Jasper peered at the paper on the bottles.
PAREGORIC
Two grams of opium per ounce
And on the back, he read:
Five Days Old, Five Drops
Two Weeks Old, Eight Drops
Five Years Old, Twenty-Five Drops
Adult, One Teaspoon
Smith & Walley Druggists, Brooklyn, New York
Guaranteed Pure
“Something’s not right,” Jasper said. “That bottle in the bedroom? It didn’t say paregoric. It said laudanum.”
“Aren’t they the same?” Birdie asked, confused.
“No. They’re both tinctures of opium but different. I know because I had to review pharmaceutical dosages for Dr. Gettler two weeks ago. There was an opium overdose in a baby that had colic. Laudanum is at least twenty times stronger than paregoric. Babies get overdosed all the time because of the mistake.”
“She gets her medicines from the same pharmacist all the time. How could she make that mistake?”
“Maybe it wasn’t Hazel who made the mistake.” Jasper picked up the letter again and handed it to Allene.
You’re welcome.
A dreadful realization wove its way into his thoughts.
“That letter came to me the day after Florence died. And now after Hazel,” Allene said slowly. “Which means . . .”
“Someone is killing people around us,” Birdie finished her sentence, before covering her mouth with horror.
“Just us,” Allene added.
“The question is why,” Jasper asked. He stared at them both. “And who’s next?”
CHAPTER 16
Birdie stood up, the color drained from her face.
“Now, let’s not panic,” Jasper said. “I was hasty when I spoke. Hazel’s death could easily have been an accident. I can find out more soon, I’m sure.”
“Of course. And none of this is anything but a guess. You and Holly will be safe at our home.” Allene showed her the two suitcases. “Both of you must stay with me for a long while. I insist. Maybe I can help you out for a change, instead of Andrew. You’re my friend, after all. We can keep an eye on each other, figure out what’s going on with these blasted letters.”
Birdie took the letter from Jasper’s hand. “I know a handwriting specialist. An analyst, or some such. Well, Mother did.” She colored, and Allene and Jasper graciously said nothing. “He’s very kind. I think if I asked, he would look at the two letters and see if they were written by the same hand. Maybe with the same ink.” She looked up at Jasper. “Or we could turn them in to the police.”
“Not yet,” he said, with a little more haste than expected.
“Yes, not just yet. I’ll give you the other letter, Birdie,” Allene said. “Let’s get you to the Cutter house first. We’ll have loads of fun keeping you and Holly occupied.”
“But my job—” Birdie began.
“When the time comes, Dawlish will take you,” Allene assured her.
“What about your father?”
“Leave him to me.” Allene didn’t look so brave about this point, but Birdie didn’t push it.
Birdie asked, “And what about your mother?”
Allene was silent. Birdie didn’t want to say aloud that Mrs. Cutter would be quietly thrilled at her mother’s death. Being banished to Brooklyn was one thing, but surely she’d have some satisfaction that the Dreyers were moving into permanent obscurity, one by one.
“Don’t worry about Mother,” Allene told her. “It’s Father we have to maneuver around, and I have an idea.” A glint shone in Allene’s eye. She loved this, being at the center of a bustle of chaos. “Stay until you can get your feet on the ground again. Steady like. It would be absolutely outrageous for you two to live here alone after what’s happened. I won’t stand for it.”
“Very well. Just for a short while,” Birdie conceded. Allene smiled and picked up the small case. Jasper picked up the larger one.
Birdie took one last look at her silent apartment. That old carpet. The misshapen sofa. If she listened hard enough, she could hear faint sounds of bedsprings from the next room, the encouraging moans of her mother, the grunts of the men whose faces she refused to remember. She closed her eyes. That part of her life was over, but she would never be able to wash away her memories of this place.
Still, there was no loss without some small gain. Her mother would no longer suffer. And now Holly would be in the Cutter house. Oh God, but what a cost.
She remembered the feeling of her mother’s spindly arms hugging her. Better times are coming, Birdie, she had told her. You’re so beautiful. I know you were not born so beautiful for nothing. Birdie was homesick for the time when hope was a bright thing. It was dimming for her, but hope still burnt brightly for Holly. She opened her eyes again.
“Ready?” Jasper repeated, touching her elbow as she paused outside the locked door.
“Yes,” Birdie said. “I am.” She took the key from the lock and went downstairs for the last time.
Dawlish had returned to Brooklyn and waited at the curb. Next thing, Birdie was inside the back of the motorcar with Allene. Everything felt unreal—the sounds of the engine, the buildings speeding past. At some point before they crossed the bridge into Manhattan, Allene patted her lap, and Birdie put her head down obediently. She fell fast asleep into a respite of darkness and silence and safety, rocked by the hum of the motorcar, with Allene’s hand resting warmly on her back.
Before long, Allene roused her, and Birdie followed her into the front entrance of the Cutter house. Andrew and Ernie were in the foyer, and memories of the years lived here assailed her, but she ignored them, ignored it all. From here on out, under this roof, she would have room in her heart only for what she needed to survive. She needed to take care of Holly at all costs. She made a beeline for Lucy.
“Where is Holly?” she asked.
Lucy put her finger to her lips, then smiled. “Your sister is sleeping upstairs in the guest room.”
“May I see her?” Birdie asked.
“Of course!” Lucy seemed surprised by the question, but the Cutter house always had this effect on her. Birdie would probably ask permission to sneeze if the opportunity arose. “You’ll be sharing the room.” Lucy took the two suitcases in hand and began to climb the stairs. Birdie started to follow when a hand touched her shoulder.
She turned and saw Andrew, with Ernie as a bright shadow behind him. She couldn’t have been less happy to see them. Andrew glanced at her with meaning, while Allene watched with narrowed eyes. A dram of rage seemed to simmer under her skin.
God, Allene must see that hangdog look when he was so near. She wished she could run away. Ernie was speaking to her now. What was he saying? She didn’t have the energy for simple decorum right now.
“I’m so sorry,” Ernie began, even though Andrew was closer (and touching her elbow. Why wouldn’t he let go? Was he unconcerned that Allene was just a breath away?).