Usher's Passing (42 page)

"Go ahead," Rix replied.

"Good. It starts in the summer of 1858. Ludlow was about four weeks old. Aram was in Washington on business. If he'd been home, things might've taken a different turn. Anyway, a gentleman caller came to the Lodge. He waited downstairs while a servant took his calling card up to Cynthia's bedroom . . ."

The smoke swirled around Wheeler Dunstan's head as he spoke. Rix listened intently, and imagined that in the blue whorls of smoke were faces—the ghosts of the past, gathering around them in the room. The smoke formed pictures; the Lodge on a sunny summer's day, light streaming through the windows and across the hardwood floors. A lovely, strong-featured woman in bed, with an infant suckling at her breast. And a card in her trembling hand that gave the name of Randolph Tigré.

"Send him away," Cynthia Usher told her maid, a strapping young black woman named Righteous Jordan. "I'm occupied with my son."

"I told him you wasn't gonna see him, ma'am," she said; Righteous stood almost six feet tall and had a stomach as wide as a barrel. "Told him right to his face, but he say it don't matter, that I was to give you his card."

"You have. Now go back downstairs and tell him to—"

"Good morning, Mrs. Usher." It was a soft, silken voice that raised goosebumps on Cynthia's arms. Righteous whirled around indignantly. Randolph Tigré, wearing a natty tan suit and carrying a thin riding crop, was leaning casually in the doorway. His teeth gleamed in his handsome, coffee-and-cream-colored face.

"Lord God!" Righteous tried to block the man's view. "Don't you have no decency?"

"I don't like waiting, so I followed you up here. Mrs. Usher and I are old . . . acquaintances. You can leave us now."

Righteous's cheeks swelled at such impertinence. It was bad enough that this man had talked his way through the front gate—but for him to be standing there while Mrs. Usher was feeding her little baby was downright scandalous. He was smiling like a cat, and Righteous's first impulse was to pick him up and heave him down the stairs. What stopped her from doing so was the fact that he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen; the large topaz stickpin in the center of his black cravat was the exact color of his keen, deepset eyes, and he had a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. The creamy hue of his flesh made Righteous appear, by contrast, to have recently bathed in India ink. He wore tan calfskin gloves, and English riding boots polished to a high, warm luster. To be a free man of color was one thing, Righteous thought, but for him to flaunt himself openly in these troubled times was begging for a beating. "Get yourself out of here while Mrs. Usher arranges herself!" Righteous snapped protectively.

Cynthia had laid the infant down on a silk-brocaded pillow, and now she calmly buttoned her gown to the throat.

"I'm not the coalstove stoker, Missy," Tigré said. His eyes had flashed like warning beacons, and there was a shade of menace in his voice. "Don't use that tone with me. Tell her, Mrs. Usher. We're old friends, aren't we?"

"It's all right," Cynthia said. Righteous looked at her incredulously. "Mr. Tigré and I . . . know each other. You can leave us alone now."

"Ma'am? Leave you alone up
here
? In your bedchamber?"

"Yes. But I want you to return in a quarter of an hour . . . to escort Mr. Tigré out of the Lodge. Run on, now."

The black woman snorted and stormed out. Randolph Tigré stepped aside as she passed, and gave a hint of a bow. Then he closed the door and turned toward Cynthia Usher with a cool, insolent smile. "Hello, Cindy," he said softly. "You look breathtaking."

"What the
hell
are you doing here? Are you insane?"

"Now, now, that's not proper language for a lady of leisure, is it?" He strolled around the sumptuous bedroom, his hands exploring the textures of blue velvet, carved mahogany, and Belgian lace. He lifted a jade vase from her dressing table and examined the intricate workmanship. "Exquisite," he murmured. "You're a woman of your word, Cindy. You always vowed you'd own exquisite things someday—and now look at you, mistress of Usherland."

"My husband will be returning shortly. I advise you to—"

Tigré laughed quietly. "No, Cindy. Mr. Aram Usher left for Washington by train yesterday morning. I followed his coach to the station. He's a nice-looking man. But then . . . your head was always turned by a wide pair of shoulders and a tight pair of trousers, wasn't it?" He plucked a hand-painted Japanese fan from its ceramic stand and stretched it open, admiring the colors. "You've struck it rich again, haven't you? First Alexander Cordweiler—and now Aram Usher." Tigré nodded toward the gurgling infant.
"His,
I assume?"

"You must be out of your mind to set foot on this estate!"

"In fact, I've never been more sane. Don't I look fine?" He showed her his matching topaz cufflinks, and produced a gold pocket watch studded with diamonds. "I was always lucky at cards. The gaming boats that run from New Orleans to St. Louis are packed with sheep who bleat to be sheared. I'm happy to oblige them. Of course . . . sometimes my luck needs a helping hand." He opened his waistcoat and patted the small pistol he carried in a leather holster. "Your husband produces fine guns."

"Either state your business, or get out of my house." Her voice shook and she was speared with shame.

Tigré walked over to the far side of the room, peering out the windows upon the lake. "I have a present for you," he said. He turned and flipped something—a silver coin, sparkling in the sunlight that spilled through the window—onto the bed. It landed at her side. Cynthia reached for it—but her hand froze in midair. Her fingers slowly curled into a fist.

"It's a reminder of the good old days, Cindy. I thought seeing it would please you."

She had recognized the object. How he'd gotten one of them, she didn't know, but her business-honed mind rapidly grasped the situation: the little silver coin could destroy her life.

Tigré came to the foot of the bed. She caught the odors of his pungent cologne and minty brilliantine—old, familiar aromas that, to her horror, made her heart beat faster. She pulled her knees protectively to her chest under the sheet.

