by Jenn Bennett
“Now we know the exact number of letters in each of the remaining three names. That helps. But it would help even more if we could compile a single list of the symbols along with any and all possible words associated with them. Because this symbol here looks like a moon, but is it ‘moon’ or ‘crescent’ or ‘boomerang?’”
Now she understood the difficulty in translating the names. While he redrew all the pictograms in his notebook, she helped brainstorm. Working with him was pleasant and natural, and she found herself laughing at his jokes and stealing glimpses of him. The faint impression his fedora had pressed into his blond hair, and the bump in his crooked nose. The way his eyes squinted into long blue triangles when he was thinking. The masculine grace in his corded hands as he unconsciously seesawed his pencil between two fingers while he thought.
It wasn’t until she marveled at the steely comfort of his shoulder butted against hers that she realized they were pressed against one another from shoulder to knee.
And to her surprise, she didn’t mind. Not one bit.
In fact, she idly wished other parts of them were pressed together.
• • •
Lowe was having trouble concentrating on the pictograms. Every instinct he had was shouting at him to pull Hadley into his lap and kiss the bejesus out of her. He doodled spirals on the page’s border and analyzed the logistics of having sex with her, right there on the bench. Would require balance, but he’d already run through three different positions and a couple of variations. As he was debating the possibility of bringing the table into it, she made a small noise.
“Trotter.”
“What?”
She stared at his list of dead people. “Henrietta Trotter. That’s one of Hugo Trotter’s sisters. The funeral director who was rumored to have killed his siblings.”
Lowe vaguely remembered the legend of Hugo Trotter. Police never could find evidence that he’d done anything wrong, but the man had made several jokes at dinner parties that he was planning to kill and cremate two sisters and one brother, and all three siblings died suspiciously, one by one, over a yearlong period.
“People said he talked to their urns as if they could hear him,” Hadley said. “This must’ve been the last sister, because he moved out of town after the earthquake. Which canopic jar has seven unique pictograms? Ah—the baboon. See if the symbols could possibly spell Trotter.”
“That’s . . .” Crazy, he was going to say, but after sorting through their word list, he picked out the letters with ease. “T-r-o-t-t-e-r. Helvete, Hadley—you think it’s possible?”
“He was known for having a strange sense of humor. Maybe he didn’t really kill them, but I definitely remember stories in college about him talking to the urns. Just to be sure, we should try to match up other seven-letter names, see if anything else fits.”
And they did, for nearly an hour. One name was off by only one letter, but nothing else matched exactly. They finally gave up and decided to investigate Trotter. “I’ll make a few calls and come up with a plan,” he said as he stacked the papers into a neat pile.
“Do I get half of the list?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at his busy hands.
Part of him didn’t want to let it go. The sensible part. The part that was slightly worried about Monk asking around for him at the wharf.
But another part of his brain—the part that had filled her up with bread and chowder just so he could lull her into letting him feel her thigh against his—remembered George goddamn Houston saying Hadley needed to be in control. And really, what was she going to do? Run off and track down the amulet crossbars without him and disappear to Mexico? She had as much of a right to be on this godforsaken quest as he did—it was her mother’s doing, after all. And if she was correct about this Trotter fellow, then that would make her instincts two for two. She definitely knew the macabre underbelly of the city better than he did.
He tore out his scribbled key to the pictograms and slid it in front of her, along with the list and the paintings. “All yours,” he said, grabbing his leather gloves off the table and tugging them on. “Just make sure you keep it all safe and locked up. No desk drawers, no obvious places your maid might find while cleaning. We can switch up every few days. Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”
She didn’t reply, just stared at the packet of papers like they might self-combust. Brown eyes widened as they flicked up to meet his. A faint thrill warmed his chest. God, he was a sucker, because there was nothing better than her features softening. He liked her unguarded. He liked her guarded, too. Hell, he just liked her.
It was past time for her to head back to work, so they bid the Aliotos good-bye and left Taylor Street, heading back up to where the streetcar had dropped her off. Half a block before they got there, the bottom fell out of the sky.
“Oh, no—my mink collar!” she cried as rain began beading on their coats.
Lowe hurried her toward the dry stoop of a nearby warehouse and squeezed into the alcove with her. The smell of wet pavement and Hadley surrounded him. A man could get used to that. He even thought he caught the grassy scent of lily—perfume, perhaps. Or maybe his memory of the night by the gazing pool was shifting things around in his head.
Just relax and enjoy being close to her, he told himself. Don’t get carried away and do anything stupid. Deep breath. Keep your coat buttoned and your hands to yourself. Do not think about sex gymnastics on a bench.
“Thank God you put the papers inside your coat,” he said, shaking rain off his hat.
She didn’t answer. Something gripped his arm. He glanced down to find her gloved hand there. When he looked back up, she was a moving blur—one that erased the small space between them. He staggered back against the alcove wall in surprise as her mouth clamped on his. Suddenly there was nothing but her wet lips on his and warm softness pressing against his chest.
Dear God, she was kissing him.
