Born of Illusion (22 page)

Like who wants to hurt my mother and why.

I wrap my muffler more tightly around my throat, thinking hard. Could it be someone we know? Mrs. Lindsay and her daughter are high on the list of possible suspects. Mrs. Lindsay doesn’t seem too stable, and I know she’s the one who followed me the night I got lost. Her daughter doesn’t strike me as the criminal type, but you never can tell. As much as I mistrust Jacques, there’s no question he’s making money from our shows. I can’t see him jeopardizing that. Not only is he a good businessman, he doesn’t seem like the violent type. My stomach tightens as I remember how he had run from our building today. What was he doing? I dismiss Mr. Darby and Owen. Mr. Darby doesn’t even really know my mother, and Owen has no reason to hurt her. Cole? My chest tightens. Yes, he has secrets. I know he does. But surely they don’t have anything to do with my mother.

So I’m back to Mrs. Lindsay and her daughter.

I round a corner and have just decided to head back when I’m overcome by a dark wash of emotions so ominous I stop in my tracks. I concentrate, wishing again that I knew how to control my abilities. Sensing other people’s emotions when I was touching them was bad enough, but this is much, much worse.

The feeling grows stronger and I whirl around, looking this way and that.

“Well, if it isn’t the charlatan’s daughter!”

I freeze as I’m faced with Mrs. Lindsay’s hate-filled eyes. I try to give off a confidence I don’t feel. “Hello, Mrs. Lindsay. Imagine meeting you here. I thought you lived in Cleveland.”

“And I thought your mother wouldn’t let you out of her sight.”

Mrs. Lindsay’s coat is worn and thin, and her blond hair is matted against her head. Dirt smudges one cheek, and I see more caked under her nails. She looks as if she spent the night in the park. I edge away from her, but she steps closer and the scent of alcohol churns my stomach. “I don’t know what you mean. Isn’t your daughter with you this afternoon?” The daughter seemed to have some control over her mother and I desperately hope she shows up. Soon.

“No, dear. It’s just you and me. I used to have séances booked every night—all the best people in New York came to me, because I am the real thing. You hear me? The real thing.”

I nod, my heart racing.

“But not anymore.”

She draws closer and I go motionless, afraid any sudden movement will set her off.

“Now everyone is talking about your mother!” She spits out the words, her face twisted and ugly. “And your mother, she’s a fraud, a trickster! A thief!”

I don’t see her hand coming and the blow stings my face before I can react. She hits me hard enough that I reel backward, then looks at her hand as if she can’t believe what she just did.

I take advantage of her surprise to back away. “You’re off your nuts!” Tears spring to my eyes.

“No, your mother is crazy to think she can get away with this. I know people. All kinds of people.”

Her eyes are wild, and as I turn and run she screams after me, “You’d better tell her to watch her step! I’m going to stop her! You tell her that! The dead won’t like this one bit!”

I run until a hitch in my side forces me to stop, my ankle throbbing and my breath coming out in short gasps. She’s mad, completely batty. I hurry the rest of the way to our apartment to warn Mother.

Eighteen

“I
’ll kill her,” Mother says, applying ice to my cheek. “We’ll never be able to hide this.”

I stare at her, my mouth open. “Is that all you’re worried about?”

A frown line appears between her eyes and it strikes me that my mother is getting older. She’s still lovely, but tiny lines of time are beginning to fan out from the corners of her eyes.

“Of course not. But we can’t let a crazy woman frighten us.” She gives a grim smile. “She doesn’t know who she’s messing with, does she?”

No. She doesn’t.

I ponder that as we leave for the theater. My mother’s memory is long and she never forgets someone who does her wrong. She once turned in a bum manager for extortion before we hightailed it out of town. Tonight she is silent, grim, and I wonder what she’s thinking.

Or planning.

I press the side of my face against the chill of the window, cooling the heat that still lingers from Mrs. Lindsay’s hand. We round the corner and everything in my body stills as I spot a peculiar couple across the street from the park. They’re standing under the striped awning of the butcher I frequent, their faces partially obscured in shadows. But it doesn’t matter; I know who they are.

