He was right, of course. Whatever had Mr. Alden been thinking? This was just the sort of stir that was likely to draw attention. A scandal was the last thing Tabitha needed before her wedding.
7
THE NEXT MORNING was clear and warm as we mounted horses and rode onto the bridle trail in Central Park. I had not imagined there would be much opportunity for riding in New York, but once Milo had found that the Aldens stabled horses nearby, he had been very keen to investigate the trails afforded to city dwellers.
And so we made a small party of it. Tabitha declined to come, saying she had wedding details to attend to, and Mr. Alden had begged off to tend to business matters. He had seemed his usual jovial self this morning, as though the events of last night had never happened, but I couldn’t help but wonder if the incident was a precursor to more trouble.
“I inquired of Mr. Alden if that visitor was anything I should be concerned about, but he assured me it had no bearing on our venture,” Milo had said when we had a brief moment alone, but I doubted he was any more convinced than I was.
The Aldens otherwise engaged, then, Milo, Tom, and I had gone to the Claremont Stables shortly after breakfast, and in no time at all we were riding into the park.
It was amazing to me that this enormous park existed in the middle of such a metropolitan city. I could almost imagine that I was back in the English countryside as we rode along under the shade of the trees that lined the bridle path. The foliage had begun to turn vibrant shades of yellow, orange, and red, and the crunch of fallen leaves provided a pleasant addition to the usual backdrop riding sounds of hoofbeats, creaking leather, and the horses’ breathy exhalations.
After a short while, Milo, a serious horseman setting a brisk gait, had ridden ahead of us, and I decided it would be an ideal time to get to know the groom better. I nudged my horse closer to Mr. Smith.
“Do you ride often, Mr. Smith?”
“You promised to call me Tom, remember?” He flashed a smile. “I know you Brits are used to formality, but we Americans are more casual.”
The world of the Aldens was not, I thought, so much less formal than my own. Perhaps it was, in fact, society that was foreign to Mr. Smith. Once again, I wondered about his history. Tabitha hadn’t been able to tell me much, and the vagueness of his background had left me a bit uneasy.
“But to answer your question, no,” he went on. “I don’t ride often. In fact, I had hardly ridden at all before I met Tabitha. I hadn’t expected there to be much opportunity for it in New York.”
“Then you’re not from here?”
“No. I hail from the Midwest.”
It seemed to me that he hesitated before he spoke, and my curiosity was aroused. Why was he so reticent to speak about his background?
I knew it was really none of my business. All the same, I also knew what it was like to be swept up in a whirlwind romance with little thought for the future, and I didn’t want Tabitha to be caught off guard by something she learned after the vows had been said.
“Do you have family in New York?” I asked, hoping for more information.
“No,” he said. “My parents are dead, and I don’t have any siblings.”
“I haven’t any siblings, either,” I told him. “I always envied my friends their brothers and sisters.”
“I’d say growing up alone gave me confidence,” he replied lightly. There was something in his manner, something in the careful responses, that let me know this was not a subject he wished to pursue.
It could be, of course, that he just didn’t want to talk about what was likely a painful subject. After all, I didn’t particularly enjoy discussing my somewhat strained relationship with my parents with strangers. Yet I sensed it was more than that. I remembered what I had overheard him say to Grant Palmer, that he didn’t want the past to follow him. What was it he had to hide? It might be a simple matter, of course, but what if it was something darker?
I felt a bit guilty for my train of thought as I turned my attention back to Mr. Smith. My past experience with mysteries had led me to develop a suspicious mind, and now every wary deflection seemed to me to be an indication of something sinister.
Not that there was anything in the least sinister about Mr. Smith. I looked over at him as he rode, his handsome profile set in a pleasant expression, the dappled sunlight shining through the leaves above us and flecking his hair with gold. He looked young, happy, and carefree.
