Fool’s Parsley

By N S Patrick

Ione and Archer, two amateur sleuths, are left to unravel a most baffling case of murder in 1923 Boston. Why are police hands tied? What politician caused the case to be closed before solving? Will a mysterious letter involving the murder of a slave in 1864 Georgia hold the key?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613093474

Book preview

One

December 12, 1923

Archer Reed learned the fine art of murder at college. The freshman, eager to escape academics, dove into the world of poisons, pistol shots, and misdirection. He subscribed to Murder Mystery Magazine, a monthly periodical , and thoughtfully read each of the three stories, keeping his mind alert for every clue. Satisfaction came when he identified the evildoer before the denouement.

Tonight, dressed in a black dinner jacket, Archer stood behind the parlor bar in the brownstone on Commonwealth Avenue. Bottles of Beefeater and tonic, a plain white porcelain bowl of ice, and the latest issue of Murder Mysteries Magazine sat on the counter. As Ione’s heel clicked on the staircase tread, he placed two glasses on a tray.

What's the proper etiquette at a séance? he called.

Ione entered the parlor wearing a copy of a saffron-colored Hilda Steward straight-line evening gown she had stitched together from a picture in McClure’s Magazine. A purple amethyst brooch given to her on her seventeenth birthday by her grandfather complemented the dress.

What do you think, Tango? She struck a pose for the greyhound.

The canine dozing on the settee opened her eyes, yawned, and returned to napping.

Hmm. So much for the dress and my fancy needlework.

When Tango became a guest at the brownstone, she had immediately commandeered the settee. Ione purchased material and, using her Singer sewing machine, stitched together a cover. She explained, Washing is cheaper than reupholstering.

The dress is most fetching, said Archer, handing her a cocktail.

Ione sat on the sofa and began a lighthearted tutorial. To answer to your etiquette question, those attending a séance must drink a strong tea first.

I don’t like tea.

You will drink.

Archer harrumphed.

We sit around a table in a darken room holding hands. The medium calls for the other side to visit, and asks, ‘Do you wish to speak with someone?’

You've done your homework.

No homework. At the Double K, our cook, María, believed she could reach the dead. Grandfather, at best, tolerated what he considered witchcraft, and on the evening of a séance said, ‘Time to fetch the spook.’ I sat through the hocus-pocus for María’s sake and chalked up the evening to a form of primeval entertainment. Before each attempt, the medium will caution, ‘When the departed comes, I will be in a different place and remember nothing.’

That's convenient.

Pragmatism and séance are opposites.

Tonight, said Archer. When the specter enters, we shall hear awoo, awoo, awoo. The awoo, of course, is being performed by an accomplice behind the Polonius arras covering an exit.

After a sip of her drink, Ione said, I wouldn't know. María never produced a dearly departed. She raised a hand of warning. And those in attendance must remain silent.

You mean I mayn’t awoo to help ghostie?

You mayn't.

I don’t want to go.

Stop being churlish. Of course, Ione winked at Archer, there may have been a reason our cook never accomplished her goal. Grandfather’s tea contained whiskey. Perhaps phantoms dislike the smell of liquor.

Your grandfather tippled?

The equipment shed contained a still, and the ranch brewed beer in a lean-to against the bunkhouse. The dregs became fodder for the cattle.

Ah, happy cows, said Archer. He lifted the Beefeater bottle. Refresh?

Please.

Forgive me for being blunt, Archer continued. But the party tonight seems a little irregular. Mrs. Jenkins, a stalwart pillar of Boston’s elite, having a dinner and a séance. Isn't a search for the dead beneath her position in polite society?

Be careful. The gossip around the Civil War Exhibition Hall claims several Beacon Hill matrons are attempting to reach a departed husband.

Archer handed Ione a second gin and tonic and sat beside her on the sofa. Trying to find the key to the safety deposit box, methinks, he said. I've heard our hostess is formidable.

If you mean she stands her ground, yes.

What's the sister like?

Haven’t met Mrs. Rachel Powell, but she’s the reason for the séance. She's trying to reach a brother who drowned.

Pull the hand brake. Last name Powell? Any relation to Hamilton Harland Powell, a certain powerful Boston politico?

She’s the mother.

