“You’re right daft, aren’t you, Valari?” Forbes smirked. “Montague. And he said he had something else up his sleeve.”
The bartender brought the lemonades and Jasper was about to carry them off when Merinda joined him at the bar. They exchanged a look and tried to look disinterested, even as Forbes took a moment to swivel on his chair and overlook the nearly empty bar. Everyone else, it seemed, had opted to sit in the sun and watch the horses under its bright rays.
“After the election,” Forbes said snidely, “things will change. Montague owes them both a lot of money. It’s a bet. Just like this one,” he said, indicating the racetrack. “Montague owes Crawley for keeping his stupid Morality Squad in the Globe and the Corktown Murders out. He knew the bad press from those murders could turn the tide of the election for him.”
“I don’t understand,” said Tony.
Forbes sighed. “Horace Milbrook has decided his first order of business is to clean up hygiene in the Ward. That means no more of Montague’s ramshackle housing, like St. Joseph’s. Then, he is going to come down on illegal working conditions. Make sure workers in the garment factories and such are paid decent wages. Spenser and the rest of the city businessmen need Montague to stay in office if they don’t want to lose a lot of money on those immigrants’ paychecks.”
Merinda and Jasper couldn’t believe their ears.
“But you haven’t been paid and I haven’t been paid,” Tony said. “I am getting a little tired of doing work with only the promise of future payment.” He shook his head. “There are other ways to get money besides just waiting on the city’s bigwigs.”
Before Merinda and Jasper could hear what those other ways would be, Tony and Forbes left, perhaps to place another bet against money still owed to them.
Merinda and Jasper had heard enough. As they crossed over the soft green grass again, Jasper kept his arm looped with Merinda’s. How many moments had he won now? Touching her arm gently. Pulling her close. Happily keeping his chin from colliding with her hat.
“You’re in a lovely mood today, Jasper,” Merinda said.
“I am! Beautiful day! Something to report on the criminal activity of Crawley, Forbes, and Tony.” Not to mention something on the order of thirty minutes of physical contact with Merinda. “When I bring this information to the station, they’ll let me off probation early! And to think, I didn’t really have to do anything but sip lemonade with you at the races!”
“About that… ”
“I might even get a promotion once they finally nab them. They won’t make it halfway to Chicago. Why, I might—”
“You can’t tell anyone, Jasper!”
He stopped. “Pardon me?”
“I need to solve this, Jasper. I know Gavin is linked to the Corktown Murders. Jem and I are this close.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Merinda. Two girls can’t wipe out a city’s worth of crime. The operation that Crawley is running has some major players in its ring. This is about more than two dead Irish girls. This is at the heart of our political system. It has ramifications for all of our citizens. Some of our leading men. If—”
“I know! I know! Using cheap labor and farming out thugs.” She grabbed tightly to his arm and stared up into his wide blue eyes. “Jasper, I know you won’t deny me this.”
“You’re not playing fair! You know how I… Well, you know—”
“I know you can’t say no to me. Especially when I look up at you and bat my eyelashes.” She batted them playfully.
Jasper tried to be cross with her. He shut his eyes so he wouldn’t watch those eyelashes. But even with his eyes closed, a smile snuck out, and he knew Merinda Herringford was going to get her way.
* This was a better excuse, she decided, than telling him her affections were for a reporter with ink-stained fingers and a crooked smile.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Carefully designed to mirror the elegant world-class theatres in New York and Chicago, Tertius Montague is happy to have personally financed the grand Winter Garden Theatre. An invitation-only gala tonight will give Toronto’s finest their first peek into what Montague and his designers assure us is a breathtaking whiff of a summer garden, even as the winter drags on.
The Hogtown Herald
What are you doing?”
Merinda looked up from her desk as Jem entered, divesting herself of her damp coat and stomping her boots to rid them of snow.
“Nothing much,” Merinda said. She picked up the notecard on which she’d been writing and leaned back, blowing on it to dry the ink.
