Nineteen

Four Days Left

Vivian hesitated, then, before she could talk herself out of it, rang the bell on the house's lower door. The hulking gray stone of the mansion's front loomed over her, making her feel small and unimportant. But maybe that was a good thing, this time. Maybe everyone else there would think so too, and they wouldn't guess what she was planning.

Vivian hoped that if anyone saw her shaking, they would think it was just from the cold spring wind. Nervous, she rang the bell a second time.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." The young maid who yanked the door open glared at her. "Ain't you got no patience? Took me all of five seconds to come trotting down the hall, and you're already clamorin' and complainin'—That must be the dress for Mrs. Morris, then, yes? It looks like a dress box."

The last question was said without pause for breath, and it took Vivian a moment to catch up. "Yes," she said at last, her voice coming out too loud. She cleared her throat. "Yes, that's right, dress delivery for Mrs. Morris."

"I'll take it." The maid held out her hands.

Vivian swallowed. "Is Mrs. Morris available? I'd like to check the shoulders and hips to make sure she's satisfied." It wasn't quite a lie—many customers wanted one last fitting before they accepted the delivery. But it hadn't been in Miss Ethel's instructions for this particular delivery. Vivian didn't know whether that was because Mrs. Morris didn't care for the practice or not.

Her question was met with a weary sigh. "Well then, don't just stand there, for goodness' sake. Might as well throw the coal out with the trash as keep the door open for every cold breeze to blow right through…" Still grumbling, the maid, who looked all of twenty but sounded like she had the soul of an eighty-year-old great-grandmother, led the way to the kitchen stairs. There was an old clock in the hall; Vivian glanced at it as they went past, noting the time.

And then she kept looking around as she was led up, the dress box still clutched in her hands and the black bag that held her seamstress's kit a heavy weight hanging from her arm. The house was not as large as some of the upper-class mansions where her deliveries had taken her, but what it lacked in size it made up for in gaudiness. Nearly everything that she could see was gilded, enameled, or hung with shivering crystal drops. Beneath her feet, the black-and-white marble tiles were nearly hidden under bright silk rugs, and if there wasn't a painting on a wall, there was a mirror instead.

The entire effect was horrible, and Vivian bit her lips to keep from smirking as they made their way up the stairs. She had been in houses so opulent that they felt like enormous jewel boxes, places where she longed to simply lie down on the carpets because they were so luxurious. But most of them had some taste to their furnishing. This house had none.

The Morrises, she suspected, were new money. She wondered if that had something to do with why Mrs. Wilson was targeting them and, if so, how.

Vivian realized she was falling behind the maid. Shaking her head, she hurried to catch up. It was none of her business why Hattie Wilson wanted something from these folks, and wasting time wondering about it would only get her in trouble, one way or another. All she needed to worry about was finding that letter and leaving without anyone the wiser.

And at least the house looked nothing like the Buchanans' home. Vivian had been shaking as she lugged the dress box uptown, unable to stop thinking about what had happened during the last delivery she had made. Even remembering the sight of Leo, sprawled out and sleeping deeply on the floor next to her bed after a late, anxious, excited night of planning, couldn't erase the memory of Huxley Buchanan, dead in his study, of the feel of his blood on her hands. Even now, the thought made her shudder.

"So it's true, he had a natural daughter tucked away somewhere?"

The voice drifted out of an open door ahead of them, followed by delighted laughter. The sound was jarring against the backdrop of her grim thoughts, but at least it shook the memories loose and helped her remember where she was.

"Not just one," a second voice said, making no more effort than the first to be quiet. "Apparently there used to be two of them, though the other one died or something. It was just the one he left the money to. Nearly all of it," the second voice added with relish. "Can you imagine Evangeline's fury?"

Vivian's steps slowed again before she remembered to act as though the gossip meant nothing to her. They were talking about Buchanan.

Of course they were. These people likely moved in the same circles, or similar ones. Why wouldn't they discuss the scandals of Huxley Buchanan's life and death?

Vivian glanced at the maid, but the girl's face was impassive. Either she didn't care about the gossip, or she was so used to it that she didn't bat an eye.

