My ears perk. Denise. Might Arabella be talking about Denise George? She was one of Rebecca’s friends as well. If so, Arabella’s companion must be Denise’s younger sister, Alice, who was still a child the last time I saw her. I recall the conversation I heard on the wharf the day I left for the marshes—the longshoreman admonishing his cohort to be cautious. The well-to-do victim he spoke about might well havebeen poor Denise. I pray Arabella’s penchant for gossip continues, my curiosity piqued.
“Did you see the papers this morning? TheDaily Courier?” Arabella continues, just as I hoped.
“No, I didn’t,” says Alice. “I’ve been avoiding the news.”
“Well, they think the murderer is Lillian Carmichael.” At the sound of my name on Arabella’s tongue, I flinch, goose bumps prickling up my arms.
“How can that be?” Alice asks. “She’s dead.”
“Supposedly. But her grave was disturbed. The undertaker claims he heard strange sounds coming from their family mausoleum. And I saw her. Here in town. Iknowit was her, even though she was dressed like a street urchin. Peopleareburied alive sometimes. I went to the City Guard and told them I saw her. There’s a reward, you know. Lillian is capable of anything.”
Arabella’s voice becomes a shrill, distant whine in my ears. Suddenly, the intimate café is too close. The air too warm. I do my best to keep my panic from registering on my face. Though my inclination is to flee, I must stay and listen to this conversation. I need to know how much Arabellaknows.
“I remember Lillian and Rebecca,” Alice says. “Mama used to attend a sewing circle with their mother.”
“Our families were close for many years. I’ve never gotten over Becca’s death.” Arabella sighs, shifts in her chair. “Lillian was always jealous of Rebecca. And I’ll never forgive her for leading my sister astray. It still sickens me.”
What on earth is she talking about? I never led Eleanor astray, in anything.
“Were you very well acquainted with Marjorie Blanchard?” Alice asks.
I still. Why is she asking about Marjorie now?
“We met, a time or two,” Arabella says. “I found her rather blasé, but she was pleasant enough. She wasn’t happy in her marriage. Thatmuch was obvious.” There’s a certain air of morbid glee in Arabella’s tone. I’d forgotten justhowmuch she relishes hearing about other people’s misfortunes. It’s one of her least flattering traits.
“Well, we were in cotillion together, before she met her husband.” Alice looks from side to side and lowers her voice. “I heard that when they found her, her throat was torn to shreds, as if some wild beast had gotten to her. That’s why they can’t have a proper wake. It’s a blessing she had no children yet, at least.”
“Heavens.” Arabella raises her teacup. “That’s three now, including your poor sister. I’m frightened. Mama no longer wants me out after dark, even with a companion.” She glances out the window at the dusky sky, purple as a bruise.
“I don’t like the thought myself. It’s getting late. We’d better head home, hadn’t we?” Alice says. “Walk with me, as far as the park?”
“Of course, darling.”
They hastily finish their tea and leave, Arabella’s tailored merino skirt brushing my own as she passes. She doesn’t spare me a glance. I contemplate their conversation. At least it’s no longer a mystery whether Arabella recognized me and reported the sighting, although her comment about Eleanor is puzzling. What was she implying? I must be very careful to avoid running into Arabella going forward. My boyish disguise didn’t fool her. The best way to blend in with Charleston’s gentry is to be a part of Charleston’s gentry. Kate is right. Mary Jones must become so completely enmeshed with me that she doesn’t stand out and no one can distinguish us.
And poor Marjorie. Younger than me but already widowed and now dead. Her father was a minor politician with a small rice plantation on James Island. I remember Marjorie being a quiet girl. An accomplished pianist and a graceful dancer. Pretty, with soft brown eyes and red hair.
Red hair.
The first victim—Sally—was a redhead as well. I pull on one of the reddish curls adorning my own head. Denise George was also a redhead. Is there some correlation? A niggle of unease runs throughme. All three of them. Redheads. And Denise and Marjorie knew one another, at least tangentially.
Miss Mabel brings me a fresh cup of tea. “Varina’s nearly finished with her final reading. She’ll perform soon.” She glances around the room, which has grown quieter since our arrival. Only a few tables remain occupied. “These murders are taking a toll on my evening business,” she says. “Ladies are too frightened to be out after dark.”
“It’s terrible. I heard two of them remarking about it, just now.”
“Yes,” Mabel says, shaking her head. “I suppose I’ll need to begin closing earlier.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Well, I want my patrons to feel safe. Perhaps I’ll have Varina for matinee performances instead.” She looks over my shoulder and waves. “Ah! Here she comes now. Have you ever heard Varina sing?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat. She deserves a bigger stage than mine, but I’m glad to have her all the same.”
I turn in my chair and watch as Kate sweeps through the room. She ascends to the small, raised dais, gathers her skirts, and sits at the parlor piano, greeting her meager audience with a smile. Her eyes flit to me, then quickly away. She begins playing the opening lines of a song, one filled with poignant longing. And then she opens her berry-stained mouth, and sings.
Sebben, crudele, mi fai languir, sempre fedele ti voglio amar ...
