The Diviners (24 page)

“Suddenly, I found myself in Penn Station….” Evie paused. “And the most terrible thing happened next.”

“What’s that, doll?” Sam purred.

“Some absolute louse stole my twenty dollars.” She pushed hard against Sam’s chest. He nearly toppled backward but righted himself at the last minute.

Sam smirked. “Well, that’s a fine thank-you to the fella who just got you a spiffy wash for the ball.”

Evie gave him a little bow.

“I just came back to tell you that we’ve got a real live paying customer in the joint who wants a tour.”

“Send Jericho,” Evie said, stretching.

“This fella asked for your uncle, but I told him you were in charge, Your Highness.” Sam returned the bow.

Evie replied with an eye-roll. “Do you think you can manage to not steal anything while I’m gone?”

“The only thing I’m trying to steal is your heart, doll.” Sam smirked.

“You’re not that talented a thief, Sam Lloyd.”

Evie arrived in the foyer to find a young man in a rumpled suit standing by the front doors, twirling his hat in his hands. A notebook peeked out of his breast pocket.

“Can I help you?” Evie said, giving her friendliest smile.

The man stopped twirling his hat and stuck out his hand like a salesman. “How do you do? Harry Snyder. I’m visiting from Wisconsin. Heard about your museum and just
had
to take a look for myself. I can’t wait to tell the folks back home all about it.”

If Harry Snyder was from Wisconsin, Evie would eat her hat. If his name was Harry Snyder, she’d eat a second hat.

“Welcome to the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult, Mr. Snyder,” Evie said, stretching out his last name. “Right this way, please.”

Evie led the man from room to room, explaining the various objects, giving the historical spiel she’d heard from Will numerous times and adding a few of her own flourishes. All the while the man took notes in his notepad and looked around as if he expected some spirit to manifest at any moment.

“I hear from a friend that you folks are helping the police with that murder investigation—that Madman in Manhattan business. Sounds awful. Do you have any clues?” he asked. He picked up a rare figurine from the seventeenth century as if it were a saltshaker.

Evie took it from his hands and placed it back on the table.

“Has your uncle told you anything about it? Is the killer really carrying out a diabolical occult ritual? What’s his angle?”

“I’m afraid I’m sworn to secrecy under the orders of Detective Malloy.”

The man moved closer. “I couldn’t help noticing that the good Officer Malloy isn’t here. Say, what did the killer do with that poor girl’s peepers? Somebody said he mailed ’em to the police with a note. That true?”

Evie narrowed her eyes. “Who are you really?”

“Harry Snyder, from—”

“Dry up!” Evie snapped.

The man grinned. He wagged a finger at her playfully. “You’ve got me.” He pumped her hand in a firm shake. “I’m T. S. Woodhouse, reporter for the
Daily News
? I’ve been trying to get your uncle to comment on the case for us, but he’s tighter with a quote than Calvin Coolidge. But, ah, maybe I’ve been barking up the wrong family member?” T. S. Woodhouse’s pencil hovered expectantly above his notepad.

“I’m glad I took your money up front, Mr. Woodhouse. I’ll show you the way out.” She marched toward the door, her heels clicking on the marble. Mr. Woodhouse ran alongside her.

“Call me T.S., please. Come on, wouldn’t you like to see your name in the papers? Show all your friends back home? We could even put your picture in, pretty girl like you. Why, you’d be the toast of Manhattan.”

Evie paused. With all the work they were doing, why shouldn’t they get the credit and the reward? Why shouldn’t they be famous for it? Still, if Uncle Will found out, he’d be furious. She’d already promised she wouldn’t get into any more trouble. This was courting trouble for sure.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Woodhouse. I can’t.”

T. S. Woodhouse cradled his hat to his chest. “Listen, I’m going to level with you, Miss O’Neill. I need this story. This could be my ticket to the big time. Did you ever want something that badly?”

T. S. Woodhouse reminded Evie of an overgrown, wayward
schoolboy. He was tall and skinny, full of a palpable coiled energy; his face was sharp-planed but freckled, and beneath his mop of unruly brown hair and straight brows, his narrow blue eyes seemed to be constantly observing, recording. But there was a determination in those eyes that Evie understood all too well.

“That isn’t my concern.”

“It could be.” Those blue eyes focused directly on her. “What do you want? Name it. You want to be written up in all the gossip pages? You want column inches saying that millionaires are fighting to marry you? I can make that happen.”

“You can’t even make this story happen, Mr. Woodhouse. How will you help me?”

“I hit it big with this story, give the
Daily News
some exclusive dope, I’ll be in a position to give you what you need. A favor for a favor. On the level—a square deal.”

He stuck out his hand again. Evie ignored it.

“Pretty quiet around here,” Mr. Woodhouse said, and there was no mistaking the implication.

“It’s just an afternoon lull.”

T. S. Woodhouse reshaped his hat as if doing so were his only concern. “From what I hear, there’s a lot of lull time. In fact, I hear the city might shut this place down come spring. Unless, of course, it starts turning a profit.”

Evie bit her lip, thinking it over. She’d been wondering how they could make the museum a big deal, and now the opportunity had just fallen into her lap. Will was a genius, but he wasn’t much of a businessman. It was clear that if someone was going to save the joint, it was going to have to be Evie. She’d help the museum—and if she helped herself along the way, well, what was the matter with that?

“
I’ll
make a deal with
you
, Mr. Woodhouse. We need bodies in
this joint. I’ll tell you what I know—as an anonymous source—and you keep writing about how swell the museum is, how everybody who’s anybody comes here. Of course, you can mention that Uncle Will is being helped in the investigation of these heinous murders by his niece, Miss Evie O’Neill. And if my picture just happened to make it into the papers, too, well, I couldn’t help that, could I?”

