Twenty-Seven

One Day Left

Vivian waited across the street, hovering at the edge of the park where a small crowd of children were chasing pigeons under the trees. The shrieking, darting bodies provided plenty of distraction in case anyone looked out of the house's windows.

Vivian shed her coat while she waited. Spring had finally come to the city, all at once, in a breath of warm air that made her think of sweaty days hauling deliveries uptown and sultry nights spinning through the arms of strangers and friends. She didn't let herself wonder if she would see those days and nights. She just turned her face up toward the sun and tried to ignore the ache like homesickness that was taking root in her chest.

Edison's replacement had been waiting across the street that morning when she snuck out, dodging through crowds at the streetcar stop to give him the slip. Leo hadn't been with her. After a string of nights spent sleeping on her floor, he hadn't come home with her after last call. He had a job, he'd whispered, pressing a kiss against her forehead. He'd see her tomorrow, and everything would be okay, don't worry. Don't worry. We don't need to worry.

At last, Vivian saw the car pull away from behind the house, catching the glimpse of a pale face behind veils of black netting, a tall figure staring stoically ahead. She waited until they were followed by an exodus of servants from the tradesmen's entrance, most of them wearing black armbands, though she doubted they were heading to the funeral. She wouldn't have, if she were in their place and granted a rare morning off.

Bea opened the back door as soon as she saw Vivian slip down the alley. She had a black armband too, its stitches quick and sloppy. Vivian wondered which maid had been responsible for making them, squeezing the rapid sewing in between her other duties.

She hadn't let herself realize, until that moment, that she'd have to enter Buchanan's study again. But as soon as she was in the doorway, the memory of that day hit her like a punch to the gut. The feel of blood slipping against her hands as she turned him over. His blank eyes staring past her, his mouth fallen open as though he were just about to speak.

Bea was behind her, holding the door open and watching down the hall to make sure no one was coming. Vivian shuddered, taking a step back, scrubbing her hands against her dress as though she needed to clean them of blood once more. "I can't," she whispered.

"You can," Bea said mercilessly. "You have to. Or you have to give up and get out."

"Bea," Vivian whimpered. "This is where he died."

"You have to," Bea said again. But her hands were gentle as she placed one between Vivian's shoulder blades and gave her a push. "A memory can't hurt you."

Vivian wasn't so sure about that. But she forced her feet to carry her forward anyway. And then she stopped in the middle of the room, not sure where to begin.

"His papers are over here," Bea said, half closing the door behind them and crossing to the cabinet behind the desk. "I looked earlier, while everyone else was getting Mrs. Buchanan and her son out the door. I didn't see anything about people who worked for them, but I didn't have much time to look then. I can help you go through them now."

Vivian had to swallow back the knot in her throat. "I don't deserve you."

"No, you don't," Bea agreed, her smile strained. "I'm as grand as they come. Now, stop wasting time. You take the drawers on the right."

They worked in silence. The half-closed door meant no one would see them kneeling behind the desk if they were walking down the hall, but it also let them hear if anyone was coming. Luckily, there was silence.

The drawers Vivian was going through contained mostly letters, notes about business or missives from friends, a note from Corny Rokesby that had apparently accompanied a bottle of gin. Seeing that made the lump come back into Vivian's throat. What must that gift have meant to Buchanan, who had lost both his own sons, if he had kept the note?

But there was nothing about servants, not letters of reference or notes checking previous employment. Nothing.

"Any luck on your end?" Vivian whispered.

Bea shook her head. "Not yet," she whispered back. "But I've still got some more to go through. Just give me a minute."

Vivian swallowed. Every minute felt precious, and she didn't want to give up any of them. But she nodded anyway; there was nothing else to do. She was about to put her whole stack of papers back in their drawer when the letters at the bottom of the pile caught her eye. They were clearly older than the others, the ink faded in some spots, the paper torn in others. She pulled one out, curious. When she unfolded it, a playbill for a vaudeville show tumbled into her lap.

My Handsome Huxley,the letter began, what fun we had last night. And it went on from there in a way that made Vivian's cheeks grow hot. It was signed M., who will always be Your Diamond. She glanced at the playbill, which declared that the show would feature The Magnificent Margaret Diamond, with a sketch of a woman in a costume even skimpier than the one that had let Vivian escape from the lodge ball.

She glanced at the date on the letter, a suspicion growing in the back of her mind. She flipped through the rest of the love letters, all from M., until she found what she was looking for.

Huxley my darling, why won't you write back? I know I promised never to call at your house, but I'm growing worried. The doctor says he suspects twins…

Vivian sat back on her heels. She would never have suspected that Honor's mother had been a vaudeville actress.

