“Yes sir,” Jasper admitted. “I saw her alive last night, actually, at my friend’s engagement party uptown.”
“Indeed. She came in after midnight.” Dr. Norris examined the ledger on the nearest table. “Fall. An accident, apparently, after too much champagne. Probably fractured cervical vertebrae.” Those eyes looked up and bored right into him again. “Is that correct? It’s always convenient to have a fresh witness standing in my morgue for questioning.”
“Yes sir. Er, no sir.” Oh Lord, Jasper sounded like a simpleton. “I didn’t see her fall, I only heard about it. And I saw her behavior beforehand. She was a bit gassed. But . . .”
“But what?”
“Look.” Jasper pulled the sheet back, and the blueness of Florence’s face and neck was a stark contrast to the cloth that covered her body. “This is not what someone should look like after a fall down the stairs. A few bruises, maybe, but not this.”
Dr. Norris furrowed his considerable brows. He took a pencil from inside his jacket and used the blunt end to pull Florence’s lower lip down. The inside of her mouth looked ragged from irritation.
“It’s cyanide,” Jasper said.
Dr. Norris removed the pencil and dropped it onto the table. “And how, my boy, would you know?”
“I just know.” After a beat, Jasper’s face went hot. “I could smell it on her.” He felt silly because the odor was far fainter now, like he’d been imagining it all.
Dr. Norris waited for more, but Jasper kept his jaw shut. “Well, if you can’t do better than that, I’d best return to my lab. Alexander wants me to examine a brain sample he’s cooked down with sodium hydroxide.”
He headed toward the door, his shoes shuffling with each footstep. Desperation filled Jasper. Since the party, he’d felt like, for the first time in four years, things could move in a direction he wanted. He had the attention of a person who could change his entire life, if he played it the right way. All that was needed was one more push.
Jasper blurted, “Sodium cyanide. Taken orally. We smelled it on her. I’ll bet that her neck isn’t even broken, just sprained, and that it was the poison that killed her.”
Dr. Norris turned on his heel and surveyed Jasper with a new light in his eyes. “What’s this? Are you a medical resident disguising yourself as a janitor?”
“No sir. I finished college this past spring. Going to apply to medical school once I’ve saved enough for tuition.”
“Hence your dance partner there.”
“Sir?”
“The mop.”
“Oh. Yes sir.”
He could tell that Dr. Norris was on the edge of some decision. As he swayed in his polished leather shoes, Jasper tried one more time. “Please, Dr. Norris. This was a murder. I’d bet my life on it.”
After a long pause, the doctor lifted his chin. “Your life, eh? Well, that’s worth a Sunday morning, isn’t it?” He huffed without mirth, and Jasper replaced the sheet over Florence’s corpse. Dr. Norris glanced at the ledger again. “Very well, let’s take a look. Florence Waxworth. Oh! Of the Waxworths. For a mere cleaning boy, you have quite the social life.” He gave Jasper a sidelong glance before returning to the paperwork. “The medical examiner’s office was not contacted for this case. Nothing suspicious on the police report.”
“Can’t we investigate anyway?”
“Just because she’s dead doesn’t mean we can do whatever we want. Her family will have my head on a stick if the body is touched without permission, and I’d prefer to keep my head intact. I’ve no authority here. Slicing up dead socialites at the request of a janitor is not on my schedule.” He headed toward the door, leaving Jasper in his wake. “I have three hundred cases to deal with, just this month. I only just opened my offices a few months ago, and I barely have enough equipment for my laboratories. I’ve been stealing new faculty from all the boroughs just to staff my department. Tammany Hall won’t increase a cent of my budget right now, damn them.”
In two seconds, he was through the doors, which slammed behind him with finality. Jasper’s shoulders slumped.
So. That was the end of that.
The door opened again, and the goateed face reappeared. “Good God, boy,” he growled. “If you learn anything from me and my department, it’s never take no for an answer. Follow me.”
Jasper fairly ran after Dr. Norris, leaving his mop and bucket behind him, along with Florence, who didn’t seem to care one way or the other.
CHAPTER 6
Birdie had stayed silent throughout the motorcar ride, as had Andrew. His fists had clenched and unclenched, as if her very nearness irritated him. He must be furious, having to tend to his fiancée’s whims. Well, it would only get worse after the wedding, knowing Allene.
Birdie barely noticed the fine houses of Fifth Avenue passing by, their small gardens green from mid-August warmth. She was thankful when the Brooklyn Bridge finally came into view. Dawlish shifted in the driver’s seat. Looking just as she remembered him, he was the human version of overcooked cabbage. Pale, slouchy, and unable to make a decision without being told. His nose resembled a small potato. When the bridge came into view, he sighed, as if the very thought of Brooklyn pained his liver.
Birdie fingered the patched spot on her dress. How shameful that someone else’s maid had darned her dress, but it was too late for pride now. She was sadly out of touch with the fashions. She hadn’t read an issue of the Delineator in ages. It had taken energy at the party last night not to gape at the rising hemlines and the rich lace overlays.
A few sad horses pulled a rare carriage, not the least bit spooked by the automobiles that smoked and rolled along. Smocked women stood on street corners, asking for help in the war effort. A Liberty Bond rally would be held tomorrow. Birdie relaxed in the car’s luxurious comfort. Today, there would be no crowding onto a subway or packed streetcar that stank of sweat.
She ought to begin asking Andrew questions about last night. They had only a few minutes before she arrived home. After steeling herself with a breath, she turned to face him and was surprised to find him sitting closer than before. His trousered thigh was only an inch away from hers now. He stared intensely back. It was an unsettling gaze, as if he was taking every bit of her in greedily but at the same time not really seeing her. “Andrew? Are you quite all right?”
“You’re very beautiful, Birdie,” he blurted.
Oh no.
No, no, no. Not this, not now. Not him.
He waited for the answer to a question he hadn’t yet asked. Birdie knew the question. She’d heard it a thousand times—in the looks and glances of the managers at the clock factory, in the warm hands that brushed against her bodice on the cramped trolleys, in the whistles on the street when obscurity was impossible.
She tried to keep her voice calm, though her heart fluttered. “Allene is very beautiful,” she countered. “And she’s practically your wife.”