Murder on Waverly Place Page 3

  “You must be Mrs. Decker,” he said in a deep, reassuring voice. “I am Professor Rogers. Please come in. Your friend Mrs. Burke is already here.” He stepped back to allow Mrs. Decker to enter, and only then did he notice Sarah. “Is this lady your guest?” he asked with just the slightest hint of disapproval.

  Her mother had heard the disapproval, too. Although Sarah couldn’t see her face, she saw the slight stiffening of her mother’s spine as she squared her shoulders in silent resistance, in case the man intended to deny Sarah entrance. “Yes, my daughter, Mrs. Brandt.” No one could mistake the tiny thread of steel that ran through the words. Every trace of the uncertainty Mrs. Decker had felt mere moments ago was gone.

  The gentleman was suddenly uncertain. “Madame Serafina was not expecting two new clients today.”

  “Then perhaps you will ask her if it would be all right for my daughter to join the sitting today as well,” Mrs. Decker said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I have included an additional fee for my daughter,” she added, starting to hand the Professor an envelope but stopping just short of actually doing so. “But if my daughter is not welcome, I will have to leave with her.”

  The poor man was caught between following what were obviously his instructions to admit only invited guests and the prospect of losing Mrs. Felix Decker as a client. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Mrs. Decker,” he said, instantly contrite. “I’ll speak with Madame Serafina. These matters are very sensitive, you know. Madame Serafina must maintain a delicate balance.”

  “We will most certainly be guided by her wishes,” Mrs. Decker said, although her tone implied that Madame Serafina’s wishes would doubtless coincide with Mrs. Decker’s. She allowed the Professor to have the envelope.

  Professor Rogers—Sarah wondered just what kind of a professor he was—guided them inside, took their wraps, and escorted them into the parlor before disappearing, presumably to ask Madame Serafina’s permission for Sarah to attend the séance. A large silver tray had been set on a low table in the middle of the modestly furnished room. On it were a tea service and an assortment of small cakes. Two people had already arrived. A woman sat on the sofa and a man stood on the other side of the room, staring out a window.

  “Elizabeth,” the woman said, nearly upsetting her teacup in her haste to put it down and rise from where she was sitting. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.” The woman hurried over and took Mrs. Decker’s hands in her own, as if to reassure her.

  “Kathy, you’ll remember my daughter, Sarah Brandt,” Mrs. Decker said. “Sarah, Mrs. Burke.”

  “So nice to see you again, Mrs. Burke,” Sarah said politely. Mrs. Burke looked vaguely familiar, although Sarah probably wouldn’t have recognized her under other circumstances. Her clothes marked her as a member of the wealthier members of society, and she had the well-tended look of a hothouse flower. Is that how her mother appeared to others? Sarah wondered fleetingly before Mrs. Burke returned her greeting.

  “So nice to see you again,” she said. Her tone was too hearty, and now that Sarah had an opportunity to look into her eyes, she saw a strange anxiety reflected there. What did Mrs. Burke have to be anxious about? She’d already made contact with her dead sister and made up their quarrel.

  “I’m glad I was able to come,” Sarah replied noncommittally.

  Mrs. Burke turned back to Mrs. Decker. “I didn’t know you were bringing someone else.” Now the strain in her voice was unmistakable.

  “I only decided last night,” Mrs. Decker replied with a frown. “The gentleman who answered the door seemed to think it would be all right.”

  “He did?” she replied uncertainly, with a nervous glance toward the doorway. “Then perhaps it is. Mr. Sharpe, do you know how Madame feels about unexpected visitors?” She turned slightly toward the older gentleman who had been standing by one of the long windows that overlooked the street. He must have been listening to their conversation, because he looked up and came forward as if on cue.

  “I’m afraid I can’t speak for Madame Serafina,” he said to Mrs. Burke. “Perhaps Mrs. Gittings can tell you.”

  Mrs. Burke glanced uncertainly at the doorway again, as if expecting the answer to her question to appear there, before remembering her manners. “Oh, may I present Mr. John Sharpe?” she asked Mrs. Decker.

