by Lee Strauss
After dialling up the operator, she ascertained the address of Miss White’s flat. Ginger stared at Boss, who’d entered the room with the hope of adventure in his brown eyes. “Do you want to go for a ride, Bossy?”
Boss’ stubby tail wagged so rapidly it seemed almost to blur.
“Let’s go, then, shall we?” Ginger collected her handbag, put on her gloves and hat, and attached Boss to his leash.
The drive, particularly the borough of Covent Garden to the City of London, was pleasant enough. The summer warmth allowed for a breezy drive with the windows down. Boss jutted his nose out of the window, delighted with the wind in his face—a wide mouth and long tongue proof of his enjoyment.
Ginger had grown used to the city’s smells, which were on the rather odorous scale, the heat exacerbating the scent of horse and dung mixed with petrol exhaust. It was especially bad on foggy days—London was infamous for its propensity for smog—but on this day, the clouds were high and the sun bright.
As Ginger reached the area of St. Paul’s Cathedral, an iconic structure with a world-famous dome that simply outsized everything else around it, she recognised the block of flats. She’d had reason to visit former tenants back when Felicia had wanted to be a theatre performer.
With Boss under one arm, Ginger entered the building. A strong smell of cigarette smoke and a mildly rancid scent of cooking grease assaulted her senses. Climbing the stairs, she found the door she was looking for and knocked, hoping that serendipity would find the model at home. When no answer came, Ginger knocked again. Moments later, she heard the shuffling of footsteps towards the door. Boss heard it too and cocked his head, ears tall, to the sound.
The door opened two inches, stopped by a chain fastening it to the frame. Alice, hair pressed up on one side and make-up smudged, narrowed her eyes as if the light hurt them.
“Mrs. Reed?” she said, her voice scratchy.
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” Ginger said. “Did I get you out of bed?”
“It’s all right.” Alice unhooked the chain. “I’m not feeling too well.”
Ginger had a pretty good notion Miss White’s malady had something to do with the empty vodka bottle on the table and the two empty glasses.
“You don’t mind if my little dog joins us, do you?” Ginger said.
Miss White blinked at Boss as if she hadn’t noticed him before that moment. “Fine by me, but if he makes a mess . . .”
The flat was in disarray, and Ginger doubted that Boss could make it much worse. “I assure you, he’s very well trained.”
Miss White lifted the clothing draped over the arm of one chair for Ginger’s benefit. “I hope you’re not expecting tea,” she said. “I’m completely out.”
Ginger didn’t know if the model was out of tea or simply not prepared to play hostess, but it didn’t matter to her. She didn’t plan on staying long.
“That’s quite all right.”
Alice pushed a pile of laundry to one end of the sofa and curled her petite form upon the other. Her slender hand flew to her face to cover a yawn.
“I’ll get right to it,” Ginger said. “I’m investigating the death of Miss Irene Cummings.”
“Such a blasted shame,” Miss White said.
“Yes, it is,” Ginger agreed, “and I’m circling back to the people who knew her to see if I can find any leads.”
“All right. Ask away.”
“How well did you know Irene?”
“Not at all. She’s not a real model, as you know. Jean Patou wanted an athlete to demonstrate his sportswear. Guess he thought the line would be taken more seriously by the sports world that way.”
“Not a bad marketing ploy,” Ginger agreed. “Are you a fan of tennis?”
Miss White shook her head then reached for her eyes as if she immediately regretted the sharp movement. “Couldn’t swing a racquet to save my life,” she muttered.
“What about the other models? How well do you know them?”
“We all know each other. The fashion world isn’t that big, but I suspect that you know that, Mrs. Reed, in your line of work.”
“Yes. You’re aware that Millie Tatum works in my shop.”
“Lucky her.”
Ginger noted the model’s facetious tone.
“I take it the two of you aren’t great friends.”
“See? This is why they say you’re a terrific detective.”
Ginger ignored the sarcastic remark. “Tell me about your row with Miss Tatum?”
