by Jen Turano
“Did you say wives?” Gertrude asked.
“He had two of them, and was pursuing a third when he died,” Mr. Tooker said quite cheerfully before he gestured to the room behind them. “But we’ll get into that after all of you get resettled in the library.”
“And to think I’ve been shocked over Mrs. Davenport’s intrigues,” Permilia heard Gertrude mutter before they turned as one and were marched back across the room by a pistol-wielding Mr. Tooker and the other man, whose identity and how he fit into their current drama was unknown.
Taking her hand in his, Asher leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine. I’m armed, and with a real weapon this time.”
Having no idea what Asher meant by that, or what he meant when he muttered something about a powder puff, Permilia settled for giving his hand a squeeze as she lowered her voice as well. “I’m armed too, and if Harrison isn’t, well, I have a spare pistol he can borrow.”
Asher’s brows drew together. “You have more than one weapon on you?”
“Of course.”
“No chitchat—keep moving,” Mr. Tooker called from behind them.
Walking across the room, Permilia took a seat on a small settee, scooting over to make room for Asher, who sat down directly beside her. Taking hold of her hand again, he turned to Harrison, who was already sitting in a chair right beside Gertrude and had taken to narrowing his eyes at Mr. Tooker.
“Any ideas?” Asher whispered.
“I say we wait for him and the other man to get distracted, and then we take them out,” Harrison returned before he settled back in his chair, folded his arms over his chest, and returned his attention to Mr. Tooker.
Mr. Tooker evidently didn’t care to be on the receiving end of Harrison’s attention because he turned to the man he’d brought with him and waved him forward, directly toward Harrison.
“Tie him up, if you please, Mr. Sprague, and then lock him in that storage closet over there. I find that having too many people gathered in one place elicits too many questions.” Mr. Tooker then nodded to Gertrude. “You might as well tie her up too. Ladies do tend to chat incessantly when they’re nervous, and chatting grates on my nerves.”
“I have never been accused of incessant chatting,” Gertrude said, her words earning a frown from Mr. Tooker right before he strode across the room, whipped a pristine handkerchief out of his pocket, and stuffed it directly into Gertrude’s mouth.
That had Harrison letting out a growl as he began rising from the chair, his growl coming to a rapid end when Mr. Tooker, as calmly as you please, brought the pistol down on Harrison’s head, the blow sending Harrison to the floor, rendered unconscious.
“Jasper, how could you?” Miss Mabel demanded in a horrified voice as the entire atmosphere in the room changed, as if the very real threat they were actually facing had just become crystal clear.
“Stop harping, Aunt Mabel. I care even less for harping than I do for chatting.” Mr. Tooker gestured to Mr. Sprague. “Tie him up and drag him to the closet. I don’t want to have to look at him any longer.”
While Mr. Sprague tied up Harrison—who thankfully was already beginning to stir, although he’d yet to open his eyes—Mr. Tooker removed his necktie, pulled Gertrude to her feet, demanded she put her hands behind her back, then tied them together with the necktie in a very efficient manner. Pulling her over to the storage room when he was done, he shoved her through the door, warned her to stay quiet, then strode to the center of the room and smiled a charming smile.
“Now then, while we wait for Mr. Barclay and our tea—and don’t get your hopes up that he’ll alert anyone to the situation, since I threatened to kill his precious Huxley employees if anyone but him returns to this room with the tea—I suppose I should set about doing some explaining.”
Pulling her gaze from Harrison, who was now being dragged by his feet across the library, Permilia jumped ever so slightly when the storage room door slammed shut, then braced herself when Mr. Tooker’s smile slid straight off his face right before he glared at Mr. Sprague.
“While I understand that you clearly are not the best assassin in the country, Mr. Sprague—no matter that the advertisement you placed in all the local papers stated something quite contrary to that idea—you should know, even as incompetent as you are, that this particular moment demands quiet. Slamming doors will not assure us the privacy we need, especially since it might alert those pesky Pinkerton agents roaming around the outside of this very house that something is amiss.”
“Sorry,” Mr. Sprague muttered before he pulled up a chair and sat down right beside Permilia.
