“Change of plans, boys,” he said to his musicians. “We need to liven this place up a little. ‘Sister Kate,’ if you please. A-one, and a-two—”
“What is it, Viv?” Bea asked in a low voice.
“Danny wants you back in the dressing room. I think Honor’s going to have some questions. About Pearlie.”
Bea swallowed, looking anxious, but she nodded. “Of course.” Honor Huxley ruled her club with an iron will, the instincts of a born businesswoman, and a fierce loyalty to everyone who worked for her. If something had happened to one of them, she would want to know.
The dance floor was a whirl of bodies, men in white shirts who had already shed their jackets, women whose spangles and diamonds reflected the light in a hundred scattered directions. Even without a singer, the song pulled the club’s patrons to their feet. Everyone thatthey could see was either crowded around the bar or joining the line of the dance. Vivian and Bea dodged between them, making their way to the doorway by the bar.
Bea’s eyes were fixed grimly on their destination, as though she were keeping herself going through sheer determination. It fell to Vivian to smile and chat with the customers who crossed their paths, most of them wanting to know when the Nightingale’s songbird would be back on the bandstand. When they finally reached the bar, Danny was waiting. He gave them a quick look up and down before lifting the hinged flap in the counter to let them behind the bar.
“In you go, songbird,” he said gently. “You too, Viv. Honor’s on her way.”
THREE
Bea sat at her dressing table, her feet up on the chair and her chin resting on her knees. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her arms clasped around her legs. Vivian had tried to talk to her and had been told in no uncertain terms that her friend needed her to be quiet.
Vivian didn’t press; grief hit everyone different, and Bea would talk when she was ready. But Vivian couldn’t stay seated herself. She paced from one end of the dressing room to the other.
The room was set aside for the use of the female staff—there was another one for the men, at the other end of the bar. It wasn’t large, but there were sofas pushed against two walls for the waitresses to put their feet up when they were on their breaks and a washroom off one end so they didn’t have to use the same one as the club’s patrons.
Bea was the only one who got her own dressing table, brought in special by Honor when Bea was promoted from waitress to chanteuse and needed to look a touch fancier than the rest of them. It wasn’t even two feet across, squeezed into one corner next to a sofa, and half the time the other girls needed to use her mirror. But the gesture had almost brought Bea to tears, and she was as unlikely to cry in publicas anyone Vivian knew. The rest of the staff had taken note: Bea was someone who mattered to the success of the Nightingale.
Now, Vivian checked her friend’s reflection in the dressing table’s mirror every few minutes, but Bea didn’t lift her head until the door opened and the Nightingale’s owner walked in.
Even in the world of hidden dance halls and illegal liquor, Honor Huxley could stand out in a crowd of thousands. She was dressed as she was every night, in sharply tailored trousers, a crisp white shirt, and black suspenders. But with her curly blond hair pinned back and her lips painted deep red, she didn’t just look masculine. She didn’t just look feminine either. Honor was her own person in every way, as comfortable on the dance floor, where she danced almost exclusively with women, as she was behind the heavy wood desk in her office, doling out bribe money to cops so they’d look the other way while she kept her operation running. She was beautiful and unreadable, ruthless and secretive, untrustworthy and loyal in equal measures.
As always when she saw Honor, Vivian’s heart did a little flip in her chest. Her feelings toward Honor were unendingly complicated. She had once thought that working at the Nightingale would sort those feelings out, either through constant exposure or clear boundaries. She had learned pretty quickly that wasn’t going to happen. There was no getting complacent about Honor Huxley, and no way to ignore her when she walked in a room.
Honor let the door swing shut behind her, eyeing the two of them. Her lips were drawn into a tight line. “You okay, Beatrice?”
“Yeah,” Bea whispered, her feet sliding down to the floor. For a moment, she straightened her spine, trying to pull herself together. Then her face crumpled. “No.”
Honor nodded. Pulling a chair over, she sat next to Bea, her legs planted firmly apart, her elbows resting on her knees and her hands clasped together. She leaned forward. “Tell me what happened to Pearlie.”
Vivian made herself sit quietly on one of the sofas while they talked, though she wanted to jump out of her skin with nerves. The sound of a waltz drifted in through the closed door, the sweet, romantic sound an unnerving contrast to Bea’s description of her uncle’s suicide.
“They said he dosed himself with arsenic, which I guess is easy enough for someone to do, it’s in half the boxes on any hardware store’s shelves,” Bea concluded. Her voice had gotten more brittle, more angry, as she spoke, and her hands were clenched in her lap. “And sure, I hadn’t seen him for years before he turned up here. But don’t you think—” She broke off, taking a deep, shaky breath through her nose. “He didn’t tell you anything, did he? About why he left Baltimore?”
Honor shook her head slowly. “Pearlie had troubles, I know that much. He kept his mouth shut about what they were. But Beatrice… he wouldn’t be the first.”
“I know.” Bea dropped her head into her arms, her forehead resting on the dressing table. Her voice was muffled. “But he was my uncle. I don’t think it was that simple. It can’t have been. And the doc just looked around, they didn’t call the police or nothing…”
“Beatrice.” Honor’s cool voice cut through the increasingly frantic rush of words. Bea lifted her head, and Honor’s expression softened. “Go home tonight. Go home for the week. Be with your family. Bury your uncle.”
“But who’s gonna sing?”
One corner of Honor’s lips lifted. “We managed without a singer until a few months ago. We’ll manage for a week. You take care of yourself, and we’ll see you when you’re ready.”
Honor stood, about to leave, when Bea caught her wrist.
“Will you do something about it? Find out what happened?”
“Beatrice—”
“He worked for you, Honor. And you always say we can count on you. You know people who know things, right? Can’t you find out, I don’t know, something?Anything?”
“Only if there’s something to find. If there’s nothing there, there’s nothing I can do.”
