Chapter Fifty-Eight
I wake the next morning on the buttery leather couch. A cashmere blanket has been draped over me, and embers smolder in the fireplace. I am warm and sleepy, but someone nearby says, “Stella, wake up!”
William. I blink.
Did I dream last night? All those kisses and cuddles? Talking and sharing dreams until the wee hours of the morning? The music? I pull the cashmere blanket to my face, and it smells like mint and grapefruit and wine. And I’m wearing a sparkling diamond brooch. Not a dream. I stretch like a cat.
William smiles, like he can sense my contentment. Which, I suppose, he can. He pulls up next to the couch and tosses me a newspaper. The lead story showcases a photograph of Blanck being hauled away from his soiree in handcuffs.
“No,” William says. “Inside. You need to see this.”
Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood
Darlings! Most gossip is envy in disguise, and oh, are you ever envious you were not present at Max’s Blanck’s “Scot-Free Soiree.” It’s rare that I highlight only one social affair here, in these hallowed pages.
Inches of newsprint equals miles of influence, after all. But oh, this event! Let’s dig in:
· You’ll recall that on Saturday last, the 25th of May, I attended an 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.
And not only that, but you’ll recall that Blanck and his business partner Isaac Harris ultimately profited from those horrific deaths. Shameful.
· The evening began innocently enough, though the food was a tad bitter for this delicate palate, and it did upset my equilibrium a smidge.
Our featured socialite was Evalyn Walsh McLean, who was debuting the infamous, cursed Hope Diamond stateside.
And debut it she did! Or rather, her dog, Athena, did.
Yes, dear reader. Her boxer strutted into that affair wearing the world’s largest known diamond. Oh, Evalyn, dear, you never disappoint!
· We began a séance led by a newcomer to the social scene, a one Miss Lady Rose.
Quite the powerful young ingénue. Oh, the atmosphere she created!
I don’t know how she managed to incorporate such pyrotechnics and illusion inside a (stuffy) New York City penthouse, but I was impressed by this young woman’s showmanship.
Far be it from me to suggest you undertake illegal activities such as purchasing the services of a medium, but if you WERE to need such services (ahem!), Lady Rose should top your list. She seems to be affiliated with an organization named Julia’s Bureau. Find it. Hire her.
· Then the lights went out, and a gunshot fired—BLAM!
And, you guessed it, the Hope Diamond went missing, with Evalyn Walsh unconscious.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself took the helm, and the affair became quite “mystery dinner theater” in its tone.
An attempted murder! The disappearance of the world’s largest diamond!
A gun that simply vanished! Oh, it was a thrilling ride, darlings. Thrilling!
· The police were hailed, and our boys in blue were swift and sharp. On a hunch from our astounding Lady Rose, they unlocked Max Blanck’s safe, and to our collective amazement, the Hope Diamond was inside! Along with quite the assortment of gems and jewels from the rest of us, too. How? When?
· Word in the station house is that the evidence against Blanck has been misplaced.
Once again, the justice system is working in his favor.
Once our valuables are returned to us, I hope to fill in the blanks for us all.
And speaking of blanks… Max Blanck? He’s a blank, for sure.
That man stole from every person at his affair.
Stealing from your own guests! Can one get lower?
He is as ruined socially as a mangy mutt who has stumbled into a den of skunks.
Maxwell Blanck, New York Society is quite done with you, sir.
Ta-ta! And remember, darlings: rumors are easy to lift up, heavy to carry, and hard to put down. Kiss kiss!
“ ‘Can one get lower?’ ” I read. “Yes, darling, killing one hundred forty-six humans is a tad worse.” I rise off the warm leather couch.
My bare feet on William’s soft rug is a level of luxury I’ve never known, and I curl my toes into the plush pattern. “I have to show this to Pax. Where is he?”
William eases his eyes at Nirav, who snuck into the study at some point. “He left early this morning, Stella. He said you knew.”
I am stunned silent. “I—yes. I did know. I just didn’t know when.” Pax gone, Kiyoko gone… the merry bandits have officially disbanded. But I don’t feel loss. Only deep, lasting gratitude. We will reunite. I know this.
William wheels toward a sideboard, a long mahogany table lining the side of this room. “I believe he left you those.” He tilts his head.
There, on the dresser, is a bouquet of flowers.
Lush red roses, as full as puckered lips, interspersed with delicate, lacy daisies.
Rose and Daisy, intertwined. A card is here, and it reads in tight, small handwriting: Hard times mean you sometimes part with things you love.
My eyes well with tears; it’s what I’d said to him in the restaurant, on the day we met.
He remembered every detail of that conversation.
Look closer, Stella.
Next to the bouquet, a shiny nickel.
I pick up the smooth, cool coin and flip it between my fingers. My eyes sting with tears, but a laugh bursts forth. Tears and laughter. One side of the scale completes the other.
“Pax Princip always pays his debts.”
The End
The end? Non.
Such a human way to see things.
Nothing ever truly ends. It only changes form.