Murder on Waverly Place (10 page)

Cunningham ran a hand nervously over his well-oiled hair. “Well, let’s see, we were all in the séance room . . .”

“Sitting around the table, trying to contact the spirits,” Frank supplied. “Who were you holding hands with?”

“We don’t hold hands—”

“I know, you hold wrists,” Frank corrected himself, annoyed. “Whose wrist were you holding?”

“I was holding Madame’s wrist, and Mrs. Decker was holding mine.”

Frank frowned. “Don’t you mean Mrs. Brandt?”

“Who?” Cunningham asked in genuine confusion.

“Mrs.
Brandt
,” Frank repeated. “The lady who was holding your wrist.”

Cunningham finally remembered. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Brandt,” he hastily confirmed.

“Don’t forget again,” Frank warned him and was gratified to see Cunningham swallow nervously. He quickly got back to the subject at hand. “What was happening just before Mrs. Burke screamed?”

This time Cunningham passed a hand over his mouth, then twisted his soft, young hands in his lap. “We were . . . Yellow Feather was trying to contact the spirits for us. He had quite a crowd of them, which is very unusual. Sometimes he can’t get even one! But today . . . Well, he was getting messages from all of them, and he couldn’t make out what they were trying to tell him.”

“There was a lot of noise?”

“Oh, yes, we were all shouting out questions, in case someone had a message for one of us.”

“I thought Mrs. Decker was the one asking questions.”

He didn’t notice that Frank had used her real name. “She was, but when Yellow Feather said so many spirits were there, we . . . I’m afraid we weren’t very polite. We all started shouting at once.”

“What else did you hear?”

“Hear? I . . . I don’t know. Oftentimes we hear noises, but I’m not sure if I heard anything like that today. It was so confusing.”

“Did you hear Mrs. Gittings asking questions?”

His smooth brow furrowed at that as he tried to recall. “I can’t say if she did or not. Like I said, we were all—”

“Being rude, yes, I know,” Frank said. “When did you realize something was wrong?”

“When Mrs. Burke screamed, of course. That’s when we all realized something was wrong.”

“What did you do when she screamed?”

“I . . . I jumped up, I know.”

“Did you let go of Madame’s hand?”

“I suppose I did. I don’t remember, but I must have.”

“Did you open the door?”

“No, Madame opened it. She was calling for the Professor to bring smelling salts.”

“What did you do then?”

“Nothing, I . . . I looked over, across the table, to see what was wrong with Mrs. Gittings. Mrs. Burke was screaming that she’d fainted.”

“What did you see?”

“I saw . . .” His face suddenly went white as he recalled what he had seen.

Frank jumped up and forced Cunningham’s head down between his knees. “Take a deep breath, that’s right, again, keep breathing . . . you’ll be fine now.”

After a minute or two, Cunningham was sputtering in outrage, and Frank released him. He sat upright again, bright red spots burning in his cheeks. “What’d you do that for?”

“You were going to faint,” Frank told him with a hint of disgust.

“The hell I was!” he protested, gathering his pride together as a shield.

Frank didn’t bother to argue. “So you looked down and saw Mrs. Gittings,” he reminded him when he’d taken his seat again.

Cunningham swallowed loudly. “I saw the . . . I saw it sticking out of her back. And the blood on her dress. At least, I realize now it was blood. I couldn’t tell the color. The light was bad and her dress is dark and I just saw . . . Well, I saw the knife,” he added, his courage returning now.

“Did you say anything?”

He wasn’t sure about that. “I may have. I guess I did. I told them to look at her back or something. They still thought she’d just fainted.”

“Then what happened?”

“Mrs. Burke started screaming again. I . . . Someone said we should get out, get the ladies out, I think.”

“Who was it?”

“Sharpe, probably. He’d think of that.”

“So you left the room?”

“I took Madame Serafina’s arm. I was concerned about her, that she’d be upset. I wanted to make sure she was all right. We all went to the parlor.”

“Who sent for the police?”

“I don’t know. When we got to the parlor, everybody was talking at once, and Mrs. Burke was crying, and then a patrolman came in and told us all to stay where we were.”

