“Don’t you take some kind of regular medication to control that?” Nick asked, frowning as Perry struggled to catch his breath.
Perry shook his head. “I used to, but I don’t have health insurance now.”
“Christ Almighty.”
Nick was staring at him in exasperation. “It’s not bad in the summer. Or even the spring, really. It’s just when it gets really cold that I sometimes have trouble,” Perry assured him.
“No problem, then. Except you happen to live in Vermont.”
Perry shrugged this off. His breathing was already steadying again. He turned and led the way into the quiet building.
“Can’t stay away from the place, can you?” A plump, dark-haired girl greeted Perry from behind the reference desk. Then she noticed that Nick was actually with him and not just waiting in line. Her gaze grew curious. “Why, hello.”
“Hi.”
“We’re just going to look through the archives,” Perry said, vaguely irritated by Patti’s instant interest in Nick. Nick didn’t even seem to notice it -- maybe he was used to being a chick magnet. Maybe his thoughts were on other things -- he wore that dark and brooding look again as he stared around at the brightly lit room, the construction paper decorations, the flyers of local events.
Patti said, “Not much of a vacation, is it?”
Perry smiled politely, but he was thinking that since Nick had shown up, his vacation had improved immeasurably.
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The next three hours they spent poring over books and plastic-bound copies of the old Gazettes. Whether it was of any use was hard to say; it was clear that Nick did not think a lot of this kind of investigative work. He’d have preferred to be out pounding the pavement --
and maybe a few heads. Every so often he would push back his chair and go stand at the window framed by little Christmas lights, staring out at the gloomy, wet afternoon.
It wasn’t hard to picture Nick in a fedora facing down a pack of hired goons. He had the kind of face that would have looked perfect on a ’40s pulp fiction cover.
“What are you looking at?” Nick asked suddenly, jarring Perry out of his reflections. He hadn’t noticed he was staring, and he colored.
Nick’s hard gaze continued to hold his -- a strange moment passed -- then Nick glanced back out the window and said, “Anything interesting in those papers?”
“Well, one thing,” Perry said slowly, still reading. “The Underground Railroad operated in these parts, and Oswald Hennesey was a fervent abolitionist.”
“Oswald being a descendent of the Hennesey Farm Henneseys?”
Perry nodded. “Did you ever read a book called The House of Dies Drear?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I read it in junior high. It’s about this kid who moves into a house that was used in the Underground Railroad. Everybody thinks the house is haunted by the ghost of an abolitionist named Dies Drear, but it turns out that the family next door is trying to scare people away so they can steal the treasure buried beneath the tunnels.”
“Oh boy,” Nick said. “I see where this is heading.”
“I’m just sayin’…” Perry was grinning as he returned to his reading.
However he didn’t find anything indicating that Hennesey Farm was actually part of the Underground Railroad let alone that it contained secret passages, and it turned out that Oswald Hennesey had not even lived on the estate. After that brief excitement, Perry’s reading was pretty boring until he found a couple of 1920s newspaper clippings about Henry Alston buying Hennesey Farm.
“Here’s a picture of Verity Lane,” he said, offering one of the books to Nick.
Nick studied the smudged and faded photos. Lane had been a flat-chested, platinum blonde with a bow mouth and wide eyes. Vaguely reminiscent of a Jean Harlow, Lane had been beautiful in the way of women of her era.
Perry was still reading through the clippings. “This file is almost all about the Alstons.”
The papers had apparently routinely regaled Depression-era readers with reports of wild parties at the Alston Estate attended by the celebrities and VIPs of the day. Unsurprisingly, the Shane Moran robbery had made the headlines.
“Here’s some stuff on the party itself.”
Nick set aside the pictures of Verity Lane and looked over Perry’s shoulder.
94 Josh Lanyon
Perry read, “It was a gala event. Chinese lanterns decorated the terrace. The guests dined on roasted squab and danced to the music of Ted Olsen’s Orchestra. Just before midnight, gangster Shane Moran burst in with his gang, robbing the gentlemen and relieving the ladies of their jewels. The famed Alston sapphires, including a necklace valued at over twenty thousand dollars, were sna ched from the mistress
t
of the house.
