Chapter 10

A child’s ball suddenly plopped onto our fish and chip wrapper, breaking the spell.

I quickly whipped my hand back. Harry stared at the ball for several beats before picking it up and tossing it to the boy who’d thrown it.

I felt his gaze on me as I gathered up the leftovers in the paper. “We should go.”

He silently followed me up the beach. Perhaps, like me, he couldn’t think of anything to say.

But Harry was a charmer, a smooth conversationalist who always knew the right thing to say. Had the moment we shared rendered him speechless? Or did he simply know that silence was the wisest option now?

The doorman at the Grand Brighton Hotel remembered me and greeted me by name. It was a good indication that he had an excellent memory for names and faces, so we began with him.

“On the day before I checked out of the hotel, a woman named Ruth Price came here and left me a note at the post desk while the clerk wasn’t in attendance. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“Sorry, Miss Fox, it doesn’t. What did she look like?”

I described Ruth’s appearance, but it was the brown bag that he remembered. “One of the porters offered to carry it for her, thinking she was checking in, but she refused. She got a little stroppy, which we thought was odd. She kept trying to look past us toward your party. Do you know, I reckon she’d followed you here.”

She must have followed us all the way from the West Pier where we’d seen her watching the Pridhursts. The only reason she would do that was because she hoped to find out how we knew Lord Pridhurst. Perhaps she thought we were connected to his scandal in some way. I didn’t think she knew I was a private detective at that point. How could she?

“ Then did she go to the post desk?” I asked.

“No. She waited a while before heading upstairs. I reckon if you ask the lift operator, you’ll find she went to your floor, Miss Fox. All very mysterious, she was. Her interest in your party was very strange.”

“Do you recall if she went upstairs before or after I’d left with my maid to go for a swim?”

“I reckon it was after, but I can’t be sure. It wasn’t until she came downstairs again a few minutes later that she went to the post desk.”

I tried to link all of Ruth’s movements together, from the moment she spotted Beecroft at the Rutherford Hotel, to her death on the train home. I needed to write down what I knew to get it all straight in my head.

Harry asked our final questions to the doorman, describing the two unidentified men we also sought, but the doorman shook his head. Not only did he not recognize them, but he vowed he never forgot a face, particularly a distinctive one.

I followed Harry across Kings Road and back to the promenade, my mind occupied with sifting through what we’d learned rather than my surroundings. “I can’t believe Ruth followed us to the hotel from West Pier and I never noticed. And I’m supposed to be a detective!”

“To be fair, you weren’t working on a case, nor did you think it would matter.”

“Still, I should be more aware of my surroundings.”

“What flavor?”

“Pardon?”

“What flavor ice cream do you want?”

I’d been so distracted by my thoughts, I’d once again failed to notice my surroundings. It really would not do. “Strawberry, please, although I don’t deserve it. Honestly, I could kick myself for not seeing Ruth.”

“Everyone deserves ice cream, Cleo.”

Harry ordered strawberry for me, and nothing for himself. Once he’d paid and handed the cup and spoon to me, he indicated we should walk down the ramp to the beach.

“I once stole an ice cream cart,” he said as we sat on the sand.

“A whole cart?”

“It wasn’t just me. I was part of a gang of boys that stole it. We made ourselves sick after sharing the spoils.” At thirteen, Harry was living on the street after running away from the factory where he worked for a cruel employer. He rarely spoke of it, although I suspected it had left its mark. “At the time, I thought it was righteous punishment for my crime.”

“And now?”

“And now I believe every boy deserves ice cream.” He whisked the spoon out of my hand and scooped out a dollop of my ice cream from the cup. “Even big boys.”

I held the cup out to him. “You should finish it. I’m still full from the fish and chips.”

“No thanks.” He stood. “I’m going for a swim.”

“But you didn’t bring a costume.”

“I’ll hire one. I won’t be gone long.”

There were a number of establishments providing bathing costumes for those visitors who didn’t own one, particularly near the men’s swimming area. Although tempted to sneak closer to the section of the beach where I was forbidden to go, I decided not to. I didn’t want to cause a scene. Nor did I want Harry to think I wanted to see him in nothing but a damp, tight-fitting costume.