Jem walked over and leaned over Merinda’s shoulder, squinting to see what was written on the card. “Request the honor of your presence… grand opening… Winter Garden Theatre… Martina Forth! Merinda! Who’s Martina?”
“I am,” Merinda said matter-of-factly. “You’ve weaseled your way into the event on Golden Boy Crawley’s arm, but I’m not letting you go on your own.”
“So how… ”
“This is Jasper’s father’s invitation,” Merinda said with a roll of her eyes. “Honestly, Jem, you can be such a simpleton sometimes. Mr. Forth is infirm, and he was all too pleased to part with his invitation. It’s a simple matter to change Martin to Martina.”
“I can see that,” Jem said sarcastically.
Thereafter followed an hour of frenzied preparation, in which Merinda put on a yellow gauzy dress frilled with lace and Jem dressed in a similar one in blue. As Jem powdered her nose, Merinda tucked an ivory-handled pistol into her handbag.
The electric lights of Yonge winked at them alluringly. Even as they stepped off the streetcar, Jem could see the marquis of the theatre, far larger than its predecessor, attracting them from a block away.
The entrance to the theatre was bright and beautiful. On either side of the grand foyer the names of great composers and playwrights were ensconced in marble. A staircase led up to French doors with polished handles. They passed inside and followed the queue to the left of the golden lifts that would propel them to the second floor and the Winter Garden Theatre. The flash and pop of several cameras met them—Skip McCoy’s among them. He spotted them, waved, and moved his way across the red carpeted foyer. “Miss Herringford! Miss Watts!”
“Quite a crowd, Skip!” Merinda said, taking in the whirlwind of music and laughter.
“This place has a secret, you know.” He looked between them.
“A ghost?” wondered Merinda.
“A tunnel. Did you know there’s a tunnel that goes straight under here, and all the way under the Dominion Bank, and comes out at Massey Hall?”
“Whatever for?” asked Jem.
“Something to do with the War of 1812. In case there was a siege or something. I always think of it, though. Whenever I’m here.”
He continued on about its dimensions but Merinda, bored, shuffled Jem away, leaving Skip talking to himself.
Merinda and Jem merged with the throng in the foyer. Waiters rotated in a glistening carousel of poised silver trays and crystal champagne flutes. At the heart of the crowd, they spotted Henry Tipton, chief of police, clinking glasses with Tertius Montague.
“It’s stuffy and boring here,” Merinda complained. Her eyes danced around the room for something exciting. She swiped two flutes of champagne from a waiter and handed one to Jem.
“Misses Herringford and Watts, the city’s favorite bachelor girl detectives.” Gavin Crawley said it loudly and a few onlookers inched closer.
Jem blushed. Merinda laughed. Jem had no idea they had attracted the following they had. It would appear that Ray’s articles in the Hog enjoyed several readers among the affluent. He’d be thrilled.
“Mr. Crawley, how pleasant.” Jem responded with false sincerity as the crowd fringed back into their conversations and Gavin lifted Jem’s hand to his lips. Jem still wasn’t sure how to talk to him. How had she let Merinda let her get in this deeply? She looked to her friend for support, but Merinda was sipping champagne.
&nb
sp; “When Tertius Montague is duly elected,” Gavin said, raising his voice so as to keep those near within hearing, “he will assure that all females—all who would be so inclined—are kept from defacing the city’s moral code with their ridiculous antics. Especially”—and here he narrowed his eyes at Merinda—“those who try their hands at a man’s job in a business they have no right to be in.”
Merinda seethed. “You’re courting this fool?” she said to Jem.
Jem shrugged sheepishly, wanting to remind Merinda for the umpteenth time that she had wanted to cut ties with the cad weeks ago.
“Jem,” Gavin said, taking her hand and leading her toward the buffet, “you won’t always need to dash after Merinda to earn your bread, you know. Nor will you need to be seen out in ridiculous men’s clothing.”
“What about the immigrant women? Are you going to help them too? You and Tertius Montague? And what about me, Gavin, who—”
“Shh. Jem. You’re getting ahead of yourself. And,” he said with disapproval, “sounding far too much like your friend.”