Cole and Mrs. Lindsay.

As we pass by them, I instinctively duck my head, but not before I see him press something into her hand.

“What are you doing?” my mother asks next to me.

“Oh. Nothing. I dropped my vanity case.” I linger a second more until I’m sure we are safely past before sitting up, my mind racing almost as fast as my pulse.

Why would Cole be speaking to Mrs. Lindsay? He was at the séance. He knew she intended to harm my mother. Hurt ricochets through my chest and my hands clench in my lap. Was Mrs. Lindsay talking about Cole when she said she knew people?

I remember the connection I felt on our walk and then again at Child’s. The warmth of his finger on my lips. Him standing with a bouquet of flowers. I blink back tears. Was any of it real?

By the time we go onstage, I’ve shaken off most of my turmoil and go through the performance by rote, smiling when I need to smile and hitting all my cues with practiced ease. Nothing must harm the show. The house is always packed now and our reputation is growing. By the time my mother and I return to the dressing room, I’ve resolved to put Cole and Mrs. Lindsay out of my mind and have a wonderful evening out with Owen. Sweet, uncomplicated, handsome Owen.

My hair is already crimped and looks cute with the pale beige cloche I’m wearing. As I change into my dress, my mother has an unusual attack of maternal instincts.

“Now, I don’t want you to be out all hours of the night. And I want to talk to Owen before you go anywhere.”

“Yes, Mother.”

I put some stained balm on my lips and look at myself in the mirror. The bruise is barely visible under the pancake makeup. I look good. Not as beautiful, perhaps, as my mother, but certainly pretty enough. I have her dark hair and our nose is the same, short and slim. But as I look at myself I begin to wonder if the other parts of me, the parts that look nothing like my mother, are from my father. My complexion is rosier than my mother’s, my jawline firmer, and my eyes are blue. Am I really Harry Houdini’s daughter?

A knock sounds on the door and my mother answers it. Jacques and Owen come in, both looking dapper in their fine suits. I watch Jacques suspiciously from under my lashes. After my run-in with Mrs. Lindsay, I’d almost forgotten him rushing out of our building. What was he doing there if it wasn’t to see my mother? My heart stops. Could he have been there to see Cole? But why?

Owen does a dramatic double take when he sees me. “Someone looks absolutely gorgeous tonight,” he says, interrupting my thoughts.

In spite of everything, I’m looking forward to going out. With Owen, I don’t think about my abilities, or worry whether he is going to find out that my mother and I are frauds. In fact, I don’t worry about anything when I’m with Owen—I just enjoy myself.

I roll my eyes at him and he grins.

“Make that two someones,” Jacques says, his voice full of admiration. I glare at him, but he’s too busy looking at my mother to notice.

My mother, used to such male admiration, comports herself much better than I. She tilts her head and looks up at him through long, painted eyelashes. “Now Jacques, I bet you say that to all your clients.”

“Not all, darling. I’m sure Clyde and his talking horse wouldn’t appreciate it much.”

“The horse might,” Owen quips, and everyone laughs. “I’d love to stick around yukking it up all evening, but Anna and I should go. We’re meeting friends.”

“Where are you going?” my mother asks as I search for the fake fur stole she’s lent me.

“A place called the Cotton Club,” Owen says.

My mother hands me the stole. “Darling, may I have a few minutes alone with Owen?”

My eyes narrow and she looks back at me, all wide-eyed innocence. Sighing, I give in. “I’ll wait for you in the lobby,” I tell Owen.

I hurry down the hall on my Cuban heels, sidestepping two janitors who are already cleaning. I hope Owen doesn’t regret asking me out.

I round a corner and stop short when I spot Cole leaning against the wall.

“Anna.”

My heart hurts just to look at him. “Hello, Cole.”

“You said we could get together later. It’s later.” He grins and his face lights up.