Wake up, idiot! Kiss her back!
He grabbed fistfuls of fur and wool and crushed her body to his, returning the kiss with equal ferocity. This wasn’t a repeat of the kiss in her father’s office; she actually wanted him. The difference was staggering.
A joyful pleasure rushed toward the base of his spine as slender arms wrapped around his neck. Closer? Gladly, yes. He pushed her against the alcove wall. She moaned, and he swore his heart shuddered. And as he sank against her, the kiss deepened from tight and frantic to open and slow and ardent.
Nothing existed but their warm bodies and the sound of the rain outside their shadowed alcove.
His tongue slipped between her lips, just once. Testing. Then he kissed the corner of her mouth. Slid his tongue in again. Kissed the other corner. Licked the salt from her bottom lip. And, Gods above, her tongue finally joined in, rolling with his. Dancing, exploring. Tasting.
And he wanted more.
He kissed her chin, her jaw, nuzzling his way into the soft ebony hair beneath the edge of her cloche, smelling both the citrusy brightness of her shampoo and the scent of her skin. Another moan. Fingers grasped the back of his neck. One hand ghosted down the front of his coat, planting on his chest. She was touching him! Glorious, absolutely glorious. He wanted that hand inside his coat, under his shirt.
And look how well they fit together. He didn’t have to hunch over to kiss her.
“Hadley,” he murmured, kissing her cheek, one eyelid, then the next—like he was some sort of erotic priest administering a blessing with his mouth. “Hadley, Hadley, Hadley.”
Christ, he was punch-drunk with arousal, his cock hard and heavy. He rocked his hips against hers, pinning her against the wall, and had begun taking his erotic blessing south of her neck when a foghorn’s bellow made her jump. She immediately shoved him away.
They stood a foot apart, breathing heavily, mouths open.
Her knees buckled. He reached out to help her as she slid
down the wall.
She flinched away from his touch.
He lifted both hands in surrender.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she insisted in a hoarse voice, pushing herself back up. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Hadley—”
“Oh, there’s a taxi. I really must . . .”
“Are you sure?”
“I—”
“Christ, Hadley. That was—” Amazing. Sexy. Far better than he’d imagined.
“I should go. Please call when you’re ready to . . . Trotter, you know.” Then she darted into the rain and disappeared into the taxicab at the curb. The last thing he saw was her touching the backs of her gloved fingers to her lips as the car drove away.
• • •
Instead of heading straight back to work, Hadley took a detour downtown and darted down the sidewalk into a shop upon whose window was painted in fine script:
MADAME DUBOIS
LINGERIE COUTURE
A bell tinkled to announce her entrance. She strode between a wooden table displaying a fanned-out selection of silky tap pants and a canvas-covered mannequin to which a half-finished nightgown was pinned. As she approached a glass display counter, a plump middle-aged woman with a perfectly coiffed silver bob looked up and smiled. “Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Bacall.”
“Madame Dubois,” she said with a nod.
The back of the tiny shop was a riot of silk, lace, and colorful spools of glossy embroidery thread. Neatly folded negligées and stockings lined the shelves behind the counter. And on the glass counter, cream boxes were stacked near a roll of apricot tissue paper. Madame Dubois’s creations were the finest in the city. They were also Hadley’s most extravagant weakness.
The scent of rose powder wafted in the air as the Parisian expat seamstress leaned over the counter, a long tape measure hanging around her neck. “And what may I do for you? Special order?”
“Yes.”
“Wonderful! Your designs are some of my favorites. What shall it be today?”
Hadley’s heart fluttered faster than hummingbird wings as she unfolded a color page ripped from a recent museum exhibit program. Briefly wondering if this was how her mother had felt years ago when she’d approached the ceramic artist to commission the canopic jar designs, she smiled at Madame Dubois and said, “I’d like you to copy this . . .”
SEVENTEEN
LOWE TELEPHONED HADLEY AT work the following day to cheerfully inform her he’d found Hugo Trotter. Apparently, the alleged killer had done what many other funeral directors did when San Francisco decided land was too scarce and valuable for the funerary arts: moved his business to the nearby necropolis of Lawndale.
Hadley wasn’t all that jazzed to call on a murderer. But Lowe assured her it would be fine: Mr. Trotter had died ten years ago, so they’d be calling on his son. Hugo Junior had apparently followed in his father’s footsteps. Hopefully not the murderous ones.
Lawndale—“the City of the Silent”—was half an hour from San Francisco. And this is where the younger Mr. Trotter now ran his father’s business, the Gilded Rest Funeral Home and Crematorium. Lowe had reserved the last appointment of the following day, so that he and his “sister” could make funeral arrangements.
He provided all this information without a word about the subject that hadn’t left her thoughts since she’d left him at the wharf.
The kiss.
She’d crashed into him like she was outrunning a storm. And it was indescribably wonderful. Until she panicked. Now she teetered between the fear that it would happen again and the fear that it wouldn’t.
