The Diviners (39 page)

They came out blinking into the hazy light of Twenty-third Street and were rushed by a wave of reporters shouting over one another. A flashlamp went off and Evie blinked away the bright dots dancing in the air.

“Vultures!” Malloy grumbled. “Get away from here!”

T. S. Woodhouse ran forward, notebook and pencil in hand. His unruly brown hair had clearly been oiled back that morning,
but now a long chunk of it hung over his left eye like a veil. Evie hoped he wouldn’t blow her cover.

“Excuse me! Gentlemen, T. S. Woodhouse, with the
Daily News
. I hear you’ve got another stiff in there. And this one isn’t some marathon dancer from Brooklyn or a kid from the West Side.”

“Get lost, Woody,” Malloy growled.

The insult didn’t seem to make a dent in Mr. Woodhouse. He glanced at Evie, then turned to Will. “What’s your bead on this, Professor? Must be pretty bad for them to pull in a civilian. Is it a gangland war? A mob beef? Anarchists? Reds? The Wobblies?” Woodhouse smiled. “The bogeyman?”

“It might be a reporter!” Malloy taunted. “Why don’t ya write that down, Woody. Give us a reason to ship you boys out to Russia.”

“Freedom of the press, Detective.”

“Freedom of the jackals, more like. The way you boys play fast and loose with the facts, we’ll all be reading stories that are as reliable as my grandfather’s fish tales.”

“Anarchists mean to abolish the state,” Will said, as if still taking part in the previous conversation. “They want to cause the most chaos, to upend order. This is methodical. Planned out.”

The reporter’s pencil scratched across the page. “So the bogeyman, then?”

“Pal, aren’t you a little young to be on this beat?” Malloy again.

“Time to get rid of some of these old windbags writing careful little stories, Detective. Bring in the new blood, I say. It’s a modern world. People need some excitement in their news. A little zip. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss O’Neill?”

Evie didn’t answer.

“Best of luck,” Malloy said.

“I don’t believe in luck. I believe in opportunity. You and me,
Professor, we could work together on this one. Put the killer on the ropes. Whaddya say?”

Uncle Will squared his hat and marched toward Sixth Avenue. T.S. sidled up to Evie and tipped his hat. “That must’ve been some awful scene in there. You poor thing, you’re trembling. Let me help you. Excuse me, excuse me, folks, coming through.”

T. S. Woodhouse led Evie to a spot behind a police wagon. He opened his jacket to reveal a flask. “You, ah, need a little liquid courage?”

Evie took a swig, and then chased it with a second. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. What you
can
mention is what the scene was like in there.”

Evie filled him in on some of the details, purposely leaving out others.

“You ever need a favor, you just let T.S. know.”

“I’ll remember that, Mr. Woodhouse.”

Evie took one last drink from his flask, then adjusted her scarf. “How do I look?”

T. S. Woodhouse grinned. “Swell, Sheba.”

“Have your shutterbug get me from my left side. It’s my good one. Oh, and we should make this seem unfriendly. You understand.”

T. S. Woodhouse gave a thin-lipped smile. “Purely business.”

“There’s no worse class of human on earth than cold-blooded murderers. Except for reporters,” Evie said loudly as she walked past the human chain of policemen keeping the reporters back. She turned just slightly, holding the pose long enough for the photographer from the
Daily News
to snap her picture. Then, tossing her scarf over one shoulder, she ran toward Will and the waiting car on the corner.

The headache had started. Evie leaned back against the seat
and watched Sixth Avenue fly by from the police car’s windows. Down a side street, several boys played stickball, blissfully unaware. She hoped they’d stay that way for a long time. In the front seat, Officer Malloy scribbled in his notebook. The scratching made her head hurt all the more. She closed her eyes. She wasn’t aware she was whistling the song she’d heard in the Temple until Malloy said, “I haven’t heard that one in a long time.”

Evie sat forward. “Do you know that song? What is it?”

