“Are you the Fat Lady Quartet?” Isobel asked.
“What gave us away?” the redhead asked.
“I figured I’d just look for someone who could crush me.”
The women laughed as one. The redhead smiled. “Dearie, if you’re looking to join, you’ll need to eat a few more pastries.”
“Only a few?” Isobel said.
Another round of girlish laughter. These women had a sense of humor, but one wouldn’t survive in a vaudeville act called the Fat Lady Quartet without one. They were confident, proud, and comfortable in their skin. But above all, friendly. Just the sort of women a girl like Ella Spencer might be drawn to.
“I’m Isobel Amsel.” She shook their hands. And got their names. The blonde viking, Hilde Wulf, had a thick Saxon accent. Edna was the princess and Myrtle the cowboy. Finally there was Estelle Baker, a belly dancer. “I’m a detective from Ravenwood Agency.”
“Oh, we’ve heard of you,” Edna said.
“You have?” Isobel asked with surprise.
“’Course we have. You were all over the newspapers,” Estelle said.
“Still are,” the cowboy said.
Isobel grimaced. “It’s a good thing you don’t seem the types to be driven away.”
“No, ma’am,” said Myrtle. “You can’t control what people say about you, but you sure as hell can control how you react. Embrace it, we say.”
The women nodded as one.
“Women like us are too busy doing what we please to be concerned with wagging tongues,” Isobel said.
“Amen,” said the princess with a broad smile. “If you’re looking to join, we could use a sailor in the troupe.”
“Say, there’s an idea,” Myrtle said, eyes distant, looking dreamy. “We could call it ‘The Fat Lady Quartet and a Tumbleweed.’”
“I’m honored, but I’m here on business. Do any of you know a girl by the name of Elouise Spencer? She goes by Ella.”
Three of the women looked to Estelle Baker.
Estelle clicked her finger cymbals together. “Oh, dear. What’s that girl gone and done?”
“She’s gone and went missing.”
Estelle checked her watch. “I’ve got ten minutes.” The woman led Isobel to a quiet hallway off the main dress floor. “What do you mean Ella’s missing?”
Isobel gave her a brief overview, but kept the key details to herself. This early in an investigation, it was wise to keep your cards close. One could never be too careful.
Estelle swore under her breath. “Pardon my French,” she muttered. “It’s only that I warned Ella about a fellow she was seeing.”
“What fellow?”
“I don’t know his name. I saw him with her a few times, and he was much older. She introduced him as her ‘dearest friend.’”
“What did he look like?”
Estelle tapped her finger cymbals together in thought. “Black hair. Scar over his eye. A peculiar nose. Sensuous mouth, imperious-like. When he spoke he shifted his shoulders back and tended to throw out his chest. A strong fellow, I’d say. And he didn’t look like a city man. More like a slick country broker.”
“Mustache?”
Estelle shook her head.
Mustaches could be shaved or added, easy enough to change. Hair color as well. And what some called black hair, others called brown. But both Miss Marshal from the Popular and Estelle mentioned a quirk about the eye. This fellow could very well be John Bennett from the Popular.
“Did he look anything like this?” Isobel pulled out the sketch that Sarah had drawn of Ella’s missing father. “He’d be older now.”
Estelle studied it, but shook her head. “I don’t think so. But mind you, I only saw him once or twice. The nose is wrong, I think. The man I saw her with had a sharper one.”
“What made you warn her away?”
Estelle raised a painted brow. “You and me are women of the world. We don’t have blinders on. He wasn’t looking at her with avuncular affection. He’s likely thirty-five and I doubt she’s even sixteen.”
Estelle was right. Ella was fifteen and painfully naive, and that put her just under the age of consent in California—not that cribs and brothels paid any mind.
“How long have you known Ella?”
“About four months. The girls and I met her at Amateur Night. She was so nervous I took her under my wing. She’s a clever girl, but lacks talent for this business. And sense.” Estelle shook her head, bangled ears shifting with the movement. “A friend of hers, I forget the girl’s name, tried to get her to join a vaudeville show in a cheap theater. The bawdy kind. I steered Ella away from that gig.”
