Fifteen

"I still don't understand why she needs to be here." That was Mrs. Buchanan again.

"Mr. Buchanan's will concerns his daughter as much as it concerns you, madam," the lawyer said, gentle but firm. "More, in fact, as we'll see. Now, if everyone would take their seats, we can get started…"

Vivian pressed her hands against her mouth. Buchanan's daughter? Honor was the dead guy's daughter? She couldn't even wrap her head around what that might mean. What was it Honor had said, the day he died? Had she given some hint that Vivian should have picked up on? Why wouldn't she have said? When she said she couldn't help, was that because—

The bite of Vivian's nails against her palms reminded her where she was. Slowly, she took her seat on the steps once more. She didn't know how long she had been standing there, but they were still talking, and she might have already missed something important. She needed to pay attention if she was going to make this worthwhile.

"—control of Buchanan, Morris, and Whitcomb passing equally to the remaining two partners, except for a ten percent stake each going to—"

"Equally?" rumbled an irritated, masculine voice. "Did he not say which of us would have controlling interest after him?"

"He… it seems he did not," the lawyer said, sounding a little nervous. "The will indicates equal control is to be held between you both."

"But that's outrageous," the man insisted, his voice rising. "He should have named one of us to—"

"One of you could always buy the other out," Hattie Wilson put in. "Isn't that how these things work? So one person has that controlling interest."

"Mrs. Wilson, I do not mean to offend," the man replied, his voice dripping condescension. "But I believe we can handle matters of our business on our own."

"Well, in point of fact, she's quite right," the lawyer put in. "The option is there, of course, if you wish to—"

"But what about Cornelius?" Mrs. Buchanan interrupted, her voice growing shrill. "Huxley was teaching Cornelius the ins and outs of—"

"Oh, yes, indeed, Mr. Rokesby was not forgotten," the lawyer said, soothing but firm. "Mr. Cornelius Rokesby and Mrs. Willard Wilson both receive a ten percent stake in Buchanan, Morris, and Whitcomb, with the proportionate level of control and profit. Mrs. Wilson's share is, naturally, to pass to her own son when he comes of age."

"Ten percent?" Even through the door, Vivian could hear Mrs. Buchanan's outrage. "That's hardly anything—"

"Hardly anything we would have expected, you're very right, Aunt Evangeline," Hattie Wilson broke in smoothly. "How generous of Uncle Huxley to think of us, who are not even his blood relatives. Don't you agree, Corny?"

Vivian couldn't hear what he mumbled in response, but she didn't much care what was happening with Buchanan's business. There was only one voice she really cared about in that room, and it was the one that was staying silent.

"—thousand each to Evangeline Rokesby Buchanan and Cornelius Francis Rokesby. The remainder of his estate is willed in its entirety to his daughter, Honor Margaret Huxley."

For a moment, Vivian thought something had exploded in the room. The sudden burst of voices was so loud, so outraged, that it seemed impossible for it to have come from so few people.

"—cannot be serious!"

"You expect us to believe—"

"—favor his bastard over his family?"

The word hung in the air. For a moment, no one spoke.

"No need to look so shocked on my account, everyone." Honor's voice was amused, though there was bitterness underneath it, too. "Miss Rokesby, you look like you expect me to slug you in the face. Which I've no doubt some folks would, for calling them a bastard. But I came to terms with what I am long ago."

"Then you admit that it's inappropriate," Miss Rokesby's voice quivered, though Vivian couldn't tell if that was from worry or outrage.

"I didn't say that."

"So you intend to claim this bequest?" That was Mrs. Buchanan, sounding as indignant as her sister. "We can challenge it, you know. We don't have to let this stand!"

"Out of curiosity, Mr. Hatch, did my father warn you that this was likely to happen when you and he drew up his will?" Honor's voice was even drier than usual, and Vivian had to strain to hear it. She wondered what Honor was thinking.

She wondered what Honor had known.

The lawyer cleared his throat. "He did. He predicted that Mrs. Buchanan or her son—perhaps at the urging of his aunt—would attempt to issue a legal challenge to the terms of his will. He had me draft a separate clause…" The room was deadly quiet, quiet enough that Vivian could hear the sound of shuffling papers. "Ah, here it is. A separate clause, which he signed six months ago, stating that, should such a legal challenge be registered with the courts, the party issuing it would forfeit their own inheritance." The lawyer cleared his throat again. "I hope I need not explain to anyone here that the presence of such a document would make winning a court case highly unlikely for anyone intending to challenge Ms. Huxley's inheritance."

