Tell Me, Pretty Maiden (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #7)

“Good for you,” Daniel said. “Now let’s hope you live to enjoy the spoils.”


“I’m feeling much better,” I said. “Or at least I was when I set out this morning. And I can’t say you’ve seemed overly concerned about the state of my health until now. You took one look at my fevered brow and beat a hasty retreat, never to be seen again.”

Daniel grimaced. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry about that.”

“I understand that gentlemen have an aversion to being around sickness.”

“No, it wasn’t that, I assure you. I was most concerned about you.”

“So concerned that I’ve not seen you in two weeks and had to throw myself in front of your automobile to get your attention.”

He managed a grin. “Actually I’ve been on a case that has kept me busy day and night. I’ve hardly even had a chance to sleep.”

“What kind of case is it?” I took a long swig of hot tea and felt the warmth going through my body. “Let me know if I can be of help.”

Daniel smiled in a way that I took as patronizing. “My dear girl, you know I can’t discuss a criminal case with you, and I certainly wouldn’t let you help me.”

“You don’t think I’m any good as a detective?” I asked.

“I think you’re very competent in your own way,” he said cautiously, “but I have to play by the rules, and besides, I try to keep you well away from murders of any sort. So you stick to your kind of investigations and I’ll stick to mine.”

“Don’t be so damned patronizing.” I flung the tea towel in his direction.

“My, we are testy, aren’t we?” He laughed. “And I wasn’t intending to be patronizing. I’m glad that your business is going well, but you know my feelings. I’d be much happier if you didn’t have to work and especially if you didn’t have to put yourself in harm’s way. Now that I’m back on the job, we can make proper plans for the future. I’m saving up for a house, Molly.”

“You haven’t asked me to marry you yet,” I reminded him.

“I intend to do it properly, at the right moment,” he said.

“And you don’t know that I’ll say yes.”

Those alarming blue eyes flashed. “No, I don’t know that, but I’m hopeful. At least you’re now seeing the reality of what life with me will be like. Odd hours. Coming and going. Calls in the middle of the night, and times when you’ll see nothing of me for days on end.”

“You make it sound so delightful. It’s a wonder I don’t accept you on the spot,” I retorted, and he chuckled.

“I know I’ve been neglecting you recently,” he said. “I’ll make it up to you when this case is successfully concluded, I promise.”

“You must get Easter off, surely? Why don’t we walk in the Easter Parade? I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“The Easter Parade? Oh, come, Molly. That is for the nouveaux riches wanting to show off their expensive hats, and I’m afraid that sodden chapeau of yours wouldn’t be able to compete.”

“I don’t wish to compete. I just want to experience things that New Yorkers do,” I said. “And I’d like a chance to stroll up the avenue with my beau on my arm for once.”

“I wish we could, but the answer is no, I don’t get Easter off. Not while people are killing each other all over the lower portion of Manhattan.” He drained his teacup and stood up. “Speaking of which, I have to go, I’m afraid. I’m expected at headquarters. Good-bye, my sweet. Take care of yourself, please. No more walking out in the rain until you are completely recovered.” He came over to me, kissed me on the forehead, and was out of the front door before I could even respond. I went to the door after him and watched him working furiously to crank that machine to life.

“You should stick to horses, they’re easier to start,” I called after him.

He looked up and grinned. “This is an experiment. The commissioner of police wants to find out if automobiles might be useful in police work. So far I’m not impressed.” He gave another mighty jerk as he said this and the machine sputtered into action. With that he leaped onto the seat, waved, and reversed down Patchin Place.





TWO


As the automobile chugged away from Patchin Place, the front door opposite me opened and my neighbor Sid’s face peered out. “Hello, Molly. What was that infernal noise we just heard?”

“Daniel driving an automobile,” I said. “He rescued me from the rain and drove me home.”

“Come on over and have a glass of wine,” Sid said. “We’ve got exciting news to share.”

I needed no second urging to join her. My neighbors Elena Goldfarb and Augusta Walcott, usually known by their irreverent nicknames Sid and Gus, never failed to bring joy into my life. They were generous to a fault and always experimenting with new foods and cultural experiences, making each visit to their home an adventure. The fact that their own choice of lifestyle was not a universally accepted one was neither here nor there.