Twenty-One

Three Days Left

When Vivian saw the first address on her list of deliveries, she had to bite the inside of her cheek against a long string of angry language that would have gotten her fired on the spot. But she was too tired, and too agitated, to keep her face as impassive, and Miss Ethel pounced.

"Is something amiss, Miss Kelly?" she said, too sweetly. "Do the customers whose purchases put clothes on your back and food on your table not meet your standards?"

Once, it would have taken all Vivian's self-control to keep the sarcasm out of her own reply. But dealing with Miss Ethel was an old habit now; there was no point in arguing back. And, looking at that address, she had bigger things to worry about than Miss Ethel's ugly moods. "No, ma'am," she said. "I'm very grateful for Mrs. Wilson's business. And the others as well, of course."

Miss Ethel sniffed. "I should hope so. Now get along. You have two other deliveries first. Mrs. Wilson wants you at eleven o'clock."

Vivian gritted her teeth. She needed her work for Miss Ethel. But another summons from Mrs. Wilson was almost enough to make her quit.

Vivian didn't owe her anything, not anymore. Hattie Wilson might have been cold and ruthless, but even she wouldn't claim things weren't square between them.

Unless Vivian had done something wrong. Maybe she'd stolen the wrong letter. Maybe George hadn't delivered it. One way or another, a summons from Hattie Wilson meant the woman wanted something. And Vivian dreaded finding out what that was.

The maid who led her upstairs looked uncomfortable as she paused outside a room Vivian had never been to before. It wasn't Hattie's office or the parlor where she'd waited during her previous visits. Vivian's nervousness grew.

"Mrs. Wilson says you're to wait in here," the maid whispered, her hand on the doorknob. "And that you're not to disturb her or her guest. She'll come for her fitting when she's ready."

"What does that mean?" Vivian demanded, but she too spoke in a whisper. She knew better than to disobey a woman like Hattie Wilson in her own house. She wondered briefly about Hattie's staff. Did they know what kind of woman they were working for? Or did they fool themselves into believing she was just a wealthy young mother like any other, a widow whose main concerns were her son, her sister, and her social life?

"Mrs. Wilson will be with you when she's ready," the maid repeated, opening the door and putting a finger to her lips.

The little sitting room was barely more than a hall between other spaces. The only window was small and high, and the stiff furniture looked as if it had been put there just to get it out of the way. But at least there were two chairs, and a table between them where Vivian could put down the box she was carrying and rest her aching arms. The delivery for Mrs. Wilson was small, but the other two that morning had been evening gowns. Hauling the oversized boxes across so many city blocks had left her shaking with exhaustion.

Three out of the four walls had doors. The one she had come through closed silently behind her. One was closed. And the third was cracked open, just enough that she could hear voices from the other side. Vivian sighed as she sank into one of the chairs. Why tell her to come at eleven just to make her wait?

Vivian dropped her head into her hands. She didn't want to find out what sort of game she was being dragged into now. And she didn't want to sit silently, in a cold, uncomfortable room, waiting for two women who weren't counting down their last days of freedom to finish whatever gossip was entertaining them for the day.

Occupied with her unhappy thoughts, it took Vivian several minutes to realize she recognized both voices, not just Mrs. Wilson's.

She'd only heard the second voice twice before. But so many details from the day Huxley Buchanan was killed, and the awful days since, had stuck in her memory whether she wanted them or not. His wife's voice was one.

"I don't know what I'm going to do without him," Evangeline Buchanan said between hiccups. Vivian was surprised by how genuinely upset the woman sounded.

"And to think you married him in the first place just for your son's sake," Hattie Wilson replied. It was the gentlest Vivian had ever heard her sound. Did the icy Mrs. Wilson actually care?

No, it had to be an act. Otherwise, why make sure Vivian was there to overhear?

"I wanted what was best for Corny, of course," Mrs. Buchanan said. She sniffled, and there was a loud sound of a nose being blown into a handkerchief. "What mother doesn't? But Huxley…" She sniffed again and sighed. "I have so many regrets, now. I never truly gave our marriage a chance."

