3

Her announcement was met by shocked silence.

“Oh, madam, he might have killed you, too.”

“But he didn’t,” Phil said. “I wonder why?”

“Shall I telephone to Mrs. Reynolds and tell her you are indisposed, my lady?”

“I’m not indisposed, Preswick. I am angry. This could have been avoided if we’d had proper means of communications.

“And now I must go off to do good in the world, by playing hostess to an event that probably costs as much to hold as they give to the poor. You and Lily, I’m afraid, will have to remain here and wait for any notes that might be slipped under the door, or odd characters looking up at our window. Because until we find out who the victim was and why he wanted to meet, our hands are tied.”

“Perhaps we’ll discover something in the notebook while you’re gone, my lady.”

“Please do, Preswick. Lily, my new mulberry visiting dress.”

Lily hurried away.

“And Preswick, please have all the evening editions of the newspapers sent round. I doubt if there will be anything yet, but there are always reporters hanging about looking for a story; it’s possible one of them heard something.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I wish it didn’t always take hours, sometimes days, to print the news. It’s infuriating.” She swept down the hall to change.

Twenty minutes later, wearing a stylish new visiting dress—part of the ensemble she’d ordered from Paris with her unexpected windfall—and carrying a new handbag, her hair miraculously revived, Phil stepped into her fifth taxi of the day.

Really, having an auto at one’s disposal would be much more efficient. But where would she leave it if she had to chase criminals on foot? And what were the possibilities that Preswick would be willing to learn to drive?

The taxi stopped in front of a brownstone on West Sixty-Eighth Street, where Bev had temporarily “set up housekeeping”—an odd name for it since neither Bev nor Phil nor most of the women of their acquaintance actually knew a thing about keeping house.

The brownstone belonged to Bev’s father, the respected New York publisher Daniel Sloane. But he was still in Europe after having whisked Bev out of the country to avoid scandal and for her own safety after a particularly wide-reaching murder investigation.

It was already growing dark when Phil stepped onto the sidewalk and paused to search for anyone, someone in particular, who might be waiting to make contact. But though there were a number of people hurrying on their way, she didn’t see anyone who might be waiting particularly for her.

With a resigned sigh, she climbed the steps to the committee meeting.

“Good afternoon, Lady Dunbridge,” Bev’s butler, Tuttle, said as she stepped into the foyer, all dark wood paneling and classical paintings.

Before she’d even unbuttoned her coat, a brown tweed with mink collar and blessedly free from any stain, Bev, dressed unusually sedately in a dark gray afternoon dress, came bustling out of the parlor.

“Where have you been all afternoon?” she demanded.

“Shopping,” Phil said, handing her gloves to Tuttle.

“I thought you’d never get here. All the committee heads are here. They’ve been droning on for at least an hour about seating arrangements and orchestra placements and ticket sales. I may go mad before I’ve ‘salvaged’ my reputation by good works. Oh, how I miss the old gang.”

By which she meant the highfliers and fringe fast set that Bev had embraced as wife of Reggie Reynolds, gambler, horse breeder, dubious businessman.

“I’ve served tea, but I have a new cocktail I’m dying to try as soon as the stodgy ones leave. In the spirit of Christmas, of course.”

Petite and vivacious and about as subtle as a steamroller, Bev scuttled Phil into the drawing room.

“She’s here, enfin!” Bev announced.

Phil was met by a circle of a half-dozen women of varying ages and build, whom Phil had met once when she’d accepted the position of honorary hostess, and had systematically forgotten. Mainly they wanted her title on the invitations, and her money, such as it was—though they didn’t need to know about that—in their bank account.

“Lady Dunbridge.”

“Elizabeth Abernathy,” Bev whispered, as Phil crossed the space to shake hands with the heavyset charity-ball chairwoman.

“Mrs. Abernathy, I must give you my profuse apologies. I was unavoidably detained.”

“Think nothing of it, Lady Dunbridge. We are so honored to have your participation.”

Phil took and released Mrs. Abernathy’s hand and said to the room in general, “I must apologize to you all for being late. I was truly unavoidably detained.”

The deputy mayor’s wife, a buxom petite woman with bouffant hair and a hat that reminded Phil of a treat at the ice-cream parlor, who also happened to be in charge of refreshments, clapped her hand to her chest. “We are all feeling it. Sometimes I think I must meet myself coming and going.”

Phil nodded sympathetically. The deputy mayor’s wife might get more done if she carried less plumage on her head. Word from Paris was that hats would be smaller next season. Phil enjoyed feathers as much as the next woman, and those large brims were convenient for disguising one’s identity. But they could be debilitating if you were in a hurry.

She almost missed the next introduction.

