Louisa and the Crystal Gazer Read online

  “A historically accurate and entertaining mystery series.”

  —The New York Review of Books

  PRAISE FOR THE

  LOUISA MAY ALCOTT

  MYSTERY SERIES

  Louisa and the Crystal Gazer

  “In Louisa and the Crystal Gazer, Louisa continues to grow as a character…. This self-growth and self-awareness help keep the book from becoming simply another historical cozy…. By relying on her own personal strengths and those of family and friends, Louisa has the ability to find the criminal, regardless of the circumstances.”

  —Reviewing the Evidence

  Louisa and the Country Bachelor

  “Louisa May Alcott makes a wonderful narrator, whether observing the foibles of those around her or addressing the reader with gentle humor…. Fans of historical mysteries will find much to enjoy here.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “Maclean’s latest cozy is entertaining and has a fascinating mystery and a healthy dose of humor. The author’s attention to historical detail adds realism and depth to this page-turner.”

  —Romantic Times

  “The generous mix of oddly assorted characters and the village setting make this a pleasantly diverting outing. Fans of Alcott and period mysteries in general will enjoy it.”

  —The Historical Novels Review

  “Anna Maclean has created an entertaining period piece around Louisa May Alcott and her adventures as an amateur sleuth before she becomes a well-known author…. Those readers who enjoy mysteries set in the past, like the Irene Adler series, will want to add this series to the list of their must reads.”

  —Roundtable Reviews

  Louisa and the Missing Heiress

  “This thrilling mystery reads like one of Alcott’s own ‘blood-and-thunder’ tales. The colorful characters and long-held secrets will keep you guessing until the final page.”

  —Kelly O’Connor McNees, author of The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott

  “An adventure fit for Louisa May Alcott. A fine tribute to a legendary heroine.”

  —Laura Joh Rowland, author of the Adventures of Charlotte Brontë series

  “Your favorite author takes on a life of her own and proves to be a smart, courageous sleuth.”

  —Victoria Thompson, author of the Gaslight Mystery series

  “Charming and clever amateur sleuth Louisa May Alcott springs to life.”

  —Karen Harper, national bestselling author of The Queen’s Governess

  “Maclean has a wonderful grasp of the history, language, and style of nineteenth-century Boston . . . enough plot twists to keep me entertained until the satisfying conclusion.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “It was perhaps inevitable that Louisa May Alcott, the pseudonymous author of so many blood-and-thunder tales, would, herself, take up sleuthing. This tale of dark secrets, mysterious men, and heiresses in distress will please any reader who has longed to pursue Jo March’s ‘sensation stories,’ those lucrative tales that allowed Beth to go to the seashore, but of which the good Professor Bhaer so stoutly disapproved. As Jo herself might say, a thumping good read.”

  —Joanne Dobson, author of Death Without Tenure

  “This novel reveals that my great-great-aunt had a secret career that none of us knew about. It’s great fun and a page-turner, and it uses the morals and mores of the time and place to delightful effect.”

  —John Pratt, heir to the Alcott Estate

  “A great debut that’s appropriate for all ages.”

  —Mystery Scene

  “Great fun…. Maclean has done a wonderful job of capturing Alcott’s voice and style…. I suspect the real Alcott would have liked it and wished she had written it herself.”

  —Women Writers

  “Readers will find themselves enthralled with the details of Louisa’s life, family and friends, as well as with the expertly crafted mystery.”

  —Romance Readers Connection

  “Mystery and suspense abound in this first-person fictional account of Alcott’s amateur sleuthing. This well-crafted debut novel should help garner fans for her series.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Louisa’s forwardness makes the story very accessible for the average reader of today.”

  —The Historical Novels Review

  Other Louisa May Alcott Mysteries

  Louisa and the Missing Heiress

  Louisa and the Country Bachelor

  A Louisa May Alcott Mystery

  ANNA MACLEAN

  AN OBSIDIAN MYSTERY

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

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  Published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a Signet edition.