Vivian had leaned forward without realizing it, and one of her feet slipped off the stair where it was resting and landed with a thump on the uncarpeted floor.

"Did someone knock at the door?" Mrs. Buchanan asked, sounding nervous.

Vivian froze. They wouldn't think of looking in the staircase, would they? Slowly, she stood, ready to bolt back up toward the storage room.

"Only my chair shifting, Aunt Evangeline." That calm voice was Hattie. "My apologies for interrupting. Mr. Hatch, do continue."

"Oh yes, certainly. Um…" There was the sound of shuffling papers once more, and Vivian sat down, her heart pounding, while the lawyer continued. "Now, as I was saying… where was I?"

"You were saying that… that… creature is just going to walk away with most of Huxley's money." That was a masculine voice, deep and cultured. Vivian could practically hear the cigars and whiskey in it, right alongside his obvious distaste. The second partner, likely. Had he been the business associate Buchanan had met with that day? Was it the other man in there? Or someone else entirely?

"And both houses," the lawyer put in, sounding apologetic.

"Both houses?" Miss Rokesby's screech made Vivian wince, even from the other side of the door. Mrs. Buchanan started crying.

There was an instant flurry in the room, concerned masculine voices and the scraping of chairs quickly pushed back.

"Please, madam, there's no need—" The lawyer sounded like he was wringing his hands. "Mr. Buchanan specified in his will that Ms. Huxley may not take possession of this home for twelve months following his death. You are not being evicted, I promise."

"You did this." That was Miss Rokesby again, while a flurry of male voices urged her to calm down. "How did you convince him to abandon his family like this? To abandon his wife?"

"I had nothing to do with it," Honor replied. It was the first time she had raised her voice, but there was still no hint of what she was feeling in it. "I'm as surprised as the rest of you. But I do have to point out, Miss Rokesby, that it's hardly strange for a man to leave his money to his child." Honor paused, and Vivian could almost picture the ironic smile hovering on her lips. "Which I am, however much of a bastard I may be."

"She's right, Aunt Edith." That was Corny Rokesby, sounding exhausted. Or maybe just disappointed. "She has more claim to his money than either Mother or I do, and we all know it."

"Corny, don't you dare!" Miss Rokesby snapped, while Mr. Buchanan's business partners chimed in with their own protests and outrage.

The babble continued while Mrs. Buchanan cried. Apparently, whatever Corny Rokesby thought, the rest of the room could not bear the idea of Buchanan's low-class daughter walking away with his fortune. Throughout it all, Honor stayed silent.

Was she standing there in her men's trousers and perfect cosmetics, determined as always to do things her own way? Vivian could picture it, could picture the confident, defiant smile on Honor's face.

Or was she angry at these people? Was she actually sad about her father's death? Had she cared about him at all? Vivian didn't know, because Honor had kept it all from her. She had stood there while Vivian told her what had happened and said nothing.

The thought made Vivian angry all over again. The arguing in the next room was continuing unabated, and meanwhile she could only sit there wondering when one of them would say something that mattered, something that would help her. A week had seemed like a long time when the commissioner first set his deadline.

But it was no time at all. Vivian wondered if she should take the opportunity to leave. There'd be less of a risk that they'd hear her going upstairs if she did it while they were all still yelling at each other anyway. And maybe there was still time for her to head to Bellevue before the medical examiners went home for the night. Maybe one of them could tell her something, anything, that would help. Because she was running out of time, and the folks on the other side of that door were too busy yelling about money to care that someone had stabbed a man to death, and the only suspect the police had was just a poor Irish girl afraid for her life.

Vivian discovered that her hands were shaking. She balled them into fists and pressed her knuckles against the unyielding wood of the stairs.

She'd stay until they were done, because she couldn't afford to miss anything that might be important. Even if listening to them did make her want to scream with frustration.

Vivian pulled her knees against her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and stayed.

"Did you learn anything helpful?" Bea asked as she held open the door beside the garage.

She had come for Vivian once the meeting was done, wanting to get her out while the rest of the staff were occupied with the other guests. Vivian had waited only a few minutes at the top of the stairs with the door just barely cracked open, wanting to be out of sight in case anyone who wasn't Bea happened to come into the storage room.

When she had heard a familiar voice whisper, "I'll dance 'til last call," Vivian had darted out, not needing Bea's gestured reminder to stay silent.

