Grace strode toward the wireless telegraph tower on the edge of the fairgrounds, but when she saw the line snaking and looping back on itself, she decided to head straight to Sam Whitcomb’s office first. She wanted to make sure she could hand in her article to run before the next paper was printed.
She exited the fairgrounds and made her way toward Delmar, where she wove through the neat rows of the tent city. There was an area for babies to be left and attended to while their parents were visiting the fair; a barbershop where men could get a haircut and fresh shave. She smelled bacon wafting from one of the kitchen tents.
And this time, when she rode the elevator to the top floor of the octagonal Whitcomb press building, the secretary waved her in.
Grace found Sam Whitcomb at his desk, sorting through stacks of paper. There was smoke curling from the cigar on the ashtray, and mottled light from the harp lamp on the desk.
“My article,” she said, retrieving it from her bag. “As promised.”
He took the article and read it in front of her, which made her feel surprisingly vulnerable. She shifted her weight, and he made a few sounds accompanied by strikes of words with his red pen. That slow, unnerving smile spread across his face.
“Good,” he said. “Very good. It will run tomorrow.”
She nodded. “You showed me the tape, I wrote you the article. We’re even now. If you want more, you’ll have to pay me for it next time.”
“Such a shrewd little reporter, aren’t we?” Sam Whitcomb said. His condescension was irritating. He picked up the cigar and ashed it in the crystal tray. “I think you’re getting more than enough benefit from my newspaper telling your side of the story.”
“I think you’re going to sell more papers than ever with this angle.” Grace set her shoulders. After all, she couldn’t live off of Theodore and Lillie’s charity forever. “And a girl’s gotta eat. Your choice.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Keep bringing me the juice and we’ll talk.”
She pursed her lips and nodded. “I’m just about to follow another lead now.”
He smirked at her. “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? Wouldn’t want to get on your bad side.”
“So don’t,” she said.
She picked up a copy of the day’sFarefor herself on the way out.
“Good day, Mr. Whitcomb,” she said.
Grace read the paper from cover to cover while she waited in the snaking line for the De Forest wireless telegraph tower. There was Harriet’s smiling face. It hit Grace anew like a punch to the gut. This bright, alive woman was gone. How could a life be snuffed out like a candle?
She jumped a little at the boom of cannons shooting from a distant battle reenactment, the screams of people riding the roller coaster on the Pike, and felt a fresh determination buzzing in her veins to find the person who had killed Harriet. What were they doing now, while Oliver sat in prison and Harriet was going to be placed in the ground?
Grace rode the elevator up to the observation deck, tucking the folded newspaper beneath her arm as she asked one of the workers for Mr. George Parsons. The man pointed her toward the separated roomat the back of the observation deck, where there were warning signs displayed amid coils, levers, and sparks.
She knocked on the door and tried to appear confident.
This moment was going to prove key to the next part of the investigation, she could just tell.
A man she’d never seen before came to the door. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, with dark eyes and blond hair. He looked harried and irritable.
“Mr. Parsons?” she asked.
“Yes?” he said, his brow knitting suspiciously.
“Hello,” she said. “My name is Grace Covington, and I’m looking into some background details about Harriet Forbes’s life in the days before she was murdered.”
Was it just her imagination, or did Mr. Parson’s face turn a grim shade of white?
“You were with a man last week at the Tyrolean Alps restaurant, the Luchow-Faust, on the second floor,” she continued. “He spoke to the actress Harriet Forbes. We’re trying to get in touch with him.”
The man shook his head, backing away.
She made to follow him.
