by Jo Goodman
At Printing House Square where the Chronicle was published, someone else's world was shifting. Logan sat back in his swivel chair, his feet resting on an open desk drawer, and stared at the quartered sections of a photograph he had arranged on his knee. The photograph had arrived innocuously enough in a plain envelope addressed to him in care of the paper. It sat on his cluttered desk most of the morning with a dozen other pieces of mail he didn't have time to go through. Just before lunch he organized the pile, slicing through the envelopes one at a time with a sterling silver letter opener. He stopped, and the remainder of the pile was forgotten when he reached number three. Neatly torn pieces of the photograph fell onto his lap and a note, penned in a neat, spare style, had only one word: Whore.
Logan made a fist around the note, crumbling it. Disgusted, he pitched it across the room, where it bounced off a window before it fell to the floor. The photograph was Katy. There was no mistaking that in spite of how the picture was torn across her lower face. It was not an especially good photograph. The composition was grainy, the lighting poor. The length of her naked legs was underexposed. Logan knew this was not his sister-in-law's work. He remembered very well the photograph he found on the studio stairs, and he also remembered Katy's reaction to it. She had torn it up, tossed it in the fireplace, and torched it.
Logan picked up one of the pieces, rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger and then examined his hand. The pads of his fingers were gray with the residue of ash. He thought about that a moment, putting a similar chain of events together in his head. Katy had been given the photograph, quartered it, and very deliberately pitched it in a hearth. At some point, however, before the picture was burned, it had been retrieved. By whom?
Logan dropped the four parts of the photograph in his pocket and stood. Crossing the room he found the wrinkled wad of paper he had thrown earlier. He smoothed it out on the surface of his desk and examined it again. Whore. The handwriting was simple and spare, lacking flourish or embellishment. It was also unfamiliar.
He had many more questions than answers. The only thing the photograph possibly explained was Katy's distracted, secretive manner of late. Logan examined the postmark on the envelope and saw the letter was mailed from within the city. Masterful detective work, he mocked himself. He had just eliminated all but the city's nearly one million population and tens of thousands of its visitors.
But Katy would know. It was to that end that Logan picked up his coat from the back of his chair and shrugged into it. A few minutes later he was hailing a hack on Broadway.
* * *
Katy would not let Duncan take her bonnet or her cape after he let her in the foyer. She did allow him to assist her with Victoria's carriage, but she took her daughter out immediately, refusing him the opportunity to bill and coo over the little girl. He showed her quickly to the parlor where Ria was waiting for her. This time the door was not locked behind Katy.
"Thank you for seeing me, Ria," she said. In her arms Victoria began to fuss. "When I sent Joe over here with the message, I did not know if it would be possible. I appreciate you making time for me."
"Making time? Really, Katy, you make it sound as if my calendar is overflowing with commitments. I will always have time for you." Ria watched Victoria's small face redden as she twisted in her mother's arms. "May I?" she asked, extending her hands, palms up.
"Of course." Katy handed Victoria over, and her daughter quieted instantly. Katy understood what Ria did not. Victoria's fussing was due mainly to her own nervousness.
Ria tickled Victoria's chin and spoke nonsense to her until the child began to laugh. Satisfied, Ria pointed to the settee and invited Katy to sit down. "I thought your request to see me today was a matter of some urgency," she said. "Or was I reading into it?"
Katy sat down while Ria slowly paced the area in front of the fireplace. Victoria's dimpled fingers reached for the lustrous pearl buttons at the front of Ria's gown. "No," said Katy, "you are right. It is urgent that I talk with you."
"I wish I had been able to keep my promise to invite you earlier," she said, sighing gently. "It just was not possible."
"I understand. Actually, it is on the matter of your invitation that I've come. You see, I did receive something from you... or at least I thought it was from you." Katy's discomfort was evident in the way she fidgeted with the folds of her pale lilac gown. "This is difficult for me, Ria... I am not certain how to—"
Ria's attention turned from Victoria to Katy. The expression in her dark green eyes was frank and knowing. "It is Michael, isn't it? That is what you want to tell me."
"Yes," she whispered, embarrassed for herself and for Ria. "It was Michael who sent for me. He wanted to talk to me about Victor's will."
"And what else? You see, I am well aware that there is always something else with Michael. Usually it is a woman. Plainly speaking, I am happy that he has other women because it keeps him out of my bed."
"Ria! I am not one of your husband's women!"
"It had occurred to me that your dislike of each another might merely be a facade for deeper feelings."
"For my part, the only deeper feeling is one of disgust. I am sorry. I realize he is your husband, but I have no liking for Michael. I never have."
"What can I do for you?" asked Ria. "Understand that I have little influence on my husband. I only ever asked that he not conduct his affairs openly. Thus far, I've been satisfied with the arrangement."
Katy stood, hesitated, and then crossed the room to the escritoire. "Michael wants me to be his mistress, Ria. He has for a long time."
In spite of her earlier words to the contrary, a brief look of pain shadowed Ria's gentle features. "I see," she said. Now she sat down, holding Victoria on her lap. Her play with the baby was distracted. "I am still not certain what it is you want from me."