My instincts told me that Tom was a nice young man. But they also told me that something about him wasn’t exactly what it seemed. I thought of Grant Palmer’s vagueness about their friendship, and then I remembered what Tabitha had told me.
“Well, it’s nice that you’ve made such good friends in New York,” I said. “Tabitha tells me Mr. Palmer even saved your life at one point.”
He looked at me, a bit sharply, I thought, but then a warm smile flickered across his face and I wondered if it had been a trick of the light. “Yes, I was in a tough spot once, and he helped me out of it. I’ll always owe him for that.”
I was preparing to ask more questions, but I would not have the chance.
“I think I’ll join your husband, if you’ll excuse me,” he said. “There are a few features of the path I’d like to point out to him.”
And with that, he spurred his horse and rode ahead.
* * *
“I DON’T KNOW what to make of Tom,” I said to Milo as we entered a bustling Automat for lunch a few hours later. This had not been Milo’s first choice of venue for our meal, but I had been eager to try the popular and lively dining establishment. When Tom had left us at the Aldens’ door, promising to meet Milo again later that afternoon to go to the races, I had convinced Milo to accompany me to the restaurant after we had changed from our riding clothes.
The building was crowded for the lunch hour, the diners filling the tables around us, talking in a mixture of accents and languages that rose above the clatter of utensils on dishes and the clinking of cups on saucers. I spotted businessmen, laborers, sailors, and saleswomen all enjoying their noon meal with equal gusto.
I stood for just a moment, looking around to get my bearings and watching the other diners for cues as to how it all worked.
The walls were covered with small, glass-fronted compartments, behind which rested food of every description. Divided into categories labeled as sandwiches, soups, salads, cakes, pies, and a host of other items, one had only to insert nickels into the slot and turn a knob for the compartments to open, granting access to the food, which was then replenished by employees in the kitchen behind the wall. It was all rather informal, but there was something pleasant about the idea of picking and choosing the items one wished to eat based on some combination of sight and whim.
When at last I thought I was ready to proceed, I went to the cashier behind a counter at the center of the room and exchanged a dollar for nickels.
I held out half of them to Milo.
“I don’t see the appeal of carting one’s food about oneself,” he said. “I’d much rather pay to have someone else do it.”
“Oh, hush, Milo. Try to enjoy the experience.”
He sighed, but dutifully accepted the nickels and took up a tray, following me to the nearest wall. This one was filled with various hot dishes. Beside each compartment was a little plaque denoting the contents. I spotted two kinds of stew, three varieties of chicken, steak, pork, and an assortment of meat pies. It was all a little overwhelming.
“What do you mean you don’t know what to make of Tom?” Milo asked as, undaunted by the myriad choices, he inserted nickels into one of the slots, turned the knob, and lifted the glass to take out a steak.
“I tried to make conversation with him, asking him about his life before he came to New York. He seemed overly cautious when answering my questions, as though he didn’t want to give away too much about his background. He has no connections, very few friends. For all intents and purposes, he has no history before he arr
ived in New York.”
I made my selection at last, inserting my coins and placing the chicken potpie on my tray.
“That doesn’t mean he has anything to hide.” Milo selected potatoes and then beans, his nickels rapidly dwindling. “Some people just have no past to speak of.”
“You don’t think it odd that he hasn’t any family?”
“Not necessarily,” Milo replied. “After all, I have no family, aside from you.”
“Yes, but everyone knows your family name. It’s not as though you appeared suddenly from nowhere with no links to the past.”
“New York is different from London,” Milo said, leading me to the coffee counter, where the dark, steaming brew was dispensed from silver faucets. “This is exactly the sort of place where people show up without a history and make a name for themselves.”
“But everyone has a history,” I said. “Why should Tom want to hide his?”
“There may be any number of reasons. Perhaps he comes from humble beginnings and wants to appear worthy of Tabitha.”
“I just wish that Tabitha knew a bit more about him.” As I added a fruit salad to my tray, I was unable to shake the feeling of uneasiness that was beginning to grow the more—or rather, the less—I learned about Tom Smith.
