George bristled, but the other man smirked. “Sure thing, sweetheart. Come on, George, boss lady said we get fifteen once she showed up. Let’s go get a drink.”
Vivian watched until they were both gone before knocking. But she didn’t wait for Honor’s reply before going in.
On the other side of the door, the scene that met her was surprisingly cordial. Honor was behind her desk but not seated. Instead, she perched one hip on the windowsill behind it—the window itself looked onto a blank brick wall only inches away—legs crossed at the ankle and a glass of her private stash of whiskey in one hand. The bottle sat on the desk in front of her. And on the other side of the desk, just turning her head to glance at the door, was the person Vivian had come to see.
Hattie Wilson was the sort of woman whose wealth surrounded her like a cloud of perfume. She wore black still, and she had spent the time since her husband’s death mostly secluded from the Manhattan and Long Island society in which she moved. But her dress was silk, trimmed with jet beads around its high neck and where the sheer sleeves gathered at her wrists. It was cut with the precision and elegance that only custom dressmaking could achieve. In fact, Vivian recognized the design and style. It had come from Miss Ethel’s shop, where she and Florence both worked. Vivian narrowed her eyes, wondering if Mrs. Wilson had worn the dress as a not-so-subtle reminder of the differences between their positions in life. Her hair—no bob for her, nothing that might open her up to accusations of being loose or fast—was perfectly curled and pinned back. The hat she wore perched to one side of her head was draped with black netting, making her wide eyes and pouting mouth look even more vulnerable. She was like a china doll in her prettiness and perfection.
But those eyes were steely with determination, and the smile on that mouth was cold. There was no hint of softness or kindness there. Hattie Wilson was a survivor, and she was ruthless. She had to be, to get where she was.
“Miss Kelly,” she said, giving a little nod before taking a sip fromher glass. “Here I am. What can I do for you?” She glanced at Honor. “This is excellent, by the way. Who’s your supplier?”
Honor laughed. “You know I’m not giving that up,” she said.
Mrs. Wilson smiled, and Vivian tried not to think about what George had said. The two women had plenty in common, sure. But they were nothing alike.
There was a second chair in front of the desk, and an empty glass rested next to it, waiting for her. Vivian took a deep breath, crossed the room, and sat. “Thanks for coming,” she said as Honor poured her a finger of whiskey. She took the glass, just to have something to do with her hands, but she didn’t drink it. “Why did you?”
Mrs. Wilson raised her brows. “You were the one who asked me for a meeting. Would you rather I hadn’t listened?”
“No. But you’ve got your reasons, and I doubt they’ve got much to do with me.”
“They’re not the same as yours,” Mrs. Wilson said softly. “But you’re very wrong if you think they have nothing to do with you.”
Vivian glanced at Honor out of the corner of her eye. But the club owner said nothing. Clearly, in spite of her own interest in Pearlie’s death, she was there only as an intermediary, setting up the meeting but not planning to get involved. Vivian, trying not to look nervous, took refuge in rudeness. “I was surprised to find out you’d been sneaking around to get here. I’d have thought you had the guts to use the front door like a normal person.”
Hattie didn’t rise to the bait. “I’m far from normal, Miss Kelly. And in any case, I can’t be seen visiting a place like this so soon after having a baby.”
Vivian read enough of the gossip columns to know that Mrs. Wilson had announced the birth of her son mere weeks before.
“How is the little fella?” Vivian glanced down at her glass, adding softly, “And how is your sister?”
When she looked up again, Hattie’s eyes were boring into her, hard and flinty and full of rage. But a moment later that brief glimpse of emotion was gone. “My sister is well,” she said, as calm as if she was at a garden party. Women like Mrs. Wilson saved all their emotion for private moments; out in public, she was as pretty and hard as a diamond. “As is my son, thank you for your kind inquiry.”
Vivian let it pass.
“So you’ll answer my questions, then?”
“If I can.”
Vivian glanced at Honor, who still hadn’t spoken, expecting her to chime in. But Honor continued to watch them impassively. Vivian held back a frown. “Then do me a favor first.” She reached across the desk, retrieving a sheet of blank paper and the fountain pen from its holder. She slid them toward Mrs. Wilson. “Write something. Please,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
Mrs. Wilson uncapped the pen, each of her movements precise and graceful as she held it hovering over the page. “Anything in particular?”
“How about,See you on Saturday, thank you, Hattie.”
Her handwriting was beautiful, of course, like something that had been engraved on a copperplate invitation rather than written by a regular person. But Vivian could tell at a glance that it didn’t match the note she had taken from Pearlie’s hiding place.
Mrs. Wilson was watching her face. “What am I supposed to have written, then?” she asked, looking curious but not particularly concerned.
Vivian hesitated. But there wasn’t much reason not to show it to her. If she knew something about it, her reaction might give it away. And if she didn’t, she might still have an idea who sent it. Mrs. Wilson, after all, probably knew something about the other folks in her line of work in the city.
The note that had come with the brandy was folded and tuckedinto the seam pocket of her dress; Vivian pulled it out and handed it over.
If Mrs. Wilson’s expression hadn’t changed at all, Vivian would have suspected that she had something to hide. But instead, her forehead creased in a slight frown, and Vivian could see her eyes slide back and forth along the paper a couple of times, rereading it more than once, before she looked up again. “I’m guessing it didn’t arrive accompanied by roses and chocolates?” Vivian shook her head. “What did it come with?”
“A bottle of poisoned brandy.”
A bare movement of her chin, a flinch that was quickly suppressed. Mrs. Wilson might be willing to play the cruel games that her line of work demanded, but Vivian wondered if it bothered her more than she allowed herself to think about. “I don’t recall seeing anything like that in the papers,” she said thoughtfully.