"The key to this desk."
Ria blinked, frowning. "But I do not have a key."
Katy removed her bonnet and took a pin from the smooth coil of her honey hair. She held it up for Ria to see. "May I?"
There was a moment of uncertainty on Ria's part before she nodded. "Very well." She turned away so that she did not have to see what Katy was doing and entertained Victoria with a game of peek-a-boo and pat-a-cake.
Katy worked for five frustrating minutes before she managed to slip the lock. Relief was short-lived. The drawer that had contained the photographs was empty. Swearing under her breath, Katy examined all three drawers. None held the damaging pictures. She sat down heavily on the chair and stared out the window.
"What is it?" asked Ria. "Haven't you found what you're looking for?"
Katy could only shake her head in reply. Her throat ached with suppressed tears of anger.
"Perhaps if you told me," said Ria. She carried Victoria to Katy's side, patting the baby's back.
Turning in her chair, Katy lifted her pale and troubled face to Ria. "Is Michael at the store?"
"Yes. He will be there until late this evening."
"Ria, I need to talk to him. It is important. He expects me to meet him here tomorrow and I cannot do it. I do not know why I ever thought I could. Even his threats don't matter anymore."
"What has exactly has Michael threatened?"
Katy stood and pushed her chair under the escritoire. "I have to go while I still have my nerve."
"You cannot mean to take Victoria."
Katy picked up her bonnet and smoothed the ribbons between her fingers. No, it would not be right to take Victoria with her, and it might further infuriate Michael to meet his presumed half-sister. "I will take her home first."
"Nonsense. Leave her with me. I would be happy to sit with her until you return. In fact, I will enjoy it."
And she would. Katy could see that. She held Victoria with the ease of someone used to holding a child. Ria was not bothered by Victoria's flailing arms or her constant babbling. She responded naturally to all of Victoria's movements, instinctively seeming to know what it was the little
girl wanted. "All right," she said. "Her carriage is in the foyer. There are a few toys in there that she likes, and she will want a little sugar water and—"
Ria laughed. "I am sure we will manage just fine. You cannot imagine how I have been looking forward to a day just like this." Her smile softened, growing faintly sad as she looked at Victoria. "It will almost be like—" She broke off. "Go on, Katy. I admit I do not understand why you need to talk to Michael, but I can see that it is very important to you."
Katy kissed her daughter on the forehead and then carefully slipped on her bonnet. "I won't be long. What I have to say to Michael will not take above a minute."
Ria thought about that after Katy left. She tapped Victoria's button nose with the tip of her finger. "Then we will have to hurry, won't we, darling? Mama's not going to let you out of her sight again." With that she left the parlor and mounted the staircase to her room.
* * *
Mrs. Brandywine's smile widened when she saw Logan coming in the front door. "This is a surprise," she said, glancing at the tall pendulum clock standing in one corner of the entrance hall. She wiped her hands on her apron and reached to take Logan's hat. Belatedly she realized he was not wearing one. "Should I have Mrs. Morrisey prepare luncheon for you?"
"That will be fine. I'll have it with Katy."
"Mrs. Marshall isn't here. She took the baby out for a walk, oh, over an hour ago, I'd say. She should be back any time."
Logan was not very good at masking his disappointment. The quartered pieces of photograph in his pocket seemed to weigh him down. "I'll wait for her in the dining room. Make certain she knows I'm here."
"Of course." Mrs. Brandywine's smile faded as Logan brushed past her. She sensed his anxiety.
Logan sat at the head of the dining table with his heels propped on the table's edge. That only lasted the first few minutes. He told himself there was no urgency in seeing Katy; he could easily wait until this evening to show her the photograph. And yet he couldn't. He pushed away from the table and paced off the area in front of the windows.
Words that Katy had whispered in the stillness of their bedroom came back to Logan now. I would never do anything to shame you. Had she been referring to this photograph? Did she really believe that it would change the way he felt about her? Oh, Katy, he thought, come home right now so I can tell you how little this matters to me. He could not stand the thought that she had been frightened by the threat of exposure.
He sat down again and tapped out a rhythm on the table's edge with his fingertips. He promised himself he would not keep checking his pocket watch and failed to keep the promise. The door to the dining room opened once and Logan looked up hopefully, but it was only Mrs. Morrisey checking to see if Logan still wanted to wait for his wife. He did.
After nearly an hour, Logan's patience came to an end. He went in search of the housekeeper and found her in the front parlor. "Is it usual for Katy to be gone so long?" he asked.
Mrs. Brandywine excused the young maid she had been talking to before she spoke to Logan. "Not precisely usual," she said, "but no reason to be alarmed. Was she expecting you?"
"No. She thinks I am at the paper."
"Then it's reasonable to assume she's not in any particular hurry to be back."
Logan was not in a mood to be reasonable any longer. "Do you know which way she walks, where she might go?"
"She usually just walks the avenue, although judging by the lateness of the hour, she may well have accepted an invitation to lunch. I do recall her saying something about Mrs. Donovan. Perhaps she's gone there."
Logan wished he had had that information an hour ago. "If my wife comes home, please tell her I was here."
