The Vanishing Stair (Truly Devious #2)(24)

“Yeah?”

“Could I see it again?”

“You really are jumping back in,” Kyoko said with a smile. “I’ll go and get it.”

When Stevie had first looked at this list, it was to see the many materials Dottie Epstein had requested. Her initials, DE, were next to her items. But someone else had requested pulp magazines: Gun Molls Magazine, Vice Squad Detective, Dime Detective, All True Facts Detective Stories. The initials next to most of these were FC. Francis Crane.

“Do you have any of these?” Stevie said.

“I’ve looked for them,” Kyoko said. “I’d love to find them. But they must have disappeared a long time ago. The students who asked for them probably took them and never gave them back.”

The students who took them, Stevie thought, probably took them and cut them apart. If she could find these magazines online, she could look at the letters. She could compare the typeface of those magazines to the photographs of the Truly Devious letter. Or someone could. The FBI. Someone.

She didn’t have all the answers, but she had something. Now she had to do some of the drudge work and scan all of this to add to her files. She put on her headphones, turned on My Favorite Murder, and started with the student guide. Page by page, photo by photo, she got each image.

After an hour or so of this, she returned to the main study room and opened her computer. Time for a basic search. Very little turned up about Francis Josephine Crane. It looked like there were a few references to her in social registers, some notes about her debutante ball, but nothing that seemed to go past around 1940, and not in much detail.

Edward Pierce Davenport, however, did turn up several things. Wikipedia had a brief entry:

Edward Pierce Davenport (1918–1940) was an American poet. His only published work was the 1939 collection Milk Moon. Davenport was best known for his relationships with other American expatriate writers and poets in France in the late 1930s, and for his reckless lifestyle. He committed suicide in Paris on June 15, 1940, the day the Nazis entered the city.

There was a little footnote there, so Stevie clicked it. It led her to a small excerpt from a longer book.

On June 15, 1940, the day after the Nazis entered Paris, Edward Pierce Davenport spent the day consuming opium and violet champagne. At sunset, as loudspeakers in the street announced the night’s curfew, he donned a gold dressing gown and climbed to the rooftop of his Parisian apartment on the Rue de Rennes in Saint Germain. After toasting the city and the setting sun, he downed a last glass of champagne and swan-dived from the building into the street below. His body landed on a Nazi vehicle, denting the roof.

“A fourth-rate poet,” said a friend, “but a first-rate death.”

“Your friends are real dicks,” Stevie said.

“I know,” replied a voice, “but they’re the only ones I have.”

This is when the screaming started.





7


SQUIRRELS, IN STEVIE’S EXPERIENCE, WERE NOT OBEDIENT CREATURES, prone to forming themselves into well-regulated groups that moved as one. These squirrels were far too coordinated to her liking. They were streaming through the library, perhaps a hundred of them. They were coming down the wrought-iron steps, skittering along the edges of railings, all in an unbroken flow.

This was only slightly more distracting than the sight in front of her. Spread out on the table was a pair of familiar hands—long, elegant hands. There was the worn-out T-shirt; strong, wiry arms. She followed these up to find brown eyes flecked with gold looking at her.

Stevie yanked her legs up as squirrels began running under the tables.

“That’s weird,” David said, observing the chaos. “So, when did you get back?”

Stevie fought the urge to hit him with her laptop, largely because she did not want to damage it.

“What did you do?” she hissed.

“Me?”

“Don’t be a dick,” she said.

“That ship has sailed. Hang on. We can’t fight yet. Where’s my hug?”

“Out!” Kyoko said, pointing at David. “Everyone out.”

“Well, that’s not conducive to learning,” David said under his breath.

Stevie grabbed her stuff, sweeping one or two photos from the collection into her bag, and hurried out as Kyoko started running around the library, checking windows and closing doors.

The light outside seemed overly bright after the thoughtful shade of the library. David grabbed at his neck and rubbed the stubble that had accumulated there.

David Eastman, or David Eastman King, was a shade under six feet, his build wiry, like he had been made of bundles of snapping electrical cables that had wound themselves together into a person, sparks still coming from the ends. His clothes were always tattered, and not fashionably tattered. His jeans had not been ripped by professionals. The holes and marks on his surfer T-shirt—he had made those himself through wear and carelessness. He wore a Rolex with a shattered face on his freckled arm, along with several string bracelets. Everything on his face was too narrow, too fine. The lines sharp. His eyes always looked half closed, but they had more life behind them than most. It’s the creature that pretends to be asleep that you need to watch out for.

Even in his roughest state, he was beautiful to look at. In fact, if she was being honest, he was more beautiful in this state. Except in his jaw she saw Edward King. And his smile. And everything that had made him and supported him. It was a taste she would never be able to get out of her mouth.