In fact, she'd never suspected much of anything when it came to Honor's mother. Honor had said her mother caught influenza and never recovered, and Vivian had assumed that meant she was dead. But what if she wasn't?

What if she was still alive and in Brooklyn? If anyone would know how Honor really felt about her father, whether she could have been the one to end his life, it would be her mother. Wouldn't it?

Vivian flipped through the letters, looking for the most recent one. She might not be able to find the maid. But if she could find an address for Honor's mother, maybe she could get something like an answer. Maybe she could find out, one way or another, if Hattie and Levinsky and probably Leo too were right. Maybe—

Her hands shook as she pulled out the most recent letter.

Huxley, you bastard. You sweet-talking, snake oil bastard. You're never going to write, are you?

This one had an address. But it was dated more than twenty years ago.

Apparently, Huxley Buchanan had cared about his onetime lover enough to keep her letters. But he hadn't cared enough to reach out again, even after he brought his daughter back into his life.

Or maybe she really was dead. There was no way to know without asking Honor. And even if Vivian could bring herself to do that, could she trust anything Honor told her?

"What in God's name are you doing in here?"

Vivian's helpless rage drew to a sharp point of panic as she spun toward the door, where the housekeeper stood, one hand on the door, the other trembling where it held a poker in front of her. She stared at Vivian with wide eyes. "What do you think you—Dear God." She broke off, taking a step back. "You're the girl who—You can't be here! How did you get in this room? How did you get in this house?"

Vivian shoved the letter into her pocket without thinking, just in case she needed both hands free. "I walked right in," she said recklessly, her breath coming too fast.

Bea was still kneeling behind the desk. Vivian didn't glance down, but she could feel her friend's trembling. Bea hadn't been wrong when she said she could end up in jail if she was caught sneaking someone into the house—particularly the girl suspected of murdering someone in that very room. For the moment, Bea was hidden from the housekeeper's view. But she wouldn't be for long.

Vivian took a step around the desk. The housekeeper stumbled back, lifting the wavering poker higher. "Don't you go anywhere," she said, her voice shaking as badly as her hands. "You stay right there while I telephone the—"

"The police?" Vivian broke in. "I wouldn't risk that if I was you."

"Stop talking," the housekeeper snapped.

Vivian shrugged. "All right, lady. You do what you want. It's your funeral, though."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Not hardly," Vivian said. "I'm helping you out. It's no picnic having the cops after you. I wouldn't want you to go through that."

"Why would I…" The housekeeper stared at her. "Why would they… You don't mean to imply they'll think I let you in? What nonsense."

Vivian took another careful step forward. The housekeeper didn't look like the sort of woman who knew her way around a fight. But she had a weapon in her hands, and Vivian didn't. "It'll make them plenty suspicious, is all I'm saying," she said, trying to sound as certain as possible. "They've gotta be wondering about that poison, after all."

The housekeeper's face went white. "What do you mean?"

"They didn't ask you about that?" Vivian said. She'd have thought the police would question at least some of the staff about the arsenic.

"Of course they did, but that has nothing to do with—How do you know about that?"

Vivian was pleased to see the housekeeper looking uneasy. She had intended to put the woman off balance, chase her away so Bea could slip out unseen. But seeing the thoughts flickering across her face, Vivian had another idea. "Look, they think I stabbed him, right? I didn't, but they think so. But when would I have had a chance to poison him? That has to be someone who lived here, right?"

"Right…" The housekeeper said slowly, frowning, as though she had momentarily forgotten her distrust and was simply trying to follow Vivian's logic.

"And who better than a servant? If the cops see that I got in the house and was sneaking around when only you were here…" She trailed off, giving the woman a sympathetic smile as she shrugged. "You see, I'm just trying to save you a trip down to the station."

"What… what nonsense," the housekeeper said faintly, but her heart wasn't in it. The poker was down by her side, and Vivian could see her shaking. It was almost enough to make Vivian feel bad. But she pushed that thought aside. She had other things to worry about.

Vivian took another step forward. "Look, you met me before," she said, giving her best wide-eyed, innocent expression. "Do I seem like I could kill someone? Let alone a fella like Mr. Buchanan? He was twice my size. And you know I'd never come around here before, so how could I have anything to do with the poison?"

The housekeeper frowned. "But then what are you doing here now?"

"Look, I get it, no one wants to talk to the cops about whoever it was that came to meet with Buchanan that day."

"No one did—"

"I said I get it," Vivian interrupted, then, seeing the expression on the housekeeper's face, nodded. "Okay, maybe you actually don't know. I believe you. But someone saw him. I know that maid had to, because she came to get him. He wouldn't have gone to his office just because I told him to, right? He wouldn't have had any reason to."