“I wonder what that necklace would be worth now,” Perry interrupted himself to add.
“Plenty,” Nick answered.
Subsequent articles dealt with the police hunt for the gangsters. Two of the men were eventually captured at a speakeasy in Sugarbrush, but the others had disappeared. Moran, of course, had only eluded capture for a couple of days before being cornered in the woods surrounding the estate. The official story was that he had refused the chance to surrender peaceably and had been shot to death by local law enforcement.
There was no explanation -- oddly enough, there was not even speculation -- as to why Moran had tried to return to the scene of the crime. No trace had ever been found of the jewels and other valuables taken on that long ago midsummer evening.
Thoughtfully, Perry closed the binder.
“What?” Nick inquired, studying his face.
“There couldn’t be anyone still left from that fateful party, could there? If someone had been twenty then, they would be in their nineties now, wouldn’t they?”
“Pretty old to be pulling pranks at the old homestead,” Nick agreed, seeing where this was going.
“Nobody at the estate is that old. Mr. Teagle is in his seventies, and Miss Dembecki must be around there. Mrs. Mac is probably…” Perry squinted, trying to place Mrs. Mac.
“Sixties,” Nick said with certainty. “Stein’s probably a little younger. Not a lot.”
It was clear to Perry that Nick was getting restless.
They finished poring over the records of houses in the area, and Perry found a map that he showed Nick.
They bent over it, heads close together, and out of the corner of his eyes he could see the blue shadow beneath Nick’s smoothly shaven cheek, the flicker of his eyelashes, the strong, uncompromising chin and blunt nose.
Nick’s eyes flicked his way as though feeling Perry’s attention, and then returned to the map.
“Doesn’t look like the basic structure changed externally. They mostly added walls inside, making more rooms.”
They finished at the library and walked out on the street. It was about four o’clock and already getting dark. Nick glanced at his watch, then at Perry who -- red plaid scarf wrapped protectively over his mouth and nose -- was gazing at him hopefully.
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“You want to go see that damn matinee, don’t you?” he said, resigned.
“Unless you have plans,” Perry said politely through the folds of worsted.
Nick sighed.
They found Nick’s truck and drove over to Dove Street, Perry gazing silently out the window at the houses decorated for Christmas. Wire-framed lighted reindeer pretended to nibble sparse, brown lawns. Colored icicles dangled from eaves, and air-blown Santas bravely bobbed beneath the sleet and rain.
Perry had never felt less enthused about the holiday. Last year he had been full of hopes for the future. He had just moved into his airy tower at the Alston estate and was enjoying having his own place at last. His unease hadn’t begun until later. He’d found the job in the library, the painting was going well, and he’d just met Marcel online. He had dreamed that perhaps by the same time the following year, he and Marcel might…well, no use thinking that way now.
SAINTS AND SINNERS STARRING JACK OAKIE AND VERITY LANE read the lit marquee atop the Players Theater.
Nick parked in the mostly deserted parking lot in the back and said, “Don’t ever say I never did anything for you.”
“I would never say that,” Perry returned quite seriously, pulling his scarf up again.
They walked inside the old movie house; Nick bought a giant tub of popcorn with the air of a man drowning his sorrows in butter topping, and they found seats in the empty theater.
The film was already about five minutes in, but it didn’t matter. As far as Perry could make out, it was something to do with an heiress running away to be with her horse trainer boyfriend. The horse trainer turned out to be no good, but the owner of the stable was one of those square-jawed good guys -- and he was approved by the heiress’s parents -- so it looked like everything was going to work out.
Nick offered his tub of popcorn at frequent intervals, and every so often their hands brushed diving into the carton of hot kernels.
Verity Lane was small and blonde and animated. To Perry she looked like all those other small, blonde, pert actresses of her day. He did not get a particular sense of her personality -- she seemed like a squeaky-voiced anachronism, a little platinum ghost come to life for a few hours.
What about her had inspired Shane Moran to risk death? It was a mystery to Perry.
Maybe Nick had a different opinion. He glanced over. Nick watched without expression; Perry could see the shadows from the projector play across his face.