  He was impeccably dressed, and his clothes fit without the slightest wrinkle, as only a skilled tailor could manage. His hand, when he took Sarah’s, was smooth, but his eyes were razor sharp.

  “I believe I’ve met your husband, Mrs. Decker,” he said when he’d greeted them both.

  Sarah saw a small flicker of alarm pass over her mother’s face, and she quickly stepped in. “Are you well acquainted with my father?” she asked.

  “Just enough to admire his success, I’m afraid,” he said, easing her mind.

  Footsteps in the hallway alerted them to another arrival, and a woman entered the room. She wore a hat and gloves, but she had obviously come from somewhere else inside the house, since they would have seen her coming in the front door.

  “Mrs. Gittings,” Mrs. Burke said with renewed alarm, which she covered with a bright smile. “Mrs. Decker has come, and she’s brought her daughter, Mrs. Brandt.”

  Mrs. Gittings took them in with a swift, measuring glance. “So I see.” She was a small woman with an ordinary face. Although her dress was the height of fashion and her hat very stylish, Sarah could see she wasn’t quite comfortable in her finery, as if she’d only recently acquired the means to own such expensive things.

  “Do you think it will be all right?” Mrs. Burke asked. “With Madame Serafina, I mean?”

  “She must tell us that herself,” Mrs. Gittings said and turned to Mrs. Decker expectantly.

  Mrs. Burke took the hint and quickly introduced her to Sarah and her mother.

  “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” Mrs. Gittings said, although her expression betrayed no pleasure at all.

  Sarah was beginning to think her coming was not just an uncomfortable situation for her but a genuine problem. Should she offer to leave? Or simply to wait in another room during the séance?

  “We might as well sit down,” Mrs. Gittings said before she could decide. “Mr. Cunningham hasn’t arrived yet, and we can’t start without him.”

  “He’s always late,” Mr. Sharpe observed with disapproval. “The young have no manners.”

  “He’s an orphan, Mr. Sharpe,” Mrs. Burke reminded him too brightly.

  “He’s only fatherless and his father died when he was twenty-two, Mrs. Burke,” he reminded her right back. “That was plenty of time to learn propriety.”

  Sarah wondered if the missing Mr. Cunningham wanted to contact his late father, but she didn’t ask. She wasn’t quite sure what the rules of etiquette were for séances. Was it rude to ask whom one wished to contact? Would Madame Serafina ask them outright or would she just know?

  Mr. Sharpe turned back to the window, and the ladies took seats around the center table with the tea things on it.

  “Would you like some tea while we’re waiting?” Mrs. Gittings asked them, almost as if she were their hostess.

  “Nothing for me,” Mrs. Decker said. Sarah figured her mother’s stomach was tied in knots, just as hers was. Sarah also declined. She didn’t think she could swallow a thing.

  “In any case, it’s nice to see some new faces,” Mrs. Gittings remarked in an attempt at small talk.

  “Yes, it is,” Mrs. Burke said with forced enthusiasm.

  Sarah could stand it no longer. “Is there something we should know before . . . before it starts?”

  “Oh, my, no,” Mrs. Burke assured her. “Madame will explain everything. There’s nothing to worry about. The spirits want to help us, don’t they, Mrs. Gittings?”

  “I’m sure they do,” Mrs. Gittings replied with studied neutrality.

  “Yellow Feather does, in any case,” Mr. Sharpe offered from his station by the window.

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nbsp; “Yellow Feather?” Sarah repeated in surprise. “Who’s that?”

  “That’s Madame Serafina’s spirit guide,” Mrs. Burke explained eagerly. “He’s an Indian warrior who passed away over a hundred years ago. He—”

  The sound of the front doorbell ringing surprised them all, and every head turned toward the doorway to see if Mr. Cunningham had arrived at last. They saw the Professor pass by on his way to answer it, and then heard a young man’s voice making apologies for being late. In another moment, he appeared in the doorway.

  He couldn’t have been much older than twenty-two now, so Sarah judged he couldn’t have been “orphaned” very long ago. He was tall and gangly and rather plain, although his manners were just fine as he looked around the room, greeting everyone he knew by name and offering his excuses for being late.