"And he always seemed so somber and buttoned up," the first voice said. "Who'd have thought he'd leave it all to his little bastard streetwalker?"

"Well, be fair, Iris, we don't know she's a streetwalker," a second voice chortled.

"Oh, girls of that class always are," the first voice said, airy and dismissive. Vivian's hands clenched around the dress box so hard that the edges of it bit into her palms. "But how did he come to have two?"

"Apparently the mistress was a long-standing habit of his, years ago." The second voice lowered a bit, but by then Vivian and the maid were just outside the open door and could hear everything clearly. "A dancer, Mr. Morris says, and Huxley kept her in Brooklyn where—"

The maid knocked at the frame of the door, and the voices fell silent as their owners turned to stare at the interruption. Vivian held back a scowl—that was Honor's mother they were discussing, and she desperately wanted to hear more. But the two women currently looking down their noses at her didn't look like the sort whose information could be trusted, anyway. Not about someone like Honor.

"What is it, Mary?" one of the women asked. She was the second voice that had spoken, wearing a day dress that hadn't come from Miss Ethel's shop, not with those overdone layers of ruffles and bows. Vivian tried to keep her lip from curling in distaste.

"Begging your pardon, Mrs. Morris, but the dressmaker's girl is here. She says she would like to take a moment to check the fit of the gowns, if it suits you, ma'am."

Mrs. Morris scowled. "Well, Mary, as you can plainly see, I have a guest, and—"

"Oh, no need to fret about me, Dora," the other woman said as she stood. She was older than Mrs. Morris but dressed just as showily, with a cloud of expensive perfume floating around her. "It's high time I head home to check on the little monsters anyway, or I might risk losing another nanny. But thank you for all the news!" she added, leaning down to drop a kiss in the air next to Mrs. Morris's cheek. "Lord, who knew a murder would be so entertaining?"

The two women giggled together while Vivian stood as still as possible, hoping none of her thoughts could be read on her face. She didn't even risk glancing at the maid, Mary, to see how she took such a statement. Her eyes darted to the clock over the mantelpiece.

"Mary, see Mrs. Hartford out," Mrs. Morris said, leaning back against her chair. The maid curtsied and obeyed silently, leaving Vivian alone behind. Mrs. Morris eyed her. "Why do the gowns need to be checked? Didn't you have my measurements when you made them?"

There was none of the bored, superior irritation that Vivian expected to hear in her voice. Instead, she sounded uncertain, like a woman at a party who didn't know how to behave. Maybe she'd never had dresses made for herself before. Or she'd had it done few enough times that she wasn't sure how it was supposed to go.

The thought lifted Vivian's confidence a notch. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Morris, no need to worry. I just need to double-check that the hem and hips and all fit properly. We want you to feel as beautiful as you deserve when you wear your new things."

Mrs. Morris blushed a little, looking pleased at the idea. But a moment later she frowned, her mouth twisting. "And how much extra will that cost me?"

Vivian had to bite the inside of her cheek. All this ugly wealth around her, and her already paying for custom-made gowns, and the woman was worried about the cost of having their fit checked? The muscles across her stomach quivered with held-back laughter. "There's no extra charge, ma'am."

"Oh!" Mrs. Morris went from suspicious to smug, as though she had somehow got the better of Vivian by getting a good bargain. Vivian pressed her lips together, stretching them into a wide smile to keep herself from saying anything else. "Well, in that case, absolutely. You may follow me upstairs."

Vivian's heart sped up as she remembered the real reason she was there. They didn't enter through the bedroom itself, but through a gaudy sitting room, its walls dressed in gold paper, chairs gathered before a marble fireplace, and a gleaming chandelier hung low over it all. Vivian tried not to be too obvious looking around. But there was a door immediately opposite and identical to the one where Mrs. Morris was leading her. That had to be Mr. Morris's bedroom, where the letter Hattie wanted was supposedly kept.

Vivian hoped he was the type to spend all day at his office.

Mrs. Morris led her into the connected bedroom and closed the door. "Well?" she asked, looking uncertain again.