“I’d like to leave at four in the afternoon tomorrow, just to make sure we make it in plenty of time,” his voice said over the crackling line in her office. “We’ll be playing the role of well-to-do siblings, so you’ll need to look as if you have money.”
“I do have money,” she reminded him.
“And you have plenty of mourning clothes, which finally works in your favor. But wear the most expensive ones—not something you’d wear to work.”
“Yes, yes,” she said irritably, even though she could hear the teasing in his voice over the line. “It’ll look suspicious if I come to work dressed to the nines, so I suppose I’ll have to invent an excuse to leave.”
“Headache or a cold coming on,” he suggested. “I’m sure even you can dream up a lie that small.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Then I’ll pick you up outside your apartment building around four.”
“Not on Lulu,” she insisted.
“No, an actual car. Must play the part. Are you game?”
Was she?
Come the next day, she spent all afternoon trying on clothes and worrying herself into a frazzled knot. What was she supposed to do when she saw him? Pretend the kiss never happened? Angry with both herself and him, she finally picked a dress that covered up as much skin as possible. She further armored herself with gloves and fur and a brimmed hat that cast half her face in shadow. Then she took the elevator down to the lobby.
He was already waiting for her.
With the exception of a white shirt, every stitch of clothing was black, from the silk band of his fedora, to the well-cut lines of his bespoke suit, to the perfect polish of his shoes. A silver pocket watch chain looped from one button to a pocket on his vest, and his overcoat flowed to his calves.
Gone was the treasure hunter with a lawbreaking family, and in his place stood a well-to-do society man—an unbearably handsome one. Her heart hammered as if it didn’t give a damn about her fears and worries, as if it were saying: Look! There’s the beautiful man who kissed you like you were the most desirable woman on earth. Go throw yourself at him again!
She ignored these instincts and halted several feet away. He ducked his head to catch her gaze beneath the brim of her hat, and he smiled slowly as he said, “Hello.”
Her reply sounded like the gurgle of an old drain. Dear God. He was making her stupid. Before the night was over, she’d have forgotten how to spell and count.
Dusk fell as he led her to a silver Packard out front. “Very nice,” she remarked, regaining her grasp of the English language.
“It was my mother’s,” he said, holding the passenger door open for her. “Aida’s been driving it. I switched out the license plate, just in case.”
“You did what?”
“My brother’s got a stack of them for bootlegging,” he said, as if that made it better.
The car was as beautiful inside as she was on the outside—all leather and wood and polished chrome. The two-seater’s top was up and the interior was warm. A little too warm when Lowe’s long legs stretched into the driver’s seat. He smelled clean. Like lemon and rosemary.
“What’s the story you’ve concocted?” she asked as he started the rumbling engine and pulled out of her apartment building’s entrance.
“Our older sister died. We want her cremated.”
“That’s it?”
“I don’t like to plan too far in advance,” he said. “Comes off as rehearsed. So just follow my lead and we’ll be fine.”
Easier said than done. As dusk deepened and lights began twinkling, they drove south through the city until the buildings grew shorter and farther apart, the road patchy and dotted with ruts. And all the while, a heavy silence sat between them. Until Lowe broke it.
“You look lovely.”
Her response leapt out of her mouth before she could stop it. “Yesterday was a mistake.”
“I disagree.”
“Well, it will never happen again.”
A long pause. “All right.”
She forced her twined fingers to relax and gazed out the window. Was he going to say nothing more about it? She tried again. “I’m not sure what came over me.”
“If you’re not
interested, you’re not interested.”
“It’s not—”
“No need to explain yourself. Consider the matter in the past.”
She couldn’t make out his expression in the shadowed car. This was not going how she wanted it to. She struggled to put words to her thoughts, but he beat her to it.
“Glad I didn’t make a fool of myself asking you out this weekend,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Some friends of mine from the history department at Berkeley are meeting up for drinks and dancing in North Beach. I knew it wasn’t your thing, but everyone’s bringing dates.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, an old college sweetheart recently broke off her engagement and left me a couple of messages, wanting to reconnect.”
She stilled. “Oh?”
“Good old Ruby. A little wild. God knows she cheated on me left and right. But she’s fun at a party. I’ll see if she wants to go.”
Ruby. What a wretched name.
She rolled down the window to get some air as images of supper clubs and jazz bands collided in her head. Jazz bands and dancing and a wild woman who wanted to reconnect with him. A woman he’d taken to bed? Did the time they’d spent together mean so little to him that he could just shrug it off and start up with another girl?
But if she cared that much, she shouldn’t have told him their kiss was a mistake. Why did she say that, anyway? She was terrible at relationships. Part of her had given up on men entirely, and was convinced she’d never fall in love or have a family. But another part of her still hoped. The same part that lay awake at night wanting Lowe. Fantasizing he did the same for her.
Her chest ached. Raw, hurt feelings tightened her throat. Tears threatened.
“Hey,” he said in a softer voice. “You okay?”
“Just a little warm in here,” she said, calming her emotions. This was not the time to fall apart like a small child who hadn’t gotten her way. They had work to do.
