CRANE

23

ONCE AGAIN ON HER BICYCLE, Hetty headed for Elmhurst Cemetery. As the morning grew old, the streets became crowded with people, and she bobbed and weaved to avoid them all. Most people ignored her, but there were some grumbles from those who took offense at the close passing of a bicycle. One little girl, though, clutching her mother’s hand, stared openly as Hetty rolled past her. Hetty waved and the girl waved back before her mother pulled her along.

Before long, Hetty caught sight of the cemetery gates and went around to find a tree to leave her bicycle against. As she was hiding it with a spell, she heard the door to the caretaker’s cottage open. She tensed, readying herself for a possible argument.

Hetty did not get along well with the current caretaker, as they’d met in the worst way possible​—​due to the discovery of his murdered brother. Thankfully the person who stepped out of the cottage instead was Gabe Lewis.

Although he was a nephew to both Rosie and Sy, he was practically another sibling, as he was several years older than Rosie and a year younger than Sy. Though his mother and stepfather owned a shoe shop, Gabe had been too restless to work on shoes and had taken on a number of odd jobs. Hospital porter was one of them, and a worker at Elmhurst was another.

“Miz Hetty, shouldn’t you be around back?” Gabe asked.

“Is there a funeral going on?”

Gabe nodded. “Pastor Evans is here, but not officiating. Thought you’d be there as support.”

This must be the funeral for Jay’s friend that recently died, Hetty surmised, and said as much to Gabe.

“So if you’re not here for the funeral, what brings you here today?” Gabe asked.

“A different funeral. The one we’re putting on on Monday.”

“You are?”

Hetty clicked her tongue. “Don’t sound so surprised, Gabriel Lewis! We’ve gotten work before.”

“But not recently. Thought you got out of the business. Aunt Clarabelle and Auntie Jo both think you should. The uncles got a bet going on when you’ll quit. And Granny Caldwell said it’s better to start a business after you have children.”

“Well.” Hetty blinked, not sure what part she should take offense to first, and decided there was no need to play favorites. “Let them all know we’re doing Valentine Duval’s funeral, and it’s going to outshine what Brown’s Funeral Parlor ever did!”

“Won’t be too hard. Brown’s been busy lately, and I do say they’d probably love to give you some of their business.” The young man rubbed his shoulder. “We’ve been having a lot of services due to all the fires. I don’t mind the work, but I wouldn’t mind if things slowed down some.”

“Something will be done about the fires soon,” Hetty promised.

“I sure hope so.”

Hetty walked out to the cemetery grounds. The morning sun beat against her skin, making her wish for a gentle breeze. From a distance she saw the funeral in the works. A sizable cluster of people were in attendance, though she was too far away to truly tell which was Jay.

Easier to discern at this distance was Adelaide Duval, standing in front of her father’s grave.

The older woman had traded her artist’s smock for a gray dress so dark that it looked black. The color aged her as much as her grief, and the silver in her hair appeared much more prominent than it had been in their previous encounters.

Hetty approached her. The headstone was a simple one, with Raimond’s name carved on it and below: DEVOTED FATHER, TRUSTED FRIEND, AND TEACHER TO ALL.

“We were here the other day when this was installed,” Adelaide said to Hetty. “My brother and I. He stood where you did, and reminded me it was nearly two years since I last saw Father, and that I chose to stay away and not visit even when I had the means. That all my letters meant nothing. I said hurtful things to my brother and we parted in anger. That’s the worst thing about the dead. You apologize afterward, but you’ll never know if they truly hear you.” Adelaide’s eyes were dry as she turned to an undeveloped corner of the cemetery. “My father bought us lots here. He loved Philadelphia, said it was home in a way New Orleans never was to him.” She said “New Orleans” the way they did it down there, with a sweet tang and a gentle roughness of a city that knew it was one of a kind. “This was my home too. No matter how far or how long I went away, I always came back. It’s not the best city I lived in. Over in Europe I could forget every limit that defined me in the past and become whoever I wished to be. But I always felt like a visitor there. The ball Bernice Tanner and my father worked on was my idea. I wrote to him last winter, joking I’d only visit if there was an event showcasing my statues. But he wrote back saying he was going to make arrangements. I envisioned him making a deal with a museum to temporarily allow us to take up space. Instead I find that the space is a hall owned by a friend of his, and that I could have a permanent exhibit there on display. This city never fails to surprise me.”

“I can agree with that,” Hetty said.

Adelaide turned over her hand, and the Dove star sigil flashed in the air for a brief moment.

“I realized I forgot about Valentine’s suit.” A satchel that lay on the ground lifted into the air. Absently, Adelaide brushed the dirt away before handing it to Hetty. “This is what he’ll need to wear. I’m not sure if it’s a proper suit, but it will have to do, since my brother’s house burned down.”

Long practice at hearing such remarkable things kept the surprise out of her face as Hetty gripped the satchel by its strap. She had hoped to visit Valentine’s home again, and now it seemed she had missed that chance. “It burned down? How terrible!”

“But not surprising. I assumed his neighbors did it because they thought his house cursed. I certainly did when I came upon it with him. As much as he claimed it was his spells that protected the place, I had my doubts. But with him gone . . .”

“His magic is no longer active.”

“Precisely.” Adelaide nodded. “Now I have nothing of him, and worse, his last prank on our cousin will not be as effective as we’d have liked.”

“Prank?”

“Oh, yes.” Adelaide’s dour features turned cheerful for a moment. “Horace has been asking about Father’s will for ages, so Valentine put together these stones that he claimed would tell who the true heir of the family was. He explained the magic involved, even got me to carve a few small pieces​—” She shook her head. “The prank won’t work now.”

