the book’s cover and had leached between the pages—coffee, she guessed. The pages were matted, and many of the notes obscured. Fully aware that time was of the essence, Elsbeth skimmed a page and made out the words wife and Florence. She gathered from another entry that David’s wife had died in childbirth. She dropped the diary in her handbag, knocking over a framed photograph with her elbow in the process.

  Righting it, Elsbeth confronted an image of David standing behind a seated woman. She picked up the photo for closer study, and her lower lip began to quiver. A single tear stained her spectacles. “Hello, Florence,” she said, brushing her hand across its surface. Suddenly angry, she dried the lens with the cuff of her sleeve and hurried out the back door.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  The Hen House

  Westport, Kansas, was a community of thoroughbreds, where proper breeding was not only expected, but also required. Decorum was the air the town breathed, and the first commandment of local society was “mind your own damn business.” Pri
vacy was considered so sacred to the good people of the township and so jealously guarded that— and this should come as no surprise— there were no secrets there at all, human nature being what it is. Everyone was taught reconnaissance at their mama’s knee and went on to become an agent provocateur. In Westport, secrets were scandal, and scandal was sport.

  Even those who survived the carnage of the rumor mill learned that Westport was anything but an egalitarian society. A pecking order existed. The big hens pecked at the smaller hens that, in turn, pecked at the even smaller hens on down the line until they reached the last unfortunate soul with no one to peck.

  That lonely little hen would be the widow McCready, who was standing on her lawn, staring at the Abbott estate when the staccato beat of hooves interrupted the night.

  A light appeared in the window of a home. Then another. And soon another. Within minutes the neighborhood windows looked like the lights of a phone company switchboard. Doors opened and people appeared in the soft glow of their porches to look for the source of the commotion.

  Policemen rushed onto the grounds of David Abbott’s house, and neighbors were quietly yet sternly told to return to their homes without explanation, much to their dissatisfaction. Reconnaissance would follow. Then the gossip.

  Only the widow McCready was allowed to remain. She stood in her nightgown, slippers, and hairnet while speaking to a pair of officers—having found just enough time to put in her false teeth. The officers took notes and tried not to wince at her shrill, somewhat nasal tone.

  “I was settling in for the evening when I noticed the strangest thing at David’s home.” She sighed, her eyes losing focus, and said, “Such a lovely man, David.”

  The officer tapped his pencil on his notepad.

  “Oh yes. As I was saying,”continued Mrs. McCready,“I stepped onto my porch to investigate.” She leaned forward, whispering. “There was an older woman at his back door who looked about in what I can only say was a calculating fashion before making her way quickly to the gate. She disappeared down the service street.” Mrs. McCready waved vaguely toward the back of the house.

  “And what was the approximate time you saw this woman depart?”

  “Well, I’m guessing an hour or so ago. Perhaps 9:00 p.m.?” Mrs. McCready’s mouth tightened as she did the math in her head, leaving her upper lip to look as if it were pleated. “Yes, that would be right.”

  “Were you able to get a close look at this woman?”

  The widow’s smile faded. She appeared offended by the question, pressing her hand to her chest as she said, “Well, not really. I didn’t get a close look at her at all. We mind our own business here in Westport, you know.”

  Mrs. McCready let out a quick huff of breath while tapping her forefinger to her neck. “Let me see what I can recall. It was dark, mind you,” she said. Her eyes narrowed as she dredged up a shocking amount of detail for a woman who minded her own business. The officer took notes on everything from Elsbeth’s spectacles to the number of wooden buttons on her dress while thinking that Mrs. McCready had the eyes of an owl.

  “And that dress! So unfortunate,” she said, placing her hand over the neckline of her gingham nightgown. “Oh! And her bones clicked when she walked!”

  “Clicked, ma’am?”

  “Yes, quite noticeably. Obviously arthritic, bless her soul.”

  Eyes of an owl, ears of a fox, the officer thought as he asked, “Can you tell us anything else?”

  “Well, after I saw her depart through the alley, I thought to myself, ‘Evillene, there is something strange going on at the Abbott residence.’ I’m not the prying type and almost decided to let matters lie, but I was concerned for David’s welfare. We’re on a first-name basis, you know.”

  Mrs. McCready went on to describe in a mountain of words and without taking a breath how she knocked on David Abbott’s door and, receiving no response, peered through a side window to see a figure lying on the living room floor.

  The three walked over to the window in question. Evillene pressed her head against the windowpane and cupped her hands around her eyes. “Can you see him?” she asked. Tapping it, she added, “By the divan.”

  At first, the two officers could see very little in the darkness. Eventually, their eyes adjusted, and they were able to see a form lying at a peculiar angle in the middle of the living room. They looked at each other, then turned to Mrs. McCready. “Thank you for your assistance, ma’am. We’ll handle it from here.”

  Evillene wasn’t taking the hint and remained rooted in place, forcing the officers to usher her toward her home while she squawked in protest. “Don’t forget about the baby!”