“He’s rides well and is a good judge of horseflesh.” I knew this was an endorsement as far as Milo was concerned. “Besides, she has the rest of her life to delve into his past. Women enjoy that sort of thing.”
I could see I wasn’t getting anywhere with him. He was in good spirits after our ride today, and he was not in the mood for a serious conversation.
He added a piece of pie to his tray, his reservations about dining at the Automat apparently long forgotten. “Don’t fret, darling. It’ll be all right.” He smiled and then ambled with his full tray to a recently vacated table.
Despite his reassurances, I felt there was more to be learned about Tom Smith, and I had not given up on finding out what it was.
* * *
WE RETURNED TO the house after lunch, and shortly thereafter Milo went off with Tom. I hoped Milo might be able to glean some information about the young man’s personality from their interactions. In the meantime, Tabitha had left me a note asking me to meet her at a shop to complete some wedding errands.
Before leaving the house, I stopped at the mirror that hung on a wall in the foyer. I patted down a few hairs blown astray by the wind. Then I pulled my lipstick from my bag and applied a fresh coat. The lid of the tube slipped from my hand, and I leaned to pick it up. Rising too quickly, a wave of dizziness hit me suddenly and the lipstick faltered in my hand. I dropped it and reached out to catch it, creating a streak of red across one of the fresh, pale peach-colored gloves that complemented my cinnamon-hued belted suit.
The dizziness faded almost as quickly as it had come, and I chided myself that my clumsiness should manifest itself at the expense of my new gloves.
I sighed as I replaced the lid on my lipstick and put it back in my purse. Winnelda had overseen the packing, but I knew that this was the only pair of gloves in this color that I had brought with me. I also didn’t feel quite like going upstairs for a fresh pair, especially after the feeling of wooziness that had just come over me. Perhaps if I rinsed the glove in the washroom I would be able to remove the stain.
I went into the little room off the foyer and turned on the brass faucet, wetting a cloth. Then I took the cloth and began to work at the crimson smudge. After a bit of difficulty and the application of some soap, the lipstick began to come out. It seemed as though it was going to be all right, after all.
The red hadn’t ruined the pale fabric. I was glad, for I had wanted these gloves particularly, and Winnelda fussed when I ruined my gloves.
“Gloves don’t grow on trees, madam,” she had told me once with uncharacteristic severity when I had snagged one of very delicate lace. Indeed, she was right.
As I worked on restoring the glove, I heard the sound of the front door opening, and wondered who it might be. I certainly hadn’t heard the bell. Perhaps Tabitha had decided to meet me here rather than at the shop. I would find out as soon as I had completed my impromptu laundering.
I was nearly satisfied that I had removed the stain in a way that would pass even Winnelda’s rigid standards and turned to leave the washroom, but it was just then I heard footsteps coming from the direction of Mr. Alden’s study.
“Palmer. Good,” Mr. Alden said. “I want to talk to you while no one is here.” So it was Mr. Palmer who had come in. What was he doing here? Perhaps he had come to finish last night’s conversation with Tom, but I was a bit surprised that Mr. Palmer had come in without ringing the bell. Then again, he seemed to enjoy informality.
I was just about to make my presence known, but Mr. Palmer’s next words stopped me short.
“I came as soon as I got your summons. But aren’t you afraid we might be caught?” There was something mocking in the words, but I recognized the truth in them. Mr. Alden did not want the two of them to be seen together.
“It will only take a moment. It’s urgent.” There was annoyance underlying his tone, but he was doing his best to suppress it. I found this interesting. From all I had seen, these two men had a casual relationship at best. Why, then, did they want to avoid being linked in some way?
“Very well. I’m all ears, Mr. Alden.”
I had expected them to move into Mr. Alden’s study, but it seemed that they were going to conduct business right there in the foyer.
