A Beautiful Poison

“Look what I got.” Allene opened her palm and showed a scrap of torn label from the laudanum bottle.

“Don’t steal evidence!” Jasper whispered. He tried to keep his tone calm. “What do you think this is, a vacation where you get to bring souvenirs home?”

Allene pouted. “I thought it might be useful.”

“Not muddied up with your paws, it’s not. Put it back, or put it away. Now.”

Allene took out a handkerchief and stuffed the scrap of label into it and into her purse, without the police noticing. What a piece of work Allene was.

Within the hour, Hazel’s body was covered with a sheet and removed from the apartment on a stretcher. Birdie kept her back to the procession as they inched the body out the door and down the stairs. Jasper tried to console her as best as he could.

“I’ll be in the morgue tomorrow, after I register. I’ll find out if there’s any more information. I promise.”

Birdie’s eyes were glassy, unfocused. “Register for what?”

“The draft.”

“Oh, Jasper. Not you too.” Tears welled up again. Her eyelids were growing puffier with every passing minute. “There are so many other young men. Can’t you pretend you forgot?”

“I won’t be one of those slackers. Dr. Norris might get an exemption for his staff, but it’s out of my hands.” There wasn’t anything else to say.

When the last officer had left, Birdie stood in the kitchen, staring at the center of her parlor, arms hanging down as if boneless. Jasper went to find Allene, who was standing in the doorway to the parlor with two small suitcases.

“What’s that?”

“Clothes for Holly and Birdie. They can’t stay here.”

He knew what it was to have orphan status thrust upon you. Like someone had pushed you through a door, locked it, and left you in a new land with no map. All comforts were gone, unreachable. It seemed, at times, you had to relearn how to speak again. When you were grieving and in despair, basic things were different, like actually responding to yes and no questions. How to eat. How to sleep. How to smile. That one had taken him over a year to relearn.

At his parents’ funeral, he had closed his eyes—only for moments at a time—and seen them in his mind’s eye. Vital. Real. The creases on either side of his father’s firm mouth; the way his mother had a vertical crease on her earlobes from wearing heavy earrings. He could reach out and know their hands were warm. And then he’d open his eyes, and it would be all gone. Instead, he’d see their death, and the open, staring eyes, and he wanted to back through that damned door.

And here was Birdie with that same look on her face, as if she expected to blink and realize it was all a joke or dream. She looked lost and elegant and empty. Her hair was coming undone in ropy locks around her swan neck. She smoothed her dress and began to sift through a pile of newspapers and mail that needed to be discarded. Because doing something was better than thinking.

“I can’t believe it. It’s just the two of them now. She’ll have to take care of Holly by herself,” Allene murmured. “I can’t imagine being a mother when you were just a child yourself yesterday.”

Birdie was holding an envelope in her hand when she walked to Jasper.

“What’s this?” Jasper pointed to the envelope.

“I’ve no idea. The other letters were bills and advertisements. This is so odd. Look.”

She handed Jasper the plain slip of paper, words written in beautiful script.

You’re welcome.

“Strange,” Jasper said, studying the writing. “It’s not signed.”

“Maybe it’s from Andrew,” Birdie said absently, before covering her mouth, mortified.

“What did you say?” Allene’s voice had suddenly gone cold.

She and Jasper both stared at Birdie, whose eyes flicked between them, guilt flooding her features and shame staining her cheeks fuchsia. She yanked out a kitchen chair and sat down with a thump. The action made her wince with pain.

“That day that you asked Andrew to escort me home? Well, he saw Mother and Holly.” She sighed, a long one. “The reason why we have more food in the cupboards and enough medicine these days is because Andrew’s been helping me.”

“I never asked him to do such a thing,” Allene said, all astonishment.

Jasper thought, If I’d had the cash, I’d have done the same thing to get in beautiful Birdie’s good graces. She was the kind of gal that men threw money at just in case she felt benevolent enough to return the favor with a kiss, or more. Andrew wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t noble either, but Jasper wanted to laugh. Andrew buying opium for Birdie’s mother? A brilliant play. He wondered how many caring, crooning, meaningful looks he’d practiced on her before she ended up in his bed.

Birdie kept her eyes on the floor. “He was just being nice.”

“Why on earth would he be nice to you?” Allene asked, without thinking. She must have caught Jasper’s smirk, because her eyes narrowed immediately. “Oh, be quiet!” she spat.

Her anger was so contrary to the teasing, lighthearted Allene who had everything she wanted and not a care in the world. Good Lord, Jasper thought. Who was this woman?

He put his hands out in a placating gesture. “Look. This isn’t helping to figure out why Hazel died. Let’s all calm down a little, shall we?”

Allene and Birdie gave each other quiet glances. There was an uneasy détente, at least for now. Jasper tossed the note onto the table, and Allene snatched it up. Suddenly, her features morphed into recognition. She gasped.

“What is it?” Jasper asked.

“Oh. I’ve seen this before. I have!” She pointed to the lettering. “The morning after Florence died, I was in the library reading a chemistry book and”—she poked at the letter—“inside, there was a letter. Like this. I didn’t know what to think of it. It must be the very same person. The handwriting, the paper—identical.”

Jasper took the paper and scrutinized the ink. “Do you recognize who it belongs to?”

“No. It’s perfect handwriting, though. Almost copperplate.”

“What does it mean?” Birdie asked. Exhaustion shrouded the poor girl.

“I . . . I don’t know,” Allene admitted. “It can’t be a coincidence. But I don’t know what it means. Right now, it all just seems like an accident. Maybe Hazel just took too much medicine. But if it’s not an accident, will the coroner be able to find out?” she asked Jasper.

“Yes. They’ll measure the levels in her blood. But since she used morphine all the time, how would they know if it was too much or too little without a comparison?”

“But she never took too much,” Birdie told them. “She was so careful because she wanted a bottle to last as long as possible.”

Allene thought for a second, then went directly to the kitchen and began opening and shutting cabinets quickly.

“What are you doing?” Jasper asked.

“Wait . . . maybe . . . yes. Here. Look.”

She withdrew three empty brown bottles from beneath the sink. She set them on the table.

“So? We knew she took it regularly. Empty bottles are no surprise,” Jasper noted.

“It’s not that.” Allene pointed. “Look at the labels.”

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