A Beautiful Poison

“This wasn’t so harmless, Birdie. You should have seen her eyes. You should have seen her face. There is dislike, and there is absolute hatred. I thought to myself, if she could, Florence would push any one of you off a cliff and not regret it one bit. I thought that I should keep a close eye on her. So when she died, I couldn’t help but think—someone wanted her dead because of how vicious her feelings were. Someone who wanted to protect one or more of the three of you.”

“Likely we weren’t the only ones she spoke ill about. There was a whole party of people.”

“True. I was with her for only a few minutes last night, after all.”

“You know, I had no idea she felt this way. After all, the three of us haven’t been an ‘us’ for years.”

“Doesn’t matter. You have that effect on people. Look at poor Ernie! He worships all of you. Like a dog.”

“Yes, poor boy. He needs a wife!” she joked, then sobered.

“He was the one who was fetching her champagne all night,” Andrew said. “After she went to the bathroom, I lost track of her. Until . . .”

Until they disappeared. Until she died.

“Hungry!” Holly yelped from their side. The motorcar forgotten, she scrabbled between them, searching until her small hands emerged triumphantly holding one of each of their hands. When Andrew warmly clasped Holly’s hand, Birdie’s heart fissured a little. The little girl dragged them both forward, and Andrew and Birdie laughed, as though they were being pulled by an energetic puppy. There were more people walking the streets, neatly folded into their Sunday best. A few people smiled sweetly at them—a well-dressed man, a lovely woman, the child bridging them with her own small body.

Why, they think we’re a family, Birdie thought. Here we are, a bundle of innocence, shame, and lies. Some family. It wasn’t that different from her real one, and her heart cracked a little further.

They’d walked almost all the way to Union Street when Andrew pointed out a small corner store that had a meager showing of produce in the windows. It was surprising that any vegetables were available at all—people tried to grow their own victory gardens, and the rest went toward the war effort. He pushed the door open and a tiny bell strung to the door jingled a twinkling welcome. They nodded to the clerk, who was reading a newspaper behind the countertop.

Andrew spoke low to Birdie. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

Birdie looked up at him. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

“That’s a lot to promise, Andrew. Not even the devil would make such a deal.”

“Well then, I guess the devil’s got nothing on me.”

She was torn between her hunger and her bleeding pride, but hunger won out. Holly’s hunger, at least. Andrew got the attention of the clerk, and one by one Birdie and Holly selected a wealth of groceries from the shelves. The prices were exorbitant, as they had been for some time now. One loaf of day-old rye bread, a pound of butter, four jars of jam, one of honey, a hunk of cured ham, a two-pound sack of oatmeal, three cans of corned beef, two tins of sardines, a jar of cucumber pickles, and one of pickled peaches. Holly received a striped bag of penny candy. Altogether, it cost more than Birdie earned in two weeks at the factory. The clerk couldn’t hide his surprise when Andrew drew off several bills from a roll in his pocket.

As they carried the groceries back to the apartment, Birdie hesitated. She didn’t want to ask, but Andrew had said “anything.” In front of her door, the Cutters’ motorcar still waited. Birdie shifted the smaller bag of groceries in her arms.

“I can help you bring them up,” he said.

“No. I’ve got it from here. I can’t thank you enough.” She paused, then pushed the words out. “Andrew . . . there is one other thing.”

“Anything, Birdie.”

She looked into his eyes. They were a peculiar shade of blue, with brilliant flecks of copper and almost red at their centers. As she readied her question, Holly leaned into her, and Andrew smiled fondly. He really would do anything for them. Anything at all.

“Would you mind . . . Mother has had trouble procuring her medicine lately. We can’t afford a doctor, and the war has driven up the price terribly. She’s on her last bottle. She has . . . women’s problems, you know. A lot of pain. When she doesn’t have the medicine, she suffers so much.”

“I can get her a prescription. No problem.” Andrew smiled. As he withdrew to the car, Holly stepped forward and pointed at Birdie’s face.

“Will you kiss Birdie?”

Birdie went crimson, and Dawlish frowned at the both of them. Aware of their audience, Andrew stepped forward and kissed Birdie chastely on the cheek.

“Thank you, Andrew,” she breathed.

“No. It’s me who should thank you,” he whispered into her ear. His breath stirred the curls near her ear, and she shrugged away from the ticklish feeling. As he drove down the street, Birdie shivered with guilt. He was Allene’s, not hers. Even if Andrew promised to buy her the world, nothing was really hers.





CHAPTER 10


Allene never knew that murder could make Monday mornings so wonderful.

It was a fresh new day, served with a glorious sunrise and of course Florence’s untimely death to solve. There was brand-new information to gather from Jasper and Birdie, and her own suspicions about Lucy to investigate. There could be legions of others who might have had a grudge against Florence. So much to think about.

Allene had woken at half past five in the morning with purpose and a smile. Before the house had creaked its first yawn, she’d rung the bell for Lucy. Her groggy maid let out a faint groan when she entered Allene’s room.

“Even roosters should be sleeping now, Miss Allene.”

Allene grinned. “What a comparison. I’m not a fowl, and I’m not a boy.”

“No, you are not,” Lucy agreed. “You’re like . . . a squirrel. A smart squirrel. Trouble.” She soon tightened her lips and painted on a more proper expression. Allene loved it when Lucy let out these tidy bits of saltiness, but they were rare indeed. If Father heard her, she would be fired in an instant.

Lucy stayed silent as she helped Allene into a regular day dress of polished lavender cotton. As usual, Allene stowed her cigarette lighter into the hidden pocket. After a breakfast of poached eggs on toast and scalding tea, Allene rang for the motor. Lucy handed her a beige pair of gloves.

Allene cleared her throat and gathered her courage. “Lucy. Where . . . where is the silver polish?”

Lucy didn’t blink. “Pardon me, miss?”

“The silver polish. The can in the kitchen is missing.”

“Don’t you worry about such things, Miss Allene. We keep the supplies well stocked, even if it is wartime.”

“I don’t mean that. It’s just . . . gone.”

“Well, it was empty. So I threw it away.”

“Oh! Are you sure? I didn’t think the can was so old—”

“It was.” Lucy never interrupted; Allene stared at her. “When the lady of the house starts asking about missing things, people get fired. And during a time like this, it’s impossible for someone like me to find a new position.”

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