He gave her a weak smile. “It’s an uphill battle in this neighborhood sometimes. If it’s not sick babies, it’s grown men poisoning themselves with moonshine. And if it’s not either of those, it’s something else.” He shook his head, then tried to change the subject. “How is your sister?”
“She’s fine,” Vivian said, a little wary.
He didn’t seem to notice. “That’s good to hear. I hope she’s not taking on too much. I went to see Alba this morning and found that she was living with the Henrys. The children said you and Florence were there helping out. The kids had lots to say about her and her stories,” he added with a smile. “Seems they like her.”
“Everyone likes Florence.”
“She’s likable,” the young doctor agreed, and Vivian tried not to bristle, still a mess of protective and possessive feelings after watching her sister spend half the night dancing with Danny. “But I overheard Beatrice and Alba talking when I arrived, and something they said… Vivian, tell me truthfully. Beatrice said she was going to leave well enough alone about her uncle. Is she?”
Vivian hesitated for just a beat too long. “Yes,” she said, but as soon as she met his eyes, she sighed. “No. We’re not leaving it alone.”
“I thought not,” he said. “You know that’s dangerous, right?” There was real worry in his eyes, and Vivian remembered what he had said about his brother.
“I know. But Bea’s real cut up about her uncle, especially with Alba’s baby on the way. And it’s bigger than just Pearlie. We’ve been asking around. Seems someone’s got the people in this part of the city running scared.”
“The letters,” he said, looking embarrassed when she glanced at him. “I couldn’t keep my nose out of it either. After we spoke, I went and talked to those patients again. Someone has quite a tidy little business going on.”
“It’s rotten is what it is,” Vivian said, her voice shaking. Her hands balled into fists. “Stealing from folks who can already barely afford to feed their families—” She broke off, frowning at him. “What’s that noise?”
There were raised voices coming from one of the floors below them. The worry and confusion were plain to hear, but Vivian couldn’t tell what they were saying. Without waiting for the doctor’s response, she left the basket on the floor and hurried to the stairs.
“Everything all right?” she called down.
Will Freeman, young and stylish and what some people called a “determined bachelor” in roundabout fashion, appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “Do you smell gas up there?”
Vivian sniffed, trying not to let her worry bubble up too sharply. Gas in the building was dangerous for everyone. “Not up here,” she said, starting to make her way down. “How bad is it?” She might have to run back upstairs and start banging on doors to get people out of the building if they couldn’t find the source.
“We found it!” someone yelled from the ground floor. “It’s coming from Mrs. Kaminski’s.”
Vivian and Will arrived at the same time, and he pounded on the door. “Mrs. Kaminski? Anna? Are you in there?”
“She’s a little deaf these days,” someone said behind them. Vivian turned, startled to see that it was Dr. Harris. But of course he would have followed her down. “Can we get the door open?”
Will turned away. “I’ll go grab—”
“Wait, it’s unlocked.” Vivian stared in surprise as the doorknob turned in her hand and the door creaked open. “Does she usually leave her door unlocked?”
It was dark inside, with all the curtains pulled shut, and swelteringly hot. The air was thick with the smell of gas. Vivian nearly gagged.
“Mrs. Kaminski?” she called, hesitating.
“No.” Dr. Harris pushed past her, his handkerchief held over the lower part of his face, heading for the old stove tucked in the corner. In the light from the front door, Vivian could see him fiddling with the knobs. “Vivian, open the windows, quick. Will, tell them to prop open the front door and every window they can in the building. We’ve got to get it aired out.”
“Right away, Doc,” Will replied. Vivian could hear the sound of him running and shouting as he went.
She pulled her own handkerchief out of her pocket and held it over her nose and mouth. But that didn’t stop her coughing and gagging at the smell of gas as she went to the room’s two windows. They were shut tight, in spite of the hot, heavy weather, and she had to drop her handkerchief and use both hands to shove them open. When she had, she darted back to the front door, taking deep, gulping breaths of fresh air.
Dr. Harris appeared beside her, his face grim.
Vivian didn’t want to say it, but it wasn’t hard to guess what he had found. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” she asked.
He nodded, his jaw tight. “The gas in the stove was still on, eventhough it wasn’t lit. With all the windows closed, she suffocated.” He let out a shaking breath. “Folks her age sometimes have trouble remembering things like turning the gas off,” he added, almost too quietly for her to hear. “Especially when they used to live with someone else but are now on their own.”
Vivian felt her eyes stinging, and she didn’t know whether it was from sorrow or the lingering smell. She blinked away any tears that might have fallen.
Dr. Harris was already talking to the neighbors clustering on the stairs, telling them what had happened. Will could be heard upstairs shouting for people to open the windows. Someone else was sent to call for the police, who would have to take the body to the morgue once Dr. Harris had certified the death. Vivian shivered, cleared her throat, and pulled herself together.
Dr. Harris, once he wasn’t immediately needed, leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. His face was a jumble of unhappy emotions, and his shoulders were tense. He looked like he wanted to be sick. It was the first time Vivian had seen him—normally a bulwark of confidence and intellect—seem so unsure. She had often thought that he saw himself as a sort of missionary, even a savior, setting up his practice in a part of the city where he couldn’t make the kind of money other doctors made, bringing his work to the defiant poor who otherwise would have suffered in resentful, unnoticed silence.
