“What?” Florence stared at her, then let out a heavy breath. “Well. That’s going to be a fun complication for everyone.”
The Henrys were just finishing their breakfast when Florence knocked, bowls of oatmeal in front of the children and a can of Klim powdered milk still out on the table between them. “Can we drop off some lunch?” Florence asked, poking her head inside the open door, since Vivian had taken over carrying the heavy pot of beans.
“Florence, honey, you girls are angels.” Mrs. Henry, dressed for work, was hovering over her children while Bea handed her a steaming mug of coffee. She looked even more worn and weary than usual. Vivian’s heart ached for Mrs. Henry that she couldn’t afford to ask for time away from the restaurant, even after a death in the family.
“You’d do the same for any of us,” Florence said, going and putting her arms around Bea’s mother. “And you have, many times.”
Mrs. Henry held on to her for a long moment, then pulled herself together as she always did, giving Florence a brisk pat on the cheek. “Put it on the stove, thank you. Bea can give it to the little ones while I’m at work. I’m hoping Mr. Chandler will let me off early today, in any case.”
“And since I’m not working today, I can help out with whatever needs to be done around here while you’re at the restaurant,” Florence said firmly.
“Honey, you don’t have to—”
“There’s laundry,” Bea interrupted, giving her mother a pointedlook. “We’d be grateful for the help, thanks, Florence. Mama’s working herself to the bone. And someone needs to go over Everett’s math lesson with him because he’s falling behind.” Everett, fifteen and small for his age, scowled at her, but Bea scowled right back. “You are. And girls who sew are good with numbers.”
Mrs. Henry probably would have argued more, but she didn’t have the time. A few minutes later and she was out the door in a whirlwind of tight hugs and tired eyes. Her oldest son went with her. The laundry needed to be washed; once that was done, Bea and Vivian took over hanging it on the rack above the stove while Florence sat with the other two children to go over their schoolwork.
“Did you find a letter?” Vivian asked, lowering the rack and tying its pully rope in a knot to keep it in place while they worked.
Bea scowled. “Alba took his papers, fat lot of help she is. Said she had to look through them to find things she’d need for the baby. And Mama said not to bother her. I could barely sleep last night, wondering what to think about this whole mess. Do you think he got one? What else did Mr. Guzman say last night?”
Vivian glanced at the three heads bent over the table and lowered her voice as much as she could. “Not much more,” she said, filling Bea in on Mr. Guzman’s admission that he had tried and failed to catch the letter writer.
“God almighty,” Bea swore quietly. “Do you think this means it wasn’t a mob angle at all?”
“It still could all be,” Vivian pointed out. “Making folks scared like that, so they hand over their valuables? Sure sounds like a smooth operation to me.”
“And it’s the sort of thing the police aren’t going to take notice of. Plenty of things in a normal home have arsenic in them, so if someone tried to report it—”
“Like that family did,” Vivian interrupted.
“Right. They tried to report it, but the police just think it’s lazy poorpeople who got careless and left out a can of some everyday thing.” Bea shuddered. “Then a death like Pearlie’s, that looks like a suicide? No one looked twice at that. But why the change?” There was a pleading note in her voice, and her hands shook as she raised the rack once again so that the drying clothes hung over the stove. “Everyone else, it was just threats. Why did Pearlie have to be the one to die?”
“If he got one of those letters—”
“And he must have, right?” Bea interrupted. “With that bottle being full of arsenic…”
“But everyone else did what the letters said,” Vivian said softly. She didn’t look at Bea as she said it, wanting to give her friend as much space as she could to work through her messy feelings. “And the money was gone, which means whoever was after it got it, either before or after he…” She didn’t want to finish that sentence.
Bea was silent for a long moment, her hands braced against the edge of the counter, her expression tight and angry. Vivian didn’t blame her. Sometimes, anger felt easier than sorrow.
“But here’s the question, right?” Bea said at last. “Pearlie must have thought that bottle was from whatever boss he was working for, whoever paid him that money. Are they the same person?”
“I don’t know.” Vivian grimaced. “Before we can figure anything out, we need to get those papers from Alba and see whether there actually is a letter there.”
Bea shook her head at the mention of Alba. “I still can’t believe Pearlie left behind a baby. Poor Alba. I don’t even like her, but I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, being left alone and pregnant like that.”
“She’s not alone,” Vivian whispered, reaching out to squeeze her friend’s hand. “She’s got all of you. And you’re going to love that baby to pieces, even if you never come around to liking her.”
After a moment, Bea squeezed back. “Let’s go see if she’s home.”
Alba, it turned out, lived in the same building as the Henrys, one floor down. She opened the door quickly enough when they knocked, lookingsurprised. Then her face drew into a scowl. She was a beautiful mess, her hair pinned haphazardly on top of her head, wearing only a wrapper and her step-in, as though she had been in the middle of getting dressed when they knocked. “Here to gloat? Or planning to help me pack?”
Bea and Vivian glanced at each other in confusion.
“Pack?” Vivian asked. “Are you going somewhere?”
Alba laughed, bitter and a little wild. There were tear tracks on her cheeks. “They could probably hear the shouting all the way over in Brooklyn, I just assumed you heard it, too. My mother kicked me out. She wants me gone by the time she gets home.”