“That’s not such a bad thing, Gavin.”
“It is to me.”
How much longer would she have to play this game? “I don’t think we’ve ever wanted the same things, Gavin. Not where it counts. I don’t believe in what you’ve made for yourself, and I don’t believe in the man you are backing.”
“Montague is the future of the city, Jemima. He proved it in his last term.”
“I disagree,” said Jem. “He hasn’t yet learned that the world is spinning out of his control and that he can’t put walls in place to stall its progress.”
“You want Toronto to be overrun by crime? Festering with an influx of out-of-work vagabonds?”
“Families,” Jem corrected. “With children. Wanting something new.”
Gavin took her hands and spun her to the side of the mirrored foyer. “Jem, you would see the way I do if only you would tear yourself away from that friend of yours. There is some fire in you that goes with that sweetness. You can make me a better man, and I can give you the life you want.”
Jem’s brain spun. The life she wanted? What did Gavin know of the life she wanted? “What life is that, Gavin?” Strauss and strawberries, monogrammed serviettes, her parents’ approval. Matching dishes from the Spenser’s catalogue.
“A few babies,” he said. “A beautiful home. How about a garden to rival the Winter Garden here? A man to worship you.” His eyes wandered over her. “Your friend wouldn’t understand. You know, you are allowed to give up the life she has tied you into for your own self-preservation, Jem.”
“Is this a proposal?”
Gavin took a sip of champagne. “Do you want it to be?”
Before she could respond, a man in coattails announced that Tertius Montague would now receive guests in the lobby. Gavin joined the surge in that direction, and Jem was able to slip away.
Ray shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Every sinew in him ached to cry out and reveal Mayor Montague for the fraud he was. Scratch that—the entire night was a fraud. Montague and his business cronies were out to save pennies at the expense of women like Viola and men like Lars. What a sham, this need for the flounces and fervor, the lights and the promenade. He kept his tirade to himself, though, and observed. Reporters observed. His eyes traveled around the room, and he saw faces familiar, faces new, and faces that looked a lot like…
Jem and Merinda. Seeing them here where they shouldn’t be was like a phonograph skipping over the same portion of music again and again. A smile couldn’t help but flicker up the side of his face. He assumed Jem had been given an invitation by Gavin, but he wondered how Merinda had gotten in.
Jem was talking to Gavin, her shoulders rising as Gavin leaned into her. She folded her arms, then, in a most unladylike way, even in a pretty blue dress. This was the opposite of the Jem who had thrown her arms around him and rammed her lips against his and blushed to high heaven.
Gavin may have had the pedigree and background Ray desired, but he didn’t have the heart of Jem Watts.
Alexander Waverley, editor of the Globe, stood before the crowd and announced Mayor Tertius Montague. Ray looked over and around top hats and feathers for a glimpse.
“In just a few moments,” Montague boomed in his tenor voice, “it will be my privilege to introduce the garden I have waiting for you. The Winter Garden Theatre.”
Enthusiastic applause followed.
Montague proceeded to speak about the construction of the theatre and the tireless efforts of its workers. He made sure to mention how it rivaled similar structures in Chicago and New York. He reiterated how the Elgin spanned a full city block in length, testament to the city’s cultural sophistication.
Despite his bold words, Ray thought the mayor appeared nervous. Montague brought his handkerchief up and wiped his brow. This intrigued Ray, who had never seen the mogul anything but supremely confident. Why would he be anxious now, when the city was all but crowning him with the laurels of victory—not only for the mayoral race but also for his contribution to the city’s architectural endowment?
“The Winter Garden Theatre is the icing on the cake,” Montague said, folding his handkerchief away. “The Elgin and the Winter Garden will be accessible to everyone. There will be discounted prices for Wednesday matinees and Sunday afternoons.”
Even the rich of Toronto, in their sateen and starched collars, applauded this show of benevolence.
Waverley stepped forward again and instructed the crowd to enjoy the buffet and conversation for another hour before proceeding to the second floor for the unveiling of the Winter Garden Theatre.
