“Good. Now that we’ve got that settled, what would you like me to ring up?”
“I’m still looking?—”
“This isn’t a library, sonny. Pay up or move along.”
Emil was on the verge of throwing his hands in the air when the bell above the entrance clattered unevenly, and a pretty young woman wrapped in a thick, checkered coat entered. She peered into the store, perking up noticeably when she saw him. She sauntered to the front desk, and Emil watched with interest. How would the gargoyle treat the newcomer?
“Good day, Mrs. Chase,” the woman purred. “I hope you're having a pleasant new year.”
“Miss Blount,” the gargoyle replied with a not-too-subtle harrumph.
Emil was mollified to learn he wasn’t the only one she despised.
“I’ve decided to purchase the viola, after all.” She paused expectantly, as if she thought Mrs. Chase would be pleased, but the gargoyle only tapped her cigar on an overflowing ceramic ashtray in the shape of Beethoven’s head. “That is,” she continued awkwardly, batting her eyes in Emil’s direction, “unless this gentleman has already claimed it.”
“That one’s all yours, miss.” Emil gave her a half smile. “I’m sure you’ll play it beautifully.”
Mrs. Chase chose that moment to cough, a horrible, hacking rasp that echoed through the basement like the final breath of a dying moose. Emil flinched at the sound, and Miss Blount gave a gasp of alarm. But the gargoyle didn’t seem too worried. She merely wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and replaced the cigar.
“Apologies,” she muttered, though her eyes gleamed with twisted satisfaction.
“You should do something about that cough, Mrs. Chase,” Miss Blount said. “Why, if you opened a window or two?—”
“Nothing wrong with my store.” The woman’s sharp elbows jutted out as she hunched forward to glare. “It’s all those new-fangled lights they’re putting in for the world’s fair, that’s what. The government doesn’t give a hoot about burning extra gas, making the air as thick as soup.”
“Ma’am, those new streetlamps are electric,” Emil drawled.
“Electric lights are ever so tasteful,” Miss Blount added with a glance at Emil. Mrs. Chase’s eyes narrowed to slits, and Emil wondered if she would say something truly heinous. But Miss Blount wasn’t finished. “Anyway. I’m on my way to a luncheon, so I’d like to have the viola delivered. Do you still have my address on file?”
Mrs. Chase’s mouth tightened around her cigar, but she flipped open a water-stained ledger and ran a finger down the page of handwritten addresses. Emil sidled closer, feigning interest in a stack of records on the corner of the counter. If the ledger was full of all the store’s clientele, there was a good chance it would also hold Olive Becket’s address.
He tilted his head, trying to glimpse the pages, and wondered why he cared so much. It must be because he couldn’t make sense of Olive’s actions. Her latest stunt hadn’t proven anything except her talent for getting under his skin. Maybe it was just about his pride, about not letting her get the better of him. But there was something else, too—a need to figure her out. To understand the kind of person who could make a game out of this and leave him wanting to play along.
And he loved winning games.
“Say, Mrs. Chase,” he said abruptly. “I’d like to buy a record for my gramophone. Do you have Enrico Caruso’s latest?”
The gargoyle sniffed. “I don’t care for Italians.”
“Perhaps you’d enjoy Nelli Melba,” Miss Blount suggested. When Emil stared at her blankly, she added, “She’s an Australian soprano. Are Australians acceptable, Mrs. Chase?”
“A step above Italians,” she said grudgingly. “I may have one in the back.”
“That sounds superb. A fine suggestion, Miss Blount.”
The young woman preened, and Mrs. Chase rolled her eyes as she slid off her perch. Once she’d disappeared behind a fraying curtain, Miss Blount batted her eyelashes at him.
“It’s so nice to meet a man interested in operatic music.”
Hardly. He’d rather listen to his father’s lectures than sit through what sounded like a sack of yowling cats. Remembering Caruso’s name at all was pure luck. He pretended to look away with embarrassment, using the opportunity to scour the left page of the open ledger. Atkinson, Avery, Bader, Bachman…
“I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name, Mr…?
“Emil Anderson, private detective by trade.”
“Miss Gertrude Blount.” She edged closer, forcing his attention back to her. “If I may be so bold, I find myself intrigued by your line of work. It must be terribly exciting, uncovering secrets and solving mysteries.”
“I do enjoy a good chase,” he allowed, Olive Becket’s doe-eyes swimming into his head once more.
