Murder on Waverly Place (9 page)

“I don’t know why you’ve detained all of us,” Sharpe was protesting even before Frank had a chance to sit down himself. “You can’t think any of us were responsible for what happened to Mrs. Gittings.”

“Somebody stuck a knife into Mrs. Gittings’s back,” Frank reminded him. “If it wasn’t one of the other five people in that room, who was it?”

“I . . . I’m sure I don’t know,” he sputtered. Plainly, he hadn’t thought of it in those terms.

“I don’t know either,” Frank said, keeping his voice respectful so the man would have no reason to take offense. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the notebook and pencil. “What is your name, sir?”

He didn’t like this one bit, but he said, “Sharpe. John Sharpe.” He gave his address with equal reluctance, indicating that he, too, lived on the affluent Upper West Side.

Frank wanted to know what a man like Sharpe was doing at a séance in Greenwich Village, but he refrained from asking. There would be time for that later. “I’d like to know what you remember about what happened in there.” Frank nodded in the direction of the room where the dead woman lay.

“We were sitting around the table,” he said as if the words were being pulled from him like so many aching teeth. He must have been embarrassed to be caught in such a situation, and he hated having someone like Frank know about it. Like most people of his social class, he’d consider the police little better than the criminals they arrested.

“I know that part. You were holding each other’s wrists, trying to talk to the spirits, and there was a lot of noise and confusion. What did you hear?”

“Yellow Feather, that’s Madame’s spirit guide, he was shouting. A lot of spirits were trying to get his attention, and he couldn’t make sense out of what they were saying.”

“What else did you hear?”

He tried to remember. “Noises, very strange noises, like music but more like an orchestra warming up than a real melody.”

Frank nodded encouragingly. “Who were you holding hands with?”

“We don’t hold hands,” Sharpe reminded him stiffly. “We clasp each other’s
wrists
.”

“All right, whose
wrists
were you clasping?” Frank asked, managing not to sound annoyed.

“I was clasping Mrs. . . . Mrs. Brandt’s wrist with my left hand, and Mrs. Gittings was holding my right one.”

Sharpe had won some points with Frank for trying to protect Mrs. Decker’s identity.

“When did you notice something was wrong with Mrs. Gittings?”

He gave this a moment of thought. “I wasn’t really paying close attention to her. I was listening to Yellow Feather and trying to make some sense out of what the spirits were saying.”

“Did you hear her say anything or make any kind of sound?”

“I’ve been asking myself that question. If someone stabbed her, surely she cried out, but I have no recollection of it. I didn’t notice anything at all until she let go of my wrist.”

“How soon was this before Mrs. Burke screamed?”

“A few seconds, no more. I probably didn’t really notice until Mrs. Burke screamed, I was so intent on . . . on Yellow Feather.”

Frank managed not to smirk. He wouldn’t get very much further with Sharpe if he let his true feelings about the séance show. “What did you do when she screamed?”

“I . . . Nothing at first. I didn’t know what had happened, but then Mrs. Burke started yelling that Mrs. Gittings had fainted. Someone opened the door and started calling for the Professor to bring smelling salts. Madame was the one calling, so she must have opened the door. I could see because of the light from the hallway that Mrs. Gittings was on the floor.”

“At what point did you let go of Mrs. Decker’s wrist?” Frank asked, forgetting to use the wrong name.

Sharpe didn’t notice. “I’m not sure.”

“Were you still sitting down when the door opened?”

“Oh, yes. No sense getting up and stumbling around in the dark, is there?”

Frank supposed there wasn’t. “Had you let go of Mrs. Decker’s wrist by then?”

He shook his head. “Probably, but I can’t be sure. What does it matter? You don’t think she stabbed Mrs. Gittings, do you?”

Frank didn’t bother to answer him. “When you saw Mrs. Gittings on the floor, what did you do?”

“I . . . I knelt down beside her.”

“Why?”

He seemed surprised at the question. “To see if I could help. I didn’t touch her. One doesn’t lay hands on a woman in a situation like that, of course, especially a woman who’s practically a stranger.”