"Yes, an affair does rather distance one from one's husband, does it not?" The sympathy in Hattie's voice took on an amused edge.

"What did… How did…" Vivian could hear the panic in Mrs. Buchanan's voice. "What do you mean?"

"Dear, don't fret. You know I say it without judgment. Such things happen. Who is the man, by the way?"

Mrs. Buchanan's voice was stiff as she replied. "If you do not know more, Henrietta, I am certainly not going to share."

"Why, Aunt Evangeline, you know I am only concerned for your well-being," Hattie Wilson said, her voice gentle once more. "I only wish to be certain that he is discreet, whoever he is. Imagine how damning the rumors would be if word got out. Why, some people might even have the gall to suggest one of you was responsible for Uncle Huxley's death."

Vivian's heart sped up. If Mrs. Buchanan had been having an affair, maybe her husband hadn't been killed over a matter of business at all. Maybe it had been a matter of passion.

"Well, we could not have been. We were…" Evangeline Buchanan hiccupped back a sob. "We were together that morning."

Vivian's hopes came crashing back to earth. If that was true, it made all too much sense why Mrs. Buchanan had refused to tell the cops where she was. Was there any way to prove it?

"And oh, Henrietta." Mrs. Buchanan was still talking, words coming out in a confessional torrent, as if now that she'd started she couldn't stop. "Henrietta, you've no idea how I regret it. The whole thing, but that morning… If I had been at home, perhaps nothing would have happened. He would not have been alone with that girl… And now Huxley is gone, and I… I think I could have fallen in love with him if we'd had more time. If I had given us more of a chance…"

"I am certain you could have," Hattie said. Vivian wondered if Mrs. Buchanan could hear the amused undercurrent to her words. "It must have been a terrible shock to discover how he left things in his will."

That prompted a sad little laugh from Mrs. Buchanan. "His death was the shock. But I wasn't… I knew how he was leaving things. I tried to persuade him so many times to change his mind, to leave more to me and not his bastard, but he was adamant." Her voice dropped into a whimper. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"It's not so hard to be a widow," Mrs. Wilson said. Vivian could hear the smile in her voice.

Apparently, Mrs. Buchanan could too. "Maybe for someone like you, Henrietta. You have your whole life still ahead of you, and plenty of money with which to live it. But am I to find a third man to marry? At my age? Dear God, the prospect is terrifying."

"Don't sell yourself short, Evangeline. You're a beautiful woman still. And not yet that old. Uncle Huxley was hardly the only man north of fifty in New York looking for a wife."

Mrs. Buchanan sniffed. "At least he remembered Corny somewhat. That's a comfort to a mother. They did get on so well, you know. They shared a drink together nearly every night."

Nearly every night. Vivian's mind had begun to wander, but it latched onto those words like an alley cat pouncing. What better way to gradually poison someone than to share a nightly drink? And if Corny Buchanan had tried one way to get rid of his stepfather, but grown impatient with waiting…

The medical examiner had been right. The police weren't looking into the poison at all, or, if they were, they were keeping it under wraps. Mrs. Buchanan would never have mentioned such a thing otherwise.

"Your idea, I presume?" Hattie asked. "Poor Corny would never have thought of something so sociable on his own."

"It was good for them to get to know each other," Mrs. Buchanan said defensively. Vivian could hear the sound of a chair being pushed back, small things being gathered. "If you mean to be comforting, Henrietta, you are falling far short of the mark."

"I often do, unfortunately," Hattie said without much remorse. It sounded like she, too, was standing. "A defect of my character, whatever my intentions. But I am sorry for you, Evangeline. It's plain you aren't happy to have him gone."

"Why would I be happy?" Mrs. Buchanan demanded through a sob. "Really, Henrietta, I don't understand you sometimes."

"I'll see you at the funeral," Hattie said. Vivian thought she could hear a pleased edge to her voice. "My sympathies, once again," she added, accompanied by the sound of Mrs. Buchanan stalking out of the room. She shut the door so firmly behind her that the window in the room where Vivian sat rattled.

A moment later, the door between the two rooms swung open. Vivian sprang to her feet. But Mrs. Wilson only gave her a brief look before turning away. "You may come in now."