I finished the ice cream and removed my notebook from my bag. I turned to a blank page and jotted down what I knew about Ruth’s movements in Brighton. She’d stayed only a few nights, the same as Beecroft. Perhaps they’d even caught the same train from London, and she’d seen the person Beecroft believed followed him from the station. The next day, Beecroft received a telephone call from a man who demanded to meet him.

The day after that, Wednesday, Beecroft received another call, this time from a woman in London. Ruth also made a telephone call to London, but it wasn’t clear whether that was before or after Beecroft received his call. According to the pharmacy assistant, Ruth used the silence cabinet around midday, which was a few hours before I first saw her on West Pier watching the Pridhursts. At about four PM, she followed us back to our hotel, waited until I left again to go sea bathing, then went upstairs and presumably spoke to Aunt Lilian and Flossy. She returned downstairs and left a message for me at the post desk, blackmailing me into meeting her. When I met her at six she was going to ask for my help, but was put off when she saw a man watching us from behind his newspaper.

I also wrote down some other facts—such as seeing Beecroft swimming away from a bathing machine—as well as theories I’d formed about that day. Even though neither Jane nor I had seen Geraldine Lacroix, it was very likely she was the woman giggling inside the hut. It was also extremely likely Ruth overheard the telephone call Beecroft received from the man, then followed to see who he met. I noted, too, that she must have been speaking to Mrs. Scoop over the telephone, strongly advising her to print a story she’d uncovered.

Was the story about the affair of Beecroft and Geraldine? Or something more scandalous? Something to do with the man Beecroft had spoken to over the telephone, then met?

I tapped the pencil against the notebook as I considered the possibilities, unaware that I was staring in the direction of the male swimming area. It wasn’t until Harry was only a few feet away that I realized. He strolled toward me, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, his jacket slung over his shoulder. It wasn’t the first time I admired his strong forearms, or the way his biceps filled out his shirt. At least I could blame my pink cheeks on the heat.

He sat beside me with a satisfied sigh. “That was invigorating.”

I returned my notebook and pencil to my bag. “We should go.”

He asked me to hold his jacket while he rolled his sleeves down. I found myself drawn to his warm skin as it disappeared inch by inch beneath his shirtsleeves. For the first time, I noticed a small birthmark near his elbow.

He cleared his throat loudly. “Would you like me to go slower?”

“No! We don’t want to be late.” I looked out to sea, ignoring his light chuckle.

With his sleeves down, he stood and offered me his hand. I passed him his jacket and graciously accepted his assistance. It would be petty not to.

Harry made a telephone call to his parents from the public booth at Brighton Station while we waited for our train. He was due to have dinner with them, but was unlikely to make it on time. He also informed his father of our progress. Perhaps D.I. Hobart could contact his former colleagues at Scotland Yard and have them put pressure on D.S. Fanning to re-examine the case. If he could tell them to exhume Ruth Price’s body and have an autopsy performed to determine cause of death, that would be even better. I was still convinced the mark around her neck wasn’t caused by a fall. I doubted D.I. Hobart had that much sway anymore, however.

Harry and I didn’t discuss the investigation on the way home. There were too many other passengers nearby for such a gruesome conversation. Instead, he asked me about my previous visits to the seaside as a child. That led to me talking about my parents, something I didn’t do often. Their deaths had been traumatic. Although extremely fortunate to be raised by loving grandparents from that point, as opposed to Harry who had no one after his mother died, I’d nevertheless found their loss profoundly difficult. Even more so because I’d been in the cart when it overturned. I’d been thrown clear and wasn’t badly injured, but I’d witnessed the entire thing, including their arguing beforehand.

That argument had distracted my father. He’d not seen the deep ditch on the side of the road or noticed the horse move wide. It wasn’t until the wheels plunged into the ditch that he’d tried to correct our course. But it was too late.

It wasn’t until the train slowed down as we approached London that I realized I’d done most of the talking. “Sorry,” I said, turning to look out of the window. “That was rather a lot.”

Harry’s hand folded over mine, resting on my lap. His fingers curled underneath my hand, and his thumb caressed the back of my glove. “It helps.”

I looked at him, frowning. “Helps with what?”

The locomotive’s whistle blew as we approached the station. It wasn’t our stop, but people moved about to get off. Harry removed his hand and gave me a gentle smile.

He offered no answer to my question, and I didn’t ask again.