“You didn’t know her well?”

“No. I met her at my first séance.”

“Was she always here when you attended a séance?”

“Yes, she was.”

“Do you know who she was trying to contact in the spirit world?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” he snapped.

Frank supposed Mr. Sharpe didn’t share Mrs. Decker’s view that a spirit had murdered Mrs. Gittings. “I’m just trying to find out more about her,” Frank explained mildly, although he was actually trying to find out how well Sharpe knew the victim. “When did you realize she’d been stabbed?”

“I . . . Not until someone, Cunningham, I think, said something. ‘Look at her back,’ or something like that. That’s when I saw the handle of the knife and the . . . the blood.”

“Did you try to help her when you saw she’d been stabbed?”

“What could I do? I’m not a doctor,” he protested. “Besides, she . . . she wasn’t moving, and her eyes were open, staring.” He looked away, and Frank noticed his finely manicured hands were knotted into fists. Not a man accustomed to sudden death.

“Whose idea was it to leave the room?”

“Mine, I’m sure,” he said, although Frank thought he might be making the claim to make himself look better. “Mrs. Burke was already hysterical. We had to get the ladies out of there.”

“Did the Professor bring the smelling salts?”

“What?”

“You said Madame called for him to bring the salts. Did he bring them?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did you see him at all?”

“I . . . Yes, he was in the doorway when we started out of the room. Someone told him Mrs. Gittings had been stabbed.”

“What was his reaction?”

“His reaction? What do you mean?”

“Was he surprised, shocked, angry, frightened?”

“How should I know? I was concerned about getting the ladies out of there.”

“And whose idea was it to get the police?”

“Not mine,” Sharpe told him, not bothering to hide his contempt. “Before I had a chance to settle the ladies, an officer was here taking everyone’s name and telling us not to leave.”

“So you didn’t see anyone enter or leave the room once the six of you were inside for the séance?”

“Of course not. The room only has one entrance, and if anyone opened the door, we would have noticed immediately.”

“Even with all the noise and confusion?”

“We would have noticed if the light came in,” he insisted. “We couldn’t see a thing until after Mrs. Burke screamed and Madame opened the door. Now if you’re finished with me, I have an appointment.”

“Yes, that’s all for now,” Frank said, but Sharpe was already on his feet and heading for the door.

After Sharpe left, Frank waited a few moments, going over in his mind what he’d learned so far. Odd how no one seemed to know anything about the victim. One of the five would have had to kill her, and so far three of them professed to know nothing about her. He was starting to think that when he found the one person who’d known her, he’d have the killer. Could it really be so simple?

The sound of a disturbance distracted him, and he hurried out into the hallway to see what was going on. The noise was coming from the back of the house, and when he opened the door that led into the kitchen, he saw Officer Donatelli scuffling with a slender young man.

“What’s going on?” Frank demanded.

The young man looked up, startled, and the distraction was enough to give Donatelli the advantage. In an instant he had the fellow sprawled facedown on the floor with his knee in the middle of his back. Donatelli looked up, grinning with satisfaction. “I just got here and found this fellow trying to sneak out the back.”

5

“
L
ET GO OF ME! I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!” THE FELLOW WAS complaining.

Frank reached down, grabbed him by the back of his shirt, and hauled him to his feet when Donatelli obligingly removed his knee. “Who do we have here?”

The young man was plainly Italian and just as plainly terrified to find himself in the hands of the police. “I was making a delivery! I have to be on my way or I’ll lose my job,” he bluffed.

Frank looked him over. He was dressed all in black close-fitting clothes and soft slippers that were obviously not meant for the street. “What were you delivering?”

“I . . . I . . .” He looked around wildly, as if trying to find the answer hanging on one of the kitchen walls. “Eggs,” he finally decided.

Frank glanced around the pristine kitchen. “I don’t see any eggs.”

“And what were you carrying them in,
paesano
?” Donatelli asked cheerfully. “Your pockets?”

“I . . . I left my basket outside. I’ll go get it!”