Blinking back at the man when he, curiously enough, took to smiling at her, even as he took to staring, Permilia frowned. “You placed an advertisement in the newspapers advertising that you’re an assassin?”
If anything, Mr. Sprague’s smile increased. Leaning toward her, he lowered his voice. “I did indeed, although I was very careful with how I worded it, never using the word assassin but simply alluding to what my true occupation is by suggestive phrases.”
“Such as?”
“Problems dispatched with discretion springs to mind.”
“Which was false advertising, if you ask me,” Mr. Tooker said. “It was hardly discreet of you to fire off arrows at Mr. Rutherford in the midst of Central Park. And you have yet to explain to satisfaction why you chose arrows in the first place.”
Mr. Sprague lifted his head. “You told me to make it appear like an accident.”
“A nice gunshot resulting from what the authorities would have believed was a robbery attempt would have worked nicely,” Mr. Tooker pointed out.
Mr. Sprague nodded. “Indeed, and if you’ll recall, I told you I began shooting at them when a delivery wagon appeared out of nowhere, but . . . that was rotten luck since the appearance of the wagon rattled my concentration and I fear the rattling affected my aim.”
When two bright spots of red appeared on Mr. Tooker’s pale cheeks, Permilia decided a redirection of the conversation was in order before Miss Mabel and Miss Henrietta’s nephew did something impulsive like shoot the very assassin he’d hired to kill everyone.
“Why hire an assassin to go after Asher in the first place?” she asked, earning a nod of approval from Mr. Tooker in the process, although his nodding came to an abrupt halt when Miss Henrietta cleared her throat, drawing everyone’s attention.
“It’s because of the tearoom Asher’s set to open.”
Asher sat forward. “That’s ridiculous. Why would anyone solicit an assassin to kill me simply because I’m opening up a tearoom?”
Before Miss Henrietta could respond, Mr. Sprague spoke up. “Mr. Tooker wanted to impress his aunts, you see, by doing away with the competition.” He smiled. “It turns out that those two over there . . .” He nodded to Miss Mabel and Miss Henrietta. “Well, they evidently always dreamed of opening up their own tea shop, and had even looked into having that fancy architect, Mr. Hunt—the one who did up the Vanderbilt house, which I must add is a most remarkable house, and I’m so grateful I was able to see it, since that’s where I met up with Mr. Tooker for my initial payment, and . . .”
“You do recall we’re on a limited time schedule, Mr. Sprague, don’t you?” Mr. Tooker interrupted through what appeared to be gritted teeth.
“Ah yes, forgive me, I tend to wax on.” Mr. Sprague smiled. “In short, Mr. Tooker’s aunts apparently suffered a rather large disappointment when they learned about Mr. Rutherford’s plans to open a tearoom on the fourth floor of his store. That’s when Mr. Tooker decided to earn his aunts’ undying gratitude by doing away with Mr. Rutherford and sequentially paving the way for their own tea shop plans to recommence.”
Miss Mabel rose to her feet and placed a hand to her chest. “You were willing to murder someone in order to win our gratitude?”
Mr. Tooker sent Miss Mabel a smile of what almost seemed to be affection. “Indeed, especially because you and Aunt He
nrietta have always tolerated me, Aunt Mabel, but I’ve always known you did so simply because your father was my grandfather and you felt obligated to provide for me, at least in some small way.”
Narrowing her eyes, Miss Mabel lifted her chin. “We gave you a house, Jasper, along with a trust fund, which means we’ve provided you with more than most people have to get along with, and I certainly don’t appreciate you suggesting we’ve not done enough.”
“You gave me your old house, one that had remained vacant for years, and I’m limited to how much money I can access from my trust fund.”
Miss Henrietta rose to her feet. “Because you would have squandered it, being your father’s son, a man I have no idea why our sister married, God rest his soul. You also possess a questionable temperament, something I’m quite sure you inherited from that mother of yours, and given those two marks against you, you’re fortunate we’ve had anything to do with you at all.”
Mr. Tooker’s smile vanished as his eyes began to spew heat. “Don’t you dare have a go at my mother.”
