Allene picked up a wooden tray that was partitioned into a grid. She laid the tray on Birdie’s workstation. Birdie took one watch face that already had the sweeps attached. She dipped the pointed brush into the radium paint, dotting it precisely on the hour markers, redipped it, then filled in the almost-heart-shaped ends of the sweeps. Allene’s neck and back ached just watching her hunch over her work. Finally, Birdie handed the finished dial to Allene, who placed it back in the tray to dry.
Some of the girls painted larger clocks bound for someone’s dark bedroom. The whole thing looked like a load of fun until you saw the faces of all the girls working. Crinkles of concentration drew lines between their eyebrows, and their mouths all turned down with determination. Some of the girls chatted quietly with their neighbors, some didn’t. It almost looked as if Birdie didn’t breathe. Allene scanned the hundreds of watches waiting for her attention. Every day Birdie did this. Every day.
The rough fabric of the work dress itched Allene’s neck, but she ignored it. Birdie tipped the brush on her lower lip to keep it pointed and waved it over another watch face.
“Shouldn’t I help more? I could—” Allene began.
“No.”
“But maybe—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Allene.” Birdie straightened from her work and raised her eyebrows. “Be quiet, watch me work, and tell me all you’ve learned about Florence’s death already. And I’ll tell you what I know.”
She went back to her relentless painting, and Allene grinned. It was good to see Birdie with a little ginger for a change. So Allene did what she did best and chatted Birdie’s ear off. She spoke of Lucy and the polish.
“Why, I had no idea silver polish was poisonous!” Birdie said.
“Oh, I did. But that’s a dead end. Lucy said the can was empty.”
“Was it? How can you be sure?”
“Well, she said so.” Allene realized how stupid that sounded. “Lucy’s never been anything but honest with me.”
“Allene.” Birdie took a precious few seconds to stop painting and stare at her. “She’s not a friend or family. You’re her employer. She could be lying to save her job. Is there any chance the polish could have been accidentally transferred to a glass?”
Allene bit her lip. Lucy had touched on the prospect of unemployment too. “I don’t see how. But without the polish can, what can we do? And Lucy had no reason to hurt Florence. So what did you learn from Andrew?”
The way Birdie spoke, it had been a task getting the information.
“Andrew said that Florence was gossiping about us? That’s not unusual,” Allene said.
“But in more bitter terms than usual, I suppose. Think about it, though. Everyone we’ve ever known hasn’t liked Florence. As children, we hid from her at parties! She was horrible then and is horrible now. Or was.”
“Well, that means that my entire guest list is suspect. She bickered with Andrew. Ernie said so.”
“So you suspect Andrew? What about your father?”
“Oh dear, no, neither of them. Andrew would be too concerned about scuffing his spats. He could care less about what Florence said about me.” She sighed. “And Father’s never had a grudge against anyone. He’s too busy making money to kill off anyone.”
Birdie lipped her brush, concentrating on a particularly small pocket watch. “Hmm. Andrew, Lucy, Ernie, your father . . . there must have been someone at the party who was angry at her. Don’t you think?”
“There were over fifty guests. I don’t remember her having a row with anyone.”
“Neither do I. But poisoning someone isn’t a spur-of-the-moment action.”
“You’re right.” Allene sat up straight. “Someone planned this. Someone who wanted to kill Florence and make a scandal of my party.”
“True. Or maybe they were looking to hide their actions amidst the confusion and busyness of a social event,” Birdie added.
It would take a little time to try to find out who in the Cutters’ social circle had a particular vendetta against Florence or her family. The funeral would be a good place to start asking some well-timed questions.
The noon bell sounded. It was hard to believe that they’d been chatting on and off for four hours. They gobbled down the sandwiches that Birdie had packed in her satchel (well, Allene gobbled; Birdie ate mincingly, like the fairy that she was) and whispered nonstop, while the other factory girls gossiped and knitted khaki wristlets and stump socks for the boys overseas. It wasn’t until the end of the day that Birdie let Allene paint the last watch dial all by herself.
Allene botched it, of course—left dots of paint beyond her allowed boundaries and refused to put the brush in her mouth (“But it’s the only way to get a good point!” Birdie chided her, to no avail). Birdie reached over to correct every spot that Allene painted too sloppily.
At five o’clock, they left the building along with all the other working girls. Allene was tired, though she’d barely done anything but talk. Gossip took a good deal of energy.
“I’m glad you came,” Birdie admitted, and Allene hooked her arm in her own, patting her with contentment.
“Even if I look dreadful, it was worth it.”
“You both look rather fetching to me,” a voice spoke, almost under their noses. “Drab suits you both; it doesn’t hide one jot.”
A young man leaned beneath one of the trees, cigarette dying between his fingertips.
“Jasper Jones. What on earth are you doing here, larking about?” Allene smiled. When he glanced at Birdie, she stole a moment to bite her lips to bring some cherry color to her face. In this horrid outfit, she needed all the help she could get.
“Coming to find you two, of course. We gotta go, tout de suite.” He let the cigarette stub loose and squashed it beneath his heel before grinning at them both. “It’s time for us to visit poor Florence.”
CHAPTER 11
“Come on,” Jasper said. “We’re going to the city morgue.”
“What?” Allene exclaimed, with more excitement than fear.
He hadn’t expected to find Allene here, especially dressed like this—hair in a frizzled bun; wearing drab, loose-fitting clothing that kept all her curved blessings in disguise. But she wore a brilliant smile, and without the rouge and trimmings, the snap in her eye was lively as ever. It was a look that said she was ready for anything.
Good.
“What on earth?” Birdie echoed Allene’s admonishment, but she seemed more tired and weary than Allene.
It was obvious who’d done the lion’s share of the work in the factory today. When he stepped out of the way, the girls could see that Allene’s chauffeur waited behind him with the motorcar. Allene slapped Jasper on the arm.
“What is Dawlish doing here?”
“I went to see if Birdie could come, and this chap was waiting for you at her place. I figured you were both at the factory, so we came over to get you.”
“I can’t have him drive us to the morgue!” Allene whispered, well out of earshot of Dawlish. The driver was all goggle eyed at the three of them, particularly Allene’s shabby clothing.
“Of course you can. He works for you, doesn’t he?”
“He’ll tell Father!”
Jasper crossed his arms. “Allene. You’re the only heir to the Cutter fortune. Surely he’s going to be loyal to his future employer, isn’t he? If not, make him!”