He lunged toward the back door, but Frank still held him by the shirt, and he pulled him back with a jerk. “Not so fast. Now tell me again what you’re doing here, and this time, it better be the truth.”

The young fellow glanced up at Donatelli, who nodded grimly.

“I . . . I work here,” he admitted reluctantly.

“What do you do?” Frank asked skeptically. He didn’t know any Italian house servants.

“I . . . I fix things.”

The kitchen door opened again and this time O’Toole stuck his head in. “What’s going on here?”

“Officer Donatelli caught this fellow trying to sneak out the back door,” Frank reported.

“Sneak
out
?” O’Toole asked. “That’s impossible. We searched the whole house when we got here, and he wasn’t in it. He must’ve been sneaking
in
.”

Frank looked questioningly at Donatelli.

“He was definitely inside when I got here. I caught him just as he slipped out the back door,” the officer insisted.

Frank turned back to the young man. “Which is it? Were you inside or out?”

The fellow’s dark eyes darted to O’Toole and back to Frank again. He’d chosen Frank as the more dangerous adversary. “I was inside. Hiding,” he added when O’Toole started to protest.

Before Frank could reply, they could hear shouting coming from the front of the house. The young man Frank had left in the parlor was starting to demand his right to leave the premises. He was likely to get away if Frank didn’t tend to him immediately.

“O’Toole, would you look after this fellow for me while I take care of that loud gentleman?” He passed the young man to O’Toole, who dragged him out as he demanded to know where he had been hiding himself. Frank turned to Donatelli, who asked, “What’s going on here?”

Frank told him as briefly as he could.

“Talking to spirits?” Donatelli asked in amazement.

“That’s not the worst of it. Mrs. Brandt’s mother is here.”

“Mrs. Brandt?”
Donatelli worshipped Sarah Brandt.

“That’s right. She’s a rich society lady, and we don’t want her name to get in the newspapers. She told the cops who got here first that she’s Sarah Brandt, so I want you to go get Mrs. Brandt and bring her here so she can take her mother home. Can you do that?”

“What if she’s off delivering a baby or something?”

“Then find her.”

“Yes, sir.”

Donatelli was gone in an instant, and Frank turned his attention back to his suspects. The well-dressed young man was still shouting when Frank found him in the parlor. He had the grace to stop when he saw Frank glaring at him.

“I . . . I demand to be released,” he tried.

“Just as soon as you’ve answered some questions. Come with me.” As he waited for the young man to join him, Frank glanced at the two remaining occupants of the parlor. Madame Serafina was beginning to look a little less composed than she had before, and the Professor was positively ashen. He was standing by the door, as if on guard, although there were two patrolmen standing right outside in the hallway. “You, sit down someplace,” Frank told him, and then he pointed the young man to the dining room.

When they were seated with the door safely shut, Frank asked him his name.

“Albert Cunningham,” he said, less sure of himself now that he was alone with Frank. He was younger than Frank had initially guessed, maybe not even twenty-one or -two, but just as neatly groomed and well dressed as Sharpe. He might be considered handsome in a few more years, when life had etched some character into his well-formed face. Now he was merely young. He gave an address not quite as fine as the other séance attendees boasted, but still in a very good neighborhood of the city.

“What were you doing here today, Mr. Cunningham?” Frank asked without expression.

Cunningham was instantly suspicious or perhaps just a bit guilty. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I asked. What were you doing here? The others said they were trying to contact some dead relatives.”

“I . . . I wanted to speak with my late father,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Did you?”

“Well, no, not today.”

“Have you spoken to him before?” Frank asked curiously.

“Yes, a number of times,” he reported somewhat defensively.

“So you’ve been here many times in the past?”

“I . . . I suppose you could say that.”

“And you knew Mrs. Gittings very well?”

“No, not well . . . at least, not
very
well. I . . . she’s always here, of course, but we don’t . . . I can’t say we’re exactly acquainted.”

Frank nodded. This was what he’d been expecting. Nobody, it seemed, knew the mysterious Mrs. Gittings. “Tell me what happened today.”