by Jo Schaffer
“Oh, all right. Thanks.” Hazel slid into the leather interior, gratitude and guilt singing their duet in her heart. She knew how lucky she was, with an economic depression crushing the country, to be one of the fortunate few who didn’t have to beg, steal, or borrow anything. Henri clambered into her lap. He was getting much too heavy and big for that.
“Down, you silly pup.” Hazel slid Henri into the seat beside her and scratched him behind the ears. “Platz,” she commanded, and Henri sat. “Braver Hund,” she cooed, using the German the dog trainer taught her. Her parents had hired a serious dog handler named Mick who had experience with police dogs. The Malloys wanted Hazel’s dog to be dangerous and threatening, but he was mostly goofy.
The Buick cruised through the rundown neighborhood, where men looking for work stood in threadbare clothing on the sidewalks. Some familiar-looking newsies wandered about with stacks of papers that hadn’t sold in the morning rush. A couple of kids in ragged trousers tap-danced on sidewalk, caps in hand.
They glided past a long soup line of dejected and hungry-looking people, hoping to get a bite of food. There was not much to suggest that the holidays were coming in this part of town. Hazel thought of the abundant spread of fancy food Mumsy had ordered through a caterer for her birthday party. One tall man in baggy trousers and a flat cap turned to watch the Buick go by. His lined face and hollow eyes were a headline about everything that was wrong with the world: it wasn’t fair.
Tonight would be the first society party since Hazel’s life had been turned inside out. She wondered how to go back to pretending that the poor didn’t exist and that everyone in her circle was safe. Even though the idea that there was some kind of evil conspiracy among the wealthy of St. Louis involving the Veiled Prophet seemed more fantastic as the days went by. She began to doubt the reality of any of it. But her best friend’s sister, Evelyn, had wound up dead and had a diary full of cryptic accusations against some mysterious powers in the city. Hazel had been avoiding these things since her rescue.
Besides, Stanley still had the diary.
Stanley.
Hazel sighed. She still needed to sort out how she felt about him. They were friends and “America’s Cracker Jack kids,” but anything else beyond that seemed impossibly complicated. In the first days after their rescue, she felt so close to him, and she wanted to cling to him as hard as she could. Then slowly he became a reminder of everything she wanted to forget. But sometimes her heart would feel warm or she’d get a tickle in her stomach when she remembered the way his blue eyes burned so fiercely when he had found her tied to that chair in the caves; the smell of his skin and the strength of his body, even injured, as they helped each other escape from the tunnels.
Hazel’s parents, though grateful to Stanley and willing to help get to the bottom of what possible corruption was growing among the elite, did not encourage Hazel to spend time with him. They still wanted her to focus on options in their own circles—providing they could figure out who was part of the conspiracy that killed Evelyn and who wasn’t. They liked Stanley, but they saw more for Hazel’s future than a lanky newsie with no money or real prospects.
While on the outside, she was now the darling debutante of St. Louis, Hazel’s inner terrain had been permanently altered as if by a dark, swirling cyclone. Mumsy had her go to a psychotherapist to talk about what happened. He emphasized her need to realize that nothing that happened to Sandy or Stanley was her fault, and that Charles Chouteau was psychopathic. Maybe it helped.
Hazel knew everyone wanted her to be okay. She felt the need to be better and to make them all think she was fine. People treated her too carefully, and she hated to see her parents worry. She could be strong—everyone was depending on her to be the same girl full of moxie and smiles. She was a Malloy for Pete’s sakes!
“How was your afternoon, Miss Hazel?” Jennings asked from the front of the vehicle.
“Just ducky, thanks.”
Hazel sat on a satin, tasseled stool with her eyes closed as her maid, Peggy, brushed and curled her dark, wayward hair. She had awoken from a brief nap with a headache, and now it was show time.
