Teetotaled

by Maia Chance

  “Beaulah Starr?” Harriet’s voice was guarded. “Yeah, I know Beaulah.”

  “Have you seen her in the last day? Is she all right?”

  Silence. Then, “I’m not sure if I should go telling you anything—who did you say you were?”

  “Her friend. Mrs. Lundgren. We met at Willow Acres.”

  “Oh. I’m only checking because Beaulah said someone was trying to kill her. I guess it’s okay to speak to you.”

  Yipes. Harriet was the kind of friend who’d tell you it was okay to fly a kite in a lightning storm.

  Harriet went on, “She went to the city to go shopping, see, after last night.”

  “What occurred last night?” Berta asked.

  “Listen, I feel funny about this. How about you ask her yourself? She’s gonna be at some book lecture thingum in the city this evening. Tried to drag me to it, but I don’t put on airs like she does, and anyway, I’m working overtime.” Harriet hung up.

  Berta and I popped out of the telephone booth and told Ralph what Harriet had said.

  “Thank goodness Beaulah is safe and sound!” I said. “I can’t begin to guess why she’s out shopping when someone is trying to kill her—”

  “That was a smoke screen, Mrs. Woodby,” Berta said.

  “—but I can guess where she’ll be at seven o’clock: at Violet Wilbur’s lecture at the Xavier House Hotel. Remember how she had bunches of Violet’s books in her room at the boarding house? Berta, it’s our lucky break. Your favorite suspect and my favorite suspect are showing up in one place. How do you like that for convenience?”

  32

  Berta, Ralph, and I killed the hours until seven o’clock at the counter of a Midtown coffee shop that didn’t seem to mind Pomeranians as long as they ordered the roast chicken. We read newspapers and magazines, ate sandwiches, drank too much coffee, and stared at a wall clock that seemed to have arthritis.

  At one point—blame it on the coconut layer cake I was digging into—I started feeling extra glowy toward Ralph. When Berta went to the lavatory, I took another stab at a confession.

  “You know, Ralph,” I said, “there is something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

  “I thought there was.” Ralph put down his newspaper.

  “Really?”

  “Sure.” A pause. “Go on. You can tell me.”

  I looked shyly down at my half-eaten cake. Poetic genius struck. “The thing is, Ralph, there are ladies who love all sorts of icing on their cake—chocolate fudge, buttercream, even plain old vanilla. But the problem is, well, I’ve got a bit of a cake dilemma.” I lifted my eyes to Ralph’s. “I’ll put it like this.” I swallowed. “I, well, I love coconut frosting and only coconut frosting.”

  Ralph’s gray eyes twinkled. “Ditto, sweetheart.”

  I waited for him to say more, but … he didn’t. He signaled the waitress, ordered a slice of coconut layer cake and a cup of coffee, and turned back to his newspaper. The faintest smile played on his lips.

  Oh, jeez. My hairline broke into a sweat. He hadn’t understood. Or … had he? Ralph was either a shameless lady-killer or a hopeless lunkhead. Which was worse?

  * * *

  At last, it was time to go to the Xavier House Hotel.

  In a room off the rose-scented lobby, Ralph, Berta, and I accepted programs and squeezed into gilt cane chairs at the rear. The audience was mostly made up of ladies in hats and pearls. I settled Cedric on my lap and studied my program. It read,

  GOOD TASTE:

  What It Is and How One Might Acquire It

  A Lecture Series in Twelve Parts by Miss Violet Wilbur.

  July 19, 1923

  Lecture XII: Good Taste in the Boudoir

  “Good golly, these ladies have already stuck it out for eleven lectures so far?” I whispered.

  “Hnn.” Ralph slid lower in his chair and adopted a stoic expression.

  Berta was scanning the audience. “I do not see Beaulah Starr anywhere.”

  “Maybe she’s running late,” I said. “Oh. Look. Raymond Hathorne. Third row. What’s he doing here, I wonder?” Raymond was the only man in the audience besides Ralph. He wore a pale blue suit and a boater hat. “I must speak with him about the giggling Hermie Inchbald claims to have heard coming from his room at the health farm. Back in a twinkling.”

  “Don’t feed the sharks,” Ralph said.