  “A terrible tangle at Madison Square,” he was saying. “A wagon overturned and no one could move an inch down Fifth Avenue for an hour! I finally gave up and walked the rest of the way. Hello, do we have some newcomers today?”

  Mrs. Burke hastened to make the necessary introductions.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he told both Sarah and her mother. “I know Madame can help you. She’s helped me more than I can ever tell you,” he added earnestly.

  Sarah wasn’t sure how to reply to that and neither was her mother, so they simply smiled politely.

  Cunningham walked over to where Mr. Sharpe stood and began inquiring after the older man’s health. Sharpe had only a moment to reply before something caught everyone’s attention, and they all fell expectantly silent. Afterward, Sarah could not remember hearing anything, but she must have. Something had warned them all and compelled them to look up just in time to see a figure clad entirely in black step through the open doorway. In an instant, they were all on their feet.

  Sarah needed no one to tell her this was Madame Serafina, and she was nothing like Sarah had imagined. First of all, she was very young, hardly more than twenty if Sarah was any judge. She was also strikingly attractive. Not conventionally beautiful or merely pretty, but her large, dark eyes shone with an intensity that was almost magnetic. Her fair, flawless skin seemed to glow, and she wore her glossy dark hair pulled severely back into a chignon, a style that truly flattered few women but which actually accentuated her marvelous eyes.

  “Good morning,” she said. Her voice was as soft and sweet as Sarah had expected from one so young.

  “Madame,” Cunningham exclaimed, coming toward her eagerly. “I’m so glad to see you.” He looked more than glad, and for an instant, Sarah thought he might take her in his arms, but he stopped just short and took her offered hand instead.

  “I’m glad to see you, too, Mr. Cunningham,” she said, sounding not even a tiny bit more than politely pleased. Her gaze touched him only for a moment before moving back to Sarah and her mother. “You must be Mrs. Decker,” she said.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Decker said in a feathery voice Sarah hardly recognized. The determined Mrs. Felix Decker had vanished once again in the face of the amazing Madame Serafina.

  Madame reached out and took both of Mrs. Decker’s hands in hers, then closed her eyes for a few long seconds. “I sense pain,” she said without opening her eyes. “Great pain. You have suffered a terrible loss. Someone very close to you. Someone who . . . A child.”

  Mrs. Decker gasped and snatched her hands away.

  Madame Serafina opened her eyes and said, “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “No, no,” Mrs. Decker assured her, clutching her hands to her breast. “It’s just . . . I wasn’t expecting . . .”

  “I know, I know,” Madame soothed, then turned her implacable gaze on Sarah. “I am so pleased you brought your daughter with you today.” She smiled mysteriously, to Sarah’s great relief. Sarah thought she heard Mrs. Burke sigh with relief of her own. “That will make us seven at the table. A lucky number.” She continued to stare at Sarah for a long moment, until Sarah began to feel uncomfortable. Then she said, “I sense that you don’t believe in the power of the spirits.”

  Someone made a small sound of protest, probably Mrs. Burke, but Sarah refused to contradict her. “I’m skeptical,” she admitted.

  Madame nodded knowingly. “But you came because your mother asked you,” she guessed, although she didn’t sound the least bit unsure about her assumption.

  “Will her presence hinder you in any way?” Mr. Sharpe asked with some concern.

  Madame released Sarah from the power of her gaze and turned it on Sharpe. “Not at all. I am not a consideration, in any case. I am merely a tool the spirits use to communicate. If the spirits choose to speak, they will speak. If they do not choose to speak, they will not.” She looked around again, as if making sure everyone was present. “Shall we move into the other room?”

  Without waiting for a response, she turned and was gone, as if she were a spirit herself and could vanish at will. Mr. Cunningham stepped aside so the ladies could pass, although Sarah sensed he wished propriety didn’t constrain him from following at Madame’s heels.

