A Beautiful Poison Read online

  ALSO BY LYDIA KANG

  Control

  Catalyst

  Quackery: A Brief History of the Worst Ways to Cure Everything

  The November Girl

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Lydia Kang

  Excerpt from “Two Fusiliers” by Robert Graves, from The Complete Poems Volume I, edited by Beryl Graves and Dunstan Ward.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477848876

  ISBN-10: 1477848878

  Cover design by PEPE Nymi

  For Alice

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Show me the two so closely bound

  As we, by the wet bond of blood,

  By friendship, blossoming from mud,

  By Death: we faced him, and we found

  Beauty in Death,

  In dead men breath.

  —“Two Fusiliers,” 1918, Robert Graves

  CHAPTER 1

  August 17, 1918

  At the bottom of the oak staircase at the stately Cutter house on Fifth Avenue, Florence Waxworth—tedious busybody and recent debutante—lay askew, shapely legs draped over the last step. One silk slipper perched on the top landing, where it had been violently kicked off at the start of her fall. The other was still buckled chastely onto her left foot.

  The skirt of her gilt dress had ridden up, revealing satin garters above her knees. Her face was turned to the wall as if Florence herself couldn’t bear such an embarrassing predicament. Her hair was a tumbled mess, and a smear of blood marked where her cheekbone had collided with a stair edge during the descent. An odd darkness mottled her skin. The broken remnants of a Baccarat wineglass reflected light—an earthbound chandelier scattered on the floor.

  All the while, the fiancée of the hour, Allene Cutter, simply stared. Electric happiness mixed in with the horrific, like when you saw a broken robin’s egg on the ground in spring, full of smashed baby bird, and still thought—what a splendid blue color of eggshell.

  She had dreaded this party. Dreaded being engaged to Andrew. And yet she wanted both with an equal, opposite volume of craving. Such a match ought to be nothing but wonderful. Shouldn’t it be grand to be Mrs. Andrew Smythe Biddle III? And at the enviable age of eighteen? But Florence’s death brought splendor to Allene’s cheeks not because of the snuffing out of a certain needle-nosed, irritating socialite, but because of whom it drew to her side.

  Jasper Jones and Birdie Dreyer.

  “Turn her over—gently!” Jasper cautioned. He was the closest thing to a doctor at the party, though he worked at Bellevue Hospital, and his official métier was janitor and he had yet to begin his medical studies. Father had been awfully foul when he discovered that Allene had invited him. But at least someone was doing something, and it wasn’t one of his prized guests. “Bring some smelling salts. Quickly!” Jasper ordered. He was damned handsome when he yelled like that.

  Servants crowded Florence’s body, uncorking bottles of ammonium salts. A slim hand slipped into Allene’s and squeezed gently. Forgivingly.

  Birdie.

  She was Allene’s height but lacked her breadth. She was, as always, like her name—something you desperately wanted to keep caged for the sheer greed of possessing it. After being absent from the Cutter house for four long years, Birdie was still slender and fragile, as if snipped off a piece of cloud. Her golden hair was loosely knotted above the nape of her neck. Her skin had that translucent quality of milk glass and moonstones.

  Next to Birdie, Allene felt gaudy and overdrawn, even though Birdie wore the borrowed feathers of an ill-fitting peach silk dress from Allene’s own armoire. Allene wished she hadn’t painted so much lipstick and rouge on herself.

  But something had changed about Birdie during her absence from the Cutter house. She’d always been this fairy girl, but now she had a bosom and hips and—oh! That face! She had the sort of beauty that left you bleeding internally after gazing for too long. Throughout the party, Andrew had barely been able to stop staring.

  “The smelling salts aren’t working,” Jasper said. He withdrew his fingers from Florence’s neck, which was now swollen and purpling under the warm electric lights. “By God, Allene. Florence is most certainly dead.”

  Of course she is, Allene nearly said, before biting her tongue.

  “Oh my gosh!” Ernie added uselessly.

  Ernest Fielding was all chubby face and blond hair and too much awkward elbow. He was the one who was invited to all the parties but to whom no one wished to speak. In the last hour, he’d already retold the same joke, laughed the same laugh, and discussed the price of gold bullion twice, as if anyone truly cared. His father was a banker and a bore, and Ernie was dutifully following in his footsteps. As usual, everyone ignored his exclamation, which came approximately ten minutes too late.

  Birdie caught the almost-mischievous look in Allene’s eyes, and she surreptitiously leaned in, as if keenly remarking, I know what you are. You and your schemes, always trying to knit us together, always leaving poor Ernie behind and laughing about it, always playing people like they were chess pieces underfoot. Don’t think I forgot. It’s only been four years.

  Meanwhile, Jasper went to speak with Andrew by the enormous fireplace with its white marble mantel, burdened with a cloche-covered clock and crystal vases stuffed to choking with roses. Dark hair fell roguishly into Jasper’s hazel eyes. He wore a proper sack suit in nut brown, but it looked wrinkled next to Andrew’s impeccable silk tuxedo. Allene could see the fraying of the trouser cuffs, but Jasper sported a straightness to his spine. Even in the midst of the tragedy, he caught her glance and winked at her in a challenge. Tell me I’m wrinkled, and I’ll wrestle you in the mud. Just try me.