“Was Ella already acquainted with this man when you first met her?”
“I don’t know. I live in some lodgings by Turk and Taylor. A few weeks ago I saw him and Ella walking towards Market. Heard him say something about going to ‘that little place on Taylor street,’ so I followed. When they got to the Saddle Rock Restaurant, they stopped. Ella made to leave, and he caught her by the arm and took her into the restaurant. After I saw that, I warned her away. But she didn’t like what I had to say. I haven’t seen her since.”
Isobel questioned her further, but Estelle had nothing more to add. Their friendship had consisted of Ella dropping by the music hall from time to time. She didn’t even know where Ella lived.
Isobel found Riot conversing with a crowd of men—the small man in the tall hat, the door guard they had given the slip to, and three large bouncer-types. Riot was completely at ease.
When she approached, the door guard glared.
“How’d you like my trick?” she asked.
The three other bouncers smirked.
“This is Mr. Robert Saunders, the manager and announcer for the Olympia. Mr. Saunders, my wife, Miss Amsel.”
Isobel suspected Riot found the contradiction of introducing her as such amusing. She bent slightly to shake Mr. Saunder’s hand.
“A pleasure, Miss Amsel. I’ve been trying to convince your husband to try out for an act. We don’t have a mind reader. I can see it now. You’d be draped in silk scarves and bangles. And he’d look devilish in a turban and robe. With his coloring, he could easily pass for an Arab.”
Isobel could, in fact, imagine Riot with a bit of eyeliner and a sharply trimmed beard. “And a curved sword,” she added.
Mr. Saunder’s eyes lit up. “Superb. When can I expect you, then?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “I’ve already been offered a role as a tumbleweed in the Fat Lady Quartet.”
“Pah. We’ll schedule it so you can do both.” Mr. Saunders had a glint in his eye. He knew she was pulling his leg.
“That’s kind of you, but we have a girl to find. If our detective business ever goes belly up, we’ll consider it.”
Mr. Saunders took her hand in both of his. He fixed her with a serious eye. “For the sake of this city, I hope it doesn’t. And don’t you give a thought to anything people say about you. I’ve heard it all. Trust me. And look where I am.”
“Still close to the ground, but loving it?” she blurted before she thought better of it.
He beamed. “Absolutely.”
They were escorted back to the entrance hall. The guard tipped his hat, then slammed the door behind them. “Well, I’ve made another enemy.”
“I’m sure he won’t hold it against you,” Riot said.
A steady line of patrons came and went. One of the draws of the vaudeville was that there weren’t strict rules like at theaters. It wasn’t considered rude to come in late to a show, and no one blinked if you slipped out early.
Isobel told Riot about her conversation with Estelle Baker.
“Miss Baker’s description could fit with the others. It sounds like Ella knew John Bennett.”
Isobel nodded. “Which means she’s probably holed up with him somewhere.” It was a common enough ploy. A man seduced a naive girl, promising to marry her, and then never followed through on the commitment. Eve
ry girl thought they found their Mr. Darcy, while they really ended up running off with a Wickham.
“I hope that’s the case.” There was a shadow in Riot’s eyes.
Isobel raised a brow. “You think he intends to pimp her out?”
“He may have handed her off to someone already.”
“He hardly sounds like bait for a mack. One would expect a young, charming man. Not an old one with scars.”
Riot brushed a hand over his temple, where a streak of white slashed through his raven hair. It covered a deep scar in his skull. “An old man with scars caught you.”
Isobel gave his tie a yank. Riot coughed, and quickly righted it.
“Speaking of young, charming men…” She was looking over his shoulder.
Riot turned to find a man arguing with one of the ticket takers outside the audience chamber. A bouncer stood next to them with his arms crossed. Sarah and Jin were with Lotario. Jin wasn’t wearing her usual wool suit and cap but her quilted tunic and loose trousers instead. Her hair was pulled back into one long braid that could be mistaken for a queue with her forehead covered by the cap. In short, she looked very Chinese.
