City of Angels (The Trials of Kit Shannon #1)

by James Scott Bell

  "You speak it very well, Corazón."

  "I wish to speak more . . . better."

  "Of course I'll help. You show me how to do this magic with my hair and teach me Spanish, and I'll give you lessons in English. Deal?"

  "Deal?" The maid's confused expression reminded Kit that she would have to take things slowly.

  "A deal is an agreement. We will shake hands on it and promise to help one another. Understand?"

  Corazón beamed a smile. "Yes. Deal." She reached out and tentatively shook Kit's hand.

  Then she stepped back and looked at Kit admiringly. "You will have all of the gentlemen—how do you say it? Eating out of your hand, I think." She stepped forward and secured a diamond clasp in Kit's hair. The effect was stunning.

  Kit shook her head. "This is not who I am! I don't know why I ever agreed to this. There's no need to introduce me to society."

  Corazón giggled and helped Kit up from the chair. "Madam has plans for you."

  "Yes, but her plans are very different from my own. I feel . . . silly. Silly and foolish. I've been poked and prodded for so many dress fittings over the last few days that I feel like a pin cushion."

  "Do you like the dress from Señora Norris?"

  Kit smoothed down the silk skirt of the gown that had been completed that afternoon. She hesitated again at the low neckline. "I feel so exposed."

  "This gown is modest, you will see."

  Kit pulled a bit at the material, hoping to gain herself an extra inch of coverage. "It may be modest to some, but it is a far cry from the reserved fashion I'm used to."

  "You would look good in anything, I think." Corazón gave Kit a smile.

  Aunt Freddy chose that moment to enter. She was clothed in a dark blue evening gown with a white feathered boa coiled around her neck. "And how is my niece faring?"

  Kit felt her stomach fairly groan in protest against the tight corset. "I don't know how a woman is expected to breathe in this thing, Aunt Freddy. No wonder they faint left and right."

  "My dear," Aunt Freddy said patiently, "the difference between the woman who always looks trim and smart and the luckless creature who is never well dressed, no matter what her garments cost or where she gets them, is chiefly a question of corsets."

  Freddy approached Kit and ran her hand around the small of her back. "Ah, the very best," Aunt Freddy said. "For good reason. The best dressmaker in the world cannot make a well-fitting dress over an ill-fitting corset. I always say you cannot build a colonial mansion on the frame of a Gothic residence."

  Kit shook her head. "But I feel like a condemned tenement. Does one inch matter so much?"

  "Of course! For your height, the ideal waist is twenty-two inches. No more, no less. And try to remember that the society woman should be as serene as a June day, with a golden leisure in her walk and calm confidence on her brow. Now, make me proud."

  And with that, Freddy disappeared from the room in a swirl of feathers and satin.

  Corazón handed Kit her elbow-length gloves. Kit pulled them on and allowed Corazón to fasten a band of diamonds and sapphires around her wrist. It all made Kit's head light. Aunt Freddy's money seemed to have no limits.

  Finally Corazón took a step back and declared, "Beautiful."

  Kit felt herself surprised at the assessment. Am I pretty? she wondered. It had been so long since anyone had told her so. Certainly the sisters at Leo House in New York, where Kit was sent from St. Catherine's after her seventeenth birthday, were not concerned about looks—theirs or anyone else's—with the exception of Sister Mary Monica, who had once told her in passing that she was becoming quite pretty indeed.

  Should she should be more concerned with her looks? Was Aunt Freddy right about that? Perhaps, but all this fiddling with corsets and jewels, this overwhelming concern about just the right image, was too much.

  Kit felt alone and afraid, even with Corazón there. The maid couldn't possibly understand. Nor could anyone else she knew. In a world where men considered the female heart and soul to be much too delicate for such occupations as law and criminal disposal, Kit had become her own executioner. Was Aunt Freddy right? Was this just craziness—a scandal? Or was it truly God's will for her life?

