The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (13 page)

“What in the world do you think you’re doing?” he asked. “I arranged for your travel. You leave this afternoon. For Paris.”

“I remember, Papa.”

“You didn’t come home last night.”

“I was busy.”

“Well you’re not going out today. You’ll spend the morning with your mother—apologizing, I hope, and making the best of things—and then you’ll be on a train for New York. If you care to spend a few days in the city, I can have your travel changed.”

“No, Papa.”

“Very well. It was merely an idea.”

“No. I’m sorry, I mean, I am not going.”

Red started its march up Papa’s face. He folded the paper and slapped the desk with it. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m not going.”

“This is not your decision, Irene. I’d hoped that a few years at school would settle your head, but you’ve come back and made a perfect ruin of everything. At this rate, you’ll be lucky to find anyone to take you for a wife. Perhaps a lonely expatriate in Paris will like your spirit.”

“I don’t plan to marry, Papa.”

Papa stared at her for a moment. The red darkened to maroon, until his face looked purple and ready to burst. And then, after an explosive breath, he started to laugh. He folded the paper again, tapped his chin with the crease, and kept laughing.

“Not marry,” he said, when he had finished. “Of course, dear.”

“It’s a perfectly reasonable choice, Papa. Many women are doing it. Independent women.”

He smiled. Not angry, not even frustrated. Amused.

“Of course. Well, darling, you are indeed an independent woman, and I see that your time at school has given you something of a backbone. Let us speak plainly with each other. Today, you will leave this house. Either you will board a train to New York, or you will be out on the street, with nothing but the clothes on your back.” His features softened, and he tapped his chin with the paper again. “Independence is a wonderful thing, Irene, but everything has its price.”

“I know, Papa.” Irene started from the doorway and then paused. “Papa?”

“Yes, my darling girl?”

“I’m going to find the box. I know you’re lying. I don’t know why you are, but I know that you know that someone brought a box to this house yesterday. I’ll find it. And I’ll find the man who killed Sally.”

Papa rose from his chair. Gravity dragged him down, and he leaned on the desk with one hand. “You must forget all that nonsense, Irene. Let it go. You’re only making things worse for yourself.”

“Goodbye, Papa,” Irene said. She blew him a kiss, gave him her jauntiest smile, and felt her heart like winter glass.

“Irene, stop right there—”

But Irene didn’t stop. The last piece of solid ground had given out from beneath her, tumbling away into the abyss, and she was falling. Or flying.

She made her way to the door and let herself out, ignoring her father’s shouts.

The sky was a blue that would only grow brighter, and Irene started down the drive.

Falling. Or flying. Maybe there wasn’t any difference.

Maybe.

On second thought, Irene decided that her bid for independence might have been better after breakfast. The edge of the sun had cleared the horizon, and already the streets were full of men and women, most of them dressed in clothes that were patched and stained from work. Some of them noticed Irene, watching her as though she were a summer bird that had forgotten to fly south for winter. The rest seemed oblivious to her.

Half a block later, her feet already frozen in her thin-soled shoes, Irene decided that while walking out of the house had been a very fine gesture of independence, there was nothing stopping her from taking a cab. It took longer than she thought, and by the time she’d arrived at the Louisiana Grand, it was almost eight in the morning. The hotel was as busy as ever, with the richest and brightest of St. Louis’s guests pouring through its high-ceilinged lobbies like a river. Crystal chandeliers hung over Carrara marble floors and thick Turkish rugs. Gold leaf gleamed on the pilasters and capitals. The restaurant on the second floor was busy, but not overly so, and Irene found herself ensconced in a leather booth, at a white linen table, within minutes.

Independence was not so bad.

She ate, paid, and lingered a bit longer in the quiet bustle of the Louisiana Grand. The noise was like rubbed velvet. Irene loved it. When her toes had thawed, and when the coffee had done its work, Irene knew what she had to do.

She didn’t like it one bit.

The only other person who could reliably confirm the delivery—and, subsequent events notwithstanding, might be able to lead Irene to the murderer—was an annoyingly obtuse Irishman named Cian.

She took a cab to the edge of Kerry Patch.

“Miss,” the cabbie said as he took her fare, “if you don’t mind my saying so, the Patch isn’t the right part of town for a lady like you. If you want to see some of St. Louis, I can drive you out along the riverfront or take you to the old World’s Fair grounds.”

“Thank you, but no.” Irene slipped out of the car before the man could insist. The cold wasn’t as bad today, and the sky had deepened to crystalline blue. Irene plunged into Kerry Patch, amazed at the rapid change as she left the rest of the city behind. Brick streets turned to freezing, ankle-deep mud. People huddled on the street corners—mostly women and children—obviously cold and even more obviously hungry. Irene kept her clutch hidden inside her coat, and she kept her fingers on the revolver, but mostly she tried to keep her eyes on the ground.

A whistle behind Irene made her glance back, but she saw nothing out of the ordinary. As she turned around, she crashed into someone. Strong hands closed over her arms, pinning her elbows to her sides and steering her towards the mouth of an alley.

“Lady, keep your mouth shut and you’ll be just fine,” a voice said. The reek of alcohol coated the words. Irene glanced up, but all she saw was a bristly beard and bloodshot eyes. The alley loomed closer. Irene threw pleading looks at the men and women walking past her, but they turned their faces away.

Irene let her legs give out.

The man holding her stumbled, and one foot caught in a frozen trough of mud. As the man’s weight dragged him off balance, Irene twisted free. She brought the revolver up, swinging as hard as she could, and slammed the barrel of the gun into the man’s mouth.

Bone cracked. The man spat blood. It landed on Irene’s cheek. Hot and cooling quickly.

She pulled free as the man fell and then she ran. Behind her, the man howled.

Her shoes had little purchase on the frozen ground, but Irene ran as fast as she dared. Dilapidated buildings raced past her. She glimpsed signs, but caught nothing more than fragmented images. Fear made thought difficult.

Memories of the previous night surged up. The golems tearing a man apart. The spiders. The chase.

There. Ahead of her, a sign she recognized.

Patrick’s.

Irene threw herself at the door. It refused to open. She pounded on the wood.

“Patrick,” she shouted. “Open up. Patrick! Open up!”

Behind her, the surface of the crowd roiled like troubled waters.

And then the door opened, and Patrick stood there with mussed hair and sleepy eyes.

“What—”

Before he could finish, Irene darted inside, slammed the door shut, and put her back to the wood.

Patrick slid the bolt home. A moment later, the wood thumped, and Irene swallowed the noise in her throat. Her hands closed manically around the grip of the revolver.

“Go away,” Patrick shouted. “We’re not open.”

“Open the fucking door,” a voice said. “I saw her.”

“Get lost before I break your head,” Patrick said.

One last, frustrated thump came through the door, and then silence.

“Well,” Patrick said. “You again.” He wore a rumpled undershirt that showed off a nice pair of shoulders—very interesting shoulders, to Irene’s way of thinking—and a pair of trousers. His feet were bare, and he moved from foot to foot on the freezing floor. “Come on,” he said. “It’s cold, isn’t it?”

Patrick led her back to a small room at the rear of the bar. He stirred a pot-bellied stove to life, stoking the flames with coal from a bucket, and the room began to warm. Waving Irene into a chair, Patrick sat on the unmade bed, pulling the blankets around him.

“I don’t think I caught your name,” Patrick said. “Seems like I should know the women who come pounding at my door begging for help.”

“Has there been more than one?”

Patrick smiled. “No. Just the one.”

“My name is Irene.”

“Did you kill Cian Shea?”

Irene laughed and shook her head. “You saw what happened. He saved my life. Those men—” She cut off, feeling a wave of nervous dizziness sweep over her. “I wouldn’t have hurt him anyway.”