“Did you see Professor Rogers when you came out of the séance room?”

Cunningham frowned. “I don’t remember.”

“You said Madame called for him to bring the smelling salts,” Frank reminded him.

“She did.”

“Did he bring them?”

“I don’t know. If he did, I didn’t see him.”

“When
did
you see him next?”

Cunningham frowned, trying to remember. “He brought the policeman in. I don’t remember seeing him before that. He must have gone out into the street and found him or something. What’s going to happen now?”

“What do you mean?” Frank asked.

“I mean, what’s going to happen to Madame? This wasn’t her fault, you know.”

“I don’t know anything right now,” Frank informed him. “So I don’t know what’s going to happen to her.”

“You can’t arrest her!” he said, the red spots blooming in his cheeks again. “She didn’t do anything. I know because I was holding her wrist the entire time. She couldn’t have stabbed Mrs. Gittings.”

Which conveniently gave Cunningham an alibi, too, Frank mused. “Did you hear anybody else come into the room during the séance?”

“No, of course not. Nobody could come in unless they came in by the door, and we would have known immediately if anyone opened it.”

“Then that means someone at the séance killed Mrs. Gittings.”

“Why would they do that?” Cunningham asked reasonably. “Why would
anyone
want to kill her, come to that? Besides, we were all holding each other’s hands. Nobody could have stabbed her without someone else knowing it.”

“Then who do you think did it?” Frank asked with interest.

“I have no idea!” Cunningham said, insulted at being asked. “That’s your job, isn’t it? Now, I’d like to leave. I must be home soon. My mother is expecting me.”

“Yes, you can go now,” Frank said wearily.

Cunningham was on his feet and out the door before Frank could even rise from his chair, but when he got back to the parlor, he was surprised to see Cunningham was still there. He was standing over where Madame Serafina still sat on one of the sofas, holding her hand in both of his and speaking to her very earnestly. She stared up at him with her large, dark eyes, her expression guarded and maybe a little frightened. But she was nodding at whatever he was saying.

“Thank you, Mr. Cunningham,” she said when he’d finished. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

He straightened and then, noticing Frank in the doorway, added more loudly, “And don’t allow the police to bully you. You’ve done nothing wrong. And you must send for me if you need anything at all.”

“I will, thank you.” She gave him a wan smile.

He took his leave, and when the front door had closed behind him, Frank turned to one of the cops still standing guard in the hallway. “Where’s O’Toole?”

“He took the little wop upstairs.”

“Go get them both and bring them down here.”

The cop took the stairs two at a time while Frank waited, trying to decide what to do next, when he remembered Mrs. Decker was still waiting. She must be going crazy trying to hear what was happening, he thought. He tapped on the office door and entered to find her sitting behind the desk, going through the drawers. She looked up in surprise.

“Oh, dear,” she exclaimed, laying a hand over her heart. “You startled me.”

“What are you doing?” he asked in dismay.

“Searching the desk,” she replied without a hint of guilt.

“Nothing in it appears to belong to anyone in this house, though. I think it may have been left by a previous occupant.”

Frank closed his eyes and tried to think of a nice way to tell Mrs. Felix Decker that she should mind her own business. When he opened them again, he still hadn’t thought of anything. “Mrs. Decker, I’ve sent for your daughter. I’ll let you know when she gets here.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Malloy. I’m sorry to be so much trouble for you. I know you already have your hands full with a murder without having to worry about me.”

Someone was knocking on the front door, and Frank decided he’d better make sure it wasn’t the press trying to barge in. He hurried out to close the parlor door just in case. To his relief, the cop guarding the door admitted Dr. Haynes, the medical examiner. Frank greeted him just as footsteps alerted him that O’Toole was bringing the Italian boy downstairs.

“What have you found out about him?” Frank asked O’Toole, noting that the boy seemed a little the worse for wear.

“Not much. He says he lives here and works for Madame Serafina doing odd jobs. Can’t get nothing else out of him.” He’d obviously been using a bit of force in his efforts, too. The boy stared defiantly back at them both.