  She thought about her father. What would he have said about her dreams? The Reverend Harry E. Shannon had been a man of firm resolve and even firmer convictions. The former had sent him to America from his native Ireland in 1856. He was just fourteen years old, and with both parents dead, he had survived a treacherous sea crossing alone and an immediate lock-up after landing in Boston. Having been falsely accused of stealing tomatoes, the boy had fearfully made a jail-cell pact with God. "Get me out of here," he prayed, "and I'll spend the rest of my life in service to you. Even if I starve."

  And he had kept his promise. Once freed, he moved through the ranks to become a noted preacher in the Irish section of town. Eventually he even went on to ride the circuit from Lowell to Philadelphia. He had told Kit over and over again, "If God tells you to do something, you do it. If God tells you to go, you go. Do those two things, and when you're finished in this life, your soul will be in heaven before the devil knows you're dead."

  Kit smiled at the memory. Corazón finished smoothing Kit's dress and said, "There. Beautiful. May you have much fun!"

  "I'll try," Kit assured her. "If I can breathe!" She walked out the door, feeling awkward in her long train and frippery. She would much rather be curled up with a good book.

  Kit resolved to make the best of the evening. This was, after all, for Aunt Freddy's sake. She reached the stairs and began her descent feeling much like Daniel heading for the lions' den.

  ———

  Aunt Freddy was in her element. She buzzed around the party like a dervish of delight, waving her ever-present handkerchief in front of her florid face. Nothing pleased her more than a social event in her home with all the right people. And they were all present, here to meet her great niece from the East.

  A string quartet played softly near the grand fireplace in the ballroom. At least sixty people were in this room, Kit estimated as Aunt Freddy pulled her from person to person like a bee stopping at every flower in the field. At each introduction Kit smiled, answered questions about New York, and made polite conversation about the weather and the garden.

  Freddy escorted her to a squat man standing near the piano. "Chief Orel Hoover," Freddy said, "I would like you to meet my niece, Kathleen Shannon. Kathleen, this is our city's Chief of Police."

  The man gave a slight bow as he took hold of Kit's hand. "I'm charmed, Miss Shannon. It is always a delight to add another fair flower to our city."

  "Thank you, Chief Hoover."

  "And this is my son, William." He turned to a younger man beside him. The young man, unsmiling, nodded in Kit's direction. She noted that he kept his hands in his pockets, not offering to shake hers. Was this sort of sullenness common in Los Angeles? she wondered.

  As they moved past, Freddy whispered, "They say the chief killed a man once over a gambling debt. Scandalous!"

  "Then how did he become the Chief of Police?"

  "Oh," Freddy snorted, "this is Los Angeles, dear."

  They then approached an elegantly dressed couple. "This," Aunt Freddy said, "is Mr. and Mrs. Breckenridge, dear friends of mine. My niece, Kathleen Shannon."

  The woman, somewhere in her fifties, gave Kit a cursory study before following with a slight nod. "Miss Shannon, I've heard much about you. You traveled to Los Angeles completely unaccompanied." She looked at Kit as if expecting her to deny the accusation.

  "I did indeed," Kit said. "But I managed to make it here alive."

  The man laughed. The woman did not. Kit immediately held out her hand to Mr. Breckenridge. "It is a pleasure to meet you, sir."

  Freddy whispered as they moved along, "She drinks on the sly. Scandalous! Ah, and here we have . . ."

  By the twentieth introduction Kit was exhausted, even though number twenty was a handsome young ma
n by the name of Fante, or Fainte, or some such. All she knew was that he was a banker. Aunt Freddy had whispered that much in her ear, along with the advice that Kit breathe in to amplify her bust.

  Kit breathed normally, however, and at the earliest opportunity stole away to the punch bowl. There she found relief, but only for a moment. The attendant had just filled her glass when she heard a voice behind her.

  "Miss Shannon?"

  Turning, Kit saw a man looking directly at her. He was almost fully bald and rather gaunt, but possessed a look of unmistakable prosperity. Kit guessed him to be about sixty.

  "My name is Heath Sloate," he said, offering his hand.

  "Enchanted, Mr. Sloate," Kit intoned, taking his hand. Even through her gloves she could feel his bony thinness as he held the grip a little too long.

  "I know your great aunt very well. I've been able to help her on a number of occasions with her affairs."

  "Thank you. I'm sure she appreciates it."

