Victoria Thompson - Murder On Waverly Place

“Oh, no, that’s impossible,” she assured him confidently.

“Why is it impossible?”

“Because,” she reminded him, “we were all holding each other’s hands. No one could move without someone else noticing.”

Frank definitely had a headache now. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I see.”

“Mr. Malloy,” Mrs. Decker said, leaning forward and looking him straight in the eye. “I’m very much afraid that Mrs. Gittings was killed by one of the spirits.”

FRANK LEFT MRS. DECKER IN THE OFFICE, JUST IN CASE some reporters showed up to nose around. He was surprised they hadn’t gotten the scent of this already. It had all the makings of a scandal. High-society ladies and gentlemen attending a séance with a beautiful spiritualist and one of them ends up murdered. Frank could probably write the story himself, if he’d been so inclined. But he was more inclined to keep Mrs. Decker’s name out of the newspapers if at all possible. He didn’t like Mr. Decker much, but he owed the man for helping him solve Tom Brandt’s murder, and he genuinely liked Mrs. Decker. He’d have to send for Sarah, though. If the cops who’d been called in to investigate before he got here told any reporters who was present at the séance, they’d give Sarah’s name. It would be a good idea if she was actually here, and then she could get her mother out without drawing suspicion to Mrs. Decker. He’d send Gino Donatelli, the one patrolman he could trust not to talk to the press.

“So that’s the famous Mrs. Brandt,” one of the officers standing in the hallway said when Frank came out of the office and closed the door behind him. “She’s a little long in the tooth, isn’t she?”

Frank gave him a murderous glare. Did every cop in the city know he was friends with Sarah Brandt?

“Sorry,” the cop said hastily. “I just thought… Well, she’s still a fine-looking woman for all of that.”

“Make sure nobody bothers her unless I say so,” Frank said. “And find the nearest call box and get Officer Donatelli over here for me.”

“The wop?” the cop asked in surprise.

The New York City Police Department had only recently begun hiring officers of any ethnicity besides Irish, and few of the old guard trusted them. “That’s right. Any more questions?” Frank added in a tone that said there better not be.

“No, sir. I’ll get Donatelli for you.”

Frank sighed and went back into the room where the body still lay. He’d done no more than glance around the first time to see who the victim was. He’d been in too much of a hurry to get Mrs. Decker out of sight.

The ward detective who’d been called to the scene first was still in there, waiting for Frank to finish with “Mrs. Brandt.”

“How’s the lady doing?” he asked politely.

“She’ll be fine,” Frank snapped, walking over to get a better look at the body.

“We already sent for the medical examiner,” Detective Sergeant O’Toole informed him.

Frank nodded. He hunkered down next to the woman. She looked to be middle-aged. Nothing unusual about her. Well dressed. She’d apparently been sitting in one of the chairs, and someone had slipped a stiletto between her ribs. He couldn’t see the blade, but he could tell by the design of the handle protruding from her back that it would be long, thin, and diamond shaped with a needle-sharp point. The kind of knife made popular by the Italian secret society, the Black Hand. Her body lay as if it had just slid off the chair of its own weight. When he touched her hand, it was only slightly cool and still flexible.

He pushed himself back to his feet and turned to where O’Toole still waited. “What do you figure happened here?”

“Can’t get much sense out of those people in there,” he said in disgust, nodding toward the front room, where the séance participants had been gathered. “Something about talking to ghosts or something.”

“Spirits,” Frank corrected him. “They were sitting around the table holding hands or wrists or something?”

“That’s what they said. Six of them, including that girl they call Madame, although she ain’t like no madam I ever saw.”

“In the dark,” Frank said.

“So they said.”

“Close that door,” Frank said. “Let’s see how dark it really is.”

O’Toole closed the door. He had to use some force. It fit very tightly in its frame. Frank reached up and turned off the gas jet.

O’Toole swore softly. “Can’t see my hand in front of my face.”

He was right. Whatever happened here, no one else would have seen. “Open the door.”

Frank found a match and lighted the gas again. He looked around once more, this time taking in all the details of the room. “There’s no window in here.”

“No,” O’Toole confirmed. “This here’s a false wall.” He indicated the wall opposite the door. “There’s a space about four feet deep between it and the outside wall of the house. Looks like that’s where they store stuff. A lot of junk in there.”

A large cabinet sat against the false wall. “What’s in there?”

“Nothing,” O’Toole reported. “Just an empty cabinet.”

Frank wondered why they had an empty cabinet in the room, but before he could figure it out, he heard a woman start to scream hysterically. Muttering a curse, he went back out into the hallway and into the front parlor. The cops O’Toole had set on guard were just staring helplessly as one of the women was having a fit. Frank had half expected it to be the young one, the spiritualist, but it was the other one. She was a woman about Mrs. Decker’s age and dressed like she had money and lots of it.

The girl was talking to her, holding her hands and trying to calm her down, and by the time Frank got there, she wasn’t screaming anymore, just sobbing uncontrollably. The door to the office opened and Mrs. Decker stuck her head out. Naturally, she’d want to see what was going on.

“Get back in there,” he commanded her in a voice very few people had ever disobeyed.

Her eyes widened in surprise, but she had the good sense to do what he told her. Everyone in the front parlor had looked up when he shouted at her. The three men who had been waiting there instantly all began talking at once.

“See here, you can’t keep us here like this!”

“I have an appointment this afternoon!”

“What’s going on? I have to see Mrs. Gittings!”

“Quiet!” Frank shouted, and they all fell silent, even the hysterical female, who looked absolutely terrified. “I’ve got to ask each of you a few questions, and then you can go. Is there another room where I can meet with you in private?”

“The dining room,” the tall man who’d wanted to see Mrs. Gittings said.

“Do you live here?” Frank asked.

“Yes, I… I work for Madame Serafina. I’m Professor Rogers.” He was very pale and he was clutching his hands together in front of him, as if trying to keep them from trembling.

“I’ll talk to you first,” he said, indicating the hysterical woman. “And then you can go home.”

“But I don’t know anything!” she protested tearfully. “I didn’t see anything. None of us did.”

“Then it won’t take long for you to answer my questions,” he said reasonably. “Come along.”

“You’ll be fine,” the young woman assured her. She seemed very calm for having just witnessed a murder, Frank thought.

The older woman rose uncertainly.

“Come with me, please, Mrs. Burke,” the Professor said, and he escorted her out into the hallway toward the room where the dead woman lay.

She balked, but he took her elbow. “This way,” he said, and steered her toward the room across the hall. Sliding pocket doors led to a large empty room. Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the large windows. Plainly, Madame Serafina had felt no need for formal dining. A chandelier hung forlornly from the center of the ceiling. It was an old one that had been converted to gas. Fortunately, the sunlight made artificial light unnecessary, at least in here.