Marty Rive did say no to Phil’s invitation … at first.
Phil had managed to get put through to Marty’s desk at the Times office. But from the sounds of the background noise, even the society news was in a state of bedlam.
“Normally I would be delighted to, Phil. But I have twice the work, twice the number of events because of the holidays. I’ve taken to carrying several evening kits to work and changing from here.”
“There’s something I want you to see.”
There was silence at the other end of the line.
Finally, a suspicious “What is it?”
Phil could practically hear Just a Friend saying, “I don’t use the telephone ’cause of ‘ears.’” “I can’t say now. Only here, before the ball. And unfortunately I have to be downstairs at eight to receive the guests. A ridiculously early time to begin a ball, though I suppose with all the others being held, someone must go first.”
Phil thought she heard a snort over the line, then another long pause while Marty deliberated whether it would be to her advantage or not. Phil didn’t add any prodding. She had no doubt that Marty’s silence was an attempt to trick her into telling her more.
“All right,” Marty said at last. “I’ll try to make it.”
“Come through the main lobby on Fifty-Ninth. I’ll advise the concierge of your visit. And be discreet. I don’t want any of your ambitious colleagues to be on the alert.”
“I think I can manage that,” Marty said.
“Good. Until then.” Phil rang off and went back to the kitchen. The table was now spread with newspaper that was the home of a dozen stars that had been dipped in melted paraffin and sprinkled with glitter.
“They’re beautiful,” Phil said. Even her rather lopsided one rose to the occasion with its adornments of silver and gold. Something she could use herself. A little glitter, a little gold, but perhaps first a lie-down.
Investigating could be an arduous occupation; she could do with a short respite from being jostled by mistletoe salesmen, being kidnapped, narrowly escaping a bombing, and trying to piece this puzzle together with the noted absence of Mr. X.
Not to mention the tight lips of Detective Sergeant Atkins. Was he or was he not looking into this matter?
He didn’t seem particularly interested in pursuing Tommy’s killer or whoever had kidnapped Phil. And to her discredit, she had her first doubt about the good detective sergeant. He was one of the last holdouts against the return to corruption after Mr. Roosevelt’s period of reform.
How long would he, like that poor Dutch boy with his finger in the dyke, be able to hold out against the pressure, the sabotage, the temptation? Would he gradually give up, be dragged back into the morass?
No, she wouldn’t believe it.
And just where was Mr. X in all of this? On another case? Doing a parallel investigation?
“Did she agree to come?” Lily asked.
“What? Oh yes, she agreed to come. But she doesn’t trust me any more than I trust her. I just hope she can help us get a break in this case,” said Phil. “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and I still have shopping to do.”
She had packages galore waiting down in the Plaza storage rooms. She’d rather overdone it, but she still hadn’t been able to find the new Sherlock Holmes.
“I want us to have the best Christmas ever.” Their best Christmas ever. One not mired in dissolute husbands, opinionated society—or murder.
“Yes, my lady.”
“So, after tonight, I’m declaring a two-day, no three-day—to include Boxing Day—moratorium on investigation. Hopefully, Marty Rive can identify this key and is willing to work with us.”
“And if she isn’t?” asked Lily in a small voice.
Never let servants see you falter, Phil thought. Even though she had long ceased thinking of Lily and Preswick solely as servants, they hadn’t quite managed to make the reverse leap themselves. “If she isn’t, we’ll just have to attack the problem from another direction.
“And in the meantime, I’ve arranged it with Mr. Sterry for you to have a seat in the balcony to listen to the children’s choir and to enjoy the ball.” The managing director of the Plaza, dear soul that he was, was happy to do Phil that favor. “So enjoy yourselves. The guests are bound to be as glittering as our Moravian stars. But not as beautiful.”
“But what if you need us?” Lily protested.
“Then I know where to look for you,” Phil said with a smile.
“And Mr. Preswick and I will keep an eye out for possible suspects,” Lily added.
“By all means,” Phil said. She, herself, would be on the lookout for a general, an ambassador, a wealthy businessman, or a busboy who smoked an exotic blend of tobacco. She needed to confer with someone about the investigation, and since the good detective sergeant hadn’t seen fit to return her call, she would have to depend on Mr. X to make an appearance. And if she was truthful, she wouldn’t mind waltzing with someone who waltzed as well as he did everything else.