Vivian smiled to put her at ease. "Do you have a—Oh, yes, I see the mirror there. Why don't you go stand in front of it? I'll just close the curtains to give you some privacy while you take off your dress. You may keep on whatever you have on underneath."

As Mrs. Morris stripped down to her silk-and-lace underthings—nothing cheap there either—Vivian kept up her easy chatter. It was a habit she fell into with most of her customers, to put them at ease during the often-intimate process. And it didn't hurt that folks were more likely to tip well if she acted as friendly as possible. But this time she was more pointed than usual in her questions. After commenting on the weather and some of the paintings while she helped Mrs. Morris slip on the first dress, Vivian knelt and pulled out her tailor's tape while asking, "And is Mr. Morris still with us?"

She already knew the answer, but it was a tactful question—Mrs. Morris was old enough that she could have been married either during the Great War or the influenza pandemic that followed.

"Oh yes," Mrs. Morris answered, preening at herself in the mirror. The gown was silk and chiffon, with beading on each layer to catch the light no matter how she moved. Luckily, the fit was already perfect—her constant shifting would have made it almost impossible to check. But Vivian went through the motions to give her time to answer. "Mr. Morris is in excellent health. But rarely at home during the day." She frowned a little at her reflection, then shrugged. "Thank goodness. I cannot imagine being married to one of those men who is always underfoot."

"He must be wonderfully important, for you to live in a grand house like this," Vivian said, keeping her head down as she fiddled with the gown's hem, her eyes flicking up to the clock on Mrs. Morris's dressing table. Any minute now…

Mrs. Morris, distracted from whatever had preoccupied her a moment before, smiled smugly at the mention of her house. "Isn't it grand? Mr. Morris works in shipping and imports, so he's very busy. And very successful."

Vivian replied politely, not really paying attention to what she was saying while Mrs. Morris began to describe her furnishings in detail. She had just donned the second dress and launched into a recitation of the number of chandeliers in the house when the pounding came from downstairs. It sounded like someone was beating the front door with a battering ram. Mrs. Morris jumped so sharply that the dress's fragile hem would have torn if Vivian hadn't let go quickly.

"What on earth?" the woman demanded.

That was when the shouting began, a man's voice raised in what might have been anguish or anger or simple excitement.

"Marie!" he bellowed. "We don't have to hide anymore, I promise. I don't care what your parents think! Just come down, you'll see!"

Vivian didn't have to make herself look surprised; she stared just as wildly as Mrs. Morris at the bedroom door. But she clenched her jaw shut against a hysterical bubble of laughter. Leo was putting on a hell of a show down there.

"Marie!" he called again, and they could hear the clamor of servants' voices as they tried to calm him down and find out what he wanted. "Marie, my love, come down!"

"What on earth could it be, ma'am?" Vivian said, afraid that if she kept silent any longer she'd lose her nerve.

"I don't—I can't imagine—Who is Marie?" Mrs. Morris demanded. "I suppose I had better…" The shouting from downstairs grew louder. Mrs. Morris rushed to the bed to snatch up the dressing gown draped there. She clutched it to her chest for a moment like a shield, then threw it over her new dress and pelted from the room.

Vivian followed her into the sitting room but lingered as Mrs. Morris ran out the door. Vivian could hear her voice join the shouting as she hurried downstairs, the commotion only growing louder and more confusing. Leo's voice rose above it all, demanding that they let "Marie" come to him.

Vivian felt hysterical with laughter and panic, her feet frozen in place. Surely no one would believe such a wild performance. Surely at any moment, they'd come charging back up the steps and catch her in the act…

Before she could talk herself out of it, Vivian ran across the sitting room on a dancer's light feet and tried the door to Mr. Morris's room. To her relief, it swung open.

If she had expected a man's private space to be more restrained, she would have been disappointed. The room on the other side of the door was as gaudy as the rest of the house, an excess of heavy furnishings and dark upholstery. One whole wall had been turned into a liquor display, cut-crystal decanters full of amber and gold and clear liquids all sparkling in the sunlight that streamed through tall windows. Vivian shook her head. Some people really did have more money than brains.