“You remember Mrs. Trout, our subscriptions manageress.” Bev beamed. “And what wonderful news she’s brought us today. We’ve raised almost fifteen thousand dollars.”

Bev was laying it on a bit thick, probably more from boredom than true philanthropic excitement.

“And Imogen has raised it almost single-handedly,” added Mrs. Abernathy.

They all looked to Imogen Trout, young, tall, and remote, red hair waved back from symmetrical features beneath a stylish toque hat. Phil had seen her before but never been introduced to her. Exotic and beautiful, Mrs. Trout was impossible to ignore.

“Kudos to you, Mrs. Trout.”

“It wuz nothin’ really,” Imogen said in the most excruciatingly thick drawl that Phil had ever heard. She had to concentrate not to grit her teeth. No wonder Imogen spent most of her time posing and looking otherworldly.

Bev whispered, “Texas Panhandle,” and introduced several others, whose names Phil filed away for future use.

“And these two ladies are my old school chums from Vassar.”

“Martha Rive,” said a tall, spare young woman, not waiting for an introduction. “Publicity.”

Bev had mentioned Martha before, and she lived up to Bev’s description of her. With ash-blond hair pulled back into a low bun and a narrow-brimmed, low-crowned black felt hat perched squarely on her head, she looked fiercely intelligent and all business—the epitome of the modern independent woman.

She was expensively dressed—evidently her Knickerbocker family hadn’t cut her off completely—which was surprising, since she’d flouted her family’s sense of decorum and expectations and landed a job as society reporter with The New York Times.

“And Rosalind Chandler, another Vassar attendee. Roz’s husband is building commissioner at City Hall. She got us a good deal on the Plaza ballroom and expedited the wherefores and the whatnots.”

Rosalind nodded slightly, her dark brown hair making a halo between her pale complexion and her wide-brimmed hat. “It was quite easy, much less than these ladies have done.”

“Maybe so,” Bev said. “But we do appreciate it. Now, Phil, sit down and we’ll bring you up to date. Tuttle, pour Lady Dunbridge a cup of tea.”

It was an hour and several cups of tea later, after Tuttle had drawn the drapes and Phil was floating in oolong, that most of the ladies began making preparations for their departure.

“Roz, you’re looking absolutely peaked,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “Shall I drop you on my way?”

Roz, who had seemed to be wilting, sat up straighter. “Thank you, Elizabeth, but Jarvis is picking me up here. Dinner with his mother.” She smiled, an expression that said she wasn’t looking forward to the visit.

“Send Mrs. Chandler my best. And remember, ladies, we only have one more meeting to attend to any last details. The ball is only a week away, so please try to make the last meeting. Goodbye, Roz. Miss Rive. I assume you’re staying also?”

Martha Rive gave her a tight smile.

“And thank you, Beverly, for lending your home for the meetings even though you’re still in mourning and—”

“I’m thinking of making an exception and attending the ball,” Bev said. “In the name of charity.”

Mrs. Abernathy pursed her lips. “Of course, Beverly, if you think it’s appropriate.”

At which point Tuttle saw the ladies out and, like the consummate butler he was, returned with a bucket of ice.

“‘If you think it’s appropriate,’” Bev mimicked, as she crossed to the drinks table to mix her Christmas cocktails. “She thinks nothing of using me and then treats me like—”

“Like you’re in mourning,” Phil said. “By all means, go, show your support for the cause, just don’t wear sequins.”

“And don’t waltz,” Martha added.

Bev grinned fiendishly. “You, neither.”

“Why not you, Miss Rive, if I may ask? Are you in mourning?”

“Gads, no. I’ll be there covering the event for the paper; my family will be invited guests. We’ll avoid each other like the plague. Poor Mrs. A. is caught in the middle, but she dare not slight me. All that free publicity from the Times.”

“Is the paper involved in the fundraiser?”

“Oh yes, we at the Times take our philanthropic endeavors seriously. Still, Elizabeth Abernathy never loses a chance to try to make me feel ridiculous. A hopeless venture, but she deep down believes that it all has to do with me not landing a husband. Oh gads, the mind boggles.”

“She’s not so bad,” Roz said. “Just old-fashioned.”

“Unlike you, you dear sweet thing,” Martha said, and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

“Coming from you, I suppose that means ‘hopelessly dull.’”

“Not at all, just hopelessly naïve. And in spite of everything Bev and I did to corrupt you.” Martha took a glass of red liquid that Tuttle was holding, looked at it dubiously before taking a sip.

Roz held up her hand. “None for me, Tuttle.” She looked toward the door. “I can’t imagine where Jarvis is.”

