“Hazel’s daughter. She’s only about four years old. I guess you never met her.”
“No, indeed,” Mr. Cutter replied, cold as ice. “Allene. Your mother made it clear that Hazel and her children were no longer to be supported by this family.”
“Mother isn’t here anymore,” Allene retorted.
Mr. Cutter went livid. He swept past her, ignoring Lucy’s inquisitive face as she passed in the hallway, and shut the office door. It took him a full minute of pacing before he could string together the words to speak.
“How dare you speak so disrespectfully of your mother? As long as she’s ill, we’ll respect her wishes.”
“Is she ill?” Allene gathered a modicum of bravery. “Is she, Father? She won’t let me visit. She won’t let you visit. She hardly writes to us anymore. And she never looked sick.” Allene laughed ruefully. “A few times, she’s had her maids write to us for her! And there’s never any correspondence from a doctor!”
Allene knew she risked being slapped, but she didn’t back down. She thought of Holly’s arms around her, and the memory of Hazel’s body lying on that threadbare carpet. It was Allene’s doing, because she’d let her mother take them out of her life. She’d allowed it all to happen. She’d been too afraid to defy her parents. And inwardly, an oily dark thought—she’d been jealous of Birdie’s beauty. At the blossoming age of thirteen, Allene had silently agreed with her mother—she’d been happy to not have such a girl with her all the time.
Allene tried not to let her voice waver. “Mother had some sort of falling-out with Hazel, didn’t she?”
“I won’t speak ill of your mother,” Father said, doggedly repeating himself. But he wouldn’t look her in the eye.
“Mother is not here, and I am. And I say Birdie and Holly will remain under this roof. At least until they can find a safer place to stay. It’s the Christian thing to do, and you know it. Mother doesn’t even need to know. And I will make absolutely sure that they don’t inconvenience the staff. You’ll barely see them.”
Father had turned away to lean heavily on his mahogany desk. Anger had gotten her only so far, so she attempted a different tactic. She put her hand on her father’s large one and squeezed.
“Father,” Allene said softly, “this—this will make me happy. Truly, it shall. They won’t cause a ruffle at all. Birdie is so dear to me. And Holly needs our help. Birdie’s almost like a sister.” She added, “Holly, I suppose, too.”
At the word sister, Mr. Cutter finally turned around. He blinked several times and stared at Allene, as if waiting for her to speak further. He smiled faintly, the effort aging him by a decade. He coughed and rearranged his expression—order, once lost, was back in his mien.
“They may stay until before the wedding. That gives them two months. That is all, do you hear? And then I want them gone. I’ll do my best to conceal this from your mother.”
Allene dashed forward, grabbed the lapels of his day suit, and tiptoed to kiss his grizzled beard. “Thank you, Father. Thank you so much.”
“Very well. Be gone with you.”
Allene didn’t wait to be told twice. She spun around and exited the room, closing the doors behind her. Jasper was still in the parlor, but Ernie was nowhere to be seen.
“Oh. I thought you left!”
“Nah. I’m harder to get rid of than a cherry stain. Say, I was thinking. About Hazel.”
“Aren’t we all. It’s hard not to,” Allene said. “Especially when you consider that someone might have killed her. We should tell the police. Shouldn’t we?”
“I can find out if she truly took too much opium or not. Let’s not panic before we have information. Maybe she just had a heart attack. The letters could be completely meaningless. Just a prank. But if Hazel’s death is no accident, then they’ve got to be tied to each other.”
Allene bit her lip, thinking. Jasper watched her appreciatively. There was something about these moments—thinking, thinking, thinking. He seemed to like her this way, rather than when she put on her coquettish airs. Odd, this boy.
She snapped her fingers. “Let’s find out where the medicine came from. Before anyone assumes this is an accidental overdose, we should be sure, right? Maybe something else was mixed in. Shouldn’t the druggist have a dispensary record?”
“Yes. Do you remember what was on the label?”
“Smith . . .” Allene tried to dig the name from her memory.
“And Walley. In Brooklyn.” He stood up. “She said that Andrew ordered the medicine, but maybe he ordered it wrong? We should check directly, though. I know Smith Walley. It’s about five blocks from Birdie’s home. Can you leave her for a while?”
“I can’t! I’ve only just come home.”
“What about tomorrow? We have to get some answers.”
“Tomorrow you’re registering for the draft,” Allene reminded him.
The color left Jasper’s face. He looked awfully lonely, and fear crept into his eyes. “That’s right, I am.”
From down the corridor, Lucy came by in her polished black shoes. “Miss Allene, I’ve drawn a bath for you as well.” She started when she saw Jasper. “I didn’t realize you were still here, Mr. Jones.”
“Oh, I’m leaving now.”
Lucy withdrew slowly. She seemed reluctant to leave them alone. She was always protective of Allene in a way her mother never had been, nor even Birdie, who was more a friend. As Allene led Jasper to the door, she squeezed his hand and leaned in to whisper, “Tomorrow at three o’clock. I won’t let you be alone on such a day. We’ll go after you’ve done your paperwork. I’ll meet you at the druggist shop.”
“All right,” he agreed. The lonely look in his eyes abated. “Thank you.”
With that, he was pushed out the door, and he disappeared into the late-afternoon September warmth. As the door closed before her, Allene smiled. Another promised day spent with Jasper or Birdie would always be a good day, even if the apocalypse descended. She knew Jasper would meet her tomorrow, no matter what the consequences.
But before another day went by, there was one other thing she knew for sure.
She would be purchasing another Wonderliter first thing tomorrow.
CHAPTER 18
Jasper had been absent from work since his lunch break nearly six hours before. The laboratories would be locked up soon. It was rush hour now as he made his way home, and the trolleys and trains were packed. Men around him spoke excitedly about registering for the draft tomorrow; Jasper wished he could stuff cotton in his ears. The war was getting in his way. Someone mentioned influenza hitting Camp Devens, near Boston. Too early in the year, Jasper thought. It irked him that everything moved too quickly or too slowly for his taste.