Ray kept to the side of the foyer as the crowd milled about. Swishes of satin and lace whisked passed him and up the grand staircase. At the top of the stairs, a chamber quartet launched into a Boccherini piece.
Skip was soon at his side, working with the plate in his camera and hoisting the stand. “Got some good pictures tonight, Mr. DeLuca.”
“Get some of Montague mingling, will you? In his element with all of this liquor and food.”
Skip nodded and set off.
Ray heard a small voice calling his name. It was high-pitched and rather desperate. He turned and found a young woman standing before him.
“You’re that fellow from the Hog.”
“Yes.” Ray noticed she wasn’t dressed to the nines, as were the other patrons. He assumed she’d winnowed her way into the event somehow.
“My name is Tippy. I have information on Tertius Montague and Gavin Crawley that you might find interesting.”
He leaned forward. “Why not go to the police?”
“They wouldn’t listen to me.”
Ray shrugged. “I suppose not. Then, why not come to my office? It can’t have been easy to get inside this gala.”
“It couldn’t wait.” Tippy replied.
He led her out of the grand foyer and out to the street. Halfway down Yonge they paused under a streetlight.
“At first, I thought he was legitimate,” Tippy said. “Gavin. He was a reporter. I had seen his name in the paper. He promised me money and trinkets if I did a few things for him. He told me he was doing some work to uncover corruption in the mayor’s office. A kind of undercover assignment. One night, after I’d started slipping envelopes for him, he took me to Grace Street for supper. A quiet place. Just us with candles and wine, and I actually thought he might propose.”
Ray knew where this was going. He took off his hat and scratched the back of his head.
“He told me everything. His family history. His dire financial straits. He used the mailroom for bribes and to pay his bookies. I did it for him gladly. We had all been in a tough spot, and he was turning his world around. He was going to change the city with his paper. And he cared for me.” She held her arms tight around herself, looking small. “Mr. DeLuca?”
“Yes?”
“You’re not writing this down. Don’t you want it for your paper?”
>
Ray would give his left arm to expose Gavin Crawley, but would he do it at the expense of exploiting this timid, shivering girl? “I have a good memory, Tippy.”
“There were rumors from the shirtwaist factory—I’d go with the girls there to the dances sometimes—that he had walked out with a girl on Montague’s staff. I followed him to the Policeman’s Ball and there he was with Jem. Haven’t seen him in weeks and he pops up with Jem Watts. Telling her things that he told me, probably. And I knew then… ” Tippy grabbed Ray’s sleeve. “It’s pretty horrible hearing the words that you thought were just for you said to someone else.”
Ray nodded. They stood in silence a moment. “You want me to use this information to ruin him?”
Tippy smiled sadly at her shoes. “Jem took me to see a moving picture show once. Oliver Twist. And in it there’s this woman—Nancy—and she will do anything to protect her man. No matter how he treats her.”
“And you’re like that Nancy?”
“I don’t want to be trapped by Gavin. He’ll keep using the same words.” She shook her head. “So you’ll run this—all of this—in your paper? Destroy Gavin, Mr. DeLuca.”
Ray thought a moment. “The worst he can do is maybe make you lose your job. But he can’t do that without exposing himself as the one who had been using you at Spenser’s. Is there more you’re not telling me, Tippy?
“I… can’t.”
“Then there’s little I can do for you other than make sure you get to the trolley.” He took Tippy’s arm and steered her toward Agnes Street. They walked in silence, Ray keeping a slight grip on her elbow. He was thinking over her words—apparently to such a distracted degree that he didn’t notice the footprints closing in behind him until they were very near.
Ray looked over his shoulder and cursed in Italian. “Tony, go home.”
“Can’t do that, Ray.”
Forbes stepped out of a shadow to join Tony.
“Tony, you keep the worst company,” Ray said. “Streetcar is right there, miss.” Ray inclined his head and motioned for Tippy to leave. Tippy looked unsure. Tony and Forbes settled their eyes on her, and something in Ray’s chest jumped. “Tippy, please go.”
The Bachelor Girl's Guide to Murder Page 15