"You're going back to the paper?"
"Yes," he lied. "Good day, Mrs. B." He bent and bussed her on the cheek and then he was gone.
From the parlor window, Mrs. Brandywine watched Logan mount his horse and head north along the avenue. Printing House Square was south. Just who did he think he was fooling?
As a courtesy, Logan asked to see Ria Donovan when he arrived at her home. Duncan ushered him inside but told Logan that Mrs. Donovan had gone out a short time earlier. "I will check to be sure, of course," Duncan said, "but Mrs. Donovan is generally out of the house every Wednesday afternoon."
"Don't trouble yourself." Inside his pocket, Logan's fingers played with the torn photograph. "Has Mrs. Marshall been here today?"
Duncan was nervous. At the corner of his right eye a muscle twitched. He wondered what Logan Marshall knew about Katy's meeting with Michael a week ago. He regretted following Michael's directions then. Facing Logan now, he more than regretted locking Katy in the front parlor. "Yes, but Mrs. Marshall left some time ago."
"Do you happen to know where my wife went after she left here?"
The butler's long face was nearly colorless with the strength of his anxiety. How much allegiance did he owe Michael Donovan? "As a matter of fact," he said, "I hailed a cab for Mrs. Marshall. I believe she intended to go to Donovan's."
"Shopping?" asked Logan, surprised. He had never known Katy to express the least interest in shopping at Donovan's, certainly not with Victoria in tow.
"I could not say, sir." Duncan's fear of Logan Marshall was once again tempered by his fear of Michael Donovan.
"Very well." He paused while the butler opened the door for him. "Thank you for your help." Logan's long stride carried him quickly down the walk.
* * *
Michael Donovan occupied a large office on the fourth and highest floor of the store. Secluded from the smaller offices of the clerks and accountants, he had always thought of it as his father's lair. It had taken some getting used to, this position of authority and power, but Michael knew he was equal to the task—had always known it—even when he thought Victor hadn't.
Donovan's was flourishing. True, it did not serve the general populace as well as it had when Victor had been in charge, but it did count many of New York's best families among its clientele. Michael imported the finest crystal and china, gowns from Paris, rugs from the Orient. If it was rare, if it had something unique to recommend it, it generally could be found at Donovan's. All prices were a touch above the common man's reach, but Donovan's had become dear to the hearts of those who wanted expensive and exclusive items for their homes or for themselves.
Michael had succeeded in making the store something associated with him, not his father. The same was true of the office. No longer the sparsely furnished, utilitarian workspace that Victor had enjoyed, Michael's office was elegantly appointed, crowded with the luxuries that were now a hallmark of the store itself. The divan, the tables, and vases all bore a Chinese influence. The chairs in front of the desk were Chippendales. Between the two chairs was a butler's table. A gold and blue enamel card case rested beside the crystal liquor decanters. The crystal was from Italy, the bourbon from Kentucky. Only Victor's enormous cherry wood desk and leather chair remained as symbols of inherited authority.
When Katy entered the office, she half-expected it would be Victor who swiveled in his chair to face her. It was not, of course. At the quiet click of the door, Michael turned from the window.
He was quiet for a few moments, studying Katy as she stood with her back to the door. He noted that she was fidgeting with her hands at her back. As if sensing that this put her at a disadvantage, she removed her bonnet and held it in both hands in front of her. The defiance inherent in the gesture made Michael smile. Her honey-colored hair was a perfect frame for her face, warm and full and soft. The line of her mouth was damp, as if she had run her tongue across it before coming in the room. It was a heady thought.
The gown she wore was lilac, a pale, cool color that flowed like a waterfall around her. She swept the train of her dress to one side and approached his desk. He marveled at the way she moved, fluid and graceful. It was not calculated to catch his eye, yet he could not look away.
Dropping the papers he held in his hands, Michael pushed away f
rom his desk and leaned back in his chair. Light from the window behind him placed his features in shadow and made his expression difficult to read.
"I believe you are early," he said. "The invitation I sent you was for tomorrow."
Katy placed her bonnet on top of Michael's desk. Her fingertips absently smoothed one of the ribbons. She watched Michael's eyes drop to her hand, and she quickly stilled the movement.
With some difficulty Michael lifted his eyes back to Katy's face. "So why are you here?"
"I have changed my mind."
Michael sat forward. His eyes flashed with anger, but his voice was quiet and low, carefully controlled. "Think again, Katy. I still have these." He reached into the middle drawer of his desk and pulled out the photographs. He fanned them open in front of her, watched her blanch, and then shoved them back into the drawer.
"I don't think you understand, Michael. I have not changed my mind about the bargain we struck. I have changed my mind about not wanting you."
One of Michael's brows arched. "Oh, really?"
"Really."
"I would like to believe you, Katy, but it's been less than a week since we talked, and at that time you swore you could not tolerate my touch. Are you telling me that after six days you've had a change of heart?"
"Something like that."
"Do not play me for a fool, Katy. I have warned you. You will not like the consequences."
Katy parted Michael's desk and came to stand in front of him. "I see I will have to work very hard to convince you." She paused. "Shall I lock the door or shall you?"