  For a moment his deep-set eyes bobbed in their sockets, as if he were contemplating some secret vision. Kit felt her cheeks flush as his gaze dropped to her neckline. Glancing up again, his thin lips formed an appreciative smile. "I understand from your aunt that you have a certain, rather singular, ambition. Is that correct?"

  "I suppose I do."

  "Practicing law?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Remarkable."

  "Pardon me, sir?"

  "When your aunt suggested your desire, I assumed you were most likely of a plain, perhaps even disfigured, appearance."

  Kit frowned. "What does my appearance have to do with practicing law?"

  "Why, everything. A fine specimen of womanhood such as yourself, undertaking to pass the bar. Not that it hasn't happened, you understand. But it's been mostly older women, widows with no hope of matrimony. Socialists. And suffragettes. Insufferable suffragettes."

  Sloate laughed through his nose. Kit took a sip of punch, trying to control the anger welling within her.

  "My dear," Sloate said, "if I may offer you a bit of advice. I've tramped the fields of the law for quite a number of years now, and if there is one thing I know, it is this. The law is not a place for women."

  The deflation she felt must have shown on her face. Sloate said, "There, it's not all that bad. Let me tell you a story. A few years ago I was appointed special prosecutor in a case involving a particularly grisly murder. Man killed his own brother with an ax. Does that shock you?"

  Swallowing, Kit said, "Evil is always shocking, Mr. Sloate."

  "You have never come face-to-face with such evil, I'm sure. No one as lovely as you could have and still retained such natural, innocent beauty." He stole another glance at her bodice.

  Kit looked around for a way of escape.

  "The defendant hired a lawyer," Sloate continued blithely. "One skilled at spinning webs to ensnare juries. He tried every trick, both emotional and logical, twisting facts and soaring with high-flown oratory. The judge, an old friend of his, allowed him to get away with the most atrocious ploys. There was even a manufactured alibi. Through it all, as if juggling many balls at once, I persevered and gained the conviction. That could never have happened without a particular kind of legal mind. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

  "I'm trying to follow, Mr. Sloate."

  "What I'm talking about is, for want of a better word, the male mind. The practice of law requires the ability to consider facts, logic, and complexities all at the same time."

  "I believe I can do that."

  "I'm speaking from long experience, my dear. I have seen women try it. Believe me when I tell you this: You won't find happiness in the law."

  Kit looked at the floor.

  Sloate put a cold hand on her arm. "You're very young. The young always think they can sway the eternal verities. Believe me, Miss Shannon, women are the softer sex, the nurturers of our society. And you, my dear, seem eminently suited to that purpose."

  Kit took a deep breath. "Mr. Sloate, I've read all of Blackstone and Greenleaf's Treatise on Evidence, and I do believe I have understood their . . . complexities, as you call them. I know the difference between incorporeal hereditaments and tangible gifts, and I understand covenants running with the land. I can read contracts and estate plans. I can help people who need help, especially the ones who usually don't get it."

  The thin smile returned to Heath Sloate's face. "You have a certain spirit, I grant you. But Miss Shannon, spirit is one thing. A position is another. Without a position you'll never be able to begin. I know everyone in this city worth knowing, and I can tell you it will be impossible to find one. No, Miss Shannon, the law is not for you."

  "With God all things are possible." The words popped out of her mouth, almost of their own accord. She met Heath Sloate's gaze full on. In it she could see a steely rebuke. But she did not look away.

  At that moment Aunt Freddy flitted over to join them. "I see you have met each other," she said.

  "Quite," said Heath Sloate.

  "Did you have a chance to chat?"

  "Oh yes," he replied.

  "And?"

  "Your niece is a charming girl, of stubborn stock, I'll wager."

  "Stubborn?" Aunt Freddy said. "Didn't she listen?"

  Kit said, "Listen?"

  "Your aunt," said Sloate, "asked that I put a stop to your fantasies about practicing law."

  "I most certainly did!" Aunt Freddy huffed.

  Sloate said, "But it appears I have nothing more to say."

  "Oh, dear!" Aunt Freddy took a step backward, tottering.