“Would you take Doc Haynes back to see the body, and I’ll take him off your hands?” Frank asked.

“Gladly,” O’Toole replied, handing the boy off to Frank.

The boy glared at him balefully, but Frank ignored him and dragged him over to the parlor door, throwing it open and shoving him inside.

“Nicola!” Madame exclaimed, jumping to her feet. For the first time today she looked truly distressed. The Professor had been sitting in one of the chairs, and he jumped up as well.

The boy caught himself and stiffened instantly, shaking his head at her in silent warning.

“You know this fellow?” Frank asked. “Because if you don’t, I’m going to arrest him for killing Mrs. Gittings.”

“No!” she cried just as Nicola said, “I didn’t kill anyone!”

“Then what are you doing here?” Frank demanded.

“I already told that other cop, I live here. I work for Madame Serafina,” he said, as if reciting something he’d memorized.

“That true?” Frank asked her.

“Yes, it’s true,” she confirmed almost desperately. “He . . . he isn’t involved in this. He wasn’t even here when it happened.”

“Where was he then?” Frank was genuinely curious. O’Toole and his men had searched the house, but they hadn’t found Nicola, yet Frank knew he’d been here.

“He was out,” Madame said before he could answer. “He always leaves the house when we have a sitting.”

“A sitting?” Frank asked.

“That’s what we call it, when people come for a séance.”

“He was hiding.”

The three of them looked up in surprise at the Professor. They’d forgotten he was there. He was staring at Nicola with open dislike.

“I was not hiding!” Nicola protested.

“He killed her,” the Professor said. “It had to be him.”

“I didn’t kill anybody!” Nicola insisted. “Why would I?”

“Because she wanted to send you away,” the Professor said, his voice oddly flat, as if he were trying desperately to hold himself together.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Madame Serafina said, hurrying to his side. “You’re just upset. Nicola would never kill her. Please, sit down, Professor. Nicola, get him some brandy.”

Nicola started for the door, but Frank grabbed his arm, stopping him dead. “Nobody’s going anywhere. Why would Mrs. Gittings want to send you away?” he asked the boy.

His eyes widened in fright, and he glanced at Madame as if for guidance on how to answer.

The Professor answered for him. “He was a distraction. He’s in love with Madame and wants her to run away with him.”

“She was mine long before you ever saw her,” Nicola replied angrily.

“Nicola, please,” Madame cautioned with a hint of desperation. “You’re both upset. Don’t say something you’ll regret,” she added with a meaningful glance at Frank.

“I won’t regret telling the police he killed her,” the Professor said.

None of this was making any sense. “What does Mrs. Gittings have to do with any of you?” Frank asked.

All three of them froze, staring back at him like cornered rats. Suddenly, Frank realized he’d been wasting his time talking to the others, who’d known nothing useful at all. These three knew who Mrs. Gittings was and probably why she’d been killed.

“You,” he said to one of the cops in the hallway. “Take this one back upstairs and keep him there until I send for him.” He shoved Nicola into the cop’s arms. Nicola made a few attempts at resistance until the cop cuffed him a good one, and then he went along quietly.

Frank noticed that Madame winced when Nicola got slugged, but she made no attempt to intervene. She just stood where she was, wringing her hands and glancing apprehensively at the Professor.

“You,” Frank said to the Professor. “Come with me.”

The man followed him obediently to the dining room and took the chair Frank indicated. “What’s your name?” Frank asked, taking out his notebook.

“Professor Ralph Rogers.” The Professor was a man of middle years who’d undoubtedly worked hard to make his way in the world. His hands were clean and well manicured but bore the marks of manual labor performed in the distant past. He’d probably been considered plain in his youth, but the years had added some interesting character to his face. His hair was well barbered and neatly combed. He carried himself well and his voice was cultured. Frank thought he looked like an actor playing the role of a butler. Maybe he was.

“Where do you teach, Professor?” Frank asked idly.

Rogers blinked, but he didn’t back down. “It’s a courtesy title.”

Frank let that pass. “What’s your job here?”

“I serve Madame.”