I was effectively a prisoner in the washroom. I couldn’t make my exit now without letting them know that I had already overheard part of this delicate conversation. There was nothing for me to do but stay still and remain quiet until they had gone. I shifted backward, retreating a bit farther behind the door so I wouldn’t risk being seen.
“It’s got to be kept quiet,” Mr. Alden said in a harsh whisper. “I’ve been hearing things, that word is getting around, and that’s not going to work.”
“I don’t have any control over that.”
“Well, you’d better find some way to control it, or both of our livelihoods will be on the line.” His voice had risen as he spoke, and I remembered how angry he had looked last night when he had thrown the strange man from his house.
“Don’t get worked up, Mr. Alden. Things are going along much as we planned, despite the setbacks.” Grant Palmer sounded more amused than alarmed, though there was nothing humorous in Mr. Alden’s voice.
“Listen to me, Grant. I’m serious. If there is trouble, it’s going to be you who pays for it. Not me. Do you understand?”
My eyes widened at what sounded very much like a threat. Of course, I didn’t know what sort of business these men had been conducting.
I could hear the smile in Grant Palmer’s voice as he answered. “Tabitha’s been warning me to stay away from you, you know. She thinks I’m a bad influence.”
“You leave Tabitha out of this.”
“I’m just telling you, she knows more than you think.”
“Let me worry about her. Come here, to my office.”
They walked down the hall then, and I slipped out of the washroom, feeling uneasy. What had that conversation meant? It had all been very vague, but there had been the definite hint of something sinister in their interaction. Was Mr. Alden indeed involved in a bootlegging operation? Things seemed to point in that direction.
I very much wished I hadn’t overheard the conversation, but there wasn’t much I could do about it now. I wondered if I should mention it to Tabitha or keep it to myself for the time being.
I moved back to the staircase and moved quietly halfway up before making my way back down with a heavy tread.
I heard footsteps approaching and Mr. Palmer appeared at the foot of the staircase just as I reached the foyer.
“Oh, hello.” I fancied I sounded just the right amount of surprised to see him.
“Hello, Mrs. Ames. You’re looking very nice thi
s morning. Pretty as a ripe peach.”
“Thank you. I’m just going to meet Tabitha.”
“She’s let Tom out of her sight for a few hours, eh?”
“Mr. Smith and my husband have gone to the races, I believe.”
“Ah, yes. Tom’s fond of horses. The racing variety, at least.”
It was then that Mr. Alden made his appearance. Apparently, he had heard Grant Palmer and I talking and had come to investigate why the young man had not yet left the premises.
“Oh, hello, Grant. What are you doing here?” In my opinion, Mr. Alden did not sound quite as authentically surprised to see Mr. Palmer as I had.
“We’re just having a little chat.” Mr. Palmer leaned one elbow against the balustrade, the picture of comfortable ease.
“I suppose you came here looking for Tom,” Mr. Alden said. “He and Tabitha aren’t expected back until late this afternoon.”
“So Mrs. Ames was telling me.”
“I suppose you’ve got things to tend to, Grant?” Mr. Alden said.
He smiled. “Not really, but I know when I’m not wanted. I’ll just go somewhere where I’ll be more welcome. Nice talking with you, Mrs. Ames.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Palmer.”
Without another word to Mr. Alden, he turned and ambled unhurriedly from the house.
Mr. Alden’s eyes followed him, and there was an expression of unconcealed annoyance on his face. I wondered if his dislike of the man extended beyond whatever business dealings they had been discussing. Granted, Mr. Palmer seemed irresponsible and glib, but there was nothing inherently dislikable about him.
At last, he seemed to remember that I was still standing at the base of the stairs and turned toward me. “I hope he wasn’t annoying you.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “He’s quite an interesting young man.”
He chuckled, but I could tell it was forced. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“I wouldn’t have imagined he and Mr. Smith would be very good friends,” I said.
A Dangerous Engagement Page 7