“
Naughty John, Naughty John, does his work with his apron on,
” Malloy sang. “
Cuts your throat and takes your bones, sells ’em off for a coupla stones.
They used to sing it on my block to scare us little ones into behaving. They’d say Naughty John would come and get you if you didn’t behave.”

“Who?”

“Naughty John. John Hobbes. A grave robber, con man, and killer. He kept people’s bones in his house, an old mansion uptown.”

“Do you think he could be behind
these
killings?”

Malloy’s smile was patronizing. “Not likely, Miss O’Neill.”

“Why not?”

Malloy stopped writing and looked her in the eyes. “Because John Hobbes is dead, and has been for nearly half a century.”

Evie followed Will into the museum, talking quickly despite the pounding in her head. “I heard that song with Ruta Badowski’s buckle, and again today with Eugene Meriwether’s ring.”

“Didn’t I specifically ask you not to do that very thing—”

“What if there’s some sort of connection we’ve missed? What if our killer has patterned himself after this Naughty John person?”

“You’re basing your assumption upon a song—”

“A song known to be associated with a murderer!”

“That’s rather a questionable hunch to go on….”

Jericho and Sam watched the scene unfold like a tennis match gone awry.

“What is this about?” Jericho said at the same time that Sam asked Evie, “Why would you touch a dead man’s ring?”

Will and Evie ignored them and continued arguing.

“Would
you
touch a dead man’s ring?” Sam asked Jericho, who shrugged.

“Unc, it’s the only lead we have,” Evie said.

“Very well,” Will said after a pause. “If you feel strongly about it—”

“I do.”

“Then you may do what scholars do when they feel passionately about a subject.”

“What’s that?”

“You may visit the library,” Will said. “The New York Public should have what you need to know about this John Hobbes fellow.”

“I will do just that, then.” Evie hung her hat and scarf on the stuffed bear’s giant paw.

“What we do know is that the killer
is
playing by the Book of the Brethren,” Will said. “The Temple of Solomon: The Freemasons also refer to their lodges as temples, and they consider themselves descendants of King Solomon.”

“We had the right idea, but the wrong joint,” Sam said.

“What’s the next offering?” Sam asked.

Jericho turned to the next page in the Book of the Brethren. “The eighth offering, the Veneration of the Angelic Herald,” Jericho said. He immediately began naming possibilities. “Angels… a church, a priest or nun, someone named Angel or Angelica. A herald—a messenger of some sort… postman, radio announcer, reporter, musician…”

“Reporter,” Evie repeated. She rubbed her temples.

“What’s the matter?” Will asked.

“It’s just a headache.”

“A headache? When did it start?” Will asked.

“It’s nothing but a nuisance. Mother says it’s because I need cheaters—um, eyeglasses, but I’m too vain to wear them. I told her my eyesight’s just fine. Honestly, two aspirin and I’ll be right as rain.”

Jericho fetched Evie two aspirin and a glass of water.

“Unc, why are you looking at me like that?” Evie asked.

Will had been watching her, his brow furrowed. He busied himself with a pointless tidying of his desk. “Take your aspirin,” was all he said.

Memphis was distracted. All day long he replayed his meeting with Theta, the excitement of their narrow escape from the police. The way she’d looked at him when it was clear they’d made it, with gratitude and a little shyness. Memphis had wanted nothing more at that moment than to sweep her up into a romantic kiss. In fact, it was thinking about that kiss that had nearly gotten him in trouble. That morning when he’d gone to Mrs. Jordan’s beauty shop to write their slips, he’d mixed up Mrs. Jordan’s regular gig with Mrs. Robinson’s washerwoman’s gig because his mind was elsewhere.

“Memphis, where is your head?” Mrs. Jordan had tutted good-naturedly, and Memphis had apologized and run their numbers to Floyd’s Barbershop just ahead of the clearinghouse posting.

Papa Charles had called a meeting at the Dee-Luxe Restaurant, one of his own, to discuss the previous night’s disastrous raid. He assured everyone that the situation was minor, a misunderstanding that was already on its way to being worked out, and that the padlock would be off the doors of the Hotsy Totsy very soon. But Memphis could tell that beneath Papa Charles’s elegant
manners and calm speech, he was nervous. He had that tic in his jaw that Memphis had seen a few times before, when he’d had to deal with a drunken, belligerent customer or a hopped-up bootlegger. But still, Memphis’s thoughts were on Theta.