Her silk slip, trimmed with lace, was cut low enough for the new gown that hung in her closet. Hazel had always loved stylish clothes, but tonight she felt as if she was playing dress-up. In a way, she was. Tonight she had to be the dazzling debutante, assimilating into the elite circles to discover their supposed secrets. If the Veiled Prophet was indeed some criminal mastermind, he would be watching, and his sympathizers were unnamed. Hazel needed to convince everyone that she had immersed herself into her rightful place. Pretty, carefree, and clueless.
She and Stanley had been careful to never mention the details behind their kidnapping when being interviewed in the papers or on the radio. The story went that Charles Chouteau was a psychopathic killer, out of his mind with jealousy, and on a rampage. There was no mention of the Veiled Prophet or Evelyn’s diary, with its puzzling codes and numbers. Until they figured out more about The Winnowing and who was involved, they would keep it to themselves. It was too dangerous.
Peggy set the ivory handled brush down on the vanity. “There, now. You look lovely,” she said with her soothing Irish lilt. She squinted at Hazel and frowned. “Let me get you some Bayer tablets. We can’t have you scrunching up your forehead like that.”
“Thank you.” Hazel lightly rubbed the sides of her head. After Peggy hurried out of the room, Hazel turned around in her seat and gazed at herself in the mirror. Her eyes grew wide. Hazel’s chestnut hair was tamed and glossy, perfect curls framing her face. Mumsy had lined her eyes with kohl, powdered her face, and painted her lips a deep red. Her brows had been plucked into slender arches, and pink rouge seemed to make the blue in her eyes sparkle. She looked like a starlet from the pages of Photoplay. The jaunty sound of the live band downstairs floated, muted in the background, and Hazel smiled at her reflection.
Peggy returned with a glass of water and the pain medicine. “Aren’t you the very picture of glamor? Stanley will fall over dead.” Peggy winked at Hazel in the mirror.
Bananas.
Hazel waved a hand and tried to sound amused. “What do I care?” She popped the bitter, little pill into her mouth and took a sip of water.
She rubbed her lips together and stood as Peggy crossed the room with her long, satin, party dress. It was cream and pink floral and the very latest style. Mumsy had paid a pile for it. Now that Hazel was sixteen and a part of society, she had to sophisticate her look.
Her maid helped to slide the slim cut gown over her head, chest, and hips. It slipped into place with the whisper of silk on silk.
“Well, Miss. That’ll do,” Peggy sighed.
Hazel nodded at the knockout in the mirror. “Yeah.”
Her headache had faded by the time she descended the staircase. Music from the live band played “The Very Thought of You” as Hazel carefully chose her footing on each step in new, sparkling heels. The large foyer of her home was filled with finely togged people and the cacophony of conversations competing with the music.
She had just gotten to the bottom step, when a hand grabbed her elbow.
“Wow, Hazel. You’re a dish tonight.” Gabriel Sinclair grinned at her. He was the picture of a society boy in his tuxedo and slicked-over hair. His eyes gleamed behind his spectacles.
Here we go. Hazel took a breath and gave him a smile. “Why, thank you, Gabriel. You handsome devil.” She winked, and his grin cracked wider, color rising on his cheekbones.
“Come dance with me.” He held out his arm, and she took it.
“Lead the way.” Hazel held her chin high as they made their way through the crowd. She felt the gazes of everyone following her. She was the favorite of the hour, and something inside of her began to glow.
The double doors to the spacious conservatory were open, and the music was loud and dreamy. Swags of flowers decorated the walls and chandelier. The elite of St. Louis
bobbed and swirled around to the lively band set up at the far end of the room. Everyone of importance was there. This was the clambake of the season, and it was in Hazel’s own home.
Gabriel Sinclair led Hazel to the middle of the floor and took her in his arms. His cologne and hair tonic filled her with a giddy feeling as a new song began. He steered and spun her with large, warm hands and confidant steps. Over his shoulder, Hazel noticed with triumph that Regina Peck and Brigitte Slayback were there like a couple of overstuffed geese with all of the trimmings, flirting with a couple of frat boys. They looked over and noticed Hazel dancing with Gabriel, and a look of panicked envy crossed both of their faces.
Let them eat that with gravy.