Lily was just putting the finishing touches on Phil’s hair when Preswick announced the arrival of Marty Rive.
Phil stood and, feeling suddenly optimistic, did a little twirl for them to see her new gown—just arrived from Paris a week earlier. Monsieur Poiret had outdone himself. Not the festive, bright colors of holidays but a watered silk of pastel blue, edged in a crenulated band of sequins, with a girdle of silver blue sequins that fell into points to either side and ending in tessellated crystal ornaments.
It rather took her breath away. Structured enough to forego any but the lightest corset, though the train would be an impediment to chasing a suspect. Or running for one’s life.
Never mind. She had no intention of doing either tonight. And the swirl of the silk, which she would hold for dancing, would be a dazzling waterfall of color.
Yes. She was definitely pleased with the effect.
“Lily, your hairdressing skills surpass everything tonight. Thank you.”
In her embarrassment, Lily dropped a curtsey so well rehearsed that Phil knew Mr. Preswick was still putting her through her training.
Phil swept down the hall to find a determined Marty Rive standing in the parlor, still wearing her coat. Phil could just see a wide band of burnished-copper braid at the hem of a Roman ochre skirt.
Marty lifted her chin when Phil entered but immediately dropped the pretense.
“Wow,” she exclaimed. “You look like the Ice Queen.”
“Heartless?” Phil asked.
“Still to be decided. Shall we forego the small talk? What do you want to show me?”
“I was rather hoping you could identify this.” Phil went to the escritoire and brought back the key.
She held it out. Marty reached for it, but Phil snatched it back. She’d seen the spark of recognition in Marty’s eyes.
“Where did you find this?”
“All in good time. First, we need to establish some ground rules,” Phil said. “Preswick.”
Preswick appeared in the doorway.
“Please take Miss Rive’s coat before she perspires through her ball gown.”
Marty begrudgingly let Preswick have her coat, revealing a lovely bronze chiffon gown, crossed in pleats over the front and gathered in a key-patterned brocade across the high waist.
“I see you haven’t given up your dress code for journalism,” Phil said, and gestured for Marty to sit.
She sat. “You know, I would have never guessed from talking with you at Bev’s and the Cavalier Club that you were actually a snob.”
“Whatever it takes to get the job done,” Phil said.
“And what is that job? You live in this posh palace, with a view of the park, and servants, and I know for a fact the earl left you penniless.”
It was Phil’s turn to betray herself by a look.
“And you know this how?”
“Phil, or should I call you Lady Dunbridge now?”
“Phil will do.”
“Phil, then. I’m a journalist. I’m paid to search out the facts, even if it’s for the society pages. The earl was a wastrel and you were notorious. I’m impressed. Really. I just don’t understand. Either your family capitulated and gives you an allowance, like my mother, who slips me the odd dress money. Or you’re being kept by someone…”
“Or?” encouraged Phil.
Marty shrugged. “Why are you investigating Tommy’s murder?”
“Because you and Roz asked me to.”
“I guess we did. So you should be more forthcoming with us, at least me. I don’t know why Roz is so upset about this, she hardly knew the man. But I did know the man—”
Her voice cracked, and for a moment she hovered on the edge of tears. She forced them back. “He was my mentor, my friend.” She looked up, eyes blazing, defying Phil to scoff at the notion that an unkempt, middle-aged reporter could have been her friend.
“I understand,” Phil said. “But time is passing. Do you know what this key goes to? I’m hoping that it will lead us to where Tommy kept his notes, and no one has found whatever box, case, or trunk that key fits.”
Marty tightened her lips.
“Perhaps one of the lockers in the Times storage room on the twenty-third floor?” Phil asked, but she already knew the answer, and Marty’s expression of surprise, though quickly subdued, confirmed it.
“Well, it’s possible.… How do you know about the lockers?”
“I saw them when I was at the wake.”
“When?”
“While you were distracting Sydney, and I went in search of Harriet. She was blubbering in the stairwell. She heard Becker’s voice and ran up the stairs to hide in the storeroom.”
“What do I get in return?”
“An exclusive, once the murderer is apprehended and possibly other arrests are made.”
Marty sat up at that. “Other arrests?”