  “Why, hello, angel,” Raymond said when I sat down next to him. He closed his program and smiled, but I could’ve sworn something like panic flitted across his eyes. Perhaps he was embarrassed to have been caught at such a feminine venue. “What a surprise. You look smashing.”

  Actually, I didn’t. It had been a footslog of a day. My hair drooped, my skin felt gritty, I had black oil paint and pickle relish on my dress, and I would’ve sold my soul for a toothbrush and some Colgate’s.

  “How is the Ritz treating you?” Raymond asked. “Isn’t that where your mother told me you’ve been staying?”

  “Yes. Oh, you know. Noisy pipes and simply dreamy service. Last night when I telephoned down for some kibble for Cedric, they brought up caviar on a Sèvres saucer. What are you doing here? I didn’t know you and Miss Wilbur were friends.”

  “Oh, we’re not. Not really. But I happened to bump into her this afternoon and she convinced me to come and hear her speak. Told me it was my last chance since she’s off to Europe in a day or two.”

  “She’s off to Europe? Did she say why?”

  “She has received an offer to redecorate an entire castle in the Rhine Valley.”

  I smelled baloney. Gil Morris was taking off for Europe, too. Up until then, I hadn’t been completely sure if Gil was Violet’s gentleman or not, but that clinched it.

  “If I wasn’t up to my elbows in work for Fizz-Whiz,” Raymond said, “I wouldn’t mind a European holiday myself.”

  “You know, Mr. Hathorne, a reliable source told me that a woman’s giggles were heard coming from your room at Willow Acres the night Muffy died. My source also told me that you’re only renting your house and that there is no such thing as Fizz-Whiz soda pop. Care to explain?”

  “Did Hermie Inchbald tell you all that? Because I wouldn’t call him a reliable source.”

  “Well…”

  Raymond leaned in. “Let me tell you something, Lola. Inchbald has had it in for me from the get-go. Spreading lies. And he’s forever staring through the hedges at me, too. Damned unnerving, if you want to know the truth.”

  Staring through the hedges? Oh. “You live next door to Inchbald Hall?”

  “That’s right. In the old Pitridge place.”

  Raymond had told me this already, but I hadn’t realized the Pitridge place was just next door to the Inchbalds. What had Beaulah said about Hermie’s next-door neighbor when we talked in the hedge maze? Something about him whacking golf balls over the property line, wasn’t it?

  Foreboding squirmed deep inside me. I was forgetting something. But what?

  “Now, listen,” Raymond said, leaning still closer. “Hermie’s not right in the head. But since you’re such a brain, angel—really inquisitive, aren’t you?—I’m going to tell you the truth. Here’s the thing. I spun that tale about the Fizz-Whiz company because I wished to fit in here in America, fit in with all these captains of industry who run New York. Americans don’t like aristocrats.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You’re an aristocrat?”

  “After a fashion,” Raymond said. “The fact of the matter is, I inherited all my money. Queen Victoria knighted my grandfather and bequeathed to him a huge tract of land in Quebec. We’re aristocrats, practically, but who likes to talk about that? So yes. Fizz-Whiz is a sham, and I’m only an idle playboy. It’s embarrassing, really. But say—” Raymond smiled. “—if maple-flavored soda pop means so much to you, we could go into business together. Breathe life into that silly idea.”

  A lady’s voice at the front of the room said, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”

 
The crowd hushed.

  “Thank you for attending.” The speaker was Violet in a lavender suit and bulbous pearls. “Good taste. What is it? How might one acquire it? Good taste depends upon refined distinctions that are nearly imperceptible to the eye. It is my wish—some might even say my duty—to magnify for the masses these distinctions and to thus elevate the current state of society.”

  Excited murmurs, rustling programs, bobbing hats.

  “The topic this evening is good taste in the lady’s private boudoir,” Violet said, “a shamefully overlooked topic. And for those of you who have purchased my recent volume, The Tasteful Abode, I shall autograph books at the conclusion of the lecture.”

  Titters of excitement. The lady on my left had two copies of a green book protruding from her handbag. The spines said THE TASTEFUL ABODE in gold. I looked around. Almost every lady was holding a copy.

  Violet went on and on about airy rooms and why footstools must be round, not square. Now and then, she lost the thread of her speech. At one point, she called a mahogany lowboy a manly lowboy. And another time, she blushed when describing how to plump up sofa cushions properly. Violet had romance on the brain, all right.