Miss White let out a loud, grievous sigh. “Millie and I always row. That’s nothing new. She always wants the best outfits, and I’ve had enough of her trying to climb ahead of me. I’ve been modelling longer, you know? I should get first choice. Millie’s a conniving, greedy, selfish cow who only cares about herself.”
Ginger could barely hold in her shock at Miss White’s sharp words. Her description of Millie didn’t sound like anything Ginger had seen. In fact, Miss White’s description more aptly fit herself.
“Where were you when Millie and Miss Cummings were struck down?”
Miss White stared incredulously. “At the show.”
“I mean precisely. I understand you fell off the runway. Where did you go then? Backstage? To one of the tents?”
“I was backstage.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“Do you honestly think I’m guilty of murder?”
“In my experience, given the right circumstances, anyone can be tempted to murder.”
“Well, I didn’t know Miss Cummings, and though I don’t like Millie, I don’t hate her either. I’m not a murderer.”
“What precipitated your fall on the runway?”
A lift of a pale shoulder was followed by, “I’m not sure.”
“Did you find it slippery?”
“Not especially so. I felt a buzzing near my ear, and I swatted at it. Then I misstepped when I saw your girl, Miss Gold, go down. Nothing more sinister than that.”
“A buzzing?” Ginger wondered if Alice had heard the sound of that third dart flying by.
“A rather large insect, by the sounds of it. It startled me. I had no intention of getting bitten. Then I fell.”
“Who was with you last night?”
“Huh?”
Ginger nodded to the two glasses on the table. “Who helped you finish that bottle of vodka.”
Miss White crossed her arms. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was with Bette Perry.”
“The designer?” Ginger hadn’t expected that answer.
“Unless there’s more than one.”
“I’m just a little surprised.”
“Because designers don’t usually spend their leisure time with models?”
Ginger shrugged. It was true.
“Well, Bette’s not like that.”
“You’re on first-name terms?”
“It’s amazing how close one can get when one shares a bottle of vodka. We’re good friends now.” Miss White laughed. “You should see your face.”
Ginger immediately erased her expression of shock. Keeping one’s feelings and opinions to oneself was an important skill she mustn’t go rusty on. “My face is fine, thank you, Miss White. Why were you and Miss Perry drinking together? Celebrating?”
“Hardly. Commiserating. Bette hadn’t had a chance to show off her autumn line before all hell broke loose. She’d counted on the exposure and a good review by the reporters. She’s relatively new as a designer, and it’s very difficult to break the ranks. Now, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Reed. I’m feeling rather under the weather.”
14
Since she and Boss were in the area, Ginger impulsively pulled into the drive of St. George’s Church. Though outside Hartigan House’s South Kensington deanery, Ginger and her family had been attending St. George’s since she and the vicar, the Reverend Oliver Hill, had become friends. The two had started a food service for street children called the Child Wellness Project, and her adopted son, Sc
out, had once benefited from the meals they provided.
An eighteenth-century construction, the church was built with sturdy limestone blocks and boasted a square castle-like turret and a bounty of beautiful stained glass. The nave had an attached hall and kitchen with the vicarage at the back.
Mrs. Davies, the stalwart church secretary with a perpetual smile, spotted Ginger from the hall and came outside to greet her. “Mrs. Reed, such a pleasant surprise!” She bent to pat Boss on the head. “And you’re with your partner in crime.”
Ginger laughed. “Hopefully, in crime-solving. Is the vicar or Mrs. Hill available? It’s fine if they’re busy. I came without an appointment.”
“An appointment among friends is unnecessary, Mrs. Reed.” She waved to the small stone house at the back of the property. “They’re both at the vicarage.”
“Tremendous,” Ginger said. “I can make my way there.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Davies said. “Good day.”
“Good day, Mrs. Davies.”
The vicarage was a small edifice, the whole thing easily fitting into the drawing room of Hartigan House, but Matilda had done a fine job making it cosy and welcoming. The lady of the house broke into a surprised grin when she opened the door and saw Ginger and Boss standing there.