They only had a brief moment to talk at the door by the garage before Bea had to duck back inside; her question made Vivian hesitate. "I might have," she said, thinking of Honor's presence, the business partners with their condescension and complaints about controlling interest, Mrs. Buchanan's sister-in-law so determined that her relatives would make a profit from Mr. Buchanan's death. She shuddered. "Sounds like everyone in his life was a nasty piece of work. Or at least…" She trailed off, her mind turning to Honor once more.

"Look, I've gotta run. We'll talk tonight, okay? I'm on with the band at nine."

"Sure thing." Vivian nodded. "Get back in there. I'll sneak around front without anyone seeing me. And Bea?"

"Yeah?" Bea paused with the door half-closed.

"Thanks. You didn't have to do this, but I—"

"Get out of here," Bea said, rolling her eyes. "Before someone sees you and I do get canned."

"You don't even care about this job," Vivian pointed out. Clearly Bea didn't want her getting sentimental. And that was just fine. Vivian wasn't sure she'd be able to hold it together if she did.

"Maybe not, but I don't want to give them any excuse not to pay me. I'll make it at least through the full day, thanks."

"Ha," Vivian said dryly. "See you tonight."

She wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible, but she forced herself to walk slowly, not wanting to draw any attention if someone happened to look outside. The alley that went behind the house connected to several others on the block, and she kept her head down, hoping that if anyone did spot her, they'd assume she was there for one of the neighbors. But just as she was about to step out of the alley, she drew back into the shadows, staring at the street, where Honor Huxley was climbing into a cab.

But it was too risky to linger in the alley. As soon as Honor's back was turned, Vivian started walking. She thought she was heading downtown, but all she really knew was that she was getting away from that house. Away from anyone who might recognize her.

Away from Honor Huxley.

She had said she couldn't help. And that look in her eyes when Vivian had told her what happened… had she been sad for Vivian or her father? Vivian didn't know why she hadn't admitted who he was to her, or why the fact that he was her father meant she couldn't help. Was there some other reason, something else she was hiding?

Had that moment in the Nightingale's basement been the moment she found out that her father had died?

Vivian's feet slowed to a stop, the thought making her feel sick. She stood in the shadow of another looming house, arms wrapped around herself as she stared at the people passing by. None of them gave her a second glance.

Honor had sounded cool as ever in that room, but Vivian couldn't blame her for that. She wouldn't have shown any grief herself, not in front of those Fifth Avenue bloodsuckers, with Mrs. Buchanan sobbing about how it all wasn't fair and that Miss Rokesby probably looking like she wanted to murder someone herself.

Had Honor known she was going to inherit all that?

And anyway, if he was her father, why was her last name the same as his first? Vivian didn't know much about how being a bastard worked. As far as she knew, her mother had been married to her father before he died or ran off, or at least Mae Kelly had pretended that was the case. The one neighbor in Vivian's building who had known Mae, and who had kept Vivian and Florence from being split up before they were sent to the orphan home, had always said she went by Mrs. Kelly.

Vivian's head hurt just thinking about it. She'd just have to ask Honor, was all. Even if she didn't want to share… well, after all that, after knowing what she had kept from Vivian when she refused to help, Honor owed her that much.

The sound of a car horn honking made Vivian jump. At the corner in front of her, a sleek black motorcar had just pulled up, its sides so freshly polished that Vivian could practically see every hair on her head reflected in its side. The driver unfolded himself from the front seat and walked around to meet her.

Vivian stared at him. He returned the look with as much emotion as a boulder might show—fitting, as he was the size of a small, hulking mountain. Vivian recognized him.

"What're you doing here, Eddie?" she snapped. "Gonna spend your day beating on girls half your size?" She didn't quite flinch away from him, but she did take a step back.

The first time she had ever seen Eddie, he was doing his best to beat the hell out of Danny in a back alley, though Danny had been the one to come out of that fight still standing.

The second time, he and a friend had cornered her, threatening to rough her up unless she told them what they wanted to know until someone else showed up and scared them off.

It was impossible to stare up at his broad-shouldered bulk without feeling something like terror. Vivian didn't think he'd do anything here, in broad daylight on the Upper East Side. But the people streaming past gave him wide berth, and they didn't give her a second look. If he hustled her off somewhere more private, no one would stop him.

"Boss wants a word," Eddie rumbled, looking unbothered by her accusation.

Vivian took another step back. "I've got nothing else to say to her."

Eddie ignored her, turning to open the car's back door and stepping to the side.

"Please don't waste my time, Miss Kelly," Hattie Wilson said, looking bored as she examined her nails. "You may get in on your own, or Eddie will put you in. Your choice."