  First Obsidian Printing, February 2012

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © Jeanne Mackin, 2006

  Excerpt from Louisa and the Missing Heiress copyright © Jeanne Mackin, 2004

  All rights reserved

  EISBN: 9781101576144

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Printed in the United States of America

  Set in Cochin

  Designed by Patrice Sheridan

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  FOR ALL THE GENEROUS AND HELPFUL

  VOLUNTEERS AT ORCHARD HOUSE, WHO

  HELP PRESERVE LOUISA’S LEGACY

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Ellen Edwards for her support, ideas, and professionalism; to Alison Lurie for
her inspiring conversations about Louisa; to Jan Turnquist for her wonderful work at Orchard House; to Steve Poleskie for the patience and love; and to Tiffany Yates for the close reading she gave this work. To quote Louisa, I can never thank you enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Prologue

  Gentle Reader,

  In December of 1855 I found myself in Boston temporarily separated from my beloved family in Walpole, New Hampshire, and facing a Christmas, that most wonderful of seasons, without the comfort of my loved ones.

  But drudge a living I must, for I was not yet the rich and famous author I later became. My stories, when they sold, earned little, and so I had sought employment and received an offer from Reverend Ezra Gannett, who wished me to complete an order of a dozen winter shirts for him, all to be finely seamed, buttonholed, and finished with pleats and embroidery.

  I was an unenthused seamstress at best, but his payment would allow me to purchase Christmas presents for my family, so I accepted his offer, and a second one besides, for a dozen summer shirts of lighter fabric to be completed by April. These matters are relevant to my story. Trust me.

  My dear friend Sylvia Shattuck was also in residence in Boston, fortunately, for more than ever I counted on her steadfast and amusing companionship. Sylvia, however, was in a strange frame of mind, one that set into motion a course of events that would involve us in murder, faithless lovers, and sad deeds of a dark past. Beware of boredom, gentle reader. It can lead one down dangerous paths.

  “I miss Father,” she sighed one morning as we took our walk along the harbor. It was a misty, cold day, and the harbor waves were tipped with frosty white.

  “Unfortunately, your father passed away when you were a child,” I answered gently. “You barely knew that long-enduring man, so how do you now claim to miss him?”

  It was unlike Sylvia to yearn for any family member, dead or alive, and I had a vague presentiment that she was to introduce yet another faddish custom into my life. Sylvia lived in vogues, and had just relinquished Confucianism, which had not brought the enlightenment she sought. No use to explain to her that philosophers spent years at that task; Sylvia tended to give three months and then move on.

  “My point exactly,” my companion responded, turning upon me bright eyes filled with a passionate melancholy. “I feel the need for a masculine presence in my life, and would like to converse with my father. I will, with the assistance of Mrs. Agatha Percy. Please come with me to one of her sittings!”

  I groaned and jammed my hands deeper into my pockets, despite the stares of several passersby; a lady did not put her hands in her pockets. She did if they were cold, I thought. Ship rigging creaked in the wind and bells chimed the start of a new watch, and I pondered Sylvia’s statement.

  Mrs. Agatha D. Percy was the newest fad in Boston, one of the recently risen members of that questionable group of individuals known as “spiritists,” or mediums. One must feel a very heavy burden of ennui to wish to spend time at that dubious amusement, I thought.

  “Oh, it will be such fun, Louisa. All of Boston goes!” Sylvia persisted.

  “Then it must be quite crowded,” I rejoined, walking at a faster pace to try to dissuade Sylvia from this topic.

  But she turned pink with enthusiasm and fairly raced about me in circles, imploring that I join her in this new activity. “Please come with me, Louy; say you will! I have an invitation for you from Mrs. Percy.” Sailors in their blue overcoats turned in our direction and grinned.

  “I can think of better ways to spend time and money than sitting in the dark and watching parlor tricks. I would much rather, for instance, attend one of Signor Massimo’s musical evenings.” The signor, a famous pianist, was touring the United States from his home in Rome and had decided to winter in Boston. He was giving a series of performances—performances I could not afford, since the tickets were as much as three dollars apiece, even when they were available, which wasn’t often, as he preferred private homes and small salons.

  “Mother tried to get tickets and could not. She was furious,” Sylvia said. I could understand; women with Mrs. Shattuck’s family name and wealth were not accustomed to hearing no.

  “Look, there is ice in the harbor,” I said, putting my hand over my eyes to shield them from the glare.

  “I will have your answer,” Sylvia persisted.

