Chapter Fifteen
GRACE HAD SEEN only one moving picture in her life before, and it was hard not to gasp when the scenes from the Libbey Glass Ball reappeared on the projection screen like a living memory.
The images were grainy and silent, but they showed the doors opening to the Palace, the guests climbing the staircase.
The glassy floor, the gleaming contrasts of the crystal, and the ruby flash glass being made.
The film panned over the dancing, and Grace hurriedly took out her notebook and wrote down every person she could recognize.
She saw Theodore in the corner, talking with his godfather. Thomas Squire was respected for his endeavors in philanthropy, feared for his ruthlessness in all manners of business.
The kind of person who might vouch for his godson if it pleased him, and whose word would not be questioned.
She didn’t know where the thought had come from.
After all, why would Theodore Parker want Harriet dead?
“That’s Donald Ogle and Doris Pote,” Theodore said as Grace scribbled furiously. “They are from Chicago. There’s Prince Pu Lun. Adolphus Busch. William H. Danforth. And—there—look. That’s her, isn’t it?”
The woman who had been following Harriet managed to skirt just around the camera. She always had her face turned the other way.
“Darn,” Grace said.
The camera panned past the musicians and the bar, and in the background, Grace could just make out Earnest accepting the glass.
To the left, Ethel was dancing. Earnest appeared to set the glass down and then speak with someone just off-camera.
The quality of the film wasn’t clear, and Earnest himself was quite blurry in the background.
“Look!” Theodore said.
Someone was approaching. A shadow, too difficult to make out in the grainy footage. A shadow that passed by Earnest, when his back was turned, and paused ever so briefly over the drink.
Just long enough to possibly put something inside of it.
Exactly like Earnest had guessed.
“Damn. That’s not enough to prove the poisoner isn’t Oliver,” Theodore said.
“That’s what the police said, too,” Sam Whitcomb said.
“But who is it?” Grace whispered. She drew closer to the screen.
It couldn’t have been Oliver, could it? she wondered.
She hated that the thought could even occur to her.
And yet, she had seen people she loved become someone else entirely in the right circumstances.
Oliver had loved Harriet to the point of infatuation, and he wasn’t used to being told no.
What if he had found out that she was using him for some reason or another?
That his love for her was real but hers was merely expedient, a stepping stone to something else?
One thing was clear. The murderer was definitely not Earnest.
She could cross Ethel off the list, too. The singer was plainly visible in the foreground.
Grace’s face flushed.
“The police have seen the footage. It wasn’t enough to exonerate Oliver. As far as they were concerned, it very well could have been him,” Sam Whitcomb said. “Trying to put the blame on Earnest.”
“Thank you,” Grace said, stepping back.
“You won’t forget our little agreement?” Sam asked.
“I’m good for my word,” Grace said. Theodore’s hand brushed the small of her back as he escorted her to the door. “I’ll have the article to you soon.”
They walked briskly in the direction of the fairgrounds Grace’s thoughts were racing. If it wasn’t Earnest, then who had poisoned Harriet?
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Theodore asked. “If the murderer is still out there, he won’t be pleased by that article. And it could lead him straight to you.”
“This again,” she said airily.
His face darkened. “I understand you are quite capable of defending yourself to the death with wits,” he said. “But even the sharpest words are no match for an actual sword.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Thanks to a certain gentleman, I am also in possession of a very dangerous spoon.”
He rolled his eyes, then followed her into the shaded ivory columns of the Manufacturing Palace.
They walked through the bustling corridors, past exhibits of hats and typewriters, crystals and window dressings, until they reached the massive display of textiles.
There was a small shop decorated with felt and paper flowers.
She looked through its beautifully bound journals and ink pens, fingering the coins in her hand.
The small notebook she owned was really only appropriate for scrawling lists and snippets of thoughts.
She didn’t even have enough money to buy paper and ink to write the article.
She tried to keep her voice nonchalant. “Is there any paper to be found in your aunt’s studio?”
“Probably. Check the corner desk,” Theo said distractedly, examining a leatherbound notebook. He paid for it and tucked it into his waistcoat. “Now, may I see you back?”
“My company has proved too stimulating already?” she asked.
“My brother has forced me into a dinner this evening with a family acquaintance who has the personality of wet paper,” Theo said. He shot her a look as she opened her mouth. “Don’t say it,” he added.
“What?”
“Something devastating about how I’ll fit right in.”
“As though I could ever say something to devastate you.”
He snorted and turned away, flushing.
Had she said something in the past that had truly hurt him? The thought confused her. She thought she was the only one with scars borne from his words.
“Besides—wet paper hardly suits,” she said, almost before she could stop herself. “As you’re neither mushy nor do you fall apart easily.”
He turned back to her. “What, then?” he asked, studying her. His eyes were dark and glittering.
“Sandpaper, perhaps.” She reached up, dangerously close to his cheekbone.
“A little rough around the edges, but…”
She trailed off, her hand faltering as she glimpsed Frannie in the distance.
Regret flooded through her every time she thought of what she had said to Earnest. She had all but accused him of being Harriet’s murderer, with no actual proof.
And now that evidence on tape had refuted it.
She needed to gather up every scrap of pride she had and apologize.
To try to mend the damage she’d caused with her meddlesome tongue.
“You don’t need to worry about seeing me home,” Grace said hurriedly. “There’s Frannie Allred coming this way. I need to speak with her.”
Theodore took a step back.
“You make interesting friends,” he said lightly.
“Frannie and I have never been friends,” she retorted. “And we’re going to be even less so after what I have to say to her.”
Theodore tipped his hat toward Grace in goodbye and bent, slowly, to kiss her hand. He held her eyes, as though challenging her to avert her glance.