  However, most of the lecture was as dull as dishwater … which gave me plenty of time to decide to confront Violet about fleeing to Europe with her lover and forgery accomplice, Gil Morris. I’d need a book for Violet to sign, though, to keep Raymond off the scent.

  The lady next to me was busy speaking with someone on her other side, so I leaned over, slid one of the green books from her handbag, and slid it into my own. I would return it after I’d quizzed Violet. After a few minutes, the lady noticed one of her books was gone and looked under her chair.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” Raymond said to me over the applause when Violet finally concluded her lecture. “Beautiful evening.”

  “No,” I said. “I would like Miss Wilbur’s autograph.” I waved the stolen book, plopped Cedric in Raymond’s lap, and stood. “Back in a jiffy.”

  “Wait a minute,” I heard the lady next to me say. “That’s my—”

  I edged through the crowd to the front of the room.

  I’m not one to cut in line, but time was of the essence, so I took advantage of the haphazard and chatty line and made my way to Violet’s signing table. Her large alligator handbag sat at the side of the table. I’ve always felt there is something hideously wrong with ladies who carry alligator handbags.

  It was my turn. Violet still hadn’t looked up at me as I placed the stolen book in front of her.

  She thumbed to the title page. “Whom should I make it out to?”

  “Why don’t you make it out to, ‘Did you murder the Morrises to cover up your hand in the forgery business, or was it to assist your lover Gil in getting at his inheritance ahead of schedule?’”

  “What’s this?” Violet looked up with slitted eyes. “Mrs. Woodby? Your brother-in-law warned me about you. How dare you come here and—”

  “Skip the soapboxing and answer the question.”

  “You leave Miss Wilbur alone,” a familiar voice said.

  I turned to see a woman in a smart suit and a low-brimmed cloche hat with a dotted veil. “Beaulah Starr?” I said. “Is that you? It is you. I’m so glad to see you’re all right.”

  “Pipe down!” Beaulah whispered, looking nervously around. She was going incognita in that hat and veil, then. Did that mean someone was trying to murder her? Or that she was a murderer herself?

  “There she is!” someone shrieked behind me. “She’s the one who stole my book, right out of my handbag! She’s the only one who could’ve done it!”

  Violet smirked. “Stealing, Mrs. Woodby, is in such poor taste.”

  “She is a thief,” Beaulah said. She turned to me. “You haven’t returned my gingham dress.”

  “When could I have possibly—? Never mind. I’d like to speak with you privately, Miss Starr.”

  “No way! You’re nothing but trouble. Keep away from me.” Beaulah took a step back.

  “I want my book!”

  All hell broke loose. A stout lady in periwinkle grabbed the stolen book from the tabletop, and someone else grabbed the handle of my handbag. I craned my neck, looking for an escape route, but every way seemed to be blocked by frilled blouses, heaving bosoms, and jeweled brooches. Why weren’t Ralph and Berta springing to my aid?

  The lady-sea parted and a couple of chairs toppled. I made a feint toward the door, and a lady shoved me. I staggered back, knocking over Beaulah. She screamed and thumped to the carpet. Her handbag cracked open and disgorged its contents. My hips crashed into Violet’s table, the table fell over, and I sprawled on my back. Violet’s alligator handbag landed a few feet away. Its contents scattered.

  I sat up and swayed. Tweeting cartoon birdies made figure eights in my head.

  “Lola!” Ralph called from somewhere. “Kid, are you all right?” Berta cried, “Heavens to Betsy, Mrs. Woodby!” But I couldn’t see Ralph and Berta. All I saw were T-strap pumps and legs in stockings.

  Beaulah was on her hands and knees, gathering up her belongings and stuffing them into her handbag: green book, powder compact, coin purse, peppermints … and a pistol.

  “I hate you, Lola Woodby,” Beaulah sobbed. “Someday soon, you’ll be sorry. You don’t know who I am.” Then she was on her feet and rushing away.

  Everyone stared at me for a breathless moment. I struggled to my feet and made a break for it.

  Raymond joined me halfway across the lobby. “Care to tell me what’s happening?” he asked, striding beside me with a writhing Cedric in his arms.