  I introduced several new topics of conversation, hoping to distract Sylvia from her mission—Jenny Lind, the Wild West, a newly published travel book about France that was flying off the shelves—but each topic she cleverly rejoined and detoured back to Mrs. Percy. Jenny Lind, accompanied by her American manager, P. T. Barnum, had visited Mrs. Percy. Mrs. Percy had published a “memoir” from a spirit who had visited her from Oklahoma. Mrs. Percy had toured France the year before and had been received by their umbrella-carrying Citizen King.

  “Don’t you see?” Sylvia sighed in exasperation, pulling at my hand to prevent me from taking another step. “The spirits themselves wish you to visit her. They put those very suggestions in your mind!”

  “Then they should put a plot or two in my mind,” I said, remembering the still-blank sheet of paper before which I had sat that morning at my desk. Being between stories was an unpleasant state for me, when no plot or story threaded the random thoughts of everyday imagination, no characters spoke to me in my head as I swept the parlor or stitched linens.

  “They will,” Sylvia said complacently. “I hear they become quite chatty and friendly in Mrs. Percy’s parlor. You might use the scene in one of your ‘blood and thunder’ stories. Think what fun it would be to write about Mrs. Percy!”

  “I am unconvinced that ‘fun’ is the correct word to describe an hour of sitting in the dark, pretending to speak with the dead,” I said.

  “Spirits,” corrected Sylvia. “The dead don’t like to be called dead. Such a harsh word.”

  Neither of us was yet aware of exactly how harsh that séance would become.

  “I will think about it,” I promised. “But now come with me to Tremont Street, and let us look in the windows and begin to think of Christmas presents, and what we will give our families.”

  “I know what Mother wishes,” said Sylvia. “A son-in-law.”

  “I have an easier shopping list,” I laughed. “A ream of writing paper for Father, new Berlin wools for Auntie Bond, something frivolous for Marmee since everyone else is certain to give her sturdy handkerchiefs.” Marmee, my beloved mother, was also known as Abba, but more and more in my imagination she was Marmee, and she was already the center of a story I had yet to write but often thought about, a story about four daughters, one named Jo, and their wise, generous mother. “A pair of gloves for Anna in Syracuse, and Faber pencils for Abby.” Abby, the youngest Alcott girl, was the artist of the family.

  “You’ve forgotten Lizzie,” said Sylvia.

  “No, I haven’t.” Lizzie was a musician, a quiet, shy girl who asked for little and was content with all she had, which was little enough. “But what can I give a sister who deserves a grand piano, a gift out of the question? I am at a loss.”

  “You’ll think of something, Louy. You always do,” Sylvia assured me.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mrs. Percy’s Parlor

  AFTER MY PERAMBULATION with Sylvia I returned to my rooms and was greeted somewhat distractedly by Auntie Louisa Bond, a kindh
earted woman of middle years with a long and close connection to my family who had offered room and board to her “favorite young person” while I (that favorite young person) was separated from my family.

  “Oh, dear, your nose is quite red, dear Louisa,” she fussed, wiping my face with her handkerchief as if I were seven years old, not twenty-three. “Must you go walking in this cold? Your mother would be distressed.” She flitted about like a butterfly, her lace collar and cuffs flapping as she helped me off with hat and coat.

  “Mother would not be distressed.” I laughed. “She believes in the power of daily exercise in all weather. Shall I help with the dinner, Auntie Bond?”

  “The stew is ready whenever you are, my dear. Set a plate for yourself, because I have eaten. I have friends coming over for a round of cards, so we will be in the front parlor.”

  Auntie Bond was a good and generous soul, but with a single vice: She liked to gamble, and although it was pennies that were wagered, she turned beet red whenever she announced that her friends were coming over for a round of cards.

  I thought it harmless enough; many women, especially those past an age for attending dancing parties or rowing picnics on the Charles, played cards these days, though they dreaded being gossiped about. Cakes and buns came from the bakery, the newfangled carpet sweeper made it unnecessary to spend all of Saturday taking up the rugs and beating them, and every household except the poorest had a servant or two. What were the ladies to do with their time?

  Go to crystal gazers, I thought. Father would say they have too much free time when others have too little.

  “I will take a tray upstairs, then, so as not to disturb you.” I gave Auntie Bond a kiss on the cheek to reassure her.

  Living in rooms felt strange, for my hardworking and practical mother had always, even in the most penurious times, found a way for our family to live together under the solidified roof of that species of establishment known as home. “Rooms” signified something entirely different, something somewhat daring. I was on my own, and I awoke each morning with a strange flush of excitement.