Flossy denied meeting Ruth Price at the Grand Brighton Hotel on the day before we left. She claimed she spent a few minutes settling her mother in her suite then went in search of a copy of the latest edition of The Queen in the hotel’s library.

Aunt Lilian must have been the one to tell Ruth I was a private detective. I didn’t want to have another encounter like the last one with my aunt, but my desire for confirmation overrode my trepidation.

I found her dressing for a theater outing with the aid of her lady’s maid. Uncle Ronald was nowhere in sight, although he was due to go with her. She must have taken a dose of her tonic, because she was full of energy, her movements quick and jerky. Her gaze darted around, not settling on any one thing, and she had difficulty sitting still at her dressing table, much to her maid’s frustration as she attempted to arrange my aunt’s hair. While I despaired that she’d taken her tonic again, part of me was relieved. It meant she’d be in a better mood, and not snappy as she was when the effects of the cocaine wore off.

“Aunt, do you recall a woman named Ruth Price calling on you in your hotel room in Brighton the day before we left? She wore spectacles and carried a brown leather bag.”

Aunt Lilian toyed with the string of pearls that would adorn her neck when her maid finished with her hair. “Yes, my dear, I do.” She put down the pearls only to pick up her earrings and stare at them. “She wanted to know how we knew the Pridhursts. I told her we’d just met them the week before. She seemed to lose interest in the conversation after that until I mentioned you occasionally worked as a private investigator, but only on cases for the right sort of people, and nothing dangerous.” Her gaze met mine in the reflection of the dressing table mirror. Although my aunt knew I’d solved murder cases in the past, like my uncle she must hope that I’d put that behind me and only solved cases of a genteel nature now.

I tried following her train of thought, but failed to see the connection. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow. Why did you tell Miss Price I was a private investigator?”

“Because she was one, too. Well, I assume she was, with all the questions she asked me about the Pridhursts.” She flicked the pearl-drop earring with her finger, smiling at the way it swung back and forth like a pendulum.

Then she suddenly turned to face me, catching the maid unawares. The hairpiece she’d been pinning to Aunt Lilian’s hair detached, pulling out a few strands of my aunt’s hair along with the pins. The maid gasped in horror, but when my aunt didn’t react, she bit her lip and quickly removed the hair from the pins.

“Did I do the wrong thing, Cleopatra?” Aunt Lilian asked. “That young woman wasn’t one of us, you see, so I didn’t see the harm. Who would she tell your secret to? No one from our circle.” She shrugged as she turned back to face the mirror. “It didn’t matter if she knew about your detecting.” Her theory was born from snobbery, and was also faulty, but I didn’t want to get into a discussion about it with her.

My gaze connected with the maid’s in the mirror’s reflection. The poor woman seemed frustrated by the lack of progress with Aunt Lilian’s hair. I was a distraction, so I got up to leave.

Aunt Lilian’s hand whipped out and caught mine. “My sweet, sweet niece. You’ve become like a daughter to me. To Ronald, too.” She patted my hand. “But we worry about you, just as much as we worry about Florence and Floyd.”

“There’s no need to worry. I’m perfectly content.”

“Of course you’re content, my dear. You’re twenty-three. No! Twenty-four now. What possible problems can you have at your age? But if you don’t marry, you will be alone, and I don’t want that for you. You’re so pretty , Cleopatra, you will find a man to marry you.”

“Aunt—"

“But you must stop making it so difficult for them.”

“For who?”

“Suitors.” She gripped my hand, hard, but I doubted she was aware she was hurting me. “You spent an entire day at museums today, and while I do agree that a lady should improve her mind so she can hold a conversation with gentlemen, there is a point at which they lose interest. That point comes when she is smarter than they, and when she loses her looks. Both will happen to you one day, my darling girl. Mark my words.” She let me go and turned back to the mirror. She stretched out her neck and pushed up the softening skin at her jawline before releasing it. She repeated the move, over and over, as if to undo what time and gravity had inflicted. “You will wake up one day to find your looks have faded, and the gentlemen who once flirted with you have moved on. Where will you be then?”

Although I knew disagreeing with her would get me nowhere, I responded anyway. “I’ll be having conversations about the knowledge I’ve learned over the years from books and museums.” I bent and kissed her cheek. “I won’t be alone, Aunt. I will always have my family.”

