A Fatal Finale

by Kathleen Marple Kalb

  Hetty nodded. “It’ll be good to see her on the stage again.”

  “I’ll be glad to sing with her. I’ve missed her.”

  “I’m just amazed that her husband allows her to keep singing.”

  “She wouldn’t have married anyone who didn’t.”

  “True. When will men learn that our careers don’t stop at the altar?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think our new century will be enough to change that.”

  “Anyhow, are you two just here to say hello, or is something going on?”

  “Well, now that you mention it,” I said. “I’m wondering if you might be able to ask your music critic to check a few things for me.”

  “About what?”

  “Remember poor little Violette Saint Claire?”

  “The Juliet who keeled over in New Haven?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Troubled girl. There’s some question about where she really came from.”

  Hetty’s eyes gleamed. “Do I hear a story here?”

  “Not just yet, but there might be a corker somewhere down the line.” I’d given Hetty a couple of suitably mournful and complimentary quotes about the late Miss Saint Claire for a short piece when it happened, but she didn’t get much play with it. True, there wasn’t a great deal to the story then, and that was also the week that a spectacular divorce trial began. Throw in a connection to a Wicked Duke (they’re always wicked in the papers!) and that might change.

  “Good enough for me. What do you need?”

  “Anything you can find. She claimed to have sung with a couple of Canadian companies, as well as one in Chicago, but now I wonder.”

  Hetty nodded. “Might be better for you—and Tommy—to offer Stradivarius a cup of coffee.”

  I picked up something in her expression. We’d never talked about the paper’s music critic, Anthony Stratford, inevitably known around the newspaper as “Stradivarius.”

  “Wandering eyes?”

  “Wandering hands.” She sighed irritably. “I don’t think he’d dare try it with a diva, especially one whose cousin is a retired champ. But me?”

  I remembered an artistic director who’d chased me around a piano in my early days. I’d been terrified and unsure of what I could, or even should, do to protect myself. Lentini happened to walk in just as he’d backed me into a corner, and read him the riot act in English and Italian, punctuated by the waving of a stiletto and an offer to train him to sing castrati roles. After that, I had a stiletto of my own, and Lentini’s express orders not to be afraid to use it. It was in my vanity drawer these days, since Tommy did a more than adequate job of defending my virtue—but I never forgot that day. I nodded to Hetty. “Tommy and I will have a cup with him.”

  She smiled. “That should be safe.”

  “Does Tommy need to have a word as well?”

  She shook her head. “No. I make sure I’m never alone with him.”

  “Fair enough.” I left it, but not happily.

  “Would the autopsy report help you?” Hetty offered. “I imagine Dr. Silver would be willing to look it over and offer any insight she could.”

  “That’s a very good idea.” I nodded, even as I inwardly recoiled a little from the grisly thought.

  “I have a copy in my files. I’ll find it and bring it over.”

  “Meet me in the park tomorrow, and we’ll go for a velocipede ride and head home for a late breakfast.”

  She grinned. “Absolutely. I’ve missed our rides.”

  I grinned right back. “Me too.”

  We may be well-behaved maiden ladies on land, but when we get on our velocipedes, we are hellion tomboys, and Heaven help the man fool enough to cross our path. I do not generally give ground to the fossils carping about the New Woman, but, yes, we are quite a dangerous species when we are on wheels.

  “It’s finally warm enough for a really good spin,” she said. “And the City’s cleaned up the park for the season.”

  “Yes. The best way to welcome spring.”

  She held up a copy of her latest article. “Not a lovely new hat?”

  “I might wear it,” I admitted, “but I surely wouldn’t expect a professional to write about it.”

  We shook our heads together, knowing the problem. Her editor doesn’t see a professional. He just sees a woman.

  “Ladies?” Yardley appeared at Hetty’s desk with a cookie in hand. “Just wanted to make sure that Miss MacNaughten gets her share before the locusts descend.”

  She took the cookie and exchanged a grin with him. “Very kind.”