Vivian thought about pointing out that, once again, it wasn't actually a choice. But there was no point. Eyeing Eddie warily, she scooted into the car. When the door slammed shut behind her, she pressed her back against it, trying to keep as much of the wide back seat between her and Hattie as possible.

Hattie watched her with a small smile on her face, as if enjoying Vivian's obvious discomfort. Her fur stole was laid across her lap, rather than around her shoulders, and a black portfolio rested on it. But she hadn't taken off her hat, and in the inconsistent light that flickered in through the windows, the veil cast eerie shadows across her face.

"Well. Did you listen in?" Hattie asked as the car pulled away from the curb.

Vivian wanted to watch where they were going, but it seemed more important to keep her eyes on the woman sitting across the seat from her. "I did," she said, trying to sound flippant and failing, even to her own ears. "Sounded like an interesting bunch. Hope you don't all get together for Christmas or anything."

Hattie made a soft hmm of laughter, but it didn't seem like it was Vivian's attempt at a joke that amused her. "You didn't know she'd be there, did you?"

Vivian thought about pretending she didn't know what Hattie meant. But there was no point, really: both of them knew exactly who she was talking about. "No, I didn't." She let out a shaking breath. "You recognized her last summer, didn't you?"

"I did," Hattie said, nodding. "She looks like her father. You were there, if I recall. But she didn't tell you then, did she? She forgot to mention that her father was an incredibly rich man, living right here in the city. I assume she also forgot to mention that he spent most of her life pretending she didn't exist?" Hattie sat back, the fingers of one hand drumming in a soft, persistent rhythm against the portfolio's leather cover. "Strange, that. Seems like it's the sort of thing she'd want you to know… what with you being a suspect in his murder and all. And, if what I've heard is correct, with you two being so close."

"She's my boss," Vivian said firmly, even as her stomach twisted into a knot of worry. Honor had made it clear that people like Hattie were one of the reasons she and Vivian couldn't be together. And it wasn't because they'd be scandalized or disapproving. Honor didn't care about things like that.

But romance was a weakness, one she couldn't afford to have in her line of work. Not when any day could put her at odds with folks like Hattie Wilson, who weren't above using other people as tools to get what they wanted.

Honor hadn't wanted to put Vivian in that position. Or maybe she just hadn't wanted to do it to herself. Vivian had never been sure, and she had been too afraid of the answer to ask.

Hattie gave another amused hmm. "If you say so."

Vivian clenched her jaw. "You don't care that someone killed him, do you? He was part of your family, and—"

"My husband's family," Hattie said, her voice icy, all her amusement suddenly gone.

Vivian fell silent. They both knew what kind of man Hattie's husband had been. And as much as Vivian disliked her, she couldn't blame Hattie for that grudge in the slightest. "They were similar, then?" she said, her voice catching as she remembered her brief conversation with Buchanan. He had seemed like a kind man. But she knew how people could lie.

So did the woman in front of her.

After a moment, though, Hattie shook her head. "Nothing alike, as far as I know," she said quietly. "Huxley was a decent sort of man." Then, as if she'd allowed too much humanity to show through, her smile grew mocking once more. "He remembered me in his will, so I can't complain about him that much, can I?" When Vivian didn't say anything in reply, she leaned forward. "And you're very much mistaken, Miss Kelly, if you think I don't care that he was murdered. But when you're in my line of work, you live in the present and the future, or you might end up dead yourself."

Vivian wished she could read the thoughts behind those glittering eyes. She'd feel a lot safer if she knew what Hattie Wilson was trying to get out of this conversation. But whatever Hattie was thinking, she had learned—long before she took over her growing empire—to keep it hidden behind a smile.

"You don't think I did it," Vivian said recklessly, trying to sound like she was certain.

"Of course not, Miss Kelly," Hattie Wilson said. Vivian wanted to sigh with relief, but there was nothing reassuring about Hattie's smile. "If I've learned anything about you during our strange acquaintance, it's that you don't have the stomach for that sort of messiness."

"Thanks," Vivian said dryly. They both knew it hadn't really been meant as a compliment.

"But you know who does. Don't you?" Hattie gave Vivian a pitying smile, then, as if the discussion was over, opened the portfolio in her lap, and started to look through its papers.

Vivian stared at her. "No," she said. But her voice shook as she said it. They both knew who Hattie meant.

