Bea sighed, the longing in her eyes so intense it was uncomfortable to see. “Be a singer. I’d be swell up on stage. I’ve got a great voice, you know.”
“I know.”
“But…” She sighed again. “You don’t get work like that without connections. And if there was one thing we lost when Daddy died, it was connections.” She fell silent, stabbing at her food with bitter intensity.
Vivian didn’t say anything, not wanting to intrude on whatever messy emotions Bea was wrestling back down. But the comment about connections reminded her of Wilson, and after a minute she pulled a sheet of newspaper from where she had folded it into her coat pocket.
“Take a look at this,” she said. To distract her friend, she unfolded the piece of paper and pointed to the column she had noticed the night before. “What do you make of that?”
Bea frowned. “Why are you still reading about the Wilsons?”
Vivian winced. She had forgotten that Bea still didn’t know what she had decided. As she explained, Vivian could feel her friend’s worry and disapproval radiating at her from across the table.
But Bea only sighed. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said, gesturing at the paper. “Which part of it am I supposed to be looking at?”
“The bit about Mrs. Wilson not turning up.” Vivian leaned forward so they were both hunched over the article. “Am I reading it wrong, or does the writer think she’s pregnant?”
Bea scanned it again and nodded. “Looks like it to me. It’s pretty vague, but that’s always the way these things are written, right? Lots of snide little hints and guesses.”
“So maybe she was early days when it was written.” Vivian nodded. “When I saw her, she didn’t look like she was knocked up. But the way dresses are draping this year, sometimes there’s no telling for months. So she’d be less than halfway along, but maybe not by much.”
“Is that important?” Bea asked.
“Maybe.” Vivian frowned, thinking of Roy Carlton. If he and Hattie Wilson were having an affair… and if she had ended up carrying his baby… Vivian whistled softly. “That would definitely be something to kill over.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Vivian shook her head. “Just something to tell Honor tonight.”
“Whoever wrote this also thought their marriage had gone sour,” Bea added.
“What makes you say that?” Vivian asked, leaning forward once more.
“That line.” Bea pointed and read softly, “‘This was the third such event in the last two weeks that Mr. Wilson attended alone—such a surprise for a couple who was so inseparable during their courtship.’” Bea snorted. “Wonder how fast they started hating each other.”
“People’ve been saying he was quite the bastard,” Vivian said. “Seems like no one was surprised he got bumped off.”
Bea laughed dryly and, after scooping up the last of her breakfast, stood to gather her bowl and mug. As she did, her foot caught on the bag she had carried in and left sitting by her chair, sending her stumbling and the bag toppling over.
“Careful!” Vivian said, half standing and catching her friend’s arm. As soon as Bea was steady again, Vivian bent to gather up the things that had spilled from the bag. She was surprised to find that one was a brand-new book,Harlem Shadows,its cover still so pristine that Vivian felt bad for touching it. A moment later, she was even more surprised when Bea snatched it from her hands and shoved it abruptly back into the bag.
“Poetry?” Vivian asked.
“I like poetry,” Bea said defensively.
“I know that. What I don’t know is why you’re hiding it.”
Bea hesitated, still clutching the bag against her chest. “Because I didn’t buy it for myself.”
“Well, I know you didn’t steal it, so how could…” Vivian’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s the fella, Bea?”
“Who says there’s…” Bea trailed off in the face of Vivian’s skeptical expression, then sank back into her chair with a sigh. “Abraham. His name is Abraham. You remember that cabdriver from the other night? The other morning, I mean? After I bailed you out?”
“You did see him again?” Vivian asked, incredulous. “And you didn’t tell me?”
Bea gave her an exasperated look. “You’ve been a bit busy sticking your nose in dangerous places.” Vivian winced, knowing her friend was right, as Bea continued. “Anyway, he remembered where he dropped us off, and he came looking for me. We got to talking, and poetry came up. The next day, he showed up again, and he brought me this.” She pulled the book out again, laying it on the table between them. “Don’t tell my mother. She’d skin me alive if she knew I was taking presents from strangers.”
“You gonna see him again?” Vivian asked carefully. She’d never seen Bea so defensive before, though she couldn’t tell whether it was over the book or the fellow who gave it to her.
