“Yes.”
“Wasn’t that the damnedest thing?”
“I—”
“Not that I believe in that superstitious mumbo-jumbo.” The man gave an edgy laugh. “But it was
strange, certainly.”
“Yes.”
They were now all three of them walking in a small herd, Casey bringing up the rear. Moonlight
shadowed the beautiful old houses and the churches as they stepped briskly along their way. Warmth still radiated from the bricks of the building and road.
“The rest of it, well, any good huckster could come up with that pabulum. Your Auntie May wants
you to wear a scarf in cold weather, your grandpapa still loves you.” The man snorted in amused disgust.
“But predicting Bill Doyle’s death? And that thing about the murders.”
Flynn felt a chill slither down his spine. Abruptly he knew that the man had been to the Opera House and that he was talking about Julian.
He said carefully, “But maybe we misunderstood him? Maybe that’s not what he was saying at all?”
“What else could he have meant?” the man said. “He said—she said—whoever that was supposed to
be said that she was lost on the far side of Crab Orchard Creek. That the other girls were with her. Four girls. And one of them doesn’t know she’s dead yet.”
36
www.samhainpublishing.com
Chapter Five
When Flynn and Casey reached the boarding house they found everyone out on the breezeway
drinking lemonade and talking. It was clear that the news of Julian’s announcement had already, in the mysterious way of small towns, reached home.
The three ladies sat on the wide swing, their shadowy faces lit by the street lamps a few yards away.
Their paper fans fluttered like the wings of dying moths, languidly waving back and forth. Dr. Pearson sat smoking at the edge of the brick walk, the red tip of his cigar glowing in the darkness.
Amy instructed them to bring chairs outside and pour themselves a glass of lemonade. Casey and
Flynn obeyed. They sat a few feet away from each other on the breezeway, sipping their cold drinks. Casey sniffed discreetly a couple of times, and Flynn was tempted to elbow him in the ribs.
Mrs. Hoyt made a disapproving noise and said, “I don’t need to ask where you gentlemen have been
this evening.”
For a paralyzed second Flynn thought she meant…but then he realized she was talking about the
alcohol they had consumed earlier.
“Are the Devereuxs back yet?” he asked, ignoring her.
“No,” Amy replied. “Any minute now, I expect. We heard the show ended early.”
“Did it?”
“They’re saying it was true about the man whose death he predicted, that his wife came home and
found him dead.”
Joan’s shadow shivered in delighted horror. Mrs. Hoyt exclaimed, “Table tilting and spirit writing.
Bell ringing and levitation and invisible hands playing musical instruments. At worst it’s blasphemy and at best it’s nonsense!”
“It’s harmless nonsense, I guess. And it’s fun,” Casey put in, and Flynn saw the white flash of Joan’s grateful smile turned his way.
Mrs. Hoyt said, “From what we’ve heard from the neighbors, I don’t think people found it much fun
tonight.”
“How can that be Julian’s fault?” protested Joan. “Anyway, he doesn’t deal in spiritualistic
phenomena.”
“How would you know, missy?”
“I asked him. He said that’s for people in traveling shows and carnivals.”
Josh Lanyon
“And what is he? The child of a fortuneteller and a vaudevillian.”
“Now, Mrs. Hoyt,” Amy remonstrated amiably, “the Devereuxs are my guests. I don’t want you
speaking ill of them. I don’t have any complaints about either of them. Julian’s a sweet enough boy.”
Casey gave a derisive laugh as he lit his pipe.
Flynn stared at him, at the handsome features looking mask-like and foreign in the brief illumination of the pipe bowl. He asked, “Is it true he prophesied another murder?”
“He didn’t prophecy,” growled Dr. Pearson from the gloomy corner
“Wasn’t that the damnedest thing?”
“I—”
“Not that I believe in that superstitious mumbo-jumbo.” The man gave an edgy laugh. “But it was
strange, certainly.”
“Yes.”
They were now all three of them walking in a small herd, Casey bringing up the rear. Moonlight
shadowed the beautiful old houses and the churches as they stepped briskly along their way. Warmth still radiated from the bricks of the building and road.
“The rest of it, well, any good huckster could come up with that pabulum. Your Auntie May wants
you to wear a scarf in cold weather, your grandpapa still loves you.” The man snorted in amused disgust.
“But predicting Bill Doyle’s death? And that thing about the murders.”
Flynn felt a chill slither down his spine. Abruptly he knew that the man had been to the Opera House and that he was talking about Julian.
He said carefully, “But maybe we misunderstood him? Maybe that’s not what he was saying at all?”
“What else could he have meant?” the man said. “He said—she said—whoever that was supposed to
be said that she was lost on the far side of Crab Orchard Creek. That the other girls were with her. Four girls. And one of them doesn’t know she’s dead yet.”
36
www.samhainpublishing.com
Chapter Five
When Flynn and Casey reached the boarding house they found everyone out on the breezeway
drinking lemonade and talking. It was clear that the news of Julian’s announcement had already, in the mysterious way of small towns, reached home.
The three ladies sat on the wide swing, their shadowy faces lit by the street lamps a few yards away.
Their paper fans fluttered like the wings of dying moths, languidly waving back and forth. Dr. Pearson sat smoking at the edge of the brick walk, the red tip of his cigar glowing in the darkness.
Amy instructed them to bring chairs outside and pour themselves a glass of lemonade. Casey and
Flynn obeyed. They sat a few feet away from each other on the breezeway, sipping their cold drinks. Casey sniffed discreetly a couple of times, and Flynn was tempted to elbow him in the ribs.
Mrs. Hoyt made a disapproving noise and said, “I don’t need to ask where you gentlemen have been
this evening.”
For a paralyzed second Flynn thought she meant…but then he realized she was talking about the
alcohol they had consumed earlier.
“Are the Devereuxs back yet?” he asked, ignoring her.
“No,” Amy replied. “Any minute now, I expect. We heard the show ended early.”
“Did it?”
“They’re saying it was true about the man whose death he predicted, that his wife came home and
found him dead.”
Joan’s shadow shivered in delighted horror. Mrs. Hoyt exclaimed, “Table tilting and spirit writing.
Bell ringing and levitation and invisible hands playing musical instruments. At worst it’s blasphemy and at best it’s nonsense!”
“It’s harmless nonsense, I guess. And it’s fun,” Casey put in, and Flynn saw the white flash of Joan’s grateful smile turned his way.
Mrs. Hoyt said, “From what we’ve heard from the neighbors, I don’t think people found it much fun
tonight.”
“How can that be Julian’s fault?” protested Joan. “Anyway, he doesn’t deal in spiritualistic
phenomena.”
“How would you know, missy?”
“I asked him. He said that’s for people in traveling shows and carnivals.”
Josh Lanyon
“And what is he? The child of a fortuneteller and a vaudevillian.”
“Now, Mrs. Hoyt,” Amy remonstrated amiably, “the Devereuxs are my guests. I don’t want you
speaking ill of them. I don’t have any complaints about either of them. Julian’s a sweet enough boy.”
Casey gave a derisive laugh as he lit his pipe.
Flynn stared at him, at the handsome features looking mask-like and foreign in the brief illumination of the pipe bowl. He asked, “Is it true he prophesied another murder?”
“He didn’t prophecy,” growled Dr. Pearson from the gloomy corner
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