The Diviners (43 page)

“Ask me how much money we made today.” Evie beamed at Sam and Jericho. It was five fifty, and the last person had been pushed out only ten minutes earlier.

“How much?”

“Enough to pay the light bill and still have enough left over for a cup of tea. Well, hot water.”

“Good work, you,” Sam said.

“Good work, all of us,” Evie corrected.

The
thud
of the brass knocker echoed in the empty museum. Evie glanced at the clock. “It’s nearly closing time. Go away,” she said on an exhausted sigh.

“Want me to get rid of ’em?” Sam said.

“No, I’ll do it. Jericho, keep an eye on Sam near the till,” Evie teased with a wink.

Just outside, Memphis stood on the front steps of the museum, staring at the massive oak doors. Ever since Sister Walker had mentioned the story of the Diviners and Cornelius Rathbone’s sister, Liberty Anne, he’d wondered about the place. He’d wondered if this Dr. Fitzgerald might be able to shed some light on both the business with Isaiah and the strange symbol from his own dreams. Now, though, he wasn’t sure that he should have come after all. He didn’t even know these people. What could he say that wouldn’t make him sound like a fool? And how did he know if he could trust them? For all he knew, the museum wasn’t even open to black folks.
Acting like you haven’t got a lick of sense
, Memphis chided himself, as if Aunt Octavia were nearby. He was about to turn and walk back to the subway when the massive oak doors opened and a small, doll-like white girl with blond curls and big blue eyes leaned against the door frame.

“I’m afraid the museum is closing in another ten minutes,” she said apologetically.

“Oh, I see. I’ll come back another day, then. Sorry to have bothered you.” Memphis cursed the waste of a subway fare.

“Ah, gee. Come on in. But I warn you, it’s been a long day, and I may have to take my shoes off.”

Memphis followed her into the grand, dark mansion with its wood-paneled walls and stained-glass windows. It was more like a cathedral than an old house.

“Evie O’Neill, at your service.”

“Memphis Campbell.”

“Well, Mr. Campbell, seeing as we’ve only got ten minutes, I could give you a quick peek-a-loo at the collections room, though you may have to specialize. Pick your poison—witches, ghosts, or voodoo priests?”

Memphis opened his knapsack and removed his notebook. “To tell you the truth, Miss, I read about you in the papers, and I was wondering if you might be able to tell me what this symbol means?” Memphis showed her the drawing of the eye and lightning bolt.

Evie studied it. She shook her head. “I haven’t the foggiest. I’m awfully sorry, but if you’d like to come back another day, you could look through our library and see if you can find it.”

“Thank you. I’ll do just that,” Memphis said. He was frustrated that he still had no answers. He was almost to the door when he turned back.

“Was there something else, Mr. Campbell?” Evie asked him.

“Yes. Um, no. That is, I feel a little funny asking. You see, there’s this old house up north of where I live. It’s just an old wreck of a joint, though I hear it used to be a real showplace.”

The girl was smiling at him in a patient way, like one might with a feeble-minded grandmother, and Memphis was once again struck by how ridiculous this whole enterprise was. Still, he was compelled to tell somebody, even if it was nothing more than his imagination at work and he looked like a fool for worrying about it. He fidgeted with the buckle on his knapsack.

“You see, sometimes I go up there and, well… there’s something funny about that old house lately. It almost seems lived in, and, well…”
You sound like a madman, Memphis.
“I was just wondering if you might have any books on Knowles’ End or know anything about it. It’s just an old wreck, so—”

“What did you say?” The girl’s eyes were wide.

“I said it’s a wreck….”

“Before that. Did you say Knowles’ End?”

“That’s the name of the house. Or it was a long time ago. Nothing but spiders and rotting boards now.”

She was looking at Memphis in a way that made him very uncomfortable. He saw that her hands were shaking. “Would you mind waiting here, Mr. Campbell? I won’t be a bootlegger’s second.”

Evie O’Neill hurried down the hall, her heels click-clacking against the dingy marble floors. As Memphis stood in the empty foyer, holding tightly to his hat, it dawned on him: What if she thought he was the Pentacle Killer?

Memphis didn’t wait for Evie to return. He slipped out the front doors and ran for blocks, slowing only when he realized that he was drawing odd looks from the white people on the street. He forced himself into a stroll, employing the charm of his smile as he walked, as if he didn’t have a care in the world even though his heart was racing. Still smiling broadly, Memphis turned a corner and walked smack into a girl. He caught her as she stumbled. “I beg your pardon, Miss!”

“Go on, beg,” the girl said in a familiar smoky voice.

Memphis grinned. His heart was racing again, but this time, it was with pure joy. “Well, if it isn’t the Creole Princess!”

“We gotta stop meeting like this, Poet,” Theta said.

Back at the museum, Evie returned with Will, Sam, and Jericho in tow to find an empty foyer and no sign of Memphis Campbell anywhere on the street.

“He was right here!” Evie said on a long exhale. “And, Unc, he was talking about Knowles’ End! Don’t you think that’s peculiar?”

