Vivian watched her go, trying not to remember Hattie Wilson’s taunting smile in the back seat of the car. Instead, she took a deep breath and headed toward the bar. She had a shift to finish. And then she had to ask if she could borrow a dress.
TWENTY-ONE
Three Days Left
When Vivian saw the first address on her list of deliveries, she had to bite the inside of her cheek against a long string of angry language that would have gotten her fired on the spot. But she was too tired, and too agitated, to keep her face as impassive, and Miss Ethel pounced.
“Is something amiss, Miss Kelly?” she said, too sweetly. “Do the customers whose purchases put clothes on your back and food on your table not meet your standards?”
Once, it would have taken all Vivian’s self-control to keep the sarcasm out of her own reply. But dealing with Miss Ethel was an old habit now; there was no point in arguing back. And, looking at that address, she had bigger things to worry about than Miss Ethel’s ugly moods. “No, ma’am,” she said. “I’m very grateful for Mrs. Wilson’s business. And the others as well, of course.”
Miss Ethel sniffed. “I should hope so. Now get along. You have two other deliveries first. Mrs. Wilson wants you at eleven o’clock.”
Vivian gritted her teeth. She needed her work for Miss Ethel. But another summons from Mrs. Wilson was almost enough to make her quit.
Vivian didn’t owe her anything, not anymore. Hattie Wilson might have been cold and ruthless, but even she wouldn’t claim things weren’t square between them.
Unless Vivian had done something wrong. Maybe she’d stolen the wrong letter. Maybe George hadn’t delivered it. One way or another, a summons from Hattie Wilson meant the woman wanted something. And Vivian dreaded finding out what that was.
The maid who led her upstairs looked uncomfortable as she paused outside a room Vivian had never been to before. It wasn’t Hattie’s office or the parlor where she’d waited during her previous visits. Vivian’s nervousness grew.
“Mrs. Wilson says you’re to wait in here,” the maid whispered, her hand on the doorknob. “And that you’re not to disturb her or her guest. She’ll come for her fitting when she’s ready.”
“What does that mean?” Vivian demanded, but she too spoke in a whisper. She knew better than to disobey a woman like Hattie Wilson in her own house. She wondered briefly about Hattie’s staff. Did they know what kind of woman they were working for? Or did they fool themselves into believing she was just a wealthy young mother like any other, a widow whose main concerns were her son, her sister, and her social life?
“Mrs. Wilson will be with you when she’s ready,” the maid repeated, opening the door and putting a finger to her lips.
The little sitting room was barely more than a hall between other spaces. The only window was small and high, and the stiff furniture looked as if it had been put there just to get it out of the way. But atleast there were two chairs, and a table between them where Vivian could put down the box she was carrying and rest her aching arms. The delivery for Mrs. Wilson was small, but the other two that morning had been evening gowns. Hauling the oversized boxes across so many city blocks had left her shaking with exhaustion.
Three out of the four walls had doors. The one she had come through closed silently behind her. One was closed. And the third was cracked open, just enough that she could hear voices from the other side. Vivian sighed as she sank into one of the chairs. Why tell her to come at eleven just to make her wait?
Vivian dropped her head into her hands. She didn’t want to find out what sort of game she was being dragged into now. And she didn’t want to sit silently, in a cold, uncomfortable room, waiting for two women who weren’t counting down their last days of freedom to finish whatever gossip was entertaining them for the day.
Occupied with her unhappy thoughts, it took Vivian several minutes to realize she recognized both voices, not just Mrs. Wilson’s.
She’d only heard the second voice twice before. But so many details from the day Huxley Buchanan was killed, and the awful days since, had stuck in her memory whether she wanted them or not. His wife’s voice was one.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do without him,” Evangeline Buchanan said between hiccups. Vivian was surprised by how genuinely upset the woman sounded.
“And to think you married him in the first place just for your son’s sake,” Hattie Wilson replied. It was the gentlest Vivian had ever heard her sound. Did the icy Mrs. Wilson actually care?
No, it had to be an act. Otherwise, why make sure Vivian was there to overhear?
“I wanted what was best for Corny, of course,” Mrs. Buchanan said. She sniffled, and there was a loud sound of a nose being blown into a handkerchief. “What mother doesn’t? But Huxley…” She sniffedagain and sighed. “I have so many regrets, now. I never truly gave our marriage a chance.”
“Yes, an affair does rather distance one from one’s husband, does it not?” The sympathy in Hattie’s voice took on an amused edge.
“What did… How did…” Vivian could hear the panic in Mrs. Buchanan’s voice. “What do you mean?”
“Dear, don’t fret. You know I say it without judgment. Such things happen. Who is the man, by the way?”
Mrs. Buchanan’s voice was stiff as she replied. “If you do not know more, Henrietta, I am certainly not going to share.”
“Why, Aunt Evangeline, you know I am only concerned for your well-being,” Hattie Wilson said, her voice gentle once more. “I only wish to be certain that he is discreet, whoever he is. Imagine how damning the rumors would be if word got out. Why, some people might even have the gall to suggest one of you was responsible for Uncle Huxley’s death.”
Vivian’s heart sped up. If Mrs. Buchanan had been having an affair, maybe her husband hadn’t been killed over a matter of business at all. Maybe it had been a matter of passion.
“Well, we could not have been. We were…” Evangeline Buchanan hiccupped back a sob. “We were together that morning.”