They were in a beautiful sitting room, the ladies' parlor, Vivian had once heard the Wilsons' housekeeper call it. It had new paper on the walls since the last time Vivian had been there, a modern, geometric pattern of angles and lines. Her feet sank into the plush carpeting as she walked, and the velvet curtains that framed the windows were so thick and long that they puddled on the floor. Vivian felt sorry for the maids whose job it was to keep them clean. Every bookcase was filled with books—modern novels, the kind Vivian might actually like to read if she ever had the time for that sort of thing.

Hattie settled into one of the thickly upholstered couches with a sigh, the index finger of one hand tapping against her cheek as she surveyed Vivian.

Vivian set the delivery box on the table. She wanted to sit down, too, but she didn't. She didn't know what game Mrs. Wilson was playing, but she didn't want to risk making her mad.

"Well?" Hattie asked at last. "Are you going to say thank you?"

"For what?" Vivian asked, her voice tight. "For showing me how likely it is that I'll be arrested for murder? If she knew she wasn't going to inherit much of anything, she had good reasons not to want him dead. That doesn't help me."

Hattie shrugged. "Well, I didn't know what she was going to say," she replied, not sounding concerned at all.

"Unless you think she had some other reason to want him gone?" Vivian asked, eyes narrowing. Mrs. Buchanan might have encouraged her husband and son to have nightly drinks because she was the one slipping poison into Huxley Buchanan's glass. But that only made sense if she had something to gain from his death.

Mrs. Wilson shrugged again. "No, not a woman like Evangeline. All she wanted out of that marriage was better prospects for her son and a more secure life for herself. She got both, and a decent enough husband into the bargain. She's lost most of that with his death."

"Rokesby got something out of it," Vivian pointed out. "Shares in the business, right? Same as you."

Hattie's eyes glittered behind her lashes. "Ten percent interest," she said, her lips pursing in irritation. "Not much of anything at all, in the grand scheme of how these things work. But that's a matter for the future," she added, looking past the walls of the room they were in for a moment. Vivian had the sense that Hattie could see that future, that she had a plan for it. The thought made her shiver.

Hattie's gaze snapped back. "But we were discussing the present moment, I believe." She raised her eyebrows, waiting.

Vivian gritted her teeth. "Thank you," she ground out.

"You're welcome. And now, I believe—"

"I owe you another favor?" Vivian snapped, knowing it was unwise to interrupt but not stopping herself in time. "I thought I was here to make a delivery."

Hattie glanced at the box on the table. "Which I do appreciate. But I'm not one to waste an opportunity. And…" She smiled. "It never hurts to have a girl like you in my debt."

"Here, I thought the red one would look best on you."

Vivian took the slinky dress from Bea, running her fingers appreciatively across the silk before she folded it carefully and wrapped it in brown paper. "Thanks a million, Bea."

"Happy to help." Bea was smiling, but she looked nervous. "And it's okay if you make an alteration or two. Gotta look swell tonight, right?"

"That's the goal," Vivian agreed, though her mind was a thousand miles away when she said it. The lodge ball was in just a few hours. And hopefully, hopefully, she'd be able to find out what Corny Rokesby was up to, what he had been up to the morning his stepfather had died.

Because if it hadn't been him, and if it hadn't been Huxley Buchanan's wife or business partners who wanted him dead…

"Bea," Vivian asked before she could stop herself. "You've known Honor for a long time now, yeah?"

"Sure," Bea said, sounding wary. One hand traced absent circles over the rough wood of the table where they sat, and she didn't quite meet Vivian's eyes. "Ever since I started working at the Nightingale."

"Do you think she could kill someone?" The words came out barely louder than a whisper. The silence in the room was painful. It was the closest they had ever come to the night neither of them wanted to talk about. Vivian stared at her friend, and Bea stared at her hands.

"I think anyone could," she said, lifting her eyes at last. "You or me. Florence." She swallowed. "Honor. But we'd need a damn good reason to do it."

Vivian nodded as she gathered up her package. "Thanks again for the dress," she said, her voice hoarse. "I'll let you know how it goes."

Bea tried to smile and failed. "Good luck."