Deadly by Julie Chibbaro Read Free Book Online

and seem so unstable, as if they may explode any second. This one was grass green with white spoked wheels and a black top, neatly folded down. It shone so brightly, I felt myself drawn to touch the vehicle. The coach came to life with a spit and a roar, and I jumped back, feeling as if a friendly dog had suddenly barked at me. Vapor emanated from the hood, and for a moment, I didn’t want to go in. But Mr. Soper reached out a hand and assisted me into the back. The expanse of padded leather seating was as comfortable as a sofa.

    Once the auto was running smoothly, Mr. Thompson wiped his bare head and his hands on his kerchief and entered behind the wheel, beside Mr. Soper. We began to drive. Everything seemed so close, riding without the top—the snorts of horses that loomed overhead, the loud explosions of gasoline carriages, the bells and clanging of trolleys, and the shouts of pedestrians into whom Mr. Thompson nearly crashed several times. We flew past everything so quickly, my head spun. I clutched the side of the carriage, trying to steady myself, and held on to my hat, afraid of what I had gotten myself into. Mr. Soper broke off his inaudible shouts to our client and turned to glance at me every now and then, I think to make sure I hadn’t been hit by flying debris. I’m ashamed to say it, but secretly I prayed to be back in school, sitting beside Josephine, looking out the window at the smokestacks and thinking my own quiet thoughts. It wasn’t until we crossed the grand, jammed Brooklyn Bridge and drove up through Queens and out to more rural lands that I began to enjoy the ride, and the feel of wind on myface. I’ve never had reason to visit the New York countryside, and the vision of cows munching hay in the fields and the fresh smell of the reddening autumn leaves soothed me.
    Mr. Soper is a very serious man, with hardly a moment to explain things to me. At Oyster Bay, on Long Island, we pulled up to a stone mansion surrounded by exotic flowers dying in their pods and ripening apple trees overlooking the water. The country seemed so serene. Mr. Soper got out with Mr. Thompson; they’d been discussing how typhoid could be carried in food, and Mr. Soper wanted to see the kitchen first. I followed them around back. That kitchen was bigger than our entire apartment! Light poured in through four windows and bounced off the shiny bottoms of the dozens of copper pots that hung against the wide brick chimney. I felt myself shifting from foot to foot, distracted by the size and blackness of the stove, the look of the real icebox, the chopping block as long as my bed.
    â€œPay attention, Miss Galewski, and write this information into the folio!” Mr. Soper barked at me. “Think of what Mr. Thompson is saying.”
    I quickly opened the folder and gripped my pencil. It was hard to pay attention with so much to look at, but I kept my eyes down on the paper, feeling the blush crawl up my neck.
    â€œThis is our situation here,” he said. “Mr. Thompson’s family and servants first became ill September fourth, write that down, specific notes, his sons fell fevered at ten o’clock on that Thursday morning after eating apples and cheese, the laundress got sick that Sunday at seven in the a.m. after breakfasting on pancakes, stay alert and keep your hand moving. This is your job,” he said.
    He had heard things I missed completely. I wrote as quickly as I could, trying to keep my mind on my work.
    Mr. Soper began to question Mrs. Thompson, who came into the pantry (shelves and shelves filled with cookies and breads and honey and jarred jams, all the food one could ever want). I stood behind him, feeling a bit unsteady, my mouth dry, my stomach empty. Plump Mrs. Thompson’s thick yellow hair hung loose in its bun, her skin a rashy pink; clearly, she had barely recovered from the fever. But Mr. Soper questioned her thoroughly just the same.
    Her voice wavered as she