Woody smirked in appreciation. “That was good whiskey. Don’t make me sorry I shared it. I meant Project Buffalo. Take a look at this.”
He slid over the day’s newspaper. Evie unfolded it and glanced at the page.
“You wanted me to know that there’s a sale at Gimbels?”
Woody tapped the article above the ad. Evie’s brow creased as she read. It was a small police blotter paragraph about a man who’d been found dead in the East River. Evie gasped when she came to the dead man’s name. “Bob Bateman!”
“Strangled with a wire.”
“Just like Sam’s informant, Ben Arnold.”
Woody nodded grimly. “I found an interesting connection between your Bob Bateman and Sam’s Ben Arnold. You ever hear of these Better Baby contests?”
“There’s no such thing as a better baby. They’re all monsters in pinafores who scream and spit up on your best dress.”
“You’re gonna make a fine mother someday.”
Evie took another swig of whiskey. “You were saying?”
“They were contests offered by Fitter Families for Future Firesides.”
“Those tents they have at state fairs? Jericho and I saw one of them upstate in Brethren. They’re eugenics programs, aren’t they?” Evie said, holding back on what she knew. She wasn’t ready to let Woody in on that yet. “Some nonsense about breeding superior people, as if we were sheep.”
“Some people are sheep,” Woody said. “Anyway, they were supposed to help women have some idea how to make their babies healthier. Guidelines. But they were also an anti-immigration campaign. Some folks don’t like the idea of America being a melting pot. The slogan was ‘a better baby means a better country.’ Turns out Bob Bateman and Ben Arnold worked for Fitter Families. Now, here’s where it gets interesting.”
Woody paused for effect.
“Woody, if you turn this into an Agatha Christie novel, I’ll…” Evie grabbed a saltshaker from the counter. “I’ll bludgeon you with this.”
Woody cast a dubious glance at the tiny silver shaker. Evie put it down with a flounce. “Well, I’d have to hit you a lot. But I’m up to the task, I assure you.”
“The same folks helping to fund Fitter Families also gave money to the U.S. Department of Paranormal. An outfit comprised of the most powerful men in America—Rockefeller, Carnegie, Harriman. It’s called—”
“The Founders Club!”
Woody frowned. “You stole my big finish.”
“I know about them. They were at Marlowe’s estate when we were there. A secret club meeting.”
Woody jotted down a note. “I’ve been sniffing around these Fitter Family tents here and there. They’re not just giving folks tests to see if they’ve got a bogus goodly heritage so those same folks can go home with a medal to show off. They’re asking people if they’ve got any special psychic talents and whatnot.”
Evie’s brows furrowed as she remembered the pamphlet she’d seen at the asylum. “Why are they looking for Diviners?”
“Dunno. But I heard a rumor that when they do find one of those special types, sometimes those people go missing later.” Woody shook his head. “Something’s rotten about this whole story, kid.”
“I suppose you think we’re making it all up,” Evie said, steeling for a fight.
“On the contrary. I think we’re onto something big.”
The kitchen doors swung open, and with them came the sound of Sarah Snow singing a hymn with her band, the Christian Crusaders. Woody frowned. “Sarah Snow’s getting mighty popular.”
“Sarah Snow, Sarah Snow,” Evie griped, and took another drink. “Honestly, if I never hear that name again…”
“She’s got a pulpit on the radio.”
“I’m on the radio, too, you know!”
“I’m just saying: Reading Aunt Polly’s brooch to find a lost key to a safe-deposit box isn’t the same as somebody telling folks that God doesn’t like Diviners and thinks they’re dangerous. I’ve seen how that tide can turn. Watch your back, Sheba.”
Evie knocked back more booze. “I can handle myself just fine.”
Woody’s brows creased into a V. “Don’t you have to give an interview tonight, Sheba?”
“I can handle my hooch just fine, too.”
The whiskey had softened the edges of Evie’s nerves, which was a good thing because Sarah was already onstage by the microphones, and the sound boys were gesturing wildly to Evie. Sarah might’ve gone for white, but Evie had gone for gold, like a star, and her mouth was painted a perfect Cupid’s bow red. She smiled as she flounced toward the stage, then remembered she was supposed to be “good” and straightened her spine like a politician’s wife. See? Look how very lovable and demure I am! Don’t you like me now? Some of the Blue Noses still looked at her with disapproval. As much as Evie wanted to pretend that their judgments didn’t matter, they crawled under her skin and made her nervous.
“Stand here, sweetheart,” the engineer said, leading Evie to her spot. He sniffed, smelling the whiskey on her breath, and Evie wished she’d gobbled a peppermint candy. Everybody was here. And Mr. Phillips was watching. Beside Evie, Sarah was the picture of serenity. Evie sought out Theta at the back of the room. Theta nodded, and that calmed Evie some.
“Why, look who’s here! It’s none other than two of WGI’s greatest ladies of the airwaves, Miss Sarah Snow and Miss Evie O’Neill, the Divine—and the Diviner!”
The audience laughed good-naturedly. The reporters started in easily enough with lots of softball questions about how excited Evie and Sarah were to attend the exhibition (“Oh, very!”), their favorite nightclubs (Evie: “The Hotsy Totsy and the Twenty-one Club.” Sarah: “My nightclub is the church, and Jesus never charges a cover.”), and what they liked best about being on the radio (Evie: “My wonderful fans!” Sarah: “My faithful listeners.”).
The familiar killing gleam showed in Woody’s eyes. “Miss Snow, you’re a real supporter of Prohibition. What’ve you got against a good time?”
Evie suppressed a giggle. She could kiss Woody.
Sarah chuckled. “I believe you don’t need spirits if you’ve got the Holy Spirit, Mr. Woodhouse,” Sarah said in her comforting midwestern accent, her vowels as flat and familiar as prairie grass. No one had made her take elocution lessons, Evie noted.
“Didn’t Jesus turn water into wine?” Evie said. “Why, he was the original bootlegger!”
Some of the reporters chuckled, but at many of the tables, there were pinched faces. Evie’s mouth went dry.
“What do you make of all these supposed ghost sightings in our city?” Harriet Henderson. The old snake.