But this time, she didn’t.
It felt more vulnerable than the time he’d seen her cry over Walt, more intimate than a caress.
A feeling of pleasure flushed through her like a fever.
She could feel the brush of his mouth. Burning.
Her face.
Burning.
He wasn’t wet paper, or sandpaper. He was kindling, and her body was set alight.
“Take it easy on Frannie,” he whispered, his voice catching.
“Enjoy your dinner,” she said hoarsely.
She turned away and hurried toward Frannie before he could witness the effect he had on her. It was too mortifying to bear.
Her breathing was heavy and fast, and she had the most delicious lift in her stomach—the way she felt just before the roller coaster plunged over the edge of its track.
This was the last thing she wanted. And yet she was tempted to draw even closer to it, feeling the warmth she knew could leave only burns.
“Frannie,” she called out across the crowded chamber. She emerged from behind the column, waving to draw Frannie’s attention.
Frannie turned and when she registered who the voice belonged to, her face soured.
She attempted to keep walking, but Grace took her skirts in her hand and wove quickly through the thick crowds of the Palace, keeping Frannie’s ridiculous bird-topped hat in her view.
“Excuse me,” Grace said, making her way past a group of people who had gathered to look at an exhibit displaying thousands of handmade shoes from Mexico.
“Frannie, this is ridiculous,” Grace called ahead. “Are you actually trying to run away from me?”
“It doesn’t benefit me in the least to be seen talking to you,” Frannie said over her shoulder, not slowing.
“Fine.” Grace quickened her pace even more. “We can have this conversation loudly or quietly, it’s up to you, but it will be said.”
People were starting to turn as Grace parted through the corridors, following Frannie out of the Palace and into the fresh air.
“You’re making a scene,” Frannie hissed.
“Some things are worth making a scene over.”
Frannie finally stopped walking. When she turned to Grace, her green eyes blazed, but they were no match for the fire that was heating within Grace, licking up her spine.
Frannie opened her parasol and brought it up to block them from view.
“What do you want, Miss Covington?” she asked Grace through gritted teeth.
“I have something to say to you. About your treatment of Lillie.”
Frannie pursed her lips, as though she were bored.
“You were shockingly rude to her at the party last night. Lillie—who has always, against everyone’s better judgment, been your friend. And you publicly shunned her in her moment of need,” Grace said.
“There are rules,” Frannie hissed. “Social rules you’ve never abided by. You or your mother. Rules are what keep society running. Your impertinence to believe you are above them is unsurprising but no less disappointing.”
“There are rules of decency, too,” Grace said, sharpening her words like claws. “They matter most of all. And those are the rules you apparently never bothered to learn.”
Frannie snapped her parasol closed and Grace walked away, chest heaving.
That evening, Grace found paper in the drawer of the desk, just like Theodore had said.
She thought of the way he had held her gloved hand earlier that day.
The way a thrill had shot up her spine when he had brought his mouth to it.
She settled in with her small notebook, going over her notes.
There was nothing to eat for dinner, but she made herself tea and lit a fire in the hearth.
She had gotten a small loaf of bread they were giving out for free from the Pillsbury counter that would carry her through.
The spring rain outside was coming down in sheets, and though she was hungry, the studio felt cozy and warm.
She changed into a nightgown and took down her hair so that it fell in honeyed swells around her shoulders.
Just then, there was a bold knock on the door.
She jumped. Heart racing.
She wrapped a blanket around her nightgown and suddenly wished she really did have a weapon. What a stupid quip she’d made about that spoon.
She grasped the pen to use as a last resort—it could probably take out someone’s eyeball with a well-aimed thrust, at least—and strode toward the door.
“Who is it?” she asked through the wood.
“Miss Covington?” a voice shouted from the other side. “Are you there?”
She let out a breath. She recognized that voice.
She opened the door slowly.
“Mr. Parker,” she said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
The rain was streaming down his face, running off his coat. His shirt was plastered against his chest. He held a large object beneath his right arm, shielded by some sort of tarp.
He handed it to her, using both hands, and it was surprisingly heavy.
“Careful,” he said. Her hand brushed his as she took the bundle from him. The cold, wet touch of him sent a shiver down her, in the best possible way. “I bought a little something for my aunt,” he said. “Maybe you could use it too. While you’re here.”
She looked at him from the doorway, where she was wrapped in a warm blanket, her hair tousled and her face flushed.
He seemed to be trying to keep his eyes fixed on her face, or the space next to her head by the door. His wet clothes moved against him with every breath.
There are rules, Frannie’s voice said in her ear. Social rules. Rules of decency.
And she had already broken so many of them.
“You’re going to catch your death,” she said, looking at the sheets of rain behind him. She hesitated. “Do you wish to come in? You could get warm for just a minute.”
“What I wish is irrelevant. Warmth hardly seems like a fair exchange for destroying your reputation,” he said.
“We both know there’s not much left of it to save,” she said.
“I beg to differ,” he countered, with an unexpected ferocity. He bowed to her, the rain streaming from his hat down his strong nose, his sculpted cheekbones. “Good night, Miss Covington.”
She swallowed, nodding, and he raised his hand to keep his hat on and began striding through the dark streets.
She closed the door behind him and locked it.
Then she padded to the middle of the floor and gently set the package down.
She pulled the cover off, the raindrops dripping in rivulets onto her bare feet.
She gasped, grinning in shock.
It was a typewriter.
She slid down and ran her fingers along the keys, excitement stirring within her. Her very own typewriter to use.
Because she was alone, Grace let out a delighted squeal.
She moved the typewriter to the desk and found fresh sheets of paper, feeding one into the roller. Then, drawing the blanket around her amid the low-burning candles, she began to type the words she hoped might save her cousins.