He marched closer to her, and she stiffened on the sofa where she sat. “It would certainly give him incentive to see Frank dead, wouldn’t it?”
“Lord, Jasper! Unlike your parents, my father is financially sound and in no rush to kill anyone, let alone himself.” Jasper went white in the face, and Allene clamped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, I didn’t mean it.” She stood up. “I didn’t mean it!”
“Of course you did. That’s the great thing about you, Allene. You say whatever’s inside that shallow little head of yours!”
“Stop it!” Birdie shouted. They both stared at her. Birdie hardly raised her voice, ever, and the sound of it jarred them like crackling thunder. “This isn’t helping! For goodness’ sake, his uncle is dead. Dead! We need more information, not accusations. You two aren’t here to hurt each other, so just stop.”
Jasper cooled himself down by pacing, and Allene fanned her face. By God, it was difficult keeping them from throttling each other sometimes.
After a long, deep breath, Allene asked, “Where will you go, Jasper? Surely you’re not going to stay here. You could stay with us.”
“Two reasons why I can’t stay there. One, your father. Two, your fiancé. We’re not kids anymore, Allene.” They could no longer hide behind innocence. Especially after tonight. Especially after that fight.
So she and Birdie went downstairs at two o’clock in the morning, letting Dawlish drive them home. Allene’s head drooped before they even left the Bowery; before long, she was asleep on Birdie’s thin shoulder, a poor excuse for a pillow, though an unconscious Allene didn’t seem to care.
Florence, Hazel, and now Jasper’s uncle. Who will be next? she asked herself. Who? Birdie felt a vise closing tighter and tighter, and she would have gasped for air if she wasn’t worried about waking Allene on her shoulder. This was how it happened. Life and death growing so much bigger than their mere, tiny existences could handle. They were walking on a fault line, waiting for it to open up and swallow them all. Waiting, perhaps, to lose their footing while someone else pushed them in.
She closed her eyes but did not sleep. She saw Jasper’s uncle spread out amongst the shattered glass, but instead of pity, she felt a slight longing. Yesterday he had lived, loved, and perhaps watched his last sunset through a dirty window. Elsewhere, men were dying in sodden trenches in Flanders, and the hospitals were transferring those stricken with Spanish flu to the cemeteries as quickly as could be to prevent the spread of contagion. Everywhere there were the dead, and at the center, Birdie watched them through a veil that was growing more transparent by the day.
Soon, soon, she thought. But not yet. Oh dear God, I’m not ready. Not yet.
She envied their peace now. Tears began to fall, and Allene didn’t once question why her hair was damp when she awoke from Birdie’s shoulder.
CHAPTER 23
The police came by late in the afternoon the next day to question Allene’s father. His cold had morphed into a bona fide case of influenza, and his personal physician had been immediately called. The servants whispered about whether or not the Cutter constitution was strong enough to keep him alive. They blamed it on being indoors too much, and his bedroom windows were kept open to speed a cure and allow in the chilly October air.
The officers donned cotton masks to ask questions at a distance. Father wasn’t all too pleased to see them or to hear about Jasper’s uncle’s death. He had lost a little weight, and his cheeks sagged as if he’d been pricked with a pin and deflated. He looked pointedly at Allene.
“You can leave us now, Allene. I’ll ring for the maid when we’re done.”
Allene dropped her jaw in surprise. “Why can’t I stay?”
The officers looked at Father, then at Allene, and one of the younger men snickered, as if she were a petulant child being refused a shaved ice.
“Do as you’re told,” Father said.
“But the insurance policy—”
“It’s none of your concern. That’s enough, Allene. Leave.”
“But—”
“Allene!” her father roared, before coughing so violently that tiny droplets of rust-colored phlegm lightly sprayed the white coverlet. The officers veered away, and Allene was very nearly pushed out of the room by Lucy.
“Oh, Miss Allene. Come. Let him be.”
Allene shook. She heard her father cough some more before settling down. She smashed her ear against the finely grained wood to eavesdrop. It was a fruitless endeavor; the door was too thick and the officers too quiet to hear. Lucy sighed and beckoned Allene away yet again, and she finally relented, accompanying Lucy to the laundry room.
Usually Lucy spent her time at Allene’s beck and call, but with the evils of infection in the household, the servants were paralyzed with worry. So Allene watched Lucy order about the servants and rattle on about good, thick onion broths. She told them to tackle the dirty towels by rinsing them out with Lysol and doses of calomel. She heard Lucy’s words, but her attention was elsewhere. One ear was cocked for the turning of her father’s bedroom doorknob.
The interview was done in a matter of half an hour, and the officers left the house without a word to Allene. She went immediately back to the room, but Lucy barred her, closing the door. She leaned on the doorknob, as if she were either resting or ready to plant herself there for days to bar Allene from entering.
“May I see him now?” Allene asked.
Lucy pulled the gauze down from her face to speak. “I have it on his authority that he is not to be disturbed.”
“But—”
“He said—very strongly, I might add—that under no circumstances are you to enter his room until he is completely recovered. He was angry that you came in earlier, especially without a mask. He doesn’t want you to catch his germs.”
“If—”
“No ifs, ands, or buts, Miss Allene. And no more of this insurance nonsense. He said that if you ask one more question about insurance, he will find a finishing school in Iceland and put you on a steamer there, wedding or no.” Lucy straightened her spine and nodded. “You leave your papa alone. I put my foot down because Mr. Cutter says I may. It’s for your own good.”
“So is castor oil. That horrible stuff never did a thing but make me sicker!”
Lucy smiled, but her dark eyes looked tired. “It’s almost time for Dawlish to fetch Miss Birdie. Why don’t you go with him, get some good, fresh air?”