by Kirby Larson
I blinked back tears, longing for Ruby and her understanding heart. If only I could talk to her. She would help me figure out what to do. If only she weren’t in Santa Clara …
Wait. Why couldn’t I go to her? I began to walk faster. Ruby had been so kind to me; the very least I could do was spell her as she cared for Pearl. I had money saved up. Well, saved up for a trip north. But I wasn’t sure I had the gumption for Seattle right now. I needed to feel useful, to think about someone besides myself. That was the ticket!
I knew I was on the right track with my thinking when I found the feather. A heavenly sign in answer to an unspoken prayer. And this was some feather, with its shiny coral shaft; it was that stunning color that had caught my eye. The pattern on the vane put me to mind of an appliquéd quilt block, as if an autumn oak leaf had pressed itself onto a shell pink feather. I picked it up, imagining the bird it had once adorned. It must be magnificent. Gill was a bit of a bird fancier; maybe he would be able to tell me about this feather. I slipped it into my pocketbook, feeling more chipper by the moment, even lighthearted enough to indulge in some window-shopping. I passed a milliner’s and peeked in. Inside the hat shop, a woman was trying on an enormous hat. She was redheaded and petite, like Ruby. Very like Ruby.
The evening had definitely taken a toll on me. I rubbed my temple. Ruby was at her mother’s, caring for Pearl. This must be wishful thinking on my part. Then my redhead stepped into better light and I came to a dead stop on the sidewalk.
This wasn’t someone who simply looked like Ruby. It was Ruby! But that was impossible.
I could not breathe. Could not move.
The woman sashayed to the cash register to count out bills to pay the clerk. No doubt some of them from my cold cream jar. And there she was, pretty as pie, using them to buy a hat. An extremely ugly hat.
My dinner now threatened to spill itself over the sidewalk. I swallowed hard, stumbling blindly down the street. Ruby. Here. What did it mean?
It wasn’t until I was back in my room, trembling on the bed that it hit me. The feather was not the sign I’d prayed for.
It was Ruby in that horrid hat.
The Stars Are in Alignment
Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.
—Sir Walter Scott
I lay awake late into the night. Surely there was an explanation. Ruby had returned to town and hadn’t yet had the opportunity to let me know. But what kept her from contacting me? I’d gone out for the evening, yes, but Raymond would’ve taken a message. Had there been a message.
As the sun slowly brought light into my room near dawn, it also brought light into my thinking. I had been overwrought from the evening. Marjorie’s probing had upset me more than I’d realized. The rich food had thrown me off, too. And then there was the news about Ned. And Charlie. It was all too much. I wasn’t thinking straight. How else to explain jumping to such a vile conclusion about Ruby? I would telephone her right away. And she would clear it all up. There’d be a good reason. A simple reason. Until my dying day, I must never let her know my hateful thoughts of the night before.
Deeply ashamed of myself, I somehow dressed and went downstairs. I double-checked with Raymond to see if there was a message for me. “Nothing,” he said. “Not one thing.” I glanced over the desk and saw that Raymond was drinking coffee. I believed him.
Gill greeted me when I arrived at the newsroom. “I know you’re a big-time reporter now,” he said. “But I spent an hour down in the dang-blasted morgue and couldn’t find what I was looking for. Could you give me a hand?”
Anything to stall writing the article I’d been assigned: “What to Wear When You Motor.” I nodded. “Sure, what do you need?”
He gave an uncomfortable laugh. “Now, don’t think I’m another Ned,” he said, “but your idea got me to thinking about women criminals.” He made a face. “It’s been a slow crime week.”
He looked so pathetic, I had to laugh. “And that’s a bad thing?”
“Very funny.” He grimaced. “It is when you’ve got the police beat.”
I picked up my notepad. “What are you looking for?”
“You ever heard of Mrs. Cassie Chadwick?”
I shook my head.
“There’s a story for you! Happened in the late nineties. She bilked a slew of bankers out of over four million dollars by claiming she was Andrew Carnegie’s secret daughter.”
“How?”