There was no desk in the room, but there was a wardrobe and a tall chest of drawers, and she went to those first. She had just started searching the wardrobe when she heard the door open behind her.

Vivian spun around, her mouth dry with fear and her mind completely blank. There was no way to explain herself, so she said nothing, just stared at the maid who had walked in.

It was the same girl, Mary, who had shown her upstairs. Vivian wondered for a wild moment if she had come up specifically to check on the dressmaker's girl while everything was busy downstairs. But her arms were full of folded linens, and she stared with as much blank surprise as Vivian, neither of them speaking for a handful of heartbeats that seemed to last forever. From downstairs, Vivian could hear Mrs. Morris's voice raised in an exasperated shout. "Young man, you are mistaken, there is no Marie living in this house!"

Mary was the first to speak. "You robbin' them?"

Vivian swallowed. "No," she said, her voice hoarse. Her hand was still on the open wardrobe door. She dropped it as though the metal handle had burned her.

The maid laughed. "Yes, you are. And if you keep standin' there looking dumb as a rock with your jaw hangin' down, Mrs. Morris'll be back here and catch you doin' it."

"I'm not—"

"What are you tryin' to find? Because Mr. Morris don't keep his money in here."

"I'm not looking for money."

"Then what?" When Vivian only stared at her, Mary shrugged. "Make it worth my while, and I'll tell you where it is. I clean in here every day."

"What?" Vivian demanded, certain she had heard wrong.

Mary shrugged again. "They're a pain to work for."

Vivian had to decide quickly. The shouting was dying down; she probably didn't have much time left. But years at the Nightingale had taught her to read people and to trust her instincts. She made up her mind abruptly. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the quarter that would have bought her dinner and held it up between two fingers. "I'm looking for a letter."

The maid plucked it from her hand and made it vanish under her apron. "It's blackmail, then. Know which one you're looking for?"

"Any of them come from Swan's Point?" Vivian asked.

"Oh, that." Mary crossed to the nightstand and slid the drawer open. "He keeps it stashed inside the Bible here. Hysterical, that is." She held an envelope out, its flap open and its contents bulging, smirking a little as she looked Vivian up and down. "No girl like you is going to get mixed up in this sort of affair. Who's paying you?"

Vivian gave her a small smile. "Better for you not to know," she said, plucking the letter from Mary's hand before the girl could object.

The maid only shrugged. "Ain't that always the way. I'm off, then. Good luck, I guess. And if you try to say I was here, I'll call you a liar to God himself."

"Same," Vivian said in cheerful relief as the maid headed out the door at a quick trot. She pulled the letter out of its envelope, unfolding it just enough to see that the stationery was engraved with Swan's Point at the top in graceful lettering. She would have liked to read the whole thing, but she couldn't risk staying there any longer.

When Mrs. Morris returned a few minutes later, looking exhausted, Vivian was in the sitting room, wringing her hands together and hovering by the door as though trying to decide whether to go downstairs or not.

The letter was tucked into the bottom of her sewing bag, where Mrs. Morris would have no reason to look.

"What was all that commotion, ma'am?" Vivian asked, hoping she didn't sound too breathless from her dash across the rooms. "Is everyone okay?"

"Oh, yes. My goodness." Mrs. Morris dropped into a chair before the fireplace. "Yes, it was rather charming, really, once we got the mistake sorted out. Some young man looking for his sweetheart, hoping to convince her parents to let them marry. So romantic. I sent him on his way with some good advice." She shook her head, fanning herself with one hand. "Bring me a glass of lemonade from the sideboard."

Vivian bristled. She wasn't one of the woman's servants, and the order had been given impatiently, as though Vivian should have already thought to provide her with a drink. But she needed to get out of there with as little fuss as possible. Gritting her teeth, she poured the glass of lemonade and brought it to Mrs. Morris.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" she asked, stretching a smile across her face.

"No, no, I think I need to lie down after all that excitement," Mrs. Morris said, leaning back and closing her eyes. "Can you return tomorrow to finish?"