"And mommy dabbles in the occult? Oh, oh, oh, wait until The Boston World gets hold of this tittle-tattle."

Rein in your gossip mongering. I understand tonight the brother’s spirit will be heard. The details are vague, but the belief is Mrs. Jenkins will end her sister’s obsession.

Hmm. We’ll see. said Archer and sat back. You said the women are from the South?

Georgia.

Archer sat forward and affected a southern drawl. Mark my words, honey child. The medium will find a body jist a lyin’ in an antebellum library, wearin’ a confederate uniform, and a holdin’, I say a holdin’, a mint julep. Y’hear.

You're reading too many detective stories.

Ah-ha. You remind me. He jumped up and grabbed Murder Mysteries Magazine from the bar. December’s issue, as if by magic, appeared in this evening’s mail. We’ll see if we exposed the bad-doers after the party. And frankly, I consider the lack of a séance whodunit in last month’s issue an appalling oversight. We could have brushed up and been prepared for tonight. Awoo, awoo, awoo.

Archie!

Yes, ma’am.

Oh, your father. Did you call?

Did so do. Dad told me, ‘I’m going to sit in the parlor by Christmas. Stroke or no stroke.’ He put the magazine back on the bar top and turned to Ione.

Ione noticed a twinge of pain in Archer’s face, and a stare without seeing, and thought, His mind’s racing with memories. She sat back, allowed Archer his moment of reflection, and recalled her first visit to the Reed home on Louisburg Square.

The house, although larger, followed the same floor plan as the brownstone. A front-facing bay formed by three windows, a fireplace with stone hearth on the far wall, and sliding double doors to the dining room. Heavy furnishing in the Louisburg Square house reflected the more ornate, gilded age of the1890s through the 1910s. However, the floor-length ubiquitous tablecloths of the period disappeared, allowing rich, polished wood tones to be appreciated.

On a sunny afternoon, Archer ushered her into the parlor where she met his father, Grant, and the housekeeper and cook, Undine.

Ione was amazed at the similarities in the two men. Although forty-eight years separated them, they stood at the same five-foot-ten height, appeared to weigh the same 165 pounds and had the same blue eyes in a long face. They carried themselves with dignity, assurance, and what the French call joie de vivre. The difference? Grant’s snow white mane.

Undine’s white hair, in bun fashion, sat atop a round face with light brown eyes behind frameless glasses perched on a button nose. She had a matronly figure, wore a tailored dress, chatted amiably, and carried herself with aplomb.

Ione left feeling the rules of master and servant did not exist.

In early November, a genial way of life ended. Grant suffered a stroke. Archer spent three nights in his boyhood home before being shooed out by Undine and his father. Daily visits and multiple telephone calls became the norm.

With a pang of sadness, Ione remembered her grandfather’s last three years.  When he could not explain clearly what he wished done, she and the foreman, Luther Potter, listened politely, then discussed work needed, and assigned the day’s work to the ranch hands.

Archie, she thought, did not have forewarning to prepare for the possible immobility of his father.

Two

The clock announced 6:30 p.m.

Cocktails at seven, said Ione. And Mrs. Jenkins is not one to keep waiting.

In the hall, the couple slipped into their coats.

Archie, I don’t want you looking at me tonight when the mumbo-jumbo starts.

Why not, pray tell?

I don’t want to burst out laughing.

I’ll be a paragon of sincerity.

We have a saying in Colorado about sincere people and phony declarations.

Oh?

The man’s a slingin’ bullshit.

See you in a few hours, Tango, Archer called.

The pair left the stoop and, puffing plumes of breath into the December night air, began the walk toward the Common.

This Arvilla Pike I’m to meet, said Archer. She asked for your help at the Civil War Exhibition Hall.

Yes. She’s from Georgia and arrived at Christopher Powell’s the day before Thanksgiving, 1864. The other day she said, ‘I’ve lived in Boston for fifty-nine years.’

Arvilla. Not a common name.

I’d never heard it until we met.

Archer took hold of Ione’s mittened hand. How’d she find you?

Susan Wilson.

The friend you lunch with every so often?

Susan’s a legal secretary, knows I make my clothes, and heard Mrs. Jenkins needed help with uniforms. She dropped my name.