Phil warned herself to go very carefully. She couldn’t really promise that—she wasn’t even sure about the other arrests—but she would try.
“Something’s going on beyond you helping Roz and me. Tommy was on to something big, wasn’t he? Something bigger than random extortion threats and bombs. What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Phil said. “Not yet, not entirely.”
“But you have an idea?”
“A theory. Tommy’s notes would shed light on whether I’m going in the right direction or not.”
“A way that will lead us to his murderer?”
“Possibly.”
“Why are you so interested? It’s one thing to help out friends but—”
“Marty, if Tommy really was onto something big, and he was killed, this is bigger than both of us.”
“Oh no, not the police? They are totally corrupt.”
“Not the police,” Phil said.
“Then who? Who do you know? Are you working for them?”
“My dear Marty. I’m a countess. I know everyone. And I’m working for you and Roz. But you must agree to certain terms. The notes, if we find them, will remain in my possession—”
“Not a chance.”
“I’d like you to help me decipher them. I suspect you may be the only person besides Harriet who can read his scribbles, but…”
“Don’t you trust me, Phil?”
“Not one jot. I believe you would do whatever you needed to do to get your story. I will do whatever I need to do to find Tommy’s murderer. What do you say?”
“What’s to stop me from breaking into the lockers myself?”
“How? With a crowbar? There must be a hundred of them. Do you even know which one is Tommy’s? How will you explain that to your bosses?”
Marty huffed a breath. “Fine. I agree. But if you double-cross me, I will make you pay. I know the ins and outs of society. I will find a way to destroy your reputation.”
Phil laughed. “Oh, my dear Marty. My reputation was destroyed years ago and several times since. So this is what I suggest…”
A few minutes later, Phil left to take over her hostess duties, with instruction to Lily to have her winter coat at the ready downstairs at midnight. Marty agreed to remain behind for another fifteen minutes, enjoying one of Preswick’s excellent martinis, then leave the hotel from the main lobby and return by the ballroom’s separate entrance.
They would meet at one o’clock outside the Oak Room restaurant and take a taxi to the newspaper, hopefully to find it fairly empty of journalists trying to make a late-night deadline.
The grand ballroom had been transformed. The coffered ceiling rose like a celestial dome over arches lit by fairy lights and ionic columns surrounded by sprays of holiday flowers. The balcony that ran the circumference of the room was festooned with swags of pine floating in clouds of light pink tulle and pinned with red ribbons.
Very effective, Phil thought, and very beautiful. But she couldn’t help but wonder if all the money spent on decorations and orchestra and dining and champagne would have been better spent if it was given directly to those who needed it.
But, of course, no one, especially the rich, wanted to give something for nothing. Phil had learned long ago that the more they paid for their own enjoyment, the more they gave to the charitable cause that was entertaining them.
The orchestra was playing softly on the balcony. The children’s choir was lined up along risers placed at the far end of the ballroom. They were dressed in their school uniforms, red sashes tied crosswise over white blouses. Tinfoil crowns sat upon each head, reminding Phil of rows of little monarchs.
At the end of their singing, the children would leave the stage, and the platform would be raised to become a part of the balcony to make more room for dancing.
The choirmaster took his place at the podium, and Phil made her way toward Mrs. Abernathy, who stood in the receiving line with her husband and Mayor McClellan, who would lead off the dance with Phil.
As the choir began to sing, the doors were opened, and the first arrivals entered to the cherubic sounds of “Good King Wenceslas.”
For the next hour, Phil greeted an endless stream of revelers. Strangers, people she knew, people she had only heard of, people she had no idea of, several more whom she’d like to know better.
Some bypassed the line altogether, but Bev, who had deliberated until the last minute as to whether she would attend or not, stopped to say hello and, if Phil knew Bev, to flaunt it before Mrs. Abernathy.
She was wearing an exquisite lavender—she was still officially in mourning—taffeta gown that rustled as she moved down the receiving line and smiled at a speechless Elizabeth Abernathy. Marty followed a few minutes later, dodged the receiving line, and took her place with the other reporters in one of the alcoves behind the columns.
That hardly seemed fair. She was better dressed and had a better pedigree than most of the guests, but she’d made her choice, much as Phil had made hers. At least Marty’s was settled. Phil was still juggling her future in both worlds.
