Murder On Waverly Place

again, keep breathing… you’ll be fine now.”

After a minute or two, Cunningham was sputtering in outrage, and Frank released him. He sat upright again, bright red spots burning in his cheeks. “What’d you do that for?”

“You were going to faint,” Frank told him with a hint of disgust.

“The hell I was!” he protested, gathering his pride together as a shield.

Frank didn’t bother to argue. “So you looked down and saw Mrs. Gittings,” he reminded him when he’d taken his seat again.

Cunningham swallowed loudly. “I saw the… I saw it sticking out of her back. And the blood on her dress. At least, I realize now it was blood. I couldn’t tell the color. The light was bad and her dress is dark and I just saw… Well, I saw the knife,” he added, his courage returning now.

“Did you say anything?”

He wasn’t sure about that. “I may have. I guess I did. I told them to look at her back or something. They still thought she’d just fainted.”

“Then what happened?”

“Mrs. Burke started screaming again. I… Someone said we should get out, get the ladies out, I think.”

“Who was it?”

“Sharpe, probably. He’d think of that.”

“So you left the room?”

“I took Madame Serafina’s arm. I was concerned about her, that she’d be upset. I wanted to make sure she was all right. We all went to the parlor.”

“Who sent for the police?”

“I don’t know. When we got to the parlor, everybody was talking at once, and Mrs. Burke was crying, and then a patrolman came in and told us all to stay where we were.”

“Did you see Professor Rogers when you came out of the seance room?”

Cunningham frowned. “I don’t remember.”

“You said Madame called for him to bring the smelling salts,” Frank reminded him.

“She did.”

“Did he bring them?”

“I don’t know. If he did, I didn’t see him.”

“When did you see him next?”

Cunningham frowned, trying to remember. “He brought the policeman in. I don’t remember seeing him before that. He must have gone out into the street and found him or something. What’s going to happen now?”

“What do you mean?” Frank asked.

“I mean, what’s going to happen to Madame? This wasn’t her fault, you know.”

“I don’t know anything right now,” Frank informed him. “So I don’t know what’s going to happen to her.”

“You can’t arrest her!” he said, the red spots blooming in his cheeks again. “She didn’t do anything. I know because I was holding her wrist the entire time. She couldn’t have stabbed Mrs. Gittings.”

Which conveniently gave Cunningham an alibi, too, Frank mused. “Did you hear anybody else come into the room during the seance?”

“No, of course not. Nobody could come in unless they came in by the door, and we would have known immediately if anyone opened it.”

“Then that means someone at the seance killed Mrs. Gittings.”

“Why would they do that?” Cunningham asked reasonably. “Why would anyone want to kill her, come to that? Besides, we were all holding each other’s hands. Nobody could have stabbed her without someone else knowing it.”

“Then who do you think did it?” Frank asked with interest.

“I have no idea!” Cunningham said, insulted at being asked. “That’s your job, isn’t it? Now, I’d like to leave. I must be home soon. My mother is expecting me.”

“Yes, you can go now,” Frank said wearily.

Cunningham was on his feet and out the door before Frank could even rise from his chair, but when he got back to the parlor, he was surprised to see Cunningham was still there. He was standing over where Madame Serafina still sat on one of the sofas, holding her hand in both of his and speaking to her very earnestly. She stared up at him with her large, dark eyes, her expression guarded and maybe a little frightened. But she was nodding at whatever he was saying.

“Thank you, Mr. Cunningham,” she said when he’d finished. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

He straightened and then, noticing Frank in the doorway, added more loudly, “And don’t allow the police to bully you. You’ve done nothing wrong. And you must send for me if you need anything at all.”

“I will, thank you.” She gave him a wan smile.

He took his leave, and when the front door had closed behind him, Frank turned to one of the cops still standing guard in the hallway. “Where’s O’Toole?”

“He took the little wop upstairs.”

“Go get them both and bring them down here.”

The cop took the stairs two at a time while Frank waited, trying to decide what to do next, when he remembered Mrs. Decker was still waiting. She must be going crazy trying to hear what was happening, he thought. He tapped on the office door and entered to find her sitting behind the desk, going through the drawers. She looked up in surprise.

“Oh, dear,” she exclaimed, laying a hand over her heart. “You startled me.”

“What are you doing?” he asked in dismay.

“Searching the desk,” she replied without a hint of guilt.

“Nothing in it appears to belong to anyone in this house, though. I think it may have been left by a previous occupant.”

Frank closed his eyes and tried to think of a nice way to tell Mrs. Felix Decker that she should mind her own business. When he opened them again, he still hadn’t thought of anything. “Mrs. Decker, I’ve sent for your daughter. I’ll let you know when she gets here.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Malloy. I’m sorry to be so much trouble for you. I know you already have your hands full with a murder without having to worry about me.”

Someone was knocking on the front door, and Frank decided he’d better make sure it wasn’t the press trying to barge in. He hurried out to close the parlor door just in case. To his relief, the cop guarding the door admitted Dr. Haynes, the medical examiner. Frank greeted him just as footsteps alerted him that O’Toole was bringing the Italian boy downstairs.

“What have you found out about him?” Frank asked O’Toole, noting that the boy seemed a little the worse for wear.

“Not much. He says he lives here and works for Madame Serafina doing odd jobs. Can’t get nothing else out of him.” He’d obviously been using a bit of force in his efforts, too. The boy stared defiantly back at them both.

“Would you take Doc Haynes back to see the body, and I’ll take him off your hands?” Frank asked.

“Gladly,” O’Toole replied, handing the boy off to Frank.

The boy glared at him balefully, but Frank ignored him and dragged him over to the parlor door, throwing it open and shoving him inside.

“Nicola!” Madame exclaimed, jumping to her feet. For the first time today she looked truly distressed. The Professor had been sitting in one of the chairs, and he jumped up as well.

The boy caught himself and stiffened instantly, shaking his head at her in silent warning.

“You know this fellow?” Frank asked. “Because if you don’t, I’m going to arrest him for killing Mrs. Gittings.”

“No!” she cried just as Nicola said, “I didn’t kill anyone!”

“Then what are you doing here?” Frank demanded.

“I already told that other cop, I live here. I work for Madame Serafina,” he said, as if reciting something he’d memorized.

“That true?” Frank asked her.

“Yes, it’s true,” she confirmed almost desperately. “He… he isn’t involved in this. He wasn’t even here when it