“I am glad. For Florence and Floyd’s sakes, as much your own.” She picked up the string of pearls again and passed them through her fingers. “Have you finished yet?” she snapped at the maid.

I left them and returned to my suite, where I added more notes to the ones I’d jotted down at the beach. Ruth Price hadn’t been following me specifically from the West Pier that day. She’d not known I was a private detective until my aunt mentioned it. Deciding then and there to enlist my services, but being unable to pay me, Ruth had scrawled a note blackmailing me into meeting her.

That was one mystery solved. Now I needed to solve the bigger one. Who killed her?

Harry telephoned the hotel the following morning and left a message with his uncle to let me know he couldn’t join me. “Apparently a new case came across his desk,” Mr. Hobart said when he waylaid me in the foyer. “He says you don’t require assistance for what you plan to do today, anyway.”

“Oh. Right.” I put on a smile for the manager. “Enjoy your day, Mr. Hobart.”

He glanced toward the hotel exit. “I’ll try, but the reporters are getting smarter. Yesterday, Frank let one in, thinking he was a guest. The fellow then almost made it inside the ballroom. Luckily the footman on guard duty realized and sent him on his way.”

“Only three more days, then it will all be over.”

As I strode toward the exit, I wondered if Harry truly did have a new case, or whether something I’d said on the train had made him want to avoid me. I was determined not to think about it, however. I would only think about the next stage of the investigation.

Frank opened the door for me. “You should take an umbrella, Miss Fox. It looks like it’ll rain.”

The clouds were light gray, not dark, and there were patches of blue sky. “Always the pessimist, Frank. I think it’ll stay clear.”

“I’m not a pessimist, I’m a realist. Unlike some,” he added in mutter.

I shot him a smile. “Do be careful not to let any reporters in today.”

He grunted then settled his feet apart, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He looked ready to turn away anyone who looked slightly gossipy. I hoped he didn’t get too zealous and refuse entry to an important guest.

Gossip reporters were firmly on my mind, and my agenda, on the omnibus ride to Fleet Street. Harry and I were both sure that Ruth Price had telephoned Mrs. Scoop on the day before her death from the Brighton pharmacy, and I was determined to find out what Ruth had said, and why Mrs. Scoop failed to mention it to me when I questioned her.

The clerk at the front desk went to fetch Mrs. Scoop when I announced myself, but he returned with Mr. Finlayson. The editor charged into the reception area, his heavy brow plunged into a deep furrow. I wasn’t sure whether the editor always looked annoyed or whether I’d just happened to see him at his worst every time I’d been here. I suspected he looked pink with rage even while he forked his favorite meal into his mouth.

I greeted him cordially.

He greeted me with a barked question. “Has her notebook been found?”

“Pardon?”

“Scoop’s assistant, the dead girl. You found the body, and I’m asking if you also found her notebook. It belongs to the newspaper. You are legally required to hand it over.”

I wasn’t sure if he was trying to pull the wool over my eyes, but the point was moot. “I don’t have it, nor have I seen it.”

“If you do come across it, you must return it.”

Mrs. Scoop spotted us through the window from the newsroom and made directly for us.

The editor had his back to the newsroom door, so didn’t see Mrs. Scoop emerge. “What evidence do you have that she was murdered?” he asked me.

“I, er, am not at liberty to say.”

“If you do uncover evidence of foul play, I ought to be the first to know.”

“Actually, I believe the police should be told first, then her family?—”

“I’ll pay you.”

Mrs. Scoop strode to us, her arms crossed over her chest. “We have an agreement, Finlayson.” Her voice was quiet, as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear.

He didn’t seem to care, or perhaps he wasn’t capable of speaking in a tone lower than a bellow. “Your agreement is irrelevant in this situation.” He turned to her fully, his brow even more furrowed. “Or is it?”

“We’ll discuss it later.”

He grunted, then pushed open the newsroom door. Once it closed behind him, Mrs. Scoop indicated I should move to the side where no one could overhear us talk.

“What is it this time, Miss Fox?” she asked on a sigh. She was clearly fed up with seeing me. I wasn’t too enthusiastic about being at the office of The Evening Bulletin myself, but it was a necessary evil.

