Chapter Thirteen
May I borrow this paper for a few days?” I ask. She does not smile—she does not seem like the type of person who smiles often—but her face quirks.
“No,” Laura says. Her eyes dart around the room quickly. She shakes her head, but she leans over me and tucks the newspaper into my satchel. “We don’t allow patrons to borrow periodicals. I’m sorry.”
Nirav and I leave the clean, new-wood smell of the library and head back to our boardinghouse.
Pax is outside, awaiting our return, practically bouncing on the toes of his shiny wingtips.
I don’t wish to be happy to see him, but I do feel something warmly familiar that he’s waiting for us.
For me. It’s been so long since I’ve had someone anticipating my return.
We both speak at once: “Wait till you see—” “I have exciting news—” “Ha! You go—” “No, you—” I nibble my lip.
Nirav huffs heavily and points at Pax, you go first.
Pax grins. “I found our storefront. Right this way!” he sings, and his expensive shoes clack northward. I find his exuberance questionable.
I slide my eyes to Nirav. His head ducks to hide his grin.
“Right this way!” I shout, and march after Pax.
Pax falls into step with me, and I notice our strides complement one another’s nicely. I then notice that that’s an odd thing to notice. “That woman—Miss Cambridge?”
My client. The one I tricked, said was destined to marry Pax. I’d completely forgotten I’d sicced her on him. I spit a laugh.
He grins. “Clever. But now she won’t leave me alone. I do wish you hadn’t told her where I live.”
Ah but, but it’s just the opposite: She’s the one who told me where to find your apartment, I think.
How would I have found you otherwise? Miss Cambridge is the daughter of a dirty politician, deeply connected to several crime families, and an expert at finding people in a city where it is entirely too easy to get lost. And goodness knows I can’t rely on Spirit to answer my queries.
I’d briefly considered asking Miss Cambridge to help us locate Max Blanck’s apartment, but heaven knows we don’t wish to get the New York City mafia involved.
We stop at a building in the shadow of an elevated train.
Beneath the el, in the slosh and muck, a curbside vegetable market and a meat wagon have set up shop.
They are smart to protect their wares from wilting once the sun hits high noon.
Several blue-looking chickens watch from dirty cages as we pass.
“Here we are,” Pax says, gesturing to a nondescript, boarded-up storefront. Nondescript is good. Blending in is ideal. Disappearing, even better.
To the building’s left, Saratoga Stables. I catch a glimmer of a sleek chestnut between the stall slats. The smells of musk and hay and horse float out to the sidewalk.
To the right of this building, a watch shop.
Timepieces hang in every inch of the window, spilling out the door and onto the sidewalk.
A hefty woman in an oily apron works outside, tinkering on a wristwatch with tiny tools and a magnifying glass crammed in her eye socket.
She fixes time. All those clocks, all those watches, carving away the seconds, tick by tick.
Time disappearing before our very eyes. Something about it unnerves me.
Pax jiggles the doorknob and grows irritated when he finds it locked. He reaches toward my pinned-up hair and seems surprised (amused?) when I lean backward.
“May I?” he asks. Eyebrow arched, teasing smirk engaged.
“Absolutely not,” I say, smirk returned. I remove a hairpin from my coif, stick it in the lock, and jimmy open the latch. Pax leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, grinning.
“Let me guess: You know this guy,” I say as the door creaks open. “And he was supposed to leave it unlocked. Soon we’ll have a key.” We will obviously be squatting here until someone catches on.
“Indeed,” Pax says. I try not to let those sparkling eyes entertain me. He gestures through the front door. “Welcome to Julia’s Bureau.”
The interior is dim and has no electricity, no indoor plumbing, but those are luxuries that clients who seek a conversation with the dead are willing to forgo. Clients like mine are desperate. Despairing.
It’s a nice spot for our Bureau.
Our?
“Why are you doing this?” I blurt, feeling a sudden sense of protection for my clients. “You don’t seem like the deeply spiritual type.”
Pax strikes the very picture of mock offense, fingertips on collarbones. But when he sees I’m honestly posing this question, he turns serious. “I am a true believer, Stella. You’re… not very good at reading people.”
“You are literally recruiting me for my ability to do just that.”
“No, you listen to spirits. You don’t read people.”
I huff, and Pax laughs, and I grow crispy with anger. “You don’t know me at all.”
“That’s true. But I could say the same about you, knowing me.” He leans in, and he smells of vanilla. Oleander, sweet and poisonous. “What fun it could be to get to know each other better.”
I feel Pax taking enjoyment in my embarrassment.
He cocks his head: “Oh! You had news, too?”
I retrieve the stolen newspaper from my satchel. “Do I ever.”
Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood: Blanck to throw lavish celebratory post-trial party—will host the world-famous Hope Diamond debuting on U.S. soil!
Darlings! The tongue weighs practically nothing, but so few people can hold it. Including Yours Truly! Let’s dig in:
· While returning from Newark in the company of her escort Tuesday last, famed Broadway sensation Ione Bright met a machine near a culvert, and the lights confused her horse.
Said horse reared, toppling their buggy.
Miss Bright received some painful bruises, but fortunately there were no serious injuries.
One must wonder why a young, unmarried couple was out so very late without a chaperone, but who am I to presume the accident likely prevented them from mischief of other sorts?
· A joint celebration of the birthdays of Lincoln and Washington was held at Trinity School Thursday afternoon. If there’s anything sweeter than 25 school children singing about the glory of America, I can’t name it.
· And finally! Oh, darlings! I am ever thrilled to report that in a handful of Saturdays, on May 25, I’ll be reporting from a fine affair at the home of one Mr. Max Blanck.
Mr. Blanck is, of course, the gentleman declared “not guilty” by our trusty courts of law with his involvement in the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire.
(How many of us are truly “not guilty?” But I digress…) I’m thinking of this as Mr. Blanck’s “Huzzah! I escaped punishment” affair, a “Scot-Free Soiree” if you will.
Socialites such as Blanck can imagine no greater indignity than to lose prominence in the community; no pesky little thing such as a murder trial will stand in the way of society’s annual spring thaw.
Guests will include author Sir Arthur Conan Doyle of Sherlock Holmes renown; famed escape artist Harry Houdini; and Mrs. Evalyn Walsh McLean, who, as you know from my past columns, recently purchased a whopper of a gem, the infamous Hope Diamond.
Rumor has it (and you know I love a good rumor) that this gem is cursed, my loves.
Oh, one does hope she’ll wear it to the affair; what good is a crystalized chunk of coal if one can’t mar the faces of others with its sheen?
Many entertainers have been hired to toast Mr. Blanck’s success in manipulating the judicial system.
They include: piano virtuoso Josef Lhévinne; artist Jun Geiami, whose skills include inscribing full names on a single grain of rice (imagine!); and Mlle Clarice DuBois, who bills herself as a mentalist. Oh, and noshes from Bellissimo Cibo—delish!
More on that as we approach the date of May 25. Stay tuned!
Ta-ta! And remember, darlings: A fool thinks himself to be a wise man, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool. Kiss kiss!