At a noisy Horn & Hardart Automat on Broadway, Evie hunkered down in a corner and kept an eye out for T. S. Woodhouse, who pushed through the door at last with his usual louche swagger.
“I was surprised to get your call, Sheba,” he said, taking a seat and helping himself to a forkful of her apple pie. “Why, these days, you’re busier than Babe Ruth’s bat.”
Evie tucked a dollar beside his hat. Woody glanced at it, then took another bite of pie. “Aren’t you getting enough press these days, Sweetheart Seer?”
“It isn’t about me this time,” Evie whispered.
Woody grinned. “I have never heard those words from your lips.”
Evie ignored the jibe. “Woody, I need you to put that feverish brain of yours to work on something that requires real investigation for once.”
“I do love the way you ask for favors, Sheba. Full of humility and grace.”
“You want humility and grace, head to a nunnery. This is important.”
“I’m all ears.”
Evie wasn’t entirely certain she should trust Woody, but he was all she had. She looked around to make certain they weren’t overheard. “You ever hear of something called Project Buffalo?”
The reporter raised an eyebrow. “Is this a charity that takes kiddies to zoos?”
“No. It was a government project during the war, maybe even before that.”
Woody wiped his mouth, keeping his eyes on Evie. Then he took out his pencil and wrote Project Buffalo on his notepad. “Go on.”
“I-I don’t really know much about it, except that it might have had something to do with Diviners.”
“How’s that?”
“As I said, I don’t know. I only know that Sam’s mother went to work on it—”
“Doing what?”
“She was a nurse,” Evie said, keeping her face blank. Woody didn’t need to know everything. “That’s the whole crop.”
“I guess I’ll have to ask Sam if I want to know more.…”
“No!” Evie said, placing a hand on Woody’s arm. “You mustn’t tell Sam. He’d have a conniption fit if he knew I was talking to you. This is strictly confidential, Woody. I only want to help him find out what happened to his mother.”
Woody’s slow smile alarmed Evie. “Ah, young love. Okay. What was Mrs. Lloyd’s first name?”
“Miriam. Miriam Lubovitch. They changed their name to Lloyd somewhere along the line.”
Woody kept his chin down but flicked his gaze up at Evie. “Sam’s Jewish, then?”
Evie held his stare. “So’s Al Jolson.”
Woody shrugged. “I’ve got nothing against Jews. But some folks do. Your Mr. Phillips, for one. Just a friendly tip. Okay, I’ll see what I can dig up. But it’s gonna require a great deal of digging.” He cleared his throat, glanced meaningfully at the dollar, and waited.
“That’s what rats do, don’t they? Dig?” Evie shot back. She rummaged in her purse and handed him another dollar. “That’s all I can spare.”
“My bookie thanks you, Miss O’Neill. One more thing: What happened up at Knowles’ End with Hobbes?”
“I told the papers all about it then. It’s old news,” Evie said, pushing the rest of her apple pie around on her plate with her fork.
Woody smirked. “The truth, the partial truth, and nothing but. See, I got a funny feeling something happened up there that you’re not talking about.”
“Such as?”
“Such as maybe John Hobbes wasn’t human.”
Already, Evie was regretting her decision. If you gave a fella like T. S. Woodhouse half an inch, he’d bulldoze his way in for more. “We all get funny feelings sometimes, Woody. Have a milk shake and forget about it. Sorry to cut this short, but I have to perform for a ladies’ supper club before the show.”
“You gonna get a read on the chicken salad?” Woody teased. Then he turned serious. “I’m gonna find out the truth about what happened, Sheba. No matter how long it takes,” he said and gobbled the last bite of pie.