“Why would you pull a trick on your cousin?” Hetty asked.

“Pardon?”

Hetty chose her next words carefully. “I remember seeing him. I thought you were close.”

“Oh no!” Adelaide exclaimed. “Horace is the only son of my father’s brothers that survived the war. He accomplished that mostly because he was in England, up to no good. He stayed a bit in Philadelphia in between his travels. Although never for a long period. I can’t say we’re close, but we know him better than the rest. But that just means he has the greatest claim on my father’s house. The Duvals are old-fashioned. They determine family by blood. In their eyes, because my brother and I were adopted, we don’t count.”

The longer Hetty stood there, the less certain she became that Adelaide was the murderer. Nothing she told Hetty spoke of a strong motive. The deaths of father and brother were both severe losses to her. In fact, the only advantage Adelaide might have gotten would have occurred if her cousin had died instead. But even then, it would be a small change at best.

“I wouldn’t worry about your other relatives. Sometimes family chooses you, other times you choose family. It might even be better to be lonely than to surround yourself with people who have no love for you.”

“Make no mistake, my dear,” Adelaide remarked. “I claim none of those people as family. Neither did my brother, although he was more forgiving. I won’t have them at the funeral. Can you and your husband bar them from entering? You have my permission to use any means necessary.”

“With ease and pleasure,” Hetty replied gleefully, because there was nothing she loved more in this world than to make the lives of snobs just the tiniest bit inconvenienced.

“I cannot offer more than your fees, but maybe I could make a statue with you as a model?”

“That’s completely unnecessary,” Hetty replied.

“It is. You have a very interesting face. But I like to get permission from people I plan on seeing again. I won’t give you the statue, but you can have the miniature I’ll make.”

As Hetty was protesting both the statue and the compliment, she realized someone had stepped up to join them.

“Miss Duval,” Jay said rather coolly. “I see you have met Mrs. Rhodes.”

If Hetty had any doubts Cora hadn’t told Jay about the events of the previous night, they were squashed with his words just then. Jay always addressed her with great warmth and familiarity. None of this was evident in his words this morning, as he spoke as if he only knew her in passing.

“This is not the first time we met,” Adelaide said, unaware of the turmoil before her. “We spoke before about my brother’s funeral, and she will be very helpful for what needs to be done, much more than Brown’s. They are quite old-fashioned and I’m looking for a more personal touch.”

“I hope things go well for you,” Jay said stiffly. “If you need to talk, either as a pastor or a friend, I am here for you. Your father was a dear friend of mine, after all.”

“I appreciate that. In fact, can I take up that offer right now?” Adelaide said. “My heart is heavy this morning.”

“Then I shall be the one to leave you,” Hetty said quickly. “Send any further instructions to my home directly.”

Without a word more, she left, pretending she wasn’t fleeing or dabbing at the tears that prickled her eyes.

 

---

Hetty rode back to Juniper Street as if carried by winds. But no matter how quickly she rode her bike, she couldn’t escape the dual regrets she had from her recent encounters with Cora and Jay, and the slight fear that she had ruined things with them beyond repair.

Back home, lost in her thoughts, she rolled the bicycle back through the yard, only to see Oliver sitting in the long shadow that appeared next to the shack.

Over his clothes he wore the heavy apron he used while embalming, with his gloves resting on his knees. He leaned back, smoking a pipe, staring up at the back of the house, or perhaps it was the sky. But the former was more likely. Oliver was not a cloud gazer.

Hetty sat down on the grass next to him, placing the satchel in her lap, and only then did he appear to have noticed her.

Oliver turned his head toward her, his eyes flicking to the bag she carried. “What do you got there?”

“A dead man’s clothes.”

“Belonging to the one in your cellar?”

Hetty nodded.

“Good, I was wondering if he was going to go into the ground as he came into the world.”

“Find anything interesting?” Hetty asked.

“Nothing so far. I’m waiting for the results of the poison test to come back.” Oliver made a face as he added, “Your husband says to meet him at Olmstead.”

Hetty scoffed. “Oh, he’s being funny! I told him to meet me there earlier. He must have changed his mind about it being a bad idea!”

“Well, I don’t find it funny at all. I don’t work for the Western Union.”

“If you’re going to work here, you might as well learn to take messages.”

“I’m not your assistant, either. I’ll pretend as needed, but this is not a fact. I work when you need my help, or when I want to make sure you’re not in deep trouble.”

“Or when you want a favor?” Hetty asked.

Oliver’s lack of surprise confirmed he knew he was being transparent. He tapped his pipe against his knee, scattering ash about.

“I’m worried about Thomas. He doesn’t deal in magical items as a rule. But all this stuff going on has me worried that he’s about to be caught up in more trouble than any of us can handle.”

“Then tell him to find something new,” Hetty said. “He’s never settled on anything for long before.”

“This is different. He believes that ordering select goods from a catalog and having it delivered to your home instead of going to a store is a revolutionary idea that will change life as we know it. This isn’t a barbershop.”

“That’s when you convince him it’s a poor idea. You turn on the charm, and flattery, and . . .” Hetty started laughing mid­sentence, mostly from the idea, and the rest from Oliver’s scornful expression. “Oh, I’m sorry, I just can’t see it.”

“I’m perfectly charming!” Oliver protested.

“In whose opinion?”

Oliver smiled. “The only one that matters.”

That was a statement Hetty could not argue with. She playfully patted his shoulder, letting his word be the last on the subject. “Well, I’m off to see my own husband, whose opinion on certain matters I need to learn. I leave this with you.” She dropped the satchel at his feet. “And don’t smoke around the shack. Benjy hasn’t started using it yet, but someday something might go boom in there.”