The grapevine at work.

Mrs. Jenkins asked Arvilla to find me, and she knocked on the brownstone’s door. You and Tango had gone to visit your father.

How many uniforms did you repair?

Mended five and reproduced one Confederate outfit from cuff to collar. For a few moments, Ione became quiet and pensive. The South was doomed from the start to lose the war.

Explain.

Wives or girlfriends made the uniforms by hand. Major manufacturing did not exist south of the Mason-Dixon line and supply lines were cut off from other countries by Union ships. I tried to make a faithful copy by following photographs and sketches.

I’m sure you succeeded and did outstanding work. said Archer. And all done in a little over a week.

Ione ignored the compliment. Come on, she said, we need to step lively. Cocktails at seven, dinner at eight, and a séance promptly at nine thirty-five.

Why nine thirty-five?

Mrs. Jenkins explained it’s the time Madam Yashirah feels she is most in tune with departed souls.

They crossed Beacon Street and, after three blocks, turned onto Nassau Way. Before them stood a federal-style, three-story house. Archer noticed the front door had a one-step stone stoop directly on the sidewalk. The façade was brick with floor-to-ceiling paned windows flanked by black shutters. Light filtered through sheers creating a warm, beckoning glow.

Mrs. Jenkins spent a fortune remodeling her home to the original 1780s décor, said Ione. Be sure to compliment.

Archer consulted his Rolex. We are fashionably three minutes late. He tapped the knocker. Awoo."

Archie!

I'll mind my Ps and Qs. He pulled her to him, and a kiss on the lips followed.

Reese, a diminutive fair-skinned Negro, opened the door. He tried to hide surprise at seeing a public display of affection but could not stop a half-smile. After a nod of acknowledgement, he stepped back, allowing the couple to enter.

With coats hung in a vestibule closet, Ione and Archer passed a seven-foot natural oak grandfather clock, and a wall-mounted framed white rose petal pressed between glass panes.

Polished plain-sawn, random length, face-nailed white pine floorboards led to a large parlor remodeled in the federalist period. Forest-green draperies accented light lime walls. Cherry and mahogany furniture with rich silk brocade coverings added a lush elegance. A granite mantelpiece with carved rosettes surrounded a firebox with burning logs.

Archer thought, limitless money and well spent.

A woman sat on a gold damask couch beside the fireplace, and a short, thin man, stood alongside.

Mrs. Jenkins, seated on a camelback sofa, rose and, with regal deportment, came to greet the pair.

My dears, she said.

Mrs. Jenkins, Ione replied, this is Archie.

Archer, yes, my pleasure.

Mrs. Jenkins. Good evening.

Seated on the sofa is my sister, Rachel Powell, said the hostess. And the man standing beside is Hugh Griffiths.

Rachel nodded. But without an outstretched hand of welcome, Ione and Archer returned the nod and remained stationary.

I'm sure you would enjoy a cocktail. Mrs. Jenkins raised her arm and soundlessly snapped fingers. The shelf is well stocked. Now then, I must rejoin Rachel. After a smile, she drifted back to the fireplace.

The butler who had received them at the entrance, stepped out of a niche servant station at the far corner of the room, and approached.

Miss?

Gin and tonic, please.

Sir?

The same, thank you.

Reese, after a bow, departed to the service recess.

Archie, something is bothering Mrs. Jenkins, said Ione. Leaving us standing alone is out of character.

Archer glanced at the women and man by the fireplace then back to Ione. Pressure of a dinner party?

The woman is at her best when socializing and organizing. But thinking back. On Friday, Mrs. Jenkins worked through the morning at the hall, pleased to the point of exhilaration. She returned a little after two, looking anxious and spoke to Arvilla. They stood by the façade of the McLean House. Too far from the mannequins to overhear. And Monday and Tuesday, Mrs. Jenkins, at least while I worked, did not show.

Hmm, Archer said and added, earlier, you said you had to go back.

You remind me. I found the gold piping for the Union uniform. Back in a second. Ione walked to the hostess.