  “I have to be nice to my new reporting partner.” He turned to me. “Did Hetty tell you I am taking her out to the ball game a week from Saturday?”

  “That’s not quite how she told it, but yes.”

  Yardley smiled. “Maybe you and the Champ need to take up baseball.”

  “I’m done with sports, Yards,” Tommy said with a laugh as he walked over from one of the other writers. “I’m a music fancier now.”

  They laughed together. “Whatever you say.”

  “But we will be coming to the ball game,” I promised. “We wouldn’t miss this.”

  Tommy shrugged. “I could miss the Giants any day.”

  “Couldn’t we all?” Yardley sighed. “The only good thing is that they’re not the Cleveland Spiders.”

  “No one,” Hetty observed with a wry smile, “is as miserable as the Cleveland Spiders. No one goes to their games, even in Cleveland.”

  “And in Cleveland, trust me, there is precious little to do.” That much I knew. We’d had a terrific run there a few years before—except, of course, for the unfortunate flight of the stagehand—and I strongly suspected it had as much to do with the cultural hunger of the residents as the excellence of our show.

  “Very nice audiences, though,” Tommy reproved me. “They were happy and grateful.”

  “You’re right about that.” I shrugged. “In any case, we’ll happily tag along to the Polo Grounds.”

  “I don’t know about ‘happily,’” Tommy said, “but we will tag along.”

  “Excellent.” Hetty beamed at us both, and then caught sight of the clock. Her brow crinkled.

  “We should be going.” I straightened my hat. “You two have a paper to put to bed, and I need my beauty rest.”

  Yardley laughed. “You don’t need it, and sleeping for a week won’t help him.”

  “Probably true.” I nodded. “But we will leave you to your work.”

  We paused at Anthony Stratford’s desk and left a message asking him to meet us for coffee at his convenience. He was out at some performance or other, to be expected for a music critic, if annoying to us.

  “Hopefully, we can get a little insight on Violette,” Tommy said as we walked out into the street, quiet outside despite the hum of presses inside. “At any rate, Henry is finding us some new sopranos.”

  “Probably need a new system for protecting them, too,” I observed gloomily.

  “From what, Heller? Themselves? Life?”

  “I should have done better.” I took Tommy’s arm as we turned onto the dim lane that would take us back toward Washington Square. Thinking about Frances had left me unsettled, and I wondered what else was lurking out there in the dark.

  “You always think you can do better.” He smiled down at me. “Let’s go home and see if there’s anything left in the cookie jar.”

  “Can’t do better than that.”

  Chapter 7

  The Daring Young Ladies on their Flying Machines

  The next morning, Friday, just happened to bring that first perfect spring day where everyone wants to be outside enjoying the air and the blossoming flowers, and the sight of everyone else doing the same. Velocipede fanatics that we are, we would have been out on our machines even if it had been a gray day, but it was a true treat to be out this time.

  Hetty took the envelope out of her basket when she pulled up beside me in Washington Square Park, and I secured it in
mine.

  “I included a copy of my notes and the original article, in case it might help.” She shook her head, her serious expression entirely unsuited to the adorable straw cycling hat that completed her dark gray cotton drill sports costume.

  “Thanks.” I gave my own hat a pat to make sure it was still firmly in place. My costume is midnight-blue broadcloth, which goes better with my coloring. “I’m going to see Dr. Silver later.”

  Hetty nodded.

  “In the meantime . . .”

  We grinned.

  “Sometimes a lady needs a little speed.” She settled her feet on the pedals.

  “More than a little.”

  We took off through the paths of the park at a brisk—but not dangerous—pace. We were not the only lady cyclists enjoying the spring day, and we exchanged waves and greetings with the others, most of whom we knew only by sight, but not name. Not that it mattered—we’re all members of a happy sisterhood. Cycling is freeing and healthy, and gives ladies a safe and respectable way to burn off excess energy and emotion. What could be better?