  “This way,” the Professor said from where he had been waiting outside the parlor door, and led them down the hall. The room they entered was in the rear of the house. It was smaller than the parlor and had no windows. A gas jet burned in a sconce on the wall as the one source of illumination. The only furniture in the room was a round table in the center and a large wardrobe against the far wall. Seven chairs had been placed around the table, and a black tablecloth hung nearly to the floor.

  Madame Serafina directed everyone where to sit. Mrs. Decker was to sit to her right, then Mr. Sharpe, then Sarah, then Mrs. Gittings, then Mr. Cunningham, and lastly Mrs. Burke on her left. When everyone was settled, Madame took a moment to look at each person in turn, her dark eyes seeming to penetrate their very thoughts. At least Sarah thought they could when Madame was looking at her. If so, she knew that Sarah was on the verge of bolting from the room. What had ever possessed her to do something so ridiculous?

  “Because we have some new guests with us today, I will explain what will happen,” she began, her voice sounding even more hypnotic in the stillness of the dimly lit room. “Before we begin, we will hold the hands of the person on either side of us. This creates a bond between us and makes it easier for the spirits to communicate with us. Then I will turn out the light and close the door. The room will be very dark. When I have taken my seat again, I will call on my spirit guide, Yellow Feather. He was an Indian warrior who died in battle many years ago, and he is the one who actually speaks to the spirits, not I. In fact, he speaks through me. If he chooses to appear today, he will actually take over my body. You will know because you will hear his voice and not mine when I speak. If any of the spirits have a message for someone here, they will convey it to Yellow Feather. Do you have any questions?”

  Sarah had a million questions, but she didn’t want to speak any of them aloud. Her mother had no such hesitation. “Should we tell you if there’s a particular person we want to contact?”

  Madame smiled kindly. “It’s usually better if I do not know. In fact, I won’t even be conscious during the séance. But you may ask Yellow Feather questions, if you wish, and answer his. Is there anything else you wish to ask?”

  Mrs. Decker couldn’t think of anything, so Madame showed them how they should hold each other’s hands. Each person in the circle would use his left hand to grasp the right wrist of the person next to him. Mrs. Gittings readily took hold of Sarah’s right wrist, but Mr. Sharpe gave Sarah an apologetic glance when he offered her his own wrist. She took his right wrist gingerly in her left hand, finding it oddly uncomfortable to be practically holding hands with a man she’d only just met, but no one else seemed concerned with the arrangement. They had done this before, after all.

  When everyone was properly clasped together, Madame disengaged her own hands and rose from her chair. “I’m going to put out the light now and close the door and then return to my
seat. The room will be completely dark. Then I will call for Yellow Feather.”

  Moving almost silently, she crossed to the door and put out the light. Then she pushed the door shut. More than one person made a small sound of surprise as the room plunged into total darkness. Sarah closed her eyes and opened them again but could see no noticeable difference. She thought she would get used to the dark after a few minutes, but that didn’t happen. She couldn’t even see any light coming through the cracks from where she knew the door to be. A slight rustling told her Madame had returned to her seat. Could those amazing eyes see in the dark, too? Or maybe she just knew the layout of the room from memory.

  They sat for a minute or two with nothing to hear but the sound of their own breathing, and then Madame’s voice broke the silence.

  “Yellow Feather, are you there?” she called. “Yellow Feather, if you’re there, come to me now. I have some seekers here. They are searching for their loved ones. Yellow Feather, can you hear me?”

  Mrs. Gittings’s fingers tightened their grip as they waited in the silence, and Sarah wondered if she was doing the same thing to Mr. Sharpe. Time seemed to be frozen, and Sarah had no idea how long they waited in the silence.

  “Yellow Feather, someone needs to speak with you. Someone needs to contact a loved one.”

  Another long silence. Sarah heard a low humming sound, although she couldn’t tell exactly where it was coming from or even if it came from a human throat. The air in the room seemed to be vibrating with it, or maybe it was just the vibration she sensed and not a sound at all. Then she heard a strangled sound, as if someone were choking.

  Was someone ill? Mrs. Gittings’s fingers tightened again, and Mr. Sharpe’s wrist tensed beneath Sarah’s hand.