Ray gingerly rewrapped the small knotted wire and handed it back to Ray.
“No. Possessing this could land me back on traffic duty, but I’d like you to keep it. You see more of the city than I do. If it’s something, maybe you’ll notice it too. But don’t come by the station. Tipton would be furious if I were even seen talking to you. We’ll find somewhere to talk.”
Ray folded it into his breast pocket, patting its space emphatically.
Jasper smiled gravely. “I feel like a heel. Betraying Tipton’s trust. Going behind his back. Even dragging you into this. I’ll have no excuse if he catches us.”
“Jasper, we’re allies. I need you on my side. I don’t have many friends, but I trust you. You can trust me too.”
“I know that.”
“And I am your friend, whether or not Merinda Herringford is speaking to you at any given moment,” Ray added lightly.
“I wish I had her pluck. Would make everything easier.”
“There are many ways to show strength, Jasper.”
A ruckus across the street erupted, with Tipton at the center and camera bulbs flashing. Ray recognized a few reporters from the Globe, each trying to inch closer over the singed steel. He had no interest in a statement from the chief. Ray and Jasper exchanged a look.
“Interesting,” Jasper said slowly. “I spoke to him earlier, and he made no suggestion that he would grace us with his presence.”
Ray smirked at Jasper’s tone.
Leaving Jasper and spotting Skip meandering closer to Tipton and his statement, Ray turned in the direction of the Hog. It was a long walk but preferable to finding a cab amid the insanity and commotion. All the trolleys had stopped immediately, and a dozen empty streetcars sat abandoned and unmoving on their tracks.
Finally at his desk, hair damp with perspiration, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he thought about betraying Jasper’s trust. It would make for an easy headline and spare several sheets of paper from a crumpled toss at the overflowing wastebasket. Leading Detective Constable Suspects Foul Play.
He muttered in his first language, kicked a few overturned crates, and almost swept his typewriter from his desk to the floor. Then, immediately remorseful for the thought, he stroked the Underwood gently. Some nights it was his dearest friend.
He stared at the telephone. Made to pick it up. Then remembered the service had been turned off at home. Poor Jem. What a husband he’d turned out to be.
Jem deserved a stable home, matching dishes, and a happily-ever-after. But lately he’d been returning home to find her asleep fully clothed on the sofa in the front room, clearly waiting for him with a book open on her chest. If she had nicely set the table with flowers from their overrun garden and her one good lace tablecloth, it made him feel like a cad for days. What did he have to say for himself?
Of course he loved her. Loved the way she set the pace for ironing out their little spats and misunderstandings, results of their whirlwind courtship and an uprooting of their two worlds they were trying to graft together. Sometimes the barrier between them seemed greater than one of language, but then she’d look up at him as if he was the force that pulled in her tide and spun her earth. He didn’t deserve any of it, really.
He flipped open his pocket watch. He hadn’t noticed so much of the evening had ticked away with few words to show for his tired brain. He yawned and ran an open hand over his face, and then he focused his eyes on the picture inside. His sister, Viola, and his little nephew, Luca. His chest constricted as it did whenever he thought about her. When he worried about her. Was she cold? Did she have somewhere to stay? Was her good-for-nothing husband, Tony, providing for her or just hitting her again? Did Luca have enough to eat?
He grabbed his hat from the rack. When he started drifting into panic about Viola, he knew he would get no more work finished for the evening and it was time to head home.
* * *
*M.C. Wheaton, author of Guide to the Criminal and Commonplace, Merinda’s detection manual of choice.
CHAPTER THREE
A proper matron’s place is in the home, and she should devote her hours to its upkeep. It is her sphere and her haven. As such, she should commit to making it as habitable as she can: not only to ensure her husband’s comfort, but also for her own sense of personal pride and accomplishment. The best brands from the grocers, the sweetest smelling soaps and conditioners, are only a few ways in which she can transform her bower into a sort of garden.
Flora Merriweather, Guide to Domestic Bliss