Page 9 of Night Falls on Predicament Avenue
Drawing in a breath, her father finished the conversation in a tone rich with disbelief. “So you say, Euphemia. So you say.”
Mother preferred to take her tea inside, read a book inside, and recline inside. It was the ladylike thing to do. Effie smiled as she reached for the book on the top of her pile. Perhaps this was a rebellion of her own making, not influenced by Polly’smischief. The out-of-doors was a haven, the sky a canopy of light, and the breeze God’s whisper.
After two days, the debacle had decreased in its drama as far as the town was concerned. But inside the James manor, nothing was as it should be. Mother held a vigil by Polly’s bedside. Effie’s brothers came and went in silent solemnity. Father proceeded to treat life as normally as possible while attempting to dispel any lingering wagging tongues and discrimination against his daughters’ untoward behaviors. Effie believed it all to be a continuing nightmare.
The terror of that evening had been overshadowed by Polly’s condition now. She had yet to respond to anyone. Her eyes remained closed, her skin grew paler, she writhed and whimpered—either in pain or from being haunted by the visions of what she’d seen—and Effie could hardly bear it. Polly hadn’t been healthy, but Effie had contributed to pushing Polly over the edge. Were they now waiting for her to die? Plagued by the last visions of her life being the taking of another life?
Ithadhappened, Effie knew. With all of her heart she knew. Yet she lacked Polly’s ability to convince others to believe her. Effie was straightforward, reserved, cautious, and bookish. In the shadow of her younger sister, she had no talent for persuading others to believe an outlandish story of murder. Especially with no evidence to support her claims.
Effie was thankful to be alone now with her thoughts, where she could be completely honest with herself and with God. She opened her book, smoothing the first page with a tender caress.Ben-Hur. She had already read it once, but the adventure, the devotion, thefaith... it spoke to her very soul. Such a story should be heralded. Effie could imagine the chariots, the Romans, the leprous sister, and the mother. She could fathom the agony and the tragedy and the—
“Miss James?”
Startled, Effie slammed the book shut as if she were reading one of Polly’s romance novels Mother so disapproved of.
She noted a carriage had stopped beneath the arched canopy of the drive that curved around and offered shelter at the entrance of the James manor. Before her stood a stooped elderly man dressed in a well-tailored suit, his hat in his hands, wisps of white hair rising from the age-dotted skin of his mostly bald head. He had a round nose, a white beard, and a mustache so full she could hardly see his mouth.
“I apologize for being so forward.” The old man’s tone was confident in spite of his breaking of etiquette. “Do allow me to introduce myself.” His voice was accented and polished. British.
Curiosity piqued, but with her reservedness arousing caution, Effie stiffened, clutchingBen-Hurin her hands. “May I help you? My mother is inside, and my father is not at home.”
The older gentleman smiled, and it warmed his expression.
Effie rather liked him immediately, regardless of her suspicion of the stranger. She looked beyond him to the carriage, noting the form of another man waiting inside it.
“Miss James,” the man began, drawing her attention back to him. “My name is Gus Cropper. I’m the assistant to Mr. Lewis Anderson of New York.”
She perked up at hearing the name Lewis and rubbed her thumb absently over the matching name ofBen-Hur’s author. It was a name she’d long admired. She nodded politely. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Mr. Cropper cleared his throat. “Mr. Anderson was inquiring as to whether he could have a moment of your time?”
“Mytime?” Effie heard the surprised squeak in her voice. Never had a stranger—and a man at that—requested any time of hers. “Are you certain he’s not looking for my father?” Having a prominent bank president as a father could leave her at a disadvantage at times due to the fact that businessmen might seek to approach her by means of persuading her father concerninga financial investment. It was a ploy sometimes used, but never so direct as to approach her prior to a proper introduction—at her private home, no less.
“Yes. You, Miss James,” Mr. Cropper clarified. “He has some questions for you regarding your experience the other evening.”
A pall settled over her. The book slipped from her grip onto the blanketed ground. “I’m afraid not,” Effie replied. She had so hoped the fiasco had blown over.
“It’s of grave importance,” Mr. Cropper added.
“Be that as it may, I see no need to revisit the experience with a complete stranger.” Effie lifted her chin a bit in hopes of appearing firm in her response.
Mr. Cropper locked eyes with her. “Lives hang in the balance, Miss James.”
“They do?” Effie couldn’t help but ask, then bit her tongue at the audacity she’d shown to challenge him.
Instead of being offended, Mr. Cropper tipped his head toward the carriage. “Perhaps my employer could best answer your question?”
Mr. Cropper turned and started back toward the carriage. Effie followed, though warily. This was unorthodox to be sure, and she was in no position to make any more errors in judgment.
The door of the carriage opened, and a lean form stepped outside. The man was wearing a tailored suit with a silk kerchief of azure blue in his chest pocket. He removed his hat and brushed back sandy-brown hair from a broad forehead. His deep-set eyes were piercing, and Effie couldn’t determine whether they were shrewd or something else entirely. Either way, intelligence was etched into every crevice of his face, his chin, his jawline.
After Mr. Cropper made the introductions, Effie found her voice—and the etiquette her mother had drilled into her from an early age. “Mr. Anderson, welcome to the manor. Would you like to come inside? I can have tea and cookies served.”
There was no change in his expression. He dipped his headin acknowledgment. “Thank you, but no, Miss James. If I could have but a moment of your time?” His words were also distinctly British.
“Very well.” It was all so affected and stilted, Effie sensed every warning rising within her. She didn’t know this man, and he refused her proper invitation into their home where his visit would be overseen by house staff as well as by her mother. Not to mention, what business was any of the recent events to him?
Still, Effie extended her arm toward a black iron table and chairs that sat just off the brick driveway amid what would be rose gardens come summer. If Mr. Anderson wished to ask questions, Effie owed it to Polly to try to understand. She noticed Mr. Cropper hung back at the carriage.
