Once they were both seated, he plucked out a few leaves. “Give me your hand,” he said, probably not recollecting the effect his orders had. For a short while this evening, she’d forgotten, too.
“Bemelde,” he said, and she snapped back into view.
The seats in his car had never before seemed so close together. She slipped her hand from his and glanced at the camera to avoid looking at him. It appeared no worse for all it had been through.
“Thank you, Omnimancer,” she said. “This was—very good of you.”
He shifted but said nothing. Perhaps he didn’t know what to say.
“How am I to repay you?” she asked, not liking that he had this to hold over her, and liking even less how grateful she felt to him.
He cleared his throat. “Just ... believe me when I say I have no ill will toward you or your sister.”
Her voice momentarily failed her. She forced air into her lungs and said, “I’ll try.”
“Good,” he said. “Let’s find a more distant parking lot and see how the film turned out.”
Perfectly, that was how it turned out.
Every important word was audible. Dockett was clearly identifiable; Blackwell was not. And the camera’s airborne moment as the papers burst out worked so well that Blackwell couldn’t tell she had anything to do with it. Even the off-center framing of the film was all to the good, making it look as if the camera truly sat unattended.
“Oh,” she said as the projector clicked off with a sigh. “This is a thousand times better than any proof I’d hoped I could get.”
“Now what? Back to Ellicott Mills?”
“No—that is, if you could spare a bit more time. I’d like to show this to theStarfirst.”
He glanced at his watch, frowning. “At nearly eight o’clock on a Friday night? Surely they’ve all gone home.”
“The reporter I want will almost certainly still be there.”
Indeed, she was.
CHAPTER 22
Helen Hickok, the only female journalist in Baltimore outside of the society pages, sat hunched over her typewriter, glancing at a notepad while her fingers flew over the keys. She had hair as bright as an orange, twisted in such a way to give the impression from certain angles that it was bobbed, and her skirt was so short it stopped at least two inches above her ankles.
Beatrix wished she had the courage to dress like that. It wasn’t the thought of what people would say that held her back, but rather of Rosemarie and Lydia taking her to task for what people would say.
“Miss ... Harper?” Hickok said in her ringing voice. “What brings you here so late? Please tell me,” she added, brows drawing together, “that you’re not here to badger me to write about that blasted conference.”
“Well—”
“No,no. That profile of your sister was a one-off. I cover politics. I do not coverladies’ issues, and I didn’t spend nineteen years clawing my way to this spot only to tumble back down as theStarrecollects that I am in fact a goddamnedlady.”
Beatrix bit her lip. “You have the knack of making one want to laugh and cry at the same time.”
“My finest quality.” Hickok squinted at her. “Is that a film projector?”
“I’ve got something I think you’ll want to see. Heavy on the political intrigue, light on the ladies’ issues, I promise.”
The reporter pursed her lips. “Long?”
“Short,” said Beatrix, who’d gotten Blackwell to show her how to speed over the contract-reading part.
“Come with me to the washroom, then. It’s the only spot that’s dark enough.”
Hickok watched in dead silence. When they came to the end, she said: “Let me get this straight: John Dockett of the Key Hotel is in cahoots with the Abbott administration to keep you from having the conference this weekend, apparently by replacing the contract you signed with one that has the wrong dates?”
