Chapter Thirteen #3
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 from her 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 tucked into 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.
Vivian shook her head. “Police called it a suicide. They still don’t know the bottle was poisoned.”
“Not a fan of the police, Miss Kelly?”
Vivian matched Mrs. Wilson’s cold, mocking tone when she replied, “Folks like me can’t pay the bribes you can, so they don’t tend to look the other way when they catch us doing something not strictly legal.”
Mrs. Wilson didn’t argue with that. “And was the recipient someone I know?”
“Friend of a friend,” Vivian said evasively, not willing to let the name Henry become part of the conversation. “Fella who worked here, actually.”
“Was the H supposed to be you, then?” Hattie asked, glancing at Honor.
“Could have been the idea,” Honor said, looking up from her glass and shrugging. “Not my writing, either, though. And not my style at all.”
“I thought maybe you’d know something about it,” Vivian continued, watching Hattie Wilson closely. “Seems like the fella was moonlighting for someone in your line of work and got himself smoked for his trouble.”
“Well, he didn’t work for me, and that note didn’t come from me.” Hattie’s smile was mocking. “If I wrote something like that, I’d sign my name.”
That, Vivian could believe. “But maybe you know someone who works like that. Someone who takes care of problems with a subtle hand. He thought it was a present for a job well done. Anyone in your line of business who might do a thing like that?”
“What was his name?”
Vivian hesitated. “Pearlie,” she said, hoping she wouldn’t regret it.
But Hattie only shrugged. “If you want my expert opinion, I doubt this came from whoever he was working for.”
“Why do you say that?” Honor asked, sipping her drink as if she didn’t much care about the answer.
“Because something this subtle”—she handed the paper back to Vivian—“doesn’t send a message. When people in my line of work punish someone, we want the rest of our boys to know about it. That’s how you keep people in line.”
“Kill many people, then?” Vivian asked, feeling sick and trying not to show it.
Hattie Wilson shrugged. “I prefer not to. Killing is messy. Killing means you owe the police a lot of money to keep it quiet.” She took another ladylike sip of her whiskey, then tapped the note.
When she spoke next, it was with the condescending inflection of a much older sister who also believed she was much smarter.
“I’ll give you a tip, Miss Kelly. Ask yourself what kind of message a death like this sends, then find out who would want to send it. ”
She finished her drink and slid the empty glass across the desktop to Honor, who caught it easily. “I’m curious to see what you turn up.”
“Who says I’ll tell you anything more?” Vivian asked, taunting and defiant. Mrs. Wilson made her nervous, and she never wanted the other woman to guess that.
Mrs. Wilson smiled, her voice cold and careless as a shrug. “I have my ways of finding out what I want to know. See you around, little girl. If you survive that long.”
“Is that a threat?” Vivian asked, her hands balling into fists. She glanced at Honor, who had set her glass down and was watching the exchange, her face impossible to read.
“Oh no, Miss Kelly.” Mrs. Wilson shrugged. “Just an observation. Girls who poke their noses into this kind of business take an awful risk. And I almost like you. I’d hate to see you end up a corpse in an alley.”
Vivian sucked in a breath. It was how Mrs. Wilson’s husband had died, and everyone in that room knew it.
“That’s probably enough,” Honor said before Vivian could reply, her voice so mild it made Vivian gape at her.
She still stood on the other side of her desk, eyes on her whiskey glass as she swirled its contents in a circle.
Lifting it to take a sip, she glanced up at Mrs. Wilson. “No need to get testy with each other.”