Left on his own, Archer studied the two thin sisters. Unlike Ione’s simple brooch, both wore three ostentatious strands of pearls reaching to the waist. The dresses came straight from a fashion magazine for matrons and screamed wealth. Snow white hair lifted in Edwardian upsweeps suggested the women spent several hours with a stylist. Mrs. Powell wore an egg-shell colored silk cap fringed with white lace falling to mid-ear.

My God, Archer thought. Martha Washington at home waiting for George to win the battle at Yorktown. Ruffled cap and all.

The man standing with the covey of women bowed to the group and walked to Archer. He had a full head of wavy gray hair atop a face with the permanent tan of one exposed to the elements. Archer remembered Ione mentioned that a person helping at the exhibit owned a shipping company and sailed.

The man offered Archer a solid grip, and said, How do you do?

Archer Reed. Call me Archie.

Right you are, Archie. Hugh Griffiths here. ‘Fraid you’ve been cast adrift by the ladies. Thought I'd come over and toss a life ring.

Ione noticed Reese appear from the service niche with a sizeable silver tray holding drinks, small linen napkins, a crystal pitcher of water, and two empty glasses. She excused herself from the Mesdames Jenkins and Powell. The butler waited and, when she reached the men, he offered the tray. She lifted a glass and napkin and nodded a thank you.

The butler turned the tray to Archer.

The serving of drinks complete, Reese set the tray on a brandy table beside a wing chair.

Mr. Hugh? the butler asked.

I'll have—oh, forgot. No bourbon.

No, sir. Harder and harder to find.

Wicked law, Prohibition. Closed Kentucky. Put people out of work because a minority of controlling fools took hold of a government and are doing more damage than all the saloons in the universe. He expelled air. I'll settle for Seagram's and branch.

The doorbell sounded, and the butler bowed a departure.

Archer glanced at the sisters by the fireplace and remembered Ione's thought about Mrs. Jenkin’s detachment during the last few days.

Am I wrong, Hugh? he asked. Our hostess seems remote, perhaps disinterested.

‘Tis the séance, I’m sure. Nerves, one might guess. If the medium does her job and, tonight brings an end to Rachel's fantasy, we can all heave a sigh. Unease crossed his face. Haven’t overstepped my bounds, have I? You're aware of Rachel's desire to reach her brother?

Yes.

Shame ‘twas. Adam seven-years-old, just, by three weeks, and him looking forward to visiting Boston.

Archer did not miss the word visiting. The children would escape the Civil War dangers and return when safe.

Why didn’t the sisters go back to Georgia? he wondered.

Reese ushered in a pencil-thin, tall woman. She stood ramrod straight and wore a plain but elegant rust-colored sheath accented with a cameo holding a pince-nez on a thin gold chain. An updo of white hair fastened with a mother of pearl comb adorned her head. Indigo eyes swept the room and noticed the one person unknown to her.

Three

Y ou must be Archer . The woman approached and extended her hand. I'm Arvilla Mae Pike. Within the voice deeper than a bass drum, a trace of the Old South could be heard. Pleased to meet you.

The woman’s grip proved firm.

As am I. Please, call me Archie.

Very well, Archie. And you will call me A-Mae.

Ione, my dear, she said, you performed magic with the uniforms. May I assume you found gold piping?

I did.

Wonderful. She looked at Hugh. Your contribution?

"The ship painting of the Yankee clipper and the scale model of the Miss Georgia Peach are finished. A broad grin crossed his face. The displays will be secured in nook D-Seven late tomorrow afternoon, and the Civil War Exhibition Hall will be complete and ready for the opening gala on Friday."

The butler appeared with the Seagram's and branch on a second tray. Hugh took his glass.

Miss A-Mae? Reese asked.

A glass of red will do, thank you.

The butler bowed and left.

Arvilla noticed Mrs. Jenkins signal with a raised hand.

Must leave. She nodded to Ione, Archer, and Hugh. Emma wishes to see me.

The butler’s quite expert at filling drink orders, answering the door, and at the same time, being inconspicuous, said Ione. I’m not sure I’d like someone at my beck and call. Do you have servants, Hugh?

"No. On the S.S. Polaris, I had a steward, Oriental fellow, always fussing over my stateroom. I moved my decanter of bourbon back to bunkside the second he left."

Can you imagine us with servants? Archer pointed a finger to Ione and back to his chest. Issuing commands? He shook