  My, but he’d grown. His shoulders were wider, and he was far taller than before—almost a head taller. Thank goodness he was too young for the draft. Oh, that war. That terrible, bloody war. And yet Jasper had gone through something himself these last four years. Hard labor and time away from the Upper East Side had stolen the boyish roundness of his cheeks, replacing them with angles that simply hadn’t been there before. Here he was—a man. He’d grown without All
ene’s permission. She wanted to stamp the floor with her Louis heels.

  Andrew came to her side. Together, the Almost Mr. and Mrs. Biddle. Wonderful.

  “Darling. You must be so upset,” he murmured. “Do you need to retire upstairs? I can explain your absence. It would be most understandable.”

  By all accounts, Andrew was handsome, with that perfectly trimmed chestnut hair slicked with pomade and his waistcoat shining with a gold fob. And like any gentleman of breeding, he kept his emotions well concealed. He wasn’t like Birdie, whose emotions swirled like oil on water in her eyes, or Jasper, who blurted out his feelings with a quick smirk or frown, unable to hide anything. But did Andrew not care that their party was ruined? Or was he thrilled? Perhaps he was waiting for another opportunity for a surreptitious glance at Birdie’s breasts. Allene had an unnatural urge to prick him with a brooch pin, just to see if he actually bled. But the Biddles didn’t bleed. Like the Fieldings, they were bankers; they bled other people.

  “I’m fine. I want to make sure my guests are well. Please attend to Father. I’d be so grateful.”

  “Of course.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek, and she stiffened so as not to cringe. Unconsciously, she squeezed Birdie’s hand, and Birdie squeezed back. They were a united front against . . . what, exactly? She wasn’t sure.

  By now, the servants had turned Florence onto her back, laying her flat on the polished floor. Lucy stepped smartly forward. She wore her usual uniform of black with apron tied crisply around her narrow waist, with thick cream stockings that, bless her, only a maid or old lady would wear, though she was only thirtysomething years old. Her capable hands carried a blanket, which she draped over Florence from neck to ankles. Allene stifled an urge to laugh. Florence hadn’t shown so little ankle since her debut two years ago.

  Florence’s eyes were half open, with a telltale gaze that stared at oblivion. Allene’s father stepped into the circle that surrounded Florence. He was full of beard and belly and ensconced in his too-tight tuxedo and white spats.

  “For God’s sake!” Mr. Cutter exclaimed. “What sort of person dies from tripping on steps?” As if Florence’s family lineage were at fault for the mess of an evening.

  “But it wasn’t a simple trip. She fell. She didn’t look right,” Lucy remarked.

  Allene paled. “What do you mean, Lucy?”

  “Excuse me, Miss Allene,” Lucy said. The excitement of the evening was wearing on Lucy; her Italian accent, usually well buttoned down, was evident. “But I saw her coming up the stairs, and I asked if she needed anything. All the guests were in the parlor. I thought it was odd she wanted to come to the chambers on the second floor.”

  Here, Birdie stared at her feet. Jasper exchanged guilty glances with Allene. They knew why Florence had gone upstairs. She wanted to find out why the three of them had quietly escaped the party. They’d disappeared about an hour before the accident—when Allene should have been entertaining her guests with Andrew, enjoying the unpatriotic, decadent food that wasn’t wheatless, meatless, and sweetless, like the posters said it should be. When Jasper should not have been shamefully lounging on Allene’s bed. When Birdie had been naked behind Allene’s silk dressing screen. When they all had been doing something rather wrong. Rather scandalously wrong.

  “What then?” Mr. Cutter asked, and Birdie’s, Jasper’s, and Allene’s eyes snapped up to attention. They all wore their guilt like wet raincoats.

  Lucy continued. “She paused on the top step. She couldn’t speak! Oh, she had a terrible color to her face! I thought she was going to be sick. I said, ‘Miss! Miss!’ but she didn’t seem to hear me. And then she fell back, back, back. Twisted around on those heels of hers.”

  “An accident,” Mr. Cutter announced, businesslike. “Terrible. She must have had too many glasses of champagne.” He wrung his hands. “I . . . need to take care of my guests.” He stepped into the throng of questioning friends, who covered their mouths as if death could be caught by inhaling the air surrounding the corpse.

  Andrew stood by, wanting to be helpful. “Someone needs to find her family and notify the police.” He went to speak to Lucy and the other servants, who began ushering the guests away from Florence’s body.

  Allene’s hand grew limp in Birdie’s. She must have seen Allene’s little color drain away. Jasper noticed it too and grasped her other hand.

  “Allene!” he whispered. “Are you going to faint?”

  She closed her eyes and clasped their hands tightly with a strength that surprised her. Ah, this was what she’d missed: Jasper and Birdie at her side, always at her side, stealing jam from the cook, leaning sleepy heads on each other as they drowsed beneath the summer sun on the shore, their parents drinking cold champagne elsewhere while they were all sticky hands and mischievous smiles.