  "Mr. Sloate," Kit said, "if I have offended you, I—"

  Sloate silenced Kit with a hand in the air. She felt like crawling under the table. Sloate turned and gave Freddy the tiniest hint of a bow.

  "This cannot work in your favor, Frederica. You'll be ruined if she insists on this course of action."

  "That's hardly fair to say," Kit said. "What I've done—what I will do—has no bearing on my aunt."

  Sloate's eyes narrowed. "For one so well educated, you truly know nothing." With that he took his leave and crossed the room to greet more companionable company.

  Kit knew this display had wounded her aunt. She felt at a loss for words. What could she say? She could apologize—but for what? She wasn't sorry for speaking her mind, only for the pain it inadvertently caused her aunt.

  "Aunt Freddy, I . . ."

  Freddy held out a large drinking glass to the servant at the punch bowl. "Put some gin in there, too," she said. "And don't be stingy."

  "Now, Aunt Freddy, you shouldn't," Kit said.

  "Don't you tell me what I shouldn't do, young lady! I'll be ruined! I might as well not feel it." She took the drink from the servant and downed it heartily, then eyed Kit severely. "You should know better than to challenge a man like Mr. Sloate. He's only speaking on what he knows—on what is best."

  "Best perhaps for him. But hardly the best for me. He knows nothing of me, Aunt Freddy." Kit tried to soften her voice. "You know very little of me yourself."

  "Well!" Freddy declared, pushing the glass back to the servant. "We shall discuss this tomorrow. For now, I would ask that you comport yourself in a proper manner." She snatched the refilled drink from the servant, then left Kit to contemplate her words.

  Kit looked around the room. Although no one appeared to be staring, she felt every pair of eyes carefully considering her. Unable to remain at the party another moment, she fled through the rear door. In the refuge of the hallway she leaned against the wall. Los Angeles suddenly felt like a stifling, overwhelming place.

  "Bushed?"

  Kit jumped at the sound of the voice. A man seated on the stairs a mere ten feet away looked at her and smiled. He was about her age, perhaps a little older, dressed in elegant evening clothes. Droplets of water stood out on his coat, as if he'd just come inside out of the rain. Kit couldn't recall seeing him at the party.

  "Sorry I startled you," the man said, standing. As
he walked toward Kit, she perceived brilliant blue eyes staring intently at her face.

  "Here," he said, pulling out a handkerchief and reaching out to dab her chin. He held the handkerchief up for her to see. It revealed a dim red spot. "May have been a little punch or something," he said.

  Powerless to stop the blush that rushed to her face, Kit muttered, "Thank you. I just came out for a moment."

  "I'm with you," he said. "I'd rather be out here than in there. All that 'Oh, you must hear the latest!' talk gives me a pain."

  Kit smiled. "I wouldn't have put it that way, but now that you mention it . . ."

  "Ted Fox." He put out his hand.

  "Kathleen Shannon."

  "Ah, you're the one all this is for."

  "My aunt insisted."

  "Aunts are that way. I have one back home who delights in showing my photograph to everyone who comes to her house."

  "I should think you would be flattered."

  He leaned closer and whispered. "The photograph was taken when I was six months old, and I'm as naked as the truth on Sunday."

  Kit laughed. It felt good. "I didn't notice you inside."

  "Just got here."

  "Were you going to spend the whole evening sitting on the stairs?"

  "Maybe."

  "Why?" Kit asked.

  "Have my reasons."

  "And you're not telling?"

  He smiled in a way that lit up the hallway. "You're an inquisitive one."

  "So I've been told."

  "Tell me," he said, his face growing more serious. "Have you met a man named Sloate here?"

  The name gave her a slight shudder. "You know him?"

  "Unfortunately."

  "Is that why you're not going in?"

  "That and . . ."

  "And what?" Kit could not contain her curiosity.

  Mr. Fox smiled again, but this time his smile hid a mystery. "Do you think man was meant to fly?" he said.

  Kit cocked her head and narrowed her gaze. "Fly? You mean with wings?"

  "With wings that he builds with his hands."

  "I think man has his hands full right here on the ground."

  "Well, Miss Shannon, I don't believe man is glued to the earth. I think we were meant to soar!"