The young man spun around, startled, searching for the origin of the exclamation. In comparison, others on the sidewalk looked benignly around. That must be him, Allen thought. Hand on a mother-of-pearl-topped cane, he shrugged after a few moments and strode down the street with a slight limp. Probably escaped the draft, this one. He whistled, ignoring the newsies on the corner with their bound newspapers, trying to hawk the day’s headlines.
Hmm. For an out-of-work, young pharmacist, he sure seemed happy and well dressed, especially for this part of Brooklyn. She didn’t even have to question him to know that someone had paid him handsomely. Perhaps to make a purposeful mistake?
Dawlish seemed nearly apoplectic at her brazenness. “Miss? Are you well?”
“Very. Let’s go home,” she told him. “I’ve seen plenty.”
Allene would ask Jasper in the ensuing days and comb the newspapers, but the police seemed to have no intention of arresting anybody over Hazel’s death. She would have discussed it with Birdie, but of course Birdie wanted nothing to do with the subject. Birdie came to her after a late day of work at the factory and pushed the letters back into Allene’s hands.
“It’s what we thought,” she said. “The letters are all written by the same person. Right-handed, and someone with a good education. Same ink, same paper, same writing instrument.”
“You’re sure he’s sure?” Allene asked.
“Yes. He was a handwriting analyst for the police department. Used a special magnifying glass and everything.”
“What was his name?”
“He made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone his name. He was also rather shaken up about Mother’s death.” By now, Birdie was fully red in the face from shame. The whole encounter must have been humiliating for both of them.
Allene rubbed her chin. “Who? Who would have killed your mother? Did she have enemies?”
“Oh, Allene. You’re really asking me that question?” Birdie said, her red face now white.
Allene stared for a moment, not understanding. “Oh.”
Birdie’s shoulders slumped. “I suppose one of Mother’s clients could have done it. Maybe they got jealous or something.”
“Can you find out if she wrote down a schedule of her clients? Maybe there’s a pattern worth poring over.”
“Yes. She did, but the police have her diary. Maybe Jasper can procure it for us. But how would any of that tie to Florence’s death?”
“I don’t know.”
Allene couldn’t help but feel she was skipping stones on a lake, and the lake was this living, sleeping, vicious creature lying in wait to rise up and swallow them one by one. And somewhere beyond the very real, very earthly world she stood in, she got the distinct sensation that Florence was laughing at them all.
CHAPTER 21
October 4, 1918
The air in October was different. In the evenings, it haunted Jasper as he walked home from the city morgue. Sometimes it swept over his head like a scythe missing its mark. Sometimes it skimmed his collar, touching his neck where the blood pulsed, as if checking that he was still alive.
He strode through the October day that hadn’t yet decided whether to be a preview of fall or a bit of tired, leftover summer. He, however, was tired. So tired. As he walked past the tenements and stores, there were posters everywhere that pleaded with citizens to cover their mouths when sneezing and coughing. Signs on every street corner in Yiddish, English, and Italian begged people not to spit and warned they would be fined if they did. The scent of cooked onions, reportedly an influenza repellent, oozed out of kitchen windows. Spanish influenza had landed in New York City, and what had started as a small ripple of people falling ill toward the end of September had swelled to a thousand new cases per day.
It was like no other influenza he’d seen in his short life. This one could kill in a matter of hours, only just after symptoms appeared. The sheer numbers had been overwhelming Boston and Philadelphia to the point where mass graves were becoming the norm. The Bellevue morgue was overrun, and bodies were being shunted directly to cemeteries in the outer boroughs with a swiftness that revealed the terror of infection. He himself was either lucky or not susceptible despite being around so many of the sick. He’d gotten over a bout of the grippe in the spring, just after his graduation. He wondered if it had protected him somehow. But it didn’t halt his fear.
Something was different. This scourge was an insatiable monster, hungrier and more lethal than anyone was prepared for, and especially deadly for young adults. Jasper saw white gauze masks on passersby. There were rumors that a few of the nurses in the hospital had been kidnapped by families to care for their sick. When he left the entrance gate of Bellevue, women would flock to him, begging him for a house call for a sick family member. They’d let go once he explained he wasn’t a doctor.
It troubled Jasper. After all, it might be another year before he began medical school, and even then, he would only be able to do things like point out the difference between the sartorius muscle and the gracilis. It troubled him because he preferred to be around corpses, who asked nothing of him but the truth, and yet their reminder of time’s finality made him want to peel his skin off and flee. In the morgue, he found peace and torture.
In his apartment, the kitchen light was on, as it was wont to be. Three letters sat on the brown bureau by the front door. Two had Allene’s fancy script, and a small one was from Birdie. He didn’t know how long they’d been there. There had been a time in his life when he had eagerly waited for mail. Then he had stopped looking for reasons of self-preservation. Now he glanced at the envelopes, unaware that he was smiling for the first time that day. He would read them later tonight.
His uncle came out of the kitchen, foggy eyed and smelling like a brewery. He’d been testing the results of his experiments today, as always. Jasper noticed that his uncle’s hands were controlled in their movements. Nothing oiled away his shakes like alcohol. Only in the mornings was he sober, and then his hands would tremble so much that it wasn’t long before he reached for wine, rum, gin, or one of his more potent distillates.
“You’rrrrre back early,” his uncle slurred.
“Not really. It’s almost seven o’clock.”
“Is it?” He reached over and poked the letters on the bureau. “You shouldn’t read them. You should stay out of those girls’ lives. Love letters are bad for the heart.” Though the word sounded like harrrrrr. He sat down on two cases of whiskey and reached for one of the bottles nestled in the straw.
“You know, you don’t need to hoard so much liquor,” Jasper snapped. “One match and this whole apartment goes up in flames.”
“Then stop smoking,” his uncle said, prying the cap off the new bottle. He struggled on, but Jasper made no move to help him. He might give up and just go to sleep.