Allene awoke in a tangle.
Somehow in the middle of the night, she and Birdie had managed to twist their legs together, as if unconsciously attempting to wrestle, conquer, and give in simultaneously. The hems of their cool, cotton nightgowns had ridden up beneath the covers, and now Allene’s bare thigh was clasped by Birdie’s bent knees. She held her breath, afraid to move.
Birdie was dead asleep on the pillow next to her, unmoving save for the tidal rise and fall of her chest and the zigzag of her eyeballs beneath pink satin eyelids. Her hand was a warm weight on Allene’s hip. Allene had no inclination to remove it.
What does she dream of? Allene wondered. Something delicious and wonderful. Maybe she dreams of me and Jasper, she mused. Maybe not.
Birdie stirred and her lips parted. She murmured, “No. No, I don’t.” Her eyes crinkled with sleepy concern.
Well, maybe those dreams weren’t something to covet, after all.
“Birdie. Dear, wake up,” Allene whispered, patting her shoulder.
Birdie’s face struggled, shivering off whatever unpleasantries haunted her. She rubbed her eyes, yawning like an infant. When she blinked her eyes open, wonder filled them as they traveled from the intricate molding along the ceiling to the honeyed Sunday sunshine peeking through the curtains. She smiled at Allene, making no move to disentangle their legs or speak. For an eternal moment, they fed on each other’s warmth and let the silence simmer about them.
But when Allene closed her eyes, she saw Florence’s purpling, dead corpse. It demanded that she speak. Something must be done.
“Last night . . .” But as soon as she started, knuckles rapped smartly on the door. The girls unwound their legs in a mad scramble, sitting up in bed and smoothing the covers. Birdie pulled the duvet up to decently cover her chest. There was no time to cool down the heat that had risen to their cheeks.
Lucy entered with an armful of clean linens. She set them down on the end of the bed and lifted her chin.
“Look at you two. Like twins. Like you always were,” she said. “All you’re missing is Jasper.”
Lucy was smiling at them, but it was a portrait smile—the kind designed to be held in place by sheer willpower. “Miss Birdie, I pressed your gown and mended the burn spot. We had tarlatan scraps that matched nicely. Miss Allene, your father left the house early for church. He said he would be back home for luncheon. I have your things ready in your room.”
“Thank you,” Birdie and Allene chimed together.
“I’ll come to my room in a minute, Lucy,” Allene said. She pretended to yawn but afterward wasn’t sure why she pretended.
“Be quick, miss. Mr. Biddle arrived just a few minutes ago. He waits for you in the salon.” Lucy left, and Allene’s shoulders fell.
“What’s the matter?” Birdie asked.
“I asked Andrew not to come. I wanted to have a day to myself.”
Birdie seemed to shrink inwardly at the comment. “I’ll be out of the house soon. I should get home anyway.”
“No!”
The word came out so quickly she didn’t have time to modulate her voice. A hollowness bored through her at the thought of Birdie leaving. Allene had grown accustomed to the gnawing, empty sensation, but it wasn’t time to return to that. Not yet. “I just meant . . . I can’t imagine having to spend a day with Andrew after last night. I’d much rather have you here.”
“What about Andrew? You’ll be married soon. What will he think?”
“He’s not my husband yet.”
Birdie opened her mouth at this audacity, but Allene adopted an expression that wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“But I have to check on Holly. And Mother.”
“Holly. Who’s Holly?”
“Holly’s my sister.”
Allene sat back, as if the news were a dose of poisonous ptomaine. “What? You have a sister? When? How?”
“I think you know how, Allene.” Birdie smiled. “Holly’s nearly four years old.”
Allene stared at her blankly. Of all the—so Hazel Dreyer had been banished from their home while she was in the family way? Vaguely, she remembered Hazel wearing looser, ill-fitting gowns around the time she’d left. She always thought her mother had been jealous of Hazel’s arresting beauty and that perhaps Hazel had dressed more plainly to tone it down. Well. Allene had no idea it wasn’t her beauty she had attempted to hide.
“You ought to meet her sometime soon. But I do have to go home and make sure she’s all right.”
“What about me?” A slight panic welled.
“You’ll be fine, Allene.”
“But what about Florence?”
“I don’t need to check on Florence. She’s dead,” Birdie said. After the words came out, she clapped her hand over her mouth.
Allene was just as shocked, and for a minute, silence hung between them. Then they burst out laughing. It was too ridiculous, too morbid, too awful. Laughing at the dead. Somewhere, the dead were laughing back at them.
Finally, after they caught their breath, Birdie put her hand on Allene’s shoulder.
“Oh goodness. We are terrible, aren’t we?” asked Allene.
“We’re the rottenest,” Birdie agreed. “But anyway. Andrew is waiting for you, isn’t he?”
Allene grabbed Birdie’s arms, and desperation made her squeeze a little too hard. “Oh, Birdie. What if we just run away from everything and see if we can figure out who killed Florence Waxworth?”
“What do you mean?” Birdie whispered.
Allene gripped Birdie’s arm, probably harder than she should have. “Look. I’m to be married soon. And . . . oh God, Birdie. I’m so young. I’ve barely had time to be me before I have to be Mrs. Andrew Biddle. This would give me a little adventure before I’m locked away in Andrew’s house for endless salon parties and boring suppers. I need this.” It was difficult to hide the desperation in her voice.
“I see.”
“Well, you and I and Jasper know that Florence was probably poisoned. Father made sure that there wouldn’t be an investigation. But why Florence? Everyone knows how mean she could be, but maybe someone got too mad this time. Let’s see if we can figure it out. We’ll be good as gold! We’ll be heroes!”
“Is that what you want to be, Allene? A hero?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She waved her hand carelessly. “I just . . . want this. Consider it an engagement gift. Help me figure it all out. One day I can tell my grandchildren that I solved a murder!”
“But I’m not qualified for any sort of investigating. I paint clocks and watches for a living,” Birdie said.
“So you know details! I have the social connections. Jasper has access to the morgue. Why, he’s probably investigating right now.”
Birdie sighed in acquiescence. “All right. But I don’t . . . how would we even begin?”