Dear Shuck in the Foot,
That seems like a waste of a good tomato, and not much good for a splinter out of season. The simplest solution is already in your cupboard: vinegar. Soak the foot in a bowl of vinegar, and in about twenty minutes, the splinter should have broken through the skin enough to pull out.
Yours truly,
Miss Sweetie
P.S. Do not reuse the vinegar.
* * *
—
The doctor leaves calamine lotion, saying her rash should be gone in a few days. If only there were a salve for her foul temperament, we might all rest more comfortably.
I carry a basket of wet things down the stairs, but stop when I see Etta Rae standing just outside the kitchen holding a vase of bluebells. She puts her finger to her lips as I creep closer, professional eavesdropper that I am, and though she frowns at me, she doesn’t shoo me away.
“No, ma’am,” Noemi says. “Celery, onion, pickles, mustard, oil, vinegar, lemon juice, and salt. Like always.”
“What about the bread?”
“Potato buns ain’t got pepper.”
A long pause follows, during which Etta Rae and I exchange worried expressions.
“Take tomorrow off,” Mrs. Payne says at last. “The weekend, too. Caroline will need rest and quiet, and—”
And she will need to be convinced that Noemi has not tried to poison her.
Etta Rae’s usually erect head seems to sink into her thin shoulders.
“I understand, ma’am,” Noemi says hoarsely.
The sound of Mrs. Payne’s boots straightens our postures. Etta Rae busies herself arranging the flowers on a table. I continue toward the kitchen, sidestepping Mrs. Payne coming out. “Oh, Jo. I’m afraid the sight of Caroline’s face will shock her when she wakes up. Find all her looking glasses and put them in my study.”
“Yes, ma’am. What about her vanity?”
“Solomon will take care of the vanity. Etta Rae, please call for one of our substitute cooks.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Etta Rae heads toward the staircase.
I move toward the kitchen again with the wet laundry, wanting to talk to Noemi, but Mrs. Payne blocks the doorway. “Now, Jo.”
“Yes, ma’am.” With heavy feet, I follow Etta Rae.
* * *
—
IN THE ROW in front of me, the hackle feather of a white woman’s flowerpot hat wags like a finger every time the streetcar hits a pothole. The invisible line between the front and the back takes shape with every ride. Only whites sit in rows one and two. Rows three through five vary, depending on the passengers.
“Adelle Jones was arrested yesterday for not getting up fast enough when a mother with child wanted her seat,” whispers a woman from behind me.
“Ain’t Adelle pregnant, too?” says another woman.
“Yes.”
My mind returns to Noemi. Come on, Miss Sweetie, think. Noemi would never have taken such a chance. She has too much to lose and too little to gain. Caroline’s rash must have been caused by someone or something else. Spring allergies again? Maybe an insect bit her. Once, a spider stung Lucky Yip on the earlobe, and his ear swelled to the size of his palm.
His palm. Caroline’s palms were also inflamed.
Her tin of Beetham’s Glycerine and Cucumber cream appears in my mind. She spread it on her face just before eating. Is she allergic to it? She’s used it without problem before, but things can turn on you, like eggs.
The Beetham’s had just arrived and must have been fresh. Did someone tamper with it? I can think of few people who wouldn’t stick a foot in her path if given the opportunity, including myself.
Salt. The spilt lemonade. Perhaps Caroline tasted pepper not from her sandwich but her face cream. Salt’s detachable chatelaine bag surely could’ve hidden a pinch of pepper. If Salt knows about Caroline and Mr. Q, she’d have every reason to despise Caroline. Maybe, beneath those frothy pink layers, Salt is as cunning as a foldable sunhat.
* * *
—
THE NEXT MORNING, Caroline lies in her bed, orbited by a ring of pillows and holding her potted violet. Her face is no longer swollen, but blisters form peer groups on her skin, including a popular crowd on her forehead.
Mrs. Payne throws open the windows. “A little powder, and no one will even notice.”
Moving as unobtrusively as possible, I exchange a bowl of rosemary tincture for Caroline’s plant.
With a scowl, she soaks her hands in the herbal remedy. “That witch did this on purpose. She should be locked up, but you send her away for a few days. Imagine what she’ll do if you take her back? She’ll poison me for sure, and then you won’t have to worry about whether I marry, as I’ll be dead.”
Mrs. Payne pops a spoonful of medicine into her mouth. “Rest easy, dear. Jo, when you get a moment, please come see me in the stables.” She breezes away.
Have I done something to displease her? Perhaps I need another reminder about my place in this house.
Caroline scowls. Even her blisters manage to look grumpy.
I hand her a towel. “Noemi didn’t do it. But I have a hunch I know who did.”
She sits very still. “Pray tell.”
“Miss Saltworth. I think she peppered your Beetham’s.”
Her eyes dart to the empty spot where her vanity used to sit. “Melly-Lee? My Beetham’s . . .”
“It is in your vanity, which, as you know, Solomon has placed in storage along with all the other looking glasses. Your mother believes you might shatter one.”
For once, she fails to pounce on my innuendo. “How do you know this?”
“It’s a hunch. Noemi may not like you, but if she were to even the score, it wouldn’t be by peppering your food, which is as subtle as a flying brick. Especially not with a bicycle to pay off.” I let that one burrow in her ear before adding, “Not even your mother believes it, which of course is why she hasn’t fired her.”
Caroline’s eyes glaze, as if she is replaying the memory. “That goosey, whey-faced sneak.” She clenches her towel into a knobby ball. “If Melly-Lee knows, surely she will break things off with him. I must be ready.”
“Yes. She could ruin you.”
She snorts. “He would not let that happen.”
“A man who cheats is not the most reliable of knights.”
“Edward loves me.” She wiggles her hands free of the towel. “And anyway, it’s none of your business.”