“Are you sure he wasn’t a reporter?” Will asked.

“I suppose he could’ve been,” Evie allowed. “But he seemed very sincere. He was asking about a symbol—an eye with… oh, here. I’ll draw it for you.”

Evie sketched the eye and lightning bolt and held it up for Will. Sam sidled up close to Evie and said, “He was asking about this symbol?”

“What did you say his name was?” Will asked.

“Memphis. Memphis Campbell,” Evie replied.

“You know what that symbol means, Professor?” Sam asked. He was looking at the drawing of the eye with keen interest.

Will glanced briefly at the page. “Never seen it before. Now please don’t disturb me. I’ve work to do.” He turned on his heel and left them standing in the foyer.

Memphis and Theta sat in Mr. Reggie’s drugstore in Harlem with a couple of egg creams, talking and talking. Theta felt like she hadn’t talked this much since she first met Henry. She made Memphis laugh with her stories of the petty antics of the showbiz folks, and Memphis told her about playing the numbers and picking gigs, and about how irritating Isaiah could be, but Theta could tell he loved his brother fiercely. They talked so long that they both lost track of time. Theta had missed her call for the show, which she shrugged off.

“I’ll tell them there was a subway fire,” she said.

“You sure you don’t want something else? A sandwich, or some soup?” Memphis asked.

“For the last time, I’m jake,” Theta said. She was aware that everyone in the joint was watching them. The minute she looked
up and caught their eyes, they’d look away quickly, busying themselves with their silverware or pretending to be reading a newspaper.

There were so many things he still wanted to ask her. Where was she from? Did she still dream of the eye? Had she thought of him at all since the night of the raid? Had she, too, lain awake, staring at the ceiling, picturing his face as he had hers?

“A Ziegfeld girl, huh?” was all he said.

“I heard the position of poet was already taken,” Theta joked. “Speaking of poetry, have you read
The Weary Blues
by Langston Hughes?”

“ ‘And far into the night he crooned that tune,’ ” Memphis quoted, grinning madly.

“ ‘The stars went out and so did the moon,’ ” Theta finished. “I never read anything so beautiful before.”

“Me, either.”

The rest of the drugstore seemed to fall away—the
clink
of dishes in the back, the bright
brrring
of the cash register, the low drone of people talking—and there was only Memphis and Theta and the moment. Theta’s hand slid just slightly toward Memphis’s. He inched his forward, too, just grazing the tips of her fingers with his.

“There’s a rent party this Saturday night at my friend Alma’s place, if you’d like to come,” he said.

“I’d like that,” Theta answered.

The drugstore seemed to swirl once more into noisy life. An older man walked past and frowned at them, and Theta and Memphis pulled their hands back and were quiet.

Evie and Jericho were having a late lunch in the Bennington’s dowdy dining room. Jericho was talking, but Evie was lost in her own thoughts. Her chin balanced on one fist, she stared, unseeing, at her coffee, which she had been stirring mindlessly for a good ten minutes.

“So I shot the man in the back,” Jericho said, testing Evie’s attention.

“Interesting,” Evie said without looking up.

“And then I took his head, which I keep under my bed.”

“Of course,” Evie muttered.

“Evie. Evie!”

Evie looked up and smiled weakly. “Yes?”

“You’re not listening.”

“Oh, I pos-i-tute-ly am, Jericho!”

“What did I just say?”

Evie gave him a blank stare. “Well, whatever it was, I’m sure it was very, very smart.”

“I just said I shot a man in the back and took his head.”

“I’m sure he deserved it. Oh, Jericho, I’m sorry. I can’t help thinking there’s a connection between this John Hobbes fellow and our murders.”

“But why?”

Evie couldn’t tell him about the song, and without that, there really wasn’t much to go on. “Don’t you think it’s interesting that there were some unsolved murders fifty years ago that were similar in nature?”

“Interesting but remote. But if you want to know about them, we could go back to the library….”

Evie groaned. “Please don’t make me go back there. I’ll be good.”

Jericho gave her the slightest hint of a smile. “The library is your friend, Evie.”

“The library may be
your
friend, Jericho, but it pos-i-tute-ly despises me.”

“You just have to know how to use it.” Jericho played with his fork. He cleared his throat. “I could show you how to do that sometime.”

Evie sat fully upright. “Jericho!” she said, grinning.

Jericho smiled back. “It would be no trouble. We could even go—”

“I know someone who could find out about the old murders for us!”

“Who?” Jericho asked. He hoped she couldn’t sense his disappointment.

“Someone who owes me a favor.”

Evie ran to the Bennington’s telephone box and shut the beveled glass door behind her. “Algonquin four, five, seven, two, please,” she said into the receiver and waited for the operator to work her magic.

“T. S. Woodhouse,
Daily News
.”

“Mr. Woodhouse, it’s Evie O’Neill. I’m calling in that favor you promised.”

“Shoot.”

“Can you dig up some information on an unsolved murder in Manhattan in the summer of 1875?”

She heard the reporter chuckle on the other end. “You got a history test, Sheba?”