  “No. I’m fine,” Allene said. She opened her eyes and met theirs. “Please don’t leave. I beg you. Both of you.”

  Florence’s death was the perfect excuse to keep Birdie and Jasper in her life now that they were back. She would do whatever it took to keep them there. Anything. This time, she would fight. This time, she would lie.

  Four years ago, Father had the power to say that Jasper wasn’t good enough to set foot in the house anymore after his family’s scandal. Father had the power to say that the Dreyers were no longer welcomed, and Allene was forbidden from contacting both friends. Letters were torn up before they left the Cutter household; incoming ones were seized before Allene could lay eyes upon them.

  But she was on the cusp of being the mistress of her own estate now. Father had relented when she had said Jasper and Birdie would come to the party. It was her particular wish. Perhaps enough time had passed that he believed Allene was far beyond their influence. He’d no idea that she worried it was the other way around.

  “Please,” Allene begged.

  Neither of them answered. They didn’t need to. Someone approached their group, and Jasper withdrew his hand just in time. Allene’s hand felt far too empty.

  Jasper backed away as guests said their good-byes. Motorcars rumbled to the curb, their Klaxons adding noise to the hive of nervous, bustling activity in the foyer. The chaos of it all would have made anyone dizzy. Allene wasn’t dizzy, and she wasn’t faint. She felt more alive than she had in ages.

  Within the hour, police were everywhere. Andrew was bringing Allene a glass of water she didn’t care for. Darkly uniformed officers swarmed like ants over the house, over Florence’s body. Allene was half fascinated, half horrified by the spindly, three-legged camera stand they set up. Like a crippled metal spider, it towered almost eight feet above the body. A young man propped up a ladder to capture photographs of the scene, yawning afterward. Death in Manhattan must be a rather boring affair, even when it happened to the rich and beautiful.

  Two other officers quarreled with Mr. Cutter, and Jasper was clearly leaning in to listen. Allene touched his elbow.

  “What are they saying?” she whispered.

  “They’re wondering if they should call Norris’s office.”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Norris, the chief medical examiner. To see if it’s a suspicious death.”

  “Why? Is it?” Birdie looked shocked. “I thought she simply fell!”

  “So did I. But—”

  Jasper quieted further when Mr. Cutter placed his hands heavily on two of the senior officers’ shoulders. He ushered them into his study down the hallway. Allene left Jasper and Birdie to casually follow her father. She saw him open a cherrywood humidor on his desk and hand each officer a cigar. Mr. Cutter turned to close the doors, briefly frowning at Allene.

  She knew that frown all too well. He’d grimace like that when she used to entertain evening guests with her parlor tricks. She’d had an unwomanly habit of loving chemistry since she was a girl. Her mother thought it a charming entertainment, but ever since Mother had taken herself to a health spa in Saratoga, chemistry had been all but outlawed in the Cutter house. At parties,
Allene used to light a tiny ball of cotton soaked in naphtha and hidden in her ungloved palm. She’d give the illusion of conjuring fire with her bare hands. With all eyes on her, she felt a spark of something that amounted to more than just one dull life. Something dangerous and unquenchable. But then her father’s frown would land on her like a thousand pounds of wet wool, and the good feeling would flee.

  Just as the door to her father’s study closed, she noticed that one of the officers wasn’t holding a cigar; it was a small roll of money. She hurried back to Jasper and Birdie, then whispered what she’d seen.

  “Well, of all the . . . ,” Jasper began.

  “Why would he do such a thing?” Birdie asked.

  Jasper stared at the closed oak doors. “Probably just to clean up the mess quicker. He doesn’t want a drawn-out investigation. If they ask the medical examiner to come, the case will be open for weeks. There would be an autopsy.”

  Birdie stared at him, eyebrows lifted. “How on earth do you know this?”

  Jasper shrugged. “I’m in and out of Dr. Norris’s office and labs all the time. I keep my eyes and ears open.” Unlike the other boys at the party, Jasper didn’t brashly boast of wanting to fight the Krauts in France as soon as he was old enough to register. His brother, Oscar, had gone to Camp Upton to train and had died of peritonitis the previous winter. Jasper was ambitious, but not when it came to dying for his country. “Besides. People who empty the trash see more than just the garbage,” he said, winking at Birdie. It was Jasper’s second wink of the night, and Allene was jealous that she hadn’t owned them both.

  The evening ended quickly after that. The police scribbled notes as they listened to Lucy’s account. They briefly spoke to Birdie, Jasper, and Allene, but since they’d all been in Allene’s bedroom at the time, there wasn’t much information to gather.

  “We’ve spoken to Mr. Biddle. Anyone else who spoke to Miss Waxworth tonight? We’ll need to take a statement from them.”

  “What about Ernie?” Birdie asked.

  They looked around, but Ernie was gone. He must have left with the rest of the guests. The irony made Allene smile. Their childhoods were full of stories of distracting Ernie to escape him, so they could have each other to themselves.