“Ginger!”
“I’m sorry for calling in unannounced.”
Matilda waved Ginger inside. “It’s not a problem at all.” She considered Ginger with a look of concern. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh yes, just a neighbourly visit, I promise. I’ve brought Boss with me.”
“Welcome, Boss!” She turned to Ginger. “You’re just in time for tea.”
Ginger claimed an empty chair, the green-velvet upholstery showing signs of wear on the arms, and told Boss to lie at her feet.
Oliver stepped in, his red wavy hair barely tamed back with a goodly amount of oil, wearing his traditional look—a starchy white shirt and pressed black trousers.
“I thought I heard your voice,” he said warmly.
“Hello, Oliver. I hope you don’t mind my dropping in.”
“Not at all, Ginger. You are like family to us now.”
Matilda, who’d left them briefly, returned with a pink-cheeked baby in one arm.
“Little Margaret,” Ginger said. “Look at her. Getting so big!”
“I’m already emotional at the thought of her growing up too fast,” Oliver said. He took one of the empty chairs as Matilda handed the child over, propping his daughter on his lap.
“There’s nothing that measures the speed of time like the way our children grow,” Ginger agreed. “You’re sure I’m not interrupting anything?”
“I was working on Sunday’s sermon,” Oliver said, “but was about to take a tea break.”
Matilda rejoined them with a tea tray, and knowing everyone’s preferences, added the milk and sugar and poured.
“Thank you,” Ginger said, accepting hers. Boss put a paw on her leg, and Ginger patted his head. “You stay down.”
“Now that my stomach’s growing, it’s just not comfortable to have him on my lap. Poor thing. I fear he’s feeling rejected.”
“Pets have a way of adapting,” Matilda said. She put her tea down and reached for her daughter, giving Oliver a chance to sip his. She nodded to Ginger’s girth. “How are you feeling these days?”
“Once in a while, I feel movement,” Ginger told her. “It’s like I’ve swallowed a butterfly.”
As if he’d just remembered something dire, Oliver’s countenance darkened suddenly. “We heard about the death at the fashion show,” he said. “You must’ve suffered a shock.”
“It was terribly shocking, that’s true,” Ginger said. But she’d had a lot of experience with death, not just with her job and Basil’s, but her time spent in France during the war had, unfortunately, made her acquainted with loss of life.
“Thank you for providing an address for Miss White.”
“Did you see her?” Matilda asked.
“Yes, which is why I’m in the area. I do believe she attends St. George’s?”
“On occasion,” Oliver replied.
“I realise there might be things you know in confidence,” Ginger began, “but if there’s anything you could tell me about her, I’d appreciate it.”
“Is she a suspect?” Oliver asked.
“She and Millie Tatum got into a row before the show, and Millie was wounded in the affair. It’s a matter of due diligence to follow up on a possible motive.”
“I see,” Oliver said. “Well, I hate to be unkind, but Miss White is—” He looked at Matilda for help.
“—rather spiteful.” Matilda finished his sentence. “She seems to be more interested in the old testament story about an eye for an eye than Jesus’ teachings about forgiving your enemies.”
“Are you saying Miss White preferred to take her own revenge?”
“It sounds crass when you put it that way,” Oliver said. “She did like to carry a grudge. Matilda once forgot to introduce her when a new gentleman entered their circle whilst mingling after church, and Miss White never fails to remind her of that oversight.”
“Well,” Matilda broke in, “he was a rather fetching bachelor.”
Oliver laughed. “Who’s married another since then.”
Ginger sipped her tea. Miss White, the grudge-keeper, would remain firmly on her suspect list. Perhaps the model had worked with someone, and her fall off the stage had simply been a mode of diversion.
15
Ginger returned to Hartigan House—with only a few bruised kerbs and honking horns to guide her through the streets of London—in time for dinner. After parking in the garage, she strolled through the back floral-scented garden and the open French doors.
