23. Liv
Liv
“Did you know there’s a human skull upstairs?” Ethan Polk asked us.
Theo and I were sitting in The Players’ cigar-scented Great Hall, on a leather couch that was more expensive than comfortable.
Opposite us, in a wingback chair in front of the mantel, sat the man we’d come to New York to see.
His bald head reflected the light of the ornate chandelier, which, given the bizarre sentence he’d just uttered, struck me as creepy.
I forced myself to smile politely, rather than leaping from my seat and fleeing in horror. “Oh?” I said, with such perfect composure, it would have made my mother proud.
At the thought of my mother, nausea threatened. She doesn’t know you’re here, I reminded myself. I’d tried to call her twice since the night she hung up on me, but she hadn’t bothered to pick up. And you’re doing the right thing.
Ethan chuckled. “I just like to say that for the shock value. You should see your faces!”
I glanced sideways at Theo. We’d met up for coffee at Krista’s apartment this morning and searched it top to bottom for clues—especially Charles’s old study—but hadn’t found anything illuminating.
Most of the old family paperwork had been cleared out.
We’d spent three hours going through old file boxes, turning up useless crap: ancient immunization records, paperwork on a random Kansas property that Uncle Jamison and my dad had probably bought to turn into a wind farm, decades-old tax returns.
Frustrated, we’d settled for narrowing down the list of prospective orphanages where it looked like Mystery Girl could’ve ended up to two: Divine Grace, where Ella had been found, and St. Jerome’s Refuge for Girls.
An online catalog search showed that the 42nd Street Library had the records for both orphanages, which was a stroke of luck.
After we finished interviewing Ethan, our plan was to head over there and do some digging before our appointment at the Manuscript and Archives Division.
But for now, we were here—and from Theo’s expression, there wasn’t enough caffeine in the world to make this conversation worthwhile.
“So there isn’t a skull?” he said, raising a brow.
Ethan Polk folded his arms across his barrel chest, looking pleased with himself.
“Oh, there is. It belonged to the club’s founder, Edwin Booth, who used it in his production of Hamlet.
Alas, poor Yorick, and all that.” He gave us a jolly grin.
“Edwin’s rooms are at the top floor of the club, just the way he left them when he died. Skull and all.”
Ooookay. Clearly, this little chat required redirection, a technique both motherhood and my career had made me an expert in.
“You’re obviously an authority on the history of the club,” I said, taking out the small spiral notebook I’d brought with me.
“Which is great, because we have a few questions.”
His smile widened, and he leaned forward, looking eager. “I come by it honestly, you know. Three generations. I was most fascinated by your grandmother’s story, Ms. Carter-Brentwood. Ask away.”
“Liv, please. So…what can you tell us about James MacEwan?”
Ethan pursed his lips, settling back in his chair.
“That was a nasty business. My grandfather knew James well. They worked together, serving patrons here. James had gotten himself mixed up with some pretty bad folks. Mafia, you know.” He gave us a conspiratorial look from under his graying brows.
“He was alone in the world, apparently, just him and his younger sister. Grandpa would always say what a pretty little thing she was.”
“James had a sister?” That seemed promising. Maybe here was another breadcrumb trail we could follow.
“Oh, yes. Her name was Maisie. When Grandpa told us the story, he’d always say that Maisie showed up at the club, hysterical, saying James was in debt and desperate, and now he’d disappeared.
She’d gone around trying to find him, and word on the street from the gang members he’d gotten mixed up with was that he’d died.
No one would tell her anything else. She begged Grandpa for information, but all he could say was that a key to the park had gone missing when James did, the same day that poor little girl vanished.
Later, of course, James turned up dead, but the key wasn’t on his body. To this day, it’s never been found.”
A chill went through me. The Gramercy Park neighborhood kept tight rein on those keys.
As my father was fond of pointing out, the first ones had been solid gold, and while their modern counterparts were crafted from a nickel alloy, their allure hadn’t diminished.
If we could find the key that had vanished along with James, we’d be that much closer to solving the mystery.
“Grandpa was interviewed about the whole thing for the papers,” Ethan said, clasping his hands around his knee. “If you’ve been digging into this, then you’ve probably read what he had to say. Making a clean sneak of it, and all that.”
It was so odd to put the puzzle pieces together like this, to put a face to the descendant of someone who’d known my grandmother’s potential kidnapper.
It was odder still to realize that James himself had walked these halls, had stood in the very room where Theo and I were right now.
For all I knew, he’d been responsible for dusting Edwin Booth’s pet skull.
A current of air trickled through the room, and the hair rose on the back of my neck, as if someone were standing behind me. Uneasy, I turned to look, but the space was empty.
Theo reached out and squeezed my hand. It was just a quick touch, meant to reassure, but it sent a rush of electricity through me nonetheless. “What else did your grandfather say about James?” he asked.
Ethan ran a hand over his shiny head, as if brushing back his nonexistent hair.
“He always insisted James was a good guy who wouldn’t hurt anyone, that he couldn’t imagine he would’ve had anything to do with kidnapping a child.
He said James was burdened by too much responsibility.
He was only eighteen, and he worried about his sister, that he wouldn’t be able to take care of her.
That’s how he wound up in debt, apparently.
Gambling, so he’d have enough money to keep her safe. ”
Normally, I’d do whatever I could to make sure Ethan kept talking. The club was clearly his passion, and in my experience, people needed little urging to share such things. But that restless, uncomfortable feeling lingered, as if someone was watching me. All I wanted to do was leave.
I’m not giving up, I told Lily, Ella, and the alternate version of myself that I couldn’t help but see in them. Just taking a different tactic. I promise.
“You don’t happen to have contact information for her family, do you?” I asked. “Maisie’s? Did she have kids?”
“She did. And I do,” Ethan said, looking pleased.
“She got married after James went missing and had three children. Before that, though, the club took up a collection to support her, and we’ve stayed in touch with the family ever since.
One of her granddaughters actually came to a reunion at the club a few months ago.
” He bent to rummage in the leather satchel at his feet.
“Diane lives in the city. I’ve got her phone number.
Her email address, too. I don’t think she’d mind if I shared them. ”
“Thank you,” I said, and accepted the card he handed me. Diane Hayes, it read, in bold, black font. Designer and curator.
“And here’s my book,” he said, reaching into the satchel again. “James is mentioned in Chapter Five. Secrets and Speculations, it’s called. Although”—he wiggled his beetle-like brows at us—“maybe I should’ve called it Secrets, Speculations, and Specters.”
That now-familiar chill traced its way through me. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Ethan said, heaving himself to his feet, “some folks believe the ghost of James MacEwan haunts these halls, seeking revenge for what was done to him. That he’s trying to lead the right person to the missing key. It’s hogwash, the lot of it. Mostly.” He winked at us.
I knew it was nothing more than the power of suggestion, but at his words, I could swear someone stood behind me again, their gaze a cold pressure on the back of my neck. Taking the book from Ethan, I made my polite goodbyes and fled, Theo hot on my heels.