“Showed them a piece of paper with his signature, something like that. They thought she was worth billions, so they loaned her whatever she asked for.” He shrugged. “The details are fuzzy now. But I don’t want the piece to be about her. It needs to have a—”
“Local hook.” I knew the drill. “Sure. I can poke around for you.”
“I’d like to have three names—kind of a nice round number.” He handed me a slip of paper. “Here are my notes so far.”
I took it, glancing at the newsroom clock. “I can give you an hour,” I said. “I have to finish my five hundred words on selecting one’s wardrobe to match one’s automobile.” I tilted my nose up. “Very hoity-toity.”
With a laugh, Gill said, “I’ll take whatever time you can spare.”
“I need to make a phone call first.” I asked the operator to ring Ruby’s apartment. No answer. Then I had her try Mr. Wilkes’ office, too. Even though she was no longer employed there, they might know something. Mrs. Holm answered. “No, she’s not here. I believe I heard Mr. Wilkes making arrangements to drive down to Santa Clara next weekend.”
Oh, what a relief to hear such words! “If you do see her, would you please tell her I called?” Mrs. Holm said she’d be glad to. I nearly skipped to the elevator.
“Good morning, Miss Hattie.” Leroy closed the elevator door. “Where you going?”
“The morgue, please.” I held my notepad to my chest. A weight had been lifted, and I was ready to tackle whatever challenge Gill’s query would provide.
When I pulled open the heavy wooden door, it felt like a homecoming. It’d been a while since I’d spent any time in this place. I stopped inside the door and listened for my voices from the past. I wondered what they were going to tell me today.
I decided to start with 1915. The exposition had brought thousands of people to town, and not all of them upright citizens. The number of articles about confidence men, check forgers, and insurance frauds was astonishing. And many of these “con men” were women! It didn’t take me long to find some possibilities for Gill, including a Mrs. Denton, who claimed that her personal belongings—including all her jewelry and two sable coats—were in her automobile when it caught fire. Her mistake was in making that same claim five times, to five different insurance companies. There was a woman who professed to represent the British Patriotic Society of San Francisco and absconded with the money she’d raised to benefit “war sufferers.” There were five stories about women who conveniently “forgot” they were already married and accepted the proposals of wealthy elderly men. And one about a church secretary arrested for juggling the church books. So much for the fairer sex being the purer sex. It appeared that women were equally capable of graft and greed.
It did not take me the hour to accumulate a sufficient number of notes for Gill. I certainly was glad to be done with this task. I felt I needed to go upstairs and wash my hands straightaway.
I was about to close the journal I’d been reading when a headline jumped out at me:
Victim Now Believes
“Relative” Was Impostor;
Complains to Police
How could a relative be an impostor? Apparently, a Mrs. Harriet Bliven, living with her five-year-old daughter, Gladys, had been visited by a woman claiming to be a cousin from the east. I read further:
“She had a photograph of my mother,” said Mrs. Bliven, explaining how she came to be taken in. But after the “cousin” helped herself to a few pieces of Mrs. Bliven’s jewelry and $2,000 in cash that had been hi
dden in a desk, it became clear that there were no family ties. Police are looking for the cousin, who calls herself Rose Daniels, and a male accomplice. Police Lieutenant Richard M. Ingham reports that he has been contacted by the police department in Chicago regarding a similar case. The impostor there called herself Rose Danvers. She is described as being a well-dressed woman around 30 years old, about 110 pounds and five feet two inches in height, with a pale complexion and red hair.
I realized I’d been holding my breath. I let it out now, slowly. Shakily. I might question having seen Ruby the night before, but I couldn’t question these words. Ruby had bamboozled Mrs. Bliven. Had she done the same to me? To Uncle Chester? Was she the friend he’d tried to cash the check for that time? Was she the reason he’d gone to Montana? There was only one person who could answer those questions for me.
Distraught, I hurried back to the newsroom and delivered my notes to Gill.
“You don’t look well.” He studied me. “Are you coming down with something?”
“Did you eat breakfast?” Marjorie asked, suddenly at my side.
