In the Shadow of Lakecrest(46)

I turned the final page, ready to hide the book back in my nightstand. There, pasted inside the back cover, was a handwritten note.



To my dear Cecily, my muse and inspiration for a most divine madness. May your work heal others even as you spur mine on to greater heights.



Then, annoyingly, a few lines I couldn’t read in what looked like ancient Greek, followed by a signature:



Yours ever, M. R.



I closed the book, letting my mind wander. Girls gathering on the lakefront. A stone temple and white robes. But what did it have to do with Cecily’s disappearance? I fidgeted and fretted and realized I’d be driven crazy myself if I didn’t get out of the house. Mr. Haveleck still hadn’t told me what he was doing with my money, and I had every right to demand an answer in person.

Gingerly, I stood up. My ankle was still sore, but I could walk without too much of a limp. I got dressed and leaned out the doorway of my bedroom. The house was silent. Clutching the banister for support, I made my way downstairs to the telephone, holding The Ways of Madness in my other hand. Checking one more time that I was alone, I called Mr. Haveleck and told him I was bringing something that might help in his search for Cecily. Informing someone of a visit—rather than asking for permission—was a tactic I’d learned from Hannah.

I rang the bell for Alice and asked her where Hannah was.

“Ladies’ Club luncheon,” she said.

Perfect. Hannah would be gone for hours, and Luanne usually picked her up and dropped her off. That meant I wouldn’t have to take the train downtown.

“Call for Hank, would you?” I said. “I’m going out for a bit.”

Hank pulled up at the front door a few minutes later. He stepped out and walked around to the passenger door, looking uncertain.

“I going to the North Side,” I told him. “Clark and Fullerton. Mrs. Lemont doesn’t need you for anything, does she?”

“No, ma’am,” Hank said. Then, hesitantly, “Sure you’re feeling all right? Heard you had a fall.”

“Oh, it was nothing, really. I’m fine.”

Hank pulled the door open, and I saw a flash of concern as he watched me climb in. Stone-faced Hank, worried for me? I was touched.

“It shouldn’t take long,” I said. “Just a quick meeting with a friend.”

Mr. Haveleck wasn’t a friend, of course, and he didn’t look particularly glad to see me when I arrived at his office. I passed him Dr. Rieger’s book, pointing out the note inside. Mr. Haveleck looked a little taken aback by my description of drunken women running wild across the estate, and he shook his head when I asked if he could read ancient Greek. He took a quick look through the book, but soon handed it back.

“Mrs. Lemont, I pride myself on my honesty,” he said. “Some people in my line of work string along their clients and milk them for what they can get. That’s not how I do business.”

He pulled a folder from the chaos on his desk. Lemont was written across the top right corner. The pile of papers inside was disappointingly small.

“I’ll tell it to you straight,” he said. “I don’t know what happened to Cecily Lemont, and I don’t think anyone ever will.”

I’d known it was a long shot, but that didn’t stop the crush of disappointment.

“I’ll tell you what we did find,” he said. “Maybe it will help, a little. We tracked down a few servants who used to work at the house and neighbors who knew her. Nobody noticed anything out of the ordinary in the weeks before she disappeared.

“Now, that’s what we got from doing face-to-face interviews. But we always follow up on unofficial stories, too. The gossip that goes around, someone passing on what they heard from their barber or the lady next door. And that led us to a Mr. Patrick Donnelly. He was the overnight ticket agent at the Bluffside train station. He sold a ticket for the earliest train to a woman who wore a scarf around her hat so he couldn’t see her face. When Cecily Lemont’s disappearance became big news, he told his boss about it and got the brush-off. A fancy lady like that wouldn’t walk all the way to Bluffside in the middle of the night when she could have gone to the East Ridge station less than a mile from her house. But maybe she did, if she didn’t want to be seen. Maybe she caught the train to Union Station. What then? Hundreds of trains leave Chicago every day. If she wanted to disappear, she could.”

“I see,” I said, trying hard not to show my disappointment. “Well, thanks. I appreciate your efforts. I guess we should settle the bill?”

“The deposit you paid covers it.”

“That hardly seems right. I’m sure you and your men went through a lot of trouble . . .”

“We’re square.” Mr. Haveleck stood abruptly and walked around to the front of his desk, eager to show me out. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you in this matter, but I hope you can put it all behind you. Look to the future, not the past.”

He shook my hand firmly and pulled open the door to his office, wishing me the best as I walked out. I clutched the book to my chest as I left the building and stepped back into the car.

“Where to?” Hank asked.

“Home, I guess.”

Disappointed and glum, I gazed out the window. The rain had let up at last, but the city seemed drained of all color. Men and women scurried along the sidewalks in dark coats and hats; the streets and houses were a blur of brown and beige and gray.