  “Beaulah,” I said, breathing hard. “Beaulah Starr. I can’t let her get away.” She was absolutely terrified of me, and that spelled one thing: guilt. There was no time to wait for Ralph and Berta.

  Beaulah glanced over her shoulder as she swung through the lobby doors. When she saw Raymond and me, her mouth slackened with horror. She bolted. Raymond and I burst out of the doors to see Beaulah heading in the direction of Central Park.

  “You’ve terrified the poor girl,” Raymond said, slowing. He passed Cedric to me and shoved his hands in his pockets. “What am I missing?”

  “No time,” I said, breathless. “Are you coming with me or not?”

  “My curiosity is piqued.”

  I supposed that meant he was coming. Holding Cedric tightly, I dashed after Beaulah.

  33

  Raymond and I tailed Beaulah one block along Sixty-fourth Street, past stately stone row houses and lush trees. At Fifth Avenue, she darted into traffic. A delivery truck veered, horn beeping, and a taxi screeched to a stop. The cabbie hollered, shaking his fist out the window. When Beaulah reached the opposite curb, she threw another glance over her shoulder, saw Raymond and me, and dashed through a gate into Central Park.

  I went more cautiously than Beaulah into the Fifth Avenue traffic, but I wasn’t going to let her get away. I burned to ask her what she’d meant when she said I didn’t know who she was, and I wished to know how she’d paid for those new glad rags. The hat alone could’ve covered my rent.

  I’ll hand it to Raymond, he was a trouper. He dodged through the beeping, swerving motorcars, taxis, and trucks right alongside me.

  “Where has she gone?” I said when we’d made it into the park.

  “Why don’t we let it alone, angel?” Raymond said. “Say, I’ll buy you an ice cream, how would that be?”

  “There she is!” I broke into a jog; Beaulah was at the zoo ticket booth, fumbling with her purse.

  She’d already pushed through the zoo turnstile by the time Raymond and I reached the ticket booth. Raymond paid for our tickets, saying wryly, “Well, if we don’t get arrested for hounding that poor girl, I’d love to know what this is all about.”

  I plucked a ticket from his fingers. “Tell you later.” I shoved through the turnstile.

  “Hey, lady!” the man in the ticket booth shouted through the hole in the glass. “No dogs all
owed in the zoo! It’ll spook the animals!”

  I kept going.

  The evening was warm and midsummer-bright. Crowds of children and their adults still lingered around the sea lion pool. Colorful rubber balloons bobbed against the sunset-rosy sky. Ice cream carts lured children. Above the trees, the city skyline was black. Laughter, splashing, the croon of peanut vendors. Cedric kicked and whined, so I set him on his paws. No time to clip on his leash.

  Where was Beaulah? I turned in a slow circle.

  There. By the elephant pen. I dashed over, Cedric frisking alongside me.

  Beaulah had squeezed herself into the crowd around the elephant’s cage. The elephant stood dully in a patch of soiled straw. By golly, zoos are depressing.

  I drew up behind the crowd. “Miss Starr,” I called. “Miss Starr, I only wish to speak with you.” Raymond pulled up beside me.

  Beaulah turned, her hat veil trembling. “Leave me alone!” She took off again, but her expensive pumps were wobbly. She tripped behind the crowd at the tiger’s cage, stumbled, and fell. No one really noticed, because the tiger was doing something amusing; people snapped its photograph and oohed.

  Raymond went to Beaulah and held out a hand. Beaulah refused it, her face scrunched. She stood shakily, breathing in raspy little squeaks.

  Was I really so scary?

  “Miss Starr,” I said, nearing them, “an innocent man is in all likelihood destined for the electric chair. How could you live out your days with that on your conscience?”

  Beaulah’s shoulders wilted. A distant carousel warbled calliope music. A confession was at hand—I could taste it.

  Beaulah wiped tears with the back of a finger. “I won’t let nobody louse up my plans! You hear? Nobody!” She swung her head in panic, veiled hat askew, and then malice hardened her mouth. She bent, picked up Cedric, and elbowed through the crowd.

  “No!” I screamed, lunging. I trod upon shoes and might’ve sent a tyke sprawling, and when I reached the front of the crowd, Beaulah had already wedged Cedric between two bars of the tiger’s cage. Cedric twisted and squealed. Beaulah was trying to stuff him through.