Hazel swayed to the music with Gabriel. He was a heel, but sometimes she forgot that. Whenever he came around, he watched her attentively and always tried to engage in conversation even when she constantly shut him down. He had confided in her one time when his family had come to dinner that he was broken up over Charles. They had been friends for years, and it really had shaken him when everything happened. Gabriel had looked into Hazel’s eyes and asked her with all sincerity how she was doing and told her how glad he was that she was safe. He had even expressed admiration for Stanley’s courage. It was the first time Hazel realized that Gabriel was an actual person. Of course, the next moment he said something idiotic, but still … it was interesting. She didn’t hate him now.
“Where do you go, Hazel Malloy?” Gabriel said in her ear.
“What?”
“I can feel you thinking hard.” He chuckled.
Hazel smiled. “I like this song,” she said, embarrassed as though he could actually tell that he’d caught her thinking about him.
“I do too.” He pressed his cheek to hers, and she let him.
As the song ended, there was a slight disturbance from the far end of the room. Hazel glanced up, and her heart paused.
Bananas.
Stanley stood in the entrance of the conservatory, tall and suited up, a hard look on his face, one eye almost swollen shut. He was flanked by some of his Knights, looking rough and out of place in suits, smirks on their faces as they scanned the room. It was like Eliot Ness and his Untouchables about to raid.
The “good people” of St. Louis stared uneasily and made way as the boys stalked into the room. Hazel sometimes forgot what they must look like to everyone else. They were a tough looking lot, battle scarred, and imposing.
The song ended and in the pause before the next one began, Stanley took long strides across the room, toward where Hazel and Gabriel stood, still holding hands.
Stanley’s eye twitched. “Heya, Haze.” He tilted his head toward Gabriel. “If it isn’t soft slugger trying to get to first base.” His jaw flexed, and he breathed in through his nose, and Hazel knew he was counting to ten.
Gabriel released Hazel’s hand and calmly replied, “Good to see you, Fields. You clean up nice.”
Before Stanley could respond, Hazel laughed. She wasn’t sure why. Nerves. But Stanley flashed a scowl at her. “Something funny?”
Uh oh. He was in a mood. She didn’t want a scene. “I’m just happy to see you boys. What took you so long?” She reached out and straightened his tie and then lightly touched his swollen eye and frowned.
His face softened a little. “Took some time to get these mugs into monkey suits.”
Music had started up again, and the Knights were mingling in the crowd and intimidating girls into dancing with them. Hazel knew the looks of dismay girls gave them were an act. It was expected of them. But really, the boys were a little bit famous, and the danger was exciting. It was like having Bogart or Dillinger ask you for a dance. Who would say no?
“What happened to your eye, Snoopy?” She wasn’t sure she even wanted to know.
Stanley’s scowl melted away. “Can we talk?”
Hazel looked over at Gabriel to see if there would be any trouble.
Gabriel smiled at Hazel. “Thanks for the dance, Hazel,” he said before turning to Stanley and nodding. “Fields.” Gabriel walked away tall and straight, smooth as can be.
“What an act,” Stanley muttered.
Hazel bristled. “Look who’s talking.” She sniffed and made a face. “You smell like cigarettes.”
Stanley ignored the remark, took her by the arm, and led her out of the conservatory through the glass, French doors onto the veranda.
It was a cool, December night, and the moon was high. Small lights and torches lit up the trees and flower gardens. A few party guests strolled the paths in the moonlight, some holding hands. The Jazz playing inside felt artificially cheerful at the moment.
“Well?” Hazel crossed her arms and shivered.
Stanley had a grim expression on his face. “They’ve been in my house. The Veiled Prophet is after me.”
Before Hazel could respond to that unwelcome revelation, she heard footsteps.
“Hazel, there you are.” Dr. Galton stepped out of the shadows. He was a stunner in a tuxedo.
“You came.” Hazel’s grin gave way to a giggle that she quickly suppressed. She was relieved for the interruption … also the doctor looked like a movie star.
“I told you I wouldn’t miss it.” The young doctor glanced over at Stanley. “Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met.” He held out his hand.
