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

I had to laugh. “Ryan, you are too much,” I said. “Can you see yourself in Bolivia? I bet they don’t have running water or proper sanitation, especially not where bandits live.”


“Oh I’m sure he’s a remarkably civilized bandit,” he said. “South American bandits are so romantic, compared to the low-down animal behavior of New York criminals. You’ve heard about these brutal Sicilians, I take it? Utterly ruthless.” A wistful look came into his eyes as if he were almost hoping to be kidnapped.

I got up from my comfortable seat. “Much as I would love to stay and chat, I have a lot to do before a dress rehearsal tonight.”

“So you really are going to be in the play? What is your part—do tell?”

“I can’t. You’ll have to come to opening night and see for yourself.”

“I’ll never get tickets for opening night. Everyone will want to be there.”

“Blanche is that popular, is she?”

“No, darling, to see if the ghost appears, of course.” He laughed gaily and went back to attacking a boiled egg.





SIXTEEN

I left Ryan filled with the warm glow that always lingered after being in his presence and caught the Broadway trolley north to Oona Sheehan’s rooms at the Hoffman House. It must have been my lucky day. Miss Sheehan was also in residence and prepared to see me. I was whisked up in the elevator, without bumping into the Divine Sarah this time.

Oona was bustling around, getting ready for her own theatrical performance, shouting instructions to the new French maid as that maid showed me into the drawing room. “And Yvette, my fur muff. I can’t risk getting my hands cold. And the new jar of cold cream. You might as well bring that as well.” She broke off with a beaming smile. “Molly. How lovely. Blanche tells me you have taken the case and words cannot express her gratitude. Have you been there yet? Have you seen the ghost?”

“I haven’t seen a manifestation, but I’ve seen an example of its work,” I said, and told her about the wind machine. She was clearly delighted. “How terribly chilling. So the place really is haunted. Poor Blanche. She would pick that particular theater for her big comeback. Now I bet she wishes she’d aimed lower and gone for the Fifth Avenue Theater instead. Not as glamorous but surely safer.”

Yvette appeared with the muff and the cold cream. “Anything else, Madame?”

“I’m afraid I can’t offer you coffee, Molly. I have a matinee today, so I’m all a-dither. Was there something you wanted particularly?”

“Actually I wanted your impression of the cast and crew that Blanche has employed. I’m wondering whether any one of them might be trying to sabotage the play.”

“By pretending to be a ghost, you mean?”

“Exactly. I’m not sure I believe in ghosts so I have to look at ordinary mortals as the first suspects.”

“Now, let’s see. Who is in the show with her? Aubrey, of course, but he’s a dear boy. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. And Hiram. He’s not the easiest man in the world but far too much of a sissy to do anything violent.”

“And Mr. Barker?”

“Bobby? Adores Blanche, my dear. Positively adores her. Slavelike devotion. He would throw himself in front of any ghost to save her.”

“And Desmond Haynes?”

She paused. “I do believe he and Blanche had a thing going once, but it was just a brief affair. You know how it is in the theater—grand passions that quickly burn out. I don’t know on what terms they parted or how he feels about her now. But he hasn’t had a big show to choreograph in some time so this is a great opportunity for him.”

She glanced down at the jar she was holding. “I said cold cream, Yvette, not vanishing cream.” Yvette almost snatched the jar away and ran off into the bedroom. “Oh, the girl is impossible. Just won’t learn proper English,” Oona said in the same loud voice.

“And Oona, one more thing,” I said. Actually it was two more things. “About stage makeup. I have to buy some before tonight. Is there a particular shop where everyone buys their greasepaint sticks?”

“Darling, I have masses of the stuff. What do you need? Have Yvette show you my makeup box and help yourself.”

“But won’t you be taking it to the theater?”

“I’m already well stocked in my dressing room. These are just emergency supplies.”

“Well, if you don’t mind,” I said, but she was already calling, “Yvette. Venez ici. Show mademoiselle to the box where I keep my makeup. There, my sweet. Yvette will take care of you.”

She was already turning away.