“No. Of course not.” Mr. Woodhouse smiled broadly and dropped his hat onto the back of his head. “It’s a known fact that newspapers sell better when pretty girls grace their pages.”

“We have a deal, then?”

“We have a deal.” They shook on it. T. S. Woodhouse’s pencil hovered over his notepad once again. “Ready when you are. We know the killer leaves occult symbols. What are they?”

“It’s a pentacle surrounded by a snake that’s eating its tail. The killer brands it onto their bodies. And he leaves religious notes. Unc thinks it might have to do with the Book of Revelation.”

T. S. Woodhouse’s pencil scribbled across the notepad. “That’s good. Revelations Killer! I like it.”

“We don’t know if that’s true yet….”

“Doesn’t matter.” T. S. Woodhouse’s expression was all grim determination. “I’m the press. I’ll make it true. What else?”

“That’s all for now. I’ll expect that story, Mr. Woodhouse.”

T. S. Woodhouse stuck his pencil behind his ear, shoved the notepad into his suit pocket, and pumped Evie’s hand again. “You’ve been swell, Evie. Don’t worry—I always keep my promises.”

Evie hoped that was true. If Will couldn’t make the museum into a destination, perhaps she could. And if she wanted to stay in Manhattan when her three months were up, she needed to start making a place and a name for herself now. Having a friend like T. S. Woodhouse could be very helpful.

Henry woke from his dream with a gasp. He’d gone in with the hope of finding Louis. Instead, he’d seen Evie—and she had clearly seen him. That was odd, and Henry knew from odd. He’d been walking in dreams for two years now, and that had never happened.

Henry went to the cracked washstand. He slapped water on his face from the bowl and smoothed his hair back with his wet hands. Then he put the old straw boater back on his head and stared at his pale reflection in the mirror. He rested his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes.

“Louis, where are you?” he asked the empty room, not expecting an answer.

“Sister,” Memphis said quietly. “Could I ask you something? Privately?”

“You talking about me?” Isaiah piped up from Sister Walker’s dining room table, where he was adding sums now that his work
with Sister Walker and the cards was finished for the day. Memphis was always amazed by his little brother’s talent for picking up on just which conversations were none of his business.

“Now, why would I be talking about you? Sister and I have more important things to talk about.”

Isaiah scowled. “I am too important!”

“Yes, you are,” Sister Walker assured him. “Why don’t you help yourself to another piece of candy, Isaiah? Memphis, let’s step out to the kitchen.”

Memphis followed Sister Walker to the back of the railroad flat into a small, cheerful kitchen with flowered curtains framing a window that looked out into a common courtyard strung with laundry. She offered him a cookie as she took a seat across from him at the table. Memphis nibbled at the cookie. Sister wasn’t much of a baker; her cookies were always too dry and not sweet enough, but he took them out of politeness.

“Something on your mind, Memphis?”

“I’m worried about Isaiah.”

“Has something happened?”

Memphis wasn’t sure how much he should say. What if Sister Walker didn’t want to work with Isaiah anymore? Isaiah would be crushed. Still, if something wasn’t right, he needed to let somebody know, and he certainly couldn’t tell Octavia.

“He’s been waking up in the night. It’s like he’s in a trance. And he’s saying strange things.”

Sister Walker’s brow furrowed. “What sorts of things?”

“ ‘I am the Beast. The Dragon of Old.’ And something that sounded like scripture, but nothing I was familiar with.”

“ ‘I am the Beast, the Dragon of Old,’ ” Sister Walker repeated. “That’s from Revelation, if I recall my Sunday school. I don’t like to cast aspersions, but might it be Octavia?” she offered kindly.

Memphis frowned. It would be just like Octavia to scare Isaiah with visions of God’s judgment.

“He said something else curious. Just one word over and over:
Diviners
.”

The warmth went out of Sister Walker’s face and Memphis was afraid he’d said something wrong.

“What is it? Is it something bad?”

“I haven’t heard that word used in a long time,” she said, and Memphis thought she sounded a bit sad. “It’s a name for people with rare gifts.”

“Gifts like Isaiah’s?”

Sister Walker gave a small shrug. “It depends on what you believe, I suppose. But yes, some people would call Isaiah a Diviner.”

Memphis broke the cookie into smaller bits. “But where would he hear that?”

“Children hear all sorts of things, I suppose.” Sister Walker swirled the ice in her glass of water ever so slowly. “The name comes from the accounts of a seer from the eighteen hundreds, Liberty Anne Rathbone. Just a girl, really. Her brother, Cornelius, built a big mansion over near Central Park. Now it’s the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult. Some folks call it the Museum of the Creepy Crawlies.”

“Oh. I’ve heard of it. But why would Isaiah know about these Diviners?”

Sister Walker stepped into the other room and returned with the day’s newspaper, which she spread out on the table. “The murders. The man who runs the museum, Dr. Fitzgerald, is helping the police try to find the killer. I’ll bet Isaiah heard people talking about it. Probably terrified him, too, and he took that right into his sleep. It’s not uncommon for children to sleepwalk or talk in their sleep when they’re frightened by something during the day.
And Isaiah’s gifts make him even more sensitive. He’s almost like a radio, picking up signals from everywhere.”

There had been a lot of talk in the neighborhood about the killings, and even Aunt Octavia had brought it up. Memphis wanted to believe that was the case, but what Isaiah had said was so oddly specific, and the way he went trancelike… it was unsettling. But he’d already taken up too much of Sister Walker’s time and he didn’t want to bother her with vague notions of things not being right.