“It really isn’t acceptable, Miss Mabel, to speak ill of the dead,” Permilia began, hoping to take just a touch of the heat out of Mr. Tooker’s eyes, especially since he’d taken to looking somewhat insane.
Miss Mabel, to Permilia’s complete astonishment, let out a snort. “His mother isn’t dead. Cybil is alive and well and set up quite nicely in a house Henrietta and I provided for her down in Boston after her husband died when Jasper was still a child.”
The sense of foreboding that Permilia had been trying to hold at bay returned in a split second. “When I overheard that conversation, Mr. Tooker, one I now know was between you and Mr. Sprague here, you mentioned something about a partner. While I readily admit I was just wondering if that partner might have been one of your aunts, I’m quickly coming to the belief that it’s your mother.”
Mr. Tooker, instead of agreeing or disagreeing, suddenly swung the pistol in Permilia’s direction, cocking it as he did so. “You’re beginning to annoy me, Miss Griswold, and before I kill you, allow me to say that you caused me no small amount of aggravation, what with your snooping and all. I want you to know that you, and you alone, are solely responsible for the impending departure of the oh-so-incompetent Mr. Sprague from the face of this earth.”
“You’re going to kill me?” Mr. Sprague asked, jumping out of his seat and searching his pockets, quite as if searching for a weapon.
“Sit down, Mr. Sprague, or I’ll kill you myself right here and now.”
Looking to the door, Permilia found Mr. Barclay entering the library, carrying a tray with a silver tea service on it, but he was certainly not the person who’d been responsible for the latest threat.
That threat had come from the tall woman dressed in the first state of fashion, her pale hair perfectly coiffed beneath a hat that had cost more than a pretty penny. That she was holding a gun in one hand with remarkable ease gave clear testimony to the idea that hers was not an idle threat. And given that she was holding a cane in her other hand, one that probably held some type of weapon, since the woman didn’t possess even a hint of a limp, had Permilia realizing their chances of leaving the library unscathed had just dimmed significantly.
Sauntering across the room, the woman moved directly up to Miss Mabel and Miss Henrietta. Tilting her head, she smiled. “Hello . . . sisters.”
“I keep thinking we’re nearing the end of this dramatic event, but more and more pieces keep getting thrown into the puzzle,” Asher said quietly.
“Wait until you hear the truth about me,” Mr. Sprague said as he edged his chair a few inches closer to where Asher was sitting, as if he’d decided to align himself with Asher instead of the man who’d apparently hired him.
Before Mr. Sprague had an opportunity to expand on that, though, the woman Permilia was now beginning to believe was Mr. Tooker’s mother turned around and nodded Permilia’s way.
“Is she the reason your plan was put into jeopardy, dear?”
Before Permilia could respond, Asher rose to his feet and stepped in front of her. “Since the plan you’re speaking about revolves around my demise, I believe we should leave Miss Griswold out of the matter.”
“Ah, Mr. Rutherford,” the woman began, advancing Asher’s way. “It’s so unfortunate that you and I have to meet under these trying conditions. I do so enjoy shopping at your delightful store, and do know that your death is truly nothing personal. But I’m afraid my son went and incurred a great deal of debt in order to surprise his dear aunties by procuring a location for that dratted tea shop they’ve been longing to open for years. He incurred additional debt by pushing building plans along, having to grease quite a few palms in the process. After all of that, the poor dear then discovered that you, Mr. Rutherford, have spoiled everything by planning to open up a tea shop of your own, which, I’m sad to say, wasn’t a very friendly thing for you to have done.”
She released a laugh that sent shivers down Permilia’s spine. “We knew our little tea shop wouldn’t stand the slightest chance of enjoying any success being in competition with yours. So the only plan darling Jasper could come up with to salvage the day was to bring about your demise, a plan that should have gone off without a hitch, until . . .” She shot a look of pure animosity Permilia’s way.
“You really should know by now, Miss Griswold, that snooping is not an acceptable pastime for a young lady. But you decided to snoop, Mr. Sprague turned out to be an enormous disappointment in the assassin department, and well, I’m afraid matters have simply gotten away from us, which means . . . all of you must die.”