"I won't need to, everything fits just right," Vivian said, already heading back to the bedroom to gather her things. Her hands were shaking as she snapped her bag closed. "Thank you again for your order," she added. Her feet itched to run out of the room, but she kept them firmly in place. "We look forward to sewing for you again."

"Of course you do," Mrs. Morris said, sounding half-asleep already. "So romantic," she added in a murmur.

Vivian didn't wait any longer. She managed to keep her steps to a walk, but only just. In barely more than a minute, she was down the stairs and heading to the kitchen.

She caught a glimpse of Mary in the hall as she went past and looked resolutely away, not wanting to catch the other girl's eye. To her relief, Mary didn't turn from her work. But Vivian didn't let out the breath she was holding until she was on the street once more and heading downtown, the black bag with Mr. Morris's letter inside clutched in both hands.

"An affair?" Leo asked, as Vivian spread the sheets of the letter out on her kitchen table. "That sounds… I mean, I don't know anything about the fella's home life. It could be disastrous, depending on whether their money is his or came with his wife—"

"And depending on who E is," Vivian added as she glanced at the last page of the letter. "That's the only signature."

"Sure. But that sounds so…" He shrugged. "Boring."

Vivian cradled a cup of coffee between her hands. It was bitter—she hadn't been able to afford sugar or milk that week—but the stress of the theft had left her exhausted. And she still had a shift at the Nightingale to get through, so she had made coffee as soon as she got home. At Leo's comment, she snorted. "Well, an affair might not be that creative a thing to blackmail someone over. But the letter itself is anything but boring. If any of it ended up in a gossip column…"

She had felt every inch of her body blushing with embarrassment while she read it while on the streetcar to meet up with Leo, and she had quickly stuffed it back in her bag in case anyone peered over her shoulder. Now, as Leo bent over to read it, Vivian watched his eyebrows climb toward his hairline. It was some satisfaction to see that he was embarrassed, or at least surprised, by the letter's contents.

"Well. Nope, that's definitely not boring." Leo glanced up, his cheeks red as he ran a hand through his hair. He took a sip from his coffee and coughed. "What kind of idiot puts that sort of thing in writing?"

"No idiots like rich idiots," Vivian said, shrugging as she folded the papers back up and stuffed them into their envelope. She hesitated, then tucked the whole packet into the purse she would take to work that night. There was no telling when Hattie or, more likely, one of her errand boys would show up, and Vivian wanted to be ready when they did. "And I for one don't intend to worry over what Mrs. Wilson plans to—"

She broke off, jumping as someone knocked at the door. Leo frowned at her.

"You expecting company?" he asked quietly, reaching toward the back of his waistband.

Vivian felt chilled. She knew he often carried a gun, and she didn't much care for it. "Probably just a neighbor," she hissed, grabbing his elbow. "Don't get jumpy when there's no cause."

"It pays to be prepared—"

"Not in my house," she snapped.

He looked like he wanted to argue, but she didn't give him a chance before she crossed to the door. Her own heart was hammering—the surprises lately hadn't exactly been good—but she didn't let Leo see that as she opened the door. "Who's—" She broke off, letting out a relieved breath. "Bea! What are you doing here?"

"Finished my shift at the Buchanans'," she said, breezing into the room, her coat fluttering open over her maid's uniform. "I'll say this for them, it's not a fun place to work, but they do pay decent. Sent me home with cash today. Mama's not too sore over the extra money this week, even if she knows I'm not telling her the truth about why I took the job."

"What did you tell her?" Vivian asked, closing the door and turning the lock. Just in case.

Bea shrugged as she pulled off her coat. "That I was helping out a friend. Which was the wrong thing to say, of course. It made her plenty nervous. But no help for that now." She glanced between Leo and Vivian. "What's got you two looking like you're exchanging secrets?"

"Mrs. Wilson's errand," Vivian said. She had told Bea all about her run-in with Bruiser George while they were heading home from work the night before. "Leo put on a hell of a show to distract them while I snatched the letter."

