Lee Fan smiled at Ling’s mother. “I’ll walk Ling to church, Mrs. Chan. She and I have so much to catch up on!”
Mrs. Chan smiled. “Well, that’s awfully nice of you, Lee Fan. You’ve a good soul.”
You are leaving me with the Devil! Ling wanted to shout after her mother.
Lee Fan waited until Ling’s mother had moved several paces ahead. She looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Did you speak to my grandmother?”
Lee Fan could call herself Lulu and dress like a flapper, but Ling knew that, deep inside, Lee Fan carried the same superstitions, the same fears about offending ancestors, as those around her. It was a thread of obligation sewn into the lining of all of them. It bound them tight.
Ling nodded, and Lee Fan’s face lit up. “Well, what did she say? Does she know what happened to my dress? Or did she have something even more important to tell me? Did she mention Tom Kee or a wedding date? Did she have any advice for me at all?”
“Yes” was all Ling said. She’d decided to make “Lulu” work for it.
“Well? What was it?” Lee Fan demanded.
Ling could’ve told her anything: Shave your head and live as a nun. Give me the blue dress. Every morning at dawn, you are to leave three shelled walnuts on a linen napkin for the squirrels of Columbus Park.
“She said you were a foolish girl and to stop bothering her rest,” Ling said.
For a split second, Lee Fan was too shocked to say anything. But then her mouth tightened as she spat the words out: “You’re a liar! My grandmother would never say such a thing. I’ll bet you can’t walk in dreams or talk to the dead at all. You’re just a pathetic little fool trying to get attention. I want my two dollars back!”
“We had a deal. Are you going back on your word?”
“How do I know if you even spoke to my grandmother? There’s no proof! You’re not even fully Chinese,” Lee Fan scoffed. “Why would any of our ancestors want to talk to you?”
Some of Lee Fan’s crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle. No doubt they’d be whispering about this for days to come. Ling’s cheeks burned.
“To think I used to feel sorry for you about what happened.” Lee Fan glanced quickly at Ling’s leg braces. The girls were all staring now, gossiping and gawking, and Ling wanted nothing more than to turn and walk back toward home, to go to sleep and slip into a dream where she could do anything she wanted—where she could run far away.
In a wail of sirens, an ambulance roared past. The street was abuzz with nervous speculation. A moment later, Gracie Leung was hurrying toward the girls, calling Lee Fan’s name.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Lee Fan asked.
Gracie was breathless and her eyes brimmed with tears. “Did you hear? Did you hear?”
“Hear what?” Lee Fan said, exasperated.
“Oh, it’s too awful!” Gracie mewled.
“Honestly, Gracie Leung, if you don’t tell me right this instant—”
“It’s George Huang!”
“What about George?” Ling cut in.
Gracie seemed to register Ling’s presence for the first time. “His mother went to wake him this morning and she couldn’t. She tried and tried. They brought in Dr. Hsu.” Gracie took a deep breath. “They think George has the sleeping sickness!”
The noise in the street crescendoed. The news was spreading quickly from person to person, an infection of gossip.
It felt as if a hole had opened in Ling’s stomach. But I just saw him.
“Ling! Ling!” Her mother was suddenly at her side, a protective arm wrapped around her daughter’s shoulders, as if she could keep her safe forever. For once, Ling didn’t want to push her away. She let her mother hold on tightly, but her eyes searched Pell Street frantically. Yes, the sun had been strong. Yes, there’d been grit in her eyes. But she could’ve sworn that for just a few seconds, it had been George she’d seen standing at the edge of the crowd under a winter sky, shimmering ever-so-faintly around the edges like the dead, his mouth opening and closing in a silent scream.
Dr. William Fitzgerald entered the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult, walking briskly toward the museum’s library. As he passed the collections room, his assistant, Jericho Jones, called after him, but Will did not break stride, forcing Jericho to catch up.
“A club on Long Island, the Spiritual Divine, has asked you to speak at its hall in two weeks. And the Ladies Ghostly Sunday Supper Club has also requested an appearance.”
“No and no,” Will said.
“You’ve also received a request to entertain at little Teddy Sanderson’s tenth birthday party in Brooklyn.”
Will stopped short, his eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. “A child’s birthday party? I’m a curator, for heaven’s sake, not a performing circus clown.”
Jericho shrugged. “They were offering five dollars.”
“Tell them no.”
“Of course. Oh, and Miss Walker called. She said to tell you that she’ll come for you at two o’clock sharp tomorrow and not to be late. She said, and I quote, ‘Tell Dr. Fitzgerald that we’ll be taking my car, as I refuse to ride in that ancient, death-trap Tin Lizzie of his.’”
Will’s face registered nothing. “Thank you. Anything else?”
Jericho winced. “Your lecture group is waiting for you in the library. The Mystical Mediums for Peace Between the Dead and the Living?”
Will’s shoulders sagged. He let out a long sigh. “It’s official. I am a circus clown.”
With Jericho keeping pace, Will marched into the library, where the ten “Mystical Mediums” sat in a neat row wearing identical headbands featuring a third eye emblem affixed to the front.
Will gestured vaguely to the headband. “What is, um… that for?”
A woman in a beaded turban smiled knowingly. “It increases our contact with the spiritual plane!”
Will shot a withering glance at Jericho, who waved all five of his fingers—five dollars—and retreated to the second floor, hiding out in the rows of bookshelves as Will’s voice floated up from below: “Good afternoon. I’m Dr. William Fitzgerald, curator of this museum. Let’s begin, shall we? The history of Diviners is aligned with the history of our country, starting with the indigenous population.…”
Up in the stacks, Jericho whispered to Sam, “He can’t keep giving these lectures.”
“He can if he wants to keep heating the museum,” Sam answered. “Did you ask him about you-know-what?”
“Not yet.”
“Aww, c’mon, Freddy! That was s’posed to be your job.”
“He’ll say no.”
“Then we gotta convince him,” Sam said.
Down below, one of the Mystical Mediums had interrupted Will. “Dr. Fitzgerald, what with all these reports of Diviners these days, wouldn’t you say, then, that it is proof that God Almighty has singled out America as a place for the Divine? For the exceptional, just like Jake Marlowe says?”
“I suppose that depends upon your definition of exceptional.”
“I mean exceptional, sir! The exceptional nation built upon ideals of peace, fairness, and the promise of prosperity.”
Will glanced up at the ceiling mural of beautiful hills, the railroad crisscrossing the verdant nation, the rivers with their original names long forgotten.
“I would argue that every country is built upon dreams and violence. Both leave scars. America is certainly no exception to this.”
“That doesn’t sound very patriotic to me,” a woman grumbled to her seatmate.
“Dr. Fitzgerald, what do you think of your niece’s radio show?” a man asked, and everyone fell into excited whispers. “Did you know she was a Diviner all along? How, exactly, were her talents employed to catch the Pentacle Killer?”
“Yes, tell us about the Pentacle Killer!” the Mystical Mediums begged.
“I’m afraid that’s all for today,” Will said abruptly and walked out.
“Uh-oh,” Sa
m said. “Not again.”
“Go!” Jericho hissed, practically pushing Sam ahead of him on the spiral staircase.
“I thought the lecture was an hour,” a tweedy gentleman protested. “We paid for an hour!”
“Careful there, pal,” Sam said. “You don’t wanna make your third eye all weepy. Listen, how would you folks like an exclusive look at the diary of Liberty Anne Rathbone, the fabled Diviner sister of the great Cornelius Rathbone, huh? If you would kindly follow me to the collections room. This way, please.”
While Sam tended to the tour, Jericho let himself into Will’s office. Will stood facing one of the tall windows, staring out at the wintry street.
Jericho cleared his throat. “Will, they paid in advance.”
“I know.” Will pinched the bridge of his nose. “Give them a free tour or something.”
“Sam’s doing just that.”
“I am indebted to you both,” Will said, turning toward Jericho. “Do you have those articles I asked for?”
Jericho tapped the folder on Will’s desk. “Everything from the past week regarding supernatural sightings, along with today’s newspapers.” He took a deep breath. “And this came for you as well.”
He handed an official-looking envelope to Will, who glanced at the return address—New York State Office of Taxation—with its large red letters stamping out FINAL NOTICE, and put it aside.
“Ah. Thank you, Jericho. Well. Let’s see what we have today.…” Will took a seat at his desk, wiped his spectacles clean, hooked them over his ears again, and dove into the clippings. From the pile he selected four that caught his attention. Next he gave a cursory glance to the day’s headlines, flipping through the pages till he came to a picture of Evie smiling out from under a fashionable hat.
SWEETHEART SEER HOSTS WILD PARTY AT GRANT HOTEL
Nothing could be “DIVINER”
than a night with Evie O’Neill
BY T. S. WOODHOUSE
“It’s a nice picture,” Jericho said, standing beside Will.
Will peered up at him. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to read over someone’s shoulder?”
Jericho’s face remained impassive. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to be rude?”
“Sorry,” Will said, chastened. “I’m sorry, Jericho.”
“It’s all right.” Jericho tapped the clippings Will had put aside. “Why these?”
“They’re all upstate, within a hundred-mile radius of one another.”
“Brethren isn’t too far from that path,” Jericho noted.
“Mmm.”
“That night, when you—when I was shot and you had to administer so much serum at once, was my behavior… what I mean is…” God, what was the matter with him? He could barely get the words out. “Did I frighten Evie?”
“Pardon?”
“Evie. Was she frightened, seeing me like that, with all those tubes and gears inside, knowing what I am?”
“It wasn’t the only unusual circumstance she’s faced in the past few months. She appeared none the worse for it.”
Jericho nodded, letting his breath out slowly. Maybe there was hope after all.
“None the worse for what?” Sam said, pushing through Will’s office door.
“Nothing,” Jericho said, his brows sharpening. “Where are the Mystical Mediums?”
“The Third Eyes? I left ’em to play with the tarot cards.”
“You what?” Jericho said.
“Relax, Freddy. I told ’em the tarot cards can only be read by special people with special powers. Naturally, they think that’s them. Trust me: They’re as happy as clams.”
“That’s a ridiculous analogy. As if someone could gauge the happiness of a mollusk,” Will grumbled, pawing at his messy desk till he found his cigarettes.
What’s eating him? Sam mouthed to Jericho. Jericho slid out the ominous tax letter, and Sam acknowledged it with a curt nod.
During the Pentacle Murders, the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult had drawn sizable crowds. Everyone wanted a look at the professor of the supernatural who was helping the police hunt down the gruesome, occult-obsessed killer. But then the murders stopped. Manhattan’s frenzied pulse beat for other crimes and scandals, and now, once again, the museum had been forgotten by most everyone except the taxman.
Sam cleared his throat. “Professor, if you don’t mind my two cents…”
“I’m fairly sure that I will,” Will said, his eyes on his papers.
Jericho gave Sam a Let it go look, but Sam ignored his warning.
“We’re barely hanging on. A lecture here, a group of self-appointed mystics there. A coupla curious tourists. It’s not enough to keep us off the auction block.”
“We’ve always managed to pull through.”
“Not this time, Professor. That’s a final notice. We need a surefire moneymaker. What’s the biggest thing to hit the city since Chock full o’Nuts started roasting peanuts?”
Will looked up, perplexed. “Chock… full—”
“Diviners! You can’t pick up a newspaper, turn on the radio, or see an advertisement for chewing gum without bumping up against Diviners fever. Seems to me we’re overlooking an obvious gold mine.”
“I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t follow.”
“We put together a Diviners exhibit. Capitalize on the fever while everybody’s feverish. Heck, half the loot in here is about or from Diviners already. Just make sure you add some razzmatazz, and you’re in business.”
“Will, it’s a good idea,” Jericho said.
“See? Even the nihilist agrees. And he likes nothing.” Sam grinned at Jericho, who rolled his eyes. “And… we could get a big name in to draw a crowd. Somebody people would pay to see.”
“Who, pray tell, would that be?”
Sam paused. “Evie.”
The muscles along Will’s jawline tightened. “No.”
“C’mon, Professor. You two can’t be on the outs forever. You gotta break the ice sometime. I saw her last night and—”
“Wait a minute: You saw Evie?” Jericho interrupted.
“Yeah, that’s what I said. Professor, I’m telling ya, one word from her on the radio and we’re made. And if she agrees—”
“Where did you see Evie?”
“The Grant Hotel… If she agrees—”
“But how did—”
“Settle down there, Freddy,” Sam said. “Like I was saying, if she agrees to be our special guest for the Diviners exhibit party, everything’s jake.”
“I’m sure we’ll come up with the money for the taxes without having to sully the ideals of this institution,” Will said sharply.
“So you won’t make nice with her? Not even to save the museum?” Sam held up the notices. “We’ve only got until March before the city takes this place, Professor.”
Will shoved the tax letter beneath the stack of clippings on his desk. “We’ll pull through. As for these sightings, there are more of them in the past couple of months, ever since John Hobbes. Have you noticed?” And just like that, the topics of a Diviners exhibit, the party, and Evie were dismissed. Will tapped a fountain pen in a slow rhythm against the desk. “There’s something there. Somehow I sense that it’s all connected.”
“How?” Jericho asked.
Will was up and pacing. “I don’t know. Yet. But I don’t think I’m going to find out by staying here.” Will stopped beside the tall globe stand. He gave the world a spin, trailing a finger over its curved surface. “That’s why I’m considering going out into the field, like in the old days when I was a researcher. Do you think the two of you could run the museum while I look into a few of these cases? I’d only be gone for a short while. Ten days. A few weeks at most.”
Jericho shook his head. “Will, I don’t think—”
Sam stepped on Jericho’s foot, cutting him off. “Of course we could! Why, the giant and I are a terrific team!”
“Very well, then. It’s settled
. I’ll leave tomorrow around two o’clock.”
Suddenly, Miss Walker’s mysterious telephone message made sense to Jericho. Will had decided to leave long before he brought up the idea. This conversation they were having now was strictly a formality.
“Well then,” Will said abruptly, “I believe I’ll take a walk, if you don’t mind.”
Sam followed Will down the museum’s long hallway. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Professor. I’ve got this all under control.”
“That is precisely the statement that makes me worry,” Will said, throwing wide the front door. The morning sun had given way to the first warning drops of what surely would become a dismal drizzle. He shook out his umbrella.
“Don’t open that in here, Doc,” Sam cautioned.
“Why not?”
Sam shrugged. “It’s bad luck. Everybody knows that.”
“We make our own luck.” Will released the black spiderlike canopy, angling its full bonnet through the door like a shield.
After seeing the Mystical Mediums out, Sam returned to the library to find Jericho perched at a long table, reading as usual. “I’m back. Did you miss me?” he said, dropping into Will’s chair.
Jericho didn’t look up from his book. “Like typhoid. By the way, as regards the party, I told you so. And that’s Will’s chair.”
“Yeah. Comfy. I had no idea it was so soft.”
“Out.”
“C’mon, Freddy. Dad’s not home.”
“Out.”
With a sigh, Sam moved to the Chesterfield. He put his feet up on the table near Jericho’s hands just to annoy him. “Pal, we gotta pull off this Diviners exhibit. We can’t let Will lose the museum.”
Jericho gave Sam a dubious glance as he turned the page. “Since when did you become so invested?”
“I’m a caring fella. Can’t a fella want to do a good turn for another?”
“There’s gold buried in the walls, isn’t there?”
“Look, I got it good here. If the museum goes under, so do I.”
“And there we have it.”
“It’s not just me, pal. You’ve got a square deal, too. How many jobs out there for fellas who read Nietzsche and catalog gris gris bags? We need a plan if we both want to stay employed. This Diviners exhibit is just the ticket. With the professor on the road, we’ve got two solid weeks to put this thing together without him interfering.”