He tried to picture Nick married to someone, but the picture just wouldn’t form.
His thoughts wandered as Verity Lane flirted and wisecracked and wept through the remaining twenty minutes of film. What had happened to Verity after Shane Moran was 96 Josh Lanyon
killed? wondered Perry. Had she and Henry Alston remained together? Henry had lost his fortune a year of so after Moran was shot to death. Had Verity gone back to making movies?
He didn’t remember her as one of those aging movie queens on late-night TV. He had the vague notion she’d quit making movies. He couldn’t recall seeing her in anything as she was older; she had made the transition to talkies, but then what?
“Say,” Verity sassed in the arms of a dime-a-dozen matinee idol, having the last line before the fade to black. “Just what kind of a gal do you think I am?”
Nick snorted. He turned to Perry. In the darkness Perry could only see the gleam of eyes and what might have been a resigned grin. “Happy now?” Nick asked softly, and there was a note in his voice…indulgent?
And with an uneasy flash, Perry realized he was happy. Happy because Nick was with him. It wiped the smile off his own face. In a week or two Nick would be gone -- they would probably never see each other again. Getting attached to Nick would be even stupider than getting attached to Marcel had been.
It was dark when they walked out of the theater.
Perry was thinking how much he didn’t want to head back to the Alston mansion, when Nick said casually, “Let’s grab a beer.”
They crossed the street to a disreputable-looking bar with a neon sign offering a half-tilted cocktail glass. Inside the bar was dark and smoky -- although no one had legally smoked there for several years -- and a jukebox was playing the Young Dubliners. A couple of hard young men in flannel shirts hunched over the bar talking to the bartender.
It was the kind of place Perry would not have dreamed of setting foot in on his own, but with Nick beside him, it held all the fascination of a quick trip to a foreign land.
Nick nodded toward a table, and Perry sat down while Nick went to the bar and ordered two beers. Perry watched Nick chatting and smiling with the men at the bar -- he was obviously no stranger to the place.
“You want anything to eat?” Nick asked, setting the beer in front of Perry.
“They have food here?” Perry said, surprised.
Nick nodded.
Perry hesitated. “Are you having something?”
Nick read the hesitation correctly. And ordinarily he would have figured it was the kid’s problem he didn’t know how to budget, but…he was feeling flush. He had the Los Angeles job, and Roscoe had even offered an advance on his first paycheck. And…he liked to see Foster eat. He said brusquely, “Yeah. Why don’t we get the potato skins? We can share.
My treat.”
He was rewarded with that shy smile.
“I guess it was kind of a waste of a day,” Perry said later as they ate potato skins stuffed with golden cheddar cheese and bacon and sour cream. Nick had ordered a couple more The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks
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beers by then, and under the influence of alcohol the kid had relaxed and grown chatty and confidential.
Nick shrugged.
“Do you think the sheriff will let us know what they learn?”
“You’re assuming they’ll learn anything,” Nick said grimly, and Perry laughed. He was laughing a lot. Nick decided he didn’t mind.
A new song came on the jukebox. A slow, romantic ballad, and Perry said suddenly,
“Why didn’t your marriage work out?”
Nick’s face closed.
“Sorry,” Perry said quickly. “I just…”
Nick said abruptly, “It didn’t work out for the same reason a lot of marriages don’t work out. By the end of it, we were completely different people than when we started. We didn’t have anything in common.”
Perry nodded. “Did you have anything in common when you started?”
It seemed an obvious question, but Nick stared at him. Then he gave a funny laugh.
“Yeah, we came from the same town. I don’t think it occurred to me we might need more.
My parents were together for fifty-five years -- till my old man died.”
“My parents are still together,” Perry offered.
“You an only kid?” Nick asked.
Perry nodded, and Nick nodded too as though this confirmed his thoughts.
They ate for a time in silence. Then Nick said, “I’ve been thinking about this séance.”
Perry’s mouth twisted, but he said, “I bet I know what you’re going to say.”
“Oh, you do?”
“You’re going to say it would be useful to watch everyone who takes part in it, and that I should agree to attend.”