Hazel held her breath and gave Stanley a look, hoping he wouldn’t do anything embarrassing.
Stanley pressed his lips together and shook Dr. Galton’s hand. “Yeah. I’m Stanley Fields, and you’re the good doc from the clinic in Dogtown.”
“Pleased to meet you. You and Hazel are the pride of our city.” Dr. Galton released the handshake and then ran his hand down the front of his jacket seemingly on reflex.
Stanley caught it and scowled. Dr. Galton took a slight step back and gave a smile.
Hazel saw the way Stanley’s jaw tightened. She turned to Dr. Galton and said in a chipper voice, “Well, it is so lovely that you came. I wonder if I could bother you to bring me some punch.”
Dr. Galton grasped the excuse to walk away. “I would be delighted. Nice to meet you, Stanley.” The doctor disappeared into the shadows of the veranda.
“Well, I like that. Who does he think he is, wiping my handshake off?” Stanley fumed.
Hazel rolled her eyes. “He’s a doctor. He washes his hands all day. I’ve seen him wipe his hands off after holding a pencil. Don’t take it personally.”
“Ain’t the same, and you know it. That was meant to insult me.”
“Isn’t,” Hazel corrected his grammar, noting he was sounding more like the other newsies tonight. “Anyway, that’s ridiculous. You need to stop thinking everyone is against you.”
“Said every privileged swell in the book.”
Hazel’s headache returned, and she rubbed the sides of her head. She was suddenly disgusted with Stanley. “Fine. What is it you wanted to talk to me about?”
Instead of speaking, Stanley stared at her, his one eye swollen and the other glinting in the torchlight. He tugged at his tie as if it strangled him and took a deep breath. “Haze … what’s happening to us?”
She squinted in irritation; her head throbbed. “Us?”
“Yeah … you and me.” He took a step forward and reached out to take her hand.
Hazel quickly clasped her hands together and raised them to her chin as if in thought. “What do you mean?”
Stanley flinched and put his hand in his pocket. He closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose then looked down at his shoes. When he looked back up at her, there was hurt etched on his face. “It’s like you’ve forgotten who you are. You’re acting like one of them.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the elegantly togged gentry dancing inside. “Is this your act? To get information?” His eyes looked hopeful.
Hazel didn’t know what to say. Her mind was clouded, and all she could feel was confusion and irritation. She rubbed
her temples. “I am one of them. And I’m trying to figure things out …” She saw the pained looked on Stanley’s face.
“Haze … remember? In the cave when everything was dark and we were both battered and broken?” His bright, blue eyes pulled at her insides.
Hazel pushed away the panic his words brought. “I don’t want to think about that.”
He nodded. “I know … but think of this … there we were, and everything was all wrong. But we helped each other out. We leaned on one another and got out of that mess.” He swallowed and gave a tiny smile.
Hazel felt a glow start in her heart, and then a sharp pain shot through her head again. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Stop it.”
“What’s wrong?” he said in a low, concerned voice and took a step toward her.
“Nothing. I don’t know what you mean. I’m fine.” She just wanted him to go away. He was ruining her birthday. And she saw how all the others looked at him. How could she play the debutante and get to the bottom of this Veiled Prophet business if Stanley was there? Nobody would trust her. She shook her head in confusion, because more and more she doubted that the Veiled Prophet and any of her neighbors were somehow sinister. Charles was a madman after all.
“You’re not fine,” Stanley insisted.
Hazel pressed her forehead with her hand. “I don’t need you to tell me how I am. I don’t need you at all.”
Stanley folded his arms across his chest. “I see.”
The music in the conservatory was a joyous contrast to the growing darkness Hazel felt. She wanted to go in and dance, but Stanley’s gaze kept her rooted in place. He had something to tell her, and all she could do was hear him out.
Stanley had never seen this side of Hazel. Maybe she really didn’t want him around and this was her way of telling him. His insides were in knots. It was bad enough to walk in and see her in the arms of the stuck up mug he’d been in a fist fight with. It felt awful close to betrayal, and he didn’t like it.
