“I just wanted to work. You saw our act. I want to be on the stage, ma’am.”
May Ward looked puzzled. “What? Oh, yes, your act. That was darling. Now, I can’t persuade Mr. Bernstein to pay you. He’s a detestable old thing and I’m very nearly through with him myself. But you might as well stay on for the rest of the tour. I’ll see to it that the company pays your expenses, and I’ll slip you a few bills when I can. Will that do it?”
Fleurette was very nearly out of money. This was the first mention of her staying on. She tried to conceal her relief, as Mrs. Ward did not go in for sentiment. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”
“Just don’t tell Freeman.” She went to work at the buttons on her corset. Fleurette knew that was her signal to leave, but she had very little time alone with Mrs. Ward and hated to miss her chance.
“I know all the songs, too,” Fleurette ventured, her hand on the doorknob.
May Ward was climbing into bed. “What’s that?” she said, yawning.
“The songs. I know all the songs. If you need another girl.”
From under the covers came a muffled laugh. “The last thing I need is another girl. Send a maid in at eleven, will you?”
46
SHERIFF HEATH WAS NOT at all pleased to hear that Constance had decided to go after Fleurette—or, more to the point, to go after Norma, who was going after Fleurette.
“If you genuinely believe she’s in trouble, there’s nothing stopping you from telephoning the police,” he said. “People do it all the time.”
“But I can’t be certain,” Constance said. “If I send the police after May Ward’s troupe and there’s nothing wrong—well, Fleurette would never forgive me.”
“If there’s nothing wrong, you ought to stay here and do your job.”
“But if I don’t go, Norma and Carrie will chase after her on their own, and that would only be worse.”
He held up his hands in a sign of defeat. “I’ve never seen three sisters get each other so hopelessly mixed up. Don’t take more than two days. Anthony Leo goes before the judge on Friday, and you’re to bring Minnie Davis back.”
Even the girl’s name stabbed at her. If she could think of a single thing to do for Minnie, she would’ve stayed in Hackensack and done it.
“I’ll be here,” she said.
CONSTANCE, NORMA, AND CARRIE stood under the candy-striped awnings at the Harrisburg train station. Norma was dressed for traveling, in an old-fashioned tweed suit that smelled of camphor, and a sturdy felt hat upon which she’d made one concession to fashion, by arranging three plum-colored pigeon feathers into a little fan shape and tucking them into the brim. Constance had to admit that it looked smart on her. Carrie, naturally, looked the part of the city reporter, in a slim blue suit and a double-breasted wool coat. She summoned a porter with an elegant snap of her fingers.
The Hotel Columbus was their destination. According to a woman they’d met on the train, it kept a floor for women and put out a reasonable lunch for forty cents. As it was only a few blocks away, on Walnut, the porter wheeled their bags over rather than bother with a taxicab.
On the way, Constance thought it best to remind Norma of the promise she’d made. “If Fleurette is found safe . . .”
“Yes,” Norma said moodily.
“And it appears that the circumstances are as they have been described to us . . .”
“We’ve been over this.”
“And if there is no sign of any wrongdoing that can be observed by the three of us . . .”
“I know!”
“Then I will never hear the name Freeman Bernstein again. You’ll drop the matter forever.”
Norma refused to look at her.
“Forever,” Constance said again.
“Yes, that’s what I said.” Norma didn’t like being made to say it again.
“And I’m a witness,” Carrie said cheerfully.
“But you’re not a reporter,” Constance put in. “Not on this trip. I don’t want Fleurette to know that we went to spy on her.”
“I’ll only write a story if there’s some trouble. Not that I’m hoping for it.”
“All a reporter does is hope for trouble,” Norma said. Constance didn’t bother to remind her that she was the one who’d involved Carrie in the first place.
The hotel was a dun-colored brick affair on a busy intersection, with a cigar shop on the corner and the hotel entrance off to the side, out of the fray. The porter knew his business and took them directly to the ladies’ desk, where an officious-looking woman introduced only as Miss Lydia took down their names and offered a suite with two large beds, a fireplace, and a view to the river. They took it, even though it meant that Constance would have to share a bed with Norma, who snored.
It was then that Norma decided to play the part of the detective. She wasn’t very good at it, and it embarrassed Constance to watch, especially with Carrie standing back, observing, with a wry little smile on her face and a notebook in her hand.
“My friends and I enjoy the theater and wonder what might be on offer,” Norma began, sounding stiff and unconvincing. She approved of the arts generally but took no interest in any particular occurrence of it.
Miss Lydia nodded and started to shuffle through the papers on her desk. Norma added, “Something we wouldn’t be ashamed to tell about back home.”
Had Norma ever been ashamed in her life? Constance had never even heard her use the word.
Miss Lydia found the card she’d been looking for underneath her blotter. She raised a pair of spectacles to her eyes to read it. “You might enjoy a choral concert at Fahnestock Hall.”
Norma would enjoy nothing less, so Constance said, “That’s exactly what I had in mind.”
Norma eased her heel back on Constance’s shoe and said, “But we want to hear about everything before we decide.”
Miss Lydia looked up at the two of them and said, with a cheery lilt in her voice, “Then I suggest Mr. Howe’s Travel Festival. There are to be film studies of the Indians and of the Swiss Alps. It can be quite broadening to see those places you might never—oh, and it includes ‘curious examples of crystallization, adventures in the insect world, and logging in Italy.’”
“Absolutely perfect!” Constance crowed.
“There must be something else.” Norma sounded a little anxious.
Miss Lydia read down the page. “I don’t suppose you’d want to look at The Birth of a Nation.”
“I hear there’s been some trouble about that,” Norma muttered, before Constance could accept on her behalf.
“Yes . . . well, there’s not much more.” Miss Lydia ran her finger down a column of type. “Fruits of Desire involves a laborer, a capitalist, a humanitarian, and a socialist, along with a society woman, and a woman who gives it all up for love.”
“I’d rather not know what they get up to,” Norma said.
Miss Lydia said, “Nor I. Now, if it’s a comedy you’re after, May Ward and Her Eight Dresden Dolls are at the Orpheum.”