Had I? I couldn’t remember. Couldn’t think. “I just need some fresh air.”
“We’ll cover for you.” She reached over to a hook on the wall, pulled down my coat, and helped me into it as if I were a small child.
At first I didn’t know quite where to go. But I found myself walking to the Pacific Building. To see for myself if Ruby was there. Mrs. Holm might be in on all this, too. I had no idea. The street was wrapped in the notorious San Francisco fog, making the few blocks’ walk to Mr. Wilkes’ office seem even longer.
As soon as I passed through that ornate portal, I sensed something was wrong. Mrs. Holm’s always-tidy desk was covered in papers and files. Even with his office door closed, I could hear Mr. Wilkes talking. And he was not pleased.
“Oh, Hattie.” Mrs. Holm glanced over her shoulder at the closed door behind her. “This is not a good time.”
At that moment, Mr. Wilkes’ office door opened and an egg-shaped little man walked out. Even without his summer boater, I recognized him. He’d been the one cornered by the astrology lady that day in the lobby of Ruby’s apartment building.
“Thank you.” Mr. Wilkes shook the man’s hand. “I appreciate your help. And discretion.”
“But of course. Au revoir.” The little man turned and acknowledged me with a tip of his hat. “You are Mademoiselle Brooks, are you not?”
I nodded and took a step back. “How did you know that?”
He cut a glance at Mr. Wilkes, who nodded. “Feel free to use that office,” he said, pointing down the hall.
“Who are you?”
He presented me with his card:
LUCIEN K. GIGNAC, PRESIDENT GIGNAC SECRET SERVICE BUREAU
“You’re a detective.”
He made an odd roll of his shoulders. “I prefer the term ‘operative.’ Come.” He escorted me to the spare office, closing the door behind us. “Will that chair be comfortable for you?”
I decided to get right to it. “Why were you at Ruby’s apartment that day?”
He had begun to seat himself and paused before lowering his ample girth all the way down into the plush leather chair. “Perhaps you should tell me your story first.”
I clutched my pocketbook even tighter. As I told him about seeing Ruby the night before, at the millinery shop, and the money I’d lent her, about the article I’d just found, and what I’d learned about Uncle Chester, he clucked his tongue, nodded his head, and steepled his fingers.
“Were they in it together?” I finished in a rush. Broken by the harsh truth I’d spoken, I could no longer hold back tears. “My uncle and Ruby, I mean.”
He pursed his lips. “Things are not always as they appear.”
“I’m not a child,” I said. “I can handle the truth.”
“Ah, but whose truth?”
I’d had enough of this double-talk. “What do you know about my uncle?”
He stroked his fastidious moustache. “Very little. He is deceased, is he not? And you are an—how do you say it?—an orphan.”
That stopped me. “How do you know that?”
“It is my business.” He waved his hands. “I have found out many things about you. I apologize. But it was important to know whether you were …” He paused. “Involved.”
I nearly dropped my pocketbook. “Involved? In what?”
“I am not free to say. But, my dear mademoiselle, we are now very clear that you are innocent.” His spectacles magnified the sadness in his eyes. “I regret I cannot tell you more. Now.” He pulled a gold watch from his vest pocket. “I am very sorry, but I have a pressing engagement elsewhere.”
I knew I was being dismissed. But I could not move from the chair. It was as if my shoes were made of lead, not leather. “Is Ruby to be arrested?” I choked out the words. “What will happen to Pearl?”
Mr. Gignac’s face scrunched into a frown.
“She’s been ill.” I leaned forward. “I gave Ruby money for the specialist.”
“Mon Dieu.” Mr. Gignac closed his eyes.
I couldn’t breathe. Please, God, no bad news about Pearl. It would be too much to bear.
“I am so sorry, mademoiselle.” He put his watch back in his pocket. “Pearl is yet one more of Madame Danvers’ creations.”
A window shade began to lower in my brain. “I feel faint.…”
He leapt up and came to my side, patting my hand. “Deep breaths, my dear. Deep breaths. This is a shock, I know.”
