Death in Saratoga Springs by Charles O'Brien Page B

painting, The Genius of America, covered the wall. Crake couldn’t judge its artistic merits, or even make out most of its details. Someone told him that George Washington was in the picture along with naked black people being lifted up out of slavery. Crake recalled that he had done some of that lifting in the South during the war—mostly wasted effort. Blacks down there were little better off now than before.
    The music director announced the first dance: a schottische. Robert Shaw approached and asked Rachel for the dance. She turned to Crake and got his grudging approval. She and her partner joined the dancers and began hopping about, light on their feet and synchronized with the caller.
    Crake looked on, sourly, and reflected on Shaw’s appeal to women. To give the devil his due, he was a handsome, engaging British gentleman in his forties, who gave fencing lessons in athletic clubs and earned a living in gambling dens. “He knew Rachel before I did,” muttered Crake to himself, “and still charms her.”
    A waltz followed the schottische. Rachel’s new partner was a callow Harvard student who had tippled to bolster his self-confidence. After the waltz came another change of partners and another schottische. And so it went throughout the evening with occasional pauses for refreshment.
    At the halfway point, brimming with vitality, Rachel rejoined Crake. Wracked with pain and bored, he told her, “We’ll go back to our rooms now. I’m tired and in pain.”
    â€œNo, please!” She pouted. “There are more dances to come, and afterward I was hoping to go to Canfield’s Casino. But I’ll need an escort to get in, as well as to gamble. Won’t you go with me?”
    â€œYou know I love to gamble, especially at the casino where my credit is good and the stakes are high, but I just can’t do it tonight. The arthritis is getting worse. In less than an hour I won’t be able to bear the pain.”
    â€œWould it be all right, then, if Rob were my escort?”
    Crake thought, if he refused, she would pout all night or probably sneak out with the rascal anyway. “I don’t mind,” he muttered. She kissed him on the cheek and skipped back to the dance floor and Robert Shaw.
    Crake followed her with narrowed eyes. Before he left the ballroom, he hired a spy to keep an eye on her. She would soon get a big surprise.

C HAPTER 7
The Last Day
    Saturday, July 7
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    A n hour after sunrise, Crake awoke, stiff and sore, keenly mindful of his sixty-plus years. Getting up was painful. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled up a small table, and rang the bell. The smell of coffee had already wafted into the room.
    â€œJust a minute, I’m coming.” The voice from the kitchen had a pleasing accent.
    It was Swedish. He knew that much about Birgitta. She also had strong fingers that worked miracles on his aging body, at least for a few hours. That was better than nothing.
    As promised, she entered the room with a tray of coffee, buttered toast, and strawberry preserves. Her thick blond hair hung braided down to her waist. Her eyes were light blue, her gaze steady and direct, and her smile friendly. He couldn’t play games with her as he did with other maids, though she was comely enough. She kept him at a proper distance. And that was just fine as long as she made him feel better.
    There was an extra cup on the tray. “Join me, Birgitta,” he said. “We’ll talk about my schedule for the day.”
    She pulled up a chair, poured coffee for herself, and they toasted each other.
    â€œHas my wife come back?” he asked, keeping his voice level. He glanced at a framed wedding photo on the wall. He was already a gray haired man looking uncomfortable in a black frock coat, stiff collar, and white tie. She was petite, much younger, and enjoying herself in a white satin gown.
    â€œNot yet,” Birgitta replied, her voice as level