“You looked pretty serious to me.”

“It was a misunderstanding.”

“Are you and I going to have a misunderstanding? I’d hate to be shot before I have my breakfast.”

Irene laughed in spite of herself, and Patrick’s grin spread. “No,” Irene said. “No misunderstandings. I need your help.”

“Since I’m not going to be getting any more sleep,” Patrick said, “give me half a minute to get dressed and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Irene moved back into the chilly main room of the bar with a twinge of regret as she saw Patrick tugging off his shirt. Good as his word, Patrick followed her a few minutes later, dressed in coat and shirt and shoes, his hair wet and combed. He toasted a few slices of bread at a gas stove and asked, “What can I do for you, Miss Irene? Besides save your life from the everyday trouble of Kerry Patch.”

“Thank you,” Irene said. “I’m sorry I didn’t say that earlier.”

Patrick handed her a piece of toast, which Irene took and picked at. “You looked a bit rattled,” Patrick said. “I told you the first time that this wasn’t your kind of place.”

“I’m starting to think you were right.”

“You’re looking for Cian again.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

Patrick piled his toast on a plate and joined her at the bar. “Maybe?”

“Maybe. Cian brought my father a box. Within the hour, someone had come to the house and stolen that same box. I thought, at first, it had been Cian. Now I’m not so sure.”

“I can help you there. It wasn’t Cian. He’s not the dishonest sort.”

Irene nodded. “I was afraid of that. Then how do I find the person who stole it?”

“Why do you need to find it?”

“It’s a long story. Besides, it belongs to my father, not to some thief.”

Patrick ate his toast in silence, and Irene continued to tear pieces of crust from hers.

“Well,” Patrick said after a few more bites, “I can think of a few ways to start. You can ask some of the local fences, see if the box has shown up. You don’t know what was in it?”

Irene shook her head.

“Pity. Whoever took it probably tossed the box at the first chance and kept whatever was inside. Still, you can ask. If they have it, it’ll cost you. Especially looking the way you do.”

“What’s wrong with the way I look?”

Patrick’s grin threatened to split his face. “Nothing, doll. Nothing at all. You might as well have a dollar sign on the back of that pretty little coat, though. You look like a million bucks, and a few of the boys might think you should share the wealth.”

“Aside from the fences, what can I do?”

“Well, you can ask Cian who hired him to deliver the box. If you know that, you might have an idea of what was in it and who might steal it.” He took another bite, chewed, and swallowed. Then he said, “That’s a bit more dangerous, Miss Irene. You might want to let this go.”

“I can’t let it go. I do have an idea, though, of what was in the box. Something to do with a secret cult. I’m not sure on the details, but it might have been a talisman or a ritual tool.”

Patrick sighed. “I was afraid of that. When I saw the golems—” He stopped and waved a half-eaten piece of toast.

“You knew those were golems? You know about golems?”

“What I know would probably fit in one of your tiny little hands, Miss Irene. But I know enough to keep my head down when golems show up. Whoever is making those things means serious business. I thought they were here for Cian, but if you’re right—well, they might have been here for you.”

“And how do I find out who made them?”

“You don’t. The smart bet, the safe bet, is to hop a train out of town and lie low for a few weeks.” Patrick dropped the last piece of toast on his plate, looked at her, and sighed. “You’re not that type, though, are you?”

Irene shook her head.

“The pretty ones always get me in trouble. Start with the fences, then. I’ll do a bit of asking. No promises, but if I hear anything, I’ll send word. Where can I find you?”

“The Louisiana Grand. I’ll be taking a room there.”

Patrick whistled. “A million bucks, doll. A million bucks. If you ever need a good-looking man on your arm, just say the word.”

“I will,” Irene said. “As soon as I find him.”

Patrick feigned a wince, smiled, and devoured the last piece of toast.