Why do I suddenly feel like crying? Then I remember him talking to Mrs. Lindsay and check my emotions. “It’s Friday. You knew I was going out on Friday.”

“There you are,” Owen’s voice comes from behind me. “I thought you’d gotten lost.”

Cole’s eyes sweep past me, his expression still.

Owen nods at Cole. “Hello, old boy. What are you doing here? Are you ready to go cut a rug?”

Cole ignores Owen and gives me a slight bow with his head and moves out of the way. “Please don’t let me keep you.”

“Oh, we won’t,” Owen says cheerfully, taking my elbow and guiding me firmly down the hall.

“Perhaps tomorrow?” I glance back over my shoulder, vacillating between anger and regret, but Cole’s not looking at me.

He’s staring at Owen, his eyes dark with hostility.

My fingers fumble as I fasten the fur stole around my shoulders. Leaving Cole in the hallway feels wrong, but I don’t know what he expected, showing up unannounced, not to mention hobnobbing with someone who is clearly out to get me.

Owen claps a black felt fedora on his head and shrugs into his wool overcoat. He looks spiffy in his tight double-breasted jacket and baggy trousers. I wonder what Cole would wear dancing—or if he even goes dancing.

“Your mother is something else.” Owen laughs, opening the door for me.

“What did she say?” I ask, once out of the theater.

He shakes his head. “She told me I was to show you the best time of your life but that you had a show tomorrow so I’d better bring you back in one piece.”

He holds the door open for me and I get in the car. It’s so cold I can see my breath by the light of the streetlamp. Owen trots around the front of the car and jumps in. “Are you ready for a good time, doll?”

I smile. “Only if you stop calling me doll. I am not, nor have I ever been, a doll.”

“Would cupcake work better?” He grins to show he’s teasing.

“How about just Anna?”

“Of course. So are you ready to have the time of your life, Just Anna?”

I laugh, a weight lifting off my chest. Maybe Owen’s got the right idea. Why should life be serious all the time?

The minute we walk into the Cotton Club, I realize that Owen is right about something else, too—this is definitely the place to have a good time. The air is thick and smoky, the music brassy and insistent. Owen leads me around the perimeter of a horseshoe-shaped room, past throngs of tables and clusters of fake palm trees. My head swivels right and left as I take in the women in their brightly colored dresses, wraps, and headgear. Some of the hats are truly marvelous, concoctions of feathers and beads so bright it almost hurts to look at them.

Owen takes me to a long table where six or seven other people are already crowded in. The boys greet him effusively, while several of the girls cast me curious, if not exactly friendly, glances.

“This is Anna, the girl I was telling you about,” Owen shouts as we squeeze into a couple of empty chairs that have materialized out of nowhere. “Anna, this is everyone.”

I give a quick smile. A drink appears in front of me as if by magic and one of the women offers me a cigarette. I take it, though I don’t usually smoke. But I feel silly not doing it when everyone else at the table is.

The girl next to me gives me a light and I suck on the end, choking as the harsh smoke hits my lungs. I take a sip of the drink in front of me and choke again as the liquid burns its way to my stomach.

One of the girls next to me laughs. “The hooch they serve here takes some getting used to.” She holds out her hand. “My name’s Addy. That there is Prissy, Ella, and Maryann.”

I shake her hand and wave at the others, dazzling in their glittering dresses and tight, fitted hats. All have bobs like mine with curls pasted in front of their ears.

“It’s hard to believe that Prohibition exists here,” I yell above the music.

“That’s the whole point!” Prissy says. “It doesn’t exist here.” The others laugh as if this was the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.

“How can they get away with this? Why don’t the cops shut them down?”

The girls laugh even harder.

“See that fat man over there?” Addy points.

I follow her finger until I spot a chubby man next to an equally chubby woman wearing a headband with a cluster of black feathers sticking out of it. They’re sitting with a dark-haired man and a stunning little blonde in a beaded black net evening gown. I nod.