Dr. William Fitzgerald entered the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult, walking briskly toward the museum’s library. As he passed the collections room, his assistant, Jericho Jones, called after him, but Will did not break stride, forcing Jericho to catch up.
“A club on Long Island, the Spiritual Divine, has asked you to speak at its hall in two weeks. And the Ladies Ghostly Sunday Supper Club has also requested an appearance.”
“No and no,” Will said.
“You’ve also received a request to entertain at little Teddy Sanderson’s tenth birthday party in Brooklyn.”
Will stopped short, his eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. “A child’s birthday party? I’m a curator, for heaven’s sake, not a performing circus clown.”
Jericho shrugged. “They were offering five dollars.”
“Tell them no.”
“Of course. Oh, and Miss Walker called. She said to tell you that she’ll come for you at two o’clock sharp tomorrow and not to be late. She said, and I quote, ‘Tell Dr. Fitzgerald that we’ll be taking my car, as I refuse to ride in that ancient, death-trap Tin Lizzie of his.’”
Will’s face registered nothing. “Thank you. Anything else?”
Jericho winced. “Your lecture group is waiting for you in the library. The Mystical Mediums for Peace Between the Dead and the Living?”
Will’s shoulders sagged. He let out a long sigh. “It’s official. I am a circus clown.”
With Jericho keeping pace, Will marched into the library, where the ten “Mystical Mediums” sat in a neat row wearing identical headbands featuring a third eye emblem affixed to the front.
Will gestured vaguely to the headband. “What is, um… that for?”
A woman in a beaded turban smiled knowingly. “It increases our contact with the spiritual plane!”
Will shot a withering glance at Jericho, who waved all five of his fingers—five dollars—and retreated to the second floor, hiding out in the rows of bookshelves as Will’s voice floated up from below: “Good afternoon. I’m Dr. William Fitzgerald, curator of this museum. Let’s begin, shall we? The history of Diviners is aligned with the history of our country, starting with the indigenous population.…”
Up in the stacks, Jericho whispered to Sam, “He can’t keep giving these lectures.”
“He can if he wants to keep heating the museum,” Sam answered. “Did you ask him about you-know-what?”
“Not yet.”
“Aww, c’mon, Freddy! That was s’posed to be your job.”
“He’ll say no.”
“Then we gotta convince him,” Sam said.
Down below, one of the Mystical Mediums had interrupted Will. “Dr. Fitzgerald, what with all these reports of Diviners these days, wouldn’t you say, then, that it is proof that God Almighty has singled out America as a place for the Divine? For the exceptional, just like Jake Marlowe says?”
“I suppose that depends upon your definition of exceptional.”
“I mean exceptional, sir! The exceptional nation built upon ideals of peace, fairness, and the promise of prosperity.”
Will glanced up at the ceiling mural of beautiful hills, the railroad crisscrossing the verdant nation, the rivers with their original names long forgotten.
“I would argue that every country is built upon dreams and violence. Both leave scars. America is certainly no exception to this.”
“That doesn’t sound very patriotic to me,” a woman grumbled to her seatmate.
“Dr. Fitzgerald, what do you think of your niece’s radio show?” a man asked, and everyone fell into excited whispers. “Did you know she was a Diviner all along? How, exactly, were her talents employed to catch the Pentacle Killer?”
“Yes, tell us about the Pentacle Killer!” the Mystical Mediums begged.
“I’m afraid that’s all for today,” Will said abruptly and walked out.
“Uh-oh,” Sam said. “Not again.”
“Go!” Jericho hissed, practically pushing Sam ahead of him on the spiral staircase.
“I thought the lecture was an hour,” a tweedy gentleman protested. “We paid for an hour!”
“Careful there, pal,” Sam said. “You don’t wanna make your third eye all weepy. Listen, how would you folks like an exclusive look at the diary of Liberty Anne Rathbone, the fabled Diviner sister of the great Cornelius Rathbone, huh? If you would kindly follow me to the collections room. This way, please.”
While Sam tended to the tour, Jericho let himself into Will’s office. Will stood facing one of the tall windows, staring out at the wintry street.
Jericho cleared his throat. “Will, they paid in advance.”
“I know.” Will pinched the bridge of his nose. “Give them a free tour or something.”
“Sam’s doing just that.”
“I am indebted to you both,” Will said, turning toward Jericho. “Do you have those articles I asked for?”
Jericho tapped the folder on Will’s desk. “Everything from the past week regarding supernatural sightings, along with today’s newspapers.” He took a deep breath. “And this came for you as well.”
He handed an official-looking envelope to Will, who glanced at the return address—New York State Office of Taxation—with its large red letters stamping out FINAL NOTICE, and put it aside.
“Ah. Thank you, Jericho. Well. Let’s see what we have today.…” Will took a seat at his desk, wiped his spectacles clean, hooked them over his ears again, and dove into the clippings. From the pile he selected four that caught his attention. Next he gave a cursory glance to the day’s headlines, flipping through the pages till he came to a picture of Evie smiling out from under a fashionable hat.
SWEETHEART SEER HOSTS WILD PARTY AT GRANT HOTEL
Nothing could be “DIVINER”
than a night with Evie O’Neill
BY T. S. WOODHOUSE
“It’s a nice picture,” Jericho said, standing beside Will.
Will peered up at him. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to read over someone’s shoulder?”
Jericho’s face remained impassive. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to be rude?”
“Sorry,” Will said, chastened. “I’m sorry, Jericho.”
“It’s all right.” Jericho tapped the clippings Will had put aside. “Why these?”
“They’re all upstate, within a hundred-mile radius of one another.”
“Brethren isn’t too far from that path,” Jericho noted.
“Mmm.”
“That night, when you—when I was shot and you had to administer so much serum at once, was my behavior… what I mean is…” God, what was the matter with him? He could barely get the words out. “Did I frighten Evie?”
“Pardon?”
“Evie. Was she frightened, seeing me like that, with all those tubes and gears inside, knowing what I am?”
“It wasn’t the only unusual circumstance she’s faced in the past few months. She appeared none the worse for it.”