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

I decided I probably had a little time to spare. When my business began to show a healthy profit, I’d buy myself a watch. A good detective needed to know the exact time. I was dying to take another look at the spot where she had lain. If I hurried I’d be able to see if we had overlooked any clues. I entered the park through the same gate through which we had carried her out yesterday, retraced our steps along the path, over the East Drive and into the central wilderness area, and there it was. I could still see exactly how she had lain in the snow and where I had knelt beside her. I stood looking down at her imprint in the snow, trying to picture how she had fallen, and how long she had lain there. I found that I was shivering in the cold as the sun had dipped behind the horizon. If I couldn’t stand here for long, dressed warmly in stout boots and a woolen cloak, then how could she have survived at all, if she had lain there for any length of time?

I examined the site closely for any telltale clues—a locket or a handkerchief with her initials on it would have done nicely, but alas, there was nothing. Our footsteps had disturbed the snow around her, but on the other side of the dell her neat little trail of footprints was still clear. With mounting excitement I followed them, around a little hill, across a stretch of flat lawn, until they joined a path and were lost among countless other footprints. I followed the path for a while, hoping to see if a footprint might be recognizable, but after a while I had to give up. Still, I had learned one thing: she had not been attacked anywhere near the spot where we found her. She had not been carried to the spot. She had walked there under her own steam and had come from the north. Not, therefore, from any of the polyglot ghettoes of lower Manhattan.

The same clock chiming the three-quarter hour reminded me that I had a job to do and I’d be late if I didn’t hurry. I slithered and skidded my way through the park until I reached Columbus Circle and the end station of the Sixth Avenue El. It was four o’clock on the dot when I stepped into the hallway at the Casino Theater. I was red-cheeked and gasping for breath because I had run all the way from the train, and had to stand in front of a very surprised Henry while I caught my breath.

“Well, fancy seeing you again,” he said. “Anything wrong, miss?”

“Nothing. I just thought I was going to be late and that would never do on my first day,” I said.

“First day?” He looked suspicious.

“I’m going to be joining the company,” I said.

“As what?”

“I can’t say yet, until I’ve met with Miss Lovejoy. Is she in her dressing room?”

“No, miss, she went front of house, meeting with Mr. Barker and Mr. Haynes. And that young songwriter guy, whatever his name is.”

“So who are Mr. Barker and Mr. Haynes?” I asked.

“They’re the men that count,” Henry said. “Mr. Barker is the director. He’s got money in the show as well. And Mr. Haynes—he’s the choreographer. He’s the one with the creative talent, at least according to himself, of course.”

I laughed, but I didn’t rightly know what a choreographer was and didn’t like to show my ignorance by asking. I also didn’t think it would be wise to barge into a meeting and maybe put Blanche Lovejoy in a spot, especially if she hadn’t yet managed to come up with a good reason for explaining my presence in the theater.

“I think I’ll go up to her dressing room and wait for her there,” I said. “Will you tell her that I’m here if you see her?”

“I will indeed, miss,” he said. “So you’re really an actress! That baloney about bringing a message from Oona Sheehan was just a ruse to meet Miss Lovejoy, wasn’t it? Come on, now. You can’t fool Old Henry. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen that trick played before.”

“No, I really was brining a message from Oona Sheehan. Honestly.”

He touched the side of his nose with a knowing grin. “And that message was that Miss Lovejoy should give you a job in her production?”

“Something like that,” I said, trying to look sheepish.

“I’m surprised she fell for it at this stage,” he said. “I know Miss Lovejoy. She likes order. She likes everything to be perfect. Changing things at the last minute just isn’t like her. You must be mighty talented, or a really big draw.”

“Neither, I promise you. I’m sure I’m going to play the most minor of parts and disturb things the least possible.”

“Chorus, you mean?” Henry looked puzzled now.

“I’m really not sure, yet,” I said. “Wait until I’ve spoken to Miss Lovejoy.”

“Let’s hope the other girls don’t resent you,” Henry said, going back to his newspaper. “Most girls would kill to get a part in a production like this one.”

I left him with those words echoing through my head. Had somebody not been awarded the role she felt she deserved? Was somebody maybe trying to get even with Miss Lovejoy? But then surely it wasn’t one of her cast members. If Blanche got so spooked that she decided to close the show, then they’d all be out of work.





TWELVE

Martha admitted me to Blanche’s dressing room.

“She’s expecting you,” she cackled in that scratchy witch voice of hers, staring at me with those strange, hooded, birdlike eyes. “Give me your cloak. I’ll hang it up for you.” I complied although I could have easily hung the garment on the hook myself.

“I gather she’s downstairs meeting with the producer and some other men,” I said. “I thought it wiser to come up here.”

“Definitely. She doesn’t like to be caught out. Not Miss Lovejoy. Even as a little child she hated to be caught out and then find herself at a disadvantage. Always did like to be holding the reins and in the driver’s seat. A headstrong child, that’s sure enough.”