“That’s absurd,” Lotario was saying. “I paid for a private booth. She’s my niece. I won’t allow her to sit somewhere else.”
“It’s policy, sir.”
“No, it’s rude,” Sarah said.
“No Chinese are allowed in the main audience,” the bouncer recited. “There’s a special section in the second gallery for their kind. She’ll be more comfortable there.”
“She’s my sister,” Sarah said.
“I do not mind sitting upstairs,” Jin broke in.
Riot and Isobel made a beeline for their family, who were beginning to attract an audience of their own.
Lotario caught sight of them. “Oh, splendid,” he said with a hint of excitement. Lotario loved a good show.
Isobel had a barrage of laws on the tip of her tongue, the fourteenth amendment at the top, but then she noted Jin’s posture. Her shoulders were slouched and she seemed to be trying to melt into the carpet. The girl was mortified by the attention.
It was Riot who spoke. “Is there some sort of trouble?” he asked. He held the bouncer’s eyes, steady and calm.
“Nothing that concerns you, sir.” Being male in a bespoke suit had its advantages, but then Riot had a certain way about him—that of a bored panther considering if it was worth the effort to swipe.
“As these are my daughters and brother-in-law, I’d say it does.” Riot pulled a card from his pocket. “Your policy doesn’t take into account mixed families. I suggest you consult your manager, who can then address this with my attorney. But I’m not sure the hassle we’ll give you is worth the price of a booth.”
The ticket taker glanced at the bouncer, who hesitated, then took Riot’s calling card. He frowned at the embossed raven on the thick pasteboard. It always left an impression.
Lotario offered his arms to the girls. Sarah took one, but Jin blew out a breath, turned on her heel, and marched away. The crowd started murmuring.
Isobel shot after her.
“I do not want to see the vaudeville anymore,” Jin said when Isobel caught up to her. The girl shoved open the door, and walked out into a burst of cool air.
“I don’t either. Let’s get something to eat.”
Jin spun on her. “Where? At the Palace? They will not let me in there because I am Chinese.”
“I was thinking Italian.”
But Jin shook her head. “I want to walk. I will be back at home tonight.” Before Isobel could catch her, Jin darted at a cable car full tilt. She expertly leapt and latched onto the back, where she clung, unknown to anyone but Isobel.
“Damn,” Isobel muttered. But even if she managed to catch up and rip the child from the cable car, what would she do? Tie her up and drag her home? A familiar presence stopped at her side. “Did you see that?” she asked.
“At least she promised to return,” Riot said.
They stood on the street, watching cable cars and theatergoers move in a kind of deadly dance. So easy to get lost in, where one wrong step could cost a life.
“God, I hate people.”
“No, you don’t,” he said softly, touching her elbow. “You hate bullies and willful ignorance.”
Isobel swallowed a flippant comment. She wasn’t in the mood. The sun had never broken through the fog. It was dark and cold and late, and they were no closer to locating Ella Spencer. Another day gone, and the girl was still missing. And now her own daughter was alone in a predatory city.
“We have a start on the case, Bel,” Riot said, sensing her mood. “And Jin’s as competent as you.”
She tried not to think of all the close calls she’d had as a child. It was a marvel she’d made it to adulthood. “I’m beginning to sympathize greatly with my mother,” she admitted.
“It happens.”
A door burst open and they turned to see the two bouncers remove Lotario and Sarah from the dance hall. The door slammed on their heels.
Lotario was wheezing with laughter, while Sarah appeared to be in a state of shock.
Isobel rushed over and grabbed Sarah’s shoulder, turning the girl to face her. “What happened?”
“I don’t know what got into me,” Sarah whispered. “I gave that fellow what for, then kicked him straight in the shin.”
“It runs in the family,” Riot said. “Shall we head home and wait for Jin?”
19
A Riotous Evening
At the back entrance of Ravenwood Manor, Atticus Riot held a door open for Sarah, Isobel, and Lotario. Sounds of dishes and conversation filled the empty courtyard. Tim’s loud voice dominated, talking about a time when he cooked for a wagon train.