"I guess… I guess that could make sense," the housekeeper said slowly.

"All I want is to talk to her. She was older, fifties maybe. And she quit right after. You know who I'm talking about?"

The silence that hung in the room was painful. Vivian wished Bea was by her side, but she kept her eyes straight forward.

"Her name was Maggie Chambers," the housekeeper said at last. "I can't tell you much more than that, I'd only hired her a week before and we've been through so many maids in the last two months."

Vivian let out a relieved breath. "But you have some kind of record on her, right? An address, maybe, or a reference that she came with when she applied for the job? That's all I'm here for. I just want to talk to her."

She waited, barely breathing, to see what the housekeeper would decide.

"If I give you her reference, I want you to get out of here," the housekeeper said, her voice and her eyes both flinty. "And you don't come back. I don't need you throwing around that kind of talk about poison. And I sure as hell don't want Mrs. Buchanan finding you here."

"Fair deal," Vivian said, nodding. "Just do me one other favor?"

The housekeeper's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Put down the poker?"

"I don't think so." The housekeeper hefted it once more. "I keep my hands on this until you're back in the street. Where you belong."

Vivian clenched her jaw, but it was far from the worst thing that had been said about her, even to her face. She could let the insults pass. "Lead the way, then. I promise not to get too close."

They were on the landing of the main staircase when Vivian risked a glance back up toward the hallway. She was just in time to see the top of Bea's head disappearing around the corner and out of sight.

Vivian let out a silent breath. At least that was one less thing to worry about. She hurried to catch up with the housekeeper.

The housekeeper's office was downstairs, just off the kitchen. The housekeeper made her wait in the hall. Vivian shifted from foot to foot nervously, glancing up and down the hall. She hadn't seen a telephone in there before the door closed. But what if the plan was just to leave her there in the hall until everyone else came back? She'd be arrested for sure, and then—

She jumped half a foot in the air when the door opened suddenly and the housekeeper reappeared, her cheeks bright with nervous color and an envelope in her hand.

"Maggie's position before this one was in a shop," she said, speaking very quickly, as though eager to be done with the conversation. "She assured me she'd had previous experience as a maid, and she seemed competent enough. But I imagine you'll have better luck at a shop anyway than you would at someone's home."

"Thank you," Vivian said as she slid the letter of reference out of its envelope. "I'll—" She broke off as her eyes caught on the address at the top of the stationery. "Where's the real one?"

"What?" The housekeeper scowled at her. "I just gave it to you, stupid girl."

"Me, the stupid one?" Vivian demanded. "That's the address for Howard's on Seventh. It's a store for men's hats, and a hell of a ritzy one at that. Not this"—she thrust the letter forward and shook it—"ladies' toiletries and cosmetics baloney. Did you even check the reference before you hired her?"

"I told you, it was a busy week," the housekeeper snapped. "And I'm doing you a favor here. Don't you go making trouble over it."

Vivian felt like the bottom had dropped out of her stomach. She had been so close. There had to be something else. "But it's a fake," she insisted.

"I gave you what I had," the housekeeper said, starting to sound angry now as well as nervous. "Take it or not, I don't care. Now beat it, or I really will call the police."

Vivian felt like she couldn't breathe. She wanted to find Bea and tell her what had happened. To sit down and cry until she didn't have any tears left. To run away and not stop running until she was somewhere no one knew her, and to hell with what that would mean for the people she left behind.

Instead, she folded the reference letter very carefully, her hands shaking, and slipped it into her pocket next to the crumpled letter from Honor's mother. Then she turned and walked out of the house without a word.

Around her, people carried on with their lives, no rest for New York, even on a Sunday. Vivian pushed through the crowds without seeing them, and eventually her feet carried her home.

She closed the door behind her, finally alone again, and took both letters out of her pocket. She set aside the one from Honor's mother and stared at the reference for Maggie Chambers.

It was a fake, no question there. But it wasn't nothing. It proved Maggie Chambers was real, that she had been there. And it proved she had lied. That had to matter.

Her week was up tomorrow. But she could take the letter with her. She could force them to look at it. What had that lawyer, Dubinski, said? She just needed to give them someone else to suspect. Maybe Maggie Chambers was protecting whoever had met with Buchanan. Hell, maybe she had offed him herself, though Vivian had a hard time picturing that tired woman having a reason to kill someone. But she clearly mattered.

She'd prove it to them tomorrow. And then, no matter what happened, she'd know she had done all she could.

But just in case…

Vivian shoved both the letters under her pillow and turned back to the door.

Just in case it didn't work, she knew there was only one place she wanted to be now.