“Administrative costs, you know. I have an agency to run. Now what do you say? Have I found myself a new associate?”
Daniel frowned. “If it ever got out that I’d been working for a woman, I’d be a laughingstock when I returned to the force,” he said.
“Not working for a woman, Daniel. Working with a woman. You know that you and I could make a great team. You’d be the biggest asset my little agency ever had. I know I can’t pay you what you’re worth but at least you’d have some money coming in—enough to pay for cab fares to take your lady friend to Central Park.”
I saw him frown again, and swallow hard, his Adam’s apple dancing above the starched collar.
“If you don’t want the job, I’m sure I can find someone else who would do it for me. I believe that Ryan O’Hare is unemployed with no current play on Broadway. He’d definitely find it a huge lark to play the detective.”
That did it, of course. I knew that Daniel despised my friend, the flamboyant playwright Ryan O’Hare.
“You’d surely never dream of working with such a creature,” he said. “Think of the reputation of your business. No prosperous Jewish family would ever consider letting such a man work for them!”
“Then take the assignment yourself, Daniel. It’s absolutely up your street. Following a man around unsavory neighborhoods—who better to do it than you?”
“You’re right,” he said. “Nobody could do it better than I. Except that I am well known among the criminal element.”
“I don’t think that Mr. Roth will be mixing with the criminal element,” I said. “At least I sincerely hope he won’t.”
“I suppose I could try this one assignment and see how we get along,” Daniel said at last.
“If we can’t work together for a few days, then I see little hope in planning any kind of future together,” I said. “It’s about time you learned that I will never be the demure miss who waits at home for her lord and master, doing her embroidery and playing croquet.”
He looked a little startled at this outburst, then he had to nod. “No, I can’t see you being anyone’s lapdog, Molly. It is one of the things I admire about you. And maybe I can teach you a thing or two about detective methods.”
“Maybe I can teach you a thing or two about mine,” I said. “Shall we shake on it?”
I reached out my hand. Daniel took it, then pulled me toward him. “Sealed with a kiss,” he said and planted his lips firmly on mine. This time I let him kiss me, returning the kiss with full fervor.
Mrs. O’Shea’s tap on the door was the only thing that prevented the encounter from going on a little too long.
“Did Miss Murphy tell you that you’re invited to supper, Captain Sullivan?” she called through the closed door.
“I’m afraid I won’t be home for supper, Mrs. O’Shea,” Daniel called back. “I’ve a detective assignment.”
I grinned. “And I have a date with a ghost,” I said.
EIGHT
The Casino Theater on Broadway at West Thirty-ninth was where Blanche Lovejoy’s new play was about to open. I wasn’t at all sure what I could do for Blanche Lovejoy. How did one prove that a theater was or wasn’t haunted? If I made actual communication with a spirit, she’d stop production and that would presumably put a lot of people out of work, unless she could find another theater at the last minute. And to be quite honest, I wasn’t at all sure that I wanted a face-to-face encounter with a ghost, especially a malevolent one that was trying to kill Miss Lovejoy.
As soon as I spotted the Casino Theater, I could tell that Miss Lovejoy wouldn’t want to move to another theater unless it was absolutely necessary. It was a magnificent-looking building—more sultan’s palace than theater, with carved stonework, arch-ways, vaulted windows. Lit only by the electric lights from the buildings around it, the stonework seemed to glow. On one corner a round tower seemed to reach up into the heavens and I could just glimpse the metallic dome on top. There was a sign on the marquee, although it wasn’t yet illuminated.
OPENING NEXT WEEK,
Miss Blanche Lovejoy
makes her triumphant return in
Ooh La La.
The engraved glass front doors were firmly locked but I finally located the stage door down an alleyway. I went in and found myself in a dimly hit hallway.
“Where do you think you’re going?” a voice from the darkness demanded.
I must have jumped a mile. I hadn’t seen the little kiosk built into the wall and the man’s face in the window floated like a disembodied head. “We’re not open to the public,” he said. “So I must ask you to leave right away.”
“I have a message for Miss Lovejoy,” I said. “From Miss Oona Sheehan. It’s urgent.”
Tell Me, Pretty Maiden (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #7)
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