Vivian hadn’t asked for details, too scared to find out who was to blame. If she didn’t know, she could believe it hadn’t been any of them, not really—or at least, not either of the people who mattered to her. And Bea had never shared.
It was one of the few things they never talked about.
Vivian swallowed. “Anyway, she came when you got her, at least. And I’m sure as hell grateful that you did. I don’t know what that Rokesby fella was going to do next, but I doubt he was planning to ask me for a waltz.”
Bea snorted. “He sure seemed like a piece of—” She broke off abruptly. “Wait, the dead guy. He had a different name, what did you say it was?”
“The dead… His name was Buchanan. Why?”
But Bea was already up and off, slipping back into the apartment and easing the door silently closed behind her. The baby’s fussing had stopped, so Vivian stayed where she was, not wanting to risk waking him up. She didn’t have to wait long; Bea was back in the hall less than a minute later, a newspaper under one arm.
“Abraham brought it this morning,” she said absently, already leafing through the pages. “Mama wanted to find Everett a job, and I saw…” She flipped open a page, folding it back to stab at one of the posted advertisements with a triumphant finger. “Is that the same family?”
Vivian scanned the notice.Mrs. E. Buchanan… 800 Fifth Avenue… Seeking a maid of all work…“I think that’s the same address,” she said, frowning. “But why does it matter?”
“You said you didn’t know what to do next,” Bea whispered, lookingpleased with herself. “That’swhat you do next. They’re looking for a new maid, right? If you can get that job, you can probably find out what’s really going on in that house. Because if you didn’t kill him—”
“If?” Vivian demanded, forgetting for a moment to whisper.
“Keep your voice down,” Bea hissed. “You know what I meant. The point issomeonedid. So why not get a job there, keep an eye on everyone, and see if you can find out something helpful?”
Vivian stared at her. “You’re joking, right?”
“Why would I be?”
“Well, because in the first place, I don’t know anything about that kind of work. I’m a dressmaker, not a maid.”
“You think some Fifth Avenue lady won’t snap you up for that exact reason? I bet she’dloveto have her own seamstress on staff.”
Vivian paused. “Sure, that’s probably true,” she admitted while Bea gave her a satisfied smirk, one finger still tapping the ad. “But in the second place, if I did get the job, I couldn’t work at the shop too. What happens when this whole mess with Buchanan is over and done and I’m down a job and can’t pay my rent?”
“You’d still be better off than if you went to prison for murder,” Bea pointed out.
“Okay,” Vivian said, gritting her teeth. Her head was starting to pound, and she wished she’d made time to eat after her deliveries were done. “But half the people in that house saw me, including the housekeeperandMrs. Buchanan. I doubt they’re going to hire me to dust the windowsills, seeing as they all think I—” She broke off, shaking. Her voice had risen as she spoke, and she didn’t want to yell. “They’d probably just call the cops on me, and I’d be thrown in jail again. And I don’t think I’m lucky enough to be released twice,” she mumbled, pressing the palms of her hands against her eyes.
Once they were closed, her eyes felt so heavy that it was a struggle to open them again. When she did, she found Bea watching her.
“I could get the job,” Bea said slowly, looking back at the paper.
“What?” It took Vivian a second to catch up with what her friend had said. “No, you don’t want to put yourself through that. You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Vivian said, the word coming out strangled.
“I only sing at night,” Bea insisted, her voice growing firmer. “And Alba’s around days now, so I don’t have to worry about the kids being alone while Mama’s at the restaurant.”
“Bea, working as a maid in some Fifth Avenue mansion would be bad enough. But someone wasmurderedin this one.” Vivian shook her head. “I won’t ask you to do that.”
“You helped me out when Uncle Pearlie—” Bea broke off, and the two of them stared at each other without speaking. That was too close to the things they were careful not to talk about. Bea cleared her throat. “I don’t hear you asking,” she pointed out. “So that’s fine, then.”
Vivian wanted to reply, but she was interrupted by the sound of voices coming up the stairs. She and Bea jumped to their feet—both of them with smiles stretching wide and reassuring—as one of Bea’s brothers and her sister stomped up the steps, schoolbooks under their arms, bickering cheerfully as they came.
“Hey there, troublemakers,” Bea sang out, arms open wide for hugs. Baby threw herself into the hug gladly; sixteen-year-old Everett leaned against Bea with one shoulder, happy for the embrace but reluctant to show it. “Quiet when we go inside, yeah? Georgie’s down for a nap after yowling his head off all day, so if you wake him up you’re risking a walloping from Alba.”
“Bea,” Vivian said, quiet and urgent, as her friend began to usher the kids inside. Bea paused, her sharp glance a clear warning not to say anything that might scare them.
She didn’t need to worry. Vivian knew better than that. “Don’t do anything without talking to me first?” was all she said.