Mrs. Wilson picked up a pen as the car stopped, waiting to make a turn, and leisurely signed two papers before it started again. "You know who gained the most from his death—you heard them all arguing about it," she said without looking at Vivian. "You know she has the stomach for it. And you know she's ruthless enough to set up someone else to take the fall for her. Someone she knows has an unfortunate habit of ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Someone she—and I'll admit, I'm speculating here, but I think I'm correct—has refused to help out?"

"No." The word came out in a whisper, and Vivian struggled to make her voice louder. "No. She wouldn't do that. Any of it. Not her father, and not…" The words got stuck again, and Vivian settled for shaking her head firmly while she glared at Hattie Wilson, who didn't bother to look up. "Your mind's twisted even to think of it."

"Then why hide it from you?" Hattie asked, sounding too reasonable. Vivian wanted to press her hands against her ears to shut her out. "I'm doing you a favor here—another one, you may recall. Because it wasn't your Ms. Huxley who helped you spy on Buchanan's nearest and dearest, now, was it?"

"You only did that because you wanted me to find out about Honor," Vivian snapped.

Hattie shrugged as she pulled out one paper, looked over it, and tucked it back into the portfolio. "Like I said, a favor. You can believe me or not, suit yourself. But you'll be safer if you keep it in mind. Because it's family that profits from his death. And he didn't have any closer family than Honor Huxley."

"You're part of his family," Vivian said, her voice sharp.

Hattie looked up from the stack of papers at last, leaning comfortably back against the seat of the car as she did. "I am. And?"

"If someone in that room wanted him dead, why not you?" Vivian asked. It was a stupid thing to say, sitting in the car of one of the most dangerous people she knew, being driven by a man twice her size who liked to use his fists. But she didn't take back her words. "You're far more likely to bump off a family member than Ms. Huxley."

To her relief, Hattie looked amused more than offended. "Are you so sure about that?" she asked. "You should ask your Ms. Huxley about her late father. The answers might be…" Again that small laugh. "Illuminating. But in any case, no, I am not likely to have done in poor, dear Uncle Huxley."

"And why is that?"

"In the first place, because I liked him."

"That wouldn't stop you."

Hattie pursed her lips at the contradiction. "Not if I felt it was necessary, no," she admitted. "But it would give me pause. In the second place, I'm not inclined to, as you put it, bump people off left and right. It lacks finesse."

"And you do love finesse," Vivian said, her fear lending an edge of sarcasm to her voice.

"I do," Hattie agreed pleasantly. "Which brings us to the real reason you know I was not responsible for Huxley Buchanan's death." She leaned forward. "I'm sure you can tell me what it is, Miss Kelly."

Vivian met Hattie's gaze for as long as she could, which was not as long as she would have liked. She let out a breath and looked away. "Because it was sloppy."

"It was very sloppy," Hattie said, her voice soft and dangerous. "Which is something I never am. If it had been I who had my uncle killed, the police wouldn't have even known it was a murder. There'd be no questions, no suspicions. Just him dead and me getting whatever I wanted." She leaned back again, her red lips a smiling pout below the shadow of her veil. "Do you believe me?"

Vivian swallowed. "I do," she whispered as the car slowed to a halt. "Are you saying you think Honor Huxley is sloppy?"

Hattie shrugged. "Not as a general rule, no. But people tend to have a lot of feelings about their parents. And feelings make things messy." She smiled. "That's why I do my best to avoid them."

They stared at each other, listening to the sounds of Eddie stepping out, then coming around to open Vivian's door. He held it for her, and Vivian slid across the seat to leave. But at the last moment she paused. "But I think one day, Mrs. Wilson, you will be sloppy. You'll make a mistake, because as much as you want people to believe otherwise, you're human just like the rest of us." Her heart was thumping a warning that speaking to Hattie Wilson so bluntly was one of the stupider things she could be doing, but she still smiled as she spoke. "I wonder if I'll be there to see it?"

Hattie's jaw tightened, and for a moment Vivian thought she was struggling to control her temper. But she only nodded. "Perhaps you will," she said softly. "What an interesting day that would be." Looking bored, she turned back to her stack of papers. "It was a pleasure, as always, Miss Kelly. You'll be hearing from me, don't worry." She smiled, though she didn't look up. "I always collect on my favors."

Eddie slammed the door behind Vivian as soon as she was standing on the pavement, and the sound made her jump in spite of her attempt to seem poised and unworried. He gave her a single up-and-down look, smirking, then sauntered back to the driver's seat without a backward glance.

As she watched the car pull away, it suddenly struck Vivian that neither of them had asked her where she lived. And yet there she was, standing on the curb in front of her building.

She shivered. And then, because there was nothing else to do, she walked toward her door, resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder.