by Lee Strauss
She reached over to the passenger seat and patted Boss on the head. “We need to go back to the beginning.” Boss panted, his head bobbing up and down in agreement.
It seemed like yesterday when she, Haley, and Ambrosia had attended a showing of Sham at the Abbott Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue. It was Felicia’s first (and last?) “big” role, the only woman in a cast of four that included a dynamic Angus Green.
The lobby doors were unlocked, but the theatre was closed to the public until later that night when a new production of Hamlet would be playing. Ginger, with Boss in her arms, passed the agent in the box office on her way toward the stage manager’s office.
Peter McGuire recognised her at once and invited her inside. In his late forties, the stage manager was a studious sort with slicked-back hair and a waxed moustache. His countenance darkened slightly as he acknowledged Boss. Ginger had the feeling he didn’t allow pets in the theatre and was graciously making an exception for her.
“How can I be of assistance to you, Lady Gold? Would you fancy complimentary tickets for tonight’s performance?”
Ginger could afford to purchase her own tickets, but she understood the practice of making it easy for the elite to attend. It was good for business.
“I’m afraid my reason for being here is less benign than that. I’ve been hired by Mr. James Green to investigate the death of his son, Angus.”
Peter McGuire blinked in surprise. “Surely, Scotland Yard is sufficiently managing that horrible affair.”
“Of course. However, there are things a private citizen can do that the Metropolitan Police cannot.” For example, people might confide in a private citizen in ways they wouldn’t with the police, but Ginger didn’t say that.
“Very well, Lady Gold. What is it that you’d like from me?”
“Just a moment of your time to ask a few questions.”
Mr. McGuire stroked his moustache. “Go ahead.”
“When did you first meet Angus Green?”
“The night he auditioned for Sham. It was obvious that he had natural talent.”
“And he had aspirations to take it beyond a hobby status?”
“If you could go by what he talked about during rehearsals,” Mr. McGuire said. “He often spoke of pursuing the West End and Broadway in New York. He even spoke of Los Angeles.”
“I only met Mr. Green a couple of times,” Ginger said. “He seemed very energetic to me. Was he always like that or did he have ups and downs?”
Mr. McGuire’s face collapsed into a scroll of wrinkly lines. “Mr. Green was up, as you say, when he needed to be, but he did appear to struggle with melancholy on occasion.”
You must meet all kinds of people in your business, Mr. McGuire,” Ginger said. “See and hear many things. Do you think that Mr. Green might’ve been taking stimulants?”
Mr. McGuire narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like to talk poorly of the dead, and I wouldn’t have mentioned it if you hadn’t asked, but in my opinion—not a professional one, I might add—yes. I couldn’t say what, mind you. Perhaps you should ask his old flatmate, Geordie Atkins.”
Ginger had been to Geordie Atkins’ flat once before, just after Angus Green had gone missing. It was on the top floor of a stone building in the City of London not far from the majestic St. Paul’s Cathedral on Ludgate Hill. The church’s massive dome pierced the low-lying clouds beyond three hundred feet, making it the highest building in London. Its east and west wings sprawled out making it the longest too. The structure dwarfed anything that surrounded it.
After parking on a side street, Ginger entered the building and carried Boss up the flight of stairs. She hoped Mr. Atkins would be found at home as it was the middle of the day, but actors weren’t known to keep regular hours. To her relief, the slim young man opened the door when she knocked.
His jaw sagged open when he registered the identity of his guest, and he immediately tucked in his shirt and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Lady Gold. This is a surprise.”
“I’m sorry to have caught you off guard. I’m afraid I’m here because Angus Green’s father has asked me to look into his death. I hoped you’d have a moment for a few questions.”
Mr. Atkins looked over his shoulder nervously, and Ginger had a sinking feeling he might be entertaining a female guest. She really ought to have rung him first! “If this is an inconvenient time,” she started.
“No, not at all. I’m afraid the flat is in a state of disarray. My new flatmate isn’t is neat as Angus was.”
Ginger let out a breath of relief. “I promise to overlook it, Mr. Atkins. You don’t mind that I have my little pet with me?” Boss stared at Geordie Atkins with round brown eyes that said, “Love me.”
“Landlord don’t like pets, but I don’t mind,” he said, motioning them to enter. “Would you fancy some tea?”
“That would be lovely.”
The sofa and coffee table were covered in magazines and sweet wrappers, compliments of the new flatmate, Ginger assumed. While Geordie Atkins busied himself clearing off the cluttered table, Ginger stared out of the window. It faced southward toward the River Thames, and she could see the square turret of St. George’s Anglican Church, which reminded her that she had promised Oliver Hill, her friend and vicar, that she would drop in with a donation for the jumble sale.
Once the table was cleared, Ginger took one of the kitchen chairs and set Boss on the floor by her feet. Mr. Atkins joined her shortly and produced a tray with some tea things on it.
“Milk and sugar?” he asked, as he poured her cup.
“A little sugar.” Ginger took the small bowl and tended to her tea. She took a sip. “Splendid. Perfect for such a dreary day.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have any biscuits to offer.”
“Not at all.”
After they’d both sipped their tea, Mr. Atkins began, “What did you want to ask me?”
“Did you ever suspect Mr. Green of indulging in stimulants?”
“Like coffee and alcohol?”
“More of the powdery kind.”
“Ah.” Mr. Atkins placed his teacup on his saucer, leaned back, and crossed his legs. “You know about the cocaine. I just want to assure you that I personally never partook.” He jabbed at his temple with his forefinger. “I like to be in control of my faculties.”
Ginger had only suspected that Angus might’ve been taking illegal drugs, but she acted as if she knew. “Do you know where he got it from?”
Geordie shook his head. “Some Italian guy. He had a nickname, I forget. Something like Insect or Pest.”
Italian guy. Could this mean Angus had got mixed up with the Italian mafia?
Chapter Seven
“Lab tests came back on Angus Green’s blood samples,” Haley said. She adjusted her plaid skirt as she lounged on the settee in the sitting room.
Across from her, Ginger was curled up in a wingback chair with Boss on her lap. They often shared a brandy together at the end of the workday, and this day was no different.
“And?” Ginger prompted impatiently.
“They confirmed the presence of cocaine in his system.”
“Oh, mercy,” Ginger said. “I’ll have to let Mr. James Green and Mr. Andrew Green know.”
Haley tucked loose brunette curls behind her ears. She’d already removed the pins that held up her faux bob, and a thick curly ponytail hung over one shoulder. “You’ve been in touch with Angus Green’s family again?”
“I visited this morning. Mr. Green is unsatisfied with the official investigation so far and has hired me to look into it further.”
Haley grinned. “Your first paying investigator job!”
“Well, Mr. Green can afford it, and I don’t want him or anyone to think they can take advantage of me because I’m a woman.”
“Or rich.”
Ginger shot her friend a look. “It all goes to the Child Wellness Project.”
“Naturally,” Haley said kindly. “So, how’s your inv
estigation been going?”
Ginger relayed the interviews she had had with Peter McGuire and Geordie Atkins.
“Italian mafia, huh?” Haley said.
“It’s just a theory at the moment, but if you remember last night at the gala, Dr. Brennan appeared to believe in their existence and thought their activity in London to be real.”
“Right. Dr. Brennan. Opinionated and self-assured. A frightening combination.”
Ginger agreed. “You can say that again.”
“He seemed rather taken with you, Ginger. Is he in the running?” Haley’s grin was laced with mirth. She liked to play cupid with Ginger’s love life, especially since the understanding Ginger had had with Chief Inspector Basil Reed had come to a sudden halt, thanks to his wife re-entering the picture.
Ginger pulled her eyes away from the Mermaid, a John William Waterhouse painting that hung above the fireplace. It was the only piece left from the manor’s Victorian era, a gift from her father to her mother. The mermaid’s long red hair was a nod to the genes passed down to Ginger from her mother’s side of the family.
“Dr. Brennan has invited me to join him for dinner,” Ginger said. She sipped casually on her brandy. She was well aware that the pause would cause a stir in her friend.
Haley’s dark eyes brightened as she leaned forward. “Do tell. Are you stepping out?”
Ginger laughed at her friend’s sudden attentiveness. “I surely hope not, but the gentleman in question might have other ideas.”
Haley leaned back. “It’s time for you to get out and have fun with someone new.”
“Says you.” Ginger stroked Boss behind his ears, her emerald rings sparkling in the electric light. “I’m only going because he’s taking me to an Italian restaurant, and unlike you, I’ve yet to try it.”
Haley pursed her lips. “Is it called Pinocchio’s?”
“Yes,” Ginger said with mild surprise. Haley hardly got around town to know about new ethnic restaurants. “Do you know it?”
“No, but I’ve heard a rumour that it’s run by the mafia.”
“That’s exactly why I said yes to Dr. Brennan.”
Before Haley could comment, Felicia blew into the room. “Ginger! You must tell Grandmama to stop!”
Boss, startled awake at the commotion, jumped to the floor and started barking.
“Bossy, it’s okay,” Ginger said. “Felicia, whatever is going on?”
Boss shook himself out and went to his bed near the hearth. The embers were dying, and Haley moved with him to stoke the flames and add more coal.
Felicia was undaunted. “Grandmama is inviting men over for dinner, one each night this week, to secure me a husband!”
Not to be out-manoeuvred, the elder Lady Gold pushed through the swinging door, presenting herself. The family matron was an intimidating presence, despite her shrinking stature. She wore a floor-length green velvet dress straight from a Victorian-era catalogue, and by her posture and the disgruntled look on her wrinkled face, a corset was definitely doing its suffocating work underneath. In her hand, she held a silver-handled walking-stick used more to underscore a point by tapping it firmly on the floor than to maintain her balance.
“Ginger, you must side with me on this one. The child is getting out of hand. Gallivanting after dark, unchaperoned. Dressing unscrupulously. Her reputation, if not already ruined, will surely soon be.”
Ginger stood, smoothing out her blue rayon day dress. The tension between her grandmother-in-law and her sister-in-law was growing by the day. Ginger was running out of ways to smooth the waters.
“Grandmother, Felicia is no longer a child—”
“Yes, you always say that, but she behaves like one who—”
Felicia finished for her. “Never had a mother?”
Ambrosia tapped her walking-stick on the Persian carpet. “Quite. The good Lord knows I did my best by you, but it’s time—”
Felicia folded her arms. “Time someone else took me off your hands?”
“It’s time you grew up! Get married, have a family. Learn to care about someone other than yourself.”
Felicia’s blue eyes pleaded. “Ginger?”
“Would it hurt to have dinner, Felicia? You have to eat anyway, and who knows, maybe you’ll actually get on with one of them.”
Felicia stomped a foot. “I knew you’d side with her.” She stared at Ambrosia before storming out. “Fine. I’ll eat, but I won’t speak!”
Ambrosia collapsed into an empty chair. “That child is going to be the end of me.”
“Would you like me to get you a sherry,” Haley said.
Ambrosia glanced up as if she hadn’t noticed Haley in the room. The elder Lady Gold didn’t quite understand how Ginger could mingle so well with commoners, much less have them live with them at Hartigan House.
“I would, Miss Higgins. Thank you.”
“At least you got your way, Grandmother,” Ginger said. She felt sorry for Ambrosia. The world was changing faster than the older woman could keep up with.
“A battle won,” Ambrosia conceded as she accepted the sherry from Haley. “But alas, not the war.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be joining you for dinner tomorrow evening, Grandmother,” Ginger said.
“Oh?” Ambrosia looked as if she had taken another blow. “But I need you to help carry the conversation. You heard Felicia. She’s refusing to talk.”
“Haley will be there.”
Ambrosia’s eyes darted to Haley before turning upwards.
“I can be quite the conversationalist,” Haley said, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
Ginger knew that Ambrosia’s woes, and the woes of the elite in general, were a constant source of intrigue to her American friend.