"Tell me all about it, but not quite yet," Bea said, taking a seat and helping herself to a swallow from Viv's coffee mug, recognizable by the ring of lipstick around one side of the rim. "First, I have a present for you. From that rotten Corny Rokesby. But really from me." She smiled, looking pleased with herself.

Vivian stared at her friend. "Bea, please tell me you didn't do something dumb or dangerous."

"Little bit of both," Bea said. Her tone was light, but her eyes were serious as they met Vivian's. Her coat was hanging over the back of her chair; she reached around to pull a small, leather-bound notebook from its pocket. "I told you I was going to help you out. And I meant it."

"And I told you not to put yourself in danger—"

"Just shut up and read it," Bea said, rolling her eyes with impatience as she held the book out.

Vivian took it with tingling fingers, half wondering what it was, half sure she already knew. She turned the pages slowly, even as her heart was pounding like a Charleston beat. "Bea," she said, looking up. "Did you steal Cornelius Rokesby's appointment book?"

"Something like that," she said, propping her feet up on the remaining chair and rubbing the small of her back with a sigh. "Lord almighty, but it's a hell of an achy business, being on your feet all day. I don't know how Mama stands it."

"Bea," Vivian said, her voice rising. "What were you thinking?"

Bea's expression grew serious at last. "I was thinking that my pal is in trouble and needs help. It wasn't all that hard to find. Don't you want to know what he's lying about?"

"But he could report you to the police," Vivian said, starting to feel frantic. "You could get arrested yourself, and then what—"

"No, he couldn't," Leo said suddenly, a grin spreading across his face. "He already told them he's never kept an appointment book. How's he going to report that someone stole it now, even if he figures out who it was? Hell, he might even think it was a cop who snuck in and snatched it." He shook his head admiringly. "Slick work there, Beatrice. Real slick."

"Thank you," she said smugly, returning his smile. It was the friendliest Vivian had ever seen them. "Now it's Vivian's turn to say thanks."

Vivian wanted to protest more. But it wouldn't do any good. Bea had already taken it. All Vivian could do was hope that Leo was right about Rokesby not being able to report the theft. Vivian swallowed. "Thank you," she said, her voice coming out a little hoarse. "You're one in a million, you know that?"

"I sure do," Bea said. "So, what are you thinking? He bumped off his stepdad to get his inheritance? Bit of a letdown for him, then, how it all shook out."

"Maybe," Vivian said slowly as she turned the pages. She glanced up at her friend. "Both Mrs. Buchanan and Corny wouldn't give the police a straight answer about where they were, right? And being as they're his family, they'd probably have the best chance to be the ones slipping him poison. And then they got impatient, and…" She trailed off, pushing aside the memories of that morning, and glanced back at the book.

"Right," Bea agreed as she plonked her feet down on the floor and leaned forward. "So are you going to tell us what the hell is in there that was so important for him to keep secret?"

"Well, you're not going to like it." Vivian flipped through the pages until she found the week of Buchanan's death. "But I'm pretty sure half of it is written in code."

Bea's face fell. "What?"

Leo had stood to peer over Vivian's shoulder, and he grimaced at what he saw. "That's damned inconvenient."

"But also damned suspicious," Bea pointed out. "So maybe we're on the right track?"

"Maybe," Leo agreed, looking doubtful. "But not much help if we can't figure out what it means." He glanced at Vivian. "What are you thinking?"

Vivian drummed her fingers against the table, a syncopated rat-a-tat that jumped around with her thoughts. "Is there any chance we could take this to your pal Levinsky?" she asked, looking at Leo. "He's the one who mentioned it. Would he—"

But Leo was already shaking his head. "He'd have to stick his neck out pretty far to explain how he got it, and I don't think he'd risk that kind of trouble. Not with a new baby at home." One corner of his mouth lifted in a cynical smile. "And even if he did, if the damn thing is written in code, the odds of anyone trying to figure it out aren't great."

"So I still need something more solid to give your uncle," Vivian said, nodding as she let out a slow, anxious breath. "Okay. Then I need to find someone who knows what the Fifth Avenue folks have been up to recently." She glanced at her purse, where the letter for Hattie Wilson was tucked away. "And I think I know who might be able to help us."