The choir ended “O Holy Night,” their innocent young voices rising to the great coffered ceiling. As the last note reverberated above the listeners, the orchestra broke into “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” and the children filed off the risers and out of the room.
Mrs. Abernathy stepped onto the podium, welcomed everyone, gushed over the children, and thanked the attendees for their generosity. “And now Mayor McClellan and Lady Dunbridge, who has graciously lent her name and presence as our hostess, will lead off the dancing.”
The orchestra struck up a waltz, and Phil crossed her fingers that the mayor was adept enough to get her around the floor before the others joined in.
He made it exactly halfway around the room before someone cut in, and he thankfully went back to his wife.
As Phil spun around the room with her next partner, she caught a glimpse of Marty looking on from the alcove, her notebook and pencil in hand, and thought, What a waste of a lovely gown.
The first chance she got, Phil made her way over to the journalists. There were ten or twelve of them, mostly women, and mostly dressed simply to denote their station, writing and talking and watching the antics of the guests.
“Got it,” Marty said drily, as Phil came up to her. “Tulle, chiffon, the most god-awful conglomeration of ball gowns you can imagine. Is it time?”
“I’m afraid not,” Phil said. “Another two hours or so. Nothing interesting?”
“I’ve already seen Carr and Charlie Miller, and guess who? Sydney. He gets to come as a guest. I bet you money he didn’t pay for a ticket. It’s infuriating.
“Oh gawd, look who just made her entrance. As fashionably late as the unfashionable can be. My mother always said money can’t buy taste. But damn, that’s an amazing gown.”
Phil looked toward the entrance, where Imogen Trout and her husband stood framed by greenery and tulle.
And the gown was indeed amazing: black velvet scrolls on a background of ivory satin, a low-cut, rounded décolleté, and puff sleeves with inserts of black velvet. Her hair was swept back and up into curls. A tiara of … rubies?… sparkled under the lights.
“Worth,” Phil said, recognizing the famous designer’s hand.
“Definitely a Worth,” Marty said, starting to write. “But neither he, nor anyone in his studio, put that red sash across her waist. She had to have added that in the spirit of the season.”
“Sad, but true,” agreed Phil. “Your mother was right.”
“She generally is.”
Next to her, Mr. Trout, fully kitted out in tails, looked like a hulking dockworker.
Heads had turned, and a murmur went through the crowd.
Imogen moved, not to enter the ballroom but to strike another pose.
“The Queen of Tarts, she broke some hearts,” Marty murmured. “She might as well be on the runway. Or a museum wall.”
Imogen continued to pose for whomever was still watching, until her husband took her by the arm and led her into the ballroom, leaving a view of the couple behind them, Jarvis and Roz Chandler.
“Dammit,” Marty muttered under her breath.
The Chandlers didn’t pause to be noticed, though Roz’s dark hair and pale complexion above a long-sleeved high-neck ecru gown of overlaid gold lace was striking enough that she could have made an entrance on her own account.
As Phil and Marty watched, the couple drifted into the sea of guests.
“Poor Roz,” Marty said. “I don’t see why she seems determined to stay in the shadows of Imogen’s illuminating presence.”
“No,” Phil agreed, frowning. Roz was striking much the same way Lily would be if she ever wore a ball gown. Lily and …
“Isn’t that the policeman Bev introduced us to in the lobby?”
“John Atkins?” Phil followed Marty’s gaze to a tall, elegantly dressed man standing several feet from the dance floor, talking to Carr Van Anda.
“It is, and I wonder … Excuse me.” Phil moved away, skirting the couples coming off the dance floor and weaving through pockets of guests well on their way to good cheer. It took her a considerable amount of time to reach the other side.
The Times editor was just walking away. “Good evening, Detecti— Are you here in an official capacity?”
“Security,” he said, smiling affably at her. “Though I would appreciate it if you didn’t announce it to the world.”
“Jewel thieves and the like?”
He tipped his head. “Christmas isn’t just a time for giving.”
“Do you ever stop working?”
“Not lately.”
“Well, if you are supposed to blend in, perhaps you might ask me to dance. Are you allowed to dance?”
“Certainly.” He took her hand, but looked around, caught someone’s eye before leading her to the floor.
“How many of you are here?”