Tim stood in an apron and was up to his elbows in dish suds, while Tobias wielded a drying rag and Grimm put the dishes away.
“He wouldn’t take it. And you’re in trouble,” Tobias called to Isobel over the clatter of kitchenware.
“Who wouldn’t take what?” Isobel said, pulling off her gloves.
“The reporter fellow.”
Grimm whacked his brother with a dish rag before turning to face the new arrivals. The tall young man searched the group as they shed their hats and coats, and then frowned. It looked like he wanted to say something, but Tim spoke up first. “Don’t interrupt your elders, boy.”
“It’s true, Mr. Tim,” Tobias said. “Mr. A.J.’s in trouble again. Hi there, Mr. Lotario.”
Lotario waved a languid hand at the boy, and moved over to the oven. “What is that delectable smell?”
“Shepherd’s pie. Ma makes it a special way.”
Tim cast a baleful eye at Riot. “Where’s Jin?”
“They wouldn’t let her sit with us in the theater,” Sarah answered, peeking inside the covered dishes. “So she left. We did, too. But we don’t know where she went.”
“I thought they’d let her sit in a booth with us,” Lotario said. “What does your mother put in this?” He was hovering over the open crockery with a spoon, but Sarah batted him away.
Grimm handed his dry pot to Lotario, and took off out the back door. As that door closed, another opened. Pushing through the dining room door with her hips, Lily brought in a tray of dirty dishes. She stopped with a frown, and Riot hastily moved to take the tray from her. But when he did, his side burned with pain. He quickly set the tray in a clear space on the table.
Lily hurried over to the oven, removed a casserole dish topped with pie crust, and began setting a fresh tray. “Where’s Grimm?”
“He left,” Isobel said.
“Left? Again? Did you send a child of mine on another errand?” She included both Riot and Isobel in her over-the-shoulder gaze.
Riot cleared his throat. “No, ma’am, we didn’t. Not this time. Grimm didn’t give an explanation.”
Lily blinked. “He just left? I’m short-handed as it is with Maddie gone.” Another pointed look.
“Give ’em heck, Ma,” Tobias cackled.
“Shush it, Tobias.”
Sarah quickly donned an apron, and took the fresh tray from Lily’s hands. There were eighteen people in the manor to feed, but Isobel Amsel didn’t care one bit about domestic pressures. “Tobias,” she said impatiently, “What didn’t the reporter take? My article?”
“No, ma’am. I mean, yes. He didn’t take the article you wrote. Said he had another one all ready.”
“Written by whom?”
Tobias shrugged.
Isobel swore under her breath and left the kitchen.
“She never could take criticism.” Lotario surveyed the mess, and delicately put his pot on a clear space. “Well, I don’t want to be in the way. I’ll just go meet your boarders and sample the delicacies.” He swaggered into the dining room before anyone could rope him into kitchen duty.
Lily took a calming breath.
Tim had rinsed the suds from his arms, and jerked his head towards the back door.
“Hey! You’re not done,” Tobias said, as Riot followed Tim outside. Riot could hear the boy muttering up a storm until his mother told him to focus on his work.
Tim took out his pipe, and dug around pockets for his tobacco pouch.
The courtyard was dark, the moon obscured by fog, bringing the scent of the sea. Riot couldn't make much of Tim’s expression. “What is it?” Riot asked with some trepidation.
“I went to check on Monty. I can’t find him, A.J.”
Riot frowned. “Bel thinks Monty might be behind the attack.”
Tim shoved tobacco in his pipe and tamped. Then a match flared, highlighting a face like worn leather. Riot waited, sensing the man thinking.
Finally, Tim flicked the match to the ground. “A thousand dollars ain’t much for you. But maybe he took half and found some idiots to give it a go for a thousand. A contractor of sorts.”
“You really think he hates me that much?”
Tim chuckled. “Hate might not have anything to do with it, boy.”
Riot couldn’t disagree. Men had killed for less money. “Regardless, we need to find him.”
Where Cowards Tread (Ravenwood Mysteries #7) Page 15
