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forgotten the fixings: no raisins, no cinnamon, not to mention any fancy sugar. I was about to tell Ma, who was nodding off herself, but then I thought of what Daddo would say: Don’t tell the Devil good day till you meet him. So I let the swaying of the train rock me back to sleep.
    â€”
    Early the next morning, as I slumped waiting for the train and the day’s drudgery, I dutifully peeked at the
Daily Standard
’s headlines:
    HOOVER SHOWS VISION AT MILWAUKEE RALLY
    â€˜SOFT’ DRINKS SALES SURE TO RISE
    MIRACLE DRUG BUILDING INTEREST. . . .
    But it was a headline on the
Yodel
that seized my attention:
    WILD ROSE’S WILD NIGHT
    New York’s Most Eccentric Recluse Steps Out—in a Dumbwaiter!
    Nearly Burns Mansion to the Ground—Accident or Arson?

Chapter
4
    I was relieved to find the Sewell mansion standing when we arrived.
    Some smudges alongside the stove and a thick haze of smoke over the kitchen were the only evidence of Rose’s wild night. Whatever had happened, nothing had burned to the ground, besides Chef’s scrap bucket where a blazing rag seemed to have fallen.
    Chef banged around the kitchen, furious to find his sanctum breached, ready to fend off any suggestion that it was
he
who left an olive oil–soaked rag too near a pilot light.
    Upstairs was a symphony of slamming doors, books flung against walls, Ma’s running feet, and above it all, Mr. Sewell roared out his ire in the form of un-questions.
    â€œI want answers, do you hear me!” he roared. “Does no one here know one damn thing about what’s going on in this house! Who is going to explain how this happened!”
    I turned up the water in the scrub sink, but still scraps bounced down the servants’ stairs—“outrageous,” “disloyal,” “leak,” “like a sieve”—and I wasn’t sure what angered him most: that his crazy wife had tried to burn the house down on her way to a midnight stroll . . . or that the
Yodel
had scooped it?
    And how had they found out? I wondered as I washed the dishes from Mr. Sewell’s supper. Once the food was on the table, the servants were expected to leave, to protect the master’s privacy. Only Alphonse, who served at the table, would have stayed to the end. . . .
    A ringing of the front bell brought a temporary stay to the storm upstairs. And a few minutes later, Alphonse entered the kitchen. Chef looked up, hoping for a luncheon guest.
“Non,”
Alphonse shook his head, and Chef flung a handful of
mirepoix
vengefully across the room.
    â€œWho’s here?” I asked Alphonse, grabbing a broom and dustpan to capture the tiny celery cubes.
    â€œThe doctor,” responded Alphonse. “The
meesus
is foul again.”
    I wrinkled my nose. “Foul?”
    â€œHow you say—not foul, sick? The doctor wants some tea for the
meesus
. You make it.”
    â€œ
Please
,” I added in my head, as if correcting the twins. I put on the kettle and started a tea tray. “So what happened? You were here, right? Did the missus really ride in the dumbwaiter? Was she the one who set the fire?” I lowered my voice. “On purpose?”
    Alphonse looked uncomfortable, but his eyes involuntarily flicked to the smoke-damaged range.
    Did Alphonse discover the whole brouhaha while clearing plates to the kitchen? “Did you see the whole thing? Get over!” I punched him on the arm, which he frowned about and rubbed gingerly. “What did she look like? Was she nutty as a fruitcake? Was she foaming at the mouth?” A new thought occurred to me. “Was she trying to make something to eat? I’ll bet she was, after all that mush day in, day out.” Especially the plain porridge I’d accidentally served up.
    I saw Alphonse recoil from my questions, as if he regretted the glance at the stove that had escaped him, maybe even regretted saying hello. He