“You would kill your own sisters, Cybil?” Miss Henrietta demanded, plunking her hands on her hips as she advanced on the woman named Cybil.
Cybil raised the walking stick, the action having Miss Henrietta’s advance coming to a rapid end. “You’ve never thought of me as your true sister, Henrietta. I’ve always been a second-class citizen in your eyes, simply because you and Mabel felt I wasn’t legitimate. But since my mother, God rest her soul, had no idea Father was already married to your mother when he married her, I’ve always believed that I’m every bit as legitimate as you two are, no matter that society, along with the courts, believes differently.”
“Ah, so this is about Father’s will,” Miss Henrietta said after she retook her seat and grabbed the hand of Miss Mabel, who’d retaken her seat on the fainting couch as well.
“He left me with practically nothing, and that was after he’d murdered my mother and tried to murder me as well.”
“This is not going to be beneficial to our situation,” Asher said under his breath, and to Permilia’s surprise, he eased his hand ever so casually into his jacket pocket, his action undetected by Mr. Tooker or his mother, both of whom were in the midst of an argument with the Huxley sisters, an argument getting louder by the second.
When Permilia chanced a glance at Mr. Sprague, the man hired to assassinate Asher, he was watching Asher with a very considering look in his eyes before he turned his attention to Permilia and actually sent her . . . a wink.
“Don’t worry, Miss Griswold. Since it would seem I’m just as doomed as everyone else, I’m throwing my lot in with you and Mr. Rutherford, knowing that doing so will greatly increase my chances of getting out of this house alive.”
“Aren’t you paid to kill people?” Permilia whispered, having to lean forward to be heard over Miss Mabel’s and Cybil’s shouting.
“I’m not actually an assassin. I’m an aspiring writer who used to work for the New York Sun, but after getting dismissed from my position for embellishing my stories so much they came across as fiction, I decided I’d try my hand at a novel.” He blew out a breath. “Mysteries and murder stories are always a safe bet, so wanting to write an authentic story of a killer-for-hire, I paid for an advertisement hawking my fictitious skills, never imagining anyone would respond, and . . .” His eyes grew wide. “Mr. Tooker wasn’t the only person in the city looking to
hire an assassin.”
Permilia let out a grunt. “Which certainly explains how you were able to secure my secret identity. You’re used to sniffing out stories as a reporter.”
“Truth be told, my learning you’re Miss Quill was more luck than stellar reporting, Miss Griswold. Everyone at the Sun knows the veiled lady writes the Miss Quill column, even if Mr. Dana pretends they don’t, and when you stepped out of the hansom cab I’d taken the time to follow, well, you could have knocked me over with a feather.”
Permilia frowned. “How’d you get the invitation to the Vanderbilt ball? And how’d you get the funds to pay for that costume, one that I know full well cost you more than a pretty penny?”
“I do beg your pardon,” Cybil drawled, appearing directly in front of Permilia and tapping her walking stick on the floor. “I hope we haven’t been boring you with talk of murder, poisoning, polygamy, and other scandalous tidbits, but since it appears that whatever you and Mr. Sprague were discussing is evidently far more riveting than our conversation, do share it with the room.”
When Mr. Sprague let out what sounded exactly like a whimper, Permilia resisted the urge to roll her eyes and squared her shoulders instead.
“I was asking him how it came to be that he was able to receive an invitation to the Vanderbilt ball.”
“I procured him an invitation,” Mr. Tooker said, speaking up as he walked across the library to join his mother.
Permilia’s brows drew together, but before she could ask another question, Miss Henrietta came stomping after him, taking hold of his arm—which Permilia felt was a risky move—and then giving that arm a shake.
“Why would Alva Vanderbilt send you an invitation to her ball? It was your aunt and I who had a connection to Commodore Vanderbilt back in the day, and yet we didn’t get an invitation sent to us.”
Mr. Tooker shook himself out of Miss Henrietta’s hold. “Oh, but you did, Aunt Henrietta. I just happened to be visiting when the invitation was hand-delivered. Since Mr. Sprague had made it a condition of his taking on the job that I get him an invitation to the ball, I helped myself to your invitations, taking them to a man I know on the Lower East Side who changed the names on them.”