  Most passersby smiled at us, and little boys and girls waved, even though these days velocipedes aren’t really new and exciting. Every once in a while, an older man or woman would glare. The men annoyed me, but I felt just a little sorry for the women. Their generation didn’t have any similar joys, and they no doubt missed out. It’s also not fair to say that all of the older generation disapproves of ladies on velocipedes. We always see several stately gents tipping their hats, and on occasion, grandmothers even cheer us on. Some of them even have white temperance ribbons on their lapels. Not surprising, really, since none other than our great heroine, Susan B. Anthony, has said that she stands and rejoices at the sight of a woman on a wheel.

  As we skirted the large open area near the fountain, I noticed a familiar-looking gentleman sitting on a bench, reading some large tome. Surely not, I thought. He should be at his fancy hotel chasing chorus girls or whatever dukes do. But, no, it was. Gilbert Saint Aubyn looked up from his reading, tipped his hat and favored Hetty and me with a smile.

  “Who is that?” she asked as we waved. “Best-looking stage-door Romeo I’ve seen in a while.”

  “A relative of poor Violette’s,” I said with perfect truth. “It turns out she was British.”

  “They do grow them fine over there.” Hetty looked hard at me. “You’re going to tell me more about this, at some point.”

  “When I can.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I took a quick glance back as we passed, to see Saint Aubyn watching us go, still smiling, if a little more reflectively.

  We giggled like schoolgirls and sped up a bit.

  “Speed Demons!” yelled a male voice as our path brought us closer to the sidewalk. “What is this world coming to!”

  Yardley and Tommy were standing on the corner just outside the park, laughing. Trust the boys.

  We threaded our way over to the gate and dismounted.

  “Hello, gentlemen.” I bowed and joined the laughter.

  “Hello, ladies.” Yardley swept us both a bow, and took an appreciative glance at our sports costumes, which, while quite modest, did indeed reveal a good bit of stockinged ankle.

  Hetty’s cheeks were pink, and it wasn’t just the ride. “Hello, Yards, Tommy.”

  “We’re heading back to the house for a late breakfast,” Tommy said. “Join us?”

  “Wonderful idea,” I agreed.

  “I’m tellin’ ya, Jackie, that’s Ella Shane!” a little voice piped up behind us.

  “Shut up, Betsy!” snarled another childish treble.

  We turned, to see a girl and boy, perhaps ten and eight, in clean, but not expensive, play clothes. She was holding a book, and he had a ball.

  “Hello.” I held out my hand to the girl, who had the skinny, awkward look that some do in the years before adolescence. “You’re right. I’m Ella.”

  She shot a triumphant grin at her younger brother and took my hand. “Betsy Martin. We live over on Jane Street.”

  “Why, we’re practically neighbors.” I smiled down at her as we shook. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Hey, you’re the Champ!” Jackie stared up at Tommy, who grinned and shook hands, too.

  Hetty and Yardley took all of this with the equanimity of friends who’ve seen it many times before.

  “Sign my card? It’s my favorite bookmark.” Betsy studied me for a moment, clearly comparing me to the Romeo carte de visite she’d pulled from the book. I knew they’d been sold at the stationer’s in the neighborhood a year or so ago, and suspected that her admiration for me had little to do with singing and a great deal to do with my being a woman who got to run around in men’s clothes with a sword.

  “I don’t carry a pencil in my sports costume—” I started.

  “But I do.” Hetty, the prepared reporter, pulled hers out of her pocket and handed it to me.

  “Never leaves home without one,” Yardley said, laughing at her.

  “The better to fend off the riffraff,” she shot back with a trace of a smile.

  “What are you reading?” I asked as I signed, ignoring the usual sparring.

  “The Story of Queen Victoria. I like queens.”

  “Me too.” I finished the card (To Betsy, with best wishes–keep reading! ) and handed it over.

  Betsy beamed. Jackie, who had been happily staring at Tommy all this time, now looked at me, too.

  “You’re all right for a singer,” the boy said.

