“You think her dad got offed by a mobster?” Bea leaned forward, sounding intrigued in spite of herself.
“Or shot in a police raid, maybe,” Vivian said, leaning forward as well and dropping her voice. “And Sadie’s broken up about it, since he was the last family she had after her sister died. So, knowing her father worked for Wilson and that he’s to blame, she goes after him.”
Bea didn’t look quite convinced, but she nodded thoughtfully. “Well, even if she wasn’t the one who killed him—because that seems like a hell of a conclusion to jump to, Viv—she still might know something that could help Honor, since her dad worked for him and all.”
“Either way, I tell Honor, she shakes Sadie down for whatever information she’s got, and I’m in the clear from here on out,” Vivian said, blowing out a relieved breath as she sat back. She tilted her head toward Bea. “Does it look awful?”
“Your hair mostly covers it, but I wouldn’t go out with it on or anything,” Bea said. “I’m sorry it happened to you, Viv, but maybe it’s a lucky break anyway. You might not have found out about this Monaldo fella otherwise.”
“Monaldo?” asked Mrs. Henry as she came back into the room, juggling two baskets of laundry. Bea leaped up to help her. “You two talking about that poor family?”
The girls shared a puzzled glance before Bea asked, “You know something about them?”
“Lord, girl, everyone’s been talking about them. The Italian neighborhood’s only a few blocks away.” Mrs. Henry sighed as she dropped her basket of laundry in front of the kitchen stove, groaned as she straightened up, and began lowering the drying rack.
“What are they saying?” Vivian asked as she went to help.
Mrs. Henry was still a beautiful woman, though years of worry had left permanent lines around her forehead and mouth. Her eyes were puffy with fatigue, but they were always sharp. Now, they were wide with surprise. “Girl, if you had paid attention at your church lately, you’d already know. The younger sister disappeared, not sure when, and her only fifteen years old. Family wouldn’t say what happened.”
Vivian nodded. There were plenty of reasons a girl could go missing. Maybe she wanted to run off with a man her family didn’t approve of, or maybe she got picked up by the police and ended up in a reformatory. Families usually tried to hush it up when that happened. Dead or missing, it usually amounted to the same thing in the end: no one was likely to hear from her again.
“But the father…” Mrs. Henry shook her head sadly. “He killed himself two months ago. Put a pistol in his mouth, and his poor daughter found him dead in the washtub.”
Vivian froze, her grip on the pulley rope going slack for a moment before she caught it. A sick knot twisted in her stomach, and for a moment she thought she might start crying. “Oh God,” she whispered, glancing at Bea. “No wonder she didn’t want to talk about it.”
Bea’s face was stony, a careful mask that Vivian knew her friend used to hide any strong emotions that threatened to throw her off balance. She glanced at her mother. “Viv and I will handle the laundry. You look like you need a lie-down.”
Mrs. Henry gave them a suspicious look. “What are you girls mixed up in?”
“Nothing, Mama,” Bea said. “I just need to talk to Viv about work, and you know you never like hearing about that.”
Mrs. Henry didn’t look convinced, but she nodded. “You leave that poor Monaldo girl alone. She’s had enough tragedy to last a lifetime, she doesn’t need you bothering her none.”
“’Course not, Mrs. Henry,” Vivian said quietly, tying the laundry rack off so she and Bea could start hanging clothes to dry over the stove.More than just Sadie’s reluctance to talk about her father made sense now. Her grim behavior, her anger, the feeling of misery that filled her home… Vivian blinked back tears. “Thanks again for patching me up.”
Mrs. Henry looked unhappy at the reminder of her battered condition, but she didn’t argue. With a last sigh, she picked up the mending basket and left the room.
As soon as she was gone, Bea lowered her voice. “What’re you going to do now?”
Vivian didn’t answer, and for several minutes they worked silently side by side. She couldn’t say anything to Honor about Sadie now—not without hating herself for it. And if Mr. Monaldo had taken his own life, all of her wild speculation about Wilson getting him killed and Sadie seeking revenge was just that. Sadie had no reason to want Wilson dead. Just more sadness than one person should have to bear.
But Roy, now. He had been at the Nightingale the night Wilson died, had been mere feet from the man’s body. Maybe it was nothing. But he had been at the house on Fifth Avenue, and it wasn’t so he could tell Mrs. Wilson how sorry he was that her husband had kicked off. And then, when he realized that Vivian had overheard him, had he told someone who she was? Someone who wanted to find out what she knew about the night Wilson died?
Or was he the new boss, the one who knew she danced at the Nightingale, who sent George and Eddie after her to find out why she was poking around Hattie Wilson, to keep her from telling his lady love that he might have been involved in her husband’s death?
She shuddered, her sympathy for Sadie Monaldo swamped in the wave of remembered fear, and she rubbed her fingers lightly against the bandage behind her ear. She had been lucky. If the two toughs who jumped Danny came after her with plans to do more than talk, there was no chance she’d be able to fight them off the way he had. And as much as she wanted to keep her friends safe, as much as she wanted to help…
At last she sighed. “I’m out, Bea. I have to be. If that girl hadn’t shouted when she did—”
“Don’t say it,” Bea snapped, not looking at her, her shoulders tense with unhappiness. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
“I’ll tell Honor about that Roy fella, and that’s got to be enough, right? She asked me to find out what I could, and I did. I’m not getting myself jumped in an alley again. I’m out.”
Bea nodded. “Good. Pass me the clothespins, will you?” As she took them, she gave Vivian’s fingers a brief, telling squeeze. “She doesn’t want you in danger any more than I do, you know. She’ll understand.”
Vivian nodded, hoping Bea was right.
SIXTEEN
