“I know his home address,” Leo said quietly. “So I went to see him this evening. And he seemed relieved when I told him what I knew. He’d been worried ever since our visit. Bellevue is technically closed on Sunday, but as soon as I told him what I needed, he said we could go right away. Well, not right away.” He was babbling, something shehad never heard him do before, as if he didn’t want to tell her what had actually happened. “He had to have his Sunday dinner first, his wife’s pretty particular about that. But as soon as that was done he met me there.”
“Leo,” Vivian said, cutting him off. She forced herself to meet his eyes, trying to smile and failing. “Just tell me what happened. Please.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. He’d been keeping the bottle in his office, hoping that we’d be willing to tell him more. But when we got there tonight… It was gone. Someone had taken it.”
Vivian felt as if she’d been spinning in circles to music that was going faster and faster and the music had suddenly disappeared, leaving her staggering and about to fall. “But… but that was our evidence. That’s the only proof we had that…” Without the brandy bottle and its deadly contents, they couldn’t prove that Pearlie’s death had been anything other than a suicide. And without that, the letter that he received—and the letter that Florence had received—were just odd mail. The police would never look twice at that.
How had someone known it was there? And how in God’s name could she keep Florence safe now?
Beside her, Danny let out a long string of whispered curses, only half of them in English. Vivian wanted to do the same—wanted to yell them—but her brain felt too numb to think of anything ugly enough for how she was feeling.
Vivian stared at a point on the floor, not seeing it. She should have told the coroner right away. She felt cold all over at the thought that someone had thrown that bottle away on purpose. Someone who didn’t want its contents to be tested and scrutinized again.
But it could just as easily have been tossed by accident. There was no way to know for sure. Either way, the result was the same. They had played this all wrong, start to finish.
“Viv?” Leo’s voice was cautious. “What do you want to do now?”
“Now?” Vivian looked up to find both of them watching her. Shetook a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I guess I’m going to steal a dress.”
“Where have you been?” Bea grabbed Vivian’s arm and pulled her to a corner as soon as she walked into the dressing room. A few other waitresses were chatting and resting their feet before the rush and aches of the night ahead of them; Bea cast them a wary look before lowering her voice. “I went by twice today to find you, but no one was home. And then I heard someone in your building died? Is everything okay?”
Vivian stared at her friend, wondering how much to tell her. On the one hand, she and Bea told each other practically everything. Bea never would have brought her to the Nightingale in the first place if they hadn’t been sure they could trust each other. But on the other hand, if Bea knew Florence had received a letter…
She would guess right away what Vivian had tried to do, and she would know Vivian had gone to the medical examiner without telling her. And even though it hadn’t worked, she would feel furious and betrayed that Vivian had gone behind her back, maybe even put her family at risk, for Florence’s sake.
Vivian couldn’t blame her for that. But she also didn’t regret doing whatever she could to keep her sister safe.
And it hadn’t worked anyway, which meant there was no reason to confess and cause that sort of trouble between them. And if Bea wasn’t furious, when she found out what Vivian was planning next, she might insist on coming along.
Vivian couldn’t let that happen. She wouldn’t put anyone else in danger if she didn’t have to.
“Everything’s swell,” Vivian said. She gave her hair a quick fluff, checked the back of her stockings in the mirror, and smiled herpretend smile once again. “Can’t wait to hear your set tonight. We’ve missed you. And so have the folks out there.” She gave her friend a bump with her shoulder. “You’ll be famous one of these days, I just know it.”
She could feel Bea’s eyes on her in the mirror, but she bent to fuss with her shoes so she didn’t have to meet them.
“What aren’t you telling me, Viv?” Bea asked quietly.
“Nothing,” Vivian answered, straightening at last. “Nothing at all. See you out there, okay? I need to find Honor and ask her something.”
Vivian caught up to Honor by the end of the bar, where the club owner was coolly surveying her domain, lights dim, liquor stocked, band just striking up the first tune of the night. Soon, the doors would open and patrons would trickle in by twos and threes, laughing as they found their way to the bar. Later there would be larger groups tumbling out of cabs and down the steps, men and women slipping in by themselves to look for a friend or a stranger to keep them company for the night. Honor looked it over with unmistakable pride.
“There you are, pet,” she said when she caught sight of Vivian. “I was wondering when you were going to show up. I was worried something had happened.”
She had only been fifteen minutes late, but trust Honor to notice. Honor noticed everything. She would notice instantly that something was wrong, too—her brows were already creasing into a frown as she took Vivian in from head to toe—so Vivian didn’t bother dancing around her request.
“Honor,” she said, her whisper urgent as she glanced around to make sure no one else was close enough to hear. “I really hope I’m going to owe you a hell of a favor after tonight, because that means you’ve said yes to what I’m about to ask.” She took a deep breath. “Danny told me that you know how to pick locks.”
SEVENTEEN
There were places in New York that Vivian never went at night.
The elegant avenues, with mansions spilling light and sound into the air, where drivers waited next to cars that cost more than their year’s salary, the tips of their cigarettes glowing in the night as they waited for the party to finish and the revelers to stumble out in the small hours of the morning.
The vast park, with its stately trees and too many shadows, where you were equally likely to stumble on a quiet, dangerous meeting taking place in the dark or someone with nowhere else to go who just wanted to find a few hours of rest.
And she never went to the pretty little row of shops, on as quiet a street as New York had, where you could find a perfectly tailored suit with a hat to match, elegant heeled shoes made in emerald velvet and tied with gold ribbons, a dress sewn with ten thousand glass beads that would turn the head of every drunk, careless partygoer at a Long Island mansion.
Vivian used to sew those dresses. Just thinking about them made her fingers ache with the memory of a thousand needle pricks. Shenever wanted to think about Miss Ethel’s shop, or Miss Ethel’s demands, when she left them behind her each night. She was even less interested in swinging by for a visit or a stroll.