Theta, Theta, Theta. He’d met the girl of his dreams—a girl who had the same dream he did—only to lose her in the crowd. Just as it felt his destiny was shaping up, it was lost again. He didn’t know where she lived, where she was from—he didn’t even know her last name. And that crazy bird was back, dogging his every step.

“Shoo!” Memphis waved his hands at the crow. “Go on, Berenice! Git!”

Now Memphis was late to pick up Isaiah from school. He entered the classroom with apologies, but Isaiah wasn’t having any of it. On the street, his brother’s mood was stormy as he kicked a rock ahead, then chased it into the gutter so he could kick it again. “You were ’posed to be here at three o’clock!”

“I had some business to take care of, Ice Man.”

“What kind of business?”

“My business. Not yours.”

“Next time, I’ma walk myself home.”

“I won’t be late next time.”

“Prolly stepping out with that Creole Princess,” Isaiah grumbled.

Memphis stopped. “Where’d you hear that?”

Isaiah laughed. “Saw it written in your book from last night. Memphis got a gir-rl! Memphis got a gir-rl!”

Memphis grabbed Isaiah’s arm. “You listen here: That notebook is private. It belongs to me. You understand?”

Isaiah’s chin jutted forward. “Leggo my arm!”

“Promise me!”

“Let go!” Isaiah tore away, running ahead on the busy street. He was unpredictable when he was mad, and just as likely to tell Octavia everything as not.

Memphis softened. There was no need to take out his frustration on Isaiah, no matter how annoying he was. He hurried to catch up, saying, “Don’t be mad, Ice Man. Come on. Let’s go over to Mr. Reggie’s for a hamburger. You can sit at the counter, on the stools that turn around. Just don’t turn too much and vomit up your hamburger.”

Isaiah stopped. His nose was running. “I want chocolate.”

“Then you’ll have chocolate,” Memphis promised.

Memphis worried about Isaiah. It was by accident that Sister Walker had discovered Isaiah’s special talents. About six months ago, she’d moved to Harlem and come around to pay a call on Octavia. She said she was an old friend of their mother’s and was saddened to hear that she had passed.

“Viola was a fine woman,” Sister Walker had said.

Octavia had sized her up and found her wanting. “Funny, she never mentioned you to me. And we were close as can be.”

“Well, I expect even sisters keep some secrets,” Sister Walker had answered. That hadn’t sat well with Octavia, Memphis could tell.

But when Miss Walker offered to tutor Isaiah in arithmetic, a subject that gave him trouble, and to do it for free, Octavia relented. One day, while Sister Walker used the cards to teach him multiplication, Isaiah started calling out the cards ahead of time, and Sister asked if there were other things he could do. She said it was a skill that might help Isaiah in the world, and she started pushing him to work at it like it was a subject in school. Memphis didn’t see how Isaiah’s skill was something that could move him up in the world, like wailing on a trumpet the way Gabe did or solving
mathematical equations like Mrs. Ward up at school could do. And if Octavia ever found out what really went on at Sister Walker’s house, she’d pitch a fit the likes of which they’d never seen. But it mattered to Isaiah. It made him feel special and happy like before, when their mama was alive and playing hide-and-seek with them while hanging the laundry from the clothesline in the garden they’d shared with the Touissants in the house on 145th Street. Memphis could still hear his mother’s laugh as she’d say, “All right, now. Let’s see if you two are as good at putting away these sheets as you are at hiding yourselves in them.”

Those had been good times, their father coming home from his job with the Gerard Lockhart Orchestra with a jovial, “Well, well, well, what have the Campbell brothers been up to today?” Memphis missed the smell of his father’s pipe in the front parlor. Sometimes he’d walk in front of the tobacco shop on Lenox Avenue just to light the memory of it in his mind.