“Ruth made a telephone call from Brighton last Wednesday, the day before she died.”

“And?”

“She telephoned you, didn’t she?”

“No, Miss Fox. Whoever told you that is lying.”

“A witness overheard her urging you to go to print with a particular story. What was it?”

Mrs. Scoop flicked her fingers in a wave, dismissing my question. “I don’t recall.”

“Then allow me to refresh your memory. Ruth overheard Clement Beecroft on the telephone organizing to meet someone. She followed him and saw or heard something newsworthy. She thought it important enough to telephone you immediately.”

Mrs. Scoop’s fingers made a flicking motion again. I suspected she wished she was holding a cigarette. “Very well. You have forced my hand, Miss Fox. I’ll tell you the truth. You’re right. Ruth telephoned me from Brighton. She told me she’d seen Clement Beecroft with Geraldine Lacroix, the lead actress from his latest production. They were…intimate.”

“No. Ruth called you about something else, something more. Everyone knows Beecroft has liaisons with his leading ladies. That’s not newsworthy enough for her to telephone you, or to urge you to go to print. Why are you lying, Mrs. Scoop?”

“I’m not,” she bit off. “You don’t know everything, Miss Fox. I told Ruth I wouldn’t print the story about Beecroft because I can’t print a story like that. I even have it written into my contract here.”

“Is that what Finlayson was referring to just now when he said your agreement is irrelevant in this situation?”

She nodded. “It is relevant, by the way, and I will remind him of why in the most vehement terms. You see, my contract states that while I work for The Evening Bulletin , this paper can’t print anything about Beecroft’s relationships. If Ruth was murdered, and Finlayson prints an article about it, it will need to mention details about her visit to Brighton. Details that will reveal Beecroft’s relationship with Geraldine Lacroix. When Ruth called me from Brighton to tell me she’d seen them together, I refused to print it. She became a little cross because she didn’t understand why.”

“Will you tell me why you have that clause in your contract?”

She glanced through the window behind the reception desk at the bustling newsroom beyond. “It’s an agreement Beecroft and I came to years ago. You see, he knows something about me. Something I’d like to keep private. If I mention his affairs in my column, he’ll break his silence. It will ruin my career.”

“It must be something terrible if Finlayson would dismiss an anonymous gossip columnist.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, he employs very few women here, and none as journalists. I am the closest thing to a female reporter in this office, and I had to claw my way up from the typing floor. Finlayson would happily dismiss me if even a whiff of scandal was attached to my name. Writing about Beecroft’s liaisons simply isn’t worth the repercussions.”

“May I ask what he knows about you that is so dangerous to your career?”

She simply narrowed her gaze at me.

I tried a different angle. “If you’ve known Beecroft a long time, do you know how he got his start as an impresario? It requires a substantial amount of money to put on theatrical performances.”

“I believe he was financed by his family.”

“But he has a Cockney accent. I assumed he wasn’t born into wealth.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t a family member, then. Perhaps it was a lover. I have known him a number of years, Miss Fox, but not long enough to know the details of his origins.”

“Could the money have come from his wife or her family? Was she wealthy when she married him?”

“I don’t know.”

A reporter hurried in from the street and pushed open the door to the newsroom. Mrs. Scoop’s gaze followed him. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

I watched her enter the newsroom, too, then I left.

I walked back to the hotel via the Laneway Theater. A printed sign next to the box office stated that Beecroft’s production had begun. The next performance was a matinee that afternoon, with no performance that evening.

I stepped out from the covered portico into the rain. Frank was going to enjoy gloating about being right. I considered avoiding him and calling on Harry at his office, but decided against it. I didn’t want to disturb him if he was busy, and I’d not learned much from Mrs. Scoop anyway. What I had learned didn’t need discussing further with a colleague to understand it. It was very clear. Ruth had telephoned her to tell her about Beecroft’s affair with Geraldine Lacroix, but Mrs. Scoop couldn’t print the story because of her agreement with Beecroft.

The rain was light, so I continued on my way. A theory had begun forming when I spoke to Mrs. Scoop, but the walk solidified it in my mind. My next move was clear. First, I had to change out of my damp clothes.

Frank had never looked so smug. “I won’t say I told you so, Miss Fox, but…” He pointed at my hat. “Your silk flowers are drooping.”

