• 37 •

A GIRL IN trouble instinctively runs home. For that reason, Constance checked her own tent first. There was no place to hide inside, but she went around anyway, lifting blankets and kicking over the cots. The latrines seemed the next most likely place for a girl in distress to hide, but they, too, were empty.

Inspecting every single tent would take an hour. Nonetheless, she went up and down the paths between the tents, calling out as she went.

“Roxie? You’re not in any trouble. Just let me see you. I only want to know you’re all right.”

Nothing. The concert was starting by then. The cheers and whistles from the mess hall made it harder for Constance’s voice to be heard. She didn’t want to shout over it: that would only scare the girl away.

She ran to the classrooms and looked inside, which wasn’t easy without a lantern, but she ducked into each one and peeked into dark corners and behind desks. There was no sign of her.

It was only then, after a few frantic minutes of searching, that she slowed down enough to wonder how Roxanna Collins and Freeman Bernstein were acquainted. The girl had refused to be a part of Fleurette’s chorus, claiming that she didn’t know how to dance or sing. Was it possible that she did? Had she performed in one of Freeman’s shows? But why hide a thing like that?

Hack was standing guard at the entrance to the mess hall. Constance hurried over.

“Have you seen Roxie?” she asked.

He shrugged. “She might’ve gone in with the rest of them. I didn’t take a head count.”

“No, she would’ve come in late, within the last few minutes.”

“Then I haven’t seen her, miss. What’s the trouble?”

Constance wasn’t ready to alarm anyone. A missing girl, connected in any way to May Ward’s visit, would be a disaster for the camp.

“I believe she’s ill again, that’s all. If you see her, would you keep an eye on her?”

“Did you check the infirmary?”

“I will,” Constance said, but she didn’t expect to find her there. Sure enough, the infirmary was closed, the medicine cabinets locked, with a note that Nurse Cartwright could be found at the concert.

Roxie had to be in the woods. Constance took one last look around, casting an eye over the entirety of their small campground. Seeing no one about, she picked up a lantern and headed for the trees.

It would be easy enough to believe that the girl had some sort of dispute with Freeman Bernstein. There were probably dozens, if not hundreds, of aspiring vaudeville actresses who had pinned their hopes on Freeman’s promises. Fleurette herself had done so: she’d joined May Ward’s troupe as an unpaid seamstress, hoping to impress Mrs. Ward with her tailoring abilities and somehow win a part on stage.

But that was entirely Fleurette’s idea. As far as Constance knew, Freeman had never promised Fleurette a place in the troupe. She saw an opportunity and took it. Norma always held Freeman accountable regardless, and resented him for misleading Fleurette, but Constance never did. Fleurette went of her own accord and could’ve come home at any time.

But did every girl get away so easily? When Constance had charge of the female section at the Hackensack Jail, she heard far worse stories from the women inmates. Theater owners offered private booths to men on a night out, and those booths came with the promise that girls from the chorus would pay a visit after the show and let the men do whatever they liked to do. The expense of touring was often deducted from an actress’s paycheck, making it impossible to earn a dollar, much less to save up enough to leave if it became necessary. And everyone knew that a vaudeville audition wasn’t over until the girl agreed to a private meeting in the producer’s office.

Any of that could’ve happened to Roxie Collins. But she obviously hadn’t expected to see Freeman. If she’d worked with him before, wouldn’t she have known that he was May Ward’s husband?

Fleurette had talked about nothing but this concert for weeks. Was it possible that Freeman Bernstein’s name had never come up in Roxie’s presence?

Constance couldn’t remember. It hardly mattered, at this point.

She slipped behind the fence and ran up the trail, swinging her lantern and calling for Roxie. The clearing was empty and utterly silent, save for the faint sounds of Clarence’s piano drifting over from the mess hall.

Would it do any good to go deeper into the woods? If that girl didn’t want to be found, she could easily stay hidden.

Constance knew she couldn’t draw her out by shouting, so she kept her voice soft.

“Roxie, if you can hear me, just let me take you somewhere safe for the night. You can stay in the infirmary again. Tomorrow this will all be cast in a different light. Mr. Bernstein will be gone, and we can decide what’s best for you. If you want to go home, I’ll arrange your ticket myself.”

Not a sound. Nothing but laughter and music from across the way.

“I’m going back to the show,” Constance said. “If you’re here, come find me. Don’t stay out all night in the cold and the damp. We’ll look after you.”

She waited another minute to let that sink in. She listened for a crackle of dead leaves, the snap of a twig, a soft footstep in the mud. The noise of the crowd died down a little — May Ward must’ve come to a quiet verse in one of her songs — and Constance held her breath, hoping for any sound that might betray a girl in hiding.

That’s when she heard it, from across the camp: the ring of a hammer, coming down hard. It could’ve been the front gate, it could’ve been a fence post — she didn’t know, but she ran toward it.

Another hit, just as Constance reached the fence, muffled this time behind an audience singing along to a chorus. It wasn’t coming from the gate, but from somewhere in the center of camp.

Crack! came the next hit, as she drew closer. What on earth was that girl pounding on? It could be a trunk in any one of the tents. It could be the medicine cabinet in the infirmary — and that was easy enough to check, so she jogged past it. Still dark and deserted.

There wasn’t another sound after that, but it occurred to Constance that if a hammer was involved, it must’ve come from the supply shed.

She picked up her skirts and ran toward it, flying, really, her boots hardly touching the ground. She knew what was hidden in that shed.

May Ward was leading the audience in a rousing rendition of “America the Beautiful.” There was no time to go to the shed: if Roxie had a gun, she could be headed straight for the mess hall, and all two hundred campers.

“Hack!” Constance called as she tore around the corner. But the mess hall was unguarded.

Constance ducked inside and saw nothing out of the ordinary. May Ward was on stage with her chorus. Fleurette stood right next to her. The audience was on its feet, singing and clapping in time with the music. Constance ran along the edge of the crowd to see if Freeman was seated in the front row. He wasn’t.

Norma was, however. When she saw Constance duck in and bolt out again, she jumped up and followed her.

Roxie had to be right back where she started: in that makeshift dressing-room tent with Freeman Bernstein.

Constance flew around the back of the mess hall and practically threw herself into the tent. Roxie had only just stepped inside. Constance hit her with such force that they both fell face-down into an unyielding wooden platform. Constance heard the crunch of breaking bone, but it wasn’t hers.

The gun went off in Roxie’s hand, and Freeman Bernstein screamed.