  “What baby?” yelled the first officer from across the lawn.

  “David’s baby! The nursery is at the back of the first floor.”

  After the officer held up his thumb in acknowledgment, Mrs. McCready cut across the hedge separating her property from the Abbott estate, quickly straightening her hairnet when she saw a pair of bored-looking reporters loitering on her front porch.

  As Evillene began to repeat her story for the press, Officers Franklin and Kearney tested Abbott’s front door. They could hear her unmistakable voice peal across the lawn as they disappeared inside. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know what, but there’s something amiss in that house!”

  A quick sweep revealed one corpse, no evidence of forced entry, no signs of a struggle, and no baby. They did find three drinks— one scotch and two bourbons.

  Sergeant Kearney pulled out a notepad. Aside from the obvious question, he wanted to know how an elderly woman, purportedly not even five feet tall, could stab a man of Mr. Abbott’s size to death. And why three drinks? He wondered drily whether the old woman’s poison was scotch or bourbon as he jotted down the question. And, if this was a murder-kidnapping as it appeared, why was the suspect not seen leaving with the baby in her arms? If Mrs. McCready could make out wooden buttons on the suspect’s dress, she certainly would have noticed a child, he thought.

  Lieutenant Franklin walked back into the room and broke Kearney’s train of thought. Looking about the room, he made a decision. “Clay, the lighting’s too poor. Let’s seal off the room, place a team at the front and back of the house, and come back tomorrow. The last thing I want to do is taint the crime scene. Can you oversee the placement of security?”

  “Yes, sir.” Sergeant Kearney headed for the front door.

  Franklin took a final look around, turned down the gas lighting, and followed him out.

  Soon after, there was a stirring near the stairwell, and a shadow separated itself from the darkness, gliding through the den. The brief intersection of moonlight and a mirror captured a flash of wild, vividly focused eyes. A shuffle, a bump, and the scraping rasp of wood on wood followed as the divan lurched an inch or two. The revenant froze, melting into the shadows. After a pregnant pause, it reappeared to circle in front of the divan and hover over David Abbott’s corpse. Through it all, the officers on duty outside remained blithely oblivious.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  The Chase

  May 30, 1895

  You must first tease away a small fragment. Then, if you incise the skin precisely, you can peel it away from the meat in a single piece, almost like stripping the hide from a squirrel.”

  Danyer’s words rang inside Mr. Culler’s head as he attempted to shuck the boiled egg. Despite his best efforts, however, the result paled in comparison to his associate’s almost inhuman ability to resurrect the egg’s shape from the shell alone.

  He dropped the failed attempt onto his platter, daring Danyer to comment. When he didn’t rise to the bait, Mr. Culler flagged the waiter to top off his coffee and grabbed a clean plate, only to freeze, certain that he’d caught the reflection of something that shouldn’t be there. He angled the plate this way and that until the same man he saw reflected in the glass of David Abbott’s painting resolved onto its surface. The man threw back his head to laugh, all the whil
e pulling clumps of hair from his head. Mr. Culler dropped the plate, threw his napkin over it, and, with a quick glance to Danyer, opened his newspaper.

  “Seeing things that aren’t there again, Mr. Culler?”

  Ignoring the question, he scanned the page. An article had caught his attention. He frowned, folded the paper, and passed it across the table.

  Danyer began to read about David Abbott’s murder but was caught off guard by a particular paragraph.

  Mrs. McCready states that she was on the porch enjoying a cup of tea when she noticed an elderly woman exit Mr. Abbott’s back door. She describes the woman as being in her midsixties, a bit less than five feet tall, with steel gray hair tied up in a bun and a slight stoop…

  He looked up, startled, and Mr. Culler nodded. “A loose end,” he said.

  A rumbling at the back of Danyer’s throat signaled his understanding. Loose ends were unacceptable.

  Mr. Culler picked up a fork and began stabbing at his pancakes, thinking out loud. “It might be prudent to talk to the detective in charge of the investigation. Find out what he knows.” He tapped the article with one hand while scooping a helping into his mouth with the other. “There’s more,” he said.

  What makes this brutal slaying all the stranger is the absence of Abbott’s one-year-old baby.

  As if he’d read Danyer’s mind and found it lacking, Mr. Culler waved his hand in irritation. “Forget about the baby. Read further,” he said.

  Local authorities confirm that the auction of Mr. Abbott’s personal belongings is scheduled for today.

  “The door, yes?” said Mr. Culler, grinning at Danyer’s primitive, predatory murmur. “The door, indeed.” Suddenly ravenous, he stuffed the napkin back in his collar and dug into his breakfast, thinking to himself how rewarding it was to have a plan. Find the loose end. Kill her. Buy the door.

  He looked across the table to see Danyer lift the eggshell with a fork, the corner of his mouth rising. Clearly, his associate was thinking along the same lines.