  “She’s the ultimate, you drip!” Betsy snapped back, punching his arm.

  “It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” I said, bowing to the kids.

  “For me as well,” Tommy added, with an equally elegant bow.

  They bowed back, a tribute to their mother’s excellent training, and then ran off.

  “Now,” Tommy said, watching them go with a laugh, “shall we see what Mrs. G hath wrought?”

  As we walked home, Tommy pulled me aside. “I am only the messenger. Do not blame me.”

  “What?” I suspected what was coming; he’d been over to see Aunt Ellen and the cousins the previous day, and Aunt Ellen worries.

  “Mother had a dream.”

  She also believes she has second sight. She doesn’t, because there is no such thing, but even in our modern age, there are things we cannot explain, and every once in a while she does sense something.

  “She wants me to tell you that a tall, dark man is going to cause you trouble.”

  “We can only hope.”

  Tommy and I chuckled together. “You know she’s just being protective, Heller.”

  “Of course, and I love her for it. Will we see her at Mass on Sunday?”

  “She’s helping at a First Communion breakfast this week, so likely next week.”

  “I’ll soothe her down then, if she needs it. In the meantime, let’s see about baked goods.”

  “Baked very goods.”

  Mrs. G does not hold with the newfangled concept of the “brunch,” a sort of late breakfast or early lunch meal that people sometimes consume on weekends or after a late night. If you are not at the table at what she considers an appropriate time for breakfast, you will not be getting any.

  Except that she can’t really hold that line in a household where the denizens are often out until the wee hours of the morning doing our work. And so we have reached a compromise whereby, if she knows there was a show, or if she does not see us at the proper time, she leaves out fruit and some kind of tasty baked good and we forage for ourselves. Since Hetty and Yardley are also often up, putting the paper to bed, they appear on occasion as well.

  Today it was a crumb-topped coffee cake, beloved of all New Yorkers, and a strawberry-rhubarb compote. The very first strawberries of the season are starting to appear in the markets, but they’re far too dear for us right now, so Mrs. G combined last summer’s strawberry jam with the more reasonable fresh rhubarb for a sweet-tart taste of the season.


  Hetty and I were far more interested in the fruit than the men were. In the presence of cake, any kind of cake, all men turn into happy little seven-year-old boys. But grown-up boys don’t have to worry about their mamas monitoring their cake consumption, so they eat their fill, and then some. Their first pieces were gone before Hetty and I even got our fruit and sat down. It was entirely possible that there would be little or no cake left by the time Hetty and I finished our nice cut-glass bowls of fruit. Fine by me, but I felt bad for Hetty, and shot Yardley a glare as he cut his second piece.

  He had the good grace to blush. “Oh . . . you ladies haven’t had your first piece yet.”

  I just smiled. “Make sure Hetty gets one.”

  “Surely, you can spare a crumb for us poor maidens.” The poor maiden in question scowled at Yardley.

  “Wouldn’t want you to get cranky from hunger.” Yardley returned a teasing smile as he chivalrously cut a generous slice and handed it to her with a bow.

  “Very kind.” Hetty picked up her fork and tucked in.

  She doesn’t have to worry about fitting into breeches. Probably not much consolation for writing about hats, though.

  “And you?” Yardley asked.

  “Just leave me a sliver.” The boys aren’t the only ones who can’t resist cake.

  Yardley added a bit more to his plate and Tommy scooped up another piece, while I refilled our cups, and we were all finally settled.

  “A satisfying velocipede ride, ladies?” Yardley tried for polite conversation.

  “There is no such thing as an unsatisfying velocipede ride,” Hetty said with a grin.

  “Well, if you wrecked . . .” Yardley teased.

  “Never going to happen with us,” I assured him. “Perhaps with lesser riders.”

  Tommy just laughed. He knew about the time, soon after I bought my cycle, when I fell off and scraped myself badly. I’d spent the better part of a week trying not to limp on stage, or wince when my breeches rubbed against a raw knee.