“That all depends on you. For now, I believe our interests are still aligning nicely.” She closed the heavy velvet curtains as she spoke. The room had once been her husband’s study, and the last time Vivian had been in it, it had still reeked of masculine power. Mrs. Wilson hadn’t softened the room—she was not a soft person—but she had made its opulence more elegant, with richer fabrics, new wallpaper, and crystalsconces that caught the light and sent it dancing across the walls and ceiling.
Coming around the desk, Mrs. Wilson strolled toward the large gilded mirror that leaned against one wall and began to unbutton the silk blouse that she wore. “And I do need my measurements taken, so you may work as we talk.”
It should have made Vivian feel like she had more power, that Mrs. Wilson needed to at least partially undress in front of her. But the careless way that the woman tossed her expensive clothes aside, the fact that she could stand tall while Vivian would have to kneel to wrap the tailor’s tape around her hips or make notes on her paper, made it clear who was in charge.
And Vivian didn’t have a choice. She gritted her teeth and got to work, pulling her things out of the leather satchel she was carrying—shaped like a doctor’s bag, but full of everything a seamstress would need to work on the go—and kneeling in front of the mirror, just as she was expected to.
“What interests are those, Mrs. Wilson?”
“That very curious note you showed me the last time we spoke.” Mrs. Wilson held out her arms, looking as unconcerned as if she were bored by the conversation. But as Vivian stood to wrap the tape around her bosom, she caught sight of the mob boss’s eyes glinting in the mirror. Mrs. Wilson was watching her every movement. “I might have been too quick to dismiss your theory about its origin.”
Vivian’s heart felt like it was speeding up, and her hands trembled a little. She kept her eyes on her task as she asked, as calmly as she could manage, “What’s got you singing a different tune?”
“Snippets of gossip, the sort you hear in my line of work. About a new operation that seems to be springing up in your little corner of the city.”
“What have you heard?” Vivian demanded.
“Not much. It’s small, but perhaps not for long. And there are already whispers of a dangerous reputation. They seem to be a smart little group, because they have picked a very interesting calling card.” She waited until Vivian looked up to continue. “It seems they have, rather elegantly, been using a drawing of a hemlock leaf to announce their presence.”
Vivian bit her lip, then admitted through gritted teeth, “I don’t know what that is.”
Hattie Wilson made an amusedhmmin the back of her throat. “The hemlock leaf can be used as a rather potent poison.”
Poison. Vivian swallowed, sitting back on her heels. That was too much of a coincidence to be nothing. “Your measurements are done,” she said quietly.
Hattie Wilson began dressing leisurely. When she was done, she held out her hand. “I’d like to see the designs Miss Ethel sent.”
Vivian handed them over, and Mrs. Wilson took a seat behind her desk once more as she perused them. Vivian packed her things up slowly. “I’m guessing you’re not sharing this with me out of the goodness of your heart.”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard the rumors, Miss Kelly, but apparently there is no goodness in my heart.” Mrs. Wilson slid the sketches across the desk. “These are lovely. Tell Miss Ethel she may proceed.” She pulled a stack of letters toward her and began to slit them open, one by one, with a silver letter knife. Vivian wanted to flinch with each slice. “As I said, our interests align. I have some business concerns not far from there, and a new outfit springing up, however small it may be for now, is bad for business. Particularly if they like to poison people. It risks the wrong kind of attention. So I’m sharing this with you, and in return, I expect you to share what you find out with me.”
Vivian snorted. “Just a couple favors between friends.”
“If you like.” Mrs. Wilson set down her correspondence and metVivian’s eyes, her fingers still resting on the letter opener. It wasn’t quite a threat, but it was still a clear message. She was telling Vivian how things stood, not asking.
Vivian nodded slowly, her mind going to the Fitz Special that had made Honor look so scared. “You heard any rumors about cops being involved with this new little gang?”
“Nothing specific, but I wouldn’t rule it out,” Hattie said, her smile knife-edged. “Plenty of dirty cops out there.”
“Any of them work for you?” Vivian asked, feeling very daring and very scared as soon as the words were out of her mouth.
Hattie looked at her for a long time, her face impassive, her fingers turning the letter knife over and over while she considered her answer. “Not directly,” she said at last. “I have my friends, and I pay up, same as anyone else. But anything more than a favor here and there can lead to difficulties for everyone. Cop decides he doesn’t want to work with you anymore when he already knows too much about how you operate? That can spell all kinds of trouble. And someone always ends up dead.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Just an observation.” Hattie’s smile was back. “Fella I know had a cop on his payroll until very recently, trying to work off some kind of family debt. And of course, the cop eventually decided that he could get rid of the debt faster if he shut down the fella’s business instead.”
“Who ended up dead that time?” Vivian asked, feeling sick.
“The cop.” Hattie’s voice was soft, but there was no gentleness in it. “It’s not smart to cross someone in my line of work, Miss Kelly. I hope you’ll remember that.”
TWENTY-ONE
The mood at the Nightingale was wild that night. With Bea on stage and the band in fine form, the club’s guests were in a dizzy, delighted mood, hollering and cheering as they danced and applauding wildly each time Bea finished a number.
It made Vivian’s heart ache. She kept trying to catch her friend’s eye, but Bea was avoiding her. And Vivian couldn’t really blame her for that, even though she knew they desperately needed to talk.
“Hey there, beautiful girl.” A grinning, tipsy young man who probably still shaved peach fuzz every morning caught her wrist as she finished setting drinks on his table. “I saw you dancing last time I was here and knew I had to take you for a spin. Kick up your heels with me?” His friends chortled as he teetered in his chair, and he shook his head, laughing at himself.