“They’ll recover. Like me, my hats are English and quite used to a little drizzle.”

Frank’s mouth moved in what I suspected was his attempt at a smile.

I had some time before I needed to enact the next part of my plan, so I gathered as many prior editions of The Evening Bulletin as I could find. Terence kept several older copies at the post desk, and I found the previous night’s edition in the smoking room. I’d just settled on my sofa when there was a knock at the door.

Harmony entered before I had a chance to rise. “Good, you’re here.” She flopped onto the sofa beside me with a sigh.

“Is something the matter?”

She undid the laces of her boots and kicked them off. She wiggled her toes. “I needed to sit for a few minutes, somewhere Mr. Bainbridge or Mrs. Hessing won’t look for me.”

“Floyd will know you’re here, but you probably have a little while before he realizes.”

“Have you got any tea?”

“No, but I wouldn’t mind a cup myself. Don’t get up,” I said as she started to rise. I ordered a pot of tea and two cups through the speaking tube that connected to the kitchen, then sat again. “Has Mrs. Hessing paid the suppliers?”

She sighed again. “Not yet. The suppliers are upset and guess who receives the brunt of their frustration.”

I squeezed her arm. “I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but it will be a marvelous reception, I’m sure of it. Miss Hessing and Mr. Liddicoat will be thrilled.”

“I think they’d prefer an elopement and no fuss whatsoever. They just want to be together.” Harmony tipped her head back to rest on the sofa, a wistful smile touching her lips. “I’ve never seen Miss Hessing so happy, Cleo. She has made an excellent choice in Mr. Liddicoat. They are perfect together. It makes one wonder, doesn’t it?”

“Wonder about what?”

“Marriage, and if some couples really can be happy forever. I’ve not seen much evidence of it, myself.”

Nor had I. “Is this about you and Victor?”

She picked up the stack of newspapers and sifted through them. “Why do you only have editions of The Evening Bulletin ?”

I took the top one and flipped to the gossip column. “Mrs. Scoop told me she never writes about Clement Beecroft’s affairs, and I wanted to see if that is true. But I only have a week’s worth here. I’d need to go further back to know for sure.”

“It is true. I read this paper most nights. The following morning, if the maids have any gossip about Beecroft, I can’t join in because I’ve not read about it. In fact, not only does The Evening Bulletin not report about his relationships, it doesn’t mention a single thing about him. Not even his productions are reviewed, good or bad.”

Now that was curious, but it didn’t affect my theory or what I’d do next to prove it. “It’s a shame you’re not free this afternoon, Harmony. You could keep me company.”

“What about Harry? Isn’t he helping you?”

“Apparently he has another case now.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. How was Brighton?”

“We learned a lot.” I started to tell her what we’d discovered about Ruth’s movements, but Harmony interrupted me.

“I meant how was your time with Harry. Did you two…get along?”

Taking a leaf out of her book, instead of answering, I continued to tell her what we’d learned in Brighton.

I waited where I could see the door used by cast and crew to enter and exit the Laneway Theater. After a long hour, my patience was rewarded with the appearance of Clement Beecroft. Fortunately, he was alone. If he’d left with Geraldine Lacroix, I probably would’ve had to abandon my plan to follow him. He would most likely have gone to her flat, whereas I needed him to go home to find out where he lived.

He didn’t get into one of the cabs that had been waiting since the matinee finished an hour ago, and instead he set off on foot. He walked quickly, and I had to trot to keep up and not lose sight of him. We’d almost reached Bloomsbury Square Garden when he removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the blue door of one of the handsome houses. It wasn’t as large as most townhouses in the more exclusive area near the Mayfair Hotel, but it wasn’t small either. Clement Beecroft was doing very well. As lead actor and impresario, he would benefit financially when his shows were successful, but I was still curious about how a man with a humble background got started in such a cutthroat business.

I didn’t knock on the blue door. If enough time passed and no one else arrived, I would, but I decided to wait. It turned out to be the right course of action, and my patience was once again rewarded.

A woman strode up to the blue door, her face obscured by a large hat that she’d drawn down low. She removed a key from her bag and inserted it into the lock. Although I couldn’t see her face, I was familiar with the thin frame and clawlike hand that turned the doorknob.

I stepped out from the shadows. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Blaine. May I have a word?”