A Beautiful Poison

“I’m not married yet.”

“Andrew!” she whispered. She glanced forward to see if Dawlish noticed their conversation. As always, he hunched over the steering wheel, oblivious. Birdie had a sudden urge to jump out of the car and walk home.

Andrew lowered his voice. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Of course I do! We met just last night.”

“No, I meant before then,” he said, his eyes searching her face. “Don’t I look familiar?”

Birdie tried to shake the cobwebs that clouded her memories. Andrew Biddle. Did she know him? When she lived with the Cutters, she and Allene had frequented countless parties together. She vaguely remembered the Biddle family, but only his parents came to mind. Stately, handsome couple. She couldn’t place Andrew at all.

“I don’t think so,” she admitted.

“At the factory? My father and I have put a good deal of money in the Ansonia Clock Company. We have part ownership now.” When Birdie continued to look confused, he added, “I saw you there. Several times, in fact, when I toured the facility. You’re on the second floor, on the north side.”

Birdie was used to having the bosses walk about the girls’ dial-painting stations. But she was a good worker who didn’t get distracted. She kept her eyes on the tiny globules of paint dabbed just so onto the numbers and sweeps of the faces, dragging the camel-hair brush on her lower lip every so often to keep it pointed. She was efficient and fast. The last thing she wanted was her supervisors to see her daydreaming idly as random people strode through their factory. But Andrew? She had no memory of him.

Which meant that he’d watched her—several times, he said—without her knowing. And then a new thought sank into her consciousness, one that made her shiver.

Andrew Biddle partly owned the factory where she worked. He was her boss. He held her job in his hands, one of which now slipped over hers.

“Your hand is chilled,” he said.

It wasn’t the only part of Birdie that had gone icy. Forget Florence—she was as good as inside a satin-lined coffin, and here Birdie felt herself enclosed and unable to escape. This had to stop. She could find another job if she had to. Couldn’t she? It was wartime. They needed people like her in all sorts of factories.

But there wouldn’t be another position, not like this one. One where she could sit quietly all day and not exert herself. Birdie knew how weak she’d become. What else could she do that wouldn’t exhaust her after a few minutes or make her bones ache? She needed her dial-painting job. So did Holly.

“Please,” Birdie whispered, her eyes on her lap. She couldn’t bear to meet his eyes or see his face. “Please. Allene is my friend.”

“I know.” He kept his hand over hers so she couldn’t pull away. “I think Allene would enjoy it if you spent more time over at the Cutter house. I would too. Very much. I could talk to your boss and make your schedule more lenient. It would give me pleasure to do so.”

Nausea filled her, swirling inside her stomach. The Cutter house was exactly where she needed to be. But oh God! Not like this.

The car was now traversing the Brooklyn Bridge. The dense cables whirred by, a crisscross pattern of lines and blue sky that was simultaneously pretty and shattered. Andrew cleared his throat. “Were you going to say something to me earlier?”

Birdie hesitated. Allene would be disappointed if she found out nothing about Florence.

“I had some . . . oh, odd things to ask you. About Florence. Last night was so very strange, I’m still trying to make sense of it. But I need to go home.” She wanted nothing more than to crawl into that fluffy, comforting guest bed at the Cutter house and go back to her bad dreams, because reality wasn’t a pleasant alternative right now.

“Ask me all the questions you want. I have all day.”

“But I need to buy groceries . . .”

“I’ll help you buy your groceries,” Andrew insisted. “A whole month’s worth. I’ll buy your time, if you’ll be gracious enough to donate some to me. I promise I’ll be a gentleman. I’m your best friend’s fiancé, after all.”

His face was so darned earnest that Birdie’s heart softened. She knew what he felt—that desperation of wanting something so much and knowing that you were this close to losing it. It was how Birdie felt about Holly, even about Jasper and Allene.

The car slowed, then stopped in front of a dingy four-story apartment building of darkening brownstone, as nondescript as its neighbors. Some windows had curtains blowing outward, some drawn together demurely, some missing. A few broken glass panes were patched with cardboard, as if the whole facade had suffered an apoplectic fit.

As the engine ticked away like a too-loud heart, Birdie put one hand on the door, ready to bolt. Dawlish rounded the motorcar to let her out, but he was slow as molasses. Andrew had yet to surrender her other hand.

“If you give me a little of your time, I’ll answer any question you have,” Andrew said. She shivered, and the near heat of his body warmed her—not an unpleasant sensation. God, he smelled delicious. Like crisp, new money.

Birdie turned her head quickly, her eyes locking onto Andrew’s. She was caught. He smiled, knowing this, and nuzzled his lips almost against her ear.

“I know what you want, Birdie Abigail Dreyer.”

Did he? Could he really know? She’d long been thinking of ways to ensure that Holly would escape from their drab apartment, from the shared toilet that stank in the summer, from the aching of hands after twelve hours of factory work. Allene was the answer. Mr. Cutter was aging, his power fading as Allene came of age, ready to unite two wealthy households in marriage. The Cutter house could be Holly’s home and salvation if Birdie could figure out the pathway back. And now she might have Andrew to help.

So she didn’t pull her hand away, just waited. His breath fluttered the tendrils of hair around her neck as he whispered:

“You want to know why Florence Waxworth was murdered.”





CHAPTER 7


You’re welcome.

Had the note come from the bookstore where Allene had ordered the chemistry tome? Or was it a leftover note to herself? She brought it to her nose and sniffed delicately. The ink smelled fresh and the paper was springy, as if it hadn’t been folded for very long.

How odd.

She tucked the note back into the book and replaced it on the shelf. She didn’t know what it meant, but now wasn’t the time to think of such things. She was on a mission to visit the poisons in the Cutter house kitchen.

Lydia Kang's books