“The table is already set, madam,” her maid Lizzie said. “Would you like me to take Boss and give him a bite to eat?”
Ginger handed the leash to Lizzie. “I’m sure he’d be delighted.” Since moving to London from Boston, Boss had become a favourite of many people, Scout and Lizzie premium among them.
Thinking of Scout, she asked, “Would you happen to know where Scout is?”
“Last I saw him, madam, he was upstairs in the library working on his studies.”
“Very good. Please let Mrs. Beasley know we’ll be in the dining room in ten minutes. Is Mr. Reed here?”
Lizzie shook her head. “No, madam. I haven’t seen him.”
Since Basil’s Austin wasn’t in the garage, Ginger had surmised as much, but occasionally, he parked on the street in front of the house.
Upstairs, Ginger did, indeed, find Scout in the library, and to her surprise and great pleasure, found him with his little nose in a book.
“Hello, Scout.”
“Oh, hello, Mum.”
“I see you’re enjoying an afternoon delving in literary pursuits?”
Scout crinkled his nose, then, when understanding dawned, smiled his crooked-tooth smile. “You mean reading!”
Ginger chuckled as she stepped into the room. After moving back to Hartigan House, she’d made it a point to refurbish the library and fill the shelves with volumes of both classic and modern fiction and non-fiction. When Scout moved in, she’d made sure there were plenty of titles to entice his curious mind, though this was the first she’d seen of him reading for himself rather than being read to. Though recently turning twelve, Scout had been late to begin his education and had only just mastered the alphabet. She flushed with pride.
“Billy Whiskers.” His laughter bubbled as he held up the blue-bound book. “Such a funny goat!”
“Well, finish the page you’re on, and then wash for dinner.”
Scout slumped. “Yes, Mum.”
Ginger slipped off her shoes in her room and dropped into one of the creamy-white pincushion armchairs that flanked both sides of the tall windows. The aqua-green wallpaper and white Persian carpets were a perfect backdrop to the ornate wooden furniture—a decorative four
-poster bed she shared with Basil, a matching dressing table, and a chest of drawers. Inhaling deeply, she let the calm of the room fill her.
Removing her hat and gloves and placing them on the table beside her, Ginger resisted the urge to lie down, having missed her chance at that luxury for the day. Instead, she crossed the room to her dressing table and stared in the mirror. Her eyebrows constantly needed plucking, a painful exercise every fashionable lady carried out in the name of beauty, and she used her tweezers to catch a few strays from the thin, deeply arched brows. After that, she brushed her bob, then applied a jewelled hair comb to the left side of her head to hold the waves off her face. Her eyes landed on her bare ears—she couldn’t believe she’d forgotten to clip on a pair of earrings that morning!
Ginger had many pairs to choose from, but she had the perfect set to match the yellow summer frock she wanted to wear. She fished through her jewellery box and frowned when she couldn’t find them. She tried to remember the last time she’d worn them, and a memory of her lying in bed, having forgotten to remove them, came to mind. Right! She’d placed them in her bedside table drawer.
Even then, she had to dig through the collection of items tucked inside it. Somehow, one earring had ended up tucked underneath her old journal. Ginger took out the book and stroked it fondly. Inside the pages were memories of long ago, including fond ones of her late husband, Lord Daniel, and many about her trying, yet adventurous, times during the war. Thankfully, those dark days were over, and only bright ones shone ahead. She cupped her stomach, welcoming the new life growing there. Mourning may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning.
She placed the volume back in her bedside table drawer. After dressing and choosing a pair of shoes, Ginger clipped on her earrings and headed downstairs. She felt rather ravenous and eager to discover what scrumptious meal Mrs. Beasley had in store.
The dining room, conveniently connected to the sitting room by a swinging door on one end, and a short corridor leading to the kitchen on the other, had, like the rest of the house, undergone a major renovation project when Ginger had moved back in. Before the modernisation, Hartigan House had been lost in the Victorian era’s dark and cluttered style. Now the rooms were lighter, brighter, and simplified.
