Rachel Alexander 04 - Lady Vanishes by Carol Lea Benjamin Page A
Authors: Carol Lea Benjamin
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clipped Dashiell’s leash onto his collar, walking him to the window on the far side of the door, lifting the window as high as it would go, climbing in, then whistling for Dashiell to follow him, the exact note I’d just used to call him out of Harry’s office.
I waited. A hand came out from inside. I took the hand— the sticky one—and let Jackson help me through the window. Then he closed it carefully, turned the lock, and did an even more surprising thing. He turned the garden lights back on, leaving a small dab of yellow paint on the light switch that matched the yellow paint on Dashiell’s leash and on my wrist.
When Jackson had handed me the leash and gone in the direction of the stairs, I wanted nothing more than to head home and read my fax. But there was something more important to do now. I wanted to see who stayed late, who Venus might have been afraid would overhear her call. So instead of heading for the front door, I waited for Jackson to disappear; then, with Dash trailing after me, I began to climb the stairs.
Chapter 14
It Was Just an Accident
I could hear him from the middle of the first flight of stairs; not Samuel, a different voice, deeper, rougher, the voice of someone without much education.
“I’m goin’ get it for you right this minute. You stop cryin’ now, wipe them pretty eyes, sure now, that’s better. You okay? Homer’s goin’ come right back with it, you wait and see. Nothing to cry about, Your Highness. Homer’ll take care of everything for you, just like always.”
And then he was in front of us, coming down the stairs we were heading up.
“You Rachel?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Can you help me, please? Anastasia’s lost her tiara again. I know it’s aluminum ferl,” he said, “we got plenty in the kitchen, but Sammy always makes ’em for her, and he went home already. He’s all the way in Brooklyn. I can’t call him back. He’d come, I know, but they have the funeral early in the morning, I hate to do it to him. I never made one, but Anastasia, trust me, we been through this before, she won’t go to sleep without her tiara.”
“What happened to the one she had?”
“Who knows? It might be in her room, but you know how they gets, it could be anywhere. I don’t want to get her crying again, she sees me lookin’ and I can’t find it.”
“No problem,” I told him. “Follow us.”
He was a little man, I mean really little—five-one, five-two at most. He wore a uniform, a navy jumpsuit, his name embroidered on the chest. H. Wiggens, it said, Harbor View. He had a funny walk, a little stiff in the legs, a little bent forward, his head held up though, his thin gray hair slicked down neat, his black leather oxfords shined so high you could use them as a mirror. A sign of growing up poor, I thought, taking such good care of your shoes.
We got to the top of the stairs, and I looked left, where his voice had come from, seeing the lady I’d seen in the dining room, the crown on her head then.
“Bella Romanov,” he whispered. “But she don’t answer to nothin’ but Anastasia, swears she’s royal, she survived the massacre. Dr. K. says to go along with it, makes her feel better.”
I nodded.
But I didn’t call her anything. Nor did I go into her room. Instead, I motioned for Homer to go, moved my thumb and pointer to tell him to talk to her, then bent down and whispered to Dashiell, “Find” and “Bring.” In this case, I didn’t expect he’d find anything more dangerous than a stray brassiere or hopefully a lost tiara—no bombs, no guns, nothing that would harm him or anyone else, and I didn’t want him alerting me in the usual way, with a bark so loud it could shake the paint off the walls.
Quietly, he followed Homer into the room. Standing out in the hall, I could hear two comforting things: the sound of Homer’s voice telling Bella Romanov just where he was going to look for her crown, and the sound of one dog sniffing, music to
I waited. A hand came out from inside. I took the hand— the sticky one—and let Jackson help me through the window. Then he closed it carefully, turned the lock, and did an even more surprising thing. He turned the garden lights back on, leaving a small dab of yellow paint on the light switch that matched the yellow paint on Dashiell’s leash and on my wrist.
When Jackson had handed me the leash and gone in the direction of the stairs, I wanted nothing more than to head home and read my fax. But there was something more important to do now. I wanted to see who stayed late, who Venus might have been afraid would overhear her call. So instead of heading for the front door, I waited for Jackson to disappear; then, with Dash trailing after me, I began to climb the stairs.
Chapter 14
It Was Just an Accident
I could hear him from the middle of the first flight of stairs; not Samuel, a different voice, deeper, rougher, the voice of someone without much education.
“I’m goin’ get it for you right this minute. You stop cryin’ now, wipe them pretty eyes, sure now, that’s better. You okay? Homer’s goin’ come right back with it, you wait and see. Nothing to cry about, Your Highness. Homer’ll take care of everything for you, just like always.”
And then he was in front of us, coming down the stairs we were heading up.
“You Rachel?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Can you help me, please? Anastasia’s lost her tiara again. I know it’s aluminum ferl,” he said, “we got plenty in the kitchen, but Sammy always makes ’em for her, and he went home already. He’s all the way in Brooklyn. I can’t call him back. He’d come, I know, but they have the funeral early in the morning, I hate to do it to him. I never made one, but Anastasia, trust me, we been through this before, she won’t go to sleep without her tiara.”
“What happened to the one she had?”
“Who knows? It might be in her room, but you know how they gets, it could be anywhere. I don’t want to get her crying again, she sees me lookin’ and I can’t find it.”
“No problem,” I told him. “Follow us.”
He was a little man, I mean really little—five-one, five-two at most. He wore a uniform, a navy jumpsuit, his name embroidered on the chest. H. Wiggens, it said, Harbor View. He had a funny walk, a little stiff in the legs, a little bent forward, his head held up though, his thin gray hair slicked down neat, his black leather oxfords shined so high you could use them as a mirror. A sign of growing up poor, I thought, taking such good care of your shoes.
We got to the top of the stairs, and I looked left, where his voice had come from, seeing the lady I’d seen in the dining room, the crown on her head then.
“Bella Romanov,” he whispered. “But she don’t answer to nothin’ but Anastasia, swears she’s royal, she survived the massacre. Dr. K. says to go along with it, makes her feel better.”
I nodded.
But I didn’t call her anything. Nor did I go into her room. Instead, I motioned for Homer to go, moved my thumb and pointer to tell him to talk to her, then bent down and whispered to Dashiell, “Find” and “Bring.” In this case, I didn’t expect he’d find anything more dangerous than a stray brassiere or hopefully a lost tiara—no bombs, no guns, nothing that would harm him or anyone else, and I didn’t want him alerting me in the usual way, with a bark so loud it could shake the paint off the walls.
Quietly, he followed Homer into the room. Standing out in the hall, I could hear two comforting things: the sound of Homer’s voice telling Bella Romanov just where he was going to look for her crown, and the sound of one dog sniffing, music to
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