"You've missed me, haven't you?" he asked. "Yes. I can tell. I could always read your eyes. That's why we were such a good team. You would entertain the customers with your stories and laughter—and then the judgment of God would fall on their heads. I never missed once with that hammer, did I? But they died happy, Cindy; you needn't fear the fires of hell."

The baby began crying. Cynthia held Ludlow close. "That was a long time ago. I'm not the same woman."

"Of course not. How many millions did you inherit from Cordweiler? Ten? Twenty? Your riverboats are comfortable, I'll say that. I play my best games of poker on the
Bayou Moon."
Slowly his smile began to fade. A thin sneer replaced it, and Tigré played his fingers over the leather riding crop. "You never answered my letters. I began to have the feeling you didn't want to see me again. After all,
I
introduced you to Cordweiler . . . or have you forgotten? Tell me something—how did you do it? Rat poison in his cake? Arsenic in his coffee?"

She stared icily at him. Ludlow strained at her bosom.

"No matter," he said, with a curt wave of his hand. "However it was done, you covered your tracks well. Which brings me to another question: When are you going to murder Aram Usher?"

"Get out," she whispered. "Get out of here before I call for the police!"

"Will you? I don't think so. We're the same, deep inside. But hammers aren't your style—yours is the slick word and the wet kiss. I'm tired of waiting for my just due, Cindy." He nodded impatiently toward the infant. "He's hungry. Why don't you take out your tit and feed him?"

She didn't respond. Tigré leaned against the bed's scrolled walnut cornerpost. "I've come to be fed, too. At the first of every month, you're to deliver ten thousand dollars in an envelope to the Andrew Jackson Suite of the Crockett Hotel in Asheville."

"You're insane! I don't have that kind of cash!"

"No?" Tigré reached into his pocket. With a flip of his hand he filled the air with shining silver coins. Cynthia flinched as they fell around her, striking her on the face, hitting the bed and the infant's crib, clattering on the floor. "I have a boxful of those. Ten thousand dollars, every month. I'll even show you how reasonable I can be; this month I'll only expect five thousand dollars.
And
that handsome cane your husband carries with him."

"That's an heirloom! He even sleeps with it! It would be impossible to—"

"Hush," Tigré; said gently. "I want that cane. I admired it yesterday at the train station. Get it away from him, I don't care how. Fuck him senseless—you were always adept at that." He glared at the crying infant. "Can't you shut him up?"

"I won't be blackmailed," Cynthia vowed defiantly. "You don't know who you're talking to: I'm Cynthia Cordweiler
Usher!
My husband loves me, and I love him. He won't listen to your filth!"

Tigré leaned forward, his golden eyes bestial with barely controlled rage. "You forget—
I
know where the bodies are buried. The Chicago police might like to learn who and what you really are. Aram Usher's a smart man; he'll dump you in the gutter if he even thinks . . . Damn it to hell!" He suddenly darted around the crib and snatched the crying child from Cynthia's arms. She grasped for the baby, but Tigré laughed and quickly stepped backward. He slid his hand around Ludlow's neck.

"Little tit-sucking bastard," he breathed, his eyes wild with fury. Cynthia had seen him like this before, and she didn't dare make a sound. "If you were mine, I'd wring your neck and throw you out that damned window! Go on, scream for your mother!
Scream!"

"Give him to me." She was desperately trying to remain calm. Her voice cracked, and her arms trembled as she reached for her child.

Tigré thrust his grinning face toward the infant's. "You'll remember me long after I'm gone, won't you? That's good. I like to leave my mark." He held the child over Cynthia's arms and dropped him like a sack of laundry. As she caught him, Tigré reached forward and ripped her gown open. Buttons flew.

Both of Cynthia's breasts were exposed. She clutched the child to her, and he began to suckle.

"Mrs. Usher?" Righteous called from beyond the door. "You all right, ma'am?"

Tigré laid his riding crop against her cheek.

"Yes," she said in a whisper. Then, louder "Yes! I'm . . . I'm fine. Mr. Tigré is just leaving."

"You remember what I said. Five thousand dollars and the cane. From then on, ten thousand a month." He traced her cheekbone with the crop. "You have a lovely complexion, Cindy. You always were a beauty. Perhaps you'll visit me at the Crockett Hotel yourself?"

"Get out!" she hissed.

"I'll be waiting for your first payment," he told her, withdrawing toward the door. He stopped to smile and bow gracefully, and then he left the room.

Quickly, Cynthia set Ludlow aside and began to gather up the coins. She stuffed them hastily into the pillowcase to dispose of later.

A week afterward, Aram's cane disappeared from the parlor. Servants scurried through the Lodge in search of it. Cynthia surmised that one of the servants had stolen and sold it. Aram spent long hours locked in his room, disconsolate, after firing half of the staff. Cynthia stayed to herself, spending most of her time with the infant, who slept in the fur-trimmed crib beside her bed.

Less than three months later, a shriek from Cynthia in the middle of the night brought Aram running from his chamber down the corridor. He burst in to find her strangling his son; Ludlow's face was blue in the lamplight, and his small body writhed as he fought for breath. He tore her away from him, but she screamed, "He's choking!" and Aram realized something was caught in the baby's throat.

He wrenched Ludlow's mouth open and dug in with his fingers. "Help him!" Cynthia begged frantically. Aram picked the child up and held him by the heels, trying to shake the object loose. Ludlow's throat was still blocked. Cynthia grasped the bellcord and began tugging at it, summoning servants from a lower floor. The bells of alarm echoed through the halls, an eerie chorus of disaster.