“I don’t understand.”
His mouth formed a tight line. “There is no Pearl. Nor a grandmother in Santa Clara. It was a cruel hoax.…” His voice trailed off.
“How could she?”
“It is for the money.” He sighed. “Always, for the money. Anything for the money.”
I had confided my deepest grief to her, that I’d been unable to save Mattie. And she used it to manipulate me. “She’s in town, isn’t she? At the apartment.” I pushed myself to stand. “I’m going to tell her what I think of her.”
“I should not say this, but if you desire to have words with Madame Danvers, I would advise you to go now. Do not delay.” He unfolded stiffly and moved away from me to stand upright again and opened the door. “Good day, Mademoiselle Brooks.”
I didn’t even bother to find a telephone to let anyone at the Chronicle know that I’d be out a while longer. Marjorie had said she’d cover for me, and I knew I could count on her. I raced to that familiar address on Union Street.
The old astrologer was in the lobby, petting her scroungy cat. “Ah, look, Figaro. It’s our Scorpio friend,” she said.
I brushed past her and ran to the elevator, mashing the up button. Hurry, hurry, hurry.
“No need to rush,” the old lady said. “She’s there.”
The car arrived, and I pushed open the grate to step inside.
“All will be well, young lady,” she called after me as I wrestled the gate closed. “For you, at least. Not for her.” Her haunting laugh drifted up through the elevator shaft.
Ruby, or whoever she was, answered my knock. She nodded when she saw me there. “I thought that was you, last night.” She stood in the doorway, not offering to let me in. “I can tell by your face that it was.”
“We need to talk.” I stepped forward.
“What’s done is done.” Ruby fiddled with the knob. “Let’s not be tiresome.”
“How about being honest?” I squeezed my way inside. “Tell me, Ruby, how’s Pearl?”
She sighed and closed the door. “At least come in and sit down.”
I didn’t move. “Tell me.”
“Oh, look!” She skimmed across the room to where a small stack of books rested on a chair. An open trunk sat on the floor beyond, partly filled with odds and ends.
“Are you leaving?”
“You must see what I’ve found.” She snatched up the books and held them out. “You and Chester and your books. He
couldn’t bear to part with these. Me, I have no such sentiments about the things. Words, words, words. Who needs them? Give me a stack of Abe Lincolns any day. That’s knowledge enough for me.” She held the books out. “I want you to have them.”
Something bitter rose up in me. “But don’t you want to give them to Pearl?”
Her arms dropped, and she replaced the books on the chair. “You will think it a cruel trick of me, to play on your sympathy.” Her voice was petulant. “But I was desperate.”
“I told you about Mattie. That’s why you invented Pearl.” I felt woozy but was determined to stand on my own two feet. To face the full force of this ugly betrayal.
“Normally, I’d draw the line at conning someone your age, but you’ve been on your own some. You should be more careful.” She beamed at me as if she’d done me an enormous favor. “You’re angry at me now, but one day, you’ll be grateful. I’ve taught you to be more cautious about trusting people.” She turned away to continue packing.
“But why?”
She folded a paisley shawl and tucked it into the trunk. “You sound like Chester. He was so good at the con—what an actor!—but, oh, his silly little rules. We couldn’t touch the clergy or farmers, or women with kids. Especially not women with kids. We would’ve been set for life if he hadn’t gotten cold feet that time. All because the mark had a little girl. He wanted no part of it.” She paused, then picked up that ruffled apricot dress to add to the trunk. “So I was going to turn him in. Otherwise, he’d ruin everything.”
Her words turned me into a fence post; I could not move.
She flapped her hand. “Don’t worry. He got wind of the whole thing. Fessed up himself, made bail, and skipped town.” She smirked. “Went to Montana.”
Was there no limit to this woman’s heartlessness? Betraying my uncle then and me now? “How could you send that letter? The love token?”
She’d filled the trunk to the brim and was now struggling to lock it. “I thought maybe he’d come to his senses. Plus, I needed his help with … with something.”