“A handful in the ballroom,” he said, as she lifted her train. “Mostly as waiters. Another squad outside, ready to give chase.”
And, Phil thought, Preswick and Lily sitting erect and formal in their freshly cleaned uniforms, keeping watch from above. But the detective sergeant didn’t need to know that.
They joined the other swirling couples. “Are you expecting a heist?”
He actually smiled. “Hopefully not, but the Plaza requested extra help.” He smiled ruefully. “I seem to be the only officer in the nineteenth who owns a tail suit.”
“I can believe that, and you wear it well. Have you—” Phil began.
“Do you think that for once, we could not discuss murder?”
“I’m duly chastised, Detective Sergeant.”
“You are not chastened one whit.”
“I am known for being incorrigible.”
He laughed, and they whirled around the floor. They passed Bev dancing with Max Rosarian, a delightful man Phil had met just this past fall, and, oddly enough, Marty and Sydney Lord, who must have managed to coax her out of her banishment in the journalists’ alcove, but hopefully not into blabbing about their plans for later that evening.
It was something she hadn’t considered … that Marty might be the leak.
“Is there something wrong?” Atkins asked as the room spun around them.
“No, just a clumsy moment. I do apologize.”
“I can’t imagine you being clumsy. Well, not often.” He grinned, and she knew they were both remembering their first meeting and the dreaded eggplant gown.
When the music came to an end, he led her from the floor.
“Wait, when will I see you again? You didn’t return my phone call.”
“I didn’t receive it.”
“That’s not promising.”
“I’ll remedy it immediately. Ah, there is Mrs. Reynolds. I’ll leave you to her. Unfortunately, I can’t neglect my duties any longer.” He bowed to her before heading in the opposite direction.
Phil spent the next two hours conversing, dancing, and wondering if Mr. X was here and had managed to elude her again. Though she carefully scrutinized every partner, she couldn’t distinguish him in their faces or their dancing, though she did manage to spot a couple of policemen acting as waiters.
Atkins didn’t dance again, and she had to admit she felt gratified that his one dance had been with her. Though perhaps she shouldn’t be, since she had asked him.
As midnight came and went, Phil became less interested in the ball and more impatient to carry out the evening’s real assignment. She hadn’t seen Preswick or Lily, though she imagined they had come down to view the proceedings, and she knew they would be prepared and waiting for her when she went for her coat.
Just before one, Phil noticed that Marty was nowhere to be seen, and hoped she wasn’t going to be late because she had stopped to powder her nose. Then she saw her waiting near the door, notebook returned to her bag.
Their eyes met, and Marty left the room.
It was time at last.
But as she moved toward the exit, she was stopped by someone. At first she didn’t recognize him, since he was a mere silhouette from the lights behind him. A chill skittered through her as she relived, for a second, Becker in the dark warehouse and the shadow looming behind him.
“Leaving so soon?”
Samuel Trout stood before her. “Surely you can spare a few more minutes for a last dance. I would not think myself a man of culture if I missed such an opportunity.”
Phil didn’t think dancing would help that, but she said, “I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more.” She took his arm.
He wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. For his size, he was amazingly agile. He even managed a little conversation as they made their way around the floor.
“Are you spending the holidays in the city?” Phil asked, not really caring. He was potentially involved in a real-estate scheme that Tommy may have uncovered, and probably wasn’t Trout’s first. And having him out of the way would give her one less thing to worry about.
“I’ll drive Imogen over to Schuylkill to visit some friends.”
Phil didn’t hear the rest. What she heard was Kill her, kill her, kill her echoing in her mind. She looked up to find him smiling down at her, and it sent a chill through her.
She smiled back, tried to swallow, but her mouth was suddenly dry.
“And you?” he added.
“I … I haven’t completely decided,” Phil heard herself say, but didn’t know how she managed it, or how she was able to keep up her steps, because she was no longer hearing the music, but Kill her, kill her, kill her, echoing in Samuel Trout’s voice.
Phil never knew how she made it to the end of the dance.
“That was delightful, Lady Dunbridge. I hear Newport is lovely this time of year, though a little sparse. Or you might try Saratoga. Wherever you decide, I hope you have a wonderful and safe holiday. Ah, there’s my wife and Roz Chandler, shall I leave you with them?”