“I suppose you’ll have to do,” Ambrosia muttered. Then to Ginger, “Where will you be?”
“I’m meeting an acquaintance for dinner.”
“An acquaintance?”
“Yes, Grandmother. A friend. And that’s all you’ll get from me.” Ginger bent over and kissed Ambrosia on the forehead. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get ready.”
“Shouldn’t Miss Higgins chaperone?” Ambrosia said, a sense of desperation in her voice. “Heavens, then I’ll have no one left to make conversation at the dinner table.”
Ginger paused by the door, noting the glint in Haley’s eyes. “I’m a mature, modern woman, Grandmother. I’m not in need of a chaperone.”
“It’s not that vicar, is it?” Ambrosia demanded. “Mr. Hill is a nice young man, but not suitable for you.”
Haley burst out laughing.
Chapter Eight
Ginger arrived at her dress shop, Feathers & Flair, early the next morning, Boss securely tucked under one arm.
Madame Roux, the shop’s manager, greeted Ginger warmly. “Bonjour, Lady Gold. How are you?”
Ginger wiped Boss’ paws with a cloth she had stashed in her handbag and sat the dog on the glossy white tiled floor. “Go to your bed,” Ginger commanded. Boss immediately traipsed to the red velvet curtain that separated the working area from the showroom and disappeared between the flaps.
Madame Roux took Ginger’s damp coat. “I, for one, will be delighted when spring is finally upon us.”
“It’s almost March,” Ginger said, agreeing. “It can’t be too long now.”
The white marble floors glistened under the lights of the electric chandeliers that hung from the high ceilings of the two-story shop. Mannequins outfitted in the latest fashions from Paris and New York graced the windows, while quality accessories hung on floor racks. Hats were displayed on wall shelves.
Madame Roux filled Ginger in on the previous day’s sales and orders. “I think you’ll like the scarves that came in from Milan,” she said. “The fabric—incroyable.”
Ginger slipped into the back in search of the rest of her staff and found Dorothy, her floor clerk, and Emma, the seamstress and designer, chatting over a cup of tea.
“Reveren
d Hill is so gentle and kind, yet strong, you know,” Dorothy was saying to Emma. Her eyes were starry and filled with admiration. “You should’ve heard his sermon on Sunday. All about love and helping the poor—”
Ginger raised a brow. Reverend Oliver Hill was the charming and single vicar at St. George’s Church and many a young maiden had been disarmed by his boyish good-looks and childlike charm— wavy red locks included. Ginger and Oliver had become friends over the past few months, in large part due to their shared desire to help London’s poor, especially the street children.
Emma straightened when she noticed Ginger standing there. “Oh, good morning, Lady Gold.”
Dorothy patted her honey-brown shingled hairdo and chimed in. “Good morning.” Her face flushed red at being overheard swooning by her employer. She put down her tea and swooped up a handful of new dresses. “I was just about to take these upstairs.”
Though the main floor catered to the elite looking for haute couture and original designs, the upper level displayed the factory dresses. A new breed of fashion-conscious women was thrilled with the prospect of finding their size already hanging on the rack and ready for them to wear the moment they got home with their purchases.
Ginger checked her Rolex. The shop would open in ten minutes. Boss looked up at her and poked at the empty dish by his bed.
“You are a greedy little fellow, aren’t you?” Ginger said. Even though Boss had eaten before they left Hartigan House, Ginger poured dog food into the bowl from a bag she kept at the shop. “That’s all, Bossy. You’re starting to get a little rotund.”
Madame Roux opened the shop, and soon a scattering of customers entered the store. Numbers had been down since the murder at Feathers & Flair the previous month if one didn’t count the curious and gossipmongers, which Ginger didn’t since they didn’t come to buy. Thankfully, her regular customers had started to return along with some new ones coming to shop.
The ivory and gold-plated telephone rang. Madame Roux was busy with a customer, so Ginger picked up the exquisitely designed receiver. “Good morning, Feathers & Flair. How may I help you?”
