Witch in the White City: A Dark Historical Fantasy/Mystery (Neva Freeman Book 1), Nick Wisseman [best novels for students .TXT] 📗

her cotton-covered fingers together. “Wiley’s checking up on the other victims, but other than that ... I’m not sure there’s anything to do but wait.”

“For the killer to strike again?”

“If there even is one. Maybe it’s just the insects.”

“But if it’s not, and the original killer is still lurking ... You really want to wait him out?”

“No.” Neva gripped her hands tighter. “Not if there’s a better way.”

“And what would that be?”

“I don’t know, but the way the necklace called to me ... I think it’s important.” Even through her jacket pocket, she could feel the shells’ proximity to her skin, as if she carried a string of hot coals. “Come on.” She stood and set the last of her money by the check.

Derek handed her coins back to her and replaced them with his own. “My treat. Where are we going?”

She smiled her thanks. “Back to the Anthropology Building. I have an idea.”

THE REGISTRAR’S “OFFICE” was more of a closet. A big closet, wide enough to fit a desk and tall enough to accommodate massive shelves. But still a closet: no windows, no interior lighting, and a general feeling that things were stuffed inside and never retrieved.

Which was all to the good, because if the Anthropology Building’s records had resided in one of its more frequented rooms, someone might have been around to see Neva break in.

To pick the lock, she repeated the same trick that had allowed her to open the cowry necklace’s case. Derek winced when she removed her bloody finger from the keyhole, but she just sucked the red off and opened the door.

Then it was his turn to impress.

She’d neglected to bring a lamp, so to her thinking, there was only one course of action: risk leaving the door open a crack. But when she didn’t close them in completely, Derek shook his head, shut the door, and crowned himself with a ring of sparks. It would have looked absolutely noble if his hair hadn’t risen with the charge—the sight made Neva laugh louder than she’d meant to.

Shrugging playfully, he gestured around the room. “So what are we questing for?”

“The accession ledgers. Assuming you won’t set them on fire with that.”

He flicked a spark at Neva. “They’re not hot enough.”

She bent away from it. “Says you. Anyway, Sol said Professor Putnam was a stickler for inventorying every artifact approved for display in the Anthropology Building; he wanted to model registration on the practices of the Smithsonian. Each item has an acquisition entry somewhere, with a name, description, and place of origin.”

“And you’re hoping to find this information for the cowry necklace?”

“If possible.”

At first glance, it didn’t seem likely. The shelves were bursting with records, some bound, but many loose. Heaps of more books and papers dotted the floor like scholarly stalagmites, and the desk had been buried beneath at least two separate avalanches.

“You can’t read the ledgers’ thoughts, can you?” Neva was only half-joking.

“Sadly, no.”

But once they dug in, it didn’t take long to locate the stack of official ledgers. And about halfway down the pile, Neva landed on the record book for “Oceanic Artifacts.” She grinned ... until she found no entry for a cowry shell necklace.

“Can you scan through it again?” she asked Derek as she handed him the ledger. “I’m going to check the others. Perhaps it was misfiled.”

Another hour of sifting proved her right—after a fashion. The necklace hadn’t been misfiled so much as it had been mis-displayed: she found an entry for it in the “African Artifacts” ledger.

“‘Four golden cowry shells threaded with leather cord,’” Neva read triumphantly. “‘Each shell lightly scored on one end, but no adornment. Origin: Dahomey, Africa, but likely acquired via trade. Employed as currency and perhaps a focus of divination rituals. Could also be included in the Oceanic display, as the shells are used there for similar purposes and as badges of rank.’”

“Sounds probable,” Derek said with relief. “And makes you wonder how many of the displays have been mixed and matched for effect.”

She shrugged, interested only in the implications of the necklace’s true provenance. “Divination,” she repeated. “That’s certainly not what wearing it made me feel like I was doing ... Hmm.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Do you have a pocket watch?”

“I do. One moment ... It’s a little after 8:30.”

“Then I’m thinking we have time to make another stop before I’m due to meet Wiley.” Neva snapped the “African Artifacts” ledger shut and returned it to its original position in the stack of records. Derek helped her restore the rest of the clutter. When the closet looked more or less as it had before, he snuffed his electric halo, listened for a moment at the door, and opened it once he seemed satisfied they could escape unobserved.

Their next destination was far more public.

EVEN IF NEVA HADN’T known the way to the Dahomey Village, she could have found it by following the drums. The Fon people’s beat—created by pounding on skins stretched over empty kegs, wicker baskets, and hollow tree trunks—was discernible even amidst the Midway’s general cacophony. Especially when the Fon accompanied it with bells, horns, and brilliantly harmonized singing—as they were doing now, at the end of their last war dance of the day.

The performance reached its crescendo on the platform American carpenters and Fon craftsmen had erected in the center of the three thatched houses which comprised the Dahomey Village. As Neva and Derek approached it, she heard one onlooker mutter about the “savage noise” and turn to leave, even though his skin was darker than the Fons’.

“Doesn’t sound white enough for you?” asked Neva.

The onlooker—tall, gray-haired, and, based on the quality of his coat, well-to-do—glared at her. “Doesn’t sound civilized,” he muttered. “Excuse me.”

“What was that about?” asked Derek after the old Negro departed.

Neva scowled. “Some in the colored community, including Frederick Douglass, think the Fons’ inclusion at the Fair was designed to make the starkest possible contrast with the wonders of the White City. I understand the