“Or doesn’t want to,” Martha said into her drink glass. Fortunately, Phil was the only one who heard her.

“Oh, Roz,” Bev said. “You have to try my new Christmas cocktail. We deserve it after the last few hours. I thought they’d never leave.”

“I really can’t. I have an awful headache, and Jarvis will be here any minute.”

“Jarvis won’t mind waiting. Take off your hat and have a sip of this, and I guarantee you’ll feel better.”

Martha barked a low throaty laugh. “Until the morning anyway.”

Rosalind breathed out a laugh, or was it a sigh? For a moment Phil thought she might burst into tears, but it passed. “I can’t.”

Bev lowered her chin and looked sternly at Roz. “There’s nothing you need to tell us?”

“Like what?” asked Roz.

“You’re not drinking. You’re not feeling sickly, are you? Incubating a little Chandler perhaps?”

Phil thought it was incredibly ham-fisted of Bev to mention it, but Roz laughed.

“Alas, no. I can’t drink because Mrs. Chandler thinks I debauch too much.”

Martha groaned. “Oh spare us those middle-class morals.”

“The Chandlers are not middle class.”

“Just tightfisted.”

“Never mind, Roz,” Bev said brightly, just as Tuttle announced Roz’s husband, Jarvis Chandler.

It took Phil an effort to recover her shock at seeing Roz’s husband in the flesh. She’d imagined a young man, at least relatively good-looking, enamored with his wife and facing a promising future among the movers in Tammany Hall. As it turned out, Jarvis Chandler was twice Roz’s age. A pleasant enough face in a fairly trim body except for an incipient paunch … Obviously balding and attempting to divert attention with a wide, limp mustache that made Phil want to reach for a razor.

Roz fairly leaped from her chair. “I was beginning to think you forgot me.”

“Silly girl, how could I forget you?”

“Oh, that he would,” Martha said under her breath, which earned her a sharp look from Bev.

Martha brandished her glass—there was no other word for it. “How delightful to see you. And—”

A panicked look from Roz brought Martha up sharp.

“—on such a lovely day,” she finished.

He was introduced to Phil. He gave her a quick appraising look, then nodded over her hand. “Now we must hurry, my dear, the traffic is abominable.”

Roz smiled back at him, a little desperately, Phil thought, and swore never to live under the slavish thrall of any man. Not that she ever would. The earl had cured her of that.

Roz’s evident worship of her husband was more cloying than Bev’s Christmas cocktail.

“Ladies.” Jarvis Chandler trundled his wife away.

As soon as they heard the front door close behind them, Martha slipped off her shoes and stretched her legs out along Bev’s sofa. “If that’s love, I swear I’m going to become a wizened old spinster.”

“He is a crashing boor,” Bev agreed.

“And after Roz’s inheritance. I wish the old reprobate would go to hell.”

“Or to jail,” Bev added.

“Well, that’s never going to happen,” Martha said.

“Divorce?” Bev suggested.

Martha shook her head. “But seriously, Bev. I’m worried about her.”

“She does seem a little, I don’t know … why are you worried?”

Martha cast a sideways look at Phil.

“Phil is the soul of discretion.”

Martha gave Phil a skeptical look. “She’s withering away. He’s making her miserable, and her health is suffering. I could have kicked you when you said that bit about a little Chandler.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t see her as much as you do,” Bev said. “Is she hoping for a baby?”

“To keep her company, maybe. But not from him.”

“Someone else?” Bev asked. “She seems to adore him.”

“You adored Reggie, didn’t you?”

“When I wasn’t ready to brain him. But that was different. Roz is—”

“Putting on an act. You should have recognized that. That’s what she always did when she was in trouble, acted flitty.”

“You don’t think she’ll do anything rash, do you?” Bev glanced at Phil. “Maybe she will divorce him.”

“Not likely,” Martha said. “She’s afraid to breathe wrong, now that Jarvis is being groomed for mayor.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Afraid not. McClellan has turned out to be more civic-minded than Tammany intended. Rumor has it, they’ll supplant him in the next election.”

“Poor Roz,” Bev said. “The three of us were best friends in school, then out of the blue, her parents took her out of school to marry Jarvis.”

“Her adoptive parents,” Martha reminded her. “And the powers that be are not happy that she’s an orphan, but they’re turning a blind eye since she’s loaded.”

“She’s adopted?” Phil asked out of pure surprise.

“She was born somewhere out west. Her parents died in an influenza epidemic when she was a baby. The Hastingses, a well-to-do Manhattan family, were the closest relatives, distant cousins and childless, so they brought her to live with them. They doted on her, but they were older, concerned for her future, so when Jarvis offered, they jumped at the chance.

“They were killed three years ago. Boating accident. Roz has been going through the motions of living since then.” Martha looked into her glass, drained it, and put it down.

“If she’d just divorce him, then maybe we could teach her how to enjoy life again,” Bev said.

“Not a chance. When they handed over Roz, they handed over her inheritance.” Martha sat up and reached for a beaded silver bag that Phil had been admiring. “I’m dying for a fag. You don’t mind if I smoke, do you, Lady Dunbridge?”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Bev said.

“Oh good, I didn’t know if you were a stickler—peerage and all that,” she said in an exaggerated Cockney accent.

Bev guffawed. “Not Phil. Nothing fazes her.”

Not true, thought Phil. She was pretty fazed, right now. A dead man in the theater had fazed her to her marrow, but she didn’t need to share that with her new acquaintance.

“Now drink up. I have a whole pitcher of my Christmas cocktail.”

Phil shuddered. It wasn’t like Bev to be so off in her mixology. Maybe she’d like a nice drinks recipe book for Christmas.

“I’m game,” Martha said on a long exhale of smoke. “Nasty habit, and very unladylike, I know,” she said to Phil. “It comes from hanging around a newspaper office all day. Sometimes the air is so thick you don’t even have to light up to enjoy the smoke.

“Bev did warn you, didn’t she? I’m only on the committee doing penance for thwarting my family’s best intentions and following my destiny into the newsroom of The New York Times. Oh, the scandal.”

Bev had told her about Martha Rive, blue blood, high-strung, and twice as stubborn as all the Rives put together.

“Yes, actually she said you were a reporter.”

Martha snorted. “If you call reporting attending all the fashionable weddings, soirées, and debutante balls, and writing endlessly about gauze, china silks, and the well-stocked trousseau.”

“Nothing earth-shattering, I take it.”

“Not as yet. Though a couple of weeks ago, I did cover a rather interesting Chanukah celebration at the Academy of Music. Unusual, a play about the Maccabees and the lighting of candles, but Sydney pulled the article to make room for something ‘less arcane.’ His words.”

Martha sighed, gave them a wry smile. “At least I have my own desk now. And at least, the men do think twice about asking me to ‘type this up, doll, it’s due in an hour.’ You’d think with all the new typewriting machines Charlie Miller—he’s editor in chief—convinced the Times to buy—one for each reporter no less—that a few of the half-wits would bother to learn to use more than two fingers.

“But no, better to wait for one of the few overworked, underpaid typewriter girls or an unsuspecting society columnist and have them do the grunt work. Sometimes I could commit mayhem.

“Though I shouldn’t complain. I get to have a prime seat at the New Year’s Eve ball drop. Because our readers will all want to know what society was wearing in the sixty seconds that it took the monstrosity to slide down the flagpole.”

“The whole town is talking about it,” Bev said. “It’ll be exciting.”

“We’re hoping it will become a tradition, since the city nixed fireworks after last year’s display got rather out of hand.” Martha finished her cigarette and stubbed it out in her saucer.

She was obviously well-bred, and Phil thought her attitude was as much to see if she could shock Phil as it was real.

“Now I must be off, too. The Clinton-Swift soirée.”

“I’m not even invited,” Bev groused. “Belle Swift assured me it was only because of my status of mourning. Otherwise I would be there.”

“I’m just covering it for tomorrow’s edition. I shall remain inconspicuously in the background furiously scribbling who was there and what people wore, while they didn’t listen to whatever soprano, pianist, reciter of poetry, or whatnot carried valiantly on.

“Then I’ll rush back to the office, where I’ll type it all up and shoot it down to Compositing. And if I’m really lucky, I’ll be there when Tommy Green arrives with his breaking news. I hope it’s good. And I hope he’s okay. He’s already late and it’s not like Tommy to be late.” She huffed out a sigh and polished off her drink.

“Well, you’re the one who wanted to be a reporter,” Bev said.

“Journalist,” Martha corrected her. “And so I shall be, but until then I stand with one foot in each world. Rather like a governess—not one of the family, and yet not quite a servant.”

Phil nodded, but she was only half listening. She must be off her game, because she was about to miss a golden opportunity. She’d just complained about the news being so slow, and here was someone, a friend of Bev’s, who actually worked for the Times. The place where news went before it was made public.

“I think what you do is fascinating,” Phil said abruptly.

“You do?”

“Yes, right in the midst of things when the latest news comes in.”

Martha eyed her speculatively. And Phil realized that they had been taking each other’s measure since Phil had arrived. She was okay with that. Martha thought Phil might drop some morsels of gossip her way, and in return … well, it wouldn’t hurt Phil to have a friend in the newspaper business.

And the sooner the better.