Sam’s smirk vanished. “Project Buffalo.”
Project Buffalo. Sam’s obsession. According to him, it was some secret government operation during the war, and his mother, Miriam, had been a part of it. She’d left home when Sam was only eight and never returned. The official record said that she’d died of influenza, but two years ago Sam had received a postcard—no return address—with the words Find me, Little Fox on the back in Russian. The handwriting was unmistakably his mother’s. Sam had run away from home and made it his mission to find her.
“Sam,” Evie said as gently as possible, “don’t you think maybe it’s time to let that go? You say you don’t believe in ghosts, but Project Buffalo is a ghost. And you let it haunt you.”
“Evie, Project Buffalo took my mother away from me. And I will not rest until I know what happened to her.”
Sam’s expression was one of grim determination, but Evie could see the hurt there. She knew what it was to lose someone you loved so dearly. If there had been a hope that James was still alive, Evie would’ve followed every lead until she found him.
“Fair enough,” Evie said. “What’s the matter? You look like somebody put hot peppers in your Burma Shave.”
Sam drummed his fingers on the table. “Evie, did your uncle ever mention Project Buffalo to you?”
“No. Why on earth would you think Will would know anything about that?”
“I got a tip.”
Evie raised an eyebrow. “Tips are for cabdrivers and horse races, Sam.”
“Hold on. I need to show you something.” Sam fished out his wallet and extracted a folded napkin. “There’s a fella, used to work for the government. Knows all sorts of secrets, and occasionally, he coughs something up for me. I asked him about my mother and Project Buffalo. He told me it’s still going on. And he got me a name of somebody he said knew about it.”
Sam slid her the napkin. Evie stared at the name written there: Will Fitzgerald.
Evie bit her lip. “When did you say your creepy man gave this to you?”
“He’s not a creepy man.…”
“Fine, your ‘clandestine acquaintance,’ then.”
“About two months ago.”
“Two months ago,” Evie repeated.
“Yeah. Two months ago. Why’re you making that face?”
Evie shook her head. “Sam, Sam, Sam. I never thought of you as gullible.”
“I’m a lot of things, sister, but gullible isn’t one of them. And since when did you become an expert on informants?”
“I don’t know anything about spying,” Evie said, pouring milk into her coffee. “But I do know human nature. Think, Sam: two months ago? The Pentacle Murders?”
“Yeah. I’m familiar.”
“Uncle Will’s name was all over the papers! And you were working at the museum. How easy would it be to connect the two?” Evie explained. “Face it, Sam—you were taken for a ride. I’m sorry if you don’t want to admit it. The con man got conned.”
A worm of doubt twisted in Sam’s gut. He hadn’t taken that into account.
“Sam,” Evie said gently, “have you ever considered that maybe that postcard isn’t from your mother?”
“That’s her writing on the postcard. I know it, Evie. I will find her. I swear I will.”
The waiter delivered Sam’s Reuben and Evie’s Waldorf salad. From the corner of her eye, Evie could see people watching them, gossiping from behind their menus. At the famous round table, Dorothy Parker sat drinking martinis with Robert Benchley and George S. Kaufman, but no one was paying them any mind. Evie and Sam commanded the Algonquin’s full attention. Sam was oblivious. He was much more interested in his sandwich, which he was practically inhaling.
“Don’t choke. I need you alive. For a while at least,” Evie said. “So if I were to help you with Project Buffalo